Free The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum Page B

I pushed the buttons of the security code with my bandaged finger and nothing happened.
    â€œThat’s very impressive,” said Connie.
    â€œThe office is totally impervious to any intruder, even me.”
    â€œCompletely safe, I can see that.”
    I stepped to one of the red phones next to the fire alarm box and asked if someone from security would be so kind.
    â€œDon’t be embarrassed, Richard,” said Connie.
    â€œI’m not embarrassed.”
    â€œYou bring me here to see your new office, and then you can’t remember your code. What was it? Your junior high locker combination?”
    Connie had a way of holding out one hand as she talked and not quite looking me in the eye. It meant she could say almost anything and you were to take it as a joke.
    The security man was quick as a track star, a young man with a steel tooth. “Good morning, Mr. Stirling.”
    â€œI punched in the right numbers,” I said. But I felt the potential chagrin—maybe I’d made a mistake.
    â€œComputer’s out all of a sudden. It’s a new system they put in after the man with the gun. But right now no one can get in if they aren’t already in. I’ve been running .” He said running with a long upward lilt, so you had to imagine it in italics. “It’s got a manual override.” The tooth was bright.
    â€œI know the feeling,” said Connie.
    Inside, she made a show of touring the place, running a finger over Matilda’s desk like someone inspecting for dust. I led her into my office and showed her the view, Bay Bridge, bay, buildings.
    â€œI don’t see any bullet holes,” she said.
    I didn’t want to talk about bullets. “Steve Fayette gave me a call and said it was the chance of a lifetime to get a place like this. I got a break on the lease because of—what happened. I don’t feel happy about it.”
    She put a hand to one hip. “You said you could see the bullet holes.” You could hear the country girl in her voice, someone who had been raised shooting ground squirrels.
    â€œIf you stand here,” I said, “and tilt your head like this you can see where they spackled them in. See? Maybe fifty holes.”
    â€œI don’t see them.”
    â€œFeel.”
    I ran her fingers over the spot where a hole had been patched. She withdrew her hand quickly.
    â€œHe killed nine people,” I said. “Three right here. People sitting at desks, paralegals.” It proved, I thought, that rooms are not haunted. Imagine the terror—and all of it here, where I was standing now, an ordinary office. I tried to put the images out of my mind.
    Connie was silent, looking down at the new carpet, Viking gray, one-hundred percent wool. “You ought to put up some pictures.”
    â€œI’ll get around to it.”
    â€œTell me where it came from. That mirror.”
    I turned to look at her. “I thought you would know.”
    With Connie I often felt myself slowing down, laying down the retort carefully so she could serve it back over the net. I had almost wanted her to criticize the new office, just so I could show her the built-in safe, and the new oak filing cabinets. I didn’t want to discuss the mirror.
    â€œIt’s big,” I said. “It has a handsome frame. It’s old, a little damaged. In myths, the unicorn could be captured only by a virgin holding a mirror. The animal fell in love with its own reflection.”
    â€œIt’s priceless. There was one like it in the Christie’s catalog last September—”
    â€œSo it can’t literally be priceless.”
    â€œWe can’t even afford to keep it,” she said. “The insurance will kill me.”
    â€œYou better update your alarm system.” I made a point of saying your , not our . I pulled open one of the new oak drawers. It was empty except for a trace of sawdust.
    â€œYou have no idea where it came