The Heart Has Reasons (33 page)

“I
was wondering the same thing myself.  The house is femininely decorated,
so it must belong to a woman.”

“Then
where is she?”

She
shrugged.  “Maybe he forced himself inside, like he did in Charleston with
the doctor.  But this time, after he killed the owner, he decided to stay.” 
She gazed about her, at the unfamiliar trees and the brown, rolling
hills.  “Where are we?”  When he regarded her with a quizzical
expression, she clarified.  “What state is this?”

“California.”

Freaking
California.  How was she going to get home?  God
damn
him.

When
he raised an arm to wrap around her shoulder, she stepped aside, out of his
reach.  He lowered the arm back to his side.  She’d repeatedly told
him Sparrow was going to kill her, but the thickheaded son-of-a-bitch had
refused to listen.  Subsequently, she’d nearly died.

Evidently
unaware of her growing anger, he stopped at the front stairs and turned toward
her as if he would take her in his arms once more.  Taking a step back,
she raised the gun and aimed it at him.  The eyes behind the ski mask
widened, and he froze.

“I
should shoot you for getting me into this mess.”

“I
wouldn’t blame you if you did, but I’m hoping you don’t.”

“Then
you’d better leave now, while you’re still able.”

He
backed away, hands extended, palms forward.  “I’m going.  And again,
I’m so very sorry.  For
everything
.”

“You’ve
got one hour, and then I’m calling the police.”

“Find
a towel, put some ice in it, and hold it on your eye.  It’ll help keep the
swelling down.”  He stood there gazing down at her.  “I’m going to
miss you, Larissa.”  When she made no reply, he turned and started jogging
toward the road.

She
trudged up the broad front steps past the pots of colorful impatiens, lowered
herself to sit on the uppermost stair, and raked wet hair away from her
face.  She’d been beaten nearly senseless.  She’d nearly been
tortured to death.  She’d watched a man die.  She’d helped to alter a
crime scene, and was now planning to lie to the police.

Despite
all this, as she sat there watching her kidnapper jog down the drive, the only
thing going through her mind was…

I
don’t even know his name, or what he looks like.

The
sun came out from behind a cloud.  A small flock of sparrows argued back
and forth from the pair of jacaranda trees flanking the walk.  In the distance,
a dog barked.  Otherwise, the day was quiet and still.  Halfway down
the drive, he stopped and turned to gaze back at her.  Finally, he raised
a hand in farewell, and continued on his way.

Once
he was out of sight, she heaved herself shakily to her feet, uttering a ragged
hiss as a bolt of pain shot through her hip.  The front door, a
wood-framed expanse of glass, was locked.  Well, crap.  Walking all
the way around the house to the open rear door seemed a feat beyond her
capabilities.  She could shoot the glass out but, unlike the first two
shots fired inside the soundproofed cottage, someone would hear this one and
call the police, and she’d promised him an hour.

Setting
the gun down, she picked up a heavy pot of impatiens, turned her head aside,
and heaved it.  The clay pot smashed through the glass and crashed to the
marble inside.  Using the gun, she knocked out several jagged panes of
glass still clinging around the edges, and then slipped through the doorframe
into the foyer, stepping over the mess of glass fragments, potshards,
bedraggled impatiens, and scattered soil.

Her
inhaler lay on the living room carpet by the wide-open French doors. 
Gazing out over the pool to the “playhouse”, she sucked in the mist, then moved
over to flop wearily onto a pale-green leather sofa.  The mantle clock
ticked loudly as the bare-breasted mermaid holding up the glass tabletop
regarded her placidly.

This
house definitely belonged to a woman.  Judging by the décor, a woman who
was into other women.

Her
head pounded in time with her heartbeat.  She thought about locating a
bathroom where she could search for a bottle of aspirin, but it simply seemed
like too much trouble.  All of her emotions felt strangely muted,
strangely mild, as if this were merely a dream from which she would soon
awaken.

