The Heart has Reasons
by
Martine Marchand
Text copyright © 2012 Martine Marchand
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Cover image by Fenykepez
Dedicated to Grace Grimes.
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be;
I had a mother who read to me.
—Strickland Gillilan
Thanks mom! Love you!
PROLOGUE
Larissa Santos jolted wide-awake as a sudden surge of adrenaline revved her heart into overdrive. Although no anomalous sounds disturbed the nocturnal stillness, an almost palpable menace permeated the room. Squinting into the darkness, she lay rigid and unmoving as a nearly overwhelming terror commanded that she bolt from bed and run, run, RUN!
It had been more than a year since her last panic attack, but there was no doubt as to what had triggered this one. For the past month, someone had been invading the sanctity of her apartment. At first she’d tried to convince herself she was imagining things but, growing bolder, the intruder had begun rummaging through her belongings with no apparent thought toward covering his tracks and, most disturbing of all, he seemed to pay particular attention to the contents of her lingerie drawer.
Although she had no proof, Larissa knew the complex’s new maintenance man was the culprit. Several of her female neighbors had described Brian Sparrow as “creepy”. To Larissa, he was completely off the creepy-meter scale. Every time she left her apartment, he seemed to be lurking nearby, and his ominous gaze made her feel sullied, as if his eyes were slugs leaving invisible trails of slime across her skin.
Two weeks ago she’d come home to find her bedspread rumpled and slightly askew. The pillow she’d fluffed that morning bore the faint indentation of a head. Worst of all, when she’d turned back the spread, the faint but unmistakable scent of rank, masculine sweat still clung to her sheets. Horrified at the thought of what the intruder might have done while lying in her bed, she’d shoved the sheets into a garbage bag and carried them out to the dumpster.
The next morning, she’d spoken to the apartment manager, who’d assured her that whenever maintenance needed to enter an apartment, they had to sign out the key. But what if Sparrow had legitimately signed out her key and then made a copy of it? The manager had had no answer for that, except to insist that Sparrow wasn’t the sort to violate someone’s privacy.
Maybe not, but someone had. She’d requested permission to have a second deadbolt installed and the manager had agreed, with the proviso that she provide the office with a copy of the key. If the intruder were Sparrow, the new lock would be pointless.
Having received no satisfaction from the manager, she’d phoned the police, which had proved to be an exercise in futility since the intruder had stolen nothing and there were no signs of forced entry.
Numerous friends and co-workers had encouraged her to buy a gun. Although the very thought of possessing a firearm — much less actually using one — was abhorrent, she’d been desperate for some peace of mind. Forcing down her trepidation, she’d bought a little .22 Smith & Wesson semiautomatic, had spent numerous hours at a local shooting range learning how to use it, and then had obtained a South Carolina Concealed Weapons Permit.
Now, clutching the sheets to her chin, the vague and indistinct forms inhabiting the darkness sent a crawling dread creeping up her spine. Was that the rustle of clothing? Imagined or not, the faint whisper of sound slithered across her awareness like reptilian scales, kicking her heart rate up several more notches.
Blinking and struggling to control her terror, she suddenly comprehended her panic’s origin. A week ago she’d installed nightlights throughout the apartment and, when she’d gone to bed, their faint golden glow had held sway against the darkness. Now, however, the apartment was black as pitch.
Someone had extinguished them.
The realization spurred her heart into a terrified gallop. She desperately tried to convince herself there’d been a power failure, but the alarm clock’s glowing red numerals proved this fallacy.
When the acrid, almost skunky scent of male perspiration assailed her nostrils, her heart stopped dead in her chest. As she sucked in a sharp breath to scream, a large, callused hand clamped down over her mouth. Grabbing the intruder’s wrist, she fought to pry his hand from her face, then froze as something metallic and sharp-edged pressed against her throat. A masculine voice growled, “You stupid cunt, you make one fuckin’ sound and I’ll cut you from ear to ear.”
When her hands dropped limply to the mattress, the intruder remarked, “Maybe you ain’t so stupid after all.” His breath was hot and foul against her face as he leaned down close to whisper, “You and me’s gonna have some fun.”
Since Larissa had never actually spoken to Brian Sparrow, she did not recognize the voice speaking to her, but she did — finally — remember the little pistol beneath her pillow. Sliding both hands under her head, she grasped the weapon. In one swift movement, she thumbed off the safety, pulled it from under the pillow, shoved it against the intruder, and squeezed the trigger.
As the resulting explosion of sound shattered the nocturnal stillness, she barely registered the sharp bite of cold steel at her throat. The hand clamped over her mouth released as her attacker staggered back with a cry of surprise and pain.
Before the .22’s report had stopped reverberating, she squeezed the trigger a second time. In the faint burst of muzzle flash, she got a vague glimpse of a human form as the intruder cried out again.
