The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  “Not interested.”

  At the impound lot, Travis waited while he paid the fee and collected his keys. At first it appeared as though they’d have to jump the battery, but finally the engine caught. He followed Travis out of the lot.

  As he drove, he couldn’t help flashing back yet again to that last night, in that fleabag of a motel room, where everything had been so absolutely wonderful before it’d gone so horribly wrong. Thinking of that night always reminded him of the little calico cat. For some strange reason, in his mind, the cat and Larissa were somehow connected and he felt he’d betrayed them both.

  They stopped at a red light. When it turned green, Travis accelerated straight through the intersection. Chase started to follow and, at the last moment, executed a hard right. At the next intersection, he took another right, heading back in the direction from which they’d just come.

  When his cell phone rang, he flipped it open. “Yeah?”

  “Where’re you headed?” asked Travis.

  “Nowhere in particular.”

  “Thought you were in a hurry to get home.”

  “I suddenly felt like taking a drive.”

  The worry in Travis’ voice was plain. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Thanks, but after sixteen days in jail, I need some alone time.”

  “Chase …”

  “Word of honor, I’m not about to do anything stupid.”

  Travis heaved a sigh over the phone. “Okay, brother. If you need me, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Chase stopped at a discount store and bought half a dozen items.

  Six hours later, he pulled into the motel’s parking lot. In the light of day, the place was even seedier than he remembered. He killed the engine and got out. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  There was no sign of the little calico.

  Shit. Over two weeks had passed. The little cat could have starved to death by now. Coyotes could have killed it. It could have ended up as roadkill. Maybe one of the motel guests had decided to give it a home, although this last seemed too much for which to hope.

  He called and called, but there was no sign of it. As he started toward the office to check with the desk clerk, a small, tri-colored form came hurrying around the side of the office and paused when it spotted him. He squatted and called, “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” and the little calico made a beeline for him. The cat seemed to remember him and, as it purred and butted its head against him, unshed tears scalded the backs of his eyes.

  Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with him?

  The moment he slid open the cargo door, the cat sprang into the vehicle. He opened a can of cat food and dumped it into one of the new dishes. As the little calico gobbled the food, he poured cat litter into the new litter box, and slid the door closed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled back onto the highway.

  After polishing off the food, the cat crawled between the seats and into his lap. Purring loudly, it began kneading his abdomen with soft little paws. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel; with the other, he rubbed and petted the cat, relieved that some of his guilt and depression seemed to have lifted.

  When he finally arrived home six hours later, he smuggled the cat into his apartment under cover of darkness.

  This morning he’d smuggled it back out. The veterinarian estimated its age at around eight months, and proclaimed that, except for some malnutrition, it was in fair health.

  Dewormed, defleaed, and vaccinated, the little cat now lay curled on his chest, gazing at him with amber eyes. She seemed to fear that if she let him out of her sight for even a moment he’d disappear again, and so she stuck to him like glue, even to the point of having sat patiently beside the bathtub while he’d showered. He’d briefly considered naming her “Larissa”, but the name would be a constant reminder of what he’d lost.

  Having read the same page again without anything written on it having registered, he placed the book on the floor and rubbed behind the cat’s ears. She immediately rewarded him with a purr that vibrated through his internal organs.

  The afternoon news broadcast had announced that the FBI had released their “person of interest” due to lack of evidence. Chase knew he should call Cheyenne, but kept putting it off. When the doorbell rang, he grimaced, hoping against all hope that it was Travis, Roach, or Mad Dog, even though none of his friends would ever show up without first calling.

  The cat followed him to the door, where he put an eye to the peephole. Naturally, it was Cheyenne. Afraid the cat would dart outside, he picked her up and opened the door. A bottle of wine clutched in one hand, Cheyenne strode through the doorway and leaned in to give him a kiss. Spotting the calico, she froze, face screwed up as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “What is that?”

  He closed the door. “Shall I take that question to mean you’ve never before seen a house cat?”

