Ripples

  Claire saw the conflict in her husband’s handsome features. “Taken?” she repeated, goose bumps dotting her skin as the dam inside her mind burst, flooding her thoughts with suppressed memories.

  “Claire,” Phil said through the speaker, “Taylor and I have been discussing the same possibility. I wasn’t going to say anything until I had more.”

  “The pictures of the passengers?” Claire said, searching for a way to help Natalie. “Get me the pictures and then we’ll be sure she made the flight. If she didn’t, she’s still in the United States.” Her voice grew higher. “I’ll go back today. If she’s there, I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll go,” Nate volunteered.

  “No,” Tony said. “No one else is leaving. We’re all staying together. Eric flew back to the States. John is there. If we need anything there, one or both of them can handle it.”

  Phil spoke again. “I’ll get the manifest and any surveillance from the boarding and debarking as soon as I can. The timing couldn’t be worse. With the holiday, no one is on the job. Whether it’s US or German agencies, or the airlines, everyone is operating with crews of temporary or part-time workers. No one knows what he or she is doing, much less who I need to speak to. Getting answers is worse than pulling teeth.”

  Claire took a deep breath as she sat. “It’s been three days since I spoke to her. Christmas…”

  Tony turned to his wife. “Our daughter will be with us by Christmas.” His tone left no room for disagreement. “She is just ashamed of failing at Harvard. She was embarrassed. We need to let her know that doesn’t matter.”

  Tony had known about Natalie’s grades and decision not to pursue tutoring or remedial assistance. He’d learned when the payment for her next semester had been returned to his bank account. He’d considered speaking to her about it long distance. He and Claire had even talked about flying to Boston, but they both decided that Natalie would tell them when she was ready. They assumed that it would be during this trip. They weren’t happy, but it didn’t qualify as something warranting this type of behavior. Never had they devalued their daughter’s ambition or achievements in any way. They were waiting to hear her explanation and learn her future plans. No matter what they would have been, Tony and Claire would have supported Nat.

  They knew that. It was difficult to believe that Natalie didn’t.

  Nichol let out a sigh at her mother’s statement, as she too sat on a sofa opposite her mother.

  The rest of the family turned to her.

  “Fine,” Nichol said, her hands in the air. “I’ll say it. Everyone is thinking it. I’ll be the one who rips off the Band-Aid. Natalie is spoiled. She always has been. She’s throwing a temper tantrum so that when she shows up on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, you’ll be so happy that you won’t get upset about Harvard. If this was a kidnapping, don’t you think we’d have heard something by now? Some demand?”

  “We’re not ruling anything out,” Phil’s voice transcended the miles, the voice of reason that he’d been for as long as Claire could remember.

  “Good,” Claire said, standing and staring at her oldest. “You’re wrong. Natalie wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t. I don’t care about Harvard, and for your information, your father and I already knew. We were waiting for her to tell us. Besides...” The tears were back. “This is your baby sister.”

  Nichol stood too facing her mother. “Mom, I know. I just think that it helps you rationalize her behavior if you think she was taken, but she is a Rawlings. Something you and Dad have told us all forever: a Rawlings can’t be taken without anyone noticing.”

  “We are noticing. And yes, she is a Rawlings and worth a fortune to us.”

  “Then why haven’t you received demands? Why have you only received her I’m going to find myself text messages? Maybe because that is really what happened; she’s pouting at some expensive hotel in Germany or Sweden or resting by a warm fire with some hot guy buying her drinks.”

  “Nichol.” Tony’s one word received the room’s attention. “If you were missing—”

  “She isn’t missing, Dad. She’s texting.”

  “If you were avoiding us, doing something completely out of character, we would want to learn why and make sure you were safe.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Claire’s neck straightened. “Neither would Nat.”

  Nate cleared his throat and took a step toward his dad. “We’ll pursue both options?”

