—Bo Bennett
Agent Harrison Baldwin settled into his hotel room in Zurich, Switzerland. It had been two weeks since Claire and Phillip Roach left Venice. Baldwin wasn’t making points with the bureau. They definitely weren’t happy with his unnecessary trail of the Italian couple from the Hotel Danieli. Although it thankfully went unnoticed by the Italian embassy, SAC Williams didn’t hesitate to lecture Baldwin, at length, on his failed attempt. Maybe Baldwin had been undercover for too long. Without sounding conceited, Baldwin truly believed his tracking device would lead him to Claire’s next destination. Honestly, he’d underestimated Phillip Roach.
The bureau had agents throughout Europe looking for Rawlings. Baldwin truly didn’t know where he’d be. Each time Rawlings answered a call from the bureau, he hung up before his location could be confirmed. The only reason Baldwin was sitting in Switzerland was because of rumors. It wasn’t high-tech FBI probing. No, it was hours of research, drinking untold amounts of coffee, and reading article after article. The gossip that brought him to Zurich was actually from Claire’s research. There were rumors that Nathaniel Rawls hid money overseas. Although discounted by people who knew him and never confirmed, Harry reasoned that Rawlings wouldn’t have willingly walked away from his life and agreed to exist on the measly compensation from the FBI if he didn’t have more money to access. Common sense told him that Switzerland was where one would hide money. Of course, there were other options. Currently, more Americans probably used the Cayman Islands or Bahamas; however, Baldwin reminded himself that these funds were originally hidden by Rawls in the 1980’s.
Harry wanted—and needed—to prove to the FBI that Rawlings was ultimately responsible for multiple unsolved crimes. In effect, not only were they concentrating on the murder of an FBI agent, but more than likely a string of murders. Baldwin ran his fingers through his blonde, unruly hair. Why couldn’t Claire understand that Rawlings wasn’t just a monster who abused her? The man was essentially a serial killer. He tried to think about the case and not remember her green eyes. He knew he blew it at their last meeting. Truthfully, he didn’t mean to call her stupid. She was just too willing to trust Rawlings. Baldwin vowed that he’d stop Rawlings before he could hurt Claire again.
Harry decided to start at the beginning. Utilizing the bureau’s databases, he worked to identify a list of individuals who died with the confirmation of actaea pachypoda in their system. Not all of the individuals on the generated list could be connected to Rawlings or Rawls; however, the number that could be connected—even with a possible connection—was too high to allow for coincidence. The first documented case, the cause of this entire investigation, was Agent Sherman Nichols. His cause of death in 1997 was publicly declared as natural causes. Agent Nichols was seventy-three with a history of high-blood pressure; nevertheless, as a retired federal agent, a full autopsy was required. The toxicology workups took time. When unidentified markers were found, it took more time. To Agent Nichols’ family and the public, the original cause of death was confirmed. To the bureau, the case remained open.
Actaea pachypoda was next identified during an autopsy in 1989, by the minimum-security federal correctional facility, Camp Gabriels, in upstate New York. The inmate’s name, Nathaniel Rawls; again, blood workups took time. The simple answer was heart failure. That’s what SAC Williams said. Actaea pachypoda had a sedative effect on the cardiac muscle tissue, causing cardiac arrest. Baldwin wondered why Rawlings would want to kill his own grandfather. Jotting down a note, he wanted to research the record of visitors at Camp Gabriels Correctional Institution. Being a minimum-security prison, visitors came and went with regularity.
The biggest problem with Harry’s search, even with the help of the federal database, was that actaea pachypoda wasn’t commonly sought in toxicology screenings. Truthfully, a search of all cardiac-related deaths should be done; however, that would produce an overwhelming list of possible victims. Even Harry had to admit that Rawlings was probably not responsible for every person who died of cardiac-related problems; nevertheless, if Baldwin included Rawlings’ parents, his grandfather, and Agent Nichols, that was four deaths in a relatively short period of time. From Forensics 101, that fit the definition of a serial killer, and then add Simon Johnson, and the killing spree had not stopped.
