“That’s very upstanding of you. Again, it isn’t your call.”
“May I travel to Iowa?”
“As an agent or a private citizen?”
All moisture disappeared from Harry’s mouth; his tongue suddenly became thick. “Are you saying that if I go to Iowa, I’m no longer a part of the FBI?”
“No, unless you entered this office with the intention of resigning?”
“I didn’t, sir.”
“If you choose, as a friend of the Vandersols, to take a few days of leave and visit Iowa, I won’t try to stop you. However, if you use your position in the FBI with the local authorities or anyone else while there, you will be subject to disciplinary action. The call is yours. This case almost cost you your badge. Consider your options and tread lightly.”
“Hypothetically, if I go to Iowa, as a friend of the Vandersols, and I learn anything particularly useful, may I share it with you?”
“I don’t see any violation in that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Agent, never enter my office with that attitude again. I don’t care what bone you have to pick with me.”
“Yes, sir, I apologize. Will you take my concerns to the deputy director?”
“Put in for your leave, son. We’ll talk when you return.”
“Yes, sir.”
The scrumptious aroma of garlic and the light rhythm of jazz overpowered Harry’s senses and loosened the tension as he entered his condominium in Palo Alto. Walking quietly toward the kitchen, he stopped and gazed toward the stove, more specifically toward the woman unaware of his presence. Her hot black skirt, long tanned legs, and bare feet could make him forget everything else that he’d endured throughout his day. Still unaware of his voyeurism, Liz stood near the stove swaying rhythmically to the music coming from her phone, her attention monopolized by the amazing Italian sauce in the pan. He watched as she’d stir, taste, and hum. Quietly, he stepped behind her, wrapped his arms gently around her waist, and planted a kiss at the base of her neck.
Jumping, she shrieked, “Hey!” Immediately, the stovetop was dotted in a rain of tomato sauce. Turning into his embrace, she chided, “Look what you made me do.”
“Hey, yourself,” Harry chuckled. “I know what I’d like you to do.” His finger swept across the stainless stovetop swiping sauce in its wake. Placing his red-coated finger between his lips, he tasted her delicious concoction. “Hmm, this is good.”
“Good?” Her lower lip pushed forward in a feigned pout.
“Hmm…” He nuzzled her neck. “…yes, good.”
“I’ve been cooking for hours and all I get is good?”
“Well,” Harry teased, “all things are relative. The sauce is good. This…” His lips once again found the soft skin above her collarbone, each kiss dipping lower and lower along the scooped neckline of her blouse. “…is delectable.”
“Oh?”
“Do you doubt me?” He asked as his bright, innocent eyes met hers and his thumb found the roundness of her breast. “I’m fairly confident that as delicious as your neck is, under this blouse…” He ran his hand over the firmness of her behind searching for a zipper on her skirt “…and under this skirt, it’s even better.”
The spoon which had commanded Liz’s attention now lay on the tomato-splattered stovetop as her head fell back, giving Harry better access to her exposed skin. As his hands wandered, she said breathily, “I think I may see where you’re going with this.”
Turning off the stove, Harry tugged on Liz’s hand and pulled her toward their bedroom. “I think I’m suddenly famished.”
Caressing the hardness in his jeans, Liz giggled. “Maybe I’m the one who’s hungry?”
“I like the way that sounds.”
“B-but,” she stuttered, putting on the breaks. “Amber and Keaton are coming to dinner tonight.”
Lowering her to their soft bed, Harry watched her golden hair fan behind her blushed cheeks. “Let’s cancel. I like the idea of our own private dinner.”
Liz looked over at the clock, her blouse now untucked and her bra exposed. “They’ll be here in a half an hour.”
“I’d rather take longer,” Harry said. “But I’m never against fast food.”
Liz playfully hit his shoulder. “You’re crude. I need to finish dinner.” Standing and adjusting her clothing, she added, “Besides, if I’m the dinner, I’d rather be a three-course meal. I’m not fast food.”
