Consequences

by Aleatha Romig

  When the offer came toward the end of her internship for WKPZ, Claire willingly followed her path to Atlanta. She figured the Vandersols needed some time alone, the weather was better in Atlanta, and the job was everything she prayed for. As the years continued, she learned more and more about the business, earned respect, notoriety, and a growing income. The station manager told her more than once that her willingness to learn and work made her a rising star.

  The path hit a roadblock in April of 2009 when WKPZ was purchased by a large corporate network. Claire wasn’t the only person to lose her job. Actually, over half of the veterans and most of the interns and assistants were let go. By then, she had student loans, an apartment, car and credit card debt. Honestly, that credit card and bartending kept food on the table while she looked for new employment. She considered leaving Atlanta. But she liked the city, the climate, and the people.

  In Atlanta, she could depend on indigo blue skies and rusted red dirt. The vision out her window was black and white, like an old photograph. The ground, trees, and grass were colorless. The cloud-covered sky hung low and endless. The word that came to mind was “cold.” She could be in Indiana, Michigan, or anywhere in the Midwest. They all looked alike. She hated the winter, the darkness, and the lack of color. Now she was staring at it through the windows of her prison.

  Claire wondered if she should have opened the drapes. Her discovery made her situation direr. If she wasn’t in Atlanta, where was she? And how did she get here? She looked at the stupid switch and considered shutting away the bleak outside world. It wasn’t helping her attitude. Claire decided the switch didn’t help her attitude or the non-English speaking servant, the expensive clothes, or the lavish surroundings. She was being held prisoner by a crazy man who somehow believed that he now owned her. Her location, luxurious surroundings, fancy clothes—none of it mattered. She could have been in a cinder block cell. She was still a prisoner, and the stupid stuff wouldn’t help that.

  As hours and days passed, Claire had nothing to do but think. She mostly thought about escaping, fantasizing about running through the massive wooded scene outside her window. In her fantasy, salvation was through the trees. But she couldn’t get outside the room, much less to the trees. After a few days, in a moment of heated desperation, Claire took one of the chairs from the table and tried to break the panes of glass on the French doors. The damn chair bounced off the glass. She searched the suite for anything heavy. The closest thing was a thick book. Even with repeated strikes, it had no effect on the windows.

  The hours and days spent alone made her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the Red Wing. She wondered about the regulars and her coworkers. Had anyone reported her missing? These thoughts usually resulted in tears and a headache. In an attempt at self-preservation and sanity, she began to think about the past. Was there something in the past that led to this?

  Liking Earth science and weather, meteorology seemed a natural choice. She loved the unknown. As a teenager, she experienced her first tornado. The power and unpredictability of the storm fascinated her. It exhilarated her to watch warm and cold fronts collide. She loved to learn more about it and the whys. The computers could help you predict the weather. But it is such a small part. Why do some fronts stall and create floods when days before the models predicted only an inch of rain? How can a warm sunny day suddenly turn stormy? She wanted to understand it better, to control the outcomes in some way, perhaps minimize its destructive forces. But now a degree in meteorology was useless.

  Near the end of March . . .

  He’d been in the apartment on multiple occasions. Thankfully, this would be his last visit. Looking at his TAG Heuer watch, he knew the movers should be there in thirty minutes. He slowly walked around the small rooms. Starting in her bedroom, he surveyed what remained of her belongings. Everything else, the clothes and household items, had been placed in boxes labeled for donation. The full-sized bed was stripped. Only the mattress, boxed springs, and frame remained.

  On top of the dresser were the items Anthony pondered. There were pictures in frames, indicating some sentimental attachment. He knew most of the faces. Some he’d seen in person. Others he learned about through whatever means necessary. There was a picture of her grandparents in one of those cheap frames labeled “Grandparents.” Then there was an old picture of Claire with her sister Emily and their parents taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. If he had to guess, Claire was about twelve or thirteen. There was a close-up of Claire and Emily at Emily’s wedding. He would have known the location even without the evidence of Emily’s veil. He remembered the day. It was hot and humid, even for Indiana. The last was a more recent photo of Emily and John sitting on a sofa.

  Also laid out on the dresser were a few pieces of jewelry. The inexpensive things had been included in the donation boxes. These pieces, however, were of finer quality. The pearl necklace on a white gold chain was the same one she wore in the wedding picture with Emily. There was also a pair of diamond earrings. As Anthony fingered the diamond studs with his gloved hands, he decided to put them into the donation box. The damn things couldn’t be half of a carat total weight. He grinned. If he wanted Claire to have diamond earrings, they sure as hell would be bigger than that.

  Walking toward the living room, he glanced into the bathroom, completely empty with most of its contents thrown away. No one wants a used shower curtain. The living room was amazingly sterile, contrasting the way he found it. Months ago, when he first entered the apartment to place the surveillance cameras, the small living room surprised him. He had closets bigger than this, yet it was homey, if that was possible. It may have been the pictures, plants, or eclectic furnishings—he really didn’t know. It felt like her.

