The Valentine Hostage

by Dawn Stewardson

  He’d taken off the phony mustache, so he looked more like himself. But it was a different self than she’d seen before. During the trials, he’d always been impeccably dressed in designer suits. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, he looked more…

  She forced her eyes from him when the words ruggedly masculine formed, then refused to leave her mind. But she couldn’t help thinking he was an inordinately good-looking man—a perfect example of why you should never judge a book by its cover.

  Carefully keeping her gaze from him, she surveyed the cabin, even though there was nothing more to survey than there’d been when they’d first arrived. And about the only things she hadn’t noticed earlier were the oil lanterns that were now providing light.

  One was sitting on the kitchen counter, another on the battered chest of drawers in the back corner. Her gaze drifted downward—to where a three-quartersized mattress was lying on the bare floor. It was made up with clean sheets and a blanket, and every time she looked at it she wondered what sleeping arrangements Ben had in mind.

  She had a pretty good idea, of course. But dwelling on that only made her more anxious, so she focused on the living room area.

  It consisted of a single piece of furniture, a couch someone had constructed from roughly hewn wood and broad leather strips. On the floor beside it, looking entirely out of place, sat a large radio.

  “Battery operated, I assume?” she said, noticing that Ben was eyeing her.

  “Shortwave.”

  “Oh, you can transmit from here?” If there was a link to the outside world and she could manage to—

  “Uh-uh, you’re thinking of ham radios,” he said, dashing her hopes. “I don’t have a transmitter. The radio’s just so I can keep track of what’s happening.”

  Keep track of how the search for him was going, she knew he meant.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” she admitted.

  “Sorry we had to miss lunch, but I didn’t figure stopping to eat would be a good idea.”

  “No. Not when we were on the run like Bonnie and Clyde.” The moment she said the words, she wanted to take them back. They made it sound as if she was on his side, which wasn’t how she’d meant them at all.

  But that was apparently how he’d interpreted them, because he smiled again—more easily this time. It started her feeling funnier yet.

  “Well, these fish are ready for cooking,” he said, dropping them into the sizzling pan. “So how about opening some wine? There are a couple of bottles in the cooler.”

  Wine in the cooler. Along with cartons of groceries on the counter. Someone had certainly stocked the cabin well.

  And it had only been today, she discovered when she opened the metal cooler. The ice inside hadn’t entirely melted.

  She’d barely uncorked the wine before Ben was putting the fish onto plates—along with the salad he’d made.

  Sitting down at the table with him, she couldn’t help thinking how ludicrous the scene was. She was in the middle of the wilds, about to have a civilized dinner prepared by a murderer. It was akin to being dropped into the middle of a Fellini filming without being given a script.

  Ben glanced at her expectantly as she took her first bite of fish, so she told him it was delicious—which was true. After that, they ate in silence. Then, just as he was suggesting they take the remaining wine over to the couch, he paused mid-sentence and looked at the door.

  “What?” she said, her heart starting to hammer when he reached for his gun.

  “There’s someone out there,” he whispered.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday, February 4

  6:51 p.m.

  “Ben? It’s me,” a man quietly called from outside.

  Monique watched Ben clip his gun back onto his belt. He didn’t look as if he’d been expecting company, but at least this was someone he knew.

  The door opened and the man strode inside, holding a suitcase in one hand and a rifle in the other. Mid-thirties, with dark eyes and hair, he was about Ben’s height and weight

  “Thought I’d bring you this stuff myself, ‘cuz…” He spotted her and stopped in his tracks, then shot Ben a silent question.

  “Monique LaRoquette,” Ben told him.

  Dezi looked at her again. “Oh, jeez, it is her. I knew I’d seen her before,” he added to Ben—as if she couldn’t hear every word. “But why’s she here?”

  “Felicia didn’t show. When I got to the front of the courthouse she wasn’t there, but Monique was, so—

  “Okay, I’ve got the picture.” Dezi waved off the rest of the explanation.

  Ben nodded. Now they could get to what he wanted to know—which was what the hell his buddy was doing here. They’d been certain the cops would be watching Dezi’s every move, so his coming to the cabin sure hadn’t been part of the plan.

  When he asked his question, Dezi’s gaze flickered to Monique once more. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk in front of her. But aside from sending her outside, Ben couldn’t see any way around that, and he wasn’t sending her out.

  She had to realize she’d be crazy to try making a run for it, but she might figure getting lost in the swamp was the lesser of two evils. And the last thing he wanted was to be blamed for another death.

  He gestured for Dezi to walk over to the window with him, which was as far away from her as they could get, then quietly said, “I wish she hadn’t seen you. She’ll ID you for sure.”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  “Well, try not to let her know Maria was in on things, too, huh?”

  “Sure. I’d already thought about that”

  “So what’s up? Weren’t the cops all over you?”

  “Yeah, they came to the Crescent asking their questions. And they had a couple of guys watching the place. But I ducked out the back and didn’t use my own car. I was probably halfway here before they realized I was gone. And I’ve got an alibi for where I’ve been.”

