Hostage Heart Read online

  Hostage Heart

  A Short Story

  By Joleen James

  HOSTAGE HEART Copyright © 2012 Joleen James

  All Rights Reserved

  For my fellow writers, Gerri Russell, Gina Robinson, and Judith Laik. You've been with me since the beginning. Your friendship and support mean the world to me.

  Hostage Heart

  A Short Story

  July, Washington Coast

  She'd arrived in time for the sunset.

  Kristi Palmer parked her car, exiting the Infiniti sedan. Before her, the cottage-style cabin beckoned, like an old friend, one she hadn’t had the chance to visit in over a year. The cabin seemed to sag a little in the dying rays of July’s sun, a victim of neglect. Driving rain, air heavy with salt and punishing coastal winds had all taken a toll. The cabin’s upkeep depended solely on her now. The knowledge made her heart heavy.

  Since her mother’s death a year ago, she’d been unable to come here, to face the memories of a past she didn’t share with anyone now. She was utterly and completely alone. Maybe that was why she’d come here. She’d needed something real, a reminder of a life she used to have, a life filled with family, laughter, love.

  Kristi removed the groceries from the trunk and navigated the steps leading to the deck, frowning when she noticed what appeared to be dried blood on the sun bleached steps. Over the years she’d seen countless birds, deer, rabbits, coyotes and even a bear on the property. The cabin was isolated; a passcode was needed to get through the gate at the entrance to the driveway, and once inside there were no neighbors. The cabin and surrounding beach grass and Sitka spruce trees had obviously become a playground for the wildlife living here.

  Kristi walked the length of the deck, her eyes on the ocean. The sun hovered on the edge of the horizon, a magenta ball that turned the frothy waves shell pink. Fresh salt air filled her lungs and she took a deep hit, savoring the scent. Yes, coming here was just what she needed. She’d have time to reflect, to make peace with what remained of her former life.

  At the sliding glass door, she inserted her key and stepped inside. Musty, familiar air greeted her. Kristi set the groceries on the kitchen table, then turned to roll up the bamboo shade. Again, she admired the view, the waves, the setting sun glittering like rubies on the water.

  She returned her focus to the room, touching on the worn furnishings. One of the sofa pillows had toppled to the floor. She carefully replaced the pillow, her eyes lingering on the family photos hanging on the wall behind the sofa. Again, sadness tightened her chest. She knew those photos as well as she knew her own name. She’d definitely be tripping down memory lane while she was here.

  Deciding to wait on unpacking the car until after the sunset, she started back outside, intending to take a seat on the built-in bench.

  "Don’t move," a rough male voice said from behind her.

  Kristi froze. Her heart thundered in her chest.

  "Turn around slowly, hands in the air," the voice commanded.

  Was this it, the end of her life? Why was someone in her cabin? Could he be a squatter? The door had been locked. The shades down. She remembered the pillow on the floor, the blood on the steps. His blood? What did it mean? Was he injured?

  "I said, turn around," he ordered. "I’ve had a bad day, lady; and I really don’t want to shoot you, too."

  Too? Her stomach did a rollercoaster drop to her feet. Hands in the air, she turned, fear racing through her veins. He stood in the doorway that separated the hallway from the kitchen and living area, his body hidden in the shadows. Tall, she guessed over six foot, he had dark hair, but beyond that she couldn’t get a clear image of his looks. He held his arm out, the gun squarely aimed at her.

  "Look," she said. "I’ll leave. I won’t say anything to anyone."

  He stepped toward her. Sunlight glinted off the gun in an ominous red flash. "Sit down."

  "No, I—" She’d told no one she was coming here. Her cell phone was still in the car. Panic filled her. She looked to the open door. Could she make a run for it?

  "Don’t even think about running," he said, reading her movement. "I said, sit down." He voiced the words with a dead calm that raised goosebumps on her flesh.

  Kristi pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. He passed her and dropped into a second chair, his gun still trained on her.

