Promises Pt. 12

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.

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PART TWELVE -- Resolutions

"Are you okay, Peter?" Kira asks. That's an incongruous question coming from her. She's the one chained to the bed.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, wiping my foul-tasting mouth with the back of my hand. So much for the wonderful breakfast Marsha cooked for us this morning.

I turn to her. "Let me go find the key to your restraints," I say.

"No, they probably have fingerprint evidence on them. I'm fine for now, and we've only got a few minutes before the cops arrive. You need to double check that there aren't any recordings, and then we've got to work on getting our stories synced."

Wow, she's right about all of that. We've got a lot to do, and a short time to do it. First, though, I recover my jacket and go to spread it over her.

"That might taint forensic evidence," she warns.

"True, but any man that didn't do at least that for a woman would seem so cold as to be suspicious himself."

"That's true," she admits. I cover her nudity.

I do a quick but thorough search and find that a GoPro mounted on the ceiling really is the only recording device in the room. I examine it closely, but I'm careful not to touch it. It's the same model as a couple that I own myself, so I know how it works. Indeed, Spencer had forgotten to turn it on.

There have got to be at least a dozen police units visible in the four cameras by now. Kira and I can hear footsteps upstairs as we go over our story of how Spencer, despite being in my clutches, had managed to grab the knife off the bed. His foolish actions had, of course, necessitated the extreme action I had taken to protect a helpless Kitty Theresa Zwilling. I even act it out for Kira so that we'll have the same mental image of it. When we're sure we've got it, I stick my head out the door and yell for the police.

When they arrive, guns drawn, they immediately have me assume the position against the outside of the room's wall. Then they frisk me and cuff my hands behind my back. I understand that it's procedure, but it irritates me to no end, especially since this position pulls at my bullet wound. With the adrenaline all used up, it's really starting to hurt now. I'm hustled out of the basement without being given the chance to talk to Kira again.

After a quick ambulance ride to the hospital for an x-ray, some sterilization and a couple of stitches, I'm pronounced good to go. Yup, just a flesh wound. I refuse any painkillers beyond a couple of ibuprofen, knowing what's coming next and wanting to have an absolutely clear head. Indeed, the two cops, who haven't left my side the whole time, drive me downtown for questioning.

I had warned Kira not to say a word about the kidnapping without a lawyer at her side, and I follow my own advice, much to the annoyance of the police and FBI, who are evidently involved because of the kidnapping aspect of the case. I use my proverbial one phone call to speak to Bob the Tame Patent Attorney, who says he knows a couple of lawyers that specialize in this kind of thing. I proceed to 'sit tight' and keep my mouth shut.

When Raymond Shimizu, Attorney at Law, arrives, I begin to answer a million questions. Ray makes sure the interview is fair and to the point, and he insists on making his own recording of it. I answer their queries with complete candor, right up to the place in the story where Kira suggests that Spencer has a knife. From there, I follow our agreed upon script exactly.

The questions become more pointed after someone pulls up some sort of international database and finds that I crippled a Mexican national a year before under similar circumstances. They want to know about my training and just how I managed to get into the same situation twice.

My answer is an honest one. Teri Zwilling is of a size and look that tends to attract perverts interested in children. I've had to defend her twice. And no, I answer with the appropriate amount of indignation, that's not why I'm involved with her. My wife is six-foot-three, thank you very much.

Then I have to explain how Teri lives with Anna and me, and about how our unconventional relationship works. Naturally, I'd rather not, but Kira and I have agreed that, other than that one little thing, we're telling the truth, though as little of it as we can get away with.

I spend seven hours answering questions, but at last the investigators are satisfied. My story has evidently agreed exactly with the preliminary forensic analysis and what Kira has told them, so I'm free to leave. They warn me that I might be called back for further questioning, but they don't explicitly tell me not to leave town.

My phone is returned to me when I'm released, and I immediately call Kira. She's been home for a couple of hours and she tells me her own story.

