From Black Rooms (8 page)

flicked out to moisten the cracked dryness of his ful lips, and his voice rasped from years of disuse. "I want
to see her."

Pancrit grimaced at the kil er's demand, but nodded. Markham bared his teeth in a death's-head grin and wiggled the fingers of his manacled hands. "How about getting me out of these things? As a sign of good faith...

A staring contest ensued between them as Pancrit

assessed the risk of freeing the prisoner before the guards came in to back him up. Stil ...he needed to assert his dominance and win Markham's trust in order for them to work together on the project.

"If you cross me," he warned, "you'l rot in this box forever."

"Think I don't know that? That's the only reason I bothered to speak to you." Markham waved his shackled hands again. "Wel ?"

Pancrit quashed his misgivings and turned toward the ceiling cameras, raising his voice so that the adjacent speakers would receive his instruction. "Release him." A click came from the speakers, fol owed by Ryan's voice. "You sure about that, sir?"

"Yes. I have things under control."

He heard the hydraulic hiss as the clamps on

Markham's wrists and ankles opened, and half turned toward the prisoner. "Now--"

He did not have time to say anything more before the Violet lunged forward to seize him in a headlock.

"I could twist your head off your neck before they ever got in here," Markham murmured. "And it wouldn't make a damned bit of difference to my future." Pancrit bobbed his mouth for the breath to cry out, but the crook of Markham's elbow squeezed his windpipe like a nutcracker. Though he wriggled and tugged at the kil er's arm, the doctor failed to break free.

"Let go of him, Markham," Ryan said from the speakers, a nervous quaver undercutting the authority in her voice. "You'l only make it worse for yourself if you don't."

Yet neither she nor Wil is made any attempt to enter the cel to save Pancrit. Containment is our first priority, he heard her repeat in his mind as his lungs throbbed with trapped air and his vision dimmed from oxygen

depletion.

Markham practical y kissed his earlobe as he spoke.

"Get this straight: I don't care about you or your little pipe dreams. I don't care about the Corps or the Violets or this cel or my own accursed life. Al I want is Boo. And you'd better let me have her. Understand?" As far as he was able to, Pancrit nodded.

"We're giving you ten seconds to back away from him," Ryan announced through the intercom. "Then we're coming in."

"No need," Markham replied, unhooking his arm from Pancrit's throat. "Everything's fine. In fact, the doc and I are partners. Isn't that right?"

The Violet Kil er clapped a hand on Carl Pancrit's shoulder in filial camaraderie, but pinched the muscle as a reminder of the penalty for betraying their al iance. Pancrit massaged his neck, tel ing himself, It's only for
the project. After that I can get rid of him.

"Open the cel ," he croaked to the guards. "We're coming out."

5

Familiar Faces

AT THE TIME, NATALIE COULD NOT SAY WHY

SHE TOOK NOTE OF THE man who loitered outside

the Ralph's supermarket when she and Cal ie emerged from their weekly shopping expedition. He seemed to take no notice of them as they wheeled out a cartload of groceries; in fact, he had his back turned to them, so that Natalie could see only his frizzy, shoulder-length black hair and the long, dark overcoat that looked too heavy for the September afternoon's warmth. He might easily have been one of the homeless vagrants who sometimes hung around outside Ful erton's shopping centers, but something about his posture--hunched shoulders, hands shoved into pockets like concealed weapons--evoked a subconscious recognition that

verged on deja vu.

With sudden trepidation, she kept glancing over her shoulder at him as she rol ed her rattling cart over to the Volvo and began loading the bags into the station wagon's rear cargo area. Strangely, it did not console her when the man failed to turn around and glower at her. If she had seen his face, Natalie could have convinced herself that he was merely some poor mental case the state didn't have the funding to treat. But the way he steadfastly refused to face her made it seem as if he didn't need to view her directly, as if he could watch her through the back of his head. His stance suggested a suppressed violence, like that of a disgruntled employee about to open fire on a crowd of postal customers. Cal ie glanced up from the Disney Adventures magazine she'd bugged Natalie to buy for her in the checkout line. "What is it, Mom?" she asked, turning to gape at the stranger.

Natalie pivoted her daughter back toward the car. "No, honey. It's not nice to stare."

