The decision took only seconds, yet it seemed like an eternity. She reached in, grabbed the first set she touched, and hit the clicker. The lights on the Mercedes Benz flashed. In the midst of unpredictability, she’d done her best to be stable and obedient. This sudden impulsiveness filled her with excitement and fear. Before she could change her mind, she sat in the car, smelled the new car aroma, felt the leather steering wheel, and turned the key.
Her motivation wasn’t to leave Tony—forever. It was just that she felt smothered. The constant monitoring, censoring, and controlling added to her sense of psychological instability. The dual Tonys added another dimension to her suffocation. A brief reprieve—or a momentary freedom—would help her sanity. Besides, she told her husband a year ago she liked to drive. That was all she wanted to do—drive.
Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it.
—Thomas Jefferson
Chapter Forty-Seven
‡
The dashboard in front of her looked more like something from a helicopter, dials and lights came to life. Claire tried to remain calm—telling herself driving hadn’t changed in twenty-two months. She just needed to put the car in gear and push the accelerator. Trembling at the prospect of the simplistic task, Claire almost ran into the garage door; however, she remembered to push the button, waited for the door to lift, and concentrated on breathing—slowly inhaling and exhaling. The door opened, and cautiously, she proceeded down the driveway. Claire prayed if anyone saw the car, they’d assume it was Eric. At the gates, she again pushed a button—the one she’d seen Eric push many times. At first, the gates seemed to hesitate, but then the iron fence swung wide.
Claire drove toward Highway I-80 and inhaled. It was the sweetest air she’d smelled in almost two years. The clock on the dashboard read 11:16 AM. She knew in forty-four minutes, Tony would expect her in his office. She reasoned perhaps the web conference would go long and he wouldn’t notice her absence—or maybe, the phone calls would start, and he’d be preoccupied. She knew the truth—Tony could do ten things at once. Come 12:00:01 PM he’d be irritated—by 12:15 PM—he’d be fuming. Feeling her heart beat intensify, she wondered what would happen when they reunited. What kind of punishment would he decide was appropriate for this behavior? Feeling her wet palms slide on the leather steering wheel, Claire chose not to linger on the possibilities. The Mercedes was now headed east on Highway I-80. Her mind searched for possible destinations. Courtney—no—she was out of town. Emily—no—that would be the first place Tony would check. Utilizing her therapy skills, she convinced herself this was a deserved break. She also instructed herself to relish the overpowering sensation of freedom, a feeling she hadn’t known in twenty-two months. Slowly, she felt her senses awaken: the countryside looked brighter, the leather seats emitted a stronger aroma, the wheels on the pavement created a soft hum, and the vibration responded to her movement of the wheel—it all invigorated her.
The brilliant dash indicated a full tank of gas. Silently, she thanked Eric—momentarily worrying he’d suffer because of her actions. She concentrated on the majestic world outside the windows and watched the traffic which consisted mostly of large semi-trucks. At first, this made Claire uncomfortable, but the Mercedes could weave and pass easily. Before moving to Tony’s, she drove a Honda Accord. It was a good car, but the Mercedes felt like driving a cloud. Then, the clock caught her eye, 12:11 PM. She started to wonder what was happening at home. Would he be looking for her or sending someone else to look? All Claire could do now was drive and think. She loved him, but the constant pressure was wearing on her. She just needed a break.
Taking the bypass around Davenport, she decided to go south on Highway 74, away from New York City. At 3:30 PM she passed Peoria, Illinois. The emptiness in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t stopped driving since she left the estate. She desperately needed a restroom and some food. In the distance she spotted golden arches—french fries sounded wonderful.
She hadn’t eaten fast-food in almost two years. Claire turned the wheel and eased into the McDonald’s parking lot. Contemplating her order, she realized she didn’t have money. Oh well, the restroom was free. If she had planned this excursion, she would have grabbed a coat and her purse. More than likely Tony had her ID and credit card, but for appearances, she usually had cash in her wallet.
