6 comments/ 40478 views/ 9 favorites Period of Adjustment Ch. 01-04 By: coaster2 This story will be submitted in four multiple chapter parts. It has been edited by ErikThread and DaveT with skill and care. Any errors are mine. Author's Note: CSIS: Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. It looks after external security, but often crosses over RCMP internal security lines. The relationship between the two is strained, at best. To the best of my knowledge, there is no such department as "Section 3." S.Q.: Sûreté du Québec, the Quebec Provincial Police. The francophone name Denis is pronounced den-ee. Kingston Federal Penitentiary is Canada's foremost maximum security prison. It is not my intention to confound the reader, but there will be a requirement to shift from one name to another for a particular individual. I hope it doesn't prove too confusing. * Chapter 1: Getting out of Dodge 9:30am August, 26: Exit Interview, CSIS H.Q., Ottawa, ON Present: Colin Stewart, CSIS (ret) D. Taggart, Director, Sec. 3, CSIS. Sandar Singh, Asst. Dir., Sec. 3, CSIS "Good to see you again, Colin," the man growled as he dropped his obese frame into the padded chair with a thud. "I'll bet," I sneered. "I've asked Assistant Director Singh to be here to observe our conversation." "You mean you want a witness present? Cut the bullshit, Taggart, you have this room wired for video and sound. He's not here as a witness. He's here to make sure I don't strangle you." I spat out my accusation, and I wasn't very far from carrying out my implied threat. "Still carrying a grudge, I see," Taggart sighed. "You hung me out to dry. I spent over eight years in that prison, thanks to you." "It was out of my control, Colin. I know I promised you would be taken care of, but it was taken out of my hands. There was nothing I could do. The most I could accomplish was to have you released early without parole." "More bullshit! You had your nose too far up the Deputy Minister's ass to worry about me. You needed a fall guy for that little fuck-up, and I was it. At least you could have the balls to admit it." Taggart sat silently, not responding to my allegation, a grim look aimed directly at me. It was time to give him the bad news. "Well, Director Taggart, I have some demands that you will want to handle promptly, now that I'm out." "Demands? You're in no position to make demands." "That's where you're wrong. I've had eight years to work out my frustrations. There were only two recreational opportunities available that I found interesting in Kingston. First was the fitness room. I was very religious about maintaining my fitness. You might say I was almost fanatical. The other opportunity was the library, where I worked on my compensation package. The package that very shortly you are going to be handing me." "You must be dreaming. You won't be seeing any compensation from CSIS." "Well, that's where we disagree. You see, in eight years I've had a lot of time to document everything I know about CSIS, particularly where the political skeletons are hidden. I'm sure you wouldn't want that to fall into the wrong hands, now would you?" "Are you threatening me? Do you really think you'll be allowed to do any such thing?" "Well, here's the rub, Dwayne old boy. I have all that information safely tucked away where you can't get at it. However, if anything should happen to me, it will be delivered to a number of people who will undoubtedly be fascinated by it." "You must be insane. You signed the Official Secrets Act. You know you'll end up right back in prison just for threatening me." Taggart was sweating now and his eyes were bulging, a sure sign he was stressed. "And what would that accomplish? The information would be released, and you and a number of other prominent players would be up shit creek ... right where you belong. No, Taggart, I've set my compensation package, and you are going to pay it or you will regret it for the short time left in your worthless career." The man sat, steaming inside, barely able to control himself. I had to smile. It was the thing to do in this situation. I looked at his dedicated lackey, Assistant Director Sandar Singh, another useless, self-serving parasite. There was little to choose between them. I could ignore him. He wouldn't speak unless spoken to, and then only with Taggart's permission. "And just exactly what is this compensation package that you have dreamed up?" Taggart asked at last. "I've tried to estimate the value of losing my freedom for almost a decade, losing my wife, my home, my reputation, the respect of my parents and friends, and probably any decent employment opportunity. Unfortunately, that number was so astronomically high that I couldn't conceive of any way you could meet it. So, I've settled for quite a bit less. I've decided that one million dollars per year of incarceration is more than reasonable. That would bring it near to $8.3 million dollars. Tax free of course." Taggart snorted his derision. "You must be joking. Just where do you think I could come up with that kind of money?" "Ah, Taggart, you always did lack imagination. It's simple really. You'll arrange for me to win a lottery prize. I noticed that the jackpot for this coming Wednesday is nearly thirty million, so skimming off a few million from the unredeemed prize account will hardly be noticed." I sat back, grinning my satisfaction at Taggart's distress. He was quiet for a while. "And with that, you'll go away?" "Well, not exactly. You see, I don't trust you. So, I'll be happy to give you a few free samples of my little insurance policy. But rest assured, I'll have everything in a safe place ready for distribution if anything untoward should happen to me -- or my friends and acquaintances." "This is blackmail. I don't believe you. I think you're bluffing. We've been watching you every day in prison. Nothing of yours has come out. You haven't had a single visitor that hasn't been searched and followed. I don't think there's any such evidence." "You're a fool, Taggart. You know that drugs and contraband make their way in and out of Kingston on a daily basis. What makes you think you could put a stop to information?" I reached inside my jacket and slid a manila envelope across the table. He was silent again. The sweat had migrated to his collar, now soaked with its yellowish stain. The man was extremely uncomfortable, and I knew I had him exactly where I wanted him. I decided to push the issue. "You have until Friday to come up with the compensation. When you do, I will direct you to my bank." I stood, took a card from my pocket and passed it to the man. "The cell phone number on the back will find me," I said, turning to go. "This interview isn't over, Stewart," Taggart barked. "Yes it is. You have no hold on me any more. I'm the one who controls the agenda now. Don't let me down, Dwayne. I'd be awfully disappointed if I had to go to all the trouble of marketing my information individually. Good day." I turned and walked out the door, hearing it snick closed behind me. I was sure I would be followed constantly in the near future, but since I hadn't yet settled on a place to live, they'd had no opportunity to have it wired for phone, audio, or video. As happy as I was with my meeting with Taggart, I knew I had earned his wrath, and he was going to harass me as much as he could if I let him. The next part of my plan was clear. Assuming he would make the payoff, I had decided where to build my future. I still had my skills and my knowledge, albeit slightly out of practice. I still had my contacts around the world, as well as my friends on the job. I also still had anger at the betrayal by my employer. I was sitting in a small sidewalk café in Ottawa's Bytown on a warm Friday morning. I was in plain view, but the road noise and general city clatter would make it difficult for electronic eavesdropping. I couldn't shake my tail, so I might as well let him watch. I'd almost finished my espresso when the waiter approached me and handed me a cell phone. "It's for you, sir." "Thanks." I'd given him the phone and a twenty dollar bill, asking him to bring it to me if it rang and someone asked for Colin Stewart. He had cooperated perfectly. "Stewart here." "Where do we send the money?" It wasn't Taggart or Singh, it was some flunkey. No surprise. Taggart