The Heart Has Reasons (43 page)

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.

Crap.

* * * * *

At eight-thirty that evening, a knock at
her front door had Larissa peeking out to find Brendon on her doorstep.

As
he placed two large chef salads on the kitchen table, she remarked, “The media
vans suddenly departed around four-o’clock.”

“I
believe you have me to thank for that.  Five different reporters stopped
by the salon today looking for you and I informed them all that you’d gone to
Baton Rouge to stay with relatives while you recuperate.  I imagine
there’s probably a caravan of media vans headed south as we speak.”

“Thank
you, Brandon.  You have no idea how nerve-wracking it is to have them all
camped out front.”

“It
was my pleasure.  So, what did the FBI say that had you so upset,
earlier?”

After
she had given him a brief explanation of Stockholm syndrome, he said
hesitantly, “Well, it sounds to me like they might be right.”

She
closed her eyes and took several deep breaths until the urge to stab him with
her salad fork had passed.  “I am
not
suffering from any freaking
syndrome!”

Brendon
looked as if he might argue but whatever he saw in her face apparently made him
reconsider.

CHAPTER
29

Larissa jolted wide-awake to the sound of
an unknown male voice in her bedroom.  Heart jackhammering against her ribs,
her hand closed around the 9mm beneath her pillow.

As
yet another reporter expressed his fervent desire to speak to her, she realized
the voice was coming from the bedside answering machine.  The phone’s
ringer remained on mute, but she’d forgotten to do the same for the answering
machine before turning in for the night.  The reporter left a number where
she could reach him, and disconnected.

Remembering
what Doctor Harris had said about post-traumatic stress disorder, she lay there
in the tangled sheets, buried deep in the grip of a severe depression.  It
felt as though she’d collapsed into herself like a dying star, leaving a black
hole of such density that no happiness would ever again enter.

Pushing
herself to a sitting position, she swung her legs over the edge of the
mattress.  In looking back on those five days, she could now barely recall
the fear.  All she remembered was how alive she’d felt, every sensory
impression heightened.  Her emotions had been so intense, food had tasted
better, colors had seemed brighter.  She longed to feel that way again,
but instinctively knew she wouldn’t.  From now on, the world and
everything in it would exist in colorless shades of gray.  She’d never
feel anything again.

Not
bothering to dress, she wrapped a thin, cotton robe about herself as the
answering machine clicked on yet again.  This time a different reporter
left a message.  She briefly considered unplugging it but, not wanting to
miss a call from Brendon, she let it be.

Trudging
wearily to the kitchen, she desultorily heated water in the microwave, stirred
instant coffee and cream into it, and then, as an afterthought, added a
generous measure of whiskey to the cup.  At the sound of a vehicle pulling
up in the alley behind her house, she got up from the kitchen table and peeked
through the café curtains above the sink to see Steve’s big black pickup.

Well,
crap!
  A visit from that moron was all she needed.  Giving the
belt of her robe a vicious yank, she double-checked the lock on the back door
before heading for the bedroom.  Luckily, all the curtains remained
closed, although the lack of sunlight wouldn’t do much to improve her
depression.

A
moment later, Steve was knocking at her back door.  He knocked several
times as she sat on the edge of the bed, sipping the coffee.  A few
minutes later, the knocking came from her front door.  The whiskey’s
warmth began to permeate her extremities, and she closed her eyes, savoring it.

As
she contemplated crawling back into bed, a sudden series of sharp raps on the
bedroom window made her jerk so hard that coffee sloshed onto her robe. 
The early morning sun threw Steve’s silhouette onto the curtain, and she
resisted the temptation to yank it open and wish him a ‘good morning’ with her
9mm.

After
ten minutes of knocking, his truck’s engine coughed, then roared to life. 
As the rumbling of the big motor receded down the alley, the answering machine
clicked on again.  Steve’s voice said, “Larissa, I know you’re
there.  Pick up.”  After a short pause, he continued, “Well, maybe
you’re not there.  I just wanted to say I’m real sorry about what happened
to you.  Did you know I was a suspect?  After you went missing, that
faggot friend of yours—”

She
snatched the receiver.  “You asshole!  How dare you call Brendon
that?”

“He
is
a faggot!”

“And
yet, he’s
twice
the man you are.”

“‘Cause
of him, the police thought I had something to do with your disappearance. 
They hounded me for days.”

“That’s
what happens when you stalk someone.”

“I
was
not
stalking you.  And if you hadn’t dumped me, you wouldn’t
have been kidnapped.”

“Ex
cuse
me?”

“I
would have been there to protect you.”

“You’re
so full of shit.”  She refrained from adding,
Chase would have beaten
your punk ass to a bloody pulp
.

“Larissa,
please give me a second chance.”

“You
must be joking.  Unless you want to end up like Sparrow, stay away from
me, and don’t call again.”  She slammed the receiver back into its cradle
and sat there, shaking.  The nerve of the freaking bastard.

When
the answering machine clicked on yet
again
, she felt like
screaming.  This time, unfortunately, it was neither Steve nor a reporter.

Agent
Jarvis’ deep voice rumbled, “Ms. Santos, I know you’re home, and I know you can
hear me.  In approximately thirty minutes, I’ll be at your door.  If
you don’t open it, I’ll be back an hour after that with a warrant, and then
we’ll speak downtown.  If you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, don’t.” 
Her hand hovered over the receiver as she debated answering.  He solved
her dilemma by hanging up.

