The next door led to a closet, only slightly smaller than the office/nursery. The clothes she’d ordered filled the drawers and hung from the racks. Slipping off her heels, Claire fingered the soft fabric of the sundresses and contemplated changing out of her traveling clothes. She also considered a relaxing soak in the big tub when she smiled. The realization gave her a sense of peace she’d been missing for too long. She was doing it—she was adapting to this new normal.
Her epiphany, Madeline and Francis’s friendly greeting, and Phil’s unrelenting support, all worked together to bring happiness back to her life. When the knock came on her door, Claire called, “Come in, Madeline.”
The door opened, and Phil answered, “I’m not Madeline.”
Seeing the golden flecks in his green eyes, Claire thought about Madeline’s assessment. She didn’t know if it were true; she didn’t see love in Phil’s eyes—she saw concern. Wanting him to know how delighted she was about the island and all he’d done, her voice brimmed with excitement. “You’re right! I love everything about it!”
Phil exhaled. “I’m glad to hear that. What do you think about Francis and Madeline?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think I like them.”
“Good, so do you think you can stay here?”
Claire grinned. “I do. What were you doing with Francis?”
Phil explained that Francis showed him around the outside of the estate. There’s a boat at Claire’s disposal—any time she wants to travel into town, Francis will accompany her. There’s also access to a helicopter or plane in case of emergencies.
Claire sat on the edge of her bed. “Well, I hope they won’t be necessary; however, I want to schedule a doctor’s appointment for a check-up.”
“Talk to Madeline; she can help with that. Remember, there’s a real doctor in town.”
“I think this’ll work. Thank you so much—for everything.”
Phil nodded. “You’re welcome, Claire. It seems my job is done here...”
Her new-found contentment evaporated with his declaration. Suddenly, the remoteness of the island filled her with angst. “You’re leaving?” she asked. “But—I—I just asked Madeline to show you to one of the other rooms.”
“She did, and it’s great, but if you’re happy and safe, I don’t think I should—”
Tears teetered on the edge of Claire’s eyes as she stood and asked, “Will I be able to contact you?”
“Is that what you want?”
What did she want? Claire knew she didn’t want what Phil wanted, or at least what Madeline said he wanted; nevertheless, she didn’t want him to go. The way she’d introduced him to Madeline and Francis was accurate; Phil was her friend. She trusted him, and she wanted him around. For most of the last year, he had been. Even before she really knew him, he was there—watching—protecting—a constant in her world of change. Claire blinked her eyes, and the teetering tears slid down her cheeks. “I want to have people around me that I can trust. I don’t know Madeline or Francis—not yet.”
“I did a thorough background check. They’re very transparent, so what you see is what you have.”
Claire nodded.
“I have another job waiting.”
Claire’s neck stiffened. “I understand; you’re tired of babysitting.”
“Claire, I asked the pilot to wait. I think this is best.”
“Thank you. Thank you for protecting me, getting me here—for everything.” She wanted to reach out and hug him; however, she couldn’t bear to hurt anyone else. If Madeline’s assessment was true then Phil was right—his leaving was best. “Maybe someday—”
He interrupted, “I’ll leave you my number, but remember—only make emergency calls—and also—for you and your baby’s safety—don’t contact anyone but me or the FBI.”
Claire swallowed and nodded.
Before she could think of anything else, Phil was gone. An overwhelming sense of seclusion engulfed the room as she watched the door shut. Inhaling deeply, Claire fought the feeling of suffocation, suddenly threatening her ability to breathe. When the air finally filled her lungs, a sob erupted from the depth of her chest. The trip from Venice had taken days. They’d created an intricately woven web designed to detour anyone’s efforts in finding them. Suddenly, the trip and Phil’s departure were too much. Claire collapsed on her big, lonely bed.
The ceiling fan that moved the hot, sticky, midmorning air did nothing to cool the room. Despite the oppressing heat, Claire wrapped herself in the soft comforter and cried herself to sleep.
