Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  "You know, after I kill you, I'm going to miss having you for an adversary. You and your Sherandar made it worth getting out of bed every morning."

  "Then let me go. I promise to keep making it worth your while."

  "Really, Quazar. Didn't anyone ever tell you humor was not one of your strong points? Sherandar, yes. Poor girl..." His voice trailed off for a moment.

  Quazar attempted to struggle, when in truth he could feel his power reasserting itself. Building within him, starting from the marrow in his bones and slowly curling around every muscle and tendon in his body. Feeding his cells and his blood.

  "Hey, jerk off. Mind if I ask one last question before you blow me to kingdom come?" He tried to put as much sarcasm as he could muster in the question, hoping to irk the man into a confession. "How come you haven't come after me again? Why did you wait for me to call you out?"

  An odd expression crossed Bob's face. A combination of irritation and anger that momentarily revealed the ugliness of the man's soul.

  "To be truthful, I was happy to have you spout my name on the air. I was trying to figure out how to approach you again, but you graciously saved me the trouble."

  "I was halfway expecting you to set up a trap in my home," Quazar admitted. "Why would you let the opportunity pass?"

  Bob shot him an angry look, then looked to his men. "How much longer?"

  "It's at ninety-one percent."

  "Fire the weapon!"

  "But it's not fully charged," one man protested.

  "I said fire!"

  One man pulled the trigger. Quazar waited until the last possible second, then raised his hands, palms outward, and released his dark energy. The bolt struck the wall of radiation and exploded in all directions. Trees cracked from the force of the discharge. All three men were blasted off their feet and thrown backwards several yards.

  Solemnly, Quazar got to his feet and faced them as they slowly shook off the effects of the backlash and looked up at him with dazed expressions. The feeling of relief flooding his body was almost matched by the energy he had let loose. He finally knew the answer to the one question he'd sought. Although Bob hadn't said as much, the man's actions had spoken volumes.

  "You didn't come after me or try to booby-trap my home because you don't know who I am underneath this suit," he said. "You weren't able to break her, although you nearly killed her. She defeated you, Bob. She broke you, and that's why you left her to drown on that boat. Because you couldn't get her to tell you what you wanted to know, rather than kill her and be done with it, you decided to make her suffer one last time. You left her tied to that chair so the waters would finish her as a final punishment."

  "How did you..." Bob gasped and struggled to rise.

  Quazar smiled. "Next time, do your homework, Bob, old man. A little research into why I chose the name of Quazar, with a Z instead of an S, might give you a clue." Lifting his hand, Quazar shot a ball of intense heat at the cables, melting them and severing their connection to the generator.

  Finally managing to sit up, Bob shrugged. "C'est la vie. I guess this is where you take me in and charge me with all sorts of heinous crimes that my lawyers will be sure to clear me of."

  "Sorry, Bob. The charges will stick to you like super glue this time."

  "I seriously doubt it," the man sneered. He glanced over at where the rifle lay a few feet away, then to where the fried cables lay smoking in the cold air. He started to say more, when they heard sound of a car coming up the gravel road. Seconds later, Captain Warkowski and three other patrol cars skidded to a halt. Immediately, the officers jumped out of their vehicles with their guns drawn.

  "Move away from the weapon, gentlemen!" the captain called out, her own pistol aimed at Bob. "Mr. Duncan, would you be so kind as to show those men the proper way to raise their hands and place them on top of their heads?"

  "I think you've made a mistake, Captain," Bob said, lifting his arms anyway.

  "Oh? Why's that?"

  Indicating Quazar, he remarked, "This man is trespassing on private property. Furthermore, he accuses me of deeds of which I am totally innocent."

  "You mean, the deeds you admitted to? The deeds I happened to catch and record from this?" She pulled the transmitting device from her ear and held it up for the man to see. Bob glanced at Quazar, who smiled and tapped his ear. The resulting look on the older man's face was priceless. "Officers, take him and his entourage in, please," Warkowski requested.

