When it came to boy names, for every suggestion Claire made—Tony had a counter. He liked names that could be shortened. He said, from experience, he believed it made a nice separation between business and personal. Claire didn’t ask if Tony assumed his son would follow him into business. After all, if—and that was a very big if—their public issues could be resolved, Anthony Rawlings was a man worthy of having a son follow in his footsteps; however, late at night, when Claire would wake and stare up to the ceiling while Tony slept soundly, she worried. Anthony Rawlings, businessman, had so many worries and concerns. Did she want that for her son or daughter? The larger looming concern was Tony’s predilection for perfection. Claire had no way of knowing the personality of the child within her, yet if he were anything like his father, would the combination in a professional setting be potentially combustible? Would it be different with a daughter? Claire didn’t know.
When the doctor entered, Tony stood near Claire’s head, kept his hand on her shoulder and listened. She loved his presence—just knowing he was near gave her more confidence. The doctor reassured Claire, her weight gain was within normal limits and expectations. When she complained about filling so fast, he recommended multiple small meals as opposed to three larger ones. She looked up to Tony’s knowing eyes and realized he wasn’t only filling the role of father and offering emotional support, but also acting as informant. Madeline would know the new meal requirements before Claire made it home.
After the exam, the nurse led them to a different room for the ultrasound. The doctor used the same machine he’d used during Claire’s last visit. She and Tony watched silently as the grainy image came to the screen. Again, he used lines and made measurements. They both breathed a sigh of relief to learn their baby was right on target for thirty weeks, measuring fifteen and a half inches long and weighing about three pounds.
“Three pounds”—Claire repeated—“Then why have I gained almost twenty?”
The doctor laughed and said, “Because, Claire, you aren’t just carrying a baby; there’s a whole lot more in there.”
She knew he was right.
“And”—the doctor continued—“your baby will continue to gain, about a half a pound a week from now until you deliver, so eating those small meals is important.”
Before Claire could respond, Tony answered, “Don’t worry, she will.”
The doctor moved the large wand around Claire’s abdomen. The coolness of the gel didn’t register as she watched the screen. Ever present in the background was the steady heartbeat of their child. As usual, it brought back memories of her lake. They watched in amazement as the doctor pointed out the baby’s nose in a profile. When he repositioned the wand, they were able to count fingers and toes—they weren’t able to see the gender.
“I’m sorry. Your baby’s being modest. I’d hoped if we continued, he or she’d move and reveal their secret. So far, that hasn’t happened.”
Though they were both disappointed, Tony and Claire understood. Tony replied, “That’s fine, doctor. The most important thing is that everything is going as it should.”
“Yes, Mr. Rawlings, everything is perfect.”
Claire smiled—she knew that perfect was exactly the way Tony liked it!
Let us not be content to wait and see what will happen, but give us the determination to make the right things happen.
—Horace Mann
Phil created a VPN, virtual private network, for both Tony and Claire. This allowed them access to websites and emails while virtually untraceable. When connected through a proxy and the multiple shell accounts he’d established, Phil believed their transactions were completely untraceable.
To communicate with one another, Phil, Tony, and Claire utilized email as well as occasional instant messaging. They could call; however, Phil still emphasized that calls needed to remain short. During the first week of November, Phil sent the Rawlings his second email:
To: Nouveau Alexanders
From: PR
Re: Current assignment
Date: November 7, 2013
Our initial meeting went well. I reminded Ms. L of her original directive—Ms. N’s location wasn’t to be divulged. She hasn’t pursued the subject. My assignment is to watch a woman named Sophia Burke. Her husband, Derek, is employed by Rawlings Industries and was recently transferred to corporate headquarters in Iowa City.
They recently moved to Iowa from California, and I’m gathering background information. Though this seems benign, I have a feeling there’s more to it. The name Burke concerns me. I don’t remember reading about a Derek in Ms. N’s research. Is there a connection to Jonathon? I’ll learn, but your assistance may speed my research.
Simultaneously, their iPads notified them of the email. Claire saw the icon and looked across the room. “It has to be from Phil. I’m nervous.”
“His last message wasn’t very enlightening”—Tony opened the message—“Tell me again why he’s addressing us as the New Alexanders?”
Claire shrugged. “I think he’s avoiding using our real names.” Was it wrong to have a private joke? She hoped not. There was no way to explain her and Phil’s relationship without inciting unwarranted concerns from Tony, and there was no reason for him to be concerned. There was nothing between her and Phil but trust and friendship. It was the kind of friendship that comes when trust has been tested by fire and survived.
She and Tony both read the email. The last time she’d heard the name Derek Burke, it was Brent who brought it to her attention. Although she and Tony pledged honesty and full disclosure, Claire didn’t believe their promise included harming his relationship with his closest friends. He was unaware of their support; it seemed best.
Claire had recently learned the story of Sophia. She looked up from her screen. “Tony, is this the same Sophia? Catherine’s daughter?”