Harry had compiled health history workups on his entire list of potential victims. Not all fit the possible profile for heart disease as well as Agent Nichols and Nathaniel Rawls. Simon, for example, was very healthy. The only indications found in health records were allergies: sulfa drugs and penicillin, as well as sensitivity to H1 antihistamines. If his death had been ruled to have been due to natural causes, then red flags would have finally flown. Luckily for Rawlings, Simon’s body was too badly burnt in the crash. Harry had requested a new toxicology screening from tissue samples recovered at the time of Simon’s accident—but that would take time.
Harry was about to start a state-by-state search of medical examiners’ records, searching specifically for actaea pachypoda, when his phone rang.
He answered, “Hello?”
The voice on the other end expected action. “Agent Baldwin, Rawlings has been spotted leaving a well-known bank in Geneva. According to the agent, he’s not trying to disguise himself.”
Baldwin wanted to say, “What an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.” Instead, he said, “I can be there in less than an hour, sir.”
“The bureau has a plane ready. Be on it, ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Agent, while you’re flying to Geneva, you can review your assignment. I’d like to assume you won’t fail again; however, we both know what happens when we assume.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t fail.”
His research needed to wait.
Settling into a suite at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, Tony sucked back the best two fingers of Glen Garioch Bourbon he’d ever tasted. There were too many thoughts swirling through his mind to think about one in particular. One thing he knew for sure, he’d had enough of the common life. One million dollars wasn’t much, but it would sustain him until the FBI came for him. He didn’t care anymore. What the hell? Agent Jackson’s cryptic threats needed to be supported. The way Tony saw it, the fuck’n bureau needed to ante up or get out of the damn game!
Tony had stayed at the Kempinski before, and decided that due to its size and reputation for excellence, he’d stay there again. He reasoned that a businessman spending money—enjoying what life could offer—would get lost in the crowd. Anonymity, plus the modern, clean-line decor and opulence were exactly what Tony wanted and needed at the moment. He could spend a few days in his suite, soaking the stench of hostels and common living from his skin, while he drank the thoughts of Claire leaving him and stealing his money from his head. It seemed like the perfect combination.
Another two fingers of bourbon and he might just go down to one of the clubs. Hell, he hadn’t been with another woman since before he and Claire married, not even when she was in prison. He went out on dates and made appearances that’s who Anthony Rawlings was. Nevertheless, his heart wasn’t in it. He was always polite and gentlemanly, even when advances were made on him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have needs. It was that during the instances when his lips touched another woman’s and he closed his eyes, all he saw was the sparkling emerald he wanted to have in his arms. When he opened his eyes and the sight before him wasn’t what he truly desired. The rest of his body wasn’t interested in proceeding. Although there were many women willing to help the situation, Tony wasn’t interested.
Of course, that didn’t mean Claire had afforded him the same exclusivity. In Tony’s current condition, that was somewhere he shouldn’t go. One thought opened the floodgate to many more. Had she left him to be with someone else? Was she with someone now? There was always that thought that periodically infiltrated his thoughts: what if the baby wasn’t his? Refocusing on their conversation—where the hell was here? What kind of an answer was that?
Tony snickered as he poured his third glass. Damn, if he weren’t so refined, then he’d drink the shit from the bottle. He may still be using the same name as the man at the hostels, but he wasn’t that man. He’d drink like culturally duped men do—out of a glass.
He definitely had more questions swirling through his head than answers. Tony thought back to the research he tried to do. There were too many pieces of this puzzle still missing.
Slumping back into a plush chair and gazing out to the twilight sky above Lake Geneva, Tony acknowledged the FBI was right. Claire left him. Of. Her. Own. Free. Will!
Slightly dimmed by the onslaught of ninety-six proof liquor, Tony’s thoughts were forming slower; nevertheless, Claire’s words were coming back, Really, Tony? How many people knew about it? How many people would consider us both children of children? He knew that answer in the pit of his stomach. With each second, the truth burnt within him: Catherine knew. She knew they were both children of children. Catherine knew about Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew how to access Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew!