Etiquette did not keep her from peering at the transient, however, thinking Turn around turn around turn

around! Was he one of Corps Security's new stooges?

The NAACC had such high turnover nowadays that

Natalie could hardly keep track of who was assigned to spy on her at any given time, so she always watched for strangers who seemed to take more than a passing

interest in her. Paranoia became a habit when people were actual y fol owing you.

As Natalie herded Cal ie into the Volvo's backseat, the derelict final y fulfil ed her silent wish, for he spun around, flicked a half-smoked cigarette to the cement, and ground the butt beneath his boot before stalking into the supermarket and out of view. He did not appear to notice her, and the brief view she caught of his face dispel ed the impression of familiarity she'd had when his back was turned. The thick black brows over

recessed brown eyes, the long tangles of the Rasputinlike beard...they didn't match anyone she knew. Cal ie had ignored her admonition not to stare. "Do you know that man?"

Natalie shook her head, but without conviction. "No, honey. I've never seen him before."

Yet something about the vagrant continued to nag her as she and Cal ie got in the car. She didn't figure out what it was, though, until they were almost home. Homeless indigents never leave a cigarette half smoked. The vague menace of the man outside the supermarket continued to bother Natalie like a loose tooth, but she forgot al about him when she saw the black woman inclined against the condo's front door, dressed in a chic pantsuit belted at the waist. Even before Natalie could see the features of the polished-mahogany face, she recognized the devil-may-care poise with which the visitor crossed her arms and ankles, the relaxed pose belying the spring-loaded power of her wiry limbs.

"S
erena!" In her excitement, Natalie braked the Volvo
at the curb and rushed out to greet her old friend without col ecting either Cal ie or the groceries in the back of the car.

Serena Mfume sauntered to meet her halfway down the front walk. "Hey, girlfriend!"

Though she wore a short, kinky-haired wig to cover her shaved head, she otherwise looked the same as the day she'd introduced herself ten years ago--the day she'd saved Natalie from being dissected by the Violet Kil er. Yet a certain tiredness dimmed the twinkle of Serena's violet eyes and the white lightning of her grin lacked its usual voltage.

Natalie chose to ignore these ominous signs, instead embracing her friend as if welcoming her to

Thanksgiving dinner. "It's so good to see you! How go things at the ranch? Is our Uncle Simon in good

health?"

Serena laughed, some of the old mischief resurfacing on her face. "Oh, you know Simon. He's so stubborn, he'l outlive us al --and won't that be ironic!"

Natalie laughed. Like his late brother Arthur, Simon McCord had been an instructor during her training at the School. Simon believed the ability to summon the dead was a gift from God, and so he pressed al Violets to do their duty with fanatical devotion. He was so obsessed with keeping this world in touch with the next that Natalie could easily see him living forever through sheer obstinance, never moving on to the noncorporeal existence he extol ed as the "True Life." Simon now spent much of his time on a large ranch in New Mexico, serving as mentor and religious guru to a group of handpicked disciples, of which Serena was his star acolyte.

"By the way, congrats about the Munch," she said. "I hear it went for five mil ion at Christie's."

"Oh...yeah. Thanks." Natalie repressed a groan. The real-estate agent who'd paid her fifty grand for the finished version of Munch's Self-Portrait as a Woman had turned around and auctioned it off last week for a hundred times what he'd paid for it--an astounding sum, considering that the painting lacked the Corps's imprimatur of authenticity. "Too bad I don't get either the money or the credit," she said to Serena.

"I knew it was you in that picture the moment I saw it in Newsweek," her friend assured her. "And I knew Munch couldn't have done it without you."

"That and three-fifty wil buy me a cappuccino. Speaking of which, you wanna come inside for some coffee?" Natalie indicated the condo. "I'm such a caffeine fiend now, I even bought an espresso maker-" Serena shook her head. "I can't stay. I just needed to talk to you."

"Business or pleasure?"

"You know it's always a pleasure, girlfriend." Serena's smile faded. "But I'm afraid it's business, too. I found out--"

"Mom?" Cal ie had opened a door of the Volvo and leaned out to cal to her. "Can I see Serena, too?"

"Oh! Sure, sweetheart." Eager to postpone any bad news, Natalie motioned to Cal ie, who bounded out of the car and practical y tackled Serena with a hug around the waist.