wouldn't want the humiliation of admitting I'd bested him. "International Bank of the Cayman Islands, Mr. Winston Ambleside, account code A-nine-R-four-seven-seven-three-J. Understood?" He repeated the instructions back to me accurately, and I snapped the phone shut without comment. I slipped the phone into a trash can as I left the restaurant. Step one. I could quit worrying about where my next meal would come from. Mr. Ambleside would transfer the deposit to a different account and then move a portion to my new account at a national bank. A platinum credit card would be issued with worldwide Interac access. The funds my ex-wife had left me would have permitted me to live a few months before I found my footing, but now it wasn't necessary. She had pretty well cleaned me out, probably with the help of her parents. And what about my parents? I hadn't yet called them to let them know I was out, but since we hadn't communicated in eight years, it didn't seem that urgent. I'd had too much time to plot my revenge on CSIS. Too much time to let the anger fester. The anger at their betrayal and abandonment of me. To allow my wife and relatives to think I was a murderer deserving punishment. The compensation package was just the first step. My ex-wife Elise had been quick to file for divorce, seemingly before the guilty verdict was in. There were no children from our three year marriage, a fact for which I was now extremely grateful. My anger with her flowed back and forth as I tried to understand how she could so quickly dispose of me. I came to the conclusion that marrying her was a mistake. That was my fault. Most of what I did in my life I couldn't reveal to anyone, including my wife. Not much of a basis for a marriage. My parents were a different matter. Why had they given up on me so easily? Not a word or a visit all the time I was in prison. Why? It was a question I needed to answer, but not immediately. If it could wait eight years, it could wait a little longer. More urgent was losing my tail long enough to retrieve my stash. I had been assured by my former partner, Anwar, that it was still untouched by anyone. I wonder if Taggart knew just how despised he was by the troops that did the real work. Anwar was just one of several in CSIS I could still count on. First, I needed to disappear for a while. Allow Taggart and his minions to forget about me. Being visible would just rub salt in his wounds, and that might provoke him into doing something stupid ... like terminating me. I was staying in motels, but no more than one night in any room. If I liked the motel, I might change rooms once or twice, but generally I would just check out and look for another place. It would frustrate my shadow and keep me from getting too comfortable. I had nothing to move other than a carry-on with some clothes and a briefcase that contained my newly purchased laptop and another disposable cell phone. The day after my release, I had bought a used car with some of the remaining cash that Elise had so thoughtfully left me. It was a non-descript gray Taurus of recent vintage, indistinguishable from the thousands of others like it in the country. I had it checked thoroughly for any tracking or bugging devices, and I was satisfied that it was clean. I kept it away from the motel, knowing it wouldn't take more than a couple of minutes for someone to add the necessary electronics to monitor my movements. With the aid of Ottawa rush hour traffic and some old driving skills, I shook my tail and made a roundabout approach to my cache of necessities. It was twenty kilometers out of town on a country road, and I waited patiently for an hour to make sure no one had followed me. I stepped out of the car, and walked a hundred meters up a hill, the path covered from above by giant maples. The stone cairn was still in place with the memorial plaque facing the pathway. Amos Belliveau, age 78, was buried here. Amos apparently took some things with him to the Promised Land, including a new Glock .40 caliber pistol, 200 rounds of ammunition, a Globalstar Satellite Phone with two rechargeable batteries, two Canadian and one U.S. passport, as well as thirty thousand dollars in used U.S. notes. I put the sat-phone and the passports into my briefcase, and stashed the cash, gun and ammo under the spare in the trunk. It would do in the short term. I took a roundabout way back to Ottawa, checked out of the motel and began the long drive west. I had briefly considered using Halifax-Dartmouth as a base of operations, but in the end I knew that Vancouver had better access to the places I might have to go. Multiple daily non-stop flights to the U.S., Europe and Asia made it the logical choice. Fairly certain I had dropped my shadow, I drove until dark, stopping for the night at an off-the-highway motel east of Toronto. The desk clerk recommended a very nice restaurant within walking distance, but I was happier keeping the car in sight. I drove the block-and-a-half to the heritage-style building and parked directly in front under a street lamp. The place wasn't very busy on a Tuesday evening. When I returned to the motel, I retrieved the gun and cash from the trunk and took them into the room. I had a simple hiding place in my briefcase for the two unused passports. When I crossed the border tomorrow, I would be Nathan Poirier, and there would be nothing about me to alert U.S. Customs officials. I had purchased and registered the Ford in the same name. A photo I.D. driver's license, thoughtfully provided by Anwar, matched the other documents. I was confident no one would notice that the photos of me on the passport and the driver's license were identical. I hid the Glock in the engine compartment against the block just above the oil pan. No one wanted to mess with a hot exhaust manifold. A heat-resistant case would protect the weapon. The cash and ammunition were a larger problem, thanks to their bulk. I broke the money up into six, five thousand dollar packets, and spread five of them around the inner panels of the car. The ammunition was wrapped in aluminum foil, and tucked up under the dashboard. A thorough search would find them both, but I wasn't expecting one. I'd previously determined the money didn't have any traces of drugs for the dogs to pick up. I scanned the car once more for any tracking devices, but found none. Deciding I had done what I could to evade detection, I went to bed and slept soundly. I awoke at dawn, just after six am, and went through my usual routine. I checked the car through the motel rear window, but I couldn't see any sign that it had been disturbed. I had set up my usual tells that would indicate if anyone had tried to get into it, but they were just as I had left them. A quick breakfast at the local café and I was on the road destined for Port Huron, Michigan. I chose it as a likely spot for entry as it was always busy with trucks and cars, and was not known to be the subject of intense scrutiny. It proved to be the correct assumption. I stopped in the outskirts of Flint for the night, satisfied now that my former friends weren't following me, and weren't easily going to find me. It took five days to cross the U.S. I was beginning to take pleasure in my freedom for the first time since my release, and I wasn't in much of a hurry. Interstate 80 would take me right across the continent to San Francisco, then I-5 north to Canada. I was able to relax and enjoy myself for the first time in nearly nine years. I had cash to pay my way, so no credit card receipts would betray the whereabouts of either Colin Stewart or Nathan Poirier. The five days on the road gave me plenty of time to think about my future. What did I want to do besides exact revenge on Taggart and the bastards he worked for? I was never going to get my wife back. My parents might finally accept me some day, but only if I could explain what I had been doing. That was a no-no in any event, so I would just have to find a believable story that wouldn't put them in harm's way. And what about the rest of my life? Spend it looking over my shoulder, wondering who was watching? I don't think so. I needed to disappear. I could move to Europe and hire myself out for special security services. I could change my appearance and become Nathan Poirier permanently. I had all the secure contacts I needed to