The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  The two coolers, the cardboard box filled with food not requiring refrigeration, his duffle bag, and the two plastic trash bags containing her belongings took up much of the space in the cargo compartment. A thick coat of recently applied white paint opaqued the rear windows. Just behind the driver’s compartment, a taut wire extended from one side of the van to the other, from which depended a black sheet fashioned into a curtain.

  Her kidnapper’s deep voice came from the driver’s compartment. “Are you awake?”

  Although her panic had subsided, residual fear remained. “What time is it?”

  “A little past noon. Are you hungry?”

  “I really need to go to the bathroom.”

  Shortly thereafter, he left the highway. When he took a sharp turn, her weight shifted with the inertia. Unable to brace herself, she grimaced as the steel cuffs bit into her flesh. She waited and waited, but still he wasn’t stopping. “I really have to go!”

  “Hold on, we’re almost there.”

  The vehicle turned onto what was clearly a gravel road and, few moments later, pulled to a halt. He unlocked and slid open the cargo door and climbed inside, ski mask in place.

  “Please hurry.”

  He quickly freed her, but left her hobbled. Slowly lowering her arms, she groaned as her muscles complained. He helped her to a sitting position, then backed out the door. Somewhat hindered by the hobble, she stiffly followed him out, blinking against the bright sun. He bent down to pick up a large stone beside the road and lobbed it far out of her reach, then handed her several napkins and a small, white trash bag. “Dispose of the napkins in the bag when you’re finished.”

  Oh, god, she had to pee. The gravel dug into her bare feet while the bastard just stood there. “I can’t go with you watching!”

  “I’ll turn my back.”

  She frantically bounced on the balls of her feet. “That’s not good enough!”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I can’t do it with you standing there!”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “All right, I’ll stand on the other side. Do anything stupid and you’ll permanently lose the privilege of privacy.”

  “You call this privacy?” As soon as he’d rounded the vehicle, she yanked her pants down and squatted, lifting the rope out of the way. While relieving the nearly unbearable pressure on her bladder, she examined the elaborate knots.

  “Don’t touch the hobble.”

  Her head jerked around, expecting to find him watching, but he was still on the opposite side of the van.

  They were on a remote stretch of road. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but rolling farmland. Not a single farmhouse or outbuilding in sight. Even if she removed the hobble, to where would she run? When her bladder was finally empty, she deposited the used napkins inside the bag as requested, then stood and yanked her pants back up.

  When he rejoined her, she handed over the plastic bag and stretched, trying to work the kinks out of her shoulders and back. “Do you honestly think someone’s going to find used napkins on the ground and test them for DNA?”

  He rummaged in one of the two coolers. “No. I simply prefer that you not litter.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let me get this straight. You don’t balk at kidnapping, but you’re concerned about littering. Do you think your conception of right and wrong might be a bit skewed?” She took the proffered sandwich, slid it from the zippered plastic bag, and took a cautious bite. Spread within the remainder of last night’s French bread was tuna salad, but unlike any she’d ever before tasted. “You made this?”

  He nodded. “This morning, while you were in the bathroom.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Capers and water chestnuts.” He was watching her intently. “Do you like it?”

  She shrugged. “It’s okay.” It was actually the best tuna salad she’d ever tasted, but hell would freeze over before she admitted it. Taking another bite, she rotated her shoulders as she chewed, wincing at the pain.

  “Shoulders sore?”

  “Of course they’re sore,” she snapped. “Why don’t you try sleeping with your arms wrenched up over your head?”

  He moved around behind her. When his hands came down on her shoulders, she jumped and spun around to face him. “What are you doing?”

  “Massaging your shoulders.”

  “I don’t want you touching me.”

  “Really? I find that hard to believe in view of the fact that you slept practically on top of me all night long.”

  “I did not!”

  The warm pleasant sound of his laugh startled her. “You were wrapped around me so tight I thought I was sleeping with an octopus.”

  She suddenly had a vague, drug-blurred memory of waking up in his arms, and heat rushed into her face. “It was that freaking pill you made me take! And you had the air conditioning cranked up too high!”

  “If you say so.”

  Grasping her shoulders, he gently but firmly turned her back around. Her stomach tightened as he began rubbing her shoulders. She stood stiffly at first, her body shifting slightly under his hands as the gentle pressure of his thumbs steadily increased. If this were about sex, he would have tried something back at the motel, not out here along the roadside. Startled to realize that he was simply concerned about her comfort, she gradually relaxed and resumed eating.

  Oddly, the emotion swirling through her was not the fear or horror she should be experiencing. The man was clearly not a bloodthirsty monster. She’d threatened him with a knife, kicked him in the ribs, and fought to avoid taking the sleeping pill but, despite his threats, he’d been careful not to hurt her. The smack on the ass she didn’t count, since it was insignificant compared to what he could have done.

  He had choked her, but barely hard enough to cut off her air. Not only had he abruptly let go before she’d lost consciousness, the remorse in his eyes had been plain.