Reaching for his nearest phone, Tony almost spilled his drink. As he steadied himself, he thought about Catherine’s number. Not hers, no his! The idea that he could call his house and she’d be there fueled the rage coursing through him. Just as he considered entering the number with the phone in the palm of his hand, it rang.
He almost dropped it!
With a slight slur to his speech, Tony answered, “Hello, Agent Jackson, how are you this fine evening?” The momentary silence made Tony laugh. “What’s the matter, Agent? Cat’s got your tongue?”
“Mr. Rawlings, we have word that you’re making yourself visible.”
“Oh, you see, that’s not true. No-no one can see me, right now.” Tony scanned the corners of the room for signs of cameras. “Or, can you?” He lifted his free hand to wave. “Can you see me?”
“No, Mr. Rawlings, I can’t see you; however, you’ve been spotted.”
“Well, is that so? I’m not using my real name.”
“Mr. Rawlings, we’d like you to meet with a field agent. He’ll instruct you on better ways to stay hidden.”
“I don’t think I’m up for more learning today. You see, I’ve already had a lesson or two, so I’m really over the entire educational system at this moment.”
“That wasn’t a request. You’re staying at the Kempinski; our agent will meet you in fifteen minutes at Mulligan’s near the train station.”
Tony looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to pass. You see, I had room service in mind.”
“Mulligan’s. Fifteen minutes.” The line went dead. On the corner of the screen, the time said 02:24. So, they were finally able to trace a call. It didn’t matter. They already knew where he was staying.
Tony made his way to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and straightened his tie. If he were expected to meet with some FBI asshole, then he’d at least do it with dignity.
Phil watched Tony leave the Kempinski. If Rawlings was supposed to be in hiding, Phil didn’t think he was doing a very good job. His demeanor, swagger, and aura all screamed Anthony Rawlings. It truly didn’t matter what name he chose to use; no one who knew him would mistake him for someone else. Hell, Phil was good, but anyone could’ve found him.
From the time Phil left Claire on the island, he’d been staking out the bank. She’d told him the name of the institution where she’d secured her new fortune. It only made sense that sooner or later, Rawlings would show up at the same place. Claire never told him what she’d left for Rawlings in the safety deposit box, but whatever it was, Rawlings didn’t appear happy about it when he left the bank. He hardly looked like a man who’d just accessed his hidden millions.
Flagging down a cab, Phil instructed the driver to follow the cab up ahead. It may not have been the best detective work he’d ever done, but this wasn’t about learning. Phil didn’t want to know any more about Anthony Rawlings than he already did. In all honesty, he knew more than he wanted to know. Phil had something he wanted to tell Rawlings.
The cab with Rawlings pulled up to a small tavern, Mulligan’s, not far from the train station. Again, Phil wondered what Rawlings was thinking. This was way too public for someone who was supposedly missing. When Phil entered the tavern, it took all his self-control not to stand and gape at the scene unfolding in front of him. Even Rawlings seemed bewildered as he tried to comprehend the reality. Harrison Baldwin was meeting Rawlings mid-room. Yes, there were other patrons, sounds, talking, music, chairs moving, yet as Phil slipped into a dark corner, none of that registered. It was like a movie where the rest of the room turns to fuzz. All Phil could watch were the two men standing chest to chest. If it were a western, then their hands would be on their revolvers.
When Rawlings left the hotel, he didn’t look happy. Unhappy was an understatement to describe his current demeanor. Phil couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could feel the waves of tension radiating from their encounter. For a second, when Baldwin took out his badge, Phil was afraid Rawlings would deck him. It wasn’t true fear—actually, Phil would’ve enjoyed the show; however, for Claire’s sake, it was something that shouldn’t happen, at least, not in public.
Phil wanted to hear what they were saying; however, slipping into the neighboring booth wouldn’t add to the warmth of their reunion. If Phil were to trust his own intuition, this meeting had blindsided Rawlings. Phil wondered whom Rawlings thought he was meeting. Shaking his head, he assessed if this were set up by the FBI, it seemed pretty shitty.