  The first thing she noticed was the dried blood stain on his shirt. The blood came from the right side of his midsection. Had he been shot? Light eyes, maybe green, stared at her. He had a straight nose and a mouth with lips that were full, but not too full. Hair the color of brown sugar touched his collar. He didn’t look like a criminal, not dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt. The profile didn’t fit. Who was he? A million questions raced through her mind and she wondered if he’d answer any of them.

  "Lady, you picked the wrong day to come to the beach," he said, his eyes doing a slow rove over her. With the gun still on her, he poked through the groceries. "Food, great. I’m starving. Can you cook?"

  Could she cook? Was he crazy? She wasn’t about to cook anything for him.

  "No." She lifted her chin. A spark of defiance lit within her and at that moment she made the decision to fight for her survival.

  "You got a cell phone?" he asked.

  "No."

  "No?" he repeated as if she were a liar. "Don’t make me frisk you." The insolent look he gave her led her to believe he’d enjoy doing just that.

  The thought of his hands on her turned her stomach. "I have a phone, but it’s in the car, plugged into the charger."

  "Where’s your purse?" he asked.

  "In the car. I just grabbed the groceries, that’s it."

  "Stand up."

  "Why?"

  "Let me spell something out for you," he said. "I have nothing to lose by killing you. Nothing. Now, stand up."

  She shot to her feet.

  "Turn your pockets inside out."

  She did.

  "Turn around."

  Kristi did as he asked. She wore khaki capris and a white T-shirt. There wasn’t really anywhere she could hide her phone that he wouldn’t see it.

  "Okay, take a seat."

  She sat. "Why are you here? What did you do?"

  "I killed a man." His eyes were so cold, like hard chips of glass. She saw no remorse, no guilt.

  "Why?"

  He frowned. "That doesn’t matter." He gestured toward the groceries. "I don’t care if you can cook; I need to eat. Get up; make us a meal, and no funny stuff. What’d you bring to eat?"

  She’d brought comfort food, but she didn’t tell him that. She’d intended to drown her sorrows in all her favorites. "I can make macaroni and cheese."

  "Seriously?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrows. "Any meat in those bags?"

  "I’m not a big meat eater."

  "Well, get to it." He pushed the bag of groceries toward her.

  "You really should go to a doctor," she said, eyeing his injury. She thought about the blood on the deck and assumed the blood on his shirt belonged to him. She prayed his injury was significant. If he’d lost a lot of blood her chance for escape was greater.

  "You worry about yourself, lady," he said. "I’ll worry about me."

  "My name is Kristi," she said, wanting him to see her as a person, not as a nameless victim of whatever was going on with him.

  "I know what your name is," he said.

  Surprise stole the words she’d been about to say.

  "Your name is all over this place, along with your photo."

  So he’d been here long enough to look through the personal things she kept in the back bedroom? The thought unsettled her even more.

  "Cook," he demanded.

  Kristi rose, picking up bot
h bags of groceries, taking them over to the counter near the stove. Even with her back to him, his stare penetrated her, made her sick with fear. Her hands shook as she filled a pan with water. She removed the pasta, setting the rotini to the side. When she started to open a drawer, he said, "Hold on."

  She glanced over at him. "I need the cheese grater," but even as she said the words, she knew the drawer also held knives.

  "Move slowly," he said.

  Kristi nodded, opening the drawer. Her fingers found the long-handled knife. She whirled around, lunging for him. He moved faster. His fingers closed around her wrist in an iron grip. He knocked her wrist against the table. The knife clattered to the ground. Her wrist throbbed, but he didn’t let go.

  His eyes bore into hers and she saw no mercy there. Would he kill her now?

  "Let me go," she pleaded.

  He yanked her over to the drawer, removing the other knives. The cheese grater hit the countertop with a thunk. "Cook." He let go of her wrist. "Now."

  Kristi did as he asked, putting the meal together. When the food was ready, he shoveled in the mac and cheese, barely pausing to chew and she wondered when he’d last eaten.