  “Yes,” Tony said. “I’m tired of the dead ends. I don’t give a damn if she’s an adult. We’re involving all the governmental authorities. No media. I don’t want this made into a public spectacle with a million false sightings. It’s time to bring her home.”

  Sitting back on the sofa, Claire closed her eyes as a dull ache pounded behind her temples. She liked the tone of Tony’s voice. This was the man in charge, the one who would bring their baby back. She needed to trust in him as she had always done.

  Her mind slipped back to years, decades before. A dew of perspiration covered her flesh as horrors she’d willed away bubbled to the surface. Claire recalled the terror of awakening in a strange bedroom. Her stomach twisted with the rekindling of fear, the knowledge that she was a prisoner...that she was at the mercy of…

  When her eyes opened, the same dark eyes were right before her. Tony was kneeling by her legs with his large hand on her knee. His thumb gently wiped away a lone tear that had escaped from her eye.

  “Don’t, please,” his deep voice held more emotion than he often showed, even to his children. “She is safe.”

  “But...I know what it’s like...”

  “That isn’t happening.”

  The fact that both Nichol and Nate knew their parents’ history allowed Claire to express her concern without the need for explanation. Though they’d kept it from Natalie, their baby, Nichol was older. At too young of an age, she’d been exposed to a web post that she was never meant to read. And then, one night in a fit of rage at her parents, she told her brother. It wasn’t the type of memories a family discussed over Easter ham, but nevertheless, it was their history.

  “I can’t help but worry...I can’t help remembering.”

  Nichol sat down beside her mother. “The texts say she’s off on her own, thinking. That’s where she is. History isn’t repeating itself.”

  It was strange how they could all refer to that tragic time with no more than a wistful sigh.

  Claire reached for Tony’s hand as she leaned against Nichol. Nate took a step closer and reached for her other hand. “I love you,” she said. “All of you.” She nodded at her children and also toward the screen, where Phil’s image now showed. “I’m scared for her.” The words rang true in a way that only one who has also suffered the unimaginable can recite. Yet, as Claire stared from one face to another, even into Tony’s regretful gaze, she knew she wouldn’t change her past. It brought her the present.

  She also didn’t want her daughter to experience anything similar.

  Nichol’s reasoning was harsh, yet it made sense. However, if Nat were off pouting at a ski resort, why did Claire’s stomach twist with dread.

  “Have there been any indications of her using her credit cards?” Claire asked.

  “In the airport in Germany. She bought two disposable phones and a bottle of water,” Phil answered.

  “See?” Nichol said. “She’s all right.”

  “How did she get where she was going? What about a hotel. It’s been three days.”

  “Any charges since then?” Nate asked.

  “A cash withdrawal of 1000 euros.”

  Nichol forced a smile and nodded.

  “What about a picture from the ATM?” Tony asked.

  “It’s grainy and with the cap, you can’t see her face.”

  Claire sighed as Tony helped her stand. “Please, Phil, find her. Bring her home. We don’t care about Harvard. She has her whole life in front of her. Please bring her home.”

  “What if
you stopped her credit cards?” Nate asked.

  “No,” Tony replied.

  “I agree,” Phil said. “The activity is helping us track her.”

  “Roach,” Tony said, “Let us know when you get the other pictures. We know this woman who went through customs wasn’t Natalie. Now we also need to know where that woman is and why she had Nat’s information. Did she abandon Nat’s phone or was that Nat? We need answers. We need them—”

  “Three days ago,” Claire said, finishing Tony’s sentence.

  They all looked toward the live transmission of Phil Roach. Since his hair had always been white, it wasn’t as easy to see the aging that had occurred over time. Truly after Taylor came into his life, he seemed to grow younger, not older. His hazel eyes glistened with genuine concern for the Rawlings family. The Rawlings were his employers, but more importantly, they were his and Taylor’s family.

  “We won’t stop. Try to get some rest. Taylor and I will find her.”

  “Thank you, Phil,” Nate said, disconnecting the call. “You know,” he said turning back to the room, “I’ve never seen Phil fail. We don’t know where Nat is now, but we will.” He again reached for his mom’s hand. “She’ll be back.”

