Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

“You were at the law enforcement symposium last winter,” she murmured.

He smiled, delighted. “Ah, you remember! How wonderful.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t let on that he had made a mistake when using that red-inked page. “Is Mr. Carter all right or did you shoot him, too?”

“He’s fine. I sent him away right after he’d played his part with his phone call. I told him you’d called and said you couldn’t come today after all.”

So she could look for no help there.

“Where is your FBI friend? I expected to see him with you and had arranged this whole scenario just to catch his blood on that drop cloth.” Connolly waved his gun toward Myers’s limp form. “I was disappointed to see this fellow instead.”

Sam kept her mouth shut, knowing she had to tread carefully. Saying the wrong thing could set him off.

She did want one question answered. “Is Jimmy really dead?”

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid Jimmy was a bad boy. Writing that note about how someone was using e-mail scams to hurt people. That was supposed to be our little secret.”

Understanding washed through her. “He helped you.”

“Just a bit. And in exchange, I made sure he got the medication he needed.”

Sam’s heart twisted in pity for Jimmy Flynt. A thief he might have been, but his last days couldn’t have been pleasant with this psychopath holding the strings to his failing liver.

“I went to see him last night, to ask him about his interview with the FBI, and saw what he’d been writing. Poor Jimmy ingested a deadly dose of medication shortly thereafter.”

God. This man talked about murder as he would talk about flicking off an ant.

“Too bad, really. Jimmy had a good mind, despite his coarse methods. He took care of another inmate who was giving me trouble, all because I whispered in his ear that the man had done something to hurt you , Samantha.”

She understood immediately. “So the man he attacked had nothing to do with what happened to my grandmother?”

“Of course not. As I said, Jimmy was very helpful.”

“I would think criminals like him would be part of the gene pool you’d want to clean up.”

His eyes widened and his mouth opened in delight. “Oh, my dear, you’ve gotten it, haven’t you? I knew you would understand.”

She wished she had kept quiet. She did not want to be considered his ally.

“Yes, the filthy inmates inside this prison are indeed the ticks on society’s scalp. But they’re sucking from a worthless bloodstream. Their victims are worse-stupid sheep, not merely uneducated, but unwilling to educate themselves. Like the fools who respond to my messages, despite all the warnings not to. The flock must be culled for the good of the future.”

Sam wrapped her arms around herself, wondering how he could sound so normal when spouting such hateful rhetoric. “Tricia is not stupid, and she didn’t deserve what you did to her.”

“She was greedy, thought I was a rich investor looking to buy some expensive property. Plus she was convenient, especially since your mother broke our date,” he said with a smile.

A shiver rolled through her at the confirmation of something she’d already, deep down, known. Her mother had been this monster’s first target last night. Wanting to wipe that smile off, she said, “By the way, your ugly plan didn’t work. Tricia’s fine.”

The lips remained curved up, though his gray eyes hardened. “I don’t believe you.”

“Call St. Joe’s. She’s a little out of it, but otherwise okay. Not even assaulted the way you obviously wanted her to be.”

Staring at her, he thought about it, as if to gauge her honesty. Then he chuckled. “She’s lucky I had no condoms. I thought about breaking her in before I dumped her but didn’t want to leave any evidence. Not to mention risking any diseases from the little whore.”

Sam didn’t think, didn’t plan; she merely reacted with fury, lunging toward the bastard.

He jerked back, but she didn’t surprise him enough to overtake the man. The hand holding the gun came up, and she stopped when the muzzle actually touched her forehead.

“I thought you were a smart woman.”

Sam closed her eyes, shivering at the feel of the cold metal against her skin. Her heart pounded wildly, her breaths rushing as she tried to control her fear. The acrid smell of the recently fired weapon made her sick, as did the scent of blood rising off of the man on the floor behind her.

It was the smell of life slipping away that finally brought her back under control, knowing she was as close to death at this moment as she had ever been.

“Nice and calm now?”

She swallowed, then managed to whisper, “Yes.”

The gun lowered to waist level. “Good. Now come inside my office, over by my desk; that’s a girl.”

Shuffling sideways, never turning her back to him, she did as he ordered. Desperate to find something, a weapon, a second exit she could dash through, she frantically looked around the room. But the office was immaculately kept, no loose, heavy items in sight. The massive executive desk held nothing of use-certainly not a paperweight, or something sharp.

Connolly retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Get on your hands and knees.”

She hesitated.

“I know; it’s not very dignified,” he said with a mournful shake of the head. “But I promise it’s only for a few minutes, my love. I have to move our detective friend to the car, and I can’t have you roaming about while I do.”

Sam reluctantly dropped to her knees, so disgusted by his endearment she had to look down lest he see the revulsion in her eyes.

“Lower, now, lean on your elbows. Hands out.”

Again, she obeyed, knowing he would shoot her if she didn’t. Seeing the way he looked at her, the flash of lust as he studied her in the provocative position, Sam forced herself to stay calm. She filed away his sexual interest in her, knowing she might be able to use it to distract him if she had the chance.

Sam wasn’t some old-movie heroine who would rather die than use any means possible to escape. The very thought of having this sick monster’s hands on her was revolting, but if it took letting him think she was compliant to get him to put the gun down, she’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Attach this to one of your wrists,” he said, dropping the cuffs to the floor.

“Please, you don’t have to do this; I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Do it.” Connolly lifted the gun an inch, and lifted one impatient brow as well.

Sam did as he’d ordered, snapping one metal ring in place, not pushing it any farther than she had to in order to engage the clasp.

“Now, loop the cuffs around the foot of the desk and attach the other one.”

Sam slid forward, doing as he asked.

He bent and felt the cuffs, tightening each one until they bit into her skin. Seeing her wince, he patted her hand. “It won’t be for too long, dear, I promise.”

Her hope that she might somehow shift the desk died when she saw him test its weight with his much bigger back and shoulder. It didn’t budge an inch.

“You see? No point in even trying. I promise it will only be for a few minutes.”

He reached out to touch her hair. Sam jerked back, not wanting contact with those brutal hands. Hands that had killed Ryan and his friend, that had brutalized and beaten Tricia.

“You’re upset,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I understand. But don’t worry. You’ll get used to your new circumstances very soon.”

Circumstances?

She couldn’t believe this was happening in a building where hundreds of other people, many of them armed guards, went about their business.