This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental. All characters depicted in sexual situations are at least eighteen years old.
As always, any political, social or religious views in this story are those of the characters and their circumstances, and don't necessarily reflect those of the author.
*****
PART EIGHT -- Spying, a Wedding, a Tragedy and a Deflowering
When I get off the plane in Miami, I still haven't booked the next leg of my journey. There's no rush, though, and my meeting with Bob Richter, my contract and patent attorney, isn't until Monday morning anyway. I decide to put the time to good use.
* * * * *
At Monday's meeting with Bob, I find out the details of the offer that IWSS Industries has made. They
really
want to do this, and both Bob and I feel that we can hold out for the full twenty-five million. As part of the deal, though, they insist that I be at their disposal, on premises, five days a week for the first two months of the contract. I understand that their engineers will get up to speed faster if I'm there to do some handholding, but it would still be a pain in the ass because I'm eager to get going on my next project. The negotiations seem to go on and on.
I'm presenting the same facade that I've cultivated over the last few years. Cool, calm, sophisticated, the very image of a man who's made it. My ability to fake it serves me very well now and I don't think anyone but Anna knows how bad I'm hurting. Still, the memory of what we'd had with Kira is haunting me and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.
I'm still talking at length with Anna several times a week, and we text multiple times daily. Of course I told her about the videos that Raul had made of us as soon as I got back to Minneapolis. To my surprise, Anna didn't ask that I erase them, instead asking me to send her copies. On reflection, I should have expected that, because they're the best means we have to keep our memories of Kira close.
I haven't forgotten the promise I made to Kira, never to give up on her, so during the next month, I make Teri's house part of my regular route. I find myself running every day, now, though I've never been all that big on cardio. I vary my timing, but never see her.
I send a letter addressed to her, but three days later the contents are returned, along with a note warning me to leave Teri alone. The handwriting is feminine, but not hers.
Finally, I mount a video camera to the passenger-side window of my truck and make a slow pass in front of her house. Back at home, I review the high-definition images, frame by frame, trying to divine which window belongs to her bedroom. Unfortunately, there is a tall privacy fence that encloses the sides of the house as part of the backyard. With the slope of the front yard putting the base of the fence ten feet above the street, I can't see any of those first-floor windows.
Several more passes, all after dark this time, reveal that none of the upper floor bedrooms are lit in the evening. The bedrooms of Kira and her parents must be on the first floor or in the basement, but with that fence in the way and no alley on her block, I can't know exactly where.
* * * * *
The deal with IWSS takes nearly a month to complete, and though I had to agree to their 'on-premises' demand, I make out like a bandit, getting twenty-eight million out of the deal. My lawyer has proven his worth. His cut should buy him that lakeside retirement home he's been wanting. The normal thing to do at this point would be to go out and celebrate, but I've got something else in mind.
The next morning is relatively warm and clear, and I'm in a public park two blocks from the Zwilling house. I'm wearing first-person goggles and my hands are operating the controls of a newly purchased quadcopter with a gyro-stabilized HD camera slung underneath. I've flown it around my own neighborhood enough to be proficient, and to make sure I've got the range to safely operate at a quarter-mile distance.
The copter leaps skyward and I get it headed in the right direction. The goggles are awesome and make it feel like I'm actually aboard the craft. I quickly discover, though, that it's more difficult to find the house from the air than I'd anticipated. Everything looks different from this perspective. I end up having to fly lower than I'd like above the street to view the houses from the front, but I'm certain I've found it when I see Carl Zwilling getting out of his BMW and walking into the house.
He doesn't appear to see or hear the drone. I add some altitude to keep it that way. I slowly circle the house, keeping the camera zoomed in enough to get a detailed view. There are eight first floor windows behind the fence, and wells for five basement windows, but what makes my day is the discovery that Teri really
does
work nude in her greenhouse.
The drone lurches a little as the distant image of her bare, diminutive form makes me momentarily forget that I'm the pilot, but I quickly get it, and myself, under control. I zoom in as far as the camera will allow and just drink her in. This might be Teri, not Kira, but under these circumstances there's no difference. I'm glad I'm recording this.
I realize, though, that my mission is now complete. Teri shows no sign of concern that her father might find her nude, so I deduce that the greenhouse must be attached to her own bedroom. That gives me at least two windows I can use for my plan. Reluctantly, I turn the drone around and bring it back to the park. Three minutes later, I'm driving away, planning my next move.
