Accessory To Marriage. Ann Voss Peterson

      Chapter Two

      Trent put pen to paper and scrawled his name on the document in front of him without glancing twice at the fine print. He knew what the document said. He’d had to sign it many times in his years with the FBI. Sign it and surrender his gun. Every time he’d ventured into the cell blocks of a maximum security prison. The bowels of a prison. The pit he and Rees were heading to now.

      He glanced at Rees standing next to him in front of the glassed-in reception and screening desk. She clutched the pen in shaking fingers. She’d conducted interviews at the prison, but he doubted she’d been deeper than the visiting rooms. She would have had no reason to visit the cell blocks themselves.

      Eyes squinted, she studied the words in front of her. Damn ominous words. Words she should never have to contemplate. In a nutshell, the document stated that should some inmate with a point to prove take either of them hostage, the prison authorities wouldn’t lift a finger to save their lives. No negotiation. No discussion. No kiss goodbye.

      Of course Trent had seen countless instances where prison officials went to all lengths to save a hostage. The document was simply intended to cover the prison from lawsuits should a visitor get hurt. But even so, the implication was there. This was a bad place filled with bad men.

      A place he didn’t want Rees anywhere near.

      He pulled his gaze from her, from the fear and vulnerability evident in her trembling fingers and her ramrod-straight posture. He wished to hell he didn’t have to put her in this situation. That he could shutter her away and keep her safe. But she’d been right. He needed to use every resource at his disposal to stop Kane, even if that resource was Rees. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t.

      He turned to the hulking corrections officer waiting to escort them to Kane’s cell. The sooner they sorted through the cell, the sooner he could get Rees out of this godforsaken place. And the sooner he could track down the serial killer. “Let’s get on with it.”

      The guard nodded and turned to Risa. “Ready to go, Professor?”

      Risa looked into the guard’s weary eyes and forced a brave smile to her lips, a smile that trembled slightly at the corners. “Lead the way, Duane,” she said, her voice a little too chipper, a little too eager.

      The guard returned her shaky smile with a reassuring one of his own and started down the well-worn main hallway. Trent strode behind, Rees falling into step beside him.

      “Before we reach the cell, I want to warn you.” Trent projected his voice above the bars clanging behind them and the steady tap of their footsteps on scuffed tile.

      “Warn me about what?”

      “I don’t know what we’re going to find in Kane’s cell. Probably what he wants us to find. And Kane is one twisted bastard. You may have to face some very ugly things.”

      She set her chin and strode forcefully forward. “I’ll manage.”

      “I hope so.” He didn’t even bother to censure the doubt in his tone. “Because I’m bringing you along against my better judgment.”

      “You have to use every tool at your disposal, Trent. To save Dixie’s life. To save other lives.”

      “That’s the only reason you’re here, Rees. Believe me. If I could, I’d toss you over my shoulder, haul you back to the car and hog-tie you so fast it would make your head spin.”

      She shot him a hard look. “If you did, there would be hell to pay.”

      He tore his gaze from her and strode down the corridor behind the guard’s hulking shoulders. “There’s always hell to pay. Believe me.”

      After walking for what seemed like an eternity, Duane stopped to turn his key in the control panel and opened the last set of barred doors at the entrance of the first cell block. They stepped through, and the doors clanged shut behind them. The sound echoed through the vast two-story structure like the slamming of the doors of Hades.

      Trent had never visited this particular prison before, but it was much the same as the countless others he had. A long hallway stretched on either side of them, barred windows black with night on one side and two stories of cells on the other. The scarred bars and dingy beige walls and floors looked like something out of a nightmare. A smattering of murmurs, shouts and catcalls erupted as they stepped forward into the cell block. Thankfully, it was the middle of the night. Otherwise the jeers and obscenities would be worse. Much worse.

      Rees tensed beside him. He longed to slip a comforting arm around her, to press her body against his side, to protect her from the scum leering at her from behind barred doors. But this was not the time or the place. That time and place didn’t exist. Not anymore.

      Between the open shower rooms in the center of the structure, a steel staircase rose to the second floor. They followed Duane up the stairs, their footfalls making the metal hum like a tuning fork.

      When they reached the second tier, Duane led them past two uniformed police officers and down the walkway overlooking the floor below. The cells in this section stood unoccupied, evacuated, their doors yawning wide and cavernous. Trent exhaled with relief. At least Rees wouldn’t have to face the prisoners’ jeers up close and personal.

      Two men in suits stood outside Kane’s cell. The taller of the two wore a double-breasted Armani suit and French cuffs with the pomposity of a man eager for people to think more of him than he thought of himself. If Trent had to hazard a guess, he’d peg the man as the prison’s warden. Though where he’d come up with the cash to dress in designer suits on a prison warden’s salary, Trent couldn’t answer.

      The other man he knew, though not well. Pete Wiley had been one of the senior detectives on the case the last time they’d met—back when Kane was still an unknown subject, or “unsub” as they were usually called. Unfortunately, the detective had been one of many local law enforcement officers that Trent ran into in his work who were resentful of the FBI. To put it mildly, Wiley hadn’t been the model of cooperation between agencies.

      Now the blond mop-topped detective shifted from scuffed loafer to scuffed loafer like a little kid itching to go out and play. Or, if Trent remembered the squirrely cop correctly, an adult suffering from nervous tension and too much strong coffee.

      The warden shook his balding head dramatically. Though he was talking to Wiley, his voice carried down the row of empty cells. “…and maybe this is for the best. Maybe now the Department of Corrections will give us money for improvements and extra guards instead of funneling all the state’s resources into the new Supermax and into shipping prisoners to Tennessee and Oklahoma prisons.”

      For the best? He hoped the warden was referring to something trivial like the boiler failing or the maintenance crew running out of wax for the dingy floors. He surely couldn’t be talking about the escape of a serial killer as being for the best, could he? Trent eyed Rees. The last thing she needed to hear was that some jackass in a fancy suit thought the danger Dixie faced was for the best.

      Hands balled into fists by her sides, she glowered at the warden’s back. A muscle worked in the smooth column of her throat, as if she was doing her best to swallow the damn fool’s words.

      Anger churned in Trent’s gut. She shouldn’t have to swallow this garbage. Any of it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to just