Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

If not for the razor wire. And the guard towers.

As she’d learned the last time, the medium-security site where Flynt was incarcerated was only one of several lockups in the complex, which sprawled for many acres. It was perfectly safe and not too intimidating. Not as nonthreatening as the women’s building, the minimum-security one, or especially the boot camp, but it still beat having to walk into the maximum-security facility.

“You okay?” Alec asked, as if sensing her trepidation once they parked in a guest lot.

“Yeah. It’s just not my favorite place.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Do you really want to talk to Flynt?” she countered.

He nodded once.

“Then I do have to do this.”

Not arguing, Alec got out of the car and came around to open her door. She walked close beside him, aware of the watchful eyes scanning the security monitors, the guards high in their towers, the workers in the office windows, and even inmates getting some fresh air in the yard.

Once inside, Alec headed not toward a general visitors’ area, but toward a special law enforcement one. They were met by two armed guards who photocopied their identification and asked a few questions.

“Oh, you’re coming to see old J.T., huh?” one of the guards said when he read the sign-in log. “He’s been bragging that his girlfriend was gonna be here today.”

Alec could have cracked a walnut against his stiff jaw. “We’re here on official business.”

“Tell that to Jimmy.”

“I intend to.”

Sam shook off her unease and forced a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fine.”

“Ma’am, you’ll have to leave your coat here,” one of the guards said. “Your bag, too. We’ll secure them for you.”

She knew that, from the last time. Slipping out of the long wool overcoat, she passed it over to the man, seeing his quick, not-very-discreet glance over her attire.

Damn. Maybe she should have let Alec stop at a mall. She thought so even more when she heard a crisp, hard-edged voice say, “Your dress is inappropriate.”

Sucking in an embarrassed breath, she glanced over to see the prison warden, Connolly. The gruff, stern-looking man, who had been at least polite on the phone, now stared at her with flinty-eyed disapproval.

“Warden Connolly,” she said. “I’m Samantha Dalton. We spoke on the phone?”

“You do know we have a dress code for a reason,” he said, not acknowledging her greeting. He frowned as he stared at the length of her skirt. Though what she wore was perfectly acceptable for a party, it wasn’t for a prison, where women’s skirts, if she recalled correctly, had to reach the knee. “Many of these men are unused to the presence of females. We prefer to keep them docile, and having a young woman in the area is difficult enough without adding provocative attire to the mixture.”

Her face flushed hot. Sam hadn’t been called out on her clothes since she was a teenager and her mom wouldn’t let her wear a pair of jeans with one of the ass pockets torn down at the corner. She kept her cool, though, saying, “I apologize. I forgot about the dress code.”

“We won’t be seen by any of the general population,” Alec said, stepping close, lending silent support, as if he read her embarrassment. “Maybe she could leave her coat on?”

The older man didn’t unbend. “Coats are against regulations, too. I don’t make the rules-the state does-but in this case, I agree with them. It is an issue of safety-of the inmates, my men, and you, ma’am.”

Alec pulled out his badge, which he’d just tucked away after showing it to the checkpoint guards. “Mrs. Dalton is assisting me with an investigation, Warden, and I really need her help. Can you not make some type of accommodation here? Search the coat thoroughly, perhaps, and let her keep it on? I assume the prohibition is because of the fear of weapons?”

Warden Connolly held Alec’s gaze, and for a second, she thought he would refuse. How embarrassing would that be, sent out to wait in the car like a recalcitrant child because her damn skirt was two inches too short?

Finally, the man let out an annoyed sign. “Very well. If it truly is urgent.” He gave a quick nod to one of his men. The guard patted down Sam’s coat, put his hands in the pockets, felt the lining, then handed it back to her.

“Please do keep buttoned up. It is difficult enough to keep these animals in check,” the warden said. “I do not want any trouble because one of them loses his head over a nicely turned leg. They’ve preyed on society enough on the outside; I won’t allow them to cause any disruptions in here.”

Harsh. Obviously the guy took his job seriously. “I understand,” Sam said, feeling as small as she ever had. She vowed to go through her closet and get rid of all her too-tight clothing just as soon as she got to return home.

“Good.” The man spun away with a few crisply issued orders and a nod at his guards.

Once he was gone, Alec leaned close to murmur, “I’m sorry about the clothes.”

She buttoned the coat from neck to thigh, knowing she’d be a sweaty mess within minutes, but not about to get tossed on her ear for not obeying the rules. “It’s okay.”

Once she was suitably concealed, they were led to a private interview room. Her previous meeting with Flynt had taken place in a regular visitors’ area, thick Plexiglas separating her from the man. This was different, a private room used for law enforcement, obviously meant for interrogation rather than personal inmate visits.

It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be no barrier between her and the criminal they’d come to see. She didn’t worry for her own physical safety. First because Jimmy hadn’t been incarcerated for doing violence; he was here for being a damned thief. And second, because even if an armed guard hadn’t walked inside and stayed with them, she knew Alec would never let Flynt lay a hand on her.

But the situation promised to be an uncomfortable one. As Alec had said, she was setting herself out as bait for someone she detested. She suddenly found herself glad for the strict dress code, knowing how unpleasant it would have been to sit here in her tight clothes and be ogled by the creep. Not to mention counterproductive, since Alec would never have stood for it.

She was especially glad when Jimmy entered the room, led by another guard, accompanied by his attorney. In his orange jumpsuit, with his hands chained together, he still managed to smile like a host greeting a guest at an exclusive party. “Samantha,” he exclaimed, stepping closer, as if he fully intended to greet her with a warm hug. “Happy birthday!”

Her birthday. God, she’d totally forgotten.

The guard put a stop to Jimmy’s attempted contact, even as Alec stepped in front of her, giving her a quick it’s-your-birthday-and-you-didn’t-tell-me? look. Sam offered him an apologetic shrug, then got back to the reason for their visit.

“Hello, Jimmy,” she said, trying to sound pleasant, and also trying to hide her shock at his appearance.

The last time she had come here, Flynt had looked like a healthy, middle-aged man, with thick dark hair, robust features, and an inmate’s weight-lifting physique.

This Flynt was much different. So visibly unhealthy, she felt a stab of sorrow for him.

He had lost at least fifty pounds. His loose, baggy skin hung from protruding bones. Dark circles surrounded his milky eyes, and his cheeks held red blotches and tiny scabs, as if he were too easily cut while shaving. His hair had thinned and was now salted with gray, and he moved slowly, like an old man.

She noticed the slight yellow tinge of his skin right before he said, “I got the hep C. Trashed my liver. Didn’t want to worry you, so I didn’t put anything about it in my letters.”