make that happen without word getting back to Ottawa. So now, Colin ... make up your mind. Well ... not just yet. As I rolled down I-80 across central California, I had been seeing signs indicating an upcoming junction to Napa Valley. On the spur of the moment, I took the exit and drove through the rolling hills until I hit Hwy 29 North, and followed it into Napa. It was a continuous collection of wineries, B & B's, restaurants, and gift shops. Disappointed, I continued north until I came to St. Helena, stopping in the small town. I pulled over just past the post office and walked into a small gift shop-cum-café and checked the chalkboard menu. The choices were certainly California funky. Avocado, white asparagus sandwiches on pumpernickel, with sprouts and a brie cheese spread. Definitely different. I ordered a sandwich and a glass of unsweetened iced tea and sat at a table, testing a very uncommon taste experience. I was listening to a conversation between a couple at the next table as they decided where to go next. They were pretty typical tourists, I thought. This was a day trip, and already they were tired of the tourist traps, wine tours, gift shops, and assorted special interest locations that seemed to be everywhere. I heard the waitress tell them that it wasn't like that twenty years ago. Today, she said, many people went north to the top of the valley, and found it more to their liking. Towns like Geyserville were still largely unspoiled, but that wouldn't last forever. I filed the information away, paid the bill, and walked back to my car. I sat there for a while, looking at the California map I had bought at my last gas stop. I wasn't in any rush to be anywhere, so I might as well go see some of the sights while I was in the area. I drove to the north end of the valley, where it connected to highway 101, and found Geyserville. It took an hour to work my way up to the small town, but when I did I was happy I'd made the effort. I looked around for a place to stay and checked into a modest motel on the edge of town. I drove into town, looking for a restaurant. It had been a long time since I'd had a good Mexican meal and I decided tonight was the night. I passed on a chain restaurant in favour of Mama Rosita's, a family store-front cafe at the north end of town. I'd made a good choice. The food was fresh, home cooked and authentic. I downed a couple of Negra Mordellos with my meal before heading back toward my room. On the way I stopped at the gas station across the street from the motel and picked up a six-pack of MGD and some junk food to finish the evening. After more than eight years of prison food, I felt I was entitled to these little excesses. I fell asleep with a half-gone bottle of beer in my hand and the TV on Leno. A couple of hours later I awoke, finished the beer, snapped off the TV, pissed away the previous beers, brushed my teeth, stripped, and fell into bed. I was out in a matter of seconds. I awoke at my usual time of sunrise and discovered I only had the fringes of a hangover from the previous night. One coffee and a breakfast would fix that. I strolled out the door of my room into the warm, soft air and scent of the Alexander Valley. A man could get to like it here. I walked toward the town, looking for a restaurant for breakfast. Period of Adjustment Ch. 01-04 Another little diner on the town's edge featured a breakfast special with coffee and it was perfect. I took stock of myself, and for the first time in a long, long while, I was in a good mood. There was no rush. I had no place to go and no hurry about getting there. As I gazed out the front window, I watched a young woman on the other side of the street looking forlornly at her car. It took me a moment to notice that she had a flat tire. I watched her for a minute or so, and she seemed uncertain about what to do. I decided that it was time to put on my Sir Galahad outfit and see if I could help. I paid the bill, and crossed the street to the scene of the problem. "Mornin', you need some help?" I asked in my "friendly" voice. Her head snapped around. She had an angry look on her face, but she took one look at me and immediately changed into "helpless female mode." "Yes ... thanks. The tire's flat and I don't know how to change it. Can you do it? I'd be very grateful." I had a good look at her for the first time. She was young, late twenties at most, with what I thought might be Asian features. Maybe five-six tall with a nice, slim build. Very attractive. "I'm Nate Poirier," I said, offering my hand. "Natasha ... Natasha Collier," she replied, taking it. "Let's have a look in the trunk." "Why?" I laughed. "That's where you keep the spare tire, and likely the jack as well." "Oh ... I don't think there's a spare tire. I haven't seen one. I've never had a flat before." I just shook my head as she pulled the cable release on the trunk. I lifted what passed for a floor, and a small unused spare was revealed, as well as a crank jack, also unused. It took less than ten minutes to change the tire. "Just take this to the nearest tire dealer and get if fixed. It shouldn't cost too much." "Oh ... thank you so much, Nate. That was so kind of you. Do you live around here?" "No, just passing through. I'm from Canada." "Oh ... me too. This is my cousin's car. I just borrowed it for the day. She lives in Sebastopol." I must have had a funny look on my face, not having a clue where Sebastopol was. "That's in the Russian River Valley, down 101, south and west of here," she explained. "It's really a lovely place. You'd like it." She had a great smile, and had cheered up noticeably since I'd helped with the tire. I was still in my good mood, and we connected nicely I thought. "How do I get there ... and if I do, will you be there?" She flashed me a big, toothy smile. "Yeah ... sometime this afternoon. Just follow Highway 101 south to Santa Rosa. It's just a few miles west of 101 on 12. Easy to find. It's not a very big town." "That spare won't get you very far. I'll bet you can get the tire fixed in town." "Yeah ... that sounds like a good idea. Thanks, Nate. Where are you from, by the way?" "Ah, well, I was living in Ottawa, but I'm on my way to Vancouver. I think I'll like it better there." "Oh ... I know you will. Not much winter!" "I thought about that. That does have its appeal, all right. And I hear it's a nice, clean city." "Well ... mostly. It has some nasty places too, like every city. I live in Burnaby, on the east side of Vancouver. Pretty nice there." "How long are you down here for?" "Uhmmm ... three more days. Then I'm flying home from San Francisco. I needed a break, so with my cousin here it was a fairly cheap vacation." "Well, maybe we could get together again. For lunch, or even dinner if you'd like," I tested. "Uhmmm ... I guess so. Maybe lunch ... tomorrow?" "Great. You name the spot and I'll meet you there. Or if your cousin needs the car, I can come and pick you up." "I've kind of been monopolizing the car, so ... if it's not too much trouble, maybe you can pick me up?" She fished around in her purse, and pulled out a used envelope. "Here's my cousin's address on the front. Why don't we meet there at noon? I know a neat place for lunch." "Great. I'll look forward to it." I went back to my room and looked up Sebastopol on the Internet. I found a map that showed the location of the address on Natasha's envelope. I also found a listing for motels. There were only a few, but with one phone call I had a reservation for tonight. With a bit of luck, I might extend my stay for a day or two more. With a bit of luck. By late afternoon, I had worked myself down to Santa Rosa. I followed Natasha's instructions and turned west on Highway 12, winding my way down the short drive to Sebastopol. Again, I had found a quiet, out-of-the-way place. It was past six when I pulled into the entrance to the motel. It was as nice as the Internet pictures had depicted it, both inside and out. I chose to stay two nights, thinking it was just a few minutes further down the valley to the coast. I looked out the front window of my room and saw a seafood restaurant across the street. I hadn't had any on this trip, and I was drawn to the small eatery. By seven, I had finished a glass of a local Cabernet, and was halfway through the Chef's special, a jambalaya that I would have