Harry lay alone on their bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Then let’s change places. I’m all right with being the meal, and I’m pretty sure I can do fast, if necessary.”
Liz laughed as she threw a pillow his direction. “Sorry, buddy. Besides, I love your being between assignments. We have plenty of time for all the dining you want.” Looking at his exaggerated pout, she said, “Just wait until after they leave.”
“Fine, I can wait, I suppose.”
“You don’t have a choice. I still need to set the table and make the salad.”
Propping himself up on his elbows, Harry said, “If I help with dinner, can I make reservations for later?”
Shaking her head, she walked back toward the kitchen.
The conversation flowed light and easy as Amber and Liz talked about SiJo, and Harry and Keaton discussed their predictions for the upcoming basketball tournament. It wasn’t until Amber kicked Harry under the table that he even listened to his sister’s question. “Why didn’t you tell her? I’ve been dying to say something all day. Liz, I can’t believe you haven’t seen the news,”
Harry searched from Amber to Liz. “Well, you see, sis, I just got home and, well, we had better things to do than talk about the latest news.” He took a bite of garlic bread and smiled a toothy grin. “We were kind of busy.”
Amber kicked him again.
“Ouch!”
“You’re gross. TMI!” Amber retorted.
“What are you talking about?” Liz asked.
“Fine, I’m spilling the beans. Keaton and I’ve been talking about it all day.” Amber’s eyes sparkled with untold secrets. “Both Anthony Rawlings and Claire have been arrested!”
“Arrested?!” Liz said. “For Simon’s death? Claire had something to do with Simon?”
“No,” Amber replied. “Not for Simon. The article said that Claire shot someone.”
“Oh, my God, she is nuts. And you had her living with you.”
Harry’s shoulders straightened. “I think there’s more to it than that. And no one said she’s nuts.” His modest attempt at defending Claire earned him cold looks from the two women at the table. “The woman she’s accused of shooting is the same one who was at the estate when Rawlings first took her.”
“Didn’t you go and talk to that lady?” Liz asked.
“I did.”
“And Claire killed her?” Liz questioned.
“No,” Harry replied.
When he offered no more information, Amber responded. “I called John. He said it’s a mess. The lady’s name is Catherine, and she was shot, but her wound isn’t life-threatening. Of course, I was all concerned about Claire. He said that she’s not doing well. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since it happened.”
“She isn’t as dumb as she acts. I bet she’s faking it to avoid jail time,” Liz said.
Harry thought about her transition from prison the first time, the way she reacted to simple things like sky and sunlight. He didn’t want her going through that again. It wasn’t right. The FBI made her a deal. She had immunity.
Amber’s laugh refocused him. He wasn’t sure what he’d missed in the conversation, but Liz and Amber were clinking their glasses of red wine and grinning.
“I scored us four great tickets to the Lakers game this coming Saturday. They’re in the Google suite: drinks and food on me,” Keaton offered.
“On you or on Google?” Amber teased.
“I work for Google, so without me you wouldn’t be there,” he answered smugly. “I’d say it’s on me.”<
br />
Amber kissed his cheek. “Sounds great.”
“Yeah, sounds fun,” Liz replied. “What time?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, interrupting their plans. “I need to be out of town for a few days. You have fun without me.”
Liz’s expression dropped. “What else didn’t you have time to tell me? Do you have a new assignment?”
“Yeah, but it won’t last long—just a couple of days.”
“When are you leaving?” Amber asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Pressing her lips together, Liz slumped in her chair and sighed.
“Well, this party just took a downturn,” Keaton observed.
After a long drink of her wine, Liz refilled her glass and faked a smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m not that insecure. It isn’t like Harry’s running off to Iowa or something.”
Amber’s gaze cut to Harry.
“Would anyone else like some more wine?” he asked with a purposeful tone of innocence as he refilled his glass.
