The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  At the security checkpoint, she placed her purse and the trash bag on the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector. The three screeners, two males and one female, eyed her suspiciously and then one of the men said, “Ma’am, step over here, please.”

  Painfully aware of the multitude of eyes on her, she could feel her cheeks burning as she stepped out of line. As one of the two men began going through her purse, the woman emptied the garbage bag onto a table, examined the blow dryer, and sorted through her clothes before shoving everything back into the bag. “What happened to you?”

  Tempted to snap that it was none of her freaking business, Larissa forced her temper down. If she adopted an attitude, they’d deliberately slow the process and she could end up missing her flight. Nevertheless, instinct warned that honesty might not be the best policy. “I told my husband I was filing for divorce, and this was his response. Before he gets out of jail, I’m going back to Charleston to stay with my parents.” Ah, crap. She was becoming much too adept at lying.

  The lie had the desired effect, though. Suspicion instantly changed to sympathy and then she was heading down the concourse toward her gate.

  On the plane, heads turned as she made her way down the narrow aisle to economy class, their whispers running ahead of her like autumn leaves in the wind. She dropped wearily into her seat, stowed the trash bag beneath the seat in front of her, and slumped against the backrest. Keeping the new sunglasses on, she closed her eyes, shutting out all the curious faces.

  Finally, the engines revved, accelerating her heartbeat. Opening her eyes, she gazed past her two male seatmates out the window as the jet pulled away from the Jetway and headed toward the runway.

  The man next to her glanced down at her hands gripping the armrests. “First time you’ve flown?” When she nodded, he smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Flying’s safer than riding in a car.”

  Surmounting difficulty was said to be the crucible that formed character. Certain events are so momentous that they actually change and redefine who we are. As the jet accelerated down the runway, changed was exactly how Larissa felt. Although her heart was racing, it wasn’t from fear. A strange excitement throbbed in her veins and, when the wheels lifted off the ground, exhilaration filled her until she was brimming with it.

  What a goddamned fool she’d been all these years.

  She kept her gaze glued to the window until the ground had vanished beneath a thick layer of clouds. Her seatmate’s interest in her was almost palpable, so she leaned back and closed her eyes to discourage any further attempts at conversation.

  Beneath the constant babble of voices, she picked up a feminine conversation across the aisle from her, their hushed whispers grating on her.

  “I wonder what happened to her.”

  “Ask her.”

  “You ask her.”

  “You’re closer.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “No she’s not. Ask her.”

  When a shadow fell across her, she continued to feign slumber. Close to her ear, a voice whispered, “Miss, would you like to move up to first class?”

  Larissa opened her eyes to find a thirty-something female flight attendant leaning over her. “Yes, ma’am, I would. Thank you.”

  First class was nearly deserted, and she sank into the spacious, cushiony seat with a sigh of relief. In the front row, a silver-haired man in an expensive-looking suit glanced back at her, nodded, and returned his attention to his laptop.

  The flight attendant gave her a consolatory smile. “I saw the vultures circling, and thought you might need rescuing. Can I bring you anything?”

  “Water would be wonderful. And if you have it, something for pain.”

  Her benefactress returned with a plastic bottle of spring water and a sealed packet containing two aspirins. Larissa glanced at her nametag and, making her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice, said, “Bless you, Stacy. You are truly an angel.”

  * * * * *

  Larissa managed to doze on and off. In Houston, she had an interminable hour-and-forty-minute layover. Once her connecting flight had departed, she managed to sleep a little more.

  At seven p.m. Charleston time, she awoke stiff, groggy, and disoriented upon arrival at Charleston International. Grabbing the trash bag from under the seat, she followed the other passengers through the extended accordion of the Jetway.

  She spotted Brendon and headed in his direction, weaving and edging her way through the crowd. When he finally saw her, his face ran through a gamut of expressions. His incipient smile froze, faltered into shock as he got a better look at her, then drew tight, creasing with anger.

  “Oh my god!” he finally managed, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me? You said you were okay.”

  “I didn’t want to upset you. It looks worse than it is.”

  He pulled back from her. “Take off the glasses.”

  When she obediently raised them, he visibly recoiled. “Goddamn it! Sparrow did this?” She nodded and lowered the glasses back into place. “May the bastard burn in hell for all eternity.”

  “Amen to that.”

  When he had his temper under control, he said, “Honey, I am so proud of you. So how was the flight? Any panic attacks?”

  “I wasn’t even scared. At least, not much. After nearly being sliced, diced, and flambéed by Sparrow, the risk of dying in a plane crash paled in comparison.”

  His wide, generous mouth clamped in a straight white line. “Goddamn that son-of-a-bitch.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “I’m okay, Brendon. Really.”

  As they started through the terminal, he frowned at the plastic bag in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “My clothes and blow-dryer.”

  “Oh, honey. Please tell me you didn’t just fly across country toting a garbage bag for a carry-on case.”

  “Believe me, with this face, no one noticed.”

  Concern etched his features. “No, I guess not.”