devoured if I hadn't slowed myself down. The second glass of wine was stretched to give my meal a chance to settle while I enjoyed the surroundings, and that very good feeling that I had maintained all day. On a whim, I rose and walked to the front desk, requesting a phone book. I looked up Natasha's cousin's number, and stepping into the washroom, punched in the number on my cell. "Hello?" It was a soft, feminine voice, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Natasha. "Hello, is Natasha Collier there, please?" "Yes ... just a moment." I could hear the mumbling in the background, undoubtedly wondering who knew she was at this number. "Hello ... this is Natasha," she answered cautiously. "Hi Natasha, Nate Poirier. From this morning in Geyserville." "Oh hi, Nate. Where are you?" "I just checked into The Valley Inn a while ago, and had a nice meal at the seafood restaurant across the street. I thought I'd call to see if we were still on for lunch tomorrow." "Yes ... sure. I thought you were staying in Geyserville tonight." "Well, I thought a change of scenery wouldn't hurt, and you said this area was very nice, so I decided to come over a little earlier. You were right, it is very nice." "Oh ... good. I'm glad you like it. I thought you would." "Yeah. Listen, if it's not too late, can I pick you up and we can have a coffee or a drink or something. Your cousin can join us too," I quickly added. I was feeling bold, and I was pushing my luck. "Oh ... uhmmm ... well, Janice has a couple of kids to look after. But ... I guess I can get away for a little while. Do you know how to find the house?" "Yeah. I've got a map and checked it out earlier. I can find it. How about I pick you up in ... what ... ten minutes?" "Okay. I'll watch for you. See you in ten." She sounded a bit uncertain. "Natasha ... uhmmm ... I realize I'm being very forward. I just thought ... if you're uncomfortable, we can leave it 'til tomorrow." "No ... no. That's alright. You just caught me by surprise." "Alright, then. See you in ten." I paid the bill and headed for my car. I had noted when I checked in that my motel had a small bar and restaurant, so we could go there if she didn't have a preference. My timing was right on. When I arrived at the address ten minutes later I noticed the regular tire for the car was back on. Quick service in a small town, I guessed. Natasha's cousin lived in an older style craftsman house which looked to be in very good condition with nicely groomed and treed grounds surrounding it. I walked up the wide, tall front steps and knocked on the door. She must have been nearby waiting, as the door swung open almost immediately, and I was facing a smiling Natasha Collier. "Hi ... come in for a moment and I'll introduce you," she said, giving me room to pass. I walked into the lovely living room, and saw a woman I assumed was Natasha's cousin. She was attractive, older by several years than Natasha. We shook hands, introducing ourselves. The walls were covered in paintings -- some oils, others watercolors. They appeared to be local scenes, but I couldn't be sure. "Are you the artist, Janice?" She nodded, smiling. "They are very good. Do you sell them?" "Yes. I have an arrangement with a gift shop in Bodega Bay, and another in Duncan Mills. It isn't my principal source of income, but I'm getting better known in the last couple of years." "I can see why." I could, too. She was very talented, and had a unique style that avoided many of the artistic clichés that were so familiar. When you saw her work, you knew immediately it was hers. "You sound like you know a bit about art," Natasha said. "Mostly from books and the Internet. I'm just an interested amateur." "Natasha is an art appraiser, you know," Janice explained. "No ... I didn't know. That's a surprise for someone so young," I said, wondering if I might have offended her. "Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment." "It is," I assured her. "That must make it awkward for you two." Janice laughed. "I wouldn't put her in that situation, Nate. But she does help me a lot with what sells and why. I just have to decide whether selling paintings is more important than doing what I enjoy. So far, the two have been in sync. I really want it to stay that way." I examined several of the paintings more closely and could see the detail and bold use of colour in each of them. Janice was genuinely talented. "You two run along now or you won't get out of here. Natasha, you have a key, so I'll leave the porch light on for you. I may be in bed when you get back. My two will be up early again, getting ready for school." We were out the door and down the stairs, into the warm night air when Natasha spoke. "Thanks for calling, Nate. Janice doesn't have a TV, and to be honest, there isn't much to do in the evenings. She reads or paints, so we don't even have many conversations." "My pleasure. By the way, that was a very smart thing to do ... inviting me in to meet Janice." "I don't understand. What do you mean?" "You were going out with someone you had only just met briefly that morning. You don't know me or anything about me. By making sure Janice saw me, she could recognize me if necessary." Natasha looked at me with a strange expression. "Should I be worried about you?" "No ... but then, I'm bound to say that, aren't I?" "Now I am starting to get nervous." "Don't be. My ex-wife would be the first to tell you I'm harmless. I'm completely housebroken, trained on and off the leash, and I brush my teeth twice a day." She couldn't help herself. She laughed. "Where are you taking me?" "There's a nice little restaurant and a bar in the motel. If there's somewhere else you'd prefer, name it." She looked at me carefully as I drove slowly back toward the inn. "No ... I know the place you mean. It's quiet and comfortable, and ... it's close to your room," she added with what I took to be a sly smile. "So ... you've decided to trust me." "For now. Don't really know why, but ... I do. Must be something about you. I guess I'll have to get you to tell me all about yourself, just to make sure though." "Alright, fair enough." I parked in the lot near my room and we walked to the restaurant entrance. "Restaurant or lounge?" I asked. "Lounge. Hardly anyone in there tonight and they have nice looking booths for privacy." "You think we need privacy? "If you're going to tell me your life story, I guess so," she said with a grin. Natasha ordered a Bailey's on-the-rocks, while I chose an Anchor Steam beer. "So, Nathan Poirier, just who are you and why are you moving to Vancouver?" Chapter 2: A Tasty Bit of Company I'm a practiced liar. I'm good at it because it was my job. I made people believe whatever story I chose to tell them. The only thing I had to work hard at was remembering which story I was using at the time. If you lie enough times, you start to lose track of which one you are telling. I had a handicap, as well. Women remembered me. They remembered me much better than men did. As much as I would like to be forgettable, or even invisible, they remembered me. A friend of mine at CSIS said it was because I looked something like Valery Putin, while another claimed I resembled a young Yul Brynner with hair. It wasn't good news. I was a bit too memorable for my liking. I'm five foot ten inches tall, and currently a very fit one hundred and seventy-five pounds. My hair is dark brown and cut short, but no mousse or trendy spikes. I had grown a goatee while in prison, and it changed my appearance quite a bit. My eyes are blue-gray, I have very high cheekbones, and my nose is slim and straight. I wear very ordinary clothes, seldom with a tie. I have no tattoos or piercings or other distinguishing marks. I don't laugh out loud much, and my voice isn't unique. I try very hard to be commonplace. If I have one quirk, it is my penchant for cowboy boots. At one time I had four pair. That was over eight years ago. I have one pair now. Old, but in beautiful condition after many hours of polishing and waxing. Soft as deerskin, they feel like a light glove on the foot. Damned if I know why my ex-wife wanted three pairs of size ten cowboy boots. Natasha Collier wanted my life story. That was going to be tricky. I would tell her as much of the truth as I dared, but not all of it. I didn't know her, and I wasn't about