Speak of the Devil

CHAPTER 14

Jack Hillerman’s office was on Broad Street, within spitting distance of City Hall. A much nicer part of Broad Street than Barbie’s office inhabited, I might add. The building had probably been around since the turn of the twentieth century, and the lobby was dismal and depressing. The elevators were new, though, so they shot me up to the fifteenth floor fast enough to make my stomach have to run to catch up. The doors opened onto a very conservative, genteel reception area.

Despite the age of the building, the reception area was decidedly modern in decor, with spare, clean furnishings, good lighting, and abstract art on the walls. Three hallways led away into the depths of the firm. I saw a cubicle farm at the far end of one hallway, but the other two were lined with real, honest-to-God offices.

The receptionist was an older woman with tastefully gray hair arranged in a picture-perfect pageboy. A pair of chic red-framed glasses perched on her nose, adding a modern touch to her otherwise old-fogyish dark gray suit. She flashed me a practiced smile as I approached her desk, and she didn’t even give my sophisticated jeans-and-T-shirt outfit a second glance.

“May I help you?” she asked, and she managed to convey the impression that she genuinely wanted to help.

I returned the smile. “I’m here to see Jack Hillerman,” I said, knowing things were about to get dicey. I was pretty sure that talking to me wasn’t high on Hillerman’s list of preferred activities—not to mention that it was probably against the rules for him to do so without my attorney present.

The receptionist frowned ever so slightly. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, in a voice that told me she already knew I didn’t.

I tried to look sheepish. “I’m afraid not. I’m here for personal reasons, not for a business meeting. Can you let him know I’m here? It’ll only take five minutes, I promise.”

“He’s in a meeting just now,” she said, and instinct told me she was lying. “Would you care to leave a message?”

“I just have a quick question for him, and it’s not something I can leave in a message.” I gave her my most pitiful pleading look.

Her gaze darted uncertainly toward the hallway on her left—one of the two lined with real offices. “I can let him know you’re here, but I’m not sure …”

I smiled brightly at her. “Thanks so much!”

She still looked pretty uncertain. “May I have your name?” she asked, picking up the phone.

I’d considered going the phony-name route, but I’d dismissed it almost instantly. I’m probably the world’s worst liar, so I didn’t think I’d fool anyone.

“Morgan Kingsley,” I said, hoping against hope that the firm had so many clients she wouldn’t recognize my name. But things never go that well for me.

Regarding me carefully, she hung the phone up once more. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Kingsley,” she said, “but unless you have your attorney with you, there is no chance Mr. Hillerman will agree to see you.”

“But this isn’t about the case!” Okay, maybe it kind of was about the case, but it was pretty obvious Hillerman had not only misplaced his ethics, he’d buried them in some deep, dark pit and built a parking lot on the site.

The receptionist shook her head. “It’s just out of the question, I’m afraid. I’ll let him know you stopped by, and he and your attorney can schedule a meeting.”

So far, this was all going about as I expected, with the added bonus that the receptionist’s nervous little glances let me know which hallway to go down to find Hillerman’s office. Without another word, I headed down that hallway.

I heard the receptionist say my name sharply a couple of times, but she didn’t follow me or physically try to stop me. I glanced at the name plates on the offices I passed. The doors were closed on most of them, and they didn’t have any convenient little windows I could look in. The name plates were discreet enough that I was almost past Hillerman’s office before I realized it was his. Inside, I heard the phone ringing—probably the receptionist letting him know I was storming his fortress. I pushed open the door.

Hillerman was sitting at his desk, phone to his ear. In front of him lay an enormous, greasy calzone, oozing cheese and tomato sauce into a Styrofoam takeout box. He smiled at me, but the smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

“That’s all right, Marta,” he said into the phone. “No need to call security. I’ll talk to her.” Apparently, Marta had something to say about that. Hillerman listened politely to whatever it was, then said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

I think Marta was adding yet another protest to the list when Hillerman hung up.

“Please come in,” he said, gesturing me forward.

I closed the door behind me and remained standing. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk to me. I’d just hoped he’d let something slip as he was trying to kick me out. Or that somehow, looking at him would trigger a memory in my brain, give me some idea who he was and why he had it in for me.

“You’re not worried about your professional ethics?” I asked, stalling while I tried to figure out what his game was.

He pushed aside the calzone. “Not particularly.” He smiled again, and the expression gave me the creeps.

I shook my head. “Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

Maybe I should have listened to my common sense and stayed home. He was looking way too happy about me being here. And way too cavalier about his career. Yeah, okay, he was obviously dirty, but it wasn’t like the whole world knew about it. Yet.

“Please,” Hillerman continued, dabbing grease off his fingers with a paper napkin, “come have a seat. I’d offer you something to eat, but all I have is the calzone.”

How hospitable of him! “Why are you eating a crappy takeout calzone at your desk?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to take two-hour lunches with lots of martinis?”