  She took a stance next to Quazar, and they watched as the trio was cuffed and each stuffed inside a police car. As the vehicles drove away, she turned to face him.

  "Was having Duncan confess to you so I could corroborate your story part of your original plan? Or just a lucky happenstance because of the earpiece?"

  "I fully intended on melting his machine and anything else connected to it, although the thought of roughing him up a bit did cross my mind." He pointed to the SUV. "You'll find your evidence in the back of that car."

  "Don't worry. I have more officers on the way, including a forensics team. So Sherandar kept your secret safe. I have to admit, I'm very surprised and somewhat humbled by the news."

  He looked at her. "Humbled? Why?"

  "I don't think I could have withstood what she went through. In fact, I know I couldn't." Placing a hand on his arm, Warkowski smiled at him. "If she pulls through this, it's going to take you a lifetime to thank her for that sacrifice."

  "If she pulls through," Quazar murmured solemnly in reply.

  The Captain patted his arm. "I have faith she will. And do you know why?"

  He snorted. "Why?"

  Warkowski opened her mouth to answer, then paused. "No. I've changed my mind. Sherandar should be the one to tell you...when she awakens."

  Quazar watched as the woman walked back to her car, leaving him perplexed and at a loss for words.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Visitor

  Sherandar managed to peel her eyes open. She was alive.

  It's a miracle. The thought was fuzzy and disjointed, but she was thankful she hadn't been severely brain damaged.

  She couldn't feel her body, although she could see it. Or what was left of it. There were too many tubes and casts and crap wrapped around her. But this time she wasn't anyone's prisoner. Not unless a hospital setting was a new form of torture room.

  She swallowed, or tried to. A tube was shoved down her throat to breathe for her. Sherandar forced herself to relax and let the machine do its job.

  Her brain was fuzzy. They had to be pumping some good drugs into her system. She sighed and began to close her eyes when she caught sight of a shadow sliding over the far wall. A moment later, a figure stepped into her range of vision, peering at her with undisguised hope.

  "Paul." She tried to lift her arms to him, but they wouldn't obey. But he'd heard her barely audible cry. He rushed over to embrace her, careful not to pick her up or crush her as he gently folded himself around her like a warm blanket. Burying his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder. She listened to him murmur those endearments she hadn't heard since that time they'd made love.

  "Ma cher. Ma belle chérie."

  She thought she felt his lips on her neck, but she could have been wrong. One thing, however, she didn't imagine. And those were the tears streaking his face. She tried to smile, and failed on that count, too. But she did manage a very brief and tremulous lift at the corners of her mouth.

  "Before you ask, your bill is taken care of. A generous donor is paying for all your hospital and rehabilitation expenses," he reassured her with a rakish glint in his eyes.

  A generous donor? No doubt some bigwig, hot shot, Howard Hughes wannabe by the name of Paul Canton, she figured.

  I didn't tell them, Paul. I didn't tell Bob squat. He doesn't know who you really are. I didn't tell...but there were moments I wanted to. I screamed so much, my voice gave out. If he'd given me pencil and paper, I wouldn't have been able to write anything because of wha
t he'd done to my arms. I thought about caving in, but I didn't.

  I didn't squeal. I kept your secret safe.

  Paul!

  A wave of disembodiment swept over her. She fought the detachment even as she fought the need to sleep. To rest and recuperate. But not just yet. Not with him here to lift her heart and hopes.

  She drank in the sight of him. At the visible bruises and cuts around his jawline. At the dark circles underneath his beautiful brown eyes. If he looked that worse for wear in his union suit, there was no telling what the rest of him was like.

  "How. Are. You?" Each word came out as puffs of air, nearly indecipherable.

  He brushed something away from her face. "I'm fine, now that I know you'll be all right. I'm so sorry, Sher. I never should have let you out of my sight back at that bridge when—"

  "Stuff. It."