to put either her or myself in jeopardy. That was another of my necessary rules -- trust no one. I usually had a sixth sense about people, but it wasn't infallible, and I was still wary about what might lie in the future. As much as I'd like to get to know Ms. Collier, I had to keep to my self-imposed policy. That didn't mean I wouldn't romance the lady. "You don't waste any time, do you?" Natasha began as we sat in the high-backed booth. "Well, it's probably just two ships passing, that sort of thing, so there usually isn't a lot of time." "Tell me, Nathan, what do you do for a living?" "Nothing. At least, not right now. I'm living on severance from my last job." "And what was that?" "Security." "Like a mall guard or an armored car guy?" "No ... not exactly. I worked for the Canadian government. Internal security." "You aren't giving me much," she said, appearing frustrated. "Just as well. There isn't much I can give you." That seemed to stop that line of questioning temporarily. "You said you had an ex-wife. How long were you married?" "Three years, one month, and twenty-six days." "Not very long." "Long enough. She decided she could do better. I don't know if she has, though." "You still love her?" "Nope. The past is the past, and she won't be coming back." "Sorry. Didn't mean to pick at a scab." "No problem. It's been quite a while ... almost eight years since the divorce was final." "Any current girlfriends?" "Nope. No opportunity. You are the first young lady I've had the pleasure of spending any time with in quite a long while." "Lucky me," she smiled. I replied in kind, "No ... lucky me." She sat staring at me for some time, and I was looking right into her eyes as she did. She was trying to read me, and I was doing the same with her. "What did you learn?" She looked surprised, then curious. "About what?" "About me. You were studying me. What did you learn?" She blushed. It was attractive and quite natural. It confirmed just how lovely she was. "You seem to be a study in contrasts. Sometimes hard, sometimes soft. Sometimes tense, sometimes relaxed. You are very hard to read." "Perhaps I can help. I'm a thirty-five year old heterosexual male. You already know I'm single. I have no brothers or sisters. As far as I know, my parents are still alive, but my grandparents are not. I have a college degree in human behavior from Queens University via the Internet. I'm physically fit, and work out regularly. My hobbies are reading, fitness, and solving puzzles. I know how to ski, skate, swim, and dance. Any thing else you'd like to know?" "That's quite comprehensive, thank you. I supposed you'd like to have me reciprocate?" "Only if you want to." "I'm twenty-nine, single, a graduate of Simon Fraser in Communication, Art and Technology. I'm currently employed as a junior appraisal clerk for Blindside Galleries. I look for up-and-coming artists, and recommend their work for display and sale at our galleries. I have no current boyfriend. My parents are alive, and I have an identical twin sister, Felicia. Three of my four grandparents are still alive." "And what do you like to do in your spare time?" "Swim, bike, ski, dance, party ... you know ... all the young person stuff. I'm single, but I don't have any problems getting a date when I need one." "I'm not surprised. You are very attractive." "Thank you." She returned my smile. "I don't mean to offend you, Nathan, but ... you look older than thirty-five." I laughed. "No offense taken. Occupational hazard. I haven't exactly been lying around on the beach much in the last few years. I'm hoping I can put a stop to my premature aging." She blushed again. "I didn't mean you weren't good looking. You have a very mature face. An interesting face. Almost familiar in a way. What is your family background?" I hadn't thought of this coming up. I needed to think fast. "French and Russian. The French part from the Normandy coast and the Russian part from Siberia, near the Mongolian border." "Wow. That's quite a combination." I nodded. "Yes, it certainly is. I lean toward the Russian side of the family, like my father. Mom looks more French, luckily for her." "I think that explains why I find your face so interesting." "What about you?" I asked. "Mostly plain vanilla Canadian, but some Haida as well. My great grandfather was a coast native." "Tell me about your sister." "Felicia. Well she looks just like me, but we don't dress alike unless we're trying to fool someone. We used to double-date, so you can guess some of the things we got up to." "Sounds like you two enjoyed being a bit naughty now and then." "Felicia more than me. We may look alike, but that's where it ends. She's a part-time model, part-time actress, and part-time hostess." "Hostess?" "Yeah ... you know ... like at trade shows. She points to the product and hands out brochures, fetches the sales and technical guys when the questions get too tricky. That sort of thing." "Oh, sure. Sounds like she lives an interesting life too." "Yeah ... she does I guess. She goes through boyfriends like crazy. Never seems to keep one around for very long. She's a bit flighty ... if you know what I mean." "What about you? How long do your boyfriends last?" "Depends. I had one that lasted three years and a couple that lasted one date. I guess you couldn't really call them boyfriends ... except that I knew them for a while before I went out with them." "Ever been in love?" I was treading on dangerous ground, but it was too late now. "I thought so. The guy I was with for three years. He was in love with me, but ... in the end ... I knew I wasn't. That's why I broke up with him. I know it hurt him, but I wasn't going to pretend something that wasn't there. He was a nice guy, but ...." She left the comment unfinished. "Too bad for him. I can understand why he'd be disappointed. You're easy to like." "Nice line, Nathan," she said with a smirk. Busted, I shrugged it off. "I'm a little out of practice, so you'll have to make allowances for me." I was hoping it would get me back in her good graces, and it seemed to work. Period of Adjustment Ch. 01-04 "You don't lack confidence." "I'm only going to get so many chances to make a good impression on you. And ... I do want to make a good impression." She gave me that searching look again. "So far, you're doing fine. You've rescued me from having to deal with that flat tire, you've rescued me from another boring evening with my cousin, so maybe you'll rescue me from wondering what I'm going to do tomorrow." "May I be so bold as to suggest we spend the day together? I'm new to this area, and I'd like to go down to the coast ... see the Pacific." "That's sounds like something we'd both enjoy. Promise you'll be on your best behaviour?" "Ahh ... well ... I'll try." "Try?" "Well, you can hardly blame me if I get ... ideas when I'm with a beautiful woman." "Oh ... what kind of ideas?" "I won't say. I don't want to spoil tomorrow. I certainly don't want to scare you off." I was trying very hard to keep the conversation light, even though it was a bit adventuresome. "It's a good thing I trust you, Nathan. Otherwise ... there wouldn't be a tomorrow." I got the impression she wasn't kidding, so I called a halt to the provocative banter. She turned to me. "I'd better get back to Janice's place. I'll need my sleep if you're going to keep me out all day." I rose, paid the bill, and walked with her out to the car. When I escorted her up the stairs to her front door, she turned to me. "If you pick me up at eight, we can have breakfast together. My treat." "Eight o'clock ... I'll be here." I was about to watch her go when she leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on my lips. It may have lasted only one or two seconds, but it had an incredible effect. I hadn't been kissed in a long, long time, and the sensation went right to my groin. "Good night," she said softly, turning and walking inside, closing the door, but looking back as she did. I don't recall my short journey back to my room, but I was in a state after that one simple gesture of hers. I wondered if I would get any sleep after the shot of adrenalin she had generated. Chapter 3: Thrown to the Wolves Despite temptations, I had worked very hard to suppress any sexual feelings while in prison. It had been easier when I learned of Elise's rapid exit. She