When she woke, her eyelids felt swollen. Claire wasn’t sure how long she’d slept. The clock near the bed read 3:18, and the sun on the horizon told her it was afternoon—not morning. Rubbing her temples, Claire realized she needed food to help her aching head and settle her nerves.
As she neared the table by her door, she knew Madeline had been in her room. There was a pitcher of water and a covered bowl within a bowl of ice. Lifting the lid, Claire’s stomach growled as she saw the luscious fruit. She tried not to think about Phil or being alone; instead, she ate the fruit, drank the water, and talked out loud to her baby. Perhaps if she explained how everything would work out, in a calm, reassuring voice, then she’d believe it too?
Within days, the customary staff/lady of the house, protocol was forgotten. Claire spent hours with Madeline in the state-of-the-art kitchen, learning to cook foods she’d never previously tried. She also spent time with Francis, caring for the tropical gardens and fruit trees.
Madeline arranged for Claire to visit the doctor, and Francis accompanied her. Traveling by boat was something that would take time to get used to. Once on the mainland, Claire loved how Francis helped her feel welcome and secure.
She was both relieved and happy to learn that the doctor Phil promised truly did exist. He was educated in the UK and spoke English as well as many of the native languages. His clinic was modern and even had an ultrasound. Claire was now twenty-six weeks into her pregnancy. Since it had been over a month since her last visit, the doctor recommended an ultrasound. The image amazed Claire—so unlike the original peanut-shaped picture she’d shown to Tony. This time, she saw her baby’s profile, as well as, little hands and little feet. When he asked if she knew the sex of her child, Claire remembered the conversation she’d never had with Tony; the one asking him to go with her to her next appointment. With tears in her eyes, Claire replied, “No, doctor, I don’t, and I don’t want to know—not yet.” He willingly kept the information hidden.
Every midday and evening, Claire would sit down to eat with Madeline and Francis. The idea of eating each meal alone was too daunting. Within no time at all, meals became Claire’s favorite time of day. She loved to watch the two of them interact, as Madeline’s expression absolutely glowed when she was near Francis. They had so many stories to share; Claire could sit and listen for hours. To Madeline’s insistence, each meal began with a prayer. It was a ritual Claire hadn’t practiced since she was young, and after so much change and discord in her life, she found it comforting. It wasn’t what Claire imagined her life would be, but at least she felt safe and accepted. Considering everything she’d endured—that was a lot—more than she could ever ask for...
Those who have trusted where they ought not, will surely mistrust where they ought not.
—Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach
Although it was only a little over two weeks since Tony was with the FBI in Boston, it seemed like a lifetime had passed. Even he didn’t recognize his reflection in the mirror. His beard growth and unkempt hair, along with his uncustomary clothes, created a person Tony was tired of being. As he lay within the hostel in Geneva, he knew his first goal was in sight. He’d sacrificed comfort to maintain the cash necessary to, once again, become Anton Rawls. That wasn’t who he planned to be forever; nevertheless, Anton was a necessary step to accessing his hidden treasure.
The new suit hanging near his bed took more of his cash reserve than he’d us
ed on living expenses for the entire two weeks. That, plus the razor he’d just bought, was waiting to reveal the man beneath. Tony tried unsuccessfully to sleep as thoughts of his morning filled his mind. In the morning, he’d finally access the financial institution and resume a more accustomed lifestyle.
During the past seventeen days, Tony had done more than travel. He’d spent time at internet cafés, learning what he could. At first, he followed the developments of Rawlings Industries. The Vandersols were continuing to taunt the press with accusations. With each statement or news release, the price of stock in Rawlings and it’s many subsidiaries took another hit. One article said the board of directors named Timothy Bronson temporary CEO, in the absence of CEO Anthony Rawlings.
