| Subject: WTTS2 - 72 (warning: NC-17) |
Author:
KT
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Date Posted: 21:27:38 01/11/02 Fri
In reply to:
KT
's message, "Window to the Soul 2" on 20:43:26 01/11/02 Fri
Window to the Soul 2 - Part 72 (Warning: NC-17)
By KT
Copyright August 7, 2000
Gerald Price and Marcus O'Brien were at an impasse.
O'Brien had the pieces of the puzzle, but couldn't quite make them fit. The coroner's report showed that Karen Kent had died of cardiac arrest, just like Zalman, but that information had not yet been released. There were however, no traces of heroin in her blood as there had been in his. Somehow, Petrosian and Price had maneuvered her death, and O'Brien was pretty sure that Chernov was not involved. Chernov was smart, but not clever.
Further investigation had revealed that the building where Karen had lived was owned by Chernov, but financed by Petrosian. Other apartments in the building housed ladies of a certain persuasion, though none could be reached for comment. O'Brien had referred the problem to Vice, deciding that it was not his job to get warrants to search each and every unit. If they brought Chernov down, so much the better. He was merely a gopher for Petrosian, who kept him dangling with more than adequate kickbacks from their "business" arrangement.
Price wanted to know about the evidence. O'Brien wanted to know about Kent's death. Neither one would give ground. The doctor who had written the order for her medication could also not be reached. In fact, O'Brien had issued a subpoena for his records, but when the officers got to his office, they found it vacant - and clean as a whistle.
The date for Petrosian's formal indictment was still two weeks away. A lot could happen in that time. O'Brien visited the evidence locker daily to make sure that his precious articles were not tampered with. Good thing the officer in charge was above reproach, not to mention a longtime friend of his.
O'Brien sat back as Price scrutinized him.
"That's all you have to say?" Price was chilly.
"That's all. We have an airtight case. Your client has heard Karen's confession." Price's eyes narrowed. "Oh, not the one she gave you. The one she gave me." O'Brien leaned forward. "Petrosian believes the charges won't stick, but I'm advising you, there's no point in defending him. What I need from him is admission to aiding and abetting. If he cooperates, maybe he'll get off with a shorter sentence that includes possible parole. If not, he'll go down for the murder of Zalman based on hard evidence, and do life without parole. So what's it gonna be? Do we have a deal?"
"This is authorized by the D.A.'s office?"
"It's their offer."
Price thought he could present his tape of Karen's confession, countering the State's admission of their tape, citing the discrepancies between them. Who's to say she didn't lie to them both? With only hearsay, her word against his, he could get Petrosian's case thrown out. But hard evidence? What could there possibly be?
Price knitted his brows together as his mind raced. If he didn't get Petrosian off, then Egran could possibly blow the whistle on him by attempting to implicate him in Karen's death. But that would only be a minor inconvenience... the rantings of a desperate man. The aftermath might be somewhat messy, but there was nothing to prove. He could not be linked to the doctor. His tracks were completely covered.
"OK, we have a deal. Give me some time with Petrosian. Just because I agree doesn't mean he will. And without his consent, you have nothing."
O'Brien nodded. "You'll tape the interview?"
"All right. But I'll have to inform my client. You know the rules." Price left without ceremony.
The phone rang and O'Brien heard the sonorous voice of Ed Durand.
"Hi Marcus."
"What've you got, Ed?"
"Oldest trick in the book. Digitalis likely, as it doesn't leave a blatant footprint. Probably substituted in her medication. We couldn't find the bottle, so I'm assuming it went out with the trash. She no doubt took all of whatever they gave her, especially if she had a tolerance built up. And if the dosage was doubled up to begin with, that would certainly be enough to cause arrhythmia severe enough to be fatal."
"Crap. Well, I guess that road is a dead end."
"Sorry, Marcus."
"Thanks, Ed. Great job."
As O'Brien hung up, he knew now that the only way he was going to get Petrosian was to make the murder charges stick. And that was exactly what he intended to do.
