Four days later, traveling under an assumed name, Chase boarded a flight to back to Charleston and checked into a motel. Early the next morning, armed with a pocket full of cash, he’d begun cruising car lots. Four hours later, he was the new owner of a pre-owned cargo van with solid sides, the interior of which he then modified to meet his needs.
He drove by the salon to find Keswick’s wife’s vehicle in the parking lot. A simple phone call to the salon was all it took to learn that she’d be working until eight.
He went grocery shopping and, an hour before his target was due to leave work, he drove to her house and parked at the end of the alley that intersected her block. After extinguishing the dome light, he quickly strode down the alley and, ensuring he was unobserved, slipped on a pair of black leather gloves and quickly picked the lock to the back door.
He immediately began a methodical search of the house. Keswick claimed his wife slept with a gun under her pillow, but the only weapon Chase found was a little .22 Smith & Wesson concealed beneath a stack of neatly folded dishtowels in a kitchen drawer. After pocketing the rounds, he returned the weapon to its hiding place.
In the refrigerator, he found a glass pitcher of tea and a recorked bottle of wine. He added a carefully measured amount of sedative to each. Of course, she might not drink from either container, in which case he’d have to subdue her physically. With any luck, it wouldn’t come to that.
Now that everything was in readiness, he took the time to look about. She’d painted the walls in deep, sophisticated colors. The furniture was sturdy and everything not upholstered, whether wood or metal, was black. There was no clutter anywhere, and everything was spotlessly clean. Curiously, there were no nudes, so maybe they’d been Keswick’s after all.
Although a nice little house, it was a huge step down from the mansion in Chatsworth. With her looks though, and assuming Keswick would be unable to convince her to resume their marriage, she wouldn’t have any trouble latching onto yet another rich man.
In the sewing room, several pairs of scissors, a wooden rack bearing a rainbow of thread spools, and assorted other sewing paraphernalia hung within easy reach on the wall over the large worktable. Who would’ve guessed that a gold-digging trophy wife would be so … domestic? Although, judging by the abundance of frozen, microwavable dinners and the paucity of pots and pans, her homemaking skills didn’t extend to the kitchen. All in all, it was a very comfortable house, one he wouldn’t mind spending time in, unlike his girlfriend’s place.
Cheyenne’s apartment brimmed with overly feminine, delicate, pastel furniture. The expensive bric-a-brac covering nearly every surface made him feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop. To make matters worse, Cheyenne was a slob. Despite the dishwasher, dirty dishes constantly choked the kitchen sink, discarded clothing smothered the bedroom carpet, and a thick layer of dust blanketed every surface. Consequently, they spent their time together at his apartment, where he constantly cleaned up after her.
According to his watch, his target should be home shortly. At the sound of a vehicle rumbling to a stop in the alley, he peeked over the curtained window above the sink to see the erstwhile boyfriend climbing down from the black pickup. What the fuck was he doing here? Had his target resumed their relationship? Did the two of them have plans for tonight?
Did the man have a key to her house?
This unexpected development could seriously complicate matters. The man strode down the narrow walk but, rather than coming to the back door, skirted the west side of the house.
Cursing under his breath, Chase hurried to the front room and, covertly observing through one of the front-door sidelights, waited in vain for the man to make an appearance. What the fuck was the son-of-a-bitch up to? He couldn’t very well go outside and confront the man, so he waited impatiently as the minutes ticked by.
After a seeming eternity, his target finally arrived home. He watched appreciatively as she exited her vehicle and headed up the front walk. A sleeveless turquoise dress skimmed her figure to mid-thigh, then flared out into a knee-length, trumpet-shaped hem. The garment displayed her curves to full advantage while remaining classy, and the spike-heeled sandals put the sexiest sway into her walk. He could almost understand why Keswick was willing to pay a small fortune for her return.
Her pace abruptly faltered as the man rounded the corner of the house. Chase could barely make out her, “What the hell are you doing here?”