Tony wasn’t sure how he felt about their decision. Did they truly feel he was that easily replaced? Then, as the days passed, Tony came to the realization that he supported Tim’s new role. After all, over the past few years, he’d been grooming him for just such a move. It wasn’t like Tony planned to disappear, but Tim had shown promise from the beginning. It was good to know he was the man in charge.
Once that realization struck, Tony experienced an unexpected release from his business obligations. He could spend his time watching his empire struggle to survive and still do nothing, or he could spend his time learning more about Agent Jackson’s odd remarks and tracking down his family. For the first time in his life—Rawlings Industries paled in importance.
Whenever he could, Tony researched rabbit trails of information. Nothing came together. He knew he was missing too many pieces of the puzzle.
He’d also taken two short calls from Agent Jackson. He read somewhere that fifty-six seconds of connection was necessary to track a call. He wasn’t sure if that were true, but to be safe, he kept their conversations under that mark. Understandably, the FBI wanted more; nevertheless, Tony divulged just enough to keep them pacified.
“Yes, I’m in Europe”—“No, I haven’t been in contact with anyone in the States”—“Yes. If I didn’t have the damn phone, then you wouldn’t be talking to me now”—“Goodbye.” Although he hated the monitoring, thinking about the calls made Tony grin. Each time he kept the information limited and heard the distain in Agent Jackson’s voice, Tony felt like he’d accomplished a small victory. Maybe it was only one hand in an all-night card game; nonetheless, each winning hand adds to the final jackpot.
The razor pulled at his facial hair as Tony worked to, once again, become Anton Rawls. The financial institution was a mere drive from the hostel where he’d slept. Although his body ached from the too soft bed, it was nothing compared to the mayhem cursing through his mind. After all these days, his goal was so close.
During the last few weeks, he’d learned to utilize public transportation, but Tony knew that wouldn’t do for the bank; therefore, dressed in his new, finest suit, Tony entered the lobby of one of the nearby five star hotels and casually ate breakfast in one of its finer restaurants. No one questioned his presence—he obviously belonged. Tony wanted to enjoy the fine cuisine. Undoubtedly, it was the best he’d eaten in a while, but his thoughts of the safety deposit box wouldn’t allow the aroma or taste of Eggs Benedict to register. When he was done, he exited the front door, told the bellman to flag him a cab, and rode to the bank. On any other day, it would have been a customary thing for him to do, but today it was revolutionary.
No one within the financial institution questioned his identity. Even if they’d seen him before, he was the same Anton Rawls who always visited the institution—the only one to access the safety deposit box in the last twenty-five years.
When presented with the customary ledgers, Tony stared at the list of signatures. There were his own—or more accurately—Anton Rawls written repeatedly; however, that wasn’t what caught Tony’s attention. That wasn’t what caused his neck to straighten and his jaw to clench. The last two signatures—directly above where he was about to sign—were from Marie Rawls. The first signature was dated: 11-09-13. It always took a minute to remember that not everyone dated as Americans did. The numbers he saw meant: eleventh day, ninth month of the thirteenth year. The second signature was signed two days later.
Speaking perfect French, Anton inquired, “Who is this? Did someone else access my box?”
The employee looked puzzled, read the signature, and then referred to some documents. When he was done, he sheepishly replied, “Yes, sir, your safety deposit box can be accessed by two individuals—you and a Marie Rawls. It appears that the woman who was here presented the clerk with appropriate identification.” Then he asked, “Mr. Rawls, is there a problem?”
Tony could barely see. He didn’t know what this meant—except that he needed to see inside his safety deposit box and verify his accounts. His short, curt words revealed his obvious displeasure, “There better not be. I want to see my box immediately.”
“Yes, sir, I need your key, please.”
Tony handed him the key and followed the nervous man into the vault. The process of inserting both keys took longer than Tony ever remembered. He knew it was his impatience; however, he swore the whole thing was happening in slow motion. Once the box was removed, Tony followed the employee into a private room.
“Sir, do you want me to stay?”