  She finished the sandwich and her eyes involuntarily closed as his probing fingertips chased the soreness from her shoulder joints. Forcing back a moan of pleasure, she sighed and relaxed completely as his hands worked their way from her shoulders to her neck.

  More importantly, he hadn’t raped her, even though he’d obviously been aroused.

  Ah, god, the man had magic hands. A memory of his chiseled, naked body, glistening wet from the shower, flashed unbidden into her mind. Startled by the spark of warmth that flickered through her core, she shrugged his hands off, and turned to face him.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.” She grudgingly added a belated “Thank you.” He gazed down at her, his blue eyes inscrutable behind the ski mask, and she forced herself not to waver under his stare.

  Finally, his eyes slid away. “We should get going. Get back in the vehicle.” When she started to protest, he cut her off. “Now.”

  She reluctantly climbed back inside. Still deathly afraid of whatever awaited her at the end of this trip, she found that, despite his threats, most of her fear of him had dissipated. Not only was he concerned for her comfort, he obviously didn’t want to hurt her. This knowledge caused a small measure of hope to lift through her. He was delivering her in four days, which gave her that much time in which to dissuade him from doing so. If she could only convince him he was delivering her to her executioner, he’d let her go.

  When he picked up the ball gag, she pleaded, “Please don’t make me wear that thing. I promise not to scream.”

  “Do I seem stupid?”

  “It makes me drool!”

  “Then lie on your back.”

  “It’s hard to swallow when I can’t close my mouth and, besides, it makes my jaws ache. And what if I throw up?”

  “You won’t.”

  “I feel sick to my stomach,” she lied.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not! I’ll aspirate my vomit and die. Did I scream last night in the motel? Did I scream earlier, when I woke up? Plea
se. I promise that on this one thing you can trust me.”

  With narrowed eyes, he silently appraised her for several moments. Then, shoving aside the curtain separating the cargo compartment from the driver’s compartment, he leaned forward between the seats. When he sat back on his heels again, he had a small device in his hand. Spotting the two side-by-side metal prongs on the end of it, she flinched away.

  “You know what this is?”

  She nodded. “A stun gun.”

  “A Taser. Against my better judgment, I’ll leave the gag off. If you scream, I’ll reach back here and Tase you. Not only will the fifty-thousand volts of electricity be excruciatingly painful, you’ll go into convulsions and probably piss yourself. And then you’ll wear the gag continually, even at night while sleeping.”

  When he picked up the cuffs, she said, “Can’t you leave my hands free?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Look how bruised my wrists are! With my arms and legs stretched out, I can’t brace myself and, every time you take a curve or turn a corner, the cuffs dig into my wrists. It hurts!”

  Frowning at the reddish-purple bruises, he muttered a curse. “Turn around so your feet are facing the front of the vehicle. If I catch you trying to free your ankles, the handcuffs go back on. Don’t make me regret this decision.”

  “You could leave my feet free as well.”

  “I could — if I were the idiot you obviously believe me to be.”

  Since she’d been victorious in talking him out of both the gag and the cuffs, she decided not to push the issue. One small step at a time. Besides, jumping out of a speeding vehicle onto the highway would be reaching for new heights of stupidity and she simply wasn’t that ambitious.

  As he fastened the hobble to an eyebolt in the floor, she shifted slightly away from him. He was so overwhelmingly masculine that being forced into such close proximity with him made her extremely uncomfortable. Painfully aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest, she looked everywhere but at him. Her eyes came to rest on his duffle bag.

  His military duffle bag.

  Although he could have purchased it at any army surplus store, he carried himself with an obvious military bearing. Not only that, he was extremely self-sufficient, a quality he could’ve come by while serving in the military. And the scars? Probably acquired in combat. If she somehow survived this ordeal, every tiny smidgen of information she gleaned would help to capture and convict him.

  One chance at escape might come at night while he slept, assuming she could somehow free herself from the handcuffs, but not if she were knocked out on sleeping pills. After the struggle she’d put up last night though, he’d make doubly sure she really swallowed them. Then, sudden inspiration struck. If she convinced him she wanted the pills, he might relax his vigilance. “Can I have a sleeping pill?”

  He blinked. “After all that fighting last night, now you’re asking for one?”

  “I’d prefer to sleep through this entire nightmare.”

  “If you sleep all day, you won’t sleep tonight.”

  “Then tonight you can give me two.”

  “No.”

  Relieved beyond measure by his refusal, she added a final, “Ple-e-ease.”

  “No.” He handed her a bottle of water. “Go easy on this. I’m not stopping every thirty minutes so you can relieve yourself. For obvious reasons, I don’t drive with the mask on. Do you remember what I said last night about the mask being for your protection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t touch the curtain separating us.”

  “Believe me, I have absolutely no desire to see your face. No offense intended.”

  Blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “None taken.”

  When they were back on the road, Larissa again examined the hobble’s knots. Tight and elaborate, they’d take considerable time to untie. She eyed the rear doors, measuring the distance. With her feet tied toward the front of the van, they were beyond her reach.

  There were no windows on the sides of the vehicle, but she could reach the inner handle of the sliding-panel door. Inching silently toward it, she grasped it.