  In deference to her limp, he had her wait by the exit while he went to retrieve his car. Once she was buckled in beside him, she said, “Let’s take the expressway, it’s quicker.”

  His head whipped around. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Larissa?”

  Her smile tugged painfully at the sutures in her lip. “Ow! Don’t make me laugh.”

  Once they were on the expressway, she began telling him the same story she’d told the police and FBI. It was almost comforting to tell it once again, if only for the simple fact of hearing herself tell it so convincingly.

  Brendon parked in front of her house just behind her Corolla, and followed her inside. Immeasurably thankful to be home, she collapsed onto the sofa. He went around checking windows and doors. After feeding her fish, he joined her.

  “Now that you’ve heard the version I gave the FBI, would you like to hear the true and unaltered story?”

  “Larissa! You lied to them?”

  “I had no choice.”

  He frowned, clearly baffled. “Why? What really happened?”

  “You have to promise you’ll never tell a soul.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Everything happened exactly as I already told you, except for a few incidents.” She went on to recount the rest of the story, including her seduction of her kidnapper and her subsequent flight and recapture, her near rape at the hands of the thugs and the beating Chase had given them, and how he’d returned to kill Sparrow.

  “Why would you tell the FBI you killed Sparrow? And why didn’t you identify your kidnapper? The son-of-a-bitch needs to pay for what he did.”

  “You don’t understand. Chase is basically a good guy.”

  “Good guys don’t go around kidnapping people!”

  “He made a mistake, a horrendous mistake which, at great risk to himself, he managed to rectify. Kidnapping’s a federal offence. He could spend the rest of his lif
e in prison.”

  “That’s exactly what he deserves. But the important thing is that you’re safe now.”

  “Unfortunately, the thugs told the FBI about the incident in the alley. Although Chase was masked at the time, I wasn’t, and so the agents don’t believe my version of events.

  “How many thugs were there?”

  “Five.”

  “Who the hell is this guy? Jason Statham?”

  “Statham couldn’t hold a candle to Chase. You should have seen him. He was magnificent.”

  Brendon gazed at her, his face carefully neutral. “Well, the agents must have believed you if they let you leave.”

  “Actually, I skipped out.”

  He raked both hands through his hair. “Honey, please tell me you’re joking.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t under arrest, and no one actually told me I couldn’t leave, so I doubt they can charge me with anything.”

  After a moment, he said, “When you seduced him, was it … was it really awful?” When her face abruptly crumpled, he misinterpreted her reaction and scooted down the sofa to gather her into his arms. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” As she cried, he asked hesitantly, “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “He rocked my world.”

  She felt him stiffen, and he was silent for several moments. “Larissa, are you in love with this asshole?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed.

  CHAPTER 28

  Despite having slept so much in the air the day before, Larissa didn’t awaken until nine the next morning. Although determined to spend the entire day buried beneath the sheets, a full bladder finally drove her from the bed. She limped to the bathroom, then forced herself to make several slow laps through the house in an attempt to walk out some of the stiffness.

  Brendon had volunteered to stay the night with her but, now that Sparrow was dead, for the first time in two years she was unafraid. Brendon had also told her she could return to work whenever she felt ready to face the public. Although she joked that he was worried her face would scare off customers, she was grateful for the short reprieve. She felt numb and oddly fragile, as if she’d somehow metamorphosed into glass and the slightest bump might shatter her into a trillion tiny shards.

  At ten-thirty, she was lethargically sipping her second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Expecting yet another reporter, shock rocketed through her when she squinted out the peephole. Agent Jarvis! Was he here to arrest her for fleeing California? Well, he couldn’t very well take her to jail if she didn’t answer the door.

  “I know you’re in there, Ms. Santos. Don’t force me to return with a warrant.” A sudden vision of the door imploding under the impetus of a battering ram convinced her to disengage the deadbolt. If he intended to take her back to California, he’d have to drag her, kicking and screaming, the entire way.

  “Good Morning, Ms. Santos.” He nodded at the dark-suited man at his side. “This is Special Agent Harris. He’s with the Charleston field office.”

  Trying to get her heart rate back under control, she shook the man’s hand, offering him a smile so strained it threatened to crack her face. At least Jarvis hadn’t brought that bitch, Sengupta. When he simply stood there looking at her expectantly, she stepped aside for them to enter. “Agent Jarvis, I apologize for taking off the way I did, but I wanted to come home and I was afraid you wouldn’t let me leave.”

  Surprisingly, he seemed not at all put out. “It was my fault for not posting someone outside your room. I’m afraid I underestimated you.” Holding her gaze, he added meaningfully, “It won’t happen again.”

  She led them into the kitchen and, once they’d taken seats around the glass-topped kitchen table, Jarvis regarded her thoughtfully. “I’ve already acquainted Agent Harris with the particulars of your case. Have you seen the news this morning?”

  “Not yet. Have they mentioned my name?”