  Claire feigned a smile. “You’re right.”

  “Phil won’t disappoint us,” Tony confirmed.

  Chapter 15

  Your intellect may be confused,

  but your emotions will never lie to you. ~ Roger Ebert

  Days lost meaning as time passed into weeks. If Natalie were a missing person, she hadn't heard. She hadn't heard anything about anything, except from Dexter.

  She'd boarded the plane in Boston on a Friday in mid-December. It had been before Christmas and her sister's birthday. She'd tried to keep track of time, but days and nights intertwined. Sometimes when Dexter arrived with breakfast, it was still dark through the small window. Some days it never seemed to get fully light. Other times, their day would end, and the light would persist.

  After a few days, she earned artificial lighting. At first, she hadn't seen the source. It was a rope-type light hidden high above in the seam between the wall and ceiling that only Dexter could control. Though the room was still stark, the light helped her spirit.

  Everything in Natalie's life came with a price, the value determined by Dexter. Whether it was towels for the bathroom, washcloths, sheets, or even a pillow for the bed, only he could assign their worth. Sometimes it was an act of submission or obedience. Other times, a thought or a feeling, verbally shared. Sometimes it was memories, specific questions about subjects she often wondered how he knew about.

  She could question him—it was an option—but like the positive items she earned, questioning Dexter also received reinforcement—the negative kind. Questions by him were to be met with truthful answers, not more questions. Nevertheless, there were times when Natalie would purposely opt for his punishment. Accepting the sting of his belt was at times easier than recalling memories. To talk about her family and her life before while enduring her new existence was at times too much for her to bear. The bruises upon her skin would heal. The raw emotion of her wasted life and abandoned family kept her awake for hours.

  While it could be perceived otherwise, everything was Natalie’s choice. She could opt not to give the price Dexter determined. Which did she want: the reward or the punishment? In all things, the final decision was hers.

  A mortifying change in Natalie's life was bathing. Due to Dexter’s rule about self-gratification, when she first arrived, taking a bath wasn't allowed to be done in private. It wasn't enough that she knew Dexter could watch via camera: he insisted on being present. At first, he physically bathed her as if she were a toddler in need of assistance. When it was his hand that wielded the soft sponge or cloth, she was rewarded with rich-smelling bath salts, soaps, shampoo, and conditioner. And then after he'd dry her—all of her—he'd instruct her to lie on the mattress and he'd cover her skin in velvety lotions. The scents varied, but their presence permeated the musty air, creating a pleasant cloud.

  Though Dexter claimed she was his, that she belonged to him, Natalie didn't really know him. His touch made her uneasy. Subconsciously, she'd tense.

  Nothing remained subconscious—nothing. Dexter required her thoughts and feelings on everything he did, that she made him do, and on every reward or punishment.

  “Tell me how it felt when I slapped you.”

  “It hurt.” The answer was honest and not overthought.

  “No, bug.” Dexter touched her chest, the spot between her breasts where her heart resided, not the one that pumped blood, but the metaphoric one that controlled emotion. “How did it feel?”

  The talking was worse than the actions.

  It was one thing to be made to stand in a corner for hours, like a rebellious child. It was another to describe the humiliation. It was one thing to be required to crawl to his feet and sit like a pet between his knees, another to admit that the shame made her wet.

  Without a mirror, she couldn't see her face, but she could see the bruises that often discolored her skin. The first one he’d given her, on her thigh, had faded, but others had taken its place. Some were felt more than seen, such as those that sometimes made sitting difficult. Others resulted from restraints or the hard floor.

  After Natalie confessed that she didn't like being bathed, Dexter stopped. Since he'd listened, she should have been happy. Yet she wasn't. From that moment forward, the soap he brought to her each day for her bath was abrasive and strong-smelling. The water without the bath salts reeked of sulfur and dried her skin. The shampoo barely lathered, and of course, the lotions ceased to appear. Natalie was now free to bathe herself—with his supervision—but her honesty came with a price.