  Now the room was down to the bare essentials. He looked at his watch: seventeen more minutes. He picked up the laptop and placed it in the case. Going back to the bedroom, he decided to keep all the framed pictures and the pearl necklace. He put them in the case with the laptop.

  Reminiscing, the computer had been invaluable. With it, he’d been able to access her calendar, e-mail, and various accounts. He found all scheduled commitments and via e-mail regretfully canceled. He also e-mailed her employer, Facebook friends, and sister. They all received a similar message describing an amazing opportunity she received, how she’d be unreachable for a while, but would get back to them as soon as her decision regarding her future was made. Through the laptop, her bank accounts, credit cards, auto loan, utility bills, cellular phone—everything—was assessed. The balances now all read zero. After paying each final statement in full, the accounts were closed. The monies that went into her bank accounts were difficult to trace, but if someone took the time to do it, they would learn it was a settlement from WKPZ. Anthony hoped no one would investigate that thoroughly, but if they did, that discovery should pacify them. Of course, WKPZ had no record of such a transaction, but the probability of anyone investigating that thoroughly was low. The fact the monies had been deposited into her various savings and checking accounts four days before her disappearance led to the allusion. Smiling, he recalled sitting with her at the Red Wing, knowing she had an extra $200,000 plus in her accounts and was clueless. Anthony knew from his surveillance that she only checked her accounts on the weekend. At that time, she would sit down and attempt to make ends meet. The day after she did her little balancing act, the monies electronically appeared.

  The settlement money and “see you later” e-mails combined to make her disappearance appear planned. If he could reach his own back, Anthony would have given himself a hardy pat—he deserved it!

  The manager at the Red Wing was the most difficult to quiet. After the e-mail, he immediately began calling and texting her phone. Thankfully, Anthony had taken her Blackberry with him back to Iowa. Claire responded apologetically to the manager via text. She was so sorry to leave in such a rush, but you have to answer when opportunity knocks. Anthony was pretty sure that if she were to return to Atlanta, whic
h she wouldn’t, the Red Wing would not be willing to reemploy.

  Keeping her laptop, he could check her e-mail and account balances. He would also be able to periodically send e-mails or post a Facebook status to keep the curious from overreacting. Even though the computer would be in Iowa, the web address and URL wouldn’t change. No one would know the point of origin.

  Claire’s Blackberry met an unfortunate accident. Many cell phones contain GPS trackers. Anthony wasn’t willing to take that chance. A mass text was sent explaining that Claire would have a new number soon, and she would contact everyone as soon as possible. And then, after removing the SIM card, Anthony backed his rental car over the phone. It didn’t survive. His case also contained the final hardware of his surveillance equipment. He definitely didn’t want some stupid painter running across one of his cameras.

  Six months of footage taught him much about Claire Nichols. She kept late hours and enjoyed sleeping late in the morning. She liked to cook and bake, but gave a lot away. There were no boyfriends or male visitors to the apartment, which made Anthony happy. She liked to talk on the phone and chat with people on the computer. She rarely watched television except for a show called Grey’s Anatomy and another on the same station. She liked to exercise, sometimes walking with the lady next door. Rarely did she stay around the apartment. She went out with friends frequently. Many times, she would return home in a less than sober state, but again always alone. During Christmas season, she put up decorations and even a tree. The best part of the surveillance was access to her schedules and passwords. The computer hacking would have been more difficult without those passwords. Oh, he could have done it, but this was easier.

  Anthony heard the knock on the door. He removed his gloves, put them in his pockets, and opened the door. “Hi there, are you John Vandersol?” the burly man with underarm stains and a perspiration-drenched face inquired.

  “Yeah, that’s me. You the movers? Come on in.” Anthony decided that even though he looked nothing like Claire’s brother-in-law, his presence in her apartment made more sense than any other male. People rarely remembered faces anyway.

  He signed the contract and paid the man in cash, with a $200 tip. He explained that his sister-in-law moved to another city for a job and wanted all of her things taken to the local refuge for donation. The mover wasn’t interested in the backstory, and Anthony didn’t push. He gave enough information to make the transition plausible and not too much to make it sound contrived. Too bad Claire wouldn’t be filing taxes. She could receive a hell of a deduction for her donations. It didn’t take the men long to empty the apartment.

  Her car sold for an amazingly low price. Actually, it hadn’t been enough to pay off the loan, but the point was to get rid of it. Forging her signature on the paperwork wasn’t difficult. He used her signature on the napkin as a pattern. The fortunate buyer didn’t ask questions.

  Caressing the case that held the only remnants of Claire’s previous life, Anthony wiped the doorknob with his gloves, locked the door to the empty apartment, and placed the keys into an envelope. The complex had been e-mailed about Claire’s sudden move, as well as reimbursed for severing the lease. The envelope was deposited into an open slot in the office door. Getting into the rental vehicle, he called his driver, “Pick me up at Budget Rental, ten minutes.”

  Anthony didn’t like doing all these tasks himself. Under different circumstances, he would hire someone to box the items or wait for the movers. This, however, wasn’t normal circumstances. He couldn’t risk others knowing his plan. He couldn’t even trust his best friend and head of his legal team. This was all very private.