The
mantle clock ticked loudly in the silence. 
Tick, tick, tick, tick
. 
A floorboard creaked somewhere overhead.  A timber settling?  Or a
footstep?  Picking up the .45 from the cushion beside her, she turned
sideways on the sofa, putting her back to the corner so no one could sneak up
on her.  She knew she should search the house, but simply couldn’t find
the strength or willpower to do so.

Glancing
up at the ticking clock above the fireplace, she noted the time. 
You
have one hour
, she mentally told her kidnapper. 
Make the best of
it. 
Drawing her knees up to her chin, she wrapped her arms around her
legs, leaned her head back against the sofa, and thought…

I’m
going to miss you too.

* * * * *

As Chase he drove away from the estate,
guilt ached away at the back of his skull, as if there were a tiny rodent
trapped there, gnawing at his brain.  He’d almost gotten Larissa
killed.  How the fuck could he have been so stupid?  Why hadn’t he
listened to her?

He’d
thought he’d gotten over the pain of Michelle’s betrayal years ago. 
Because he’d let his personal issues cloud his judgment, he’d refused to
believe Larissa and, in subsequence, she’d taken a horrendous beating.
 Worse, she’d nearly been tortured to death.

As
soon as he reached an urban area, he pulled behind a fast food restaurant and
slipped between the seats into the cargo compartment.  Although he needed
to distance himself from the area as quickly as possible, it was imperative
that he first dispose of all evidence linking him to this horrible fiasco.

Larissa’s
blood smeared his damp tee shirt.  He quickly stripped and changed into
clean clothes from the duffle bag.  He shoved the damp shirt and jeans,
the ski masks, gloves, handcuffs, hobble, disposable cell phone, and ball gag
into a garbage bag, then tied off the bag and pitched it into the dumpster.

When
he spotted a group of homeless men congregating under a highway overpass, he
braked to a stop just long enough to pass the duffle bag containing the
hotplate, dishes, and his remaining clothes out the window.

Several
blocks later, he pulled up at a stoplight beside a taxi.  There was also
the forty-thousand in his possession to consider.  If the police stopped
him, he’d have no plausible explanation for having that much cash on him. 
The thought of the money made him pound the steering wheel and shout “
Fuck!
”
loud enough that the turbaned taxi driver turned startled eyes in his
direction.  He hadn’t given Larissa any money to get home.  He could
only hope the police would arrange transportation for her.

He
pulled into the next drug store he spotted, went inside to purchase a mailing
envelope, and inquired as to the location of the nearest post office. 
Back in the van again, he stuffed the four bundles of hundred-dollar bills into
the bubble-wrap-lined envelope, addressed it, and then headed to the post
office.

From
there, he pulled into a carwash, parked near the self-serve vacuums and killed
the engine.  Two Hispanic men were washing a glossy-black, beautifully
restored ‘78 Thunderbird.  He pulled the carpet from the floor of the
vehicle, rolled it up, and exited the vehicle to find the Thunderbird exiting
onto the street.  Alone for the moment, he shoved the carpet into a
trashcan, then crawled back into the cargo hold, closed the door behind him,
and set about removing the two bolts from the floor.

When
finished, he loaded the vacuum with quarters, crawled back inside, and made
sure to hit every single nook and cranny.  When he finished the back, he
started on the driver’s compartment.  Even though Larissa had never been
in the front, some of her DNA, such as a strand of her hair, might have
transferred from his clothes, and he intended to take no chances.

He’d
already been enough of a fool.

CHAPTER
22

After finally calling the police, Larissa
grabbed the garbage bag containing her dirty clothes and blow dryer, limped to
the speaker panel next to the front door, and remotely opened the front gate. 
Livid bruises stood out starkly on her arms.  Her split lower lip and one
eye felt hugely swollen.  Her entire body ached from the roots of her hair
to the great toe on her right foot, which she’d stubbed on the pool
steps.  Both her right knee and left hip throbbed.