  Locked.

  At least he wasn’t delivering her today. As bad as this situation was, she’d rather spend the next four days with the devil she knew, albeit barely, than with the lord of all devils who awaited her.

  Sitting up, she propped her back against the interior wall of the van behind the driver’s seat. She was tempted to believe his claim of not knowing Sparrow. Still, no one else would have a motive to kidnap her and she seriously doubted that someone had targeted her at random, so Sparrow had to be behind it.

  Simply thinking of Sparrow made her heart pound as a surge of adrenaline spiked into her bloodstream. Comforting herself with the knowledge that she had four days in which to extricate herself from this situation, she forced the panic down by resolutely pushing all thoughts of Sparrow from her mind.

  Where were they headed? She’d never done much traveling, but it seemed that in four days one could reach either Mexico or Canada.

  Entering into either of those countries would be risky as they’d presumably have to pass through a border-crossing checkpoint. The only direction left was west. They could probably reach the west coast in four days. With the Charleston police still searching for him, Sparrow would naturally have wanted to be as far from there as possible.

  She said to the curtain separating them, “You don’t seem like an evil person, so why are you doing this?”

  “I’m simply doing the job I was hired to do.”

  “The man you’re taking me to is going to kill me.”

  Several moments of silence greeted this statement. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because I shot him.”

  “You shot your—” He abruptly broke off, then amended the question to, “You shot who?”

  “Brian Sparrow.”

  “I told you, I don’t know anyone by that name.” His hand appeared beneath the curtain to find her feet. Locating the rope by touch, he walked his fingers along the knots. Reassured they were intact, the hand disappeared again. “Who is this Sparrow guy?”

  She took a sip of water, then screwed the cap back on. “Two years ago, someone started coming into my apartment and going through my stuff while I was at work. One of the maintenance men was downright creepy. Since he constantly ogled me and had access to the keys to my apartment, I naturally suspected him. I called the police but, since I had no proof, they blew me off. I was so scared I bought a gun and started sleeping with it under my pillow.”

  “I’m guessing it was the little twenty-two caliber Smith & Wesson.”

  “Is no one’s privacy sacred to you?”

  “I like to be prepared.”

  She muttered, “You like to be an asshole,” and in the front seat, he chuckled. “Yes, it was the Smith. Less than two weeks after I bought it, an intruder broke in while I was sleeping and put a knife to my throat. Although I shot him twice, he was still able to flee. I never got a look at him.”

  “And because he survived the twenty-two caliber, you upgraded to a nine-millimeter and Hydra-Shoks.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the maintenance man show up for work the next day?”

  “No one ever saw him again. When a local surgeon failed to show up for work several days in a row, the hospital notified the police. They found him dead in his home, his throat cut. DNA from blood found at the doctor’s house matched DNA Sparrow left in my apartment.”

  “So he forced the surgeon to treat his wounds, then killed him.”

  “That was the general consensus.”

  “And all this took place in Charleston?”

  “Yes.”

  Several minutes passed in silence and she imagined she could almost hear the cogs turning as he digested this information. Finally, he asked, “What did this maintenance man look like?”

  “Chubby. Big nose, no chin. Dirty blond hair, receding hairline.”


  “That’s not who hired me.”

  As the full import of this statement struck her, she sputtered, “You said you never met the person who hired you. In that case, how could you know it isn’t Sparrow? You freaking lied to me.”

  A weary sigh came from beyond the curtain. “It just seemed simpler that way.”

  “What else are you lying about?”

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  Furious, she struggled to untie the hobble. As if he’d somehow read her mind, his hand appeared under the curtain and she jerked her own away just in time.

  He fingered the knots and, satisfied they were still intact, wrapped his hand around her foot. “I truly am sorry for lying.”

  “Prove it then. Tell me where you’re taking me.”

  “I can’t do that.” She angrily shoved his hand from her foot and, after a moment’s hesitation, it disappeared back under the curtain. “Your story was interesting and I’ll admit I’m almost tempted to believe it. But let’s be honest here. Now that we’ve established that I’m not delivering you to the ‘maintenance man’, you must know where I’m taking you. Who else would have an interest in you?”

  “No one.”

  “Now who’s lying?”

  “I’m not lying!” she shouted. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Do you want to wear the gag?”

  “If you’re so sorry, prove it. Give me a sleeping pill.”

  “Not until tonight.”

  Once again relieved by his refusal, she stretched out toward the back doors, cradling her head on her folded arms. His story didn’t make any sense at all. If Brian Sparrow wasn’t behind her kidnapping, then who was?

  No, it had to be Sparrow. He was still lying.

  He reached back again to check the knots and, satisfied she’d not tampered with them, once again clasped a hand about her foot. With the other, she angrily kicked it away. “Are you going to pout the rest of the day?” She refused to respond. He tried several more times to engage her in conversation, before finally giving up.

  A fragile illusion of indestructability served most people as a defense against the inconceivable idea of their own mortality. Unfortunately, ever since the deaths of her parents, Larissa herself had not enjoyed the benefit of that comfort. She knew that she too would die young, just as they had.