  She fought whatever was in her body that wanted her to sink back into unconsciousness. She wanted to look at him. Listen to him. Talk to him. She'd missed him so very much. All during that time she was being tortured, and she'd prayed through her screams that she would live through it. Long enough to where she would see him one last time before she—

  Bob. Where is he? Did he get away? Paul, he left before that butcher started on me! He left! He escaped! You have to go after him!

  She tried to warn him, but could only manage a single breathy word.

  "Bob."

  The monitor began to beep loudly. Quazar glanced at it and moved away from the bed seconds before a nurse burst through the closed door to check on her. After ascertaining the patient wasn't in any danger, she turned off the alarm and addressed him.

  "Quazar, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

  "Nooo." Her plea came out weak, but the woman heard her. The nurse soothingly patted her the shoulder. At least, Sherandar saw her do it, but the sensation was blocked.

  "You can't get overly excited or stressed. You need to rest. I'll bring you another sedative."

  "Please. May I stay until you return?" Quazar begged.

  He begged. Sherandar couldn't believe what she'd heard. The man was pleading with the nurse. Not a wimpy plea, but a heartfelt one. That wasn't the Quazar she knew. It was Paul. Paul in a deep blue outfit with stars on the front. Stars that shone whenever he turned on his power.

  The nurse managed a small smile. "All right, but we can't have her heart rate jumping like that."

  "I promise," he murmured.

  The woman left the room. Quazar approached her again, taking her one free hand in his and raising it to his lips to kiss.

  "Bob is dead in the water. And, no, I didn't kill him, although I wanted to after finding you..." He choked and heaved a deep breath to calm himself. "But it's over. You don't have to worry any more about him, or about any of his hired hit men coming after you."

  "Paul."

  He kept his eyes averted, no longer able or willing to look her straight in the eye. She wondered why.

  "Sher, now that the danger is over, you've probably been wondering what will happen with us. Between us." He finally met her eyes again. "I want you to know I've made arrangements."

  Please, heart, don't betray me again. Don't alert the monitor. Let me hear this out.

  "I had my agent look into buying that building where you live. All I need from you is a nod or a word to let me know it's okay with you. You'll not be charged any rent for as long as you live there. I promise you'll owe me nothing."

  For as long as she lived there? Away from him?

  The pressure on her chest grew heavier, making breathing harder.

  "Paul."

  He held up a hand to stay her reply, and bowed his head once more. "Wait. I'm not finished. I, uhh... I'm not placing any obligations on you. I'm not going to ask you to sign any kind of nondisclosure agreement, although my agent insists on one. You're free to go. To be you. And if you want to continue coming after me with more of those crazy-ass gizmos of yours, I won't try to stop you." He gave a little chuckle, which ended in a sniff.

  The door squeaked open. He moved away from the bed as the nurse reappeared with a syringe. Wordlessly, she inserted the needle into the tube leading into Sherandar's arm. When she was done, she gave Quazar a final warning.

  "Visitation will be over in five minutes. You'll have to leave then." She left without waiting for his reply.

  "Paul. Come. Back."

  He returned to her bedside, and she realized he'd misunderstood her. She wanted to tell him she didn't want to leave. She didn't want to leave him, or his apartment, or his bed. She didn't want to live in her apartment. Not unless he was there with her.

  It wouldn't be a home without him. It would be a prison.

  "I'd better go," he murmured, patting her hand. "Don't worry, Sher. You have a long road ahead of you, but I'll make sure nothing stands in your way. I've made arrangements. I promise you'll never want again. You'll be fine. Just...get better."

  "Paul." She couldn't lift her hand. She couldn't do anything except to manage three last words before the sedative took effect.

  "I. Love. You."

  If he heard her, or even if she spoke them clearly enough to be understood, she never knew. Blackness overtook her, and she was out.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Home

  She spent four months in the hospital, recuperating and undergoing physical therapy. During that time, she kept glued to the news reports regarding Bob Duncan and his goons. To say she got immense satisfaction seeing him being led away in handcuffs after the judge denied him bail would be putting it mildly.

