He read it, lips moving wordlessly. Inside my head, I could hear the words he was tasting again: . . . for taking my daughter front me . . . will burn the flesh from your head . . . will never know the hour or the day . . . nowhere safe in this life . . . It wasn't highly original, but it was heartfelt and articulate in a way that was more worrying than any of the vitriol Prescott had shown me on the Rabid & Rambling stack. It also specified exactly the death Bancroft had suffered. The particle blaster would have charred the outside of Bancroft's skull to a crisp before exploding the superheated contents across the room.