One of the secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others.
—Lewis Carroll
My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 3…
It’s difficult to look back at a time of despair and isolate the most difficult moment. They all worked together to accomplish the same goal. In my education as a meteorologist, I learned how essential elements combined in just the right way to create the perfect storm. Finding the one element, the one piece of the puzzle that completed the devastation would be like choosing the single raindrop responsible for a ruinous flood or the upward draft that completed the destructive funnel cloud. Each drop of water or gust of wind played a role in the destruction. In my education as Mrs. Rawlings, I learned how each storm, no matter how small, played a role in creating the perfect companion.
As a town is never the same after a destructive storm, neither was I.
The isolation in my suite was my first storm. It should have been the kidnapping and the physical abuse: surely they contributed. They were rumblings of impending desperation, like the threatening winds before a hurricane. During those times that seemed unsurvivable, I erroneously believed I could make a difference. I held on to the hope that I could say or do something to change my destiny. While left alone—literally alone—for almost two weeks, the dams broke and I changed forever. I found myself almost wishing for the threatening precursors.
After Anthony’s proclamation of ownership, he left my suite. Though my cheek stung from the slap of his hand, it was the impenetrable silence that hung about me like a cloud. I’d already tried and failed to escape my cell: I was alone with no way out.
The windows wouldn’t break with the pounding of the chair against the glass. First, I tried the tall French doors that led to a balcony. Of course, the doors were locked, but I hoped that I could break the glass to get outside and climb to freedom. That seemed safer than the windows. The small panes repelled the blows. After numerous failed attempts, and despite the distance from the other windows to the ground, I tried breaking the windows. Unfortunately, no number of strikes shattered the glass, only my hope.
The Weather Station had told me I was in Iowa. When I escaped, I didn’t know where I would go or how long it would take me to get there. I just knew that freedom was beyond the sea of trees. From my view, they seemed to go on forever. I also feared that if the windows broke, an alarm of some kind would sound; however, with each passing day my desperation grew. Running through the trees was my recurring dream—and nightmare.
Often, I’d wake panting from the realness of my illusions with my heart pounding too quickly in my chest. During the day I imagined freedom, but with night, reality intruded: I couldn’t get free. I’d be chased and caught. Though I wasn’t sure what would happen after my recapture, I knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be good.
Day after day, I saw only one person. The choice was extremely calculating, as the young man of Latin descent spoke little English. Three times a day, he’d enter my room and bring me my meals. Each time he’d avoid my eyes and say, “I bring Miss Claire her food.” That was all. No other words were uttered.
Each day while I showered, my room was cleaned and clothes were taken, laundered, and returned. As the dreams of escape faded, they were replaced by desires of companionship. I had never truly been alone in all of my life. There had always been people. Even in Atlanta when I lived alone, I had friends, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers. I never realized how much it meant to pass a stranger on the street with a nod and a smile. As the days turned to a week, I longed for a smile, a nod, anything.
Since my waiter didn’t speak beyond his one sentence, I hoped to speak with one of the invisible people who cleaned my suite. Repeatedly, I tried to catch someone in the act—anyone—but I never did. They were too quick. One day, I was so distraught that I devised a plan. It was quite simple. Instead of showering, I would lie in wait and spring from the bathroom when someone entered the suite. The anticipation was overwhelming. I was so excited at the prospect of hearing my own voice and another responding. Such a simple desire, yet it monopolized my thoughts and took away my appetite. Finally, I left the tray of food, went into the bathroom leaving the door slightly ajar, and waited.
No one came.
Lunchtime arrived and my breakfast tray remained.
The reality struck with a blow more painful than Anthony’s hand. I was a grown woman hiding behind a door, praying for the companionship of anyone. Salty, pathetic tears fell from my eyes as sobs resonated from my chest. As the day progressed, my hope dimmed. At one point I even prayed for the young man—oh, to hear him say “Miss Claire.” I knew it would give me strength. Hearing my name would validate my existence.
