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“According to the docs, yes.”
At least that was something. Sam glanced at Edmonds. “And you?”
The big man smiled. “By the time he got to me, security had swarmed. They sedated him and brought him straight down here.”
The cell door slid open and the doc stepped out. “The wound is fine. His temper is not, however. I’ve given him another dose of sedatives and ordered him chained up. Under no circumstances are you to undo those chains. Not if you value your life.”
“Any prospect of him breaking free?”
The doc hesitated. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say no. But that man is far from normal.”
Wasn’t that the truth. She glanced at Briggs. “You two keep close watch. If he does happen to achieve the impossible, fire every stun gun you’ve got.”
Briggs frowned. “But we’ll hit you.”
“I like my chances with the stun gun better.” And with that, Sam headed into the cell.
Orrin glared at her. He had the sort of face only a mother could love. One eye seemed to ride higher than the other, and his nose was bulbous and lumpy, reminding her somewhat of cauliflower. His lips were flabby, flapping loosely whenever he moved. His bald head shone in the artificial light. A few strands of hair clung just behind his ears, and these—a bright red-gold in color—stuck out like chicken feathers, thick and bristly.
Briggs was right. This was one ugly son of a bitch. She walked around him and checked the restraints. So far, they showed no stress, though Orrin was constantly flexing the muscles along his shoulders and arms, trying to work free.
She walked back to the front and stopped, hands behind her back. “What can you tell me about Rose Pierce?”
He hawked and spat. The yellow mass landed near her left boot, but she didn’t move. “We know she’s responsible for the deaths of five people. What we’re not sure of is your involvement in those murders.”
He made no response, but simply continued to glare. His eyes were a muddy brown and full of anger, full of hate. She’d seen that sort of hate before. It wasn’t aimed at her in particular; it was just a hate of anyone in a position of power. Government, police and, in particular, the military.
And that’s the angle she needed to attack from.
“We got your details from a General Frank Lloyd. Seems they’ve been watching you for quite some time.”
He jerked slightly. “They don’t know nothin’ about me. You’re lying.”
His lips were like jelly, and continued to wobble after he’d finished speaking. It was a dreadful sight. No wonder Orrin was a mass of anger—he’d probably grown up the butt of everybody’s jokes.
“On the contrary, it was the military who gave us your name and address. They know you’ve been breaking into their system. They know it was you who stole the Generation 18 records. They’ve requested we hand you over to them once we’ve finished.”
“You do that, and I’m dead!”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I care?”
Orrin regarded her balefully. “Why are you doing this? You’re one of us. You should understand.”
She crossed her arms. “One of what, Orrin?”
“A reject. A castoff.”
“And that’s what you are? A military castoff?”
He nodded. “You think nature is this cruel? This face is man-made. And the bastards deserve to die.”
On that, she had to agree. “Then why attack other rejects? Why not attack the military themselves?”
“I needed help. That was the price.”
“Whose price, Orrin?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it and continued to glare at her.