* * * * *
The fence that separates the Zwillings' front yard from the back looks to be almost eight feet tall, but I figure I shouldn't have any problem scaling it. It's three in the morning and I'm wearing all black, but what I'm counting on is that everyone nearby is sound asleep. I manage to pull myself up and over the fence with a minimum of noise.
The bottom of Teri's bedroom window is just above my eye level, but I'm not trying to look in. Instead, I pull a small roll of tape and an envelope out of the thigh pocket of my pants and start the process of attaching it to the window. Inside is a note relaying my benevolent intentions, a print of the happy picture of the three of us at the Tiki tent buffet, and a flash drive containing video of us together. It's been carefully edited to only include the rare scenes of us with our clothes
on
. It also has my email address.
Teri should be the one to find this. With any luck, she'll be curious enough to at least look through it. I have high hopes that I'll hear from her tomorrow.
Unfortunately, I'm still in the process of finding the end of the roll of tape when I hear major trouble coming my way. A German Shepherd bursts from his doghouse at the back of the yard and races toward me, growling in a tone that says he knows exactly what his job entails. (For some reason, guard dogs are always "he" in my mind.)
The tape falls to the ground and the envelope is clenched in my teeth as I sprint for the fence. I move quickly, but not nearly as fast as the dog, who's showing total commitment to his job of mauling whomever should show up in the yard at night. I get one foot up on the top crossbar of the fence, but I'm a fraction of a second too late. I feel teeth and incredibly powerful jaws clamp down on my other ankle as I pull it up to complete my vault.
I probably weigh three or four times what the feisty canine does, but it's only the momentum that I've built up that keeps him from yanking me off the fence. I find myself staring down into his eyes as he hangs from my leg, a couple feet off the ground. He's got no intention of letting go.
Then he begins to gyrate, trying to pull me down, and it's enough that the foot I've got on the crossbar slips off. I fall downward, landing on my butt on the top of the fence then toppling over backwards, toward the front yard. For a long moment we're balanced, my long torso pulling me one way, my legs and the dog pulling the other. Then Fido, perhaps sensing that he's done his duty, lets go and drops away.
I land gracelessly, on my side at least and not my head. I stumble to my feet and start moving away from the fence, cautiously at first, but then running as I feel that no critical tendons or ligaments in my ankle seem to have been torn. I stuff the envelope in my pocket and count myself lucky to have come out of the encounter with all limbs still mostly attached.
My truck is parked just around the corner. I gratefully climb in and take the weight off my leg. I bind my shirt tightly around my ankle to keep the wound from bleeding on the carpet, then drive back to the shop.
I clean and dress the wounds. I'll bear some scars from this little encounter, but it looks like I can skip the emergency room. I can't help thinking that Anna is probably right about letting Kira go.
The next morning, though, I'm already working on a plan that's dog-proof. All I need to do is install a mechanism on the drone that will allow me to drop a small package onto the clear roof of the greenhouse. Teri would likely be the one to see it and get curious, then bingo, she's got my envelope. I'm nearly done with it by mid-afternoon, but then my phone rings.
It's a member of Minneapolis' finest, requesting that I come down to the station for a discussion. It's not explicitly framed as an order, but from the tone of the policewoman's voice, it may as well have been. As an upstanding citizen of this great northern state, I comply.
I ask for Officer Reyes when I arrive. She meets me in the lobby a minute later, serving me with a restraining order. It seems that the Zwillings have video cameras as well as a guard dog, and one of them evidently caught a good view of last night's activities. The image on the officer's iPad is so obviously of me that I don't even
attempt
to claim it isn't.
"Oh, wow," I say, when she explains what is now legally expected of me. "I wasn't trying to hurt her," I protest. "I'd never do anything like that. It's just that her folks have locked her away and there was no other way to contact her."
Her eyes show not the least bit of sympathy. It occurs to me that every jilted lover who shows up under his intended's window at three in the morning says the same kind of thing.
"Mr. Malakhov," she says, "you scared the poor girl nearly to death. You should count yourself lucky that the Zwillings have decided not to press charges."
"But it's her parents who want to-"
"Look," she interrupts, "
I'm
the one who was with her when she signed this. She just wants you to stay
away
." Then the desk officer's eyes go wide when she steps up into my face. "If you go near that poor girl again, after everything she's been through, I will
personally
see that you go down hard. We're talking
prison
, Malakhov."
I take a step back. "Fine. I won't go near the place," I say with real conviction. "I can see it now. It's over."
"I'll be watching you," she warns again. She motions that we're done now, and I get the hell out of there.
As I drive away, I finally decide,