  “Good,” Ben said, feeling less uneasy. “But what was with the sneaking-up routine? You’re lucky I didn’t take a shot at you.”

  “Well, I spotted somebody down a channel a ways back. And I didn’t want him following the sound of the motor, so I didn’t use it much after that.”

  “I think I know who he was. We had company earlier. Does the name Spook mean anything to you?”

  Dezi swore under his breath, then said, “He’s the closest neighbor. His cabin’s a couple of miles from here. But I thought he was still gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Oh, once or twice a year he decides to head out of the swamp for a little excitement. And every time he does, he ends up locked away for a while. Either in a jail or a psycho ward. He doesn’t exactly have both oars in the water.”

  “Terrific,” Ben muttered.

  Dezi shrugged. “The good news is he’d never tell anyone you’re here. He likes secrets.”

  “He also seemed to like the knife he was wearing.”

  “Yeah…well, just keep an eye out.”

  Ben glanced toward Monique, who was still sitting at the table. Once he got to part two of the plan, and had to leave her here alone…

  He forced that thought from his mind. It was another thing not to worry about until the time came. “So what’s up?” he asked, looking back at Dezi. “Why are you here?”

  “I had to make sure you made it okay. Maria was goin’ nuts and—”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “You haven’t had the radio on, have you.”

  “Not since we ditched the rental car.”

  “Then you haven’t heard what happened to Felicia.”

  Ben’s mouth went dry.

  “She’s dead. The cops found her in an alley. Stuffed into a Dumpster with her throat slit”

  “When?” he asked, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

  “They found her while they were looking for you. Ironic, huh? But she’d been dead since sometime l
ast night”

  Ben turned to the window and gazed unseeingly into the darkness. It was happening again. Or still happening would be more accurate. Someone was still out to get him.

  First, the guy Sandor Rossi called The Nose had arranged for Antonio DeCarlo’s murder—framing Ben in the process. Then he’d convinced Rossi not to testify at the retrial. And now a woman had been killed so she couldn’t help with Ben’s escape.

  But how had anyone known about the plan, let alone that Felicia was supposed to play a part in it?

  When he voiced the questions, Dezi simply shook his head. Then he nodded toward Monique, saying, “What about her? What are you going to do with her?”

  “I don’t know. I should never have grabbed her in the first place. But when I was standing outside that courthouse with Felicia nowhere in sight, all I could think about was that we’d reserved the car in a wornan’s name. And that if things didn’t go right at the airport I’d be screwed.”

  “Okay, what’s done’s done. And we’ll figure something out When this is all over, we’ll somehow convince her not to press charges.”

  “Yeah.” Ben looked over at Monique once more, thinking the odds on them managing that had to be about as good as the odds on his finding the real killer.

  10:17 p.m.

  MONIQUE STOOD IN THE moonlight beside Ben, watching Dezi pole his boat away from the dock and wishing with all her heart that she could go with him—head back to civilization instead of being trapped here with a killer.

  “Why isn’t he using his motor?” she asked as the boat silently glided down the canal and disappeared into the darkness.

  “He doesn’t want to draw attention to us. Just in case anyone’s within hearing range.”

  “You mean anyone like Spook.”

  Ben didn’t reply, simply turned and started for the cabin.

  Nervously, she trailed along. Given the choice between going back inside with him, or staying out here with the alligators and snakes—and possibly Spook— there really was no choice. But the prospect of going back inside had her very, very frightened.

  It was bedtime. And even though Ben hadn’t laid a hand on her since they’d gotten here, she doubted that was going to continue for much longer.

  He’d been arrested the day of the murders, over three years ago, and he’d been in custody ever since. So unless Angola was the type of prison that permitted conjugal visits—which she didn’t think it was— he hadn’t been with a woman in an awfully long time.

  They reached the door and he opened it, ushering her in and surprising her by saying, “I’ll wait out here for a couple of minutes—give you time to get ready for bed.”

  She hurried in and changed into her nightshirt and housecoat, unable to keep her eyes from straying to the mattress. Then, her heart in her throat, she simply stood waiting for Ben to come inside.

  When he finally did, he said, “We’ll have to share the mattress.”

  “I could use the couch,” she tried, even though she knew he wouldn’t go for it.

  He shook his head. “There’s only one set of bedding. And that couch is uncomfortable to sit on, let alone to try sleeping on. So just blow out the lantern on the dresser and take whichever side you want”

  Ben wandered over to the kitchen area and stood surreptitiously watching Monique. Once she killed the light in the corner, she crawled onto the mattress without taking off her robe. Then she pulled the covers tightly up around her throat and lay there looking like a terrified rabbit, so near the edge of the mattress that half an inch more and she’d roll off onto the floor.

  Blowing out the lantern on the kitchen counter, he stripped down to his shorts in the darkness—resisting the impulse to tell her he’d try sleeping on the couch.

  He’d thought his years in prison had buried any gentlemanly impulses so deep inside him they’d never surface, which made having one unexpected. But having it and acting on it were two different things.