soured me on the female of the species. I managed to neuter myself mentally for most of my term. Now ... I could allow myself the luxury of those emotions once again. Natasha was the first opportunity. I was handling myself clumsily, I knew. I had to go back in time to remember my long-lost skills. I joined the Army just after turning eighteen. I had no plans for college even though I qualified with my marks. I wanted some adventure, and I wanted to get away from the restrictions of home. The Army, my father's training ground in engineering, was my first choice. I easily passed the physical, and went for my interview. "You really should consider officer training, Colin," Lt. Czmanski advised. "You've got the grades and the potential. You're in good physical condition, and I think you'd do well at Basic Officer Training. There are more than a dozen schools for specialization. I wish you'd give it some thought." "Yes, sir. I was hoping there would be room for me in engineering." "I think we can find a space for you, assuming you get through basic, and your aptitude tests show you have the necessary capabilities." The lieutenant wore a smile, probably thinking he had convinced me. I had no way of knowing how difficult a path I had chosen, but with the ignorance and enthusiasm of youth, and my determination to follow my father's footsteps, I set out to make a career of the army. It didn't work out quite the way I had expected. I wanted to go to engineering school, but according to the aptitude test, I was more suited for other fields. Among the other fields they suggested was one that nearly floored me: intelligence. They said I had very good logic and problem solving skills, and this made me a potential candidate. My ability to concentrate, keep my cool under pressure, and sustain myself alone in the field, were additional important factors. I had a strange idea of just what Military Intelligence was all about, notwithstanding the usual jokes about it being the original oxymoron. A conversation with two senior officers convinced me that it would both interesting and valuable. I was to become an analyst, learning to assess situations on the information available, and to propose possible responses and solutions to field situations. What was critical was determining that the information we passed along was as accurate as humanly possible. Field commanders in places like Rwanda and Bosnia-Herzegovina were desperately dependent on that accuracy. Despite some misgivings about my qualifications, I signed up. Less than a year later, having passed through basic training, I was fully immersed in learning to become an analyst. Thanks to some stern lectures from my C.O., I took my responsibilities very seriously. I didn't smile a lot, and I didn't often drink. It earned me the nickname "Rocky." My one weakness was to chase women. On the other hand, I moved up through the ranks as an acknowledgement of my progress and my attitude toward my job. I left the army at age twenty-four after seven years. Rising quickly to the rank of Captain, I had been trained and schooled and trained some more, but my duties were horribly narrow, and after a while I felt I was no longer being challenged. When I mustered out, I didn't have a clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I wasn't very confident that I was qualified for conventional jobs. I was still pretty young, but I did worry about the future. It didn't take much for a recruiter from CSIS to interest me in a new career. Newly married, I needed a job. They were attracted by my analytical skills, and my willingness to tackle complex situations, devising potential strategies. It also involved field work. This was much more to my liking. I was being given some freedom to use my talent, and not just report up the chain of command. A short indoctrination period, followed by more training, and I was assigned to Section 3, the top end of the service. That was my first surprise. I was young and just getting started. I didn't realize how much my army training had contributed to my selection to the elite element. Later I would learn just how cynical the whole process had been. The smart guys knew enough to choose Section 2 as a stepping stone. I hadn't been around long enough to know better. I was young and enthusiastic, wanting to excel in a way that would make my father proud. I knew he was disappointed that I had left the army after only a few years, but he was mollified somewhat when I joined CSIS. The catch was, of course, that I couldn't divulge very much about my activities. I thought that much of the secrecy was unnecessary nonsense, but I had signed the Official Secrets Act, and I was duty-bound to obey the rules. My father understood, but my wife and mother didn't. Only my father's assurances to my mother that I was doing something important for the country quieted her questions. As far as Elise was concerned, I don't think I ever convinced her that I was doing something important. It was nearing the end of the third year of my employment when I was assigned to a special operation aimed at intercepting cross-border smuggling. It was a touchy political situation. It involved First Nations individuals, a biker gang, and possibly some law enforcement people on both sides of the border. The Mohawk nation had maintained that there was no border on their reserve, since their traditional lands lay in both Quebec and New York State. After a couple of nasty stand-offs, the politicians were reluctant to take a hard line on the issue. As a result, cross-border smuggling of guns, drugs, cigarettes, liquor, and even people, was rampant. My job was to work undercover in the motorcycle gang, and spread doubt about the trustworthiness of their Mohawk partners. I was uneasy with this plan. I was to finger one of the native leaders as a RCMP spy, and create unrest and distrust among the alliance. We wanted to fragment the structure, and find some weak links we could exploit. When I planted the seed, I might have known what the consequence would be. The native was found floating in the St. Lawrence River with his hands bound behind him, and a bullet hole in the back of his head. It turned out the dead man was the son of the hereditary chief, and as the saying goes, the shit fell from dizzy heights. It might have been black-comedy funny if it hadn't been so fucked up and ugly. It turned out the wrong man had been identified by our intelligence. We'd set him up to be killed, and I was the guy who did the setting up. The sight of a half-dozen CSIS overlords with their hands covering their asses was something to behold. In the meantime, I was busy trying to find out who did the actual execution. At least we could salvage that from this cluster-fuck. I couldn't believe it when two plain-clothes Mounties showed up at my door with an arrest warrant. I was being charged the with second degree murder of the native. The Crown contended that I had lit the fuse that the bikers used to erase the informant. The fact that I had identified the killer carried no weight. I was charged with being an accessory to murder. Naturally, my section chief, being the stalwart man he was, told me not to worry. He would make it all go away. Bullshit! I was tried and convicted and sentenced to twelve years in maximum security, Kingston Penitentiary. Oooopps! was about all I got from the heroic Mr. Taggart when the sentence was handed down. I was to spend the next eight-and-a-third years in prison, thanks to a mistake by someone else, and a gutless boss. If I learned anything about myself in my time in the army and CSIS, I knew that I had a very strong sense of self-discipline. Perhaps I had it all along, but my training in those two organizations developed and fine-tuned it. It was my most valuable asset as I languished in prison. Eight years is a long time to spend being pissed-off. Eight years is a long time to live among the dregs of society, knowing full well ninety-nine percent of them belong there. Eight years is a long time to defend yourself from the bullies, druggies, and other scum who are always looking for a way to drag you into their net ... or take you out. Eight years is a long time to perfect the art of being a loner. But eight years was enough to learn, to plan, and to plot my revenge. They, my former employer, had made an