The man spread his hands placatingly. “Don’t be like that, Larissa. I just wanna talk to you.” Chase couldn’t help but notice that he’d strategically planted himself directly between her and the house.
The woman looked more angry than scared. “If you don’t leave me alone I’ll file for an Emergency Protective Order.”
“That’d be a big mistake on your part.” Since he’d have no plausible excuse for being in her house, Chase fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to intervene. However, when the man took a threatening step toward the woman, he silently disengaged the deadlock, ready to rush to her defense.
Thrusting a quick hand into her handbag, his target produced a Browning 9mm — not exactly the sort of weapon one would expect a trophy wife to own — and leveled it on her stalker, demonstrating that her self-sufficiency extended beyond changing flat tires.
However much Chase might admire his target’s ability to defend herself, if she actually pulled the trigger, then all his well-laid plans were for naught, for any gunfire would ensure the imminent arrival of the police. For that matter, if any neighbors were witness to this little drama, someone might already be phoning the police.
Faced with a loaded handgun, any intelligent person would have simply admitted defeat and been on his way. This stupid son-of-a-bitch clearly preferred to tempt fate. Although his complexion had paled somewhat, he stood his ground belligerently. “You won’t kill an unarmed man.”
“You’re right, I won’t.” Thumbing back the hammer, she lowered her aim to his crotch. “But I won’t hesitate to deprive you of your principle shortcoming.”
Ouch. Now that was hitting below the belt.
The threat produced the desired result. Cupping his hands protectively over his jewels, the man backed toward the corner of the house where he dredged up enough residual courage to sputter, “Fuck you, you crazy bitch!” before beating a strategic retreat around the side of the house.
Chase hurried back to the kitchen, to watch the man stomp through the backyard and climb up into his truck. A moment later, he muttered a silent “Shit” at the sound of the front door opening.
He had planned to conceal himself in the sewing-room closet before she arrived home, but that was now out of the question. The ex-boyfriend sat in his vehicle and glared at the house, which precluded him from exiting through the back door. Wondering what else could possibly go wrong, he pulled on the ski mask.
* * * * *
As Larissa headed down the hallway toward her bedroom, the 9mm still clutched in one hand, a peculiar sensation prickled the back of her neck, as if a ghost had clasped a chilly hand to her nape. Something, perhaps some subtle scent, aroused an intuitive sense that, once again, someone had violated the sanctity of her home and two years’ worth of stored fear exploded in her chest like a burst balloon.
Was Sparrow back?
No, surely not. The confrontation with Steve had simply rattled her. But if that’s all it were, then why was she so certain that someone had been in her house? Had Steve hurried around to the back door to beat her inside? Was he in here now, hoping to catch her unawares?
Although he’d turned out to be a bit of a stalker, he’d never given her the impression that he might be dangerous. However, if he’d broken into her house, that cast a different light on matters. With her heart thumping inside her chest, she peered out the bedroom window. Face still flushed with anger, he sat in his truck, gripping the steering wheel. Spotting her at the window, he saluted her with a raised middle finger before driving off.
; Blowing out a sigh of relief, she headed to the kitchen. Still locked, the back door bore no sign of forced entry. Nevertheless, she still had the unsettling feeling that someone had encroached upon her personal space. Crap. Steve’s unexpected appearance had made her more paranoid than usual.
That was okay, though, because paranoia kept her awareness sharp, and Brian Sparrow was still out there somewhere. Paranoia had saved her life once before. If Sparrow ever returned, it might save her a second time.
She gazed at the phone on the counter. If she called 9-1-1, what would she say to the operator? That she had a weird feeling someone had been in her house, despite the lack of any evidence to corroborate that assertion? She’d look like a fool, which she definitely wasn’t. She was a self-sufficient woman who could search her own house.
Still clutching the Browning, she thumbed off the safety and started down the hallway to check for intruders.
