The Heart Has Reasons (47 page)

He
closed his notebook and regarded her with narrowed eyes.  “That only
proves O’Malley was astute enough to enact the scene with you before
departing.”

“You
just can’t accept the fact that I’m telling the truth.”

“Go
change out of your dress and into something comfortable.”

“Why?”

“You’re
going to demonstrate how you kicked the gun out of Sparrow’s hand.”

Rolling
her eyes, she headed to the bedroom.

Several
minutes later, barefoot and dressed in yoga pants and tee shirt, she returned
to the kitchen and preceded Jarvis out the back door. 

While
Agent Harris stood in the doorway watching, Jarvis moved to the center of her
small backyard and turned to face her.  Forming his hand into an imaginary
gun, he pointed it at her.  “I’m Sparrow.  Disarm me.”  Without
further warning, he lunged toward her.

As
a sudden rush of adrenaline surged, she spun on one foot.  The other arced
up and around to slam into his outstretched hand, knocking it aside. 

Jarvis
massaged his hand.  “Not bad.  Demonstrate what happened next.”

She
darted glances left and right, hoping no neighbors were watching.  “When
he dove for the gun, I was right behind him.”  She launched herself in the
direction the imaginary gun would have flown, stopped abruptly, and drove a
heel down into Sparrow’s imaginary head.  Grabbing the equally imaginary
gun from the ground, she spun around and, aiming at the ground, pulled the
imaginary trigger.  “Bang!”  She took a step forward and pulled the
imaginary trigger a second time.  “Bang!”

Jarvis’
expression gave no hint as to his thoughts, but Larissa thought she detected an
almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.  “Well?” she demanded.

“As
I said earlier, that only proves O’Malley was astute enough to rehearse the
scene with you.”

“Screw
you, Jarvis!”  She turned and stalked back inside the house, shouldering
Harris aside.

Once
they were all three reseated at the kitchen table, Jarvis remarked casually, as
if it were a mere afterthought, “When you struck your abductor in the temple,
I’m surprised you didn’t give him a concussion.  What’d you hit him with?”

Picturing
the large, mottled bruise, her lips automatically started to form the words, “A
rock,” and her stomach lurched as she realized her near slip.  “What are
you talking about?  I never hit him.”

The
sardonic lift to the corners of his mouth was clear evidence he knew she was
lying.  “Why not?  You’re clearly strong, with quick reflexes.”

She
suppressed a smile at the memory of kicking the .45 from Chase’s hand and
wrestling with him on the floor.  “He never gave me that chance.  I
was always handcuffed and hobbled.”

“In
any case, I imagine you’d have been hesitant to attack a man a large as
O’Malley.”

“My
abductor was nowhere near as big as Mr. O’Malley.  Had he ever presented
me with the opportunity, I would definitely have taken the risk.”

Although
Jarvis’ annoyance was almost palpable, his dark face remained as impassive as
always.  “I’m arranging for you to take a polygraph.”

Ah,
crap, she’d been expecting this.  “I’m not taking a lie detector test.”

“One
would think you’d be anxious to prove your veracity.”

“You’ll
simply claim my kidnapper coached me on how to pass the test, so what would be
the point?”

“Nevertheless,
I want you to take it.”

“No.”

“I
insist.”

“Insist
all you want, Jarvis.  I know my rights, and I’m
not
taking a
freaking polygraph!”

Matters
proceeded quickly downhill, with Jarvis aggressively countering everything she
said.  The unrelenting verbal sparring strained her patience to the
breaking point, and their visit eventually ended with her shouting, “
Get
out!
”

At
the front door, he turned to her.  “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No
you won’t.  I’m finished talking to you all.”

“That
decision’s not yours to make.  We’ll see you when you get home from work.”

“No,
you won’t!”

“Ms.
Santos, you can meet with us willingly, or we can take you downtown.  I’m
sure you’ve no desire to spend the night in jail.”

“You
wouldn’t dare.  Oh, wait, I almost forgot.  You have no compunctions
about throwing innocent people in jail.  What crime will you charge me
with?”

“Obstruction
of justice.”

Her
hands curled into fists at her sides, and she forced them open with a conscious
effort.  Sparrow was dead.  If she was willing to exonerate the man
Sparrow had conned, why couldn’t they do the same?  She was the
victim.  The choice should be hers.  “I haven’t obstructed anything.”

“You’ve
lied to investigating agents.”

“I
have
not
.”

“Ms.
Santos, I’ve tried to be patient with you but, if you don’t start cooperating,
I’ll have you subpoenaed to give testimony under oath in court.”

“Subpoena
me, then.  Being under oath won’t change my answers.”

“Perjury’s
as great an offence as obstruction.  You could go to prison.”

“
Get. 
Out.
”

After
they were gone, she stormed angrily into the bedroom and reviewed her phone messages. 
If Jarvis wanted to play hardball, she’d oblige him.  She found the
message she was looking for, and dialed the number.

When
the woman answered, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “This is
Larissa Santos.  You left several messages stating that you wanted to
interview me.  Is tomorrow convenient?”

CHAPTER
33

As Larissa
fled through a thick
gray mist, terror, grief, and loss were malevolent manifestations that loomed
just beyond the edge of sight, pursuing her relentlessly through the night.

She
awoke in tears minutes before the alarm clock was set to go off.

With
the thought of Cheyenne uppermost in her mind, she took extra time styling her
hair and applying her makeup, then slipped into a red sheath dress that always
earned lots of compliments.

Jarvis
claimed Chase had access to cable television in jail.  Since she wanted
him to see for himself that she was keeping her word, she’d chosen to meet with
a cable-channel reporter, rather than one from one of the local stations. 
She’d arranged to meet in front of the salon, knowing Brendon would appreciate
the free advertising.