Phil ordered a beer and continued to watch. Neither man in the booth across the room ordered when the waitress approached. Although they sat calmly, an aura of discontent fell like a cloud all around them. Phil didn’t think it was his imagination or the fact he knew their background. Even strangers were steering clear of that corner of the bar. Despite their too low voices, their body language suggested a heated discussion. Baldwin was talking, and Rawlings wasn’t interested; however, when Baldwin pulled out his phone and showed something to Rawlings, Phil thought he saw virtual sparks fly. Rawlings’ finger pointed at Baldwin and moved to emphasize every word of his retort. Without warning, Rawlings stood and headed toward the door.
Phil watched to see if Baldwin would go after him. When he didn’t, Phil laid a few Euros on the tabletop and slid out after Rawlings. As he watched the cab stop and Rawlings begin to enter, Phil let out a breath and told himself, this is for Claire.
The next second, Phil reached for the handle of the cab’s door. When it opened, he eased onto the seat next to Rawlings.
“Excuse me, this cab is—” Tony’s words, in French, stopped when their eyes met. It’s understandable that he didn’t recognize Phil right away; after all, they’d only met a few times in person. Most of their correspondence had been via email and text message, but when Rawlings realized who’d just entered his cab, his eyes darkened and he growled, “What the hell?”
Also in French, Phil replied, “I’d address you by name…” Phil moved his eyes to the driver. “…however, I’m not sure what that is.”
“Collins,” Rawlings said, as he exhaled and laid his head against the seat.
“Monsieur Collins, I’m sure you’ll want to hear me out.”
“This fuck’n day won’t ever end, will it?”
The cab driver looked back at Tony and asked if everything was all right. Tony nodded and replied, “Oui, to my hotel.” Then under his breath, he continued the conversation, “Monsieur, I assume you’ll be joining me?”
Phil nodded. “Bien sûr.”
Chapter Fourteen
A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.
—Elbert Hubbard
Each day was a little better than the last. Claire only allowed herself to cry or acknowledge her loneliness when she was alone in her suite. It wasn’t compartmentalization: she’d accepted her fate. These wer
en’t the cards she’d been dealt; no, they were the ones she’d drawn.
She reasoned that Madeline and Francis didn’t need to be burdened by her sadness, and her child didn’t need to experience the anguish coming from its mother—all of the time. Claire kept the sadness defined, and the rest of the time, she bluffed her way through. Fake it until she made it—her new mantra.
The odd thing, the thing that surprised Claire, was as she bluffed and feigned happiness, the real pleasures of day-to-day activities seeped into her life. One afternoon, while in the kitchen with Madeline and without pretending, Claire heard her own laughter. The light, foreign, and whimsical sound surprised her more than anyone else. It had been so long since she’d truly laughed that she almost didn’t recognize it.
On the afternoon after she and Tony spoke, she lay on her bed, phone in hand, for what seemed like hours. Her plan was well thought out and well designed; nevertheless, he hung up. The pain from his decision and her situation was physical. She’d experienced physical pain before, and this was equally as immobilizing. Had it not been for the child inside of her, Claire might have chosen to remain forever on that big bed; however, as the life within her moved and grew, she knew that she too must go on.
The tides still rose and the sun still set. Madeline and Francis still did what they did. Claire had a decision to make; she either centered her life on waiting for his call or moved on. It wasn’t a desire. It was a need. Claire needed closure. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she turned off the phone Tony called, gathered the cords, and placed all of the phones associated with the safety deposit box in a container. She wouldn’t trap him, and she couldn’t persuade him. All Claire could do was move on.
When her reality finally hit, Claire realized she was facing her greatest fear. Catherine had won. It didn’t matter that Claire knew the truth, or that she told Tony. All that mattered were the consequences of her betrayal. On a warm night in June, she and Tony stood in an open field and promised to trust one another. Even at the time, Claire knew it was a difficult promise for Tony; nevertheless, they made a vow. It wasn’t said in front of family and friends, but it was an oath. Although some of Tony’s promises over the years were made for the wrong reasons, he showed Claire more than once that he was a man of his word.
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