The overpowering aroma of fries, from the inside of the restaurant, lingered on her clothes as she got back into the car. Wondering about money, she saw her wedding rings. Of course—she wore hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry. She just needed to sell some. How does one sell jewelry? And where?
Back on the interstate, Claire decided to take Highway 155 South to Highway 55. That wasn’t a good decision, Highway 55 traveled slowly. When she finally reached Highway 55 the signs said to Springfield and to St. Louis. It had been so long since she actually made decisions. She was lightheaded with independence—or perhaps hunger.
Time passed. The sun started to fade and dusk loomed on the horizon. The loss of sunlight produced a similar effect on Claire’s mind. Her lightheadedness dissolved into reality. She knew without a doubt she needed to turn around. Tony would be upset and there would be a punishment—a consequence for this action, but she couldn’t keep going. First, she needed cash. Second, what would the press say? Tony wouldn’t be happy if her leaving became public. Trepidation filled every ounce of her being as she watched for a place to turn around. According to the sign, there was another exit two miles ahead.
Suddenly, questions swirled through her mind. Was there enough gas to get home? What will Tony do? Whatever punishment he chose, Claire decided—she deserved. She’d been impulsive and broken his rules. The small break was exhilarating, but it was time to face the consequences—there wasn’t another choice. If she had her cell phone, she would’ve called and told him she was on her way home. She planned to beg for his forgiveness and plead temporary—impulsive stupidity.
Lost in thought, she didn’t see the flashing lights until they were directly behind her. Once she noticed them, Claire assumed they’d pass. She wasn’t speeding, but the police car didn’t pass. Did Tony send them after her? How did they find her? Pulling over, she remembered the GPS—had she really thought she could go unmonitored? She appeared casual as the policeman approached her window.
“Ma’am, please show me your registration, proof of insurance, and driver’s license.”
“Officer, I believe I left my purse at home, by mistake. I can show you the registration and proof of insurance.” She handed him the documents from the glove compartment.
“Ma’am, your name please?” the officer asked, while reading the registration and insurance card.
“My name—my name is Claire—Claire Rawlings.”
Handing her back the registration and insurance card, the officer said, “Ma’am, I need you to get out of your car.”
Claire didn’t want to get out of the car. She wanted to go home. Her decision was made, and she needed to get home—soon. “Officer, was I speeding?”
“Ma’am, get out of the car—now.” The policeman stared at her as he mumbled into his shoulder.
“Officer, I’m in a hurry. I don’t have my purse, but I do have this watch. Perhaps your wife would like a very nice diamond watch.” She was desperate to return to Iowa—to Tony—but not in a police car.
Retrieving his gun from its holster, the police officer repeated his demand, “Mrs. Rawlings, I need you to get out of the car, and keep your hands where I can see them.” Holding his gun in one hand, he leaned toward her door. “Unlock your door; I’ll open it. Let me see your hands.”
Claire couldn’t believe this was happening. She just wanted a moment of freedom and this policeman was treating her like a criminal. Had Tony accused her of stealing his car? That didn’t seem like Tony—he wouldn’t want the public scandal.
Claire unlocked the door and swung her legs out. Officer Friendly roughly
grabbed her wrist and pulled, handcuffing her wrists behind her back. It made her shoulders and wrists ache. “What are you doing? Why are you doing this? I didn’t steal this car—it belongs to my husband. I have every right to drive it!”
“Ma’am, I have orders to take you into the station for questioning.” He walked her to his car, steering her with her hands.
“What about my husband’s car? He’ll be very upset if anything happens to his car.” Claire’s voice sounded as desperate as she felt.
“Another officer is on her way, she’ll drive your car to the station. It’ll be kept in impound until it’s picked up or you’re released”—he kept listening to his shoulder—“The other officer will be here in a few minutes.”
“We better not leave until she gets here. I’m serious about my husband—he can become very upset. You don’t want to be the person he gets hold of if anything happens to his car.” She didn’t want to be that person either. Sitting in the backseat of the patrol car, she heard the door slam and had the sensation of a popping balloon—once full—now completely deflated. Freedom was sweet and gone.