enemy. One who had little regard for the consequences that his actions might produce. I had only one mantra: I would never go back to prison ... no matter what! Chapter 4: The Way Home When I picked up Natasha promptly at eight the next morning, I must have stared. She was dressed in a very revealing tank-top and a snug pair of denim shorts. A pair of soft-soled sandals completed the ensemble. She was quite a sight. "I see you approve of my outfit." She was grinning at my reaction. "Hell, yes. Me ... and every other guy within sighting distance." "Thanks, that's good for my ego," she said as she slipped into the front seat. She led me to a nice, modern-looking café on the road to the coast where we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. As promised, she paid. We continued on down the valley through a couple of small towns until we arrived in Jenner. It was another sunny, warm, late summer day, with the sun glistening off the Pacific. We spent the entire day together, wandering from one small place to another. Lunch in Bodega Bay, a walk at Point Reyes, an unhurried drive along the Gravenstein Highway back to Sebastapol. I was completely relaxed and comfortable in Natasha's presence. She had a lot to do with that. She was acting as if we were old friends who'd known each other for years. It made for a pleasant day, and I'd rather it didn't end. "Where would you like to go for dinner?" I asked as we neared her cousin's home. She looked over to me, a wrinkle on her brow. "Haven't you had enough of me yet?" "No. Not at all. Have you had enough of me?" She didn't answer right away, but her eyes never left mine. "You know I'm flying back home tomorrow?" "Well ... I've been meaning to talk to you about that." I was running out of time to spring my spur-of-the-moment plan. "I was going to suggest I drive you back. It's an easy three day drive, and you'd get to see northern California and the Oregon coast." "But what about my plane ticket?" "You could cash it in when you get back to Vancouver. If not, I'll buy it from you." "I suppose I'm expected to sleep with you." "Nope. We'll have separate rooms. You'll be completely safe from me." I tried to say it in a reassuring manner. "Yeah ... like hell." She went quiet again. I decided not in to interrupt. "Why?" "I like you, and we seem to be very comfortable in each other's company. It would make the trip much more interesting and less tiring than my driving up the interstate by myself. You'd get to extend your vacation another couple of days, too." "Why are you offering to pay for all this ... vacation?" "Because I can. You and I seem to be compatible ... so ... I just thought ...." I quit there. The ball was in her court now. "I don't think Janice will be very happy. I hardly know you at all." "I think I can ease both your minds. Janice has an e-mail address. I'll photo my passport and driver's license and my car, showing the plates. I'll e-mail them to her. If anything were to happen, she could instantly give the authorities a complete description of you, me, and my vehicle." She continued to look at me for some time before turning away. "I'll think about it." "Fair enough. Now ... about dinner." "Janice is allergic to seafood. Do you think you could stand two nights at the same restaurant?" "Absolutely. I only got to try one dish, and it was terrific. I'd be delighted to take you there." "Fine. Drop me at the house. I want to have a shower and change. Pick me up at six, please. Janice usually has dinner with the boys then. Is that alright?" "Yes, see you at six." I had a nice feeling about this conversation. The trip up the coast wasn't a done deal, but I sensed she would give it a fair hearing. The meal was excellent, just as I expected. Natasha loved crab, while I wanted to try the calamari, fresh from Monterey Bay. Neither of us was disappointed. She was clearly still mulling my proposal over in her mind, uncertain whether to accept or not. "How can you afford to pay for all this?" she asked, referring to the meal and my offer of a ride. "Does it matter? Just be satisfied that I can ... easily. Besides, I get a certain benefit from it too, you know." She looked up sharply at me. "I get the pleasure of your company, someone to talk to, someone to help keep me alert along the drive. That's worth quite a lot to me." "I can drive, too," she said, still watching me carefully. "Excellent. We can spell each other off. There's another benefit for me." "I have no idea why I should trust you, Nathan. No idea at all. But ... somehow ... I do." I shrugged. "Usually your first instincts are your best." "Yeah. Sometimes they can fool you too." "Look, Natasha. I'm not trying to put a lot of pressure on you. It may seem like it, but ... it's your decision. Do what you think is right. I'll accept that, whatever you decide." She studied me for a while longer. We had finished the meal, and were waiting for the waiter to remove the plates. When he had done so and we had declined a dessert, she looked up at me. "Alright. Let's do it. It beats the hell out of flying these days. As you said, it gives me three more days of vacation. Let's do it." "Great! What time would you like me to pick you up in the morning? Eight o'clock too soon?" "No, that's fine. Janice will have the kids off to school about then, so it will work out great." "I thought we'd drive up Highway 101. We should be able to make it to Leggett for lunch, and you can get a good look at the redwoods. After that, we'll head north towards Oregon. Shouldn't be too hard a drive," I said happily. Inwardly, I was bubbling. She smiled and nodded. "I'll look after e-mailing my information to Janice right after we leave here. That should give her a bit of comfort." "I think she still thinks I'm thirteen, and innocent. She's only a few years older than I am, but she's remembering when she babysat me. I have to keep reminding her that was a long time ago." I paid the bill, left a nice tip, and walked with Natasha out to the parking lot. I pulled out my pocket digital camera, and took a picture of my car, front and back, clearly showing the license plate. I showed the picture to her and she nodded in satisfaction. I took my passport out and had her hold it open to the appropriate page while I took another picture, then the same with my driver's license. Each time, I showed her the image on the camera's little screen. We walked across the street to my room, and I downloaded the pictures to my laptop. Natasha and I both made sure the images were clear and legible before I emailed them to her cousin. I saw a look of confidence on her face. I had done exactly what I said I was going to do, and that counted with her. "This is a nice room," she said. "It is ... I hope I find a couple more just like it for the next two nights. I had pretty good luck when I was coming across the country." I watched her as she looked around the room appreciatively. "Why don't we go for a walk around town? It's early yet. Who knows, we might even work up an appetite for dessert," I suggested. "Sure. That's sounds like a good idea." By eight-thirty, it was getting dark, and we worked our way back toward the Valley Inn. "How about that dessert?" She nodded. "Okay. Let's see what they have at the motel restaurant." A half hour later, we had finished our food, and we were enjoying an after-dinner drink, quietly talking about nothing in particular. Janet chose Bailey's with ice, while I splurged on a Hennessey Five Star Cognac in a heated snifter. I was feeling very good about the next three days. I drove Natasha back to her cousin's place, and again I got a nice kiss on the doorstep before she went inside. That good feeling could settle in for a long stay, I hoped. Just before eight the next morning, I arrived at Janice's home and mounted the stairs. I was just about to knock, when the door swung open, and two lively young boys bounded out the door, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and almost flew down the front steps, never missing a beat. I had to laugh as I watched, then turned back to the door to see Janice shaking her head. "Manners are not very well established yet, Nate." "I don't think that comes until a bit later. Just be grateful they seem enthusiastic about going to school" "I suppose. Natasha will be down in a minute. She's just finishing