By her account, the first thing the police did when they entered the room, guns drawn, was to pull my jacket off her to check for weapons. She felt it took an inordinate amount of time for them to decide it was safe to put the jacket back on her.

After finally being released from her restraints with bolt cutters (the cops indeed hadn't wanted to use the keys, which would presumably have fingerprint evidence on them), Kira was taken by ambulance to a local hospital despite swearing up and down that she was perfectly fine.

My lawyer's associate did the same thing for Kira that he did for me, which ended up being a good thing, as her memories of her previous hours of being Teri were a bit fuzzy and coming back to her in a patchwork fashion. Her lawyer kept the investigators at bay until she was fully up to speed, though, and her story backed mine up perfectly.

Kira warns me that not long after she got home, the media descended on the house. The locals with their police scanners had caught on first, but the national media hadn't been far behind. She says it's a zoo outside the house now.

"I've called Anna and given her the rundown on what happened," she says. "At least as much as I know about. We've all got questions about the rest of it."

"Well, I'll join you soon and we can talk about it."

Ray gives me a lift, discussing the kidnapping and rescue along the way. "You can speak freely with me," he says, "since I'm your attorney. I've gotta know; did he really grab the knife, or did you just end him? I'll tell you this for free; I would have put the miserable bastard down if I could have."

That's probably the only thing he's said to me that's not going to cost me a ridiculous amount of money.

I give him a look that's suitably horrified. "Ray, if he hadn't been holding the knife, it would have been murder."

He looks at me closely, trying to see if I'm on the up and up. I'm not, but my goal is to make him think I am. From his look, I can tell that I've succeeded. It's important to me, because any question about the circumstances of Spencer's demise could do very bad things to me and my family.

When we turn the corner onto the Zwilling's street, we find that it's completely clogged. There are news vans scattered, klieg lights blazing, and correspondents, neighbors and sensation-seekers wandering all over the street. "I'm not sure you'd make it through that alive," he says, pulling to a stop and shaking his head in wonder. "I heard from my office that this case was getting a lot of media attention, but this..."

"Maybe I could just mingle among them, then make a dash for the door."

"At seven feet tall? That little factoid is leading the accounts. They'd make you instantly, then eat you for breakfast. I've had clients get mobbed before, and it's not pretty."

"Then drive me around the block. I think I may have an idea."

He shrugs and whips a U-turn, then hangs a right to take us one street over. Meanwhile, I contort myself to pull out my phone and start looking at some very familiar video footage.

Digital storage has gotten so plentiful on mobile devices that I didn't edit down the three-minute segment of the drone footage of Teri's greenhouse before I downloaded it to my phone. It comes in handy now as I get a good look at the surrounding area. Yeah, that looks promising.

We've now taken a couple of right turns. "You can drop me off here," I say.

"You're not going to get yourself in trouble by trespassing, are you?"

"Of course not, Ray. I'm just going to take a stroll around the block. Sitting on that hard chair at the station for so long made me a little stir-crazy, so I'm gonna walk it off. You, uh, might want to take off as soon as I get out, though."

"Plausible deniability, eh?"

"Something like that." I shake his hand. "Thanks for your help, Ray. You were great."

"Damn straight I was. Keep that in mind when you get my bill."

I laugh and hop out while he hustles to get out of eyewitness range. I walk down the sidewalk, passing three houses, then turn and walk up a driveway that goes to a detached garage in the backyard of a small Colonial. I'm moving confidently, as if I own the place.

According to the drone footage, this is the only house on this side of the block with no fence between the front and back yards, and there's about a three-foot gap between the garage and the tall fence at the back. And right in that corner, this fence overlaps with the Zwilling's back fence for about five feet.

I never got my jacket back from the police (it will probably be in the evidence locker until they sell it in a police auction twenty years from now) and I can feel the chill from the sub-freezing cold begin to sink in. Not a big deal, though, as I plan to be back indoors quickly.

My luck seems to hold, and it doesn't appear that I've caught anyone's attention as I round the corner of the garage and slip into the gap behind. Then I suddenly find that I'm not the only one to think of this method of approaching the house.