* * * * * * * *
Nikita fell asleep surrounded by the warmth of Michael's arms, the sedative Sabine had given her working slowly to relax her body and mind. She welcomed the dreamless oblivion, true rest coming to her at last. Michael stayed long enough to assure that she would not wake as he slipped from her bed. The house was quiet, and he picked up his things and rode home.
Their practice had been once again energetic and productive, though he could see that Nikita had struggled to keep her attitude positive. Dinner was more tolerable as well, and she didn't shut him out as she had before. The presence of the other women had a calming effect on her.
Michael crawled into bed, welcoming it's quiet sanctuary. He banished all his tempting images of Nikita's body from his mind, and focused on how the pale blue pools of her eyes had caressed him softly as she had floated into semi-consciousness, a sweet half smile playing about her lips. Her fingers had fluttered over his cheek, and he savored the recollection of her tenderness as she had kissed him good night.
He felt good and tired from his day, and the workout had taken the edge off his excess physical energy. Michael decided that he would visit the dojo more often during Nikita's convalescence. He sank into his featherbed, inhaling the faint remains of her scent that still lingered there.
The music had wrought its magic not only on Nikita, but on him as well.
* * * * * * * *
And so it went, every day for a week.
Nikita had made up her mind that she would try, and fight, as she had promised Roberta. It was incredibly hard not knowing the outcome of it all, but she couldn't think about that right now. She gave her physical therapy and piano practice one hundred percent of her energy. In fact, by the end of each day, she was actually tired from her efforts, and gradually, Sabine reduced the amount of sedative until, by the end of the week, Nikita was falling asleep without it. They talked about the shooting every day during therapy, until Nikita could recount what happened without breaking down.
Therapy... massage... bath... nap... practice... music. Having a routine helped Nikita to focus.
For the Nth time in her life, music saved her soul in ways that nothing else could. Roberta would listen to her practice from her bed, then Nikita would come in to visit and they would discuss her interpretations. Nikita liked listening to her Mom's comments. She knew Roberta wasn't a musician, but then, ninety-nine percent of an audience wasn't anyway. Nikita began to gain insight about what the average listener heard. Soon Sabine joined in their discussions.
The healing had begun.
At the Hall, Michael threw himself into his work with a vengeance, and was pleased with the orchestra's progress on the Beethoven, the Mozart, the Bach. His sectionals were both feared and praised by the players, and Paul Wolfe watched from the wings. He was impressed. When Michael was driven, there was no power on earth that could slow him down.
After work he would stop in at the Café to chat briefly with Walter, keeping him apprised of Nikita's progress. Walter would pass the news to Birkoff, and they both made it a point to call every day and check in. Michael knew that Nikita looked forward to their calls, and was grateful for the support of their friends.
Then it was to the dojo, then to practice with Nikita, his favorite part of the day.
But it was supper with the family - Michael took to bringing a bottle of wine as his contribution to the meal - that he began to enjoy as much as the practice. It had been so long since he'd been a part of a family group, even one such as this, where not all the members were actually related to each other. He began to look upon Sabine and Gwen like "aunts", and learned about Sabine's family history as well.
Each night, he would slip home after Nikita was asleep, totally spent. As much as he wanted to stay the night, he couldn't. Trying to control his erotic reaction to her was like trying to stop breathing. Michael knew that Nikita would be disappointed that her body couldn't respond, and it would lead to another bout of depression... more tears... more frustration. He couldn't bring himself to be the cause of that. At least the nightmares had stopped and she was getting the rest she needed.
Michael stood at his bedroom window, staring out into the night, remembering the first time they had made love. He caught his breath as he pictured her there, bathed in moonlight, crying, totally unaware of her silvery beauty. This was the hardest time of the day for him... the time when his firm resolve waivered in the uncertainty of the darkness... when he had to convince himself that his love was strong enough for both of them.
Perhaps he was underestimating her. So far, Nikita had shown great courage in the face of her adversity. Depression notwithstanding, she was trying. And that was all one could ask of another person. To do the best they could with what they had.
Well, tomorrow was Friday. Michael looked forward to the weekend. He needed to get some things done around his apartment, maybe get to the dojo on Saturday, and he could spend some real time practicing and preparing for next week's intense schedule. There would be the interim pianist to deal with as well... what was his name? Oh yes... Karl. Karl Peruze. A capable enough player. Capable was OK, for some things. But he was no match for Nikita.
