Indigo(13)

But that was ridiculous, because the shifting darkness was something more profound than a friend or a partner. It was an extension of herself, a projection of her own mind, and her own intentions—a power learned with years of effort and discipline, guided by the monks on the mountain.

Wasn’t it? She probed the memory, feeling its edges like a tongue exploring a spot where a tooth ought to be. Yes, there it was. The snow. The wolves. The mountain. The heavy doors that had swung open at long last, to let her inside. She was the master of this power, and not its slave.

So why did she eye the edges of her apartment with such suspicion? Why did she feel queasy as Nora, when as Indigo she felt all-powerful?

She shook off the gummy feeling between her ears and grabbed her laptop—flipping it open so fast that the screen wobbled on its hinge. She beat the keyboard with her fingers, willing the stupid old device to boot faster, and wishing she had access to all the necessary databases on her phone—which was much newer and smarter.

But wishing wouldn’t put a new MacBook on her coffee table, and it wouldn’t pull some hapless kid’s ass out of the fire before the Phonoi struck a match.

Finally the screen flared to life, and then Nora’s keyboard strokes became more focused. First she opened NamUs.gov, because she might get lucky. If she could nail down a missing victim without calling in any favors, then so much the better. She refined her search and scrolled as fast as she dared, but the sheer volume of missing young people turned her stomach, and there had been no relevant new additions in the last couple of days.

Of course, NamUs wasn’t always swift to update; they were good about making sure all the listed cases were verified. It was helpful for weeding out false positives, but a pain in the ass if you wanted to find someone who’d gone missing quite recently.

What about the cops, then? They’d notice anyone missing or endangered before the national database got wind of anything. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to contact Mayhew, the lead detective on these child murders. Not when the woman’s incompetence had made the criminal case against the Newells unwinnable.

Nora’s pass code for the precinct’s caseload log-in wasn’t working, so either someone was onto her or someone had jiggered the settings. The two possibilities were equally likely. She’d score another log-in in a few days, but the Children of Phonos wouldn’t wait that long, so she couldn’t, either.

Good thing she knew a cop in the right department and he owed her.

It was also a good thing that Harry Beale worked early. She scanned the contacts on her phone, tapped to call him, and dove right in.

“Harry, I need a lead on a missing person. Probably a kid. Probably taken in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe less than that.”

After some hemming and hawing, Harry admitted that she’d have to be more specific. “We’ve got seven new ones on deck since yesterday afternoon.”

“Seven?” Nora felt sick.

“Busy night.”

“All of them minors?”

“Five of them are.”

“Can you run them down real quick? Brief descriptions?”

“Two gangbangers, one probably dead, one probably in hiding—if you ask me. One girl who might be a runaway—she has a history of that sort of thing, so it wouldn’t be the first time. The other two are boys—neither with any known gang affiliations or behavioral problems. None on record, as far as I can tell.”

Nora chewed on her thumbnail and tapped her boot on the coffee-table leg. “The two boys, where were they last seen?”

“One of them at school,” Harry said vaguely. Maybe he didn’t have the particulars right in front of him, or maybe the report was incomplete. “The other one … his friends said he’d been down by the Whitestone Bridge on his skateboard.”

She popped her nail out of her mouth. “That one!”

“What’s he to you?”

The bridge was close to Castle Point, and the boy could’ve been a grab of opportunity. It wasn’t much to go on, so she didn’t share it with Harry, who was probably still on his first cup of coffee—and surely didn’t care about the answer. All she said was “I’ve got a feeling, that’s all. Working an angle on something I’ve been poking into. What’s his name?”

The cop sighed. He probably wasn’t supposed to tell her, but that wouldn’t stop him. She wouldn’t let it. “Luis Gallardo. Age sixteen. No record, no history of truancy or petty crime. Reported missing yesterday afternoon, when he didn’t come home for dinner.”

“Gallardo. Sixteen. Whitestone Bridge. Got it. Thanks.” She almost closed by saying she owed him one, except she wasn’t sure it was true. Luis might not be the next victim, and even if her gut was right and he was the kid in question … then Indigo might not be able to save him.

She hung up fast and checked her phone before stuffing it into her pocket. It was quarter to eight in the morning. The shadows would be long and sharp, but shallow in the Bronx. They would carry her anyway.

She glanced at the nearest patch, one studiously avoided by all three cats—a dark place between the refrigerator and the undersize cupboard that served as a pantry. Her throat was dry. She swallowed. It didn’t help.

Indigo was raring to go, but Nora was afraid.

“This is stupid,” she declared to herself and the cats. She rose to her feet and rolled her neck from left to right—cracking it loudly. “It’s time to get to work,” she announced, but she didn’t move. Her boots were stuck to the floor. A lump was stuck in her throat. The shadow was stuck to the wall, to the cheap vinyl, to the side of the refrigerator.