Prekrasna IsidoraChapter 12
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CastawayChapter 36 free porn video
The first hint we had—and it was no more than that, the barest of hints—that something might be amiss in our little self-created paradise came Thursday evening.
Camilla and I were dressing for dinner. Again! I'd been realizing that, back in her accustomed metropolitan setting, she was far from the homebody she'd been during her week at my cabin. She wasn't exactly a social butterfly, flitting from party to party with reckless abandon, but she liked them. And she liked going out, seeing people and being seen by them and doing things with them and being, basically, the belle of whatever ball was at hand.
The odd thing was, I was finding I kind of liked it too, in her company. I'd never been exactly a recluse; the life of an opera singer, even at the comprimario level, doesn't lend itself easily to that. Wherever I'd been, even at home, I'd done my share of partying, been comfortably social, even had rare occasions—very rare over the years—when an evening of flirtation had led to more and I'd brought someone back to my room for the night, or visited her place.
For the most part, though, I'd felt happiest in my own company and had eschewed that of others. My cabin had been my refuge "far from the madding throng," where I could simply be myself and be by myself. Now, though, I was finding I could still be myself even in a group of people. Camilla somehow ratified me, made me at ease in settings where once I might have felt awkward, out of place. And from what I could tell, my presence completed her as well, transformed what had once been an almost regal bestowal of presence into something where she felt a true kinship with the others there.
The "ice queen" had indeed thawed, and had been replaced with a woman who could be only that, a woman among other men and women. Our love for each other—and we were now professing it to each other daily, if not more often—had led both of us into new territory.
When there was a sharp knock on the door to our suite we both assumed it was only Marilyn arriving a little early for our planned excursion to the cocktail reception being thrown by one of the local company's wealthy backers. To the tax collectors financial contributions to local opera were simply a charitable exemption; to the major contributors, however, they represented an entrée into a cultural milieu to which they otherwise couldn't aspire. Camilla's presence would grace their gathering, even my own but a little less (since I was singing a lead), and both had been "earnestly requested" by the company's managers.
As soon as she opened the door, though, Camilla was urgently calling me. Hearing her tone, I was beside her in seconds. And I saw immediately the reason for her concern; standing there were two men dressed in (as my newly acquired fashion sense told me—we'd gone shopping the day before, and I'd learned a lot about the quality of clothing) ordinary off-the-rack suits and both wearing unyielding expressions that seemed to brook no challenge.
The thing was, there was no way they should be there at all. Penthouse guests simply didn't receive unannounced visitors. If you asked for an occupant by name at the desk, you had to be announced. And you didn't go up by accident; both the elevators and the emergency stair doors were protected by security devices that should respond only to the electronic room keys and were reprogrammed each time occupancy changed.
Part of an explanation was immediately forthcoming when both men presented us with similar identifications. "I'm Agent Brown with the Department of Homeland Security," said one, "and this is Agent Smith. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may."
It was past 6:00 p.m. here, and later than that on the east coast; no way to quickly verify. And I didn't like the sound of any of this. "I'm sorry, Agent Brown," I said, "but I'm afraid this isn't a convenient time."
"You have something to hide?" barked the one he'd named Smith.
I bristled, but Camilla spoke first. "We all have things to hide, Agent Smith," she said sweetly, "some of us including our names. For most of us, though, there's nothing illegal about it."
"We're not accusing you of anything illegal," Brown overrode his colleague in a smooth tone. "We simply are investigating an unusual event to which you may have been innocent witnesses. May we come in?"'
Somewhere or other I'd read or heard or something that you should never invite anyone involved in law enforcement into your quarters; it gave them license to look around. "I don't think so," I said firmly. "If you want to ask your questions, right here will do fine."
Neither one liked it, but Brown just nodded. "Very well," he said. "You are Camilla St. John and Nicholas Volker?" We both nodded curtly. He turned to me. "Mr. Volker, you live at—" he gave my address.
"Yes."
"And you both were present at that address on—" he gave a date which, after a moment, I realized was about three weeks earlier—and, as I thought about it, two days before I'd found Asmedogh in the woods.
"I was," I acknowledged; no sense in denying it. "Ms. St. John was not."
"No, I wasn't," Camilla agreed.
"But you were there later?" Brown persisted to her.
"I was there about ten days later, and it was my first visit," she said.
Smith, who was silently taking notes, seemed to jot that down.
"May I ask if either of you observed anything ... unusual on or around your property on or after the date I mentioned?" asked Brown.
"May I ask what you're driving at?" I countered. "I mean, 'unusual' in what way?"
"In any way, Mr. Volker," he said. "Disturbances around the property. Unusual animal sightings or behavior. Unexpected tracks or damaged foliage. Unexplained sounds in the night. Anything at all of that sort?"
I now didn't like this a lot. The proximity in time to my finding Asmedogh couldn't be coincidence. They had some sort of evidence that something out of the ordinary, beyond explanation, had come to Earth up the hill from my cabin, and it must be pretty good evidence judging from their diligence in tracking us down. They were looking for Camilla's LGMs, and whether by design or accident they'd come to the right place.
Marisol
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