Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

Stokes rose shakily to her feet. “If there’s no body, maybe she’s all right. What are we doing here? We should be down there helping with the search!”

Wyatt put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, steadying her, maybe even steadying himself. “Jackie, the interior was soaked with blood.”

“The other agent…”

“No,” he insisted, killing her hopes. All their hopes. “He was shot outside the vehicle, but there was a large blood-stain soaked into the carpet inside, as if someone had been lying there for a long time. It was Lily’s blood type.”

“God,” Taggert whispered. “I can’t believe this.”

“He shot her, carjacked her.” Wyatt’s voice filled with audible, barely controlled rage. “And then he let her bleed to death in the back while he tried to evade the police.”

“Fucking bastard,” Brandon said as he covered his eyes with one hand.

“Even if there were some slim chance she was still alive despite the blood loss, she would never have survived the crash and couldn’t possibly have swum to safety.”

Everyone fell silent, thinking about it. Remembering Lily’s shyness, her sweet smile. The way she always seemed just a little sad.

Emitting a strangled sob, Jackie stalked out of the room, followed by Brandon.

Wyatt watched them go, then blew out a heavy, shaken breath. “I need to go home, shower, and change. Update me by phone if you find anything.” He leveled an even stare on the three of them, Alec, Kyle, and Dean, adding, “We still have a job to do. The Professor isn’t going to take a day off to grieve, and neither can we.”

Message received. After one more moment of silence, all three of them returned to their places around the table and began removing files from the box, one by one.

Without another word, Wyatt Blackstone slipped from the room, leaving them to it.

Sam liked Detective Myers, who had been on the Baltimore PD for two decades. He talked only a little, asked no obtrusive questions, and showed no sign that he resented driving her to the prison. A perfect escort.

She still hadn’t talked to Alec. She had tried him again, leaving a message about her field trip, stressing that she had an armed escort. Hopefully by the time she heard from him, this brief errand would be finished and she would be on her way back to the hospital.

As they neared the prison, Sam remembered she had promised to let them know what she was doing, and dialed the number from which Mr. Carter had called her. A male employee answered. When she asked if the attorney was there, he put her on hold for several long moments.

Finally, the guard came back on the line. “He’s waiting for you,” he said. “We’ll leave word at the gate. When you get here, follow the signs to the administrative parking lot. There’s an entrance directly into the main offices; park there and he’ll meet you at the door.”

Thanking the man, she relayed the directions to Myers.

“You must be a big shot,” he said with a wry grin. “I’ve never been invited to the superspecial parking lot.”

“I’d gladly forgo the privilege if it means I never have to come to this place again.”

They reached the complex probably no more than an hour after Carter’s initial call, the light Sunday-morning traffic helping to shorten the trip. As promised, the guard at the gate had been expecting them and directed them onto a private drive leading to the reserved lot. In it, two cars stood close to a door marked RESTRICTED ACCESS: AUTHORIZED ADMINISTRATIVE PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Guess that’s us,” Myers said as he parked.

Having been here yesterday, in the visitors’ lot, where there was much more activity, Sam found the emptiness strange. Myers apparently felt the same, because he stuck close as he walked her to the thick metal door marked STAFF ENTRANCE.

Though they’d been told Carter would be waiting for them, no one was in sight. Myers tested the handle, to no avail, then glanced at her. “What do we do now?”

She cupped her hands around her eyes, peering through the small, barred window, and saw movement. “There he is.”

The door opened. But to her surprise, they were greeted by the warden, rather than Dale Carter. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, still flustered around the man after yesterday. “We’re supposed to be meeting Mr. Carter.”

The unsmiling warden stared at her, then at Myers. His frown deepening, he mumbled, “Who are you?”

He flashed his badge. “Detective Myers, Baltimore PD. I’m escorting Mrs. Dalton.”

“This door is for authorized personnel only.”

Jeez, the guy was a stickler for rules.

“We were told to come this way,” Myers said. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow, as if challenging the warden to make them go around to the public entrance.

“Fine, fine,” Connolly said, not sounding happy about it. He stepped back and ushered them in, quickly shutting the door.

They stood in a small, private alcove just outside the warden’s office. Obviously the man’s job came with perks like an excellent parking place.

Unlike yesterday, when there had been at least some activity, despite the weekend hours, today this part of the building was practically deserted. Their footsteps were the only sounds, and they seemed to echo down the empty corridor, underscoring the feeling of abandonment. Certainly, in other parts of the huge building, there were hundreds of people-guards and inmates. But it appeared the admin staff got Sundays off. At least, everyone except the warden.

“Now, what is this all about?” he asked.

“Dale Carter called me this morning and asked me to come down here to pick up something left for me by Jimmy Flynt.”

The man’s head jerked. “Flynt?”

“Yes. An envelope with my name on it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed; he appeared puzzled. “I’m confused. I thought you no longer wanted to receive mail from Flynt.”

“This isn’t typical mail,” she explained. “Mr. Carter said it was a packet.”

“I knew nothing about it.” Turning abruptly, he said over his shoulder, “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Come with me, please.”

Sam exchanged a look with Myers, realizing he, too, felt like a schoolkid with the principal. But they both followed the man, who led them through a door to his secretary’s office, where Sam had waited out the interview yesterday.

“I apologize for the mess,” he said with an expansive wave of his hand. Furniture had been pushed to the side, plastic covering most of it, and a large drop cloth had been spread across the floor. He gestured toward a brown stain on the ceiling. “We had a leak. I have a man working on it. I’m overseeing, which is why I’m here on a Sunday morning rather than at church.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I just need to sign for the package and we’ll be on our way.”

Again came that frown. “As I said, I am completely unaware of this situation. You say Dale Carter told you to meet him here.”

“Yes. He called me not two hours ago. Said Jimmy Flynt had died, that he’d left me a package, and I should come get it.”

At that, the warden’s jaw dropped in shock. “ What? James Flynt is dead?”

Sam froze. How could the warden not know one of his own prisoners had died? Sure, the place was big, but the death of an inmate seemed like something the head guy should know about.

“How dare they not inform me?” The angry man strode through the receptionist’s area into his own office, heading for his phone. He yanked the receiver and began barking at someone, leaving Sam and Myers standing in the reception area, utterly confused.

“This seem normal to you?” the detective asked.