Gurney was reminded once again that the actual security paraphernalia of a maximum-security prison covers a broad spectrum of sophistication and visibility. At one end are state-of-the-art sensors and control systems. At the other end are guard towers, twelve-foot chain-link fences, and razor wire.

Surely technology would one day make razor wire obsolete. But for now it was the thing that made the clearest demarcation between inside and outside. Its message was simple, violent, and visceral. Its presence would easily overwhelm any effort to create an atmosphere of normalcy—not that any serious efforts in that direction were made at correctional facilities. In fact, Gurney suspected, razor wire might very well outlive its practical containment function, purely on the basis of its message value.

Inside, Bedford Hills was fundamentally similar to most places of incarceration he’d visited over the years. It looked as bleakly institutional as its purpose. And despite the thousands and thousands of pages written on the subject of modern penology, that purpose—that essence—came down to one thing.

It was a cage.

It was a cage with many locks, security checkpoints, and procedures aimed at ensuring that no one entered or departed without proper evidence of their right to do so. Lex Bincher’s office had seen to it that Gurney and Hardwick were on Kay Spalter’s approved-visitors list, and they were admitted without difficulty.

The long, windowless visiting room that they were led to for their meeting resembled rooms like it throughout the system. Its primary structural feature was a long counterlike divider separating the room into two sections—the inmate side and the visitor side, with chairs on both sides and a chest-high barrier in the center. Guards stood at either end with a clear view down the length of the barrier, aimed at preventing any unauthorized exchanges. The room was painted, not recently, an institutional noncolor.

Gurney was relieved to see that there were only a few visitors present, allowing for more than adequate space and the possibility of some privacy.

The woman who was brought into the room by a stocky black guard was short and slim with dark hair in a pixie style. She had a fine nose, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. Her eyes were a startling green, and beneath one of them there was a small bluish bruise. There was a hard intensity in her expression that made her face more arresting than beautiful.

Gurney and Hardwick stood up as she approached. Hardwick was the first to speak, eyeing her bruise. “Jesus, Kay, what happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“It’s been taken care of,” she said dismissively. She was talking to Hardwick but looking at Gurney, examining him with a frank curiosity.

“Taken care of how?” persisted Hardwick.

She blinked impatiently. “Crystal Rocks. My protector.” She flashed a quick humorless smile.

“The lesbian meth dealer?”

“Yes.”

“Big fan of yours?”

“A fan of who she thinks I am.”