Stumbling around in the dark near the foot of her bed, he banged against her dresser. She leveled the .22 in that direction and, when a patch of darkness eclipsed the luminous numbers of the alarm clock, squeezed off a third shot. The sound of glass shattering proclaimed she’d missed her target. Footsteps sounded to her right and there was a thud as he banged into the wall. Swinging her arm in that direction, she fired again.
Over the .22’s final, sharp report, she heard footsteps pounding down the short hallway toward the living room. Scrambling to free herself from the tangle of sheets, she lurched to her feet just as the front door banged shut.
Still clutching the pistol, she staggered naked through the darkness to the wall switch, closed her eyes, and flipped it on. As her vision slowly adjusted to the sudden bright light, she squinted around the room. Her mirror lay in shards over the surface of her dresser. In the wall between the closet and bedroom door, a small hole cratered the drywall. Out of four shots fired, she’d only hit him twice.
But how had he managed to flee with two bullets in him?
With the pistol leveled before her, she started down the hallway where a long, thin smear of blood streaked one wall. In the living room, she flipped the light switch. Blood droplets spattered the carpet before the front door and blood smeared the doorknob.
Her own blood coursing with adrenaline, she locked the door with a trembling hand. From the gilt-framed mirror beside the door, wide, haunted eyes stared back at her from a face leached of all color. Trickles of blood oozed from the thin red line that slashed across her throat.
Wobbly knees would no longer support her and she sank bonelessly to the carpet, breath hitching in her chest. From outside came the sounds of doors opening and closing, and the alarmed voices of neighbors awakened by gunfire. Crawling to an end table, she punched three numbers into the phone.
“Nine-one-one,” said a pleasant female voice. “What is the nature of the emergency?”
As a neighbor began pounding on her door, Larissa took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve just shot an intruder in my apartment.”
CHAPTER 1
After Larissa finished her last customer of the day, she began sweeping up the hair clippings around the chair at her station. Brendon Bishop, the owner of the salon and Larissa’s best friend, eyed her nylon drawstring sport bag. “Karate or yoga?”
She paused to lean wearily on the broom. “Karate. Although I’m so tired I’m tempted to skip class and head straight home.”
“How’s the new school?”
She shrugged and started sweeping again. “A little crowded, but the instructor’s a better teacher than Steve.”
“Speaking of whom…”
“Last night I made the mistake of answering the phone without first checking the caller ID. He spent ten minutes begging me to take him back. When that didn’t work, he suggested we go back to being just friends.”
Brendon rolled his eyes. “Like he’d really settle for that.”
“When I refused, he called me a selfish, stuck-up bitch. I hung up on him and turned off the phone.” She swept the pile of clippings into the dustpan and dumped them into the trashcan. “I don’t get it. How can a guy with a black belt be such a clingy, insecure wimp?”
Leaning up close to her station’s mirror, Brendon made a minor adjustment to the lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Honey, it’s the macho guys who’re usually the biggest invertebrates. They get into weight-lifting — or, in Steve’s case, karate — because they’re overcompensating for being such pussies.” Meeting her eyes in the mirror, he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Or they’re compensating for some other shortcoming.”
At the adjacent station, Damon said, “The first time I saw that monster truck he drives, I knew he was gonna be lousy in bed.”
Larissa had never discussed her and Steve’s sexual relations with either man, which made their uncanny perception all the more startling. “I don’t see how a man’s vehicle correlates to his sexual ability.”
“Puh-leeze. When a man drives a truck with tires that big and jacked up so high you need a ladder to climb into it, he’s clearly suffering from LDS.”
She frowned at him, puzzled. “Latter Day Saints?”
“Little Dick Syndrome.”
Sherry turned from combing out her customer’s freshly washed hair and planted hands on ample hips. “It’s not the size of the magician’s wand, but the tricks he can do with it.”
“The problem wasn’t necessarily the size of Steve’s wand; he was simply a lousy magician.”
“That’s what we mean about them over-compensating,” said Brendon. “A man could be Joe Manganiello, Daniel Craig, and George Clooney all rolled into one, but if he can’t rock your world in the bedroom, then honey, he ain’t shit. So, is the new instructor hot?”
Larissa waved a dismissive hand. “Married. In any case, I’ve decided to take a break from men.”
Damon rearranged his boyish features into a comical expression of horror. “Why would you do that?”
“Every man I date turns out to be either a total wimp, insanely jealous or, a quasi-stalker. Or, in Steve’s case, all of the above. And none of them has ever rocked my world.” She finished straightening her station and grabbed her purse and the bag containing her karate gi. As she and Brendon headed to the front of the salon, she confided, “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to rock my world.”
“You simply haven’t met the right man yet.”
“I’m twenty-six. Time’s running out.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “Maybe I’m really a lesbian.”
He eyed her feet with a dubious arch in his brows. “Honey, lesbians don’t wear four-inch spike heels.”
“They’re only three-and-a half, and you of all people should know that lesbians don’t all wear flannel shirts and comfortable shoes.” She rooted around in her purse for her keys. “If you don’t have any more appointments this evening, you should come with me. This new school is brimming with young, buff men.”