"I wouldn't advise that," I say to the guy with the big camera, about to climb the fence.

"Beat it," he says. "I figured this angle first."

"Kudos, but you don't want to go over that fence."

"Really? Don't even try to tell me you weren't about to do the same."

"Wouldn't even try, but trust me, you don't want to go over that fence."

"I'll take my chances."

I shrug. "It's your funeral."

The horizontal framing for the eight-foot-tall fence is on this side, so he manages to clamber up to the top without too much difficulty. He throws a leg over the top, then lowers himself down and drops the last few inches to the ground.

I hear the expected snarl.

"Shit!" he yells, and I see fingertips grabbing the top of the fence. There's a mad scramble as his feet try to push him up over the top, but there are no horizontal components on that side of the fence. He evidently doesn't have the upper body strength to get himself out of harm's way. Then the dog arrives, and his fingers disappear. I hear the thud as he falls flat to the ground. I'd probably best intervene now.

I ignore the pain in my side and vault the fence in one motion, jumping, pulling, lifting, then dropping. I land right next to them.

"Sitz!" I say firmly. Freida reluctantly lets go of the guy's leg and sits, as commanded. The Zwilling's have used the German Training System to train their German Shepard, which makes sense, I guess. In any case, Freida and I have gotten over our old animosity and become good friends over the course of the last five days. I've never had a dog, but I've been thinking that I may get a couple to keep an eye on the compound, once we get back to Florida.

"Gut," I tell her, using the German accent that makes it sound like "goot," and she practically smiles at the praise.

The reporter is holding onto his leg, but he looks up at me. Way up. "Hey, wait," he exclaims. "You're Malakhov!"

"Shh," I say, holding a finger to my lips. "Don't tell those guys out front."

"Why are you goin' over the fence if you belong here."

"Because of the guys out front," I say patiently. That should be completely obvious.

"Oh. Yeah. But hey, can I ask you some questions about what happened today?"

"No. You're trespassing. You need to leave right now." I do kind of admire his dedication to the job, though.

"Oh, come on, just a couple?"

"I do know the German word for 'attack'."

He looks over at the dog, like he's thinking about risking it by asking a third time. "Also," I add, "the Zwilling's have good lawyers and they're not afraid to use them."

"Well, in that case..." He gets to his feet, favoring his left ankle. I can sympathize. Freida's bite is worse than her bark.

"If I were you, I wouldn't mention where you got those puncture wounds," I say. "You were warned."

"Say no more." He jumps up high enough to grip the top of the fence, then resumes his scrambling. It's not going any better this time and it's agitating the dog, so I step up and give him a boost. He clears the top in good order, but evidently loses his grip as he climbs down the other side. I hear a thud as he falls against the side of the garage. It must not have been too bad, though, because I can hear him limping away.

I turn to the faithful canine and praise her, scratching the inevitable itchy spots behind her ears, but then I catch motion out of the corner of my eye. I straighten just in time to catch Kira full across the chest. She plants a big, wet kiss on my cheek. "My big, brave, lovable hero!" she exclaims without the slightest hint of irony.

"Hey, you're my hero," I say, laying my own wet one on her smooth little cheek. "I would have died if you hadn't been so incredibly brave and resourceful."

After that, I just hold her for a while, so incredibly relieved that she's somehow survived this. Oh God, I've missed holding her. What wouldn't I give if she could be like this all the time?

Then I see Marsha, silhouetted in the open back door. I gently transfer Kira to her familiar (to me anyway) position in the crook of my arm. She stiffens for just a moment, then seems to recover the body-memory of it and relaxes.

"Hmm, I see why I seem to like this," she murmurs.

"I never get tired of it," I say.

Marsha gives me an actual hug as we arrive at the door. "Thank you, Peter," she says. "Teri, uh, Kira, told us what happened when you found her." She suddenly turns her head away, overcome with emotion. I'm about to say something, but Kira gives me a look that says to be patient.