She saw the darkness return to his eyes as they moved from the screen toward her. “Yes. How in the hell did she manipulate moving them to Iowa? Executor of my estate has no control at Rawlings Industries.”
Claire put down her tablet, walked to her husband, and touched his shoulder. “Why would she do that? Why, after all these years of not wanting to know her daughter, would she suddenly move her to Iowa?”
He covered her hand with his. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Accidents.”
The word still caused the hair on the back of Claire’s neck to stand to attention. “What kind of accidents? You don’t think Catherine would harm her own daughter, do you?”
“I’m not sure she has boundaries. Look at what she’s done to us.”
Claire saw the restraint in his expression, exposed through the bulging veins of his neck. His jaws were clenched as he modulated his voice to its most accommodating tone. “It’s the middle of the afternoon and too hot for you to be out in the sun. You should rest and keep your feet up. I need to go for a walk.”
Claire wanted answers to her questions. How did Tony’s promise to Nathaniel influence his clandestine protectiveness of Sophia? What exactly were Catherine’s capabilities? Where were Tony’s boundaries? However, sensing his distress, she didn’t ask. They’d been down too many difficult roads lately. This situation wasn’t her battle, her family, or her promise. Tony needed to work it out for himself. She exhaled. “All right, I’ll rest in our room. Please come wake me when you get back.”
As he kissed her cheek, she saw something in his eyes, something that made her pulse race. “Tony, please don’t leave the island.”
Her plea pulled him from his thoughts. “What? How did you know I was thinking that?”
She held his hands. “I won’t be able to rest if I’m thinking about you out in the boat. I know Francis showed you how to drive it and has taken you out, but I can’t bear to lose you again.”
“Claire, I hate this feeling of helplessness.” He let go of her hands and paced near the open doors to the lanai. �
�This place is amazing, you’re amazing. I want to be here with you and our child; however, when I read about Rawlings Industries and now this—I feel like a caged animal. There are so many things I could be doing—if I were back home.”
“I hoped you’d consider yourself home.”
She saw his shoulders slump. His expression of amusement was short-lived. “How many times am I to hear my own words and phrases repeated to me?”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t have a definitive number. What can I say?” She stepped toward him and reached for his cheek. Brushing it gently, she allowed the afternoon stubble to abrade the tips of her fingers. “You’re a wise man, and I’ve learned a lot from you. You should consider it an honor—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
“I think there are others who you’d be better to imitate.”
Kissing his lips, she lingered on her tip toes and whispered, “Right now, I’m going to lay down. When I wake, I’ll trust that you haven’t disappointed me.”
As she turned toward the bedroom, Tony seized her arm and pulled her back into his embrace. His sudden surge of power would’ve frightened her in the past. Today, she found it more than mildly erotic. “Tell me”—his dark stare intensified with each second—“why it took an electronic lock to hold you captive and mere words are doing it to me? Because I’ll be honest, I want to get in that boat and talk to a pilot. I promised to look after Sophia. She has no idea what kind of a woman her birth mother is capable of being. I’m the only one who can explain, yet with a few words from these beautiful lips”—his finger gently traced her lips—“I’m again helpless.”
“Because you love me, and as committed as you are to Sophia, which is honorable, you’re more committed to me and our child.”
Tony nodded. “I do love you—more than life itself; nevertheless, I’m going for that walk. I feel trapped, and at this moment, I need to remind myself Catherine is the one responsible—not you. As much as I love you”—he seized her shoulders—“and never forget that I do; right now, I’m not fond of the control you seem to have.”
Claire nodded. She wanted honesty. That didn’t mean she liked everything she heard—she didn’t; however, wasn’t that the risk with honesty—accepting the truth no matter how it made you feel?
Besides, deep down, Claire completely understood his position—she’d been there herself.
Phil eased into the art gallery behind a twenty-something couple. It was the third one he’d visited in Davenport this afternoon. It looked similar to the others—art work highlighted by spot lights and three dimensional art showcased on stands. It wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t even sure how to pretend he liked any of it. Most of it didn’t look like art to him anyway. Who decided what constituted art, Phil wanted to know.
As he walked slowly, pretending to appreciate the paintings which looked like something a five-year-old child could create, he saw Sophia out of the corner of his eye. She was moving from painting to painting, taking a painstaking amount of time to devour each piece. This was the third Friday in a row she’d gone to Davenport to visit the galleries. Once he found her, his directive was clear; text Ms. London and let her know Sophia’s location.
Stepping into a side hallway, Phil did as he’d been told. He texted his employer:
“MRS BURKE IS AT THE JOHN BLOOM GALLERY ON 12TH STREET.”
Next, he stood back and waited. As he stared at the canvas before him, he listened to two women discuss the use of color and shadowing. There were many things Phil knew. He could probably teach a course on surveillance—technology was his passion—he loved learning about new devices to make his job easier and more precise. When it came to computers, he could talk programming and hardware with the best of them; however, when it came to colors and shadowing, he didn’t have a clue!