  You didn’t really sleep in prison. Not when there were always lights on and the nights were full of voices—along with the intermittent clangings of steel and the occasional cries of some prisoner being forced to pleasure his cell mate. And after not having a real night’s sleep in more than three years, he’d be damned if he’d miss the chance for one tonight

  Pushing the thoughts of prison from his mind, he crossed the cabin and crawled in beside Monique, careful not to get close enough to brush against her. He ended up close enough, though, that the intoxicating scent of her perfume began doing wicked things to his insides.

  It took all of three seconds to realize he should have acted on that gentlemanly impulse—not for her sake, but his own.

  Taking a slow, ragged breath, he told himself he wasn’t moving to the couch. He was going to lie right where he was and control his urges.

  Vicious animal, the press had frequently called him. That, and psychopathic murderer had been their favorite terms. But he wasn’t an animal any more than he was a killer. And despite all the indignities of prison, he’d retained enough humanity that he’d never force himself on a woman. Regardless of what Monique believed, she was safe with him.

  He lay on his side with his back to her, listening to her soft breathing, feeling her body heat…and aching to roll over and hold her.

  Clenching his fists, he told himself it wasn’t her he wanted to hold. His need might be almost overwhelming, but he wasn’t desperate enough to want a woman who hated his guts.

  It was simply that she was lying right next to him. And that she was beautiful. And that it had been so, so long.

  He took another slow breath, reminding himself he wasn’t an animal. Then he eased one hand to his face and wiped away the tears that had somehow found their way onto his cheeks.

  Friday, February 7 6:43 a.m.

  MONIQUE SAT ON THE cabin steps, hugging herself for warmth and gazing absently through the mist. She could just make out the first pink fingers of the rising sun—stretching upward past dead cypresses that were wet and dark against the pale gray of the morning.

  A splash told her Ben had a strike, and she glanced along the shoreline to where he was standing with his rod. Dawn, he’d told her, was the best time for catching fish.

  Watching him reel this one in, she let her thoughts drift back over the past few days, trying to decide exactly when she’d stopped being frightened of him. She wasn’t sure. Just as she was no longer sure of so many things.

  She reminded herself—yet again—about the Stockholm Syndrome, about the fact that it wasn’t uncommon for hostages to develop positive feelings toward their captors.

  But was that peculiar phenomenon responsible for her losing her fear of Ben? And for the fact that, incredible as it seemed, she was having to fight against actually liking him?

  Or was it that the two of them had been together almost every second of the past three days. And in all that time, not a single thing he’d said or done would have led her to conclude he was either a psychopath or a murderer.

  Don’t forget, an imaginary voice whispered, psychopaths are consummate actors. She hadn’t forgotten. Still, if she didn’t know the truth…

  Looking out over the water, she couldn’t help wondering if she really did know it. There’d been a lot of time to think since they’d arrived at the cabin, and the more thinking she’d done the more doubts she’d developed.

  What if, against all odds, Ben’s look-alike story was true?

  Somewhere along the way, she’d seriously begun to entertain that possibility, because she was finding it more and more difficult to conceive of him as a cold-blooded killer.

  And that wasn’t all. As hard as she’d tried, she just couldn’t make herself believe she’d simply imagined that man in front of the courthouse the other day. The one who’d looked so much like Ben she’d thought it was him.

  But she’d been mistaken. And since she had, how could she be sure she hadn’t made a similar mistake when she’d identified Ben as the man she’d s
een in Augustine’s?

  She glanced along the shoreline at him once more, telling herself he had to be guilty. Five eyewitnesses couldn’t have misidentified the killer, which made the possibility he’d spent all that time in prison for murders he hadn’t committed awfully remote.

  Even so, it wouldn’t stop gnawing away at her heart.

  8:31 a.m.

  STANDING BESIDE THE COUCH and staring intently down at the shortwave, Ben listened to the latest news update.

  “Police Chief Royce Monk has just completed this morning’s press briefing on the DeCarlo case,” the newscaster said. “He announced that the Citizens for a Safe New Orleans group has matched the police department’s reward offer for information leading to DeCarlo’s capture. That doubles the reward amount to $100,000.”

  When Monique glanced up from the couch, Ben merely shrugged. But he didn’t like that little bombshell.

  Aside from Maria and Dezi, only one person knew where he was. Dezi had needed witnesses to his whereabouts on Tuesday morning, so he’d gotten his brother to come here and stock the cabin.

  That made Ben more than a little uneasy. He barely knew Louie. And even though Dezi swore Louie would never say a word, $100,000 was a lot of money.

  “Chief Monk,” the announcer was going on, “stated that despite the NOPD’s extensive search of the city, and the numerous tips the force has received, there are still no solid leads to DeCarlo’s whereabouts.

  “The hot line is continuing to take calls, and anyone with information should contact the police at 555HUNT. But the chief admitted that DeCarlo has likely left New Orleans.”

  Ben exhaled slowly. That was what he’d been waiting to hear.

  “Police forces in all corners of the country are on the lookout for DeCarlo, and Chief Monk remains confident the convicted killer will be apprehended shortly.

  “However, reporters questioned the chief about extradition proceedings, making it clear that many of them believe DeCarlo is basking on a beach in South America.