When
she arrived, the news satellite van was already there.  She pulled her
Corolla into a slot at the outer perimeter of the lot alongside the other
employee cars and, with a hand that trembled only slightly, touched up her
lipstick in the vanity mirror. 

A
throng of curious spectators had already gathered to watch technicians adjust
lights.  As she headed across the parking lot, there was a sudden clamor of
voices as people spotted her.  Stepping carefully to avoid tripping on the
heavy cables that snaked across the blacktop, she made her way through the
well-wishing crowd.

Her
coworkers and several clients — including one who looked like a B-movie alien with
dozens of folded squares of aluminum foil covering her entire head — had
gathered in front of the salon.  While a soundman attached a microphone to
the neckline of Larissa’s bodice, Brendon caught her eye and gave her an
eloquent
what-the-hell-are-you-doing
? look.  She shrugged in silent
reply.

Larissa
stood in the bright glare of the television lights with the salon in the
background.  Eyes sparking with excitement, the pretty but serious-faced
blonde reporter thanked her for consenting to the interview, then began by
saying, “You survived a serial killer not once, but twice.  How does that
make you feel?”

“Extremely
lucky to be alive, but deeply regretful that I didn’t kill him two years
ago.  If I had, those three women in California would still be alive.”

“Could
you describe for us your five-day ordeal?”

“There’s
really not much to tell.  I was physically restrained in the van’s cargo
compartment as we traveled cross country.”

“Are
you acquainted with the suspect the FBI has in custody?”

“I
viewed him in a line-up, at which time I made it clear that he is
not
the man who kidnapped me.  I don’t know why the FBI is intent upon
prosecuting the man for a crime he didn’t commit but, while an innocent man
sits in jail, the real kidnapper is still running around free.”

A
slight change came over the reporter’s demeanor.  Although her face
remained pleasantly earnest, a tone of skepticism entered her voice.  “So
you refute the FBI’s allegation that you’re lying to protect him.”

Larissa
stifled a surge of annoyance.  “That’s absolutely ridiculous.  The
man broke into my house, drugged me, and kept me tied up and gagged for days” —
she raised her arms to the camera to show the faded bruises that still ringed
both wrists — “before delivering me to a man who intended to torture me to
death.  Why would I protect such a man?”

“You
and your abductor spent four nights in motels.  Could you describe the
sleeping arrangements?”

Larissa
deliberately chose to misunderstand the question.  “I slept handcuffed and
fully dressed.”

“In
bed?”

Crap. 
Even a blind person could see where this was leading.  “Yes.”

“Where
did your abductor sleep?”

Suppressing
her anger, Larissa sidestepped the question.  “I realize this interview
would garner much higher ratings if I were to relate all the prurient details
of how my kidnapper subjected me to endless perversions but — sorry — nothing
like that ever happened.”

“How
do you respond to speculations that a
romantic
relationship developed
between the two of you.” 

“I
respond like this.”  Larissa yanked the microphone from her bodice,
pitched it to a crewman, and stormed toward the salon.

“Ms.
Santos, please!  Let’s finish the interview.”

Larissa
fired back over her shoulder, “It
is
finished.”  Brendon opened the
door and stepped aside for her to enter, then blocked the reporter and
cameraman from following.

She
stalked through the empty salon and dropped into the chair at her station,
heart thumping in her chest.  Oh, crap.  She’d made a huge mistake in
arranging the interview.  Not only had it not transpired as she’d hoped,
Jarvis was going to be
so
pissed.  But since she’d not appreciated
the new, aggressive stance he’d taken with her, he could go screw himself.

* * * * *

Chase sat at the rear of the dayroom, his
chair tilted back against the wall.  Ignoring the incessant sound of the
television and the clamor of overlapping voices, he tried to concentrate on the
spy novel he was reading.

As
he’d expected, Kavanaugh had been furious with him for meeting with the agents
and had lambasted him for nearly ten minutes straight.  But on the upside,
the attorney had made some phone calls to Charleston and had subsequently
assured him that Jarvis had
not
had Larissa arrested.

If
Jarvis’ lie was any indication of the kind of gambits he was willing to employ,
then it spoke to the strength of Larissa’s character that she’d not yet
identified him.  He felt a slow burn of anger at the thought of what she
must be going through.

The
physical discomforts of incarceration were nothing compared to the mental
torments that plagued him.  The absolute worst moment of his entire life
had been when he’d returned to the estate to hear her terror-filled scream.

Consumed
with an incessant rage against Sparrow, he deeply regretted that he’d not made
the man suffer a prodigious amount of pain before killing him, not only for
what he’d done to Larissa, but for what he’d done to his other victims as
well.  His only solace lay in knowing that Sparrow’s days of hurting women
were over.

His
rage wasn’t only directed toward Sparrow, though.  He retained an equal
amount for himself.  Guilt stalked him like a predator, ready to pounce
the instant he lowered his guard for, despite Larissa’s continual insistence
that his client was going to kill her, he’d still delivered her to
Sparrow.  The image of her bruised and battered face was burned into his
brain, every horrid detail etched into his mind’s eye with merciless clarity.

What
if he hadn’t gone back?

He
dreaded going to bed at night.  What little sleep he managed was plagued
by a kaleidoscoping cornucopia of nightmares — grisly, terrifying,
gut-wrenching scenes that featured Larissa hanging limp and bloody from a
wooden cross.  Every night he bolted awake on his narrow cot, drenched in
sweat and battling the blanket that covered him. 

Apparently
sensing his barely suppressed rage, the other inmates tended to give him a wide
berth, for which he was grateful, since something as simple as a cross look or
an ill-chosen word might upset some delicate balance and compel him to commit
an act of supreme stupidity.