Free Wicked Fix by Sarah Graves

snapped the light switch,
     
    and went upstairs. It was not yet time to start adding
    deadly weapons to my toolkit. And maybe it wouldn't
    ever be.
     
    But they would be there, if I needed them.
     
    Next step: The drive to Machias took a bit under
    an hour and felt like five minutes. I had a question, and
    I needed an answer in order to make my second decision.
    The jail is located in the old red-brick county
    courthouse building, on a pretty side street that as I
    pulled onto it was quiet; most offices were closed on
    Saturday. But there were still official deeds to be done,
    apparently; inside, the lobby bustled with low-key but
    purposeful activity.
     
    I waited while the desk clerk consulted with somebody
    about my request. The verdict: yes, but with conditions.
     
    Okay by me. I followed the young police officer
    who was to be my chaperon down a dingy hall, past
    offices, a file library, and a coffee room. The uniform
    for female attorneys, caseworkers, and others who had
    business here today was longish rayon dresses, jackets,
    and flat shoes; for the men, jackets and ties.
     
    The inmates, by contrast, were all dressed alike:
    bright orange jumpsuits that would make them easy to
    spot in the woods, which is where you would head to if
    you wanted to escape around here. Victor looked
    ghastly in his, though under the circumstances I
    doubted that crisp tailoring would have made him look
    any better.
     
    The young officer sat on a plastic chair in the corner
    of the conference room. When Victor came in, I
    didn't mince words.
    "Do not, I repeat do not make any incriminating
    statements to me."
     
    I didn't know what he might have said to Bob Arnold,
    on the trip down. All I knew was that perjury
     
    was not among the crimes I planned to commit for
    Victor.
     
    Which limited pretty severely the questions I could
    ask him. But there was one, and as I sat there looking
    at him across the table in that hideous little conference
    room, I understood that I already knew the answer.
     
    I'd just needed to see him, so it would be clear to
    me. And I needed to hear him say it.
     
    He understood; even on his worst days, of which
    this had to be a real standout, he was no fool.
     
    "Jacobia," he said, and for an instant all his idiocies
    and posturings evaporated. He was just a man in
    an orange jumpsuit, tired and frightened.
     
    I'd loved him, once.
     
    "Jacobia," he said, "please help me."
     
    "I don't see how all this affects your own
    situation," Paddy Farrell sniffed, regarding
    me with a narrow look of unwelcome.
     
    Inside the old sardine cannery overlooking
    the boat basin, Paddy's fabric-design studio was
    aggressively white: the pristine walls, recently painted
    woodwork, and high airy ceilings. On the polished tile
    floor a half-dozen wooden layout tables were covered
    with colored drawings and sketches, under track lights
    as bright as little suns.
    "Or why you want to go digging up old misery, on
    account of it," Paddy added, his salt-and-pepper head
    tilted suspiciously at me.
     
    In one corner of the big work area, a chemistry-lab
    bench had been built in, complete with gas jets and
    oversized, brushed stainless-steel double-basined sinks.
    Another area was a display module with swatches of
     
    bright cloth in jewel-like hues spread on low tables,
    gleaming like a sultan's riches.
     
    "My situation," I snapped back at him, "is this:
    Victor's in jail and if it comes to a trial, Sam may have
    to testify against him. Even if he doesn't, he's very upset
    over his father being in trouble. Also the money I
    personally have in jeopardy over the matter would pay
    off the national debt of Peru. So does that adequately
    sum up the reasons behind my interest for you?"
     
    At the far end of the studio, cubicles were sectioned
    off for computer stuff--workstations with
    candy-colored Macintosh hardware set up on them--
    and dye testing: the object, I supposed, of the chemistry
    equipment. Paddy didn't only