The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  “I never claimed that. You all decided it was an hour, based on the Medical Examiner’s estimated time of death.”

  “An hour that conveniently gave your abductor time to make a strategic withdrawal from the Chatsworth area.”

  She scowled at him. “Have you released Mr. O’Malley?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Are you so desperate to charge someone that you’d send an innocent man to prison?”

  One huge, dark hand came up to forestall any further protests. “You’re forgetting that, not only did three witnesses positively identify him, they also identified you as the woman tied up and gagged in the back of his vehicle.”

  “They’re lying. And if I was in his vehicle, why didn’t you find my DNA there?” It was a wild guess, but she saw the confirmation in his narrowed eyes.

  “O’Malley thoroughly cleaned the vehicle before he was taken into custody.”

  “You have an excuse for everything, Jarvis.”

  “Then it seems we have something in common.” When she speared him with a venomous glare, he calmly gazed back, a faint smile playing about his lips.

  “When Mr. O’Malley goes to trial, you’re going to look like a fool — or worse — when I testify as to how you railroaded an innocent man.”

  The two agents exchanged glances, and then Agent Harris spoke for the first time since their introduction. “Ms. Santos, are you familiar with Stockholm syndrome?”

  She regarded him warily. “No.”

  “Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response sometimes seen in captives in which the captive begins to identify with, and display symptoms of loyalty to, their captor, regardless of the danger in which they’ve been placed.”

  “That may well be, but it has nothing to do with me. I don’t know what Agent Jarvis has told you, but I feel absolutely no loyalty to the man who kidnapped me.”

  “A psychological shift takes place in captives when they are gravely threatened but are, at the same time, shown acts of kindness by their captors. The captive’s life depends upon the good will of their captor, and upon their own ability to meet their captor’s demands. Although the captive is obviously terrified, adopting a positive attitude toward the one on whom their life now depends serves to relieve their fear, as well as to help insure their survival.”

  Was that what she’d done? At first, she had been terrified. And she’d been grateful that her kidnapper had treated her well.

  “The relief from fear serves as a powerful reinforcement for the change in attitude, making the mental adjustment a genuine emotional transformation, rather than simply a contrived one.”

  Harris and Jarvis both were watching her closely as Harris spoke, and Larissa had to struggle not to fidget under the weight of their eyes.

  “The tremendous emotional, and often physical, duress induces these symptoms. It’s a common survival strategy for the captive to begin to develop a bond with, and think highly of, his or her captor. They may believe their captor is showing them favor stemming from inherent kindness, while failing to recognize that their captor’s actions are essentially self-serving.”

  “I’m sure this is all very interesting, but I never developed a bond with my kidnapper, and I certainly never thought highly of him. Yes, I was terrified, and yes, he never hurt me. And although I was relieved he never hurt me, I was never grateful to him.” She frowned at him. “Are you some kind of shrink?”

  “I prefer the term psychologist to that of ‘shrink’.”

  Jarvis reached across the glass expanse of the table to place a massive hand upon hers. “Ms. Santos, if you would agree to have a few private sessions with Doctor Harris, I believe you’d find it very therapeutic.”

  She slid her hand from under his. “I disagree.” While she might indeed find talking to Harris therapeutic, since he was primarily an FBI agent it was doubtful there’d be any doctor-patient privilege. “And now it’s Doctor Harris? When you first introduced him it was Agent Harris.”

  “Both titles are correct. I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d consent to speaking with him.”

  “You may consider it whatever you like, but I’m not having ‘private sessions’ with him because there is nothing wrong with me. I can’t believe you had the gall to bring a shrink to my house. No offence intended, Doctor Harris.”

  “None taken,” Harris replied. “But if I may continue, when subjected to prolonged captivity, captives can develop a sexual interest in their captors, and it’s my understanding that O’Malley’s an attractive man.”

