Sing

60.

East of Bakersfield, seven hours later. I had spent the drive time working up a profile on Violet Hayes. I don’t recall her specifically from the raid, but she was one of the hackers, all seated in a pentagonal work area that would be the envy of NASA, that seemed more interested in what was taking place, its ramification, and perhaps even its guaranteed place in the history books. The other four, in the flash-bang of my entrance and take-over, seemed to only want entertainment and, I could sense, some form of revenge. There was one who’s desire appeared to be for my success, and not her employers. Might have been Violet, who at the time I did not correctly ID as female. I recall a similar assessment after their leader was down and they were being cuffed by local police. I did a very quick canvass asking if anyone had any up-chain information they would like to share in exchange for ‘sentencing considerations’ with similar negative results.

Seven long hours behind the wheel allowed me to put the intel from TOM alongside my upcoming initial meeting with Violet, her group and The Axis cell. A few elements added up with just as many subtracting from my working theory. The saying is that one only gets a single chance at a good first impression, yet I held out hope that it might be during our second encounter that we discover some meaning, a motive and the motivation causing our initial meeting. 

I arrive at the facility, a desolate and remote complex that might have been a WWII supply command. Immediately I feel its bleak raison d'être and consider the possibility that there might be some better way to accomplish its penal objective. I am ushered into an underground bunker about the size of a high-school gymnasium. There are no windows. The fluorescent lights emit a vibrating yellow light along with the standard sixty-cycle hum. There is a sign at the security checkpoint advising all personnel that this is a Women’s Facility and that No Men Allowed Past Checkpoint Without Female Accompaniment. I am greeted by a female officer who doesn’t appear very happy to see me. 

“You are here to see the Hayes girl?” she asks in a gruff, smokey tenor. 

“Yes.” 

“Follow me please.” She leads me out of the gym and down a long and narrow corridor. Past an intersection the rooms on either side have been converted to holding cells, small, sterile closets with a bunk bed, a metal desk and toilet as the only furniture. The toilet is stainless steel with a built in sink above the tank. I glance into the pens as we walk and note they are empty. The officer is silent but the echo of our foot-strikes precedes us like a bad reputation. At last we arrive at the end of the corridor where a slightly larger area signed Conference Room, hangs behind another officer seated at a small reception area. She is greeted by my guide and she opens the electric door with a few keystrokes on her desktop computer which looks like something Bill Gates might have built in his father's basement. The door opens like a WD-40 commercial. Violet Hayes is seated at a desk facing me. Her hands are shackled to the desk and her legs bound in chains attached to an iron bracket bolted to the concrete floor. I am appalled. 

“Please unshackle her,” I say trying not to show my indignation. 

The guards look at each other, resign, and the desk officer moves to open a key cabinet behind her desk, finds the right combination and slowly moves to do as requested.  

Violet acknowledges my empathy with a quick toothless smile. 

I sit across the desk from her and ask the guards for two bottles of water. As Violet is rubbing her wrists I scan the walls and ceiling for cameras. Satisfied, I ask the remaining officer to give us the room and she reluctantly complies without a word. 

I look across the desk at Violet. I see a frightened, abused, dehydrated yet apprehensive young girl. Her hair is brownish-blond, tied into a short ponytail. Her eyes are hazel and open wide. Her skin, although pale and sallow features an American nose above thick European lips. Overall, I access her visage as ordinary, with the caveat that she holds an odd, interesting gleam in her eyes. They suggest to me that she is willing to engage. 

“You remember me?” I open with as friendly and non-intimidating a tone as I can muster. 

“Yeah, fucking Jack Bauer,” she says a touch harsher than necessary. I chuckle at the comparison and wonder if she knows what a huge fan I am of 24. 

“They told me you wanted to talk.”

“Well, OK, that’s correct but first how about telling me who they are and who you are?”

“Violet…”

“Please call me Vi,” she interrupts with a correction, “like the sky.”

“Vi, at this juncture it is imperative that you understand that you are in what we call the scalding hot water of deep kimchi. We have all the cards, every one of them, and the only reason I came all this way to honor your request is in the hope of obtaining information on who you were jacking Phantoms for. Nothing else. So let’s address that elephant in this room, you sing, give me some actionable intel and I will do what I can to lighten your tenure in this luxury vacation resort. Is that something you would like to initiate, or should I fly home in the Gulfstream and finish the barbecue I was hosting?”

“Can we do it in B-flat minor?” She asks.

“Do what?”

“Sing.”