  A flicker of annoyance flashed across her face. “You know what I mean. What’s it doing here?”

  Jesus, the sound of her voice was like fingernails on a blackboard. “She lives here. What are you doing here?”

  Pale-blond brows shot toward her hairline. “Excuse me? I came to help you celebrate, even though you didn’t bother calling to let me know you were out.” Her eyes dropped to the cat, and her face pinched into an expression of extreme distaste. “Put that thing down. It’s filthy and probably has fleas.”

  The cat was, admittedly, in dire need of a bath, which he fully intended to give her once she’d had a few days to settle into her new life, but he bristled at Cheyenne’s attitude. Larissa hadn’t complained when he’d allowed the cat into their motel room. “The cat was treated for fleas this morning.”

  He retook his seat on the sofa. Cheyenne frowned when the cat immediately settled back into his lap, purring. “I brought some wine to help us celebrate.”

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  She strode into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with a brimming glass and took a seat as far from the cat as possible. Just to be mean, he considered naming the cat “Cheyenne”, but somehow it didn’t seem fair to the cat.

  Cheyenne began chattering on and on about her several appearances on the news, and about how the nationwide exposure would help her get a part in an upcoming television series for which she’d auditioned. Self-absorbed as ever, she seemed unaffected by his three-week absence, or that he’d been jailed for a crime of which he was ostensibly innocent. He blocked out the annoying, incessant sound of her voice.

  Should he risk calling Larissa? If he did, how would she react? Despite what was sure to have been considerable pressure from the FBI, she hadn’t identified him. Under that soft-spoken southern charm resided a will of iron, and he suddenly understood the term “steel magnolia”. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate him too badly.

  “Chase!”

  He blinked and looked up, surprised to find Cheyenne glaring at him. “What?”

  “I said: What’re you smiling about?”

  The grating sound of her voice eradicated his smile and made every muscle in his body go tense with irritation. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

  “Nothing? It didn’t look like nothing. It looked like you were thinking about another woman.”

  Ah, Jesus. Why had he ever gotten involved with such a whining, insecure narcissist?

  The phone rang and, relieved at the interruption, he removed the cat from his lap and got to his feet.

  * * * * *

  Larissa had nearly fainted with relief when Agent Jarvis had called to tell her they’d dropped the charges against Chase. This morning she’d gone on line and Googled his name. Not expecting to find him, she had.

  Now, she stood by the phone in her kitchen, staring at the notepad scrawled with his number. Should she call him? What would she say if he answered?

  I heard they let you out of jail, and I just wanted to see how you were doing?

  Too lame.

  I just wanted to thank you again for coming bac
k and saving me from being tortured to death by a serial killer?

  Too dramatic.

  Heart pounding, she picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. What would she say if Cheyenne answered?

  Chase answered on the third ring, and her nipples immediately contracted at the sound of his “Hello?” She tried to say hello back, but her throat squeezed shut and no sound would come out.

  As he repeated, “Hello?” his voice was a warm, comfortable bed inviting her to climb in.

  Oh, god, she shouldn’t have called. Only a pathetic wacko would phone the very man who’d kidnapped her.

  “Hello?”

  The small, hard stone in her chest ached unbearably as she dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Tears spilled down her cheeks as a terrible loneliness overcame her.

  * * * * *

  “Hello?” Chase could hear someone breathing on the other end of the line. Just as he whispered, “Larissa?” the line went dead.

  Cheyenne’s gaze was full of suspicion. “Who was that?”

  “They hung up without saying anything. Wrong number, I guess.”

  Now that he was feline free, she crossed the room to him and slid her free hand up under his shirt. At six feet, she could almost look him straight in the eye. “Take off your clothes and fuck me.”

  After more than two weeks of celibacy, he was horny as hell but, since he was about to end their relationship, it would not be a good idea to fuck her beforehand. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation but, the sooner he got it over with, the better. “Cheyenne, I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  She took a step back, her mouth suddenly bracketed in hard little lines. “What the fuck did you just say?”