But enough thinking... tomorrow would come soon enough.
* * * * * * * *
Egran Petrosian stewed in his cell the whole week. Gerald Price had presented the D.A.'s offer and had recommended that he take it, but he was dead set on beating the rap, and so had refused. Price didn't call O'Brien or the D.A.'s office. He decided to let Petrosian think on it for a few more days. Perhaps he would come to his senses. Perhaps not. Price could wait.
* * * * * * * *
Friday morning at the Wirth residence started out with the phone ringing. Sabine answered. It was Walter.
"Hello, Walter. Did you want to speak to Nikita?"
"Yes. And no. Actually, I wanted to talk to you."
Sabine was quiet. She had been waiting for Walter to bring up the subject of dinner again. She knew that he had backed off of the invitation at her request, during this intense time of caring for Roberta.
"And what did you want to talk about?"
"I thought we could make good on that rain check we had."
" 'Rain check'?" Sabine was genuinely baffled.
"Oh, it's just an expression we have here. It means... well, it's like, if you went to a baseball game and the game was called on account of rain. They'd give you a ticket for another game to use any time in the future. Sort of an expression of good will."
"I see. So you want to take me to a baseball game?" Sabine was deliberately dense, laughing to herself. "And here I thought you had something more romantic in mind. I am not quite sure how to take this, Walter." Her voice feigned insult. "Should I bring my raincoat?" Sabine was laughing out loud now.
Walter started to laugh. "Only if it's raining." He caught his breath. "But, seriously, Sabine, I thought it would be nice if we could go out to dinner and maybe take in a movie. You've been working too long without a break."
Sabine's own laughter calmed as she replied. "But, Walter, that is what it is all about right now. I need to be available on a twenty-four hour basis." She was gentle but firm. "When this is all over, I promise you, I will go out with you."
"So, you do like me a little, then?"
"Oh, just a little, I suppose." Sabine was laughing again.
"Then I'll take that as a 'yes' on the rain check."
"Yes. That is a yes." Sabine's tone dropped. "Walter, you do understand, do you not? I must not be distracted right now. Roberta commands my complete attention, and if anything should happen and I was not available... well, it really is unthinkable."
Walter grasped the gravity of Sabine's commitment. "I do understand, Sabine. And I respect that kind of loyalty. Please, I wasn't trying to give you a hard time. Well, maybe a little. It's just I hate waiting is all."
"Thank you."
"And now, can I talk to Nikita?"
* * * * * * * *
Michael's Friday turned into a half day. There was no concert this weekend, and Paul Wolfe had decided that the results of the week's sectionals were more than satisfactory. In a generous mood, he had called Michael and told him to take the afternoon off. Michael was elated, and popped over to the Café to grab some lunch. Walter took in Michael's easy effusiveness with a sidelong glance.
"So, what are you going to do with all this down time? I sure could use a hand cleaning this place. Things have gotten a little behind since you stopped working regular hours here."
Michael gave Walter a mock frown. "Cleaning this place?" he echoed. "That was not exactly what I had in mind." He reconsidered. Tomorrow was Saturday. "Well... I suppose I could come in tomorrow for a few hours."
Walter chuckled. "Michael, I was just kidding. I know Nikita needs you more than I do right now. And, frankly, I'd much rather see you spending time with her. She needs to get better, and sooner than later. You are her best medicine."
Michael looked at Walter, suddenly intense. "And she is mine," he said softly.
Walter lay a hand on Michael's arm and returned his look. He nodded, as words didn't seem necessary at the moment. Michael reached for the bill.
Walter snatched it away with a warm smile. "This one's on me. Have a nice day."
* * * * * * *
"So, Nikita, you're sure you'll be all right?" Sabine was only mildly concerned. Nikita was getting in and out of her wheelchair easily now, and could fix herself a cup of tea and simple food without too much difficulty.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry. Have a nice afternoon."
Gwen entreated her. "You're positive you don't want to come along? It's such a beautiful day. You know, you have to enjoy the sun when you can get it."