When they pulled up to the Illinois State Police Station 56, Claire watched the Mercedes drive around the building. Worrying about the car was silly, but she didn’t want to give Tony more ammunition for his punishment. The officer directed her into the station. Multiple uniformed and plain-clothed officers met them at the door. She was then directed to a dingy room where the smell of stale coffee and perspiration filled her senses. The only furniture was a steel gray table with two metal chairs. Claire sat in one of the cold chairs as the officer removed the cuffs. Rubbing her wrists, she looked at him and sounded convincingly resilient. “Sir, I am Mrs. Anthony Rawlings. I’m sure you have heard of my husband—or at least had contact with one of his companies. I recommend you release me right now, and I won’t tell him about this incident.”
He didn’t respond and left her alone, where she waited. Feeling the twisting within her stomach, she knew what was coming. Tony was probably on his way. Flying would get him there in less than an hour. The next time the door opened, she would see his dark eyes. The only sound within the small room was that familiar pounding within her head. As she waited, she resolved herself to the consequences she’d face at home.
She broke the most important rule—many times—and now it was public. There was no way this wouldn’t be on the news. She waited. The door opened. A female officer entered. “Mrs. Rawlings, would you like a drink, water, or diet soda?”
“Thank you, I’d like some water.” Then she waited—some more. The next time the door opened, she looked toward the table. Enough time had passed—this had to be Tony.
“Mrs. Rawlings, I’m Sergeant Miles and this”—pointing to the man on his left—“is FBI Agent Ferguson.”
“Hello. I’m confused, why is an FBI agent here?”
“We would like to ask you some questions about today”—Claire nodded—“Ma’am, you must speak. Our conversation is recorded and movements can’t be heard on an audiotape.”
Claire hated recordings—audio or visual. “Yes, please go ahead and ask me anything. I was just driving my husband’s car and forgot my driver’s license.”
“Ma’am, what time did you leave your residence outside of Iowa City?” Agent Ferguson asked as Sergeant Miles took notes.
Claire wondered if the audio recording wasn’t thorough enough. “I left at 11:15 AM.” That was easy. She’d looked at the dashboard clock.
“Did you see your husband before you left?”
“Do you mean—did I ask my husband if I could leave? No.”
“No, ma’am—I meant what I asked. Did you see your husband before you left your residence?”
“Yes, I saw him just before 11:00 AM. He was in his office about to start a web conference.”
“A web conference?” Sargent Miles asked.
“It’s a conference that’s live on the Internet, you know, on the web.” The officers continued to ask questions about times and people. Claire told them the house staff were all present, except for their driver, Eric. He left before her, going to Mr. Rawlings’s office to retrieve some paperwork for her husband. Had Claire told anyone she was leaving the house? She shook her head, then remembered the audio tape, she answered, “No.” Why would she drive over five hours without her purse or telling anyone where she was going? She really didn’t have a good answer. She couldn’t tell them she didn’t have access to her own ID and she wasn’t allowed to go out by herself. If she did, she’d be breaking his rules, and when Tony arrived he’d be livid. Suddenly, she realized he was probably watching from behind a window right now. She felt her stomach twist. Her only choice was ignorance. “I don’t know—the sky was so pretty and Iowa can get so gray. I guess I just wanted to go somewhere warmer.”
“Mrs. Rawlings, you should know your husband will survive.” Agent Ferguson’s tone was flat.
Claire didn’t understand, survive? Like he would crumble because she left him? “I’m not sure what you mean. Why wouldn’t he survive?”
“Mrs. Rawlings, someone tried to kill your husband today. He was poisoned at approximately 11:15 AM this morning.” Agent Ferguson answered as Sergeant Miles observed Claire.
She shook her head, trying to make sense of his words, but they didn’t make sense. Tony was fine when she left, same as always. “You’re mistaken. Mr. Rawlings had a web conference at 11:00 AM, where he was speaking with many people from his corporation.” Her speech quickened as did her heart rate.