packing." "Did you get my e-mail?" "Yes. Thank you. That does help settle my mind. Just the same ... I'm having a hard time thinking she's all grown up, and can do what she wants. You will look after her, won't you?" She didn't act like she was deeply concerned. "You have my word on it. The last thing I want to do is spoil what might be the start of a nice friendship. Who knows where it might end up," I shrugged. "Well, just make sure to look after her. If you don't, you'll have to answer to me." I got the impression she was serious. "I've been warned," I acknowledged. At that point, Natasha appeared with her wheeled bag and a small carry-on. I took the larger bag from her, and we said our goodbyes to Janice. A minute later, the car was turned toward Santa Rosa and Highway 101. Period of Adjustment Ch. 01-04 It isn't hard to get used to sunny California days. Janice had told me that late July through September were the very best months of the year, and this year looked like no exception. As we rolled north, I was admiring the scenery as it changed from vineyards to farmlands, to open range, and then forests. We stopped briefly in Leggett to stretch our legs and get a coffee. We were in the southern heart of the redwood forest, and the enormous, majestic trees were spectacular. We played tourist for a while, before returning to the highway and resuming our travels. A small restaurant in Arcata looked after the light lunch we wanted, and we were back on the road again, crossing into Oregon. Another pit stop for a stretch, and a brief conference helped us decide to quit at Gold Beach for the night. It was a resort-type town where the Rogue River met the Pacific. Plenty of accommodation and restaurants according to the guidebook. It was only another half hour up the road, and we would be there before four-thirty. As we drove into town, I liked the look of it right away, and Natasha agreed. We found a nice looking motel on the beach side of the highway and pulled in. They had rooms available, so we booked two and checked in. Natasha wanted to freshen up, and I wanted to rest for a few minutes. I was sitting in a comfortable chair watching the news when I nodded off. I jumped when the phone rang. It took me a minute to remember where I was, before getting up and answering. "Hello." "Did I wake you? I knocked on your door, but you didn't answer," Natasha said in a quiet voice. "Yeah, but that's okay. I guess I needed the rest. Thanks." "Do you feel like eating yet?" "Sure. Just give me a minute to wash, and I'll meet you out front." Natasha had already looked up the local restaurants and had made a list of the possibles. We decided on Italian and, as it happened, the restaurant was just two blocks north on the same side. We walked. We'd had more time to get to know each other that day. I was being very careful what I told her about my past. I wasn't going to lie ... at least, not blatantly. The fact that I was using a false name didn't enter into that equation. I also found myself wanting to tell her more. Give her some idea of what I had been through in the past years, but without being specific. I knew that wasn't going to work. Sooner or later, I was going to have to tell her the truth. We held hands as we walked toward the restaurant. That gesture seemed so completely familiar and natural that I don't think she even noticed. The menu was conventional, with a few additional seafood entrées. We shared a bruschetta and opened a bottle of Chianti while we waited for our main course. "I'm enjoying this trip, Nathan. I'm glad I decided to do this. It's so much more pleasant than flying." "Good. I'm glad. I'm enjoying it too. It wasn't too tiring for you today, was it?" "No ... but ... I'm the one that should be asking that question. You did all the driving. I know you must have been tired. You fell asleep in your room, remember." "I didn't sleep as well as I usually do last night. I guess I was excited about the next three days." She looked at me, her brow wrinkled in what I recognized as her facial question mark. "Excited?" "Sure. With a beautiful companion beside me, I was really looking forward to today and I wasn't disappointed." "That's very nice of you to say. Thank you, Nathan." "I have a question for you, though. Why do you call me Nathan, and not Nate?" "I don't know, really. I think I like the sound of Nathan much more. It's smoother ... and nicer. Nate sounds a bit abrupt to me. Does that bother you?" "No ... not at all. Not when you explain it that way." I smiled my pleasure at her remark. "Nathan it is, then." We finished our meal and sat, sipping the last of the Chianti and enjoying the vista out over the Pacific. It would be sunset soon, and the haze guaranteed it would be a beautiful sight. We walked back to the motel, each apparently lost in our thoughts. I was thinking how much I liked being with this woman. I would want to date her when we got to Vancouver. I didn't want to do anything overt during the next two days. I didn't want to upset her in any way. I decided to wait until we were back in Canada before attempting to develop a relationship with Natasha, assuming she was interested, that is. She did the soft kiss thing again as we approached our rooms, and I watched as she went inside for the night. I entered my room and sighed. What I wouldn't give for a night with that woman. Hell, forget the night. Just give me a couple of hours. My room's only window looked out over the ocean, and the setting sun was turning orange in the evening haze. I noticed a door to the outside patio, and I picked up my digital camera before walking outside. There were a few plastic chairs around a cheap patio table, and I sat in one as I set up the camera. I took a few sunset over the ocean pictures, then just relaxed. I sat for a while, listening to the surf and enjoying a warm evening. I'm not sure how long, but a few minutes later, I thought I heard knocking. I assumed it was somewhere else, but when I heard it again, I realized it was the connecting door to Natasha's room. I moved to it and opened it. She had a bottle of Bailey's in her hand and a smile on her face. "I thought you might like an after-dinner drink." "Sure. Come on in. I was just enjoying the sunset." I led her out onto the patio, pulled out a chair for her, and waited for her to sit. "It really is beautiful here, isn't it?" She lifted her glass and we made a silent toast. "This was a nice idea," I said, indicating the creamy mocha liqueur. "I hate drinking alone. Besides, it would be selfish if I didn't share." "Well, you learn soon enough that there's nothing romantic about being alone in a motel room," I said before realizing how it might be interpreted. "Are you lonely, Nathan?" It sounded like a serious question. I didn't look at her. I just stared out at the sunset. "Yeah, now and then." We were sitting close enough that she could reach out and take my hand. It felt soft and warm, and I caught myself fantasizing again. I squeezed it gently, and she returned the gesture. I turned to look at her, and she was smiling. Not a big happy smile, but one of those enigmatic smiles that tell you she's thinking about something and you don't know what it is. We sat silently for several minutes, sipping our drinks and staring at the now fading light in the west. It was still warm, despite being beside the ocean, and I didn't feel any urgency to go inside. At least not until Natasha rose, came to me and bent down until her face was right in front of me. And then, she kissed me. Not that feather-light touch from before, but a much more insistent kiss. She pulled back and I looked at her, trying to interpret what she was thinking. She held her hands out to me and I took them, knowing she wanted me to stand. She walked me back into my room, closing the door behind me. I stood, waiting for her to do something, anything, to tell me what she wanted. Her arms encircled my neck, and she pulled me into another even more passionate kiss. "I'm lonely too, Nathan. I don't want to be alone tonight. I want to stay with you." "I can't think of anything that would make me happier. Are you sure, Natasha? After all ...." I didn't get to finish and she plastered my lips with another soul-searing kiss. "Be quiet. Just accept that it's happening. I want it. You want it. Just accept it," she whispered.