  “I’m fond of you, but I’m not in love with you.”

  She waved one perfectly manicured hand in a dismissive motion. “And? Love’s overrated. We make a good couple. People stare at us wherever we go.”

  “And you consider that the basis for a relationship?”

  “That, and the fact that the sex is great.”

  For her, maybe. She was as selfish in bed as she was out of it. “I’m sorry, Cheyenne, but I’m in love with someone else.

  Her artificially inflated lips clamped in a straight line. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Jesus, what an understatement.

  “Did you meet this slut while you were in jail?”

  “I met her before, and she’s not a slut.”

  Her face rearranged itself into harder lines. “Well, for your information, I haven’t exactly been sitting at home crying. I’ve been fucking Jordan.”

  He refrained from rolling his eyes. “Jordan’s gay.”

  “He is not! He’s as straight as you.”

  “He has his body hair waxed.”

  “All male models do that. It’s part of the job.”

  “And he wears makeup. When he’s not working.” He quickly raised a hand to forestall any further protests. “To be honest, I don’t care.” Surprisingly, it was true. After Michelle, he would have expected to be angry, but her admission actually served to relieve him of any guilt. “Cheyenne, go home.”

  When he started to turn away, she clutched at him. “So who is this slut? A model? An actress? Somebody I know?”

  “None of the above.”

  “Chase, don’t do this.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I love you.”

  “Really? Just a moment ago, you were saying that love was overrated. And, if you love me, why’d you fuck Jordan?”

  “I don’t know. I was lonely. And you hardly ever tell me I’m beautiful.”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you fifty times a day what you already know. You’re a world-famous model. How can you be so insecure?”

  “How can you blame me for fucking someone else when you did the same thing?”

  “I was unfaithful because I fell in love. You fucked someone out of boredom. If you can’t see a discrepancy there, then I feel sorry for you.”

  She had the grace to look unhappy. “The whole country saw me on the news talking about you. If we break up now, people might suspect you dumped me for another woman.”

  “Jesus. Is that what’s bothering you?” When she gave a faint nod, he said, “Just tell everyone you dumped me. I’ll back up your story.”

  Her eyes lit up with sudden hope. “You’d really do that for me?”

  “My word of honor.” Anything to put an end to this travesty.

  CHAPTER 37

  Travell Parnes blew out a sigh of relief as the door of the after-hours club closed behind him, thankful to escape the choking cigarette smoke that burned his eyes, the hip-hop booming from the speakers, the whoops of drunken laughter.

  There was no ramp in front of the club, so he and Andre manhandled Malik’s wheelchair down the two steps. Once Malik was on the sidewalk, Travell stepped aside to let Andre push him. He’d been Malik’s bitch long enough.

  The neighboring storefronts were grimy and decorated with gang graffiti. At five in the morning, rolled-down steel grates shielded entrances and plate-glass windows. Huddled in one of the recessed doorways and clutching a paper-bagged bottle, an old wino nodded warily as they passed. At the corner, a pair of tired chain-smoking ‘ho’s were staked out, hoping for one last trick before heading back to their cribs. The three men crossed the street and, halfway down the block, entered an alley, taking a short cut to Malik’s mom’s apartment.

  Malik’s lighter flared as he lit a cigarette. “I’m goin’ back to the feds. Gonna tell ‘em the truth ‘bout that bitch bein’ in that vehicle.”

  Travell and Andre exchanged a horrified glance. “Man, what the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?” Andre demanded as he circled Malik’s wheelchair around a pothole. “Ain’t you remember what them motherfuckers done said? They said if one of us don’t do what we’s s’posed to, they gonna take all three o’ us back out there in the desert and bury us.

  “And what they gonna do ‘fo they kills us?” Travell put in. “Man, I don’t want no ‘nother ass-whuppin’. It been five days, and my ass still hurt so bad I cain’t hardly sit down.”