He didn’t come.
Anthony had never left me without food, and though I wasn’t hungry, I naively believed that my next meal would soon arrive. The silence and despair combined to create a time and space continuum. Did I sleep? Was this real? Every now and then I’d open the door a little wider to be sure that I hadn’t fallen asleep and missed the invisible people. The sight of my room taunted me: my bed remained disheveled and my cold eggs had turned to rubber on the plate. I believed the people were coming and was so obsessed with seeing them that I refused to shower and even waited until I could wait no more to enter the lavatory.
Still no one.
I continued to wait as the storm raged in my shattered mind.
The Iowa sky became dark and the hard tile floor of the too-white bathroom became my chair and my bed. The plush purple towels served as my pillow as sleep intermittently took over. I dreamed of conversation—not food, shelter, or even freedom. I lay curled up on the bathroom floor fantasizing about speech. I remembered hours spent with friends. I recalled the sleepovers I’d had as a child and a smile would briefly grace my lips. There were nights when I’d talk with my friends, as little girls do, until we were too tired to finish a sentence. On that white marble tile I cried for the times I’d fallen asleep. Oh, to have that opportunity again. I swore I’d never again take it for granted.
During that night the winds changed direction. My consciousness was no longer blaming Anthony but myself. Of course, no one would enter my suite. I was pathetic—a grown woman behaving like a child. Who would want to come and talk with me? I’d hit bottom—or so I’d thought.
I’d later learn that bottom was much deeper than I ever suspected.
The next morning when I awoke on the hard, cold floor with my body aching, I knew the storm had passed. I hadn’t hit bottom but a shelf on the floor of the ocean. It was lower than I’d ever been, but I refused to allow myself to sink further. Instead, I evaluated my elevation and concluded that I would survive, and I would never be alone again.
That didn’t mean that I wouldn’t be without others: it meant I wouldn’t let it destroy me. He may have believed he owned my body, but as long as I was in control of my mind, Anthony Rawlings, or anyone else, would not have the a
bility to isolate me. With my new resolve, I showered, dressed, and walked into my clean suite. The invisible people had returned. My cold eggs were gone, and I had a warm meal waiting on the table.
That storm taught me another lesson. If I followed the rules, I could expect favorable consequences. I’d already learned about unfavorable ones, and I had more to learn. Instead of feeling defeated, that day gave me strength. My actions had consequences: whether those were positive or negative was up to me. I was in control.
It never crossed my mind to wonder how Anthony knew I was hiding and lying in wait in that bathroom. I just knew that somehow he did. He knew I wasn’t following my daily routine. My only hope at manipulating the circumstances of my incarceration was to appear compliant. I had another new goal.
My theory was soon to be tested. After thirteen days, I heard a knock on my door. The young man who brought my meals always knocked once before entering, but this knock was different. No one entered. I waited. It happened again. When I called out, I was miraculously answered.
“Miss Claire, may I enter?”
Her question was quite comical. I couldn’t have bid her entrance if I’d wanted nor could I deny it. I was on the wrong side of the locked door. Nonetheless, I said, “Yes, Kate (name changed to protect the innocent), please come in.”
The familiar beep preceded the opening of my door. I stood motionless as her gray eyes filled with compassion, silently confirming that I was no longer alone. “Miss Claire, I have a message for you.” Kate’s accent was unique and formal and her words were music to my heart. I didn’t care what they said, only that they were spoken to me. I longed to hug or touch her in some way, craving contact, but that would have been too much—too much for my attention-starved psyche. Unable to verbally respond, I nodded, savoring the interaction and trying to make it last.
“Mr. Rawlings will be coming to see you tonight…”
I listened with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The storm had broken my defenses and revealed my greatest vulnerability: I would do anything to avoid being alone, even if it meant facing him.
Behind His Eyes Convicted: The Missing Years Page 10