  The heat that flooded her face was so intense she wondered if steam was wisping from her ears. “As I recall, Mr. O’Malley was fairly attractive but, as I have repeatedly stated, he is not the man who kidnapped me. Despite what you think, I did not enjoy those days of captivity and I certainly didn’t fall for the man who kidnapped me.”

  “Is that what I think?”

  “You obviously think there’s something abnormal about me, that I’m some freak who enjoys being kidnapped and driven clear across the continent.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Palm itching with the urge to slap him, she abruptly stood, signaling an end to the conversation.

  Doctor Harris continued to regard her placidly. “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. In times of great emotional turmoil, the body secretes an excess of adrenaline, which can have the effect of heightening one’s sexual response.”

  “I’d like you both to leave.”

  “Ms. Santos, I assure you that what you experienced was completely normal.”

  “Now.”

  As Doctor Harris got to his feet, Jarvis raised a placating hand. “Ms. Santos—”

  “I won’t tell you again.”

  He reluctantly stood. “Very well, we’ll go. You probably need time to consider the ramifications of everything we’ve discussed.”

  At the front door, Doctor Harris handed her his card. “After all you’ve been through, you’ll likely find yourself suffering the anxiety and depression of post-traumatic stress disorder. If you need someone to talk to, please call me anytime, day or night.”

  Like hell. Harris was much too perceptive, and she’d already said way too much.

  Jarvis regarded her solemnly. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah, be sure to call me when you catch the real kidnapper.” She slammed the door in their faces.

  Massive chains draped her shoulders, their ponderous weight dragging her down. Letting her eyes close, she wearily leaned her forehead against the door. Was she really suffering from some stupid syndrome? Was that where her feelings for Chase stemmed from? Was that why the sex between them had been so incredibly good?

  Outside, two car doors thumped shut, and an engine started.

  Maybe. Maybe not. But she hadn’t been imagining that Chase was an inherently good person. He really was a good person, albeit a person who had made a huge mistake.

  Harris claimed that the apparent kindnesses of captors were essentially self-serving. Had that been the case with Chase? Had he pretended to be a nice guy in order to control her? Had she simply imagined his compassion? Had she so desperately wanted him to be a decent human being that she’d fostered the characteristic on him when it didn’t really exist?

  Had he been laughing at her gullibility all along?

  No, he hadn’t. From their very first night together, it’d been clear he was attracted to her. So why hadn’t he used his kindness and charm to seduce her, instead of displaying such remarkable self-restraint?

  And above all, after he’d turned her over to Sparrow, why had he taken such a risk in coming back?

  Jarvis and Harris could both go screw themselves. They were wrong about Chase, and they were wrong about her.

  But what if they weren’t?

  * * * * *

  As Agent Harris steered the vehicle away from the curb, Jarvis remarked, “Well, doctor, that went well.”

  “I wa
rned you she’d be resistant to accepting. They always are, at first.”

  Jarvis scrutinized the middle class neighborhood. The slightly run-down, but carefully tended small homes presided over neatly landscaped, postage-stamp front lawns. Tidy beds of bright annuals and luscious roses created splashes of color. The vivid, papery blossoms of bougainvilleas embellished several small porches. Along the street, Spanish moss dripped from the sinuous branches of oaks.

  “Doctor, in your opinion, who seduced whom?”

  Harris kept his eyes on the road. “Hard to say. But Ms. Santos certainly would have realized the advantage in having her abductor develop an emotional attachment to her.”

  When his cell rang, Jarvis glanced at the caller ID before flipping the phone open. “Emily, I could use some good news about now.”

  One of the many things he appreciated about Emily Sengupta was that she never wasted time on idle chitchat. “There’s a pharmacy just half a fucking block from the alley where the altercation occurred.”

  “Please tell me they have security cameras, and that they were working that day.”

  “Oh, they were working just fine. Unfortunately, O’Malley’s not on any of the footage.”

  Jarvis bit back a curse. “I’m hoping there’s a but.”