"I know, but I need to practice," Nikita reassured them, but what she really wanted was some time alone. So far, that had been a rare commodity. She loved them all more dearly than anything, but she needed a break.
Gwen was taking Roberta and Sabine on a little drive. Roberta was not strong enough to go for an extended walk, but she was ready for a change of scenery. They planned to take a ride up north on Sheridan Rd. and into Evanston to look at all the old houses with their lovely gardens. Chicago was nothing if not a mecca for diverse and fascinating architecture, much of it designed by architects who were extremely well-known.
Sabine agreed to leave Nikita on her own. She could think of no real danger in it, and called the hospice service to alert them, just in case Nikita should need assistance.
"I'll be fine," she repeated, as she kissed her Mom and waved them out the door. Sabine supported Roberta while Gwen rolled the oxygen unit out to the car. They took off, and Nikita decided to leave the front door open as the spring breeze beckoned her with its freshness. She sat in the doorway, closing her eyes against the sun's comforting warmth. A full smile curved her lips, and her spirit was soothed. Moments later, she was asleep.
* * * * * * * *
Michael took a brief sojourn at the lake, the water a deep teal blue, rising and falling with a subtle restlessness that mirrored his own. As a breeze sprung up, whitecaps appeared, turning the surface into a frothy melee. He breathed deeply as the sun hit him, and felt himself relax. Truly it had been a long week.
He took off for home and changed into a lightweight sweater and some jeans. He collected his music and instrument and headed for Nikita's. He felt light and free, the reprieve from work buoying his spirits. Michael parked his bike and walked slowly up to the porch, seeing Nikita asleep in her chair just inside the door. He soundlessly moved up the steps and would have surprised her, but as his shadow fell over her, blocking the sun, she felt the change and stirred.
Michael set his cello and pack down and stood gazing at his love. She looked peaceful, and he would have thought she was completely content if he didn't know better. It was just the loveliness of the day. Its infectious affirmation of a new season bestowed its restorative powers on them both. He stepped forward and bent to place a kiss on the top of Nikita's head.
She woke with a start, and looked up. Their eyes locked in a dreamy moment, and her gaze drifted to his mouth. Michael leaned down and pressed his lips to hers tentatively, then felt her hands on his face, almost like the first time he had kissed her here on the porch steps. A tiny groan escaped him before he could curb it. Nikita pulled back.
"Michael, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the afternoon."
"I have the day off."
At that, she noticed his casual dress.
Michael became aware of how quiet the house was. "Where is everyone?"
She told him about the excursion the ladies had embarked upon. "They'll be gone for awhile. I've had my therapy and massage, and my lunch. Did you eat?"
"Yes, I stopped at the Café. Walter sends greetings. They really left you here alone?"
"Yes. I told them I didn't want to go, that I wanted to practice. But the truth is, I just wanted some time to myself."
Michael stood still. "Oh. Would you like me to go?" His face registered disappointment.
"No. Please. Stay." Nikita saw a fleeting glimmer of doubt in his eyes. "Really. It's OK."
A moment of silence passed as he decided that she was sincere. "Have you practiced today?"
"Not yet." Nikita turned her chair toward the living room, and Michael picked up his things and followed her in. "I usually have a bath, then take a nap before practice."
Michael gave her a curious stare. The corners of his mouth turned up. "I could help you with that."
"With what?"
"Your bath."
Nikita looked at Michael, and her voice dropped. "Really..."
He walked slowly toward her. She backed her chair up, keeping an even distance between them, but it was no good. Michael closed the distance between them, placing his hands on the handles of her chair behind her shoulders, his face hovering above hers.
"Yes, really."
He pushed the chair slowly down the hallway backward until they reached the bath. Michael turned the water on, and the tub began to fill. It was an old-fashioned Victorian tub, cast iron, with pretty procelain handles and claw feet. The best thing about it was its depth. Nikita loved that when she sat in it, her entire body was submerged. Michael found the bath salts. He read the label.
"Narcissus." Michael looked at Nikita, but her eyes were averted as a smirk played around her mouth. "'Kita..."