  Eric, Anthony’s driver, had some clue about things transpiring in Atlanta. He had more than a clue. He helped transport Claire back to Iowa. But his allegiance was steadfast, as with the rest of his household staff.

  Sighing as he parked the gray inconspicuous Toyota Camry in the lot of Budget, he thanked God this was done. Now to change into his kind of clothes, get back to his real life, prepare for his scheduled meetings overseas, and decide Claire’s future. He flashed a private smile—the acquisition was complete.

  Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.

  —Bill Crosby

  Chapter 4

  Multiple times a day, she would think of her chance meeting with Anthony Rawlings. She believed his name sounded familiar, but didn’t and still doesn’t know why. God, she would love to put his name in Google and see what popped out; maybe Crazy Abusive Man or Nut Job with a Supremacy Complex?

  One day while tending bar, they started to talk, not about anything that Claire could remember, just chatting. He was attentive and charming. His eyes mesmerized her, but not with fear as they did now, more of a pull. Her policy was not to see patrons socially. Yet for some reason, when he invited her to a small booth after her shift, she accepted. In hindsight, Claire believed she was safe, still being in the Red Wing. Once there, they talked and drank some wine. At some point, he had a napkin and talked about helping her obtain a job. It was something about the Weather Channel—definitely not this. She remembered signing a napkin, but not him. It seemed harmless. She couldn’t remember what was written on the napkin. They didn’t discuss it again while they shared a few more glasses of cabernet sauvignon. After that, she went home alone.

  The next day, she slept in, shopped for groceries, which now rot in her refrigerator, and worked the closing shift. Had she known it was her last full day of freedom, she would have spent it in a more productive manner: visiting with friends, enjoying a crowd at the mall, or calling her sister. Claire wondered if Anthony returned to the bar that day. She didn’t think so, but she remembered his call.

  March 17, about a week ago . . .

  Claire’s shift ended at six, which was good. She wanted out before the holiday crowd hit the Red Wing. Green beer anxiously awaited the Irish patrons, who on St. Patrick’s Day were everyone.

  The day before when Anthony Rawlings called the Red Wing, Claire was shocked. She truly never expected to hear from him again. The call came as the seats at the bar were beginning to fill. Her boss didn’t appreciate personal calls at slow times of the day, much less at busy times. “Hello, this is Claire. May I help you?”

  “Good evening, Claire.” Her heart skipped a beat, immediately recognizing the deep husky voice that accompanied the handsome dark-haired, dark-eyed man.

  “Anthony?”

  First a chuckle, then, “I am impressed. You have a wonderful memory for voices.”

  Well, yeah, when they accompany people like you. “Thank you, I talk with people for a living. I am surprised you called. Did you forget something or leave something?”

  “Well, yes and no.” The manager walked toward her. She covered the phone and whispered, “Customer from yesterday looking for something.” He turned away and walked to the kitchen.

  “Okay, if you let me know what it is, I can look around and call you back. First let me get your number.”

  “Oh, you definitely have my number. First I think you should know what I left.” Claire waited impatiently. He sounded mysterious, but there were people waiting. Finally, he said, “You, Claire . . .”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Excuse me?”

  “I have been thinking about you and would be honored if you would agree to accompany me to dinner.”

  Claire’s mind scrambled. She tried to think, but the bar was filling with patrons all looking to her for service. Anthony was waiting for her to respond. Last night, he was so handsome and charming. The prospect of someone like him, older and successful, taking the time to call her after a few hours of chatting was flattering. She worked to sound resilient. “I am sorry, I work until close. That is too late for dinner.”

  “Someone named Crystal who answered the telephone earlier said you work the early shift tomorrow. Or will you turn me down again and send me home
heartbroken?”

  Claire sighed. This was outside her comfort zone, but then again, she didn’t want to be responsible for sending some poor successful gorgeous businessman home heartbroken. “I am supposed to get off tomorrow at six, but if you recall from last night, it isn’t always prompt. I could be ready by seven, if that isn’t too late for you?”

  His tone was lighter and quicker. “Wonderful. Should I pick you up at the Red Wing or your place?”

  Oh god, she wasn’t ready for him to know where she lived. “I can meet you—”

  He cut her off. “I am sure you can, but let me pick you up in style. I will see you at seven at the Red Wing, and we are going to Chez Czar. Until tomorrow, Claire.” The telephone disconnected.

  For the next sixty to seventy minutes, the barrage of orders and customers needing pacification kept her mind from fully registering her actions. She’d accepted an invitation to one of the top dining spots in Atlanta with someone she barely knew. She broke her “no dating a customer” rule and her “no going in the same car on a first date” rule. But maybe the first date was in the booth at the Red Wing. Then this will officially be the second date, which is totally acceptable. Oh my, what would she wear?

  At six fifteen, she officially clocked out, her register balanced. In the back of the bar, there was a small locker room where the female employees kept their purses, coats, and extra clothes. Claire knew her Red Wing T-shirt and jeans wouldn’t make the Chez Czar cut. Besides, the last time she saw Anthony, he was wearing a very nice suit.