* * * * *
Chase stood motionless against the sunroom’s sole interior wall. He suspected the house’s designer had intended it to be the dining room but, as evidenced by the assortment of exercise equipment, his target utilized it more as a workout room.
Hearing movement in the hallway, he peeked around the doorframe just in time to see her disappear into the bedroom, the 9mm held leveled before her. It appeared she was going to search the fucking house.
While she went through the bedroom, sewing room, and bathroom, he weighed his options. Worst-case scenario — assuming she didn’t pump him full of lead — was that he’d have to disarm and subdue her physically. Judging by the way she’d stood up to the ex-boyfriend, she’d probably put up a struggle, and he didn’t want to chance inadvertently hurting her.
Concealed beside the doorway, he listened as she paused to check the hall closet before continuing down the hall toward him. As she came through the front room, he edged into the kitchen, hugging the wall where the floorboards were less likely to squeak. Pacing himself so that a wall always separated them, he circled through the kitchen into the hallway, into the front room as she moved into the kitchen, and then back into the sunroom. Hearing her moving away from him, he peeked around the doorframe to see her reenter her bedroom, weapon now lowered to her side.
When he heard the shower come on, he knew he’d finally caught a break. Hurrying down the hallway, he paused just before the open bathroom door. She was in the stall, hidden from view by a heavy-fabric shower curtain. He was about to move on to the bedroom when the handgun-shaped lump concealed beneath the folded towel on the vanity caught his eye.
Moving on silent feet and keeping an eye on the shower curtain, he extracted the weapon from under the towel. Back in the hallway, he quickly ejected a dozen Hydra-Shoks from the magazine. High-powered ammo for a housewife. He pocketed the rounds, then returned the weapon to its hiding spot beneath the towel.
* * * * *
As Larissa blow-dried her hair, her sense of uneasiness remained as a small tense knot in the pit of her belly. After donning a pair of yoga pants and sport bra, she carried the 9mm to the kitchen, grabbed the wine bottle from the refrigerator, and filled a glass to the brim. She gulped half, and moved into the living room, gun in one hand, wine glass in the other. The mixed school of African cichlids rushed to the front of the aquarium at her approach. Placing the 9mm on the sofa, she turned on the tank light, lifted the half-lid, and sprinkled a pinch of fish flakes on the surface of the water.
Taking a seat on the sofa, she picked up the remote and spent the next few minutes channel surfing as she sipped from her glass. The wine was having the desired effect, for her jitteriness was quickly fading. Unfortunately, with over a hundred different television channels to choose from, she couldn’t find anything interesting to watch.
Suddenly tired, her fingers seemed unaccountably slow as she fumbled to press the remote control buttons. Tendrils of fog began seeping into her mind. Strangest of all, her lips were going numb. And then realization struck.
Someone had drugged her.
Blinking lethargically, she sat the wineglass on the glass-topped end table with a loud clink, somehow managing not to spill it. Someone had been in her house. Maybe someone still was.
Sparrow?
Despite whatever drug flowed through her veins, a tentacle of fear slithered through her. She fumbled the 9mm into her grasp and lurched to her feet, bumping the end table in the process. The wine glass tumbled to the floor, splashing the remains of the wine across the carpet.
Struggling to stay conscious and on her feet, she launched herself in the direction of the kitchen, feeling as though she were slogging through knee-high mud. As she reached for the phone with uncooperative hands, there was movement at the edge of her vision. In what seemed to be slow motion, she turned to find a ski-masked man standing before her.
The 9mm seemed to weigh fifty pounds. With her free hand assisting, she concentrated her last vestige of strength on the Herculean task of raising the weapon. Targeting his chest, she squeezed the trigger. Instead of the expected boom, however, there was only an empty metallic click.
While she teetered dizzily on the brink of unconsciousness, the intruder casually reached forward with a black-gloved hand and took the weapon from her. Then he spun her around and clamped a gloved hand over her lower face. With his mouth next to her ear, he said softly, “Always check that your weapon is loaded.”
