The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

  It was against protocol, but what the hell? At this point, what harm was there in breaking another facility rule? Throwing caution to the wind, Meredith wrapped her arms around her long-time friend and cried. The sobs of earlier, the anguish over the last six years, the fear of losing her job—everything came out.

  Slowly, Claire’s arms encircled Meredith, and she whispered, “Shhh, I’m sorry.” “Please don’t cry.”

  The absurdity of Claire consoling her hit hard. Meredith’s tears turned to laughter.

  At first, Claire thought she was imagining it. Then again, she wasn’t sure what was real. Tony’s visits were becoming less frequent. The bland room with one window was becoming more real, and she didn’t want it to be. With Tony, life was filled with colors of varying intensities. This reality was not only colorless, it was lifeless. She yearned for more time with him and longed for his touch; however, day in and day out, the drab room and the people who talked about nothing filled more and more of her hours.

  Sometimes she’d focus and see her sister. It was Emily—although, she looked much older. Then again, so did Claire. The people with plain faces and colorless eyes often combed her hair into a ponytail. It was the hairstyle of a young girl. Claire didn’t feel young. The reflection she saw, if she focused in the mirror, didn’t look young. As a matter of fact, her hair was wrong. There was a time it was blonde, because, he wanted it to be. Now