Less
than ten minutes later, the police arrived in four separate vehicles, lights
flashing but sirens silent in deference to the neighborhood’s wealthy
residents.  Gold shields hanging from breast pockets, the two homicide
detectives alighted from the one unmarked vehicle, their eyes opening wide in
shock as they took in her appearance.  Damn.  How bad did she
look? 

“I’m
Detective Fahey.  This is Detective Ramos.”

With
gray streaking his sandy-blond hair, Fahey looked to be in his early fifties. 
His long, narrow, homely face reminded Larissa of a camel’s, and his
down-angled eyes made him appear perpetually sad.  His rumpled, brown suit
hung loose from his shoulders, as if he’d recently lost weight.

Ramos
was stocky, a good six inches shorter than Fahey, and at least ten years
younger.  Gel slicked back his jet-black hair, and startlingly white teeth
flashed in his swarthy, movie-star-handsome face.

Neither
detective bothered to introduce the uniformed officers.

Larissa
introduced herself, explained briefly how she’d been kidnapped and brought
there, and how she’d killed Sparrow.

Fahey’s
first question was, “Where’s the weapon?”

She
aimed a thumb over her shoulder at the main house.  “On the table just
inside the front door.”

“And
the body?”

She
turned pointed toward Sparrow’s
playroom
.  “Back there in the
guesthouse.”

“Is
there anyone else here?” asked Ramos.

She
shrugged one shoulder.  “Not that I’ve seen.”

Ramos’
canny, dark gaze regarded her speculatively.  “Why are you wet?”

“I
knocked Sparrow into the swimming pool, and he pulled me in with him.”

He
eyed the garbage bag she clutched.  “What’s in the bag?”

“My
clothes and blow dryer.”

“Mind
if I have a look.”

Fighting
an urge to roll her eyes, she handed it over.

While
Ramos rummaged through her dirty clothes, Fahey radioed for additional backup
to help search and secure the house and grounds.  Moving mechanically as
she led them toward the guesthouse, she recounted how Sparrow had broken into
her apartment two years ago, how she’d shot him, and how he’d then fled and
forced the unfortunate doctor to treat his wounds before he’d murdered
him.  “Sparrow looked much different back then,” she added, “but it’s
definitely him.”

The
uniformed officers preceded them into the guesthouse with weapons drawn. 
Fahey and Ramos exchanged startled glances as, from within, one of the uniforms
exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

Once
the uniforms had cleared the building, Larissa followed the detectives inside
and stood by the open door as Fahey quickly checked the body for a nonexistent
pulse.  All five men then stood about in varying attitudes of paralyzed
astonishment as they took in the wooden crucifix with its attached ropes and
the assorted instruments of torture.  Ramos stood looking down at the
body, hands on hips, then turned to her.  “This is a big guy.  You’re
telling us that you were able to disarm him?”

“I
have a green belt in karate.”

Detective
Fahey said to one of the uniforms, “Gonzales.  Find out who owns this
property.”  As the officer pulled out his radio, Fahey turned to
her.  “Miss, you are one lucky lady.”  He fished a pen and small
notebook from his pocket.  “Tell me about your abductor.”

She’d
worry later about the moral principles of lying to the authorities.  For now,
all that mattered was that her kidnapper didn’t go to prison.  “I never
saw his face.  He always kept me blindfolded and gagged except for when he
fed me, and then he wore a ski mask.”

“There’s
still a lot you can tell us.  For example, did he have an accent?”

She
shrugged.  “Other than to bark an occasional command, he rarely
spoke.  He definitely wasn’t from South Carolina, but I’m afraid I can’t
be more specific than that.”

“How
tall was he?”

She
gazed at the detective for a moment.  “A few inches shorter than you.”

“I’m
five-eleven, so that would put him at about five-eight-or-nine.”  She
nodded, and he jotted something in the notebook.  “How about build?”

“Medium. 
Not fat, not skinny.”

“Muscular?”