“Yes, he was supposed to be; however, after the web conference began, his associates witnessed him take a drink from a mug and suddenly slump to his side. Many of the viewers attempted to reach him via cell phone, but he didn’t move. Luckily, one of the house staff heard the phones ringing and entered the office. They were able to fly him by helicopter to a hospital in Iowa City. His vitals are good, although he has yet to regain consciousness. The doctors believe he’ll make a full recovery. I’m here representing the FBI, because this is an attempted murder investigation which has crossed state lines.” Agent Ferguson spoke as if he was addressing a suspect.
“I need to get to him immediately.” Claire stood as she spoke. Sergeant Miles directed her back toward the chair. She was dumbfounded. “I’m sorry—are you accusing me of murdering my husband?”
“No, ma’am, your husband wasn’t murdered. You are being questioned regarding an attempted murder investigation.”
She was stunned. “You’re accusing me of hurting him? You should know—no one hurts Anthony Rawlings. If anything he’s hurt me—numerous times.”
“So, are you claiming self-defense?”
Claire’s neck stiffened, her voice became defiant, “I’m not claiming anything—I did nothing that needs claiming.”
“Mrs. Rawlings, do you have any idea what was in the mug that your husband drank from?”
She knew exactly what was in that mug: coffee, made by her. “Yes, officer, I would assume the mug contained coffee. Just before I left, I took him a cup of coffee.” Her stomach was now a tangle of knots.
“You and your husband don’t have household servants who usually prepare the food and drinks?”
“We do, but he asked me to get him coffee.” Claire definitely didn’t like how this was going. “I believe I need an attorney.”
“Ma’am, you haven’t yet been charged; however, asking for representation is your right. Be aware your husband’s legal counsel has sent word that representing you would be a conflict of interest. You’ll need to secure your own counsel.”
“I would like to call John Vandersol, my brother-in-law”—as the words left her mouth she remembered John’s incarceration—“No, wait—I can’t.”
Another officer entered the room and began to talk with Sergeant Miles. After the two whispered, Sergeant Miles spoke. “Mrs. Claire Rawlings, my commanding officer has informed me the prosecuting attorney of Iowa City believes there’s enough circumstantial evide
nce to hold you in this facility overnight and transport you back to Iowa City in the morning. The chief prosecutor of Iowa believes he will have an official warrant for your arrest signed by the judge by the time you arrive.”
Claire heard the words but couldn’t comprehend their meaning. Her internal voice tried to replay the day: I dressed in what I was told, was in Tony’s office at the time he told me to be, and asked like a five-year-old if I could go outside. This morning I poured my husband a cup of coffee, the coffee he asked me to get. Now, I am about to be charged with attempted murder?
Another officer directed Claire to a cell. It was small, clean, and had a door that locked. Worried about Tony—she couldn’t sleep. There was no one at home that morning, except the two of them and the regular staff. Everyone on the staff had been with Tony for years, and he implicitly trusted them. None of them would hurt him. She worried, had he regained consciousness? Was the poison in the coffee in the pot? Maybe it was in the cream?
Claire wanted them to try to find the real criminal before he tried to hurt Tony again. Claire knew, when Tony regained consciousness, he’d tell them she didn’t—couldn’t do this—and take her home.
No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.
—Eleanor Roosevelt
Chapter Forty-Eight
‡
Yesterday, Claire drove in a luxurious Mercedes Benz to St. Louis. The trip back to Iowa City—riding in the back of a police wagon, wearing handcuffs and accompanied by a uniformed officer—wasn’t as comfortable. When they arrived, the county courthouse steps were filled with reporters and photographers. Claire tried to shield her face as people took pictures from all directions and shouted questions—“Why did you try to kill your husband?” “Did you do it for the money?” “Did you think you would get away with it?” Thankfully, the police rushed her through the crowd and into the building.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 48