She shrugged. "Couldn't resist. It's all your fault, y'know. Those flowers in your office..." Her eyes came up, a bit of mischief showing around their corners. Her heart beat just a little faster as heat rose in his eyes.
The room filled with steam. Michael reached over and peeled Nikita's shirt over her head. Next came her sweats. He was gratified to note that she wore no underwear. She felt extremely vulnerable as his gaze ravished her breasts, then traveled lower. He lifted her carefully, his face close to hers, then placed her in the tub, his hands lingering over her shoulders. He was careful of her catheter, hanging the bag over one of the water handles.
Michael watched as Nikita's eyes closed, her expression blissful as the warm water enveloped her. Off came his shoes, socks, pants, sweater... He stepped into the tub and sat opposite her. Nikita's eyes opened wide as Michael reached forward and turned her around so that her back settled against his belly, his legs surrounding hers. She laid her head in the hollow of his neck, the top of it falling just under his chin. His fingers toyed with the curve of her shoulder.
Nikita drifted. She was no longer a prisoner of gravity, her legs floating freely, the gift of the water. She released a long sigh, and heard Michael's sigh echo hers. A low sound rumbled in his chest, the closest thing to a laugh that Michael had made.
"What?"
"It's just... well, this is not how I thought we would spend the afternoon."
"And just how did you picture it?"
"I thought we'd be playing."
"We are playing... can't you hear the notes?"
She turned her head, her cheek resting against his moist skin. Nikita felt Michael's other hand move to caress her breast. He teased the nub between his thumb and forefinger until it hardened, and his palm tucked into the curve below. She tilted her head back and he bent into a kiss that began with gentle pressure, pulling her closer as the hand on her shoulder drew her deeper and deeper into the kiss.
Nikita felt Michael's body responding and reached down to take him in her hand. The slippery water made his skin feel velvety. Michael breathed in sharply. She delicately stroked and teased him with her thumb until she felt him break their kiss, his mouth pulling at her lower lip, his tongue grazing hers. His breathing began to quicken, and she went very slowly, increasing her pressure bit by bit. She wished she could use her mouth, but since she couldn't kneel or face him, this would have to do.
"Can't you feel the rhythm?" Nikita commanded him gently. "Michael open your eyes." Her voice had dropped to a husky whisper. His eyes were clear silver-green as he let her see the pleasure in them, made only by her, made only for him. Every night for a week he had dreamed of her touch, craved to be near her, agonizing lest she should think him selfish, greedy for wanting to take his pleasure, knowing that she could not take hers. He gave himself up as he turned her sideways, giving her greater access.
Michael's hands began to rove over Nikita's body as she gradually intensified the rhythm of her strokes. He was hard, as hard as he could be and not be inside her. His breath turned to panting, his eyes locked onto hers, but closing at last as he succumbed to her relentless pressure. His hands stopped moving and he wrapped his arms around her, his hips pressing upward as she lengthened her strokes, quickening her pace. Michael's head was thrown back and he began to groan.
Nikita turned her head and raked her teeth against the line of Michael's jaw, biting hungrily and pressing her thumb exquisitely against his most sensitive spot. He tumbled, his body shaking, his essence spilling over her fingers, making the final throes of his orgasm even more perfect as the slickness made silk out of velvet. A sound of ecstatic release escaped his lips, followed by her name. She slowed her stroking, each time exerting a bit of pressure in his tender place to coax another spasm, a little less intense than the one before it, until he was spent from pleasure.
Nikita splayed her hand between his legs as hardness gave way to softness, and they lay in the weightless stillness of their watery sanctuary. Michael, eyes still closed, drew a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and under her chin, to tilt her head and sensuously press his mouth against hers.
"'Kita..." His whisper died away as his breathing slowed.
"Michael." She said his name softly at first. He slowly traced her lips with his tongue.
She pulled back and opened her eyes very wide, her voice suddenly urgent. "Michael!!"
He looked at her, alarmed. "What? Nikita! Are you all right?"
"Michael." This time her tone was almost reverent. "My toes are tingling!"
He smiled. "So are mine."
"No! Seriously!! My toes ARE tingling!!!"
He sat up.
"Michael!! I can feel my toes!!"
* * * * * * * *
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