  “But, at approximately the same time the altercation took place, a vagrant made a purchase from the pharmacist.”

  “Let me guess. An asthma inhaler?”

  “You got it. O’Malley’s one slick son-of-a-bitch.”

  “So your trip wasn’t a total waste of time. Have you put a BOLO on the vagrant?”

  “No need. I walked out the pharmacy door and, lo and behold, there he was, holding up the wall of the adjacent liquor store.”

  “Hallelujah. Please tell me he ID’ed O’Malley.”

  “In regards to buying the inhaler, his memory was perfectly intact. But when it came to remembering who sent him in for it, he initially drew a complete blank. Even though I came down hard on him, he stubbornly stuck to his claim of amnesia. But when I changed tactics and offered him a twenty, his memory suddenly returned.”

  Jarvis released the breath he’d been holding. “You did well, Emily.”

  “You think so? Guess what our suspect looks like. He’s a five-fucking-foot-tall Mexican.”

  Despite his frustration, Jarvis was unable to suppress a chuckle. “I assume you weren’t forthcoming with the twenty.”

  “Fuck no. When I threatened to arrest him for lying to a federal officer, his mood perked right up. Apparently these bums look forward to going to jail so they can get a shower and some clean clothes.”

  “Not to mention three hots and a cot. Did you arrest him?”

  “And have him befoul the backseat of my vehicle? I sent him on his merry fucking way. What the hell is it with O’Malley that everyone’s willing to lie for him?”

  “Keep me apprised, Emily.”

  As he disconnected, Harris glanced over at him. “I take it that wasn’t good news.”

  “That big thud you heard? That was us hitting yet another brick wall.”

  * * * * *

  Larissa stood before the window and watched the two FBI agents drive off in a black, late-model SUV. They’d barely rounded the corner when a very large van with a satellite dish on top and the logo of a local news station emblazoned on the side rumbled to a stop just behind her Corolla.

  She scrambled back from the window. It was too late to close the blinds on the front-facing windows, but she still had time to close the blinds and curtains on the sides and rear of the house.

  Two years ago, after the police had found the body of the murdered doctor, reporters had swarmed her. She’d politely answered all their questions, regardless of how moronic, and had even been a guest on a local morning television show. The brief notoriety had brought her a multitude of new customers at a time when, just starting out as a hair stylist, she’d needed the business, so she hadn’t really minded the intrusions into her privacy.

  Of course, there’d been very little to tell. After all, she’d simply awakened to shoot an intruder, who’d then fled. End of story, from her point of view. In a little over a week, the media had forgotten her.

  She closed the curtains on the west side of the house. As she stepped into the kitchen, the doorbell chimed.

  But now there was a lot more to the story. Not only had a man kidnapped her from her home, he’d transported her across the country over a period of five days. She’d ostensibly killed a serial killer with who-knew-how-many bodies buried on his porn star aunt’s property. There were a thousand questions to be asked and answered and the more she talked the more likely it was that she’d trip up on her story. The media’s feeding frenzy might continue for weeks and the last thing she needed was a glaringly public spotlight illuminating the darker nooks and crannies of her life.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  More importantly, although the media might misinterpret her silence, they certainly couldn’t misquote it.

  As she closed the final bedroom curtain, the phone rang. The caller ID displayed an unknown number, so she perched on the edge of the bed and waited. The phone rang and rang and rang, as nerve-wracking as a fire alarm while, down the hall, the doorbell chimed insistently.

  After nearly thirty rings, the phone fell silent. She immediately snatched the receiver and dialed the salon. Brendon answered on the second ring.

  She kept her voice just above a whisper. “Brendon, it’s Larissa.”

  “I was just about to call you. How’re you feeling this morning?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

  “Is that your doorbell I hear?”

  “There’s a news van here. I’m pretending I’m not home.”

  “I hope you realize you’re gonna be trapped in your house.”

  “Since I look like I went several rounds with Mike Tyson, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” The doorbell continued to chime intermittently, and the phone’s call-waiting feature suddenly beeped.