Well,
crap!
  This day was off to a
wonderful
start.

She
lethargically brushed her teeth but, indifferent to the matter of her
appearance, decided to forego showering or even brushing her hair.  In
response to a loud knocking on her front door, she put an eye to the
peephole.  Expecting Agent Jarvis, she found instead a reporter.  As
the woman knocked again, she trudged to the bedroom to slip into jeans and tee
shirt.

Exactly
half an hour after Jarvis’ call, there was a knock at her back door.  She
peeked out, then reluctantly opened the door and stood aside for the two FBI
agents to enter.

“We
would have come to the front,” Jarvis said by way of greeting, “but there’s a
news satellite van parked out there.”

“You
didn’t mention that Doctor Harris would be accompanying you.”

Harris
carried a pasteboard tray straining beneath three extremely large take-out
cups.  “Is my presence here a problem for you?”

Biting
back a sharp retort, she ignored him as Jarvis placed a large fast-food bag on
the kitchen table, then pulled out a chair, making himself at home. 
Harris seated himself as well and, with an irritated sigh, she joined them.

Eyeing
the bottle of Southern Comfort, Jarvis picked up her coffee cup, sniffed, and
arched his brows.  “Isn’t it a little early to be imbibing?”

Embarrassed,
she snapped, “That’s none of your freaking business.”  After a short
guilt-filled pause, she added, “I’m sorry, Agent Jarvis.  I don’t mean to
be rude, but I’m so stressed out and reporters camping out on my front lawn
aren’t helping matters any.”

“My
intent was not to condemn your actions.  I’m merely concerned for your
well-being.”  He began removing breakfast sandwiches from the bag. 
“Bacon or sausage?”

“Bacon.”
 Harris set a huge cardboard cup before her.  Removing the plastic
lid, she gave an appreciative sniff before taking a cautious sip.  The
coffee was French vanilla, very strong, and much better than her own instant,
although, knowing she needed to keep a clear head, she had to battle the
temptation to doctor it with the whiskey.

Jarvis
and Harris kept the conversation light as they ate.  Nevertheless, her
breakfast sandwich required a lot of effort to chew and then sat heavy in her
stomach.  Jarvis regarded her quizzically.  “Ms. Santos, you seem
unusually agitated this morning.  Has something happened?”

After
a brief moment’s hesitation, she related her past problems with Steve, and this
morning’s unwelcome visit and subsequent phone call.  “And the bastard had
the nerve to imply that my kidnapping was somehow my own fault.”

“Give
me his address.  I’ll see that he never troubles you again.”

It
was a very tempting offer.  Not only was Jarvis an FBI agent, physically,
he was an extremely intimidating man.  If he confronted Steve, Steve would
no doubt never risk contacting her again.  But if Jarvis intervened on her
behalf, she’d feel beholden to him.  “Thank you,” she said finally. 
“It’s kind of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Let
me know, if you change your mind.”

Although
the knowledge that she had the option of siccing Jarvis on Steve made her feel
marginally better, she still refused the offer of a second breakfast sandwich.

When
Jarvis and Harris finished eating, they cleared the table before getting down
to business.  Jarvis apologized that the media had learned her identity so
quickly, assuring her no one in the Bureau had leaked any information. 
There were no new developments in the case and, thankfully, they’d found no
additional bodies on the estate.

She
knew it looked suspicious to keep asking about Chase, but couldn’t help
herself.  “Has Mr. O’Malley been released from jail?”

“No.”

She
released an exasperated sigh.  “How much is his bail?”

“Since
he hasn’t been officially charged with a crime, no bail’s been set.”

This
news heartened her considerably.  If they hadn’t charged him, they
apparently knew they had no case.  But one thing had her puzzled. 
“If you haven’t charged him with anything, why’s he still locked up?”

“To
assure he doesn’t flee the country.  We’re holding him as a material
witness.”

Material
witness sounded innocuous, but there had to be more to it.  “What exactly
does that mean?”

“It
means we can hold him nearly indefinitely.”

“That’s
not legal!”

“I
assure you it is.”

Fury
bubbled up within her to seethe like lava in a volcano.  “How the hell do
you sleep at night, Jarvis?”

He
returned her savage glare squarely and unabashedly.  “I assure you, I
sleep the untroubled sleep of the just.”

Heavy
silence descended to envelope them like a dark, malevolent cloud.  Harris
cleared his throat loudly.  Larissa ignored him, keeping her eyes locked
unwaveringly on Jarvis.  Apparently ill at ease with the ocular warfare
occurring just across the table from him, Harris cleared his throat
again.  “Ms. Santos, have you given any thought to yesterday’s conversation?”

Shifting
her narrowed gaze to him, she sat back and folded her arms across her
chest.  “I have, actually.  What you said about Stockholm syndrome
was somewhat interesting, but has no bearing on this case.”

“You’re
not protecting Mr. O’Malley?”

Her
temper immediately erupted.  “
Mr. O’Malley did not kidnap me!
” 
Forcing it back down, she fought to restore some semblance of emotional
equilibrium.  “I realize that, because of what those men said about him
having a woman tied up in his van, you all believe he’s guilty.  But no
matter how many times you question me, my story’s not going to change. 
And in the meantime, the
real
kidnapper’s getting away.”