“What can I say? I’m a workaholic.”

I didn’t feel like sitting down, but I did come to stand closer to the desk, resting my hands on the back of one of the dark green leather visitor chairs that sat in front of it.

“Do I know you?” I asked bluntly.

He gave me a look of faux innocence. “I hardly think you would have come to visit if you didn’t know me.”

Oh, great. A smart-ass. “I meant before the case. Is there something you have against me personally?”

He didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Funny you should mention it, but yes.” The creepy smile was back. This guy was freakin’ weird!

“Care to elaborate?” I prompted. “Because, frankly, I have no idea who you are or what you have against me.”

He giggled. Actually giggled. “I know. That’s part of the fun.”

I’d known he had to be some kind of psycho to carry out this incredible vendetta against me, but I’d assumed it was a subtle kind of psycho, the kind that would be hidden under a polished, professional veneer. Right now, he was looking like a good candidate for the psych ward.

I’m beginning to suspect Jack Hillerman isn’t the only one in that body, Lugh’s voice whispered in my head, and suddenly things made a lot more sense.

I hadn’t kept an exact count, but over my years working as an exorcist, I must have sent hundreds of demons back to the Demon Realm before they were ready to go. Because I’m stronger than the average exorcist, I get called in on cases where the local exorcist has failed to cast out the demon, which meant I’d worked far more cases than other exorcists my age.

In the good old days before Lugh had entered my life, I thought demons died when they were exorcized. Up until right this moment, I hadn’t put much thought into what the fact that they just returned to the Demon Realm meant for me.

Hundreds of demons, floating around the Demon Realm, blaming me for their banishment. Since these were all illegal or rogue demons we were talking about—meaning demons who had the morals of cockroaches—I guess it shouldn’t come as any great shock that one of them had made his way back to the Mortal Plain and decided to get revenge.

Don’t let on that you’ve figured it out, Lugh warned. You’re not supposed to know the demons you’ve exorcized aren’t dead, so you should still have no idea why he’s after you.

Damn it, Lugh was right. Hillerman was looking really pleased with himself. I had about a million legitimate questions to ask—like when did the demon move in? Did the vendetta have anything at all to do with Jordan Maguire, or was that just an excuse to come after me? Why would even a psycho demon be this determined to get revenge on his exorcist? It wasn’t like sending him back to the Demon Realm had hurt him!

But I couldn’t afford to ask any of those questions, couldn’t allow myself to tip my hand. So what I said instead was, “Did you forget your meds for the last several weeks or something? Because you are making about zero sense.”

Some of the manic humor faded from his eyes, and I got a glimpse of the malice that lay hidden beneath. It was enough to send a serious chill down my spine.

“I don’t like to be thwarted, Ms. Kingsley,” he said, his voice now arctic-cold, the humor deeply buried. “I will make sure the remainder of your life is a living hell.”

I had to clamp my jaws together to contain my retort, which would have been something about how much I looked forward to exorcizing him a second time.

Perhaps now would be a good time for a tactical retreat, Lugh suggested.

Once again, he was right, though I was loath to admit it. Sitting right here in front of me was the man who was responsible for all the hell I’d gone through since Jordan Maguire Jr. died. He could call off the goons with the baseball bats and the severed hands. He could probably convince Jordan Maguire Sr. to drop the lawsuit. There was nothing he could do to heal the damage he’d done to my relationship with Brian, but I would have loved nothing more than to make him suffer for it.

But there wasn’t a thing I could do, at least not right now. When I left the office, I could contact Adam and let him know Lugh’s and my theory that Hillerman was possessed. I’m not sure if we had enough evidence to convince the court to order an examination by an exorcist, but Adam would know for sure what it took, and he’d find a way to produce the evidence.

“Won’t you at least tell me what I did to piss you off?” I asked, because that’s what I would have asked if Lugh hadn’t guessed about the demon. “Were you and Jordan, er, close?” I said that with just the right inflection and facial expression to get my meaning across. I have a feeling the real Jack Hillerman would have objected strenuously to the implication. It would be nice if the demon would tip his hand by attacking me, giving me an excuse to sic Adam on him— assuming I survived the attack, that is—but he just laughed.

“I think it’s time for you to leave now, Ms. Kingsley.”

I wondered if it was possible to die of frustration.

If so, I was on the verge of doing it. Two things I really hated: sitting around doing nothing while my life went to hell around me, and retreating—even when I knew it was the right thing to do.

“This isn’t over,” I said. It sounded like a line from some bad action flick, but it’s hard to be witty and clever when you’re so pissed you’re trying to talk yourself out of punching someone’s lights out.

Hillerman looked absolutely delighted. “No, indeed it isn’t.”

Before I could say anything else to amuse him, I hightailed it out of his office, slamming the door behind me for the sheer satisfaction of it.