As she feebly tried to struggle from his grasp, a shroud of darkness enveloped her in its comforting embrace.
CHAPTER 4
Chase caught his target as she started to collapse and carried her to the living room where he deposited her on the sofa. Plucking the unbroken wineglass from the carpet, he returned to the kitchen. The contents of the wine bottle and the tea pitcher went down the sink. He washed the wine glass and pitcher and set them in the dish drainer. The wine bottle went into the trash.
Returning to the living room with a generous handful of paper towels, he blotted the spilled wine from the carpet. After discarding the towels, he removed the garbage bag and set it by the back door.
He reloaded the Browning and the little Smith & Wesson, and stowed both in the kitchen drawer. Locating a box of garbage bags under the sink, he removed three, and used one to reline the kitchen trashcan. The other two bags he took to the bathroom, where he filled one with toiletries. There were no prescription bottles in the medicine chest, although there was an asthma inhaler. He dropped that in the bag as well.
From there, he headed to the bedroom and filled the second bag with clothing. After removing the cell phone, he set her handbag on top of the clothes, and pulled the drawstring closed.
In the living room, she was still on the sofa, exactly as he’d left her. He paused to take her pulse, pleased to find it steady and strong.
Her cell phone joined the two weapons in the kitchen drawer. The sun was now below the horizon. Spotting no one at any of the neighboring houses, he hurried through the dark yard to the alley. The bag of trash went into a trashcan five houses down, her belongings into the panel truck.
He made one last tour of the house, turning off lights and ensuring he hadn’t overlooked anything. He sprinkled a pinch of fish flakes into the aquarium, hoping that when someone eventually arrived here to look for his target, they’d feed the fish again.
With one last look around, he hoisted her onto his shoulder, grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter, and eased out the back door, being careful not to bump her against the doorframe. After locking the door, he hurried through the backyard and down the alley. He eased her down onto the floor of the cargo compartment, slid the panel door closed, and locked it.
At the end of the alley, he tugged off the ski mask and turned on the headlights. Several miles away, he stopped on a quiet residential street and killed the engine. Climbing awkwardly between the seats into the back, he slipped a ball gag between her teeth and fastened the Velcro straps behind her neck. After blindfolding her, he rolled her onto her stomach and fastened her hands
and feet to the eyebolts he’d installed in the floor. Once she was secure, he climbed back into the front and drove off.
CHAPTER 5
Larissa floated a thousand fathoms deep, drifting wherever the current carried her through a pleasant but impenetrable sea of blackness.
Eventually, the muffled hum of wheels on blacktop began slowly drawing her upwards but, when she finally surfaced, her eyes refused to open. Conversely, her mouth refused to close and the blanket below her face was wet with saliva. Unable to solve the mystery, she surrendered herself once more to the sweet solace of oblivion where all was still and safe and quiet.
The next time she surfaced, she drifted through a haze of pleasant somnolence before again trying to open her eyes. After the passage of a considerable amount of time, during which she continually dozed on and off, she finally determined that she was wearing a blindfold.
Was this a dream?
Using her tongue to explore the blockage in her mouth, she discovered a ball-shaped object wedged behind her teeth. What the hell? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t spit it out.
She fought to sit up, and failed. Her arms were stretched forward, and an unholy chill seized her with icy fingers of dread as she realized her wrists were somehow fastened to the floor. Her ankles seemed likewise secured. Now fully conscious, her mind frantically sought for some iota of logic and understanding. How had she come to be in this position? She was clearly in a moving vehicle. But whose? Where were they heading?
Broken bits of recollection began to filter in, slowly constructing a vague and dreamlike memory of a masked man in her kitchen. The sick premonition that it had been Sparrow sent a jittering terror racing up and down her spine. However, judging by what foggy memory she was able to retrieve, the man in her kitchen had seemed too tall to be Sparrow. She prayed it wasn’t him but, if not, who was the ski-masked man and why had he taken her? And hadn’t she shot him?
The Heart Has Reasons Page 3