The visitor laughed and ruffled the girl's hair. "How's my favorite goddaughter? Stil remember those moves I showed you?"

Serena held up her open palms, which Cal ie rabbitpunched in playful sparring. She finished by jabbing one foot sideways toward the target in a somewhat clumsy kickboxing maneuver.

Serena whistled and clapped. "That's my girl! Why don't you go inside and take those shoes off while I talk to your mom, and then we can practice a few minutes on the living-room carpet?"

Cal ie beamed. "Al right! But you better watch out!" Serena struck a defensive pose. "I'm ready for you." Cal ie jabbed the air a few more times and ran on into the condo.

Serena shook her head and chuckled. "I swear that kid's a foot tal er than the last time I saw her."

"That's what happens when you only show up once every two years." Natalie folded her arms, bracing herself for the news. "So why are you here?" The gravity of Serena's expression deepened the lines of her face. "It's Evan. He's gone."

Evan. The vagrant outside the supermarket: his face
drawn long with simmering resentment, his shoulders hunched as if to shelter the match flame of his life from the high wind of the world. The realization col apsed on Natalie with the suddenness of a cave-in, and she nearly dropped to the ground beneath its weight. "I saw him," she breathed.

Serena stiffened, tensing as if for fight or flight. "You
what?"

"Just now...at the grocery store. I saw someone I thought--" She tried to shake the idea from her head.

"Are you sure? I thought the Corps had sealed him up for good, dead or alive."

"They did. But you know Uncle Simon. He trusts the Ndouble-A-C-C even less than they trust him. He didn't think the bureaucrats could handle a Violet who kil s other Violets, so he paid informants at Corps

headquarters to keep tabs on Evan. A few days ago, they sent Simon these."

Serena took some papers from the inside pocket of her jacket and unfolded them. The accordion-creased pages bore computer-printed stil s taken from security videos of what appeared to be a high-tech prison cel . The pictures' resolution was not the greatest, but Natalie had no trouble identifying the warlock-bearded madman clamped to his restraining chair. She had just seen him pretend to smoke a cigarette outside a Ralph's grocery store, feigning disinterest, always watching yet never looking. His face had gone feral, and if Natalie had not known his mannerisms since childhood, she would

never have guessed he was once the sixteen-year-old boy with whom she had first tasted an infatuation that she mistook for love.

Seeing Evan so horribly changed and confirming that he was again loose in her world brought no immediate fear, only the gloomy acceptance of a pessimist who's been proven correct. What she did not expect was the familiarity of the other man shown in the photos from Evan's prison cel : a broad-shouldered stranger in a dark suit, with graying temples and the beneficent demeanor of a father-confessor. A man who, six weeks before, had introduced himself to her as Carleton Amis.
6

The Seventh Madonna

IN AROUND NATALIE AS she sensed an as-yetunseen conspiracy coiling around her. "I know this man," she said, indicating Amis.

Serena shot her a look of surprise that bordered on suspicion. "You're one up on me if you do. Who the hel is he?"

"I was hoping you could tel me." Natalie recounted how Carleton Amis had represented himself as a movie producer who wanted her to paint reproductions of famous pictures for an art-heist film. "When I turned him down, though, he claimed to have some pul with the Corps. You don't recognize him?"

"Nope."

"Wel , he did." Natalie nodded toward Sanjay Prashad, who was parked at the curb in his black Mitsubishi. As he often did, the Corps Security agent sat in the car's front passenger seat with the window rol ed down, the better to needle her with his ferret's stare. Whenever she made the mistake of making eye contact with him, he flashed her the grin of a card player flush with hidden aces.

A glare from Serena managed to scrub the smugness from his face, however. "Thought I'd seen every snake in the N-double-A-C-C," she muttered. "Guess they turned over some more rocks. Did this Amis give you any way to contact him?"

"No. When I refused the offer, he said I wouldn't have another chance at it. At the time, that was fine with me." Natalie now felt stupid that she hadn't gleaned more information about the stranger that she could share. She frowned at the photos of Carleton Amis again before handing them back to Serena. "I don't get it. If he's in bed with the Corps, why didn't he have one of the Art Division's Violets paint his pictures for him?"