Peter's Lament

"Not at all," Peter said finally. The motor gurgled with more power as Jerome began to drift out of the dock.

"Sorry that you're having to be left out of this little adventure. We'll be back in a while. I promise to take care of her," Jerome now shouted above the motor.

"No problem," Peter said as he sat at the edge of the dock, his feet dangling off into the cool water. Jerome and the others waved as the boat rounded in reverse. With a sudden roar, the front of the boat tilted up, its engines jetting and churning lake water into a mess of white foam. Peter gazed at his lover, his beautiful Petra, lounging at the front of the boat, her legs reclined against the cushioned seat. She looked back for just one instance, a wry smile creasing her face and waved lazily at him once. Peter smiled back, still aglow from her blowjob.

The boat sped quickly to full force as the boat tore through Lake Anna. His Bayliner became smaller to his view, Petra and the others less distinct before Jerome steered the boat to the right, disappearing behind an inlet thick with pine and broadleaf trees and a wall of other foliage. The engines also wafted away, leaving Peter in the silence of his dock, rocking gently up and down from the disturbance in the wake, like a distant fading memory.

But that's what Petra was to become. A distant fading memory.

****

Agent Howard and another one of his silent agents left the small makeshift FBI office and drove Peter home by 2 in the morning. In all, it had been a disturbing day for Peter. Howard became much more jovial and lighter in mood after he got Peter's codes. But Peter rode in silence, politely listening to Howard's tales of criminals and espionage cases he had busted in the past. But his mind was still swirling with images of Petra, trying to think back to their seven months together for some clue, some contradiction to the girl he thought he knew, not the one painted by the FBI.

Peter remembered waiting three, four hours at the dock, always glancing to the horizon at every buzzing motor or every distant yell or call for Petra. By mid-afternoon, Peter returned to the house, fidgeting with the television and snacking on chips. By that evening, Peter called the local sheriff, who said he couldn't report it as a missing persons case since it hadn't been 48 hours, but instead would send out an APB as a stolen boat.

Deputies found his Bayliner parked at the Westshore Marina at the northern tip of Lake Anna. It was unharmed, and returned to Peter the following morning. The sheriff, a very nice man, questioned Peter more about possible motives for his girlfriend to run away – could she be having an affair with her friend? Were you two having problems? – but still said he was unable to report her missing for another day.

Just two hours after that conversation, Agent Howard, in his crisp navy suit, came to Peter's door and brought him to what he called the FBI's temporary field office. That was nearly 14 hours ago.

The car sided up to Peter's door.

"What do I do now?"

"Go inside and get some rest, Peter," the agent said. "We'll all meet with the other VizoTech executives tomorrow and strategize from there. We'll also know more by tomorrow about how much damage was done to your company."

Peter sighed and opened the door. His body felt weak, his legs somewhat wobbly, but Peter didn't know if that was just from his bout of binge smoking. Peter turned one last time to Howard before shutting the car door.

"I still don't believe what you say about Petra. You don't know her like I do. None of you do," he said, his voice belying desperation.

"Really? What do you think happened to her then?"

"I don't know. I just hope she's still alive."

"And just because you were fucking her, you think you knew everything there was to know about her, her entire past and her inner demons?" Agent Howard smirked. "Peter, you got a lot to learn about women in general, and especially a seductress like Petra."

No other word was uttered. Peter was awash with a sudden sadness. For the first time in seven months, Peter fell asleep alone in his bed. The absence of Petra, the warmth of her body, the ticket of her breath against his neck, gave Peter a disquieting night sleep.

In the morning, Peter walked out of his room and called out into his empty house. His voice was met by silence. He showered, dressed and drove to VizoTech, his stomach in knots.

Peter walked into the gleaming office tower on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. and rode the elevator silently up to the 28th floor. VizoTech controlled the top half of the glass and steel tower, with his engineering lab overlooking the Potomac River and a distant glimpse of the Capitol. The activity seemed normal for that morning, many of the cubicles staffed and the sounds of keystrokes hammering away.

Peter walked between rows of cubes to the far side of the floor, to Malcomb Vizor's office. His CEO was stationed, as usual, behind his mahogany desk, two other executives lounging in chairs in front of him. Peter knocked on the frame.

"Peter, sorry but we're busy right now with a little problem," his CEO began.

"I know, I spent all evening with the FBI about it," Peter replied.

His comment was met with a stunned silence. If it were possible, the office shrank and turned cold. Vizor and the two other executives – Paul Abrams and France Collins – exchanged glances and then stole back to Peter.

"The FBI? What are you talking about?" Vizor said finally.

"The FBI. About a possible break-in to our system. They're blaming my girlfriend and her friends right now," he said. "I thought met with them last night."

Paul rose from his chair, pulling Peter into the office and closing the door behind him. Peter noticed that Paul's face had turned stark, as did Vizor's and Collins'.

Paul rushed over to Vizor's desk and dialed a number on the phone. "Hey Simmons, do me a favor and see if anyone entered our system last night and if so, what they did." The balding man paused. "We're not sure yet. Just get to me as soon as you can."

This whole exchange threw Peter off. His mind was failing to comprehend their own confusion. I mean, the FBI should have informed them of everything.....

"I don't get what's going on here," France echoed Peter's own sentiment. But France returned his target to Peter. "What do you mean you met with the FBI?"

Paul interrupted, and moved to Peter. He gently pushed Peter onto the chair.

"Peter, these men. Tell me you didn't give them your codes," Paul said.

Peter felt the blood drain from his face, his body began to involuntarily shiver. He wanted a jacket so badly suddenly. He felt disconnected from his own words, as though his own conscious was separating from his beaten body and his vocal chords ran on autopilot.

"They told me you gave them permission. They had to see what was stolen," Peter said meekly.

Paul looked at Vizor, his face pale as death. "I think we just got fleeced out of our proprietary technology."

In the weeks that followed, VizoTech and the real FBI attempted to piece together what exactly happened. Peter's world ended up in a maelstrom.

But through it all, Peter thoughts always turned to Petra. Maybe she was part of the plot to steal industrial secrets. Maybe she entered his life on purpose to seduce and gain Peter's undying trust. But only he really knew Petra. Only he shared in her innermost body. And that was something the FBI could never take away.

Just a month ago, Peter was being consumed by Petra. Now, he sat on the docks, waiting for Petra to return home.