“All of whom are probably straight.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t come. Besides, think of all the calories you’ll burn.”
He gave her a grin. “I can think of several more enjoyable means of burning calories. And besides, I’m way too pretty to risk having someone punch me in the face.”
He’d said it as a joke, but it was disturbingly true. His eyelashes were so long they looked false, and his beautifully sculpted mouth was sexier than a man’s had any right to be.
“Full contact sparring doesn’t come until much later, but even then, you wear padded face gear.”
“Yeah, well, you need some padded body gear. I’ve seen the bruises you occasionally sport. Why do you put yourself through such torture?”
“Once you let go of your fear, you realize that taking a hit isn’t nearly as terrifying or painful as you’d thought it would be. It’s actually quite liberating. But as long as Brian Sparrow’s still out there, I have to be able to defend myself.”
“After all this time I seriously doubt he’s still in Charleston. In any case, after you pumped him full of lead, I doubt he has the cojones to mess with you again.”
“Would you feel safe operating on that assumption?”
He made a wry face. “Well … I suppose not. The police aren’t putting forth enough of an effort to catch him.”
“If all he’d done was attack me, then they probably wouldn’t expend a lot of time and energy searching for him. But he murdered a well-respected member of the community. Believe me, they’re still looking. Until he surfaces, though, they’ve nothing to go on.”
“Maybe even after he forced that poor doctor to patch him up, he crawled off into a hole somewhere and died.”
“I should be so lucky. No, he’s still alive. It’s not over between him and me.”
Brendon frowned at her. “It’s been two years. If he were planning something, he’d have done it by now.”
“Not if he’s bidding his time, waiting for the perfect moment.”
He made no attempt to conceal his dismay. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
“Honey, don’t forget who you’re talking to — paranoia’s my middle name. And the fact that you’re paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not out to get you.”
“Gee, that’s a cheerful thought. Thanks for brightening my day.”
* * * * *
Chase O’Malley snapped several photographs of Larissa Keswick — or as she now called herself, Larissa Santos — as she and her boss embraced at the door of the salon, and wondered at the nature of their relationship. The man was definitely more attractive than her husband, although, by all appearances, considerably less affluent.
As she climbed into her battered little Toyota Corolla, he cranked up the engine of his rental car, followed her from the parking lot and merged into the heavy rush-hour traffic. Although the odds of her spotting him were slim, he nevertheless maintained a generous distance between their vehicles.
They’d traveled less than two miles when, without any warning, she suddenly pulled over to the curb. Cruising a quarter of a block behind her, he hit the brakes and whipped into a vacancy between two cars, causing the driver of the delivery truck behind him to hit his own brakes and lay on the horn.
Chase watched as she got out and walked around to the passenger side to stare down at the front tire. She confirmed his assumption of a flat tire by opening the trunk and removing the jack. When she returned to the rear of the vehicle and wrestled out the spare, he cursed. Surely, she wasn’t planning to change it herself.
He wasn’t a man who believed women were the weaker sex. In Afghanistan, he’d served with women who were soldiers, mechanics, even helicopter pilots. However, it was somehow different to see a woman change a tire while dressed in camouflage fatigues, than it was to see a woman perform the same activity while wearing a sexy dress and spike heels.
/>
Why the hell didn’t she have AAA?
Cars were speeding by, everyone in a hurry to get home and, since she was squatting down on the passenger side, no one was going to stop and help her. He wanted badly to go to her assistance but, once she’d seen his face and vehicle, she’d be sure to spot him later on.
* * * * *
Larissa lowered the car, finished tightening the lug nuts, and slid the jack out from under the chassis, cursing the fact that she’d have to buy a new tire. Actually, she needed four new tires, but she could barely afford the one, much less a complete set. She threw the jack and lug wrench into the trunk with unnecessary force, hoisted the flat atop the jack, and slammed the lid.
Her dress was dirty, but fortunately the black fabric was washable, so she’d soak it as soon as she got home. Her hands were filthy, she ruined her French manicure, and there was now a small run in the knee of her pantyhose.
Climbing back behind the wheel, she glanced at her watch. Class had already started and she was still ten minutes away. Actually, she was only three minutes away if she took the expressway, but she predicated her life on avoiding perilous situations, and what could be more dangerous than barreling at high speed down the expressway during rush hour? Putting the car in gear, she eased into traffic. Once home, she’d pour herself a tall glass of wine and soak away the day’s frustrations in a hot bath.
Unfortunately, the frustrations continued to accumulate. She turned onto her street to find Steve’s big black advertisement for LDS idling at the curb in front of her house.
As she pulled up behind him, he climbed down and, assuming the fraudulent guise of gentleman, hurried over to open her car door for her. She made no attempt to conceal her irritation. “Why are you here?”
“I wanna talk to you.”
Shoving past him, she hurried up her walk. “There’s nothing more to say.”
Catching up to her, he grabbed her elbow, halting her. “Please, Larissa. Give me a second chance.”
The Heart Has Reasons Page 1