Marsha eventually recovers and turns back to us. "I have to apologize to you for how I felt about you before. I mean, first you take my daughter far away from home and introduce her to... well..." She straightens. "And when you kept trying to talk to her later, I could only assume it was for selfish reasons. Later, after she left, and despite everything Teri told us about how well you were treating her in Florida, I worried so much that you thought of her as some sort of play toy.

"But now, hearing what you were willing to do to save her life, well, I know that you really do care for her and will treat her the way she should be treated."

There are tears streaming down her face. "I hope you guys, all three, I mean five of you, come to visit us sometime."

As always, I have to calculate what the proper response to that is, but my sentiments are heart-felt. "Your daughter means the world to Anna and me, and we would do anything for her. And you're just as welcome to come visit us."

I put Kira down and Marsha leads the way to the living room. To my surprise, Carl is dressed and sitting in one of the more upright chairs in the room. With the nurse and Marsha spotting him, he gets to his feet.

I walk over and he extends his hand. I take it, and he gives mine a healthy squeeze. "That was a fine piece of work today, Peter," he says. "You did well."

I read him as perfectly sincere, yet there's an undercurrent of resentment in his tone and body language. Objectively, I can understand it. He feels that it's his job to keep his daughter safe, yet on three separate occasions she was kidnapped and abused for extended periods of time, and he hadn't been able to stop it.

Now, with this interloper in her life, she is rescued, and her abductor eliminated forever, all within minutes of her kidnapping. It's got to be tough on his pride. Yet here he is, making the effort to meet me on his feet and thank me man-to-man. I respect that immensely.

"Sir," I say, looking him in the eye, "it was only due to some truly providential circumstances that I happened to have the pieces of the puzzle of how to find her. As for the rest, I have no doubt you'd have done at least as much as I did."

"I would do anything for my daughter."

"I know." I mean that.

He carefully sits back down in his chair, and Marsha takes the one next to his. Kira and I take to the couch. At first she sits down at a polite distance from me but then appears to reconsider, scooting over until she's right up against my side. I put my arm around her and she snuggles up even closer. I remind myself that she has no actual memory of snuggling with me before. She's working hard at this.

Marsha is watching with interest. Seeing her twenty-four-year-old daughter interacting with a man is a totally new thing for her. She looks up at me. "So how exactly did you find her?"

"Well, it was because of what you said."

"Huh?"

So I explain the chain of logic that had started with my seeing Bethany's old house.

"I don't know that I would have made that connection," Carl says.

"It wasn't any great feat of deduction on my part," I say. "I was just lucky enough to have both pieces of the puzzle."

Then, at their urging, I tell them the story of how I found the dungeon, downplaying the role of my mental map and implying that the door into Spencer's little house of horrors had been a bit more obvious than it actually was. They knew the story from there, having debriefed their daughter.

"Well, it all worked out in the end," Marsha says.

"It sure did, but I think it's time they should be going," Carl says.

"What?" Marsha's obviously not too happy with that idea.

"Our daughter is having one of her episodes," he explains to her. "The time she spends as 'Kira' is extraordinarily important to Peter and Anna, if you know what I mean."

Marsha blushes. Yeah, she knows what he means.

"I think we need to send these two home to Florida as soon as possible. They can come visit us some other time. Besides, if we don't get rid of those damn reporters, I won't have a lawn this summer."

I smile and Kira snorts, but he's right. We need to get moving.

Kira and I go to her room to discuss our next move. We talk about the idea of flying home to save time, but it would be almost impossible for a couple as distinctive as we are to travel unrecognized, what with our pictures being on every national media outlet. It's going to be the motorhome then. The fun part is going to be getting there without leading the wolves to it.

I load our luggage and Kira's boxes into Marsha's minivan in the garage and Kira kisses her parents goodbye. Then I take a deep breath, hit the garage door opener button, and back us down the steep driveway through the throng. I go slow enough that any correspondents who get injured will have only themselves to blame. By design, the newshounds get a good look at our faces, their cameras' flashes nearly blinding. Then we lead them on a merry chase through Minneapolis.