  Every so often, a gift would arrive to help her through her rehabilitation. An MP3 player, a laptop, an ebook reader. And unlimited access to all the streaming music and movies she could download.

  Halloween passed, as did Thanksgiving. She spent them doing the same thing she did on the other holidays. Being alone and watching TV. However, on Christmas Day, the nurse brought her a gaily-wrapped present. Thinking at first that the woman was responsible, Sherandar thanked her.

  "Oh, no. It's not from me. It was delivered with a message to give it to you."

  "From who?" There was no card attached.

  The woman shrugged. "I don't know. We're betting it's from that mysterious secret admirer who's been sending you all that other stuff. Open it! We're all curious to know what you got this time."

  Curious herself, Sherandar ripped into the paper to reveal a white box slightly larger than a shirt box. Lifting the lid, she peeled back the white tissue paper.

  "Son of a bitch." She spoke the words reverently as she lifted the familiar old blue jean jacket. Her favorite jacket, cleaned and restored, but still ragged in all the right places. "Where the hell did you find it?" she murmured.

  "Huh." The single word was a paragraph of disappointment.

  Sherandar glanced at her. "It's an heirloom. It has lots of sentimental value, all right?"

  The nurse forced herself to smile. "That's nice. Well, I gotta go. I'll be back in an hour or so with your lunch. Yum! Christmas dinner!"

  Once the woman left, Sherandar held the jacket to her nose and breathed in deeply. She could smell him. Smell that body wash he used. At some point, he'd held her jacket against him before wrapping it. This gift was almost as good as him coming to see her.

  Almost.

  On the day the doctors declared her well enough to go home, a suitcase arrived, containing several changes of warm clothing and a down coat to protect her from the bitter winter weather, as well as some new boots.

  When the hospital orderly took her downstairs in a wheelchair, followed by a volunteer with her packed goodies, a cab was waiting at the front entrance. Before she could tell the man she had no money for the fare, the driver informed her the trip was already paid for, including his tip. What's more, upon arrival at her apartment, he helped her and her luggage to her front door.

  Slowly, Sherandar hobbled into her apartment, expecting heaven knew what, but was surprised t
o see nothing had changed. Nothing was out of place or new, excerpt for the single red rose sitting on her kitchen counter. There was no note. Nothing.

  Curious, she checked her refrigerator. The sight of it filled with food and drink didn't shock her, but the total absence of any further communication from Paul since the return of her jacket depressed her more than she was willing to admit.

  In the days that followed, a hospice nurse came by every morning to check on her. In the afternoons, a physical therapist arrived to keep up with her exercises. And twice a day a delivery boy dropped off a prepared meal. Sometimes he requested if there was any restaurant or dish in particular that she preferred. But most of the time the box contained servings of things she may or may not be familiar with, but were delicious anyway, despite her reduced appetite. On a couple of occasions, she even suspected Paul personally prepared the contents, although she couldn't prove it.

  Once a week, a simple checklist of grocery items would appear underneath her door, with instructions to mark off what she needed, and to leave it taped to the apartment number on the front of the door by seven AM the next morning. By noon of that same day, a box would arrive at her threshold, with the checklist included, marked PAID.

  With the exception of taking the lift downstairs to check her mailbox, she never ventured out of her place. The rest of the time she remained inside her loft apartment, sitting at the window overlooking the city, and watching the snow cover the rooftops in perfectly white symmetry. Sometimes she'd watch the local news to see what Quazar was up to, but after a while the sight of him was too painful to endure, and she'd turn off the TV with tears in her eyes.

  When her hands and fingers were finally strong enough, she tried to go back to her worktable in the corner, but she was no longer interested in creating anything. There was no need to. Plus, her heart wasn't in it. The apartment was paid for. The food was plentiful. Her in-home care was a gift. And a check of her bank account showed a healthy balance. He'd also opened a savings account for her, something she'd never had until now.