  "Aren’t you going to eat?" he asked with a nod toward her uneaten meal.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach. "I can’t."

  "Suit yourself." He reached for her bowl, polishing off her portion.

  Kristi couldn’t take her eyes off the blood staining his shirt. Was it her imagination, or did the stain appear redder, wet? Had their scuffle opened his wound? "You’re bleeding."

  "So?" He set his fork down, his attention on her now.

  "You need medical help."

  "Are you a doctor?" he asked.

  "Computer programmer."

  He gave her a wry smile. "Fun job."

  She frowned. His sarcastic tone mirrored her own feelings about her chosen career.

  "What do you do?" she asked. "Let me guess. Bank robber?"

  He smiled again. "Don’t you watch the news?"

  "Not lately," she said. "Been too busy. Why, are you on television?"

  "I killed a man," he said. "And it wasn’t self-defense."

  She had trouble swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Why did you kill him?"

  "I couldn’t let him walk, not after what he did," he said simply.

  "What did he do?"

  "Plenty." He stood, moving to the couch. He stretched out, the gun still in his hand. He patted his flat stomach. "You’re a good cook."

  "Food is my passion."

  "Yeah?" He gave her a quizzical look. "Why aren’t you a chef instead of a computer programmer?"

  "Good question." She didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. The dishes? The thought struck her as funny and she smiled.

  "What?" he asked. "If there’s some humor in this situation, I’d love to hear it. I could use a good laugh about now."

  "Nothing, it just seems weird to talk about normal things while you’re holding a gun on me."

  "Lady, nothing about this is normal."

  "What’s your name?" she asked.

  He stared at her so long she figured he wouldn’t answer, then he said, "James."

  "How long are you going to keep me here, James?"

  "As soon as I have a plan, you’ll be the first to know."

  "Do you intend to bleed to death?" she asked, unable to help herself.

  "Maybe. Might be the easy way out."

  She didn’t know what to say to that. "Do you have a family, James? Are they worried about you?"

  He scowled. "I have a son. He’s thirteen. Lives with his mother in Arizona."

  "What about him? Don’t you want to live for him?"

  "I don’t know him," James said. "Not really. I wanted to, but it was easier to let his mother control things. I was a rotten father and a worse husband."

  "Oh, one of those." She glanced away, out the window. The sun had set, the sky now soft with purple twilight.

  "Had one of those, a rotten ex?" He gave her his full attention.

  "Yep. Got the final divorce papers today." She laughed, the sound brittle. "That’s why I’m here, to regroup, to figure out the rest of my life."

  "Figured it out yet?" He smiled, but she could see the strain on his face.

  His injury was taking a toll. She wondered if he’d pass out soon, allowing her time to escape. Hope began to beat within her.

  "No," she said. "Basically, I hate my life. I thought things would be different, that I’d have kids, be a mom."

  "What happened?" he asked, his eyes on her.

  "Infertility, a dirty word," she said. "Too many disappointments and not enough celebrations."

  "I know how that feels." He gave her a weak smile, but his eyes remained sad.

  "Who did you kill, James?" she asked, more to keep him talking then because she wanted to know the truth.

  "His name was Thomas Hill," he said.

  "Thomas Hill?" she repeated. "He’s been all over the papers. He's accused of murdering all those boys. Brutal murders."

  James looked away from her. "Accused is the word here. Nothing was ever proven, but I knew he was guilty. We all did. Hill was going to walk. I couldn’t let him walk, free, to hurt someone else."

  "Wait, wasn’t there an eyewitness?" she asked. There’d been no DNA to match, she remembered that much. Hill had been clever, leaving behind nothing to link him to his victims. But at the end of his killing spree, he’d become careless. One of the boys had escaped.

  "Not anymore."

  "Not anymore?" she repeated, fearing the worst.

  "The boy, Mason Benson, he couldn't take the shame, the hurt. They found his body this morning."

  "Oh, no," she said. "I don’t understand. How?"