His phone vibrated. The text was simple. His job for the day was done. Phil couldn’t have been happier. Trailing Claire had been a cake walk. Following Sophia was brain numbing. She spent most of her time at home. When she did venture out, it was either with her husband or to places like this. The gallery was filling with patrons—apparently, his lack of interest wasn’t shared by others. As he made his way toward the door, a waiter stopped him with a tray of champagne in tall glasses. He asked if Phil would like a glass. With the refusal on the tip of his tongue, he saw Catherine enter the gallery. She looked different than she had at any of their meetings. Her hair was shorter, her clothes stylish, and her face made-up.
Curiosity was his new downfall. It’s what had pulled him into Claire’s world. Many times, when Rawlings told him to end surveillance for the day, Phil would continue. Now, nodding and smiling at the waiter, he lifted a flute from the tray, worked his way into a crowd, and watched. It wasn’t the art that interested him—it was the woman who had been so determined to rid herself of Claire. Phil was anxious to learn more about the woman who thought she employed him.
Through the next few hours, Catherine mingled in Sophia’s vicinity. In time, they began discussing the pieces of art. He couldn’t hear their discussion; he could watch their body language. It was alarmingly similar—little mannerisms—the way they tilted their heads or crossed their arms. Phil wondered if they noticed the similarities or if it was more obvious from afar.
The two women were becoming friendly, laughing and talking, until a tall dark-haired man arrived. Phil recognized him from his research—it was Derek, Sophia’s husband. It appeared as though Sophia introduced Catherine to her husband, and then shortly thereafter, Catherine excused herself and left.
One last glass of champagne with a side of brie and Phil was done for the evening.
Claire was asleep on their bed when she felt Tony sit on the side of the mattress. His soft touch gently rubbing her back eased her concern. He wasn’t gone—he hadn’t disappointed her. Turning toward her husband, Claire smiled a sleepy smile. “Hi, Honey, how long have I been asleep?”
“A couple of hours.”
“And where did you go?”
“For a walk around the island. I also made a call.”
That last sentence held Claire’s attention. “A call—to whom?”
“I thought I was calling Baldwin.”
Claire sat up and scooted to the headboard. “Tony, why would you call Harry?”
“He’s our only FBI contact. The only one we know how to contact.”
Although the air had cooled over the last few hours, it still sat warm and heavy; nevertheless, as goose bumps cloaked her skin, Claire wrapped her arms around her chest. “Why did you need to speak with the FBI?”
“I told you the other night that I’m willing to make a deal.”
The sea was still blue, the sky was still clear, and the colorful flowers still filled the air with beautiful scents, yet Claire’s paradise disappeared—peace and contentment were gone. Tears filled her eyes as she fought the sudden pounding in her temples. She’d been asking questions for weeks. During that time, she’d also been getting answers—many she didn’t want. Before she could ask the question on the tip of her tongue, Claire pushed herself off the bed. The sudden movement made the room sway. She reached for the bedside stand, closed her eyes, and waited for it to stop.
Before the room ceased spinning, Tony was at her side. His distant tone was replaced with concern. “The doctor said you need to be careful; the bigger the baby gets, the harder it is for your blood to flow. He said that sudden standing can cause fainting spells. You need to move slower.” His strong arms encircled her body and stabilized her world during each word of his lecture.
Instead of leaning into him, Claire stood straight. “I’m fine. I stood fast because I couldn’t breathe. I needed to stand and have more room in my lungs—and I heard the doctor—I was there.”
“Laying down would accomplish the same thing.”
She wanted to argue, but the swaying room and headache had her stomach in knots, or perhaps it was the thought of Tony’s deal. No matter the cause, she chose to press her lips t
ogether and stare up into her husband’s eyes.
“You need to sit back down.”
Her tongue remembered to speak. “I need to use the bathroom,” she retorted, followed by a decline for Tony’s help. When she returned to the bedroom, he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Before he could speak, she volunteered, “I don’t think I want to know about your call.”
“Baldwin isn’t our contact any longer.”
Claire exhaled. She didn’t have a choice—he was going to tell her anyway. Claire sat at the small table. The straight backed chairs helped her lower back. “He never should’ve been. It seems like an obvious conflict of interest.”
Tony nodded. “Are you feeling better?”
“Not really. Why would you make that call without talking to me about it first?”
“I had to do something.”
“Please, Tony, tell me what was said.”
“I thought you just said you didn’t want—”
“I don’t, all right?” her volume increased. “I don’t want you to make a deal—I don’t want you to confess anything to anyone—except to me”—Her voice cracked as tears rushed down her cheeks—“I don’t want to be without you—I don’t even care if it’s the right thing to do—I—I—we—need you!”
His resolve melted before her eyes as his defiant stance eased and his voice mellowed. “Claire, my God—this isn’t to hurt you or our baby—it’s to help you. Since I left Venice without contacting Baldwin, I’m officially a fugitive. In essence, you’re harboring a fugitive.”
Convicted (Consequences) Page 29