  “Other than wolves at your door, are you all right?”

  She heaved a great sigh. “Agent Jarvis was here earlier.”

  “The FBI agent from California? Are you in trouble for leaving?”

  “He didn’t seem upset about that. I’d rather not go into detail on the phone, but he brought a shrink with him. I got upset and threw them both out.”

  “Larissa!”

  “I didn’t appreciate the things they were saying.”

  “I could come by this evening after the salon closes.”

  “I’d like that, but once the reporters know for sure that I’m really home, they’ll never leave.”

  “Are they watching the alley?”

  “I don’t think so, since my car’s parked out front.”

  “I’ll pretend I’m visiting Yumiko. She and I bonded while you were missing, so I know she won’t mind. I’ll slip out her back door and into yours.”

  “I never realized you were so cunning.”

  “It’s a skill one develops while still in the closet. The phone and doorbell are going to drive you crazy.”

  “I’m going to mute the phone’s ringer so, if you call, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Then I’m disconnecting the doorbell.”

  “Do you know how to do that without getting electrocuted?”

  “Who do you think installed it?”

  “You know, for a beautiful, sexy, and very feminine woman, you’re awfully butch.”

  “Thanks. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

  Once they’d said their goodbyes, she considered what Agent Harris had said about adrenaline heightening one’s sexual response. That would certainly explain why the sex had been the best she’d ever had. The overload of adrenaline had simply intensified her response. Chase hadn’t really been that good. The realization brought with it a sense of relief.

  Then her shoulders slumped. Who the hell was she trying to kid? T
he unhappy truth was that — adrenaline or no adrenaline — Chase had been that good, no question about it.

  What if, despite all her denials, a jury convicted him? Kavanaugh had said he could get twenty-five years. Twenty-five years was nearly her entire life. To serve such an enormous amount of time for a stupid freaking mistake was simply unconceivable. How old was Chase? Thirty? Thirty-two? In twenty-five years he’d be nearly sixty.

  To distract herself, she padded through the depressing gloom of her apartment, got her toolbox, and went to work on the doorbell. Once she’d disconnected the ringer, she finally broke down and turned on the television, tuning to CNN and keeping the volume barely audible. Sure enough, the combination of a serial killer and a porn star was enough to attract the attention of the national news.

  She muttered a soft “Crap” as her own face gazed back at her from the television, footage from two years ago. The male newscaster informed viewers that the FBI was questioning a ‘person of interest’, but didn’t mention Chase by name.

  Her throat suddenly constricted painfully as a photo of the first identified victim — a young, pretty brunette who bore an unsettling resemblance to herself — filled the screen. Not wanting to hear any grisly details about how the poor woman had died, she stabbed the OFF button on the remote control.

  Swirling like a whirlpool, despair sucked her down into its black depths. What sort of person was she that she could feel so pathetically sorry for herself while this lovely young woman and several others as well had died at Sparrow’s hands?

  When tears spilled over to burn tracks down her cheeks, she tried to brush them away but, as if floodgates had suddenly opened, her anguish poured forth like blood from a gaping wound. Curling into a ball on the sofa, she wept with the complete and utter abandon of a child, until worn to a limp and hiccupping exhaustion.

  It was the clamor of voices outside that eventually drew her from her despair. Eyes sticky and swollen, she trudged into the sunroom. Barely parting the heavy drapes, she peeked out.

  Two additional news satellite vans now lined the street before her house, bringing the total to three. Gawking neighbors stood about in small groups, trampling her grass. Seeking their fabled fifteen minutes of fame, a few stood in the glare of television lights, and she wondered uneasily what they were saying. Most likely, they were rehashing the few facts remembered from two years ago. Maybe they were discussing new items gleaned from television reports. Or, worst of all, they were salaciously speculating as to the many depravities and perversions her kidnapper had surely subjected her to during the five days of her captivity.