long, scraggly black hair that brushed the floor every time his chest dipped to touch the vinyl padding.
Her eyes intent upon the inmate, Ryan craned the
gooseneck microphone mounted beside the monitor
toward her mouth and thumbed the TALK switch on it.
"Markham! You got company."
Although the speaker system blasted her voice into the room, the cel 's occupant did not heed her. If anything, he only quickened the pace of his exercise.
Ryan obviously expected his recalcitrance, for she kept hold of the mic and cranked up its volume. "Take a seat, Markham! Before we come in and put you there." The prisoner got to his feet and stared straight into one of the dark plastic bubbles that covered the cel 's camera lenses. The shadows that accumulated beneath the overhang of his heavy brows made his eyes appear bottomless and empty. For the first time, Pancrit wondered about the wisdom of striking a deal with this nutcase. If Simon McCord hadn't commanded such
loyalty from the rank-and-file of the NAACC's
membership, Pancrit could have used a Corps conduit for his purposes. But McCord, a messianic mentor to his fel ow Violets, was a religious fanatic who believed only God could create conduits, and he would use al his power and influence to stop Project Persephone if he ever learned its purpose. Carl Pancrit needed a conduit who had been excommunicated from McCord's Violet
enclave. An outcast, a pariah.
Like the Violet Kil er.
According to the staff hired to maintain a round-theclock suicide watch on the prisoner, Markham had only spoken one word during the ten years of his
incarceration: Boo. After considerable research, Pancrit learned that this was Markham's pet name for his
former flame, Natalie Lindstrom. Therein lay Pancrit's principal bargaining chip. While Lindstrom had
rebuffed his offer of employment, she might yet prove of use to him, for she had once been Evan Markham's lover. Of his ten victims, Lindstrom was the only Violet he could not bring himself to kil --the one he had permitted to capture him and turn him over to the police. Pancrit counted on both the love and the hate Markham had for Lindstrom in his negotiations with the madman.
As the Violet Kil er peered into the camera, he
scratched at the foot-long beard he'd grown in the years since the guards had refused to take the risk of shaving him. With a languid, unhurried air, he sank into the cel 's chair and placed his bare ankles and wrists in the open manacles. The cuffs snapped shut, and on the electronic panel beside the monitor, a red light winked off as a green one came on.
Stepping back from the microphone, Ryan nodded to her heavyset male partner, whose name badge identified him as WILLIS. He hefted himself off his folding chair, pul ed out a round key on a chain attached to his belt, and stuck it into a circular hole in a metal plate on the wal beside him. When Wil is signaled his readiness, Ryan inserted her own key into a wal plate on the opposite side of the room. The system required them to turn their keys simultaneously--an extra security measure that prevented a single individual from
opening the cel 's entrance.
Ryan pointed to the corridor's metal portal as it slid open. "The inner door won't open til this one closes. The cel wil shut automatical y twenty seconds after you've entered the room." She paused to give him the obligatory disclaimer. "Containment is our first priority. If anything goes wrong, we might not be able to get you out."
Pancrit stiffened in apprehension. "I know." He did not permit himself to consider al the
implications of dying inside this prison as he proceeded into the brief passageway that served as a buffer zone between the cel and the reception area. Pancrit knew that the sleek white plastic of the wal s hid layer upon layer of metal and insulation, designed to keep the electromagnetic energy of Markham's soul from
escaping the facility in the event he should ever succeed in kil ing himself. Indeed,
Her eyes intent upon the inmate, Ryan craned the
gooseneck microphone mounted beside the monitor
toward her mouth and thumbed the TALK switch on it.
"Markham! You got company."
Although the speaker system blasted her voice into the room, the cel 's occupant did not heed her. If anything, he only quickened the pace of his exercise.
Ryan obviously expected his recalcitrance, for she kept hold of the mic and cranked up its volume. "Take a seat, Markham! Before we come in and put you there." The prisoner got to his feet and stared straight into one of the dark plastic bubbles that covered the cel 's camera lenses. The shadows that accumulated beneath the overhang of his heavy brows made his eyes appear bottomless and empty. For the first time, Pancrit wondered about the wisdom of striking a deal with this nutcase. If Simon McCord hadn't commanded such
loyalty from the rank-and-file of the NAACC's
membership, Pancrit could have used a Corps conduit for his purposes. But McCord, a messianic mentor to his fel ow Violets, was a religious fanatic who believed only God could create conduits, and he would use al his power and influence to stop Project Persephone if he ever learned its purpose. Carl Pancrit needed a conduit who had been excommunicated from McCord's Violet
enclave. An outcast, a pariah.
Like the Violet Kil er.
According to the staff hired to maintain a round-theclock suicide watch on the prisoner, Markham had only spoken one word during the ten years of his
incarceration: Boo. After considerable research, Pancrit learned that this was Markham's pet name for his
former flame, Natalie Lindstrom. Therein lay Pancrit's principal bargaining chip. While Lindstrom had
rebuffed his offer of employment, she might yet prove of use to him, for she had once been Evan Markham's lover. Of his ten victims, Lindstrom was the only Violet he could not bring himself to kil --the one he had permitted to capture him and turn him over to the police. Pancrit counted on both the love and the hate Markham had for Lindstrom in his negotiations with the madman.
As the Violet Kil er peered into the camera, he
scratched at the foot-long beard he'd grown in the years since the guards had refused to take the risk of shaving him. With a languid, unhurried air, he sank into the cel 's chair and placed his bare ankles and wrists in the open manacles. The cuffs snapped shut, and on the electronic panel beside the monitor, a red light winked off as a green one came on.
Stepping back from the microphone, Ryan nodded to her heavyset male partner, whose name badge identified him as WILLIS. He hefted himself off his folding chair, pul ed out a round key on a chain attached to his belt, and stuck it into a circular hole in a metal plate on the wal beside him. When Wil is signaled his readiness, Ryan inserted her own key into a wal plate on the opposite side of the room. The system required them to turn their keys simultaneously--an extra security measure that prevented a single individual from
opening the cel 's entrance.
Ryan pointed to the corridor's metal portal as it slid open. "The inner door won't open til this one closes. The cel wil shut automatical y twenty seconds after you've entered the room." She paused to give him the obligatory disclaimer. "Containment is our first priority. If anything goes wrong, we might not be able to get you out."
Pancrit stiffened in apprehension. "I know." He did not permit himself to consider al the
implications of dying inside this prison as he proceeded into the brief passageway that served as a buffer zone between the cel and the reception area. Pancrit knew that the sleek white plastic of the wal s hid layer upon layer of metal and insulation, designed to keep the electromagnetic energy of Markham's soul from
escaping the facility in the event he should ever succeed in kil ing himself. Indeed,
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