“No, leave.” His directive was more of a growl as his dark gaze assaulted the bank’s employee. Tony didn’t care; he wanted the man gone. He needed to see what was inside the box—or more accurately—what may be missing, in private.
The employee stepped quietly from the room and Tony opened the box. In all the years he’d transferred and reinvested Nathaniel’s funds, never had the contents of this box taken him by surprise—until now.
Instead of the customary documents, Tony reached into the depths of the steel container and removed a disposable international cell phone. It was very similar to the one he had for the FBI. Along with the phone, there was also a charger and an envelope.
He wasn’t sure if his shaking hands were from rage or fear. His entire plan rested on the collection of these funds. If his money wasn’t here, where was it? Tony thought back to the dates on the signatures: September 9 and 11. During those days, Catherine was in Iowa—with him. Who else could know about this?
Tony opened the envelope to a letter that was very short—and unsigned:
Congratulations, you’ve found your way to this clue.
I can’t be sure who’ll be reading this note, so I can only say that you’ve passed your first test. Congratulations—I believe that deserves a positive Consequence.
I realize you’re not accustomed to being the student, but please know that I sincerely hope your educational experience is glitch-free.
If you are who I believe you are—it will all make sense.
I didn’t leave you without resources—I wouldn’t do that. I’ve heard it’s a difficult experience to be removed from your life and left at the complete disposal of another; therefore, as your positive consequence, I’ve created one account which is available to you. It can be accessed through the information below.
To continue your education, I’ve provided you with a cell phone. I assume a lecture in general operating instructions won’t be necessary; however, choose wisely—remember all actions have consequences.
The temperature of the small room increased with each word. The weeks of worry about Claire and—and—it was all some kind of ruse—some kind of game—a way to steal his money! But why? He had money in the States—more money than she accessed in these accounts. She could’ve had anything she wanted. Thoughts came too fast. Was it about the money, or was it to bring him down publicly—public failure—public humiliation—appearances. Red infiltrated the room. Perhaps it came through the low buzz of the florescent lights. He tried to stop it—tried to maintain control. After all, there was an explanation; Tony knew there was. How? How did Claire even know about this account? How could she access it? He had the key!
Inhaling deeply, Tony closed his eye
s. Glitch-free? Consequences? Was that some kind of sick joke? Maybe it wasn’t Claire; after all, she told her story to Meredith. Tony didn’t know how much she’d said—hell, she told her story to the attorneys in Iowa. The FBI had that account—he’d read the opening sentences. Suddenly, he wished he’d read more when he was with the FBI. Maybe, just maybe, this was some FBI set-up?
Tony had no choice—he had to take the bait and turn on the phone. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so trapped. In their game of chess, he was in figurative check; however, he didn’t know for sure who’d put him there. Tony looked around the room for an outlet. Finding one, he plugged in the phone. While the small gadget came to life, he worked to still the mayhem in his head.
What about the account? The last time he checked, he and Catherine had over 200 million dollars invested. What stipend had he been allowed to keep? Red seeped into his thoughts as he considered the possibilities. If the fuck’n FBI thought they could take away his life and his money, then they were sadly mistaken. He was going to get to the end of this, come hell or high water, and damnit, the last seventeen days had been hell!
When the screen finally lit, Tony accessed the contacts. There were three. The first programmed number wasn’t associated with a name—it was an asterisk (*). The second was the name: Claire. The third was his name: Anthony. He felt the muscles of his neck tighten. Was the information about Claire’s cell phone in that FBI report? The shit about the asterisks? Or was this Claire’s way of saying it was her? Claire’s way of saying, now I’ve done it to you, and didn’t he deserve it? Tony knew he did; nonetheless, he wouldn’t accept it willingly or play her damn games!
The signal within the room was too poor to assure a connection. He refused to live in fear. If there was fuck’n teaching to do—he’d be the teacher. Slipping the phone into the pocket of his jacket, Tony collected the charger and the note. Channeling his business-self, he made his way to the front of the bank to learn the contents of his account.