  "Mason was going to testify today," James said, the words broken and filled with sorrow. "He didn’t show up for court. When we went looking for him, we found his body. He'd hung himself from the branch next to his tree house. He was fourteen years old. One year older than my son. He hung himself-" James broke off, clearly too upset to talk.

  "That's terrible, tragic." Kristi’s heart broke both for the man she’d wanted to knife just minutes ago and a boy so filled with despair he hadn’t wanted to live.

  "I was there when they found him. When his mother saw him." James stared straight at her. "I’ve never heard a sound like that come from a human being. I can’t get the sound she made out of my head. I still hear her, even now."

  No matter what James had done, his anguish was real, cutting deep into Kristi’s soul. "All things fade, James. Time will blur your memory of her."

  "I don’t want my memory blurred." He frowned. "I want to remember every twisted, sick thing Hill did."

  "He can’t hurt anyone, anymore," she reminded him. "You need help, James, a professional who can help you sort through what’s happened."

  "Are you trying to counsel me?" He smirked. "Lady, it’s too late for me, don’t you get it?"

  "It’s never too late."

  "For me, there’s no going back. My life as I knew it, is over."

  She had to agree he was probably right. No matter that Hill’s crimes were atrocious; James wasn’t justified in taking the man’s life. No one had the right to play God.

  "How did you get injured?" she asked, steering the topic away from Hill and the boy who’d died today.

  "My own partner shot me." He blew out a breath. "He was trying to stop me from shooting Hill. My partner's a coward. Should have killed me. Would have made it easier for all of us."

  "Your partner?" Suddenly everything he'd told her made sense. Thomas Hill had been his case. "You're a cop?"

  "I was." He shook his head. "I’m pretty sure I’ve been fired."

  "Wow." Surprise filled her. She hadn’t seen this coming. James was a man who’d taken an oath to protect and serve. She couldn’t begin to imagine the depth of his hatred for Thomas Hill. James knew better than most what Thomas Hill was capable of. Now, she underst
ood James’s anger, his need to protect other boys from suffering the same fate.

  "There’s no good ending for me," he said. "I snapped. I killed a man. My career is over. Do you know what they do to cops in prison? I do, and I still chose to shoot Hill."

  She watched him, not sure what to say. He didn’t need a lecture on taking a man’s life. His misery was written all over his face. Did he want to die? Maybe, but right now she wasn’t willing to let him go. Something about him had touched her heart, her soul. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cared that deeply about anything or anyone. For years she’d been dead inside. No wonder her husband had left her. He’d been married to a living corpse, a shell of a woman. Funny she could see that now and in some ways an odd peace tumbled through her.

  "Let me look at your wound," she said. “You’re bleeding again."

  His eyes narrowed. "So?"

  "There has to be another way," she said. "You don’t see it now, but your son needs you. You could plead insanity. If I were on the jury, I’d be sympathetic to you. I’m sure others would, too. Hill was a monster."

  "I’m not going to find out," James said. "I’m not going back. I just need to hide out for a few days, get my strength up. Then I’m going to hop on my Harley and ride outta here."

  So he didn’t want to die. He had a plan. "Where will you go?"

  "Mexico? Hell, I don’t know." He closed his eyes. His jaw tightened as if he were working through pain. "Maybe I’ll get a job bartending in a resort bar on an exotic beach. Warm tropical air. Beautiful women in bikinis. A simple life, surrounded by people who just want to have a good time. Sounds damn good right now."

  "That does sound good," she said. "We all need to escape from life from time to time."

  "Yeah."

  "Please, let me check your wound," Kristi said again. "If I don’t you may not make it to Mexico."

  "Why do you want to help me?" he asked. "I’m holding a gun on you."

  "I don’t know," she admitted, not sure she understood her own reasons. "I keep thinking about your son and how all of this is so unfair to him. You have what I want most, a child. Squandering the parent-child bond goes against everything I believe in. Let me help you for your son’s sake."