Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

“I had planned to kill you immediately, but seeing you here, like this”-his eyes roamed over her again, that dark desire easily visible-“well, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll keep you around for a while.”

“Won’t your receptionist notice me chained to your desk?”

He chuckled. “Calm and witty even on your knees. I was right about you: You’re one of a kind.” He produced a roll of duct tape from a nearby shelf. “Come on, now. I can’t have you making any noise.”

“No,” she whispered, knowing he intended to tape her mouth shut. “Nobody’s around to hear me, anyway.”

“I know that. But there’s no point in risking it.”

Swallowing her revulsion, knowing she had very few chances and her voice would be one hell of an asset, she murmured, “I understand the handcuffs, but I’d be very grateful if you didn’t tape my mouth closed.” She forced a note of humility and added, “I’m nauseous. I’m afraid I’ll get sick and choke. Please?”

He studied her face, gauging her sincerity. Sam kept her eyes down, not wanting him to see the hatred there, and finally he murmured, “Very well. But be warned, I specifically scheduled certain events today to ensure nobody would be in this wing. Just as I’m going to ensure the guard shack is unattended when you and I drive out of here in our policeman friend’s vehicle. I control this entire facility. Every guard, every angle of every surveillance camera. I have ensured our privacy. So don’t waste your breath screaming.”

Sam nodded, quickly processing what he’d just said. He planned to drive her out of here, to take her God knew where. Afterward, he could make up any story. He’d make sure he had surveillance footage from one of the towers showing the car departing-though not showing the driver. Connolly could disavow any knowledge of what had happened to her and Myers once they left the property.

Meanwhile, he would have her stashed someplace. Doing whatever he wanted to her. For however long he chose to keep her.

Keep it together .

This wasn’t hopeless. Even now, Alec and the others could be discovering Connolly’s name on the symposium records. She stayed calm. Forcing slow, deep breaths, she watched through the doorway as Connolly rolled Myers’s body in the waterproof tarp, bound it, then dragged it out the door. She had a minute or two and thought frantically, needing an advantage. Suddenly, under the desk, she spotted something shiny. She craned lower, peering into the depths, and realized it was a pen. Not a disposable plastic one, but a finely crafted executive one, hard and sharp.

Twisting around, she pushed her arms forward, but was short by a few inches. “Damn it,” she cried, feeling tears of frustration well.

Sam shifted, pulled her upper body as far from the desk as she could, until her wrists and shoulders screamed with the effort. Scissoring her legs, she managed to get one underneath. After a few tries, she was able to nudge the pen several inches. Enough so that, when she quickly turned back around, she could grasp it in one cuffed hand.

A door slammed. He was coming back.

Jesus, was she insane, thinking she could go up against a vicious killer with a damn pen?

It’s better than nothing .

She slid the thing up under her sweater sleeve, hoping the elastic at the wrist would hold it there. Hoping even more that she had a chance to use it.

Then he was back, sticking his head in the office with a cheery, “Hello, again.”

He didn’t enter, instead busying himself putting the reception area back together, including the furniture. He tore down the plastic, then peered closely at the walls and the baseboards, occasionally spritzing a spot with industrial-strength cleaner and wiping it down.

Myers’s blood.

She didn’t have to pretend she needed to retch.

Finally, when he was satisfied, he returned to the office. Tossing her the keys, he said, “Unlock one cuff, stand up, then reattach it. It’s time to go. And don’t try anything silly, not now that I’ve decided I’d like to keep you alive for a little while.”

A little while. An hour? A day? A week?

Just long enough to rape her?

Sam swallowed, doing as the madman ordered, all the while keeping her sleeve tight against her wrist. Within minutes, they were back in the unmarked police car, Connolly in the driver’s seat, his gloved hand on the wheel. His other was draped across his lap, the gun pointed at her. “Off we go. I’ve got the perfect spot to keep you until I decide whether you’re worth keeping.”

He started the car and backed out of the space. But before he’d even turned it around, he said, “Why did you ask about the symposium?”

Sam didn’t dare tell him the truth about the red ink. No way was she giving him any warning. “When I saw the book on the shelf, I remembered talking with you at the signing. It was several months after we met here when I came to interview Jimmy.” That was a lie; she honestly didn’t recall Connolly being among the hundreds at the signing that day. But he couldn’t know that.

“Yes, it was. How lovely that you remembered me.”

She managed to keep her lips from curling in a tight, grim smile. Got you, bastard .

Alec would come. He’d figure this out, and he’d find her.

And if he didn’t show up in time, Sam would wait for the perfect opportunity, then drive Connolly’s own pen right through his vicious throat.

Not willing to waste one second looking for the others, Alec called Dean Taggert as he ran from the classroom toward his car.Telling them what he knew, he asked them to follow, seeing them in his rearview mirror, running to their own cars, as he tore off down the street. They were probably less than a half mile behind him now, all racing toward the state prison, though he doubted any of them felt the frenzy that surged through every inch of Alec’s body.

“Let her be okay,” he muttered for the hundredth time, not knowing if it was a prayer or an order. He couldn’t say it to Sam directly because her phone was turned off.

Everything that had happened since last night-Tricia’s attack, Sam’s mother’s near miss, and, of course, the news of Lily Fletcher’s death-had strung Alec to his tautest point. He felt on the verge of snapping, careening wildly out of control, knowing something happening to Sam Dalton would send him over the edge.

“My fault,” he whispered. “Should never have brought her into this.”

He hadn’t. Logically, he knew that. The Professor had known Samantha long before Alec had shown up at her door a week ago. Still, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of responsibility.

She might be okay. Her second call, as she’d left the hospital, had been one hour ago. So she had been at the prison for no more than twenty minutes. Myers’s presence might keep Connolly from doing anything crazy.

But this whole thing smelled like a setup to him, the call about Flynt a way to get Sam into his clutches. Deep down, he feared the Professor would not be forestalled by the presence of any city cop. Alec leaned forward, hunching over the steering wheel, as if he could make the remaining few miles to the prison disappear faster beneath the tires.

Finally, he reached the exit. Flying off it, he followed the same route he’d taken less than twenty-four hours ago.

Jerking to a stop at the prison guard shack, he flashed his badge. “Special Agent Alec Lambert.”

The guard ambled out, glancing at his clipboard.

Alec debated pushing him. But he had no warrant; he had no real proof that this guy’s own boss was a psychotic murderer. Coming off like a raging lunatic wouldn’t get him inside any sooner and could delay things.