  “The media knows Sparrow was killed by his intended victim and, although no one at the bureau will reveal your identity, I’m afraid the police aren’t so reticent when it comes to leaking information to the press. We’ve learned quite a bit in the past twenty-four hours, so allow me to bring you up to date. The estate your abductor took you to belongs to Coco Keswick. A former porn star—”

  “—she gave up acting to direct and produce her own movies, which she geared especially toward women,” Larissa finished for him. “They’re really quite good.”

  Jarvis appeared startled by this revelation, and she had the feeling that, beneath his dark complexion, the normally imperturbable man was blushing. Enjoying his momentary discomfiture, she said, “What? You didn’t know women watched porn?” A wide gold wedding band gleamed on his left hand so, when he made no response, she added, “If you’d like, I’ll write down some titles that you and your wife might enjoy.”

  Agent Harris appeared faintly amused. Agent Jarvis did not. Frowning, he cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary. Anyway, it turns out Sparrow was Ms. Keswick’s nephew. After you shot him two years ago, he fled across country to seek shelter with her. Ms. Keswick had contracted HIV back when she was still in front of the cameras. By the time Sparrow showed up on her doorstep, she had full-blown AIDS. He moved in with her, adopted the name ‘Hank Keswick’, and gradually took over the running of the business. Financially, Ms. Keswick was already doing quite well, bringing in just over two-hundred-thousand a year, but Sparrow decided to expand the business. After converting the guesthouse into a dungeon, he branched out into hardcore bondage and S & M films and, subsequently, the company pulled in three-quarters of a million last year.”

  “I wondered where he’d gotten the money to hire a kidnapper. So, where’s Coco now?”

  “Ms. Keswick’s health had been steadily spiraling downward. She’d given him her power of attorney but, knowing the gravy train would end when she died, he apparently decided to keep her death a secret. We found her remains buried on the property.”

  “He killed her?”

  “Possibly. Or she may have died from the AIDS. Forensics will have to make that determination.” He paused for a moment, as if considering how forthcoming to be. “We also found the buried remains of three other women. So far, we’ve identified one, a social worker who disappeared several months ago after her car broke down on the expressway. We’re still working on identifying the other two.”

  An artic chill shivered through Larissa and she hugged herself. “He was a serial killer.”

  “It appears so.”

  “And I almost ended up as one of his victims.” She swallowed in an attempt to relieve the painful tightness lodged in her throat. “Did he kill those women in the ‘playroom’?”

  “It doesn’t appear so. When each of those women died, there were round-the-clock nurses at the estate caring for Ms. Keswick, which would have eliminated the privacy factor. Plus, we found no traces of blood other than yours and Sparrow’s. When he terminated the services of the nursing staff, he informed them that Ms. Keswick was going into a hospice facility and they had no reason to doubt him.”

  With everyone gone from the estate, Sparrow would have been able to take his time with her. How many excruciating, agony-filled days would she have lasted? As grisly blood-splattered scenes involving wooden crosses, scalpels, and blowtorches played through her mind, the kitchen suddenly tilted crazily. With both hands, she gripped the beveled edge of the glass tabletop until the room settled back into its rightful position.

  Jarvis placed a comforting hand over hers. “Are you all right, Ms. Santos?” She nodded weakly. After giving her a few minutes to regain her emotional equilibrium, he extracted a small, leather-bound notebook from an inner jacket pocket. “I’d like to go back over the events of your abduction, beginning with when you first woke up in the back of the van.”

  Having to replay the first part of her story was not too bad because, fortunately, she didn’t have to lie, although there was much she left out.


  Finally, after nearly two hours of question and answer, during which time Agent Harris remained silent but intently watchful, they arrived at the point where her kidnapper had delivered her to Sparrow. Lying in general went against everything she believed in. Lying to law-enforcement officials sickened her.

  But telling them the truth was inconceivable.

  She fought to stay calm as she once again related the story she and Chase had manufactured. At one point she caught herself rubbing the back of her neck and — remembering what Chase had said about self-comforting gestures — made herself stop. She finished by saying, “And after I came to on the ‘playroom’ floor, I went back to the house, broke the glass from the front door, went in, and called the police.”

  “Why didn’t you simply re-enter through the open rear doors?”

  She couldn’t very well admit that, once she’d accompanied Chase to the front of the house, she’d been disinclined to make the long walk back around to the rear. “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “I still find your claim of having fainted interesting. Do you have a history of losing consciousness?”

  She forced her jaw to unclench. “It’s not a claim — I fainted. And, no, I don’t have a history of doing so. But then, I don’t have a history of being beaten and nearly tortured to death. Nor had I ever killed anyone before. All of which was quite traumatic.”

  “I’m guessing that, when you shot Sparrow two years ago, it was ‘traumatic’ as well. Did you lose consciousness then?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to answer in the affirmative, but Chase’s warning suddenly echoed in her head: During interrogation, stick to the truth as much as possible. “When I saw the blood on my throat, my knees went weak and I sort of collapsed to the floor, but I don’t think I actually lost consciousness.”

  “Usually when one faints, the actual period of unconsciousness is fairly brief, yet you claim to have been out for nearly an hour.”