  From his chair, Malik snarled, “Yo, at least you niggers can stand up. I cain’t do nuthin’ but sit. You both need to man-up and stop actin’ like bitches.”

  Normally, Travell wouldn’t dare dis Malik to his face, but fear of another ass-whupping and/or a premature burial in the desert made him reckless. “Man-up? Muh-fucker, I ain’t see’d you man-up when those muh-fuckers was beatin’ yo’ ass. All I see’d was you screamin’ like a little bitch and pissin’ yo’ self.”

  “Bitch, you pissed yo’self too. And don’ forget, I got twice as much as you.”

  “And that ain’t enough? Now you’s wantin’ mo’?”

  “Fuck, no, I don’ want no mo’. But, yo, my parole officer done said that ‘cause I confessed to breakin’ in that motherfucker’s van, I’s goin’ hafta finish my sentence. Man, I don’t wanna go back inside fo’ two mo’ years.”

  “Inside better’n unnerground,” Andre mumbled.

  “It ain’t gonna be like that. Now that we knows ‘bout them three motherfuckers—”

  “Four,” said Andre. “You’s forgettin’ the motherfucker what broke your legs is on the street now.”

  Malik twisted around in his chair and shot Andre an evil look. “Now that we knows ‘bout them four, we gonna be ready fo’ ‘em.”

  “Ready fo’ ‘em? Man, you’s trippin'. Them motherfuckers ain’t yo’ normal motherfuckers. They bad. And how you ‘spect you gonna be ready, yo? What you gonna do? Run a motherfucker over in yo’ chair?”

  “We’s gonna stick together, so’s we’s got each other’s backs.”

  “You mean so’s me and Andre gots yo’ back. This whole mess all yo’ fault. If’n you ain’t tried to fuck that bitch, ain’t none of this happened.”

  “My fault? Bitch, it weren’t me runnin’ my mouth to the po-lice at th
e hospital. You two can do’s whatever the fuck you wants. I ain’t goin’ back to prison.”

  Travell gritted his teeth. All Malik had to do was lay up in his mama’s apartment ‘til everything blew over. But he and Andre had business to take care of and, out on the street, they’d both be easy targets. He glanced back and could see the same worry mirrored on Andre’s face.

  Travell looked up and down the alley, then up at the dark windows above. If Malik wanted to die, that was fine with him, but the fat motherfucker wasn’t gonna get him killed too. Until now, he’d been walking beside Malik’s chair. He now slowed his pace just slightly, until he was abreast of Andre.

  With one hand, he pulled his gatt from the waistband of his jeans. With the other, he shoved Andre away from Malik’s chair. Pressing his gatt against the back of Malik’s head, he pulled the trigger, spraying blood and brains into the alley. Malik pitched forward out of his chair, his ruined face impacting the ground with a wet, meaty thunk that made Travell wince.

  “Goddamn!” Andre shouted. “You done capped Malik!”

  With the deafening report still reverberating through the alley, Travell shoved his .38 back into his waistband, feeling the heat of the barrel against his lower belly. “It was him or us. You wanna be buried out in the desert?”

  “Naw.”

  “Me neither.” Travell grabbed Malik’s new .45 from the seat of the wheelchair and shoved it in his waistband as well. “Then let’s bounce, ‘fo somebody see’s us.”

  CHAPTER 38

  When Encarnita Jarvis arrived home from the gym shortly after eleven a.m., she was surprised to see Edison’s SUV back in the driveway. She coasted into the space next to it, killed the engine, and grabbed her gym bag from the seat beside her.

  Moving with a silent stealth that still came naturally after all these years, she ascended the stairs and stopped at the doorway of their bedroom. Her husband was clad only in boxer shorts as he carefully folded a suit into the suitcase on the bed. Unaware of her presence, he reached up to absently scratch the thick, dark scar on his upper chest.