  Though she now had items, like sheets, blankets, and towels, they all lacked one thing—color. The only tint outside shades of white in her world came from Dexter: his sparkling eyes, his jeans—black or blue, the color of his shirts. It fascinated her each time he entered the room. Such as the black and white photographs with one red flower or blue umbrella, Dexter’s rainbow of hues became her focus. She’d watch his every move, as long as she was positioned in a way that she could see.

  The day he wore a green shirt, she dreamt of the fields in Iowa. A blue one would remind her of the sky on a clear summer’s day. Even black held meaning—a contrast to the white of her room.

  Over the weeks, Natalie’s life became a predictable routine. Sometimes she'd wake before Dexter arrived with her breakfast, other times she was asleep. No matter, she quickly learned the sound of his arrival, and after a few slow-to-rise mornings that resulted in his desired punishment, Natalie always stood as she'd been instructed, presenting herself for his entry.

  After breakfast was exercise time. There weren't many options in a 12-by-8-foot room. Dexter's requirement was that she continued to move. Walk, dance, run in place, do jumping jacks, or sit-ups, the choice was hers, but standing still or sitting or lying upon the bed—the only furniture that remained permanently in her room—was forbidden. This activity continued nonstop and lasted until he arrived with her lunch. Though she had no way to tell the time, she knew it varied. Some days, exercise went on and on until continuing to pace took the last of her energy.

  Meals were earned, never to be expected. Usually she sat with Dexter at the small table. Sometimes she was permitted the covering of her blanket, other times not. If he were feeling particularly dominant, she ate on the floor, kneeling at his feet, her food coming from his fingers. She soon learned that the number of chairs at the table was the deciding factor. As she stood in his desired position, her breathing would quicken if the door shut with only one chair in place.

  It meant that her walking for that part of the day was done. On all fours with her breasts swinging, she'd approach his feet.

  Between lunch and dinner was what Dexter referred to as his time. It was when Natalie's job—her ability to earn a reward—was contingent upon his pleas
ure and often her humiliation. He'd remind her that only he could do these things to her, only he could mark her skin and debase her. The world would see her as his queen, but first, she needed to please her king.

  As the weeks passed, her virginity stayed intact.

  It wasn't that he didn't touch her; he did. His fingers and hands roamed her face, neck, and collarbone. She'd stand or lie—whatever position he requested—as her breasts, tummy, and behind were pleased or punished. He saw all of her, yet he never breached her vagina.

  The inattention to that particular area, combined with his actions and dominating presence, awakened her arousal, creating a desire for things she'd never before considered. Erotic, sensual needs monopolized her thoughts.

  Where at first she'd thought of her parents and family, over time, it happened less and less. It wasn't because she didn't care about them, but that they lost their relevance. Dexter was in control of every facet of her life.

  He was her god and her devil. His presence and approval infiltrated even her dreams.

  At night, her hands would ache to give herself relief. When he'd first forbidden her self-pleasure, she'd thought it would be the easiest rule to keep. Now, it was nearly impossible. There were even times that she’d fidget against the rough sheets allowing them to abrade her hard nipples. It was when her hands wandered in her sleep that she’d quickly awaken and move them within sight of the cameras, scared that with merely one rub of her clit, she'd lose the bedding she'd earned.

  Masturbating had never dwelled within her thoughts, but when she was alone with the memories of his most recent Dexter-time, the need was almost too great not to face. She recalled the way her hands had been outstretched and tied to the bed's metal frame. How her knees were bent beneath her and a bar had been positioned, attached to her ankles and also bound to the bed. How he'd verbally described his view.

  Tears dampened her pillow at the memory. It was mortifying enough to know she'd been on display, her ass in the air and her most private parts exposed, but when that was accompanied by her own body's betrayal, a glistening essence leaking down her thighs, it added to her agony.