Greg Rucka - Patriot acts

Yet we lived with something else now, too, something that we hadn't truly had in Bequia, even with Alena teaching me. We had been tested, after all, first by Oxford, then more cruelly by Cold Spring, and we had remained true to each other, had defended each other, had supported each other. For Alena, it must have been an extraordinary sensation, bewildering and perhaps even frightening. There had always been someone who had wanted to hurt her, or use her, or kill her, or there had been the promise of the same. That promise remained, but this time it was different.

This time, she had someone with her that she could trust absolutely.

With Vadim in the house, it had been easy to push any thoughts of intimacy aside as inappropriate, even if, as an excuse, it was a feeble one. Vadim didn't care what we did, and, being nineteen, probably imagined that we were doing far more together than we could've possibly done, anyway. With the addition of fabulous lingerie.

But Vadim was gone, the house was ours, and when Alena looked at me, I could see everything she felt for me, and everything she wanted. It was all there, and it was so raw and so sincere that I had to look away, because it scared me. It scared me a lot.

Because Natalie had been right. Every single thing she'd said to me had been right. The house, like the one in Batumi, was murder to keep warm. A woodstove served as the major source of heat, positioned in the main room. Miata went straight for it as soon as we were inside, dropping to the floor to bathe in its glow, and we knew that meant the house was safe. Each of us trusted his ears and his nose far more than our own, and if he wasn't reacting to anything, that was because there was nothing to react to.

We did a sweep anyway, confirming what we already knew, then unpacked the groceries in the kitchen. Alena went off to change out of her soaked clothes, and I went to the stove and fed it a couple more logs, annoying Miata as I did so, because it forced him to move out of my way. The fire came back strong, and I used a stick to close the door on it, then cleaned the rain from my glasses. A few droplets fell from my hair, spat and sizzled when they hit the cast iron. From the back of the house, I heard the little stereo in Alena's bedroom switch on, the strings and harmonies of "Eleanor Rigby" coasting softly down the hall. Her music tastes were eclectic, almost exclusively confined to the Beatles and their catalogue, with the occasional opera or string concerto thrown in for variety. After another moment, I could make out the sound of running water, the shower in the bathroom starting.

I removed my coat and boots, put them nearby, so they could dry out, then moved the pistol I'd been carrying at the front of my pants and set it within reach on the wobbly wooden coffee table that had come with the house. I pulled a chair of my own closer to the stove, and proceeded to let it do the same thing for me that it was doing for Miata. It was warm and it was comfortable, and the stiffness that had been rising in my right hip was abating. I felt drowsy, realized that it would be very easy to nod off right here, and realized also that there was really no reason that I shouldn't.

When I heard Alena's voice, I had no idea that she was back in the room.

"Atticus?"

I sat up and turned, and she was standing on the edge of the rug, her bath towel wrapped around her body, and that was all she was wearing. With her hair wet, it looked closer to black than to red. She shivered.

"I told you," Alena said. "I don't know how to do this."

"You've got to be freezing," I said.

Her brow creased with her frown. "It's not my first time. I don't want you to think that."

The only response I could think to that was to get up and go to where she was standing. I knew what she was trying to say, but she had also told me enough about her youth that I knew what she wasn't telling me, as well. When the girl is eight and in a prison cell, the "first time" is the last thing you can call it.

She had crossed her arms around her middle, and as I approached she wouldn't meet my eyes, instead focusing on my chest. Her expression had shifted, turned to something between determined and sullen.

I kissed her, the way I had wanted to kiss her back in the house in Cold Spring.

"It's all right," I told her. "It's mine." We moved to Kobuleti the following winter. It was another resort town, roughly midway between Batumi and Poti, and the town wasn't meant for great things, but great things had been thrust upon it. When Abkhazia, in the north, had seceded, it had taken Georgia's best beaches with it, the ones of soft sand and alluring landscapes. Kobuleti's beach was rocky, flat, and utterly uninspiring. But it was Kobuleti's beach, and it was safe, and wealthy Muscovites and young Georgians came every summer to soak up the heat and wade the water. Kobuleti had responded, and now there was a resort that took advantage of the nearby mineral springs, two new hotels with all the amenities, and several flourishing boutiques and restaurants. During the high season, from the beginning of July until mid-September, the town was packed. Walking down the main street on a summer's night, music poured from every other cafe and bar as each venue pulled double duty as a nightclub.

During the off-season, though, Kobuleti shut down, turning into one of those quiet seaside communities that made me remember my Northern Californian youth. The tourists left, as did most of the attendant service workers, and everything grew quiet, and the world around the town contracted. Walking the rocky beach on a cold November morning, the sky and the Black Sea sharing the same battleship shade of gray, the only noise that of the water and the gulls, it could seem like the whole planet was nothing but a small town surrounded by pines and water.

We'd bought a house two and a half miles from the sea, on the north side of town, the right size for the three of us. Secluded, far enough back in the woods that you couldn't trip over it by accident, but not so far away that we couldn't see someone coming if a visitor wanted to drop by unannounced. The house had been a summer cottage for some minor Party official once upon a time, then sold as a rental property, and subsequently had seen more than its share of abuse.

The first thing we did when we moved in was to make it secure. We installed an alarm system with motion detectors and two cameras, covering the immediate approaches from the front and the back. We hooked up external lights to complement the cameras, and to give us visibility if anyone wanted to pay us a visit during the night. We replaced all of the locks, and a couple of the doors.

Then we discovered that the roof leaked, and instead of paying for someone to come up from Batumi to fix it, we decided we would do it ourselves. Then we found mold in the walls and carpet, and set about tearing out the old and installing the new. When we pulled up the carpet, we found there were hardwood floors in almost every room, and we decided we liked those better, so we had to finish them. Everything needed a fresh coat of paint. Cracked windowpanes had to be replaced. The pipes were lead in many places, and had to go.

The house became our project, how we spent our hours when we weren't training in the woods or the makeshift gym we'd built in the garage. We read books on home repair and carpentry and renovation. We bought tools. We drove all over the country in search of building supplies and fixtures. Partly, we did it as a way to keep busy, but partly we did it because, without our ever saying so to the other, we'd both decided that this house outside of Kobuleti was going to be our home.

It wasn't that we'd forgotten. I could still conjure the memory of Natalie effortlessly, the picture of her as she lay in death as clear as today in my mind. But after two years of lurking apprehension and no sign of Illya Tyagachev, with word from Dan coming less and less often, it had become impossible to simply mark time. Since it was impossible for me to do what I truly wanted to do-what I had come to feel I needed to do-it became necessary to do something else. A little over seven months after we'd bought the house, Rezo Raminisshvilli, who ran one of the two cafes in town where we went for Internet access, mentioned to Alena that another of the summer cottages about a mile and a half from ours was going to be demolished. Whoever now owned the property wanted to put up a more modern abode, and felt that starting from square one was the best way to do it. We headed out the same afternoon to see if there was anything we could salvage, and were delighted to find that not only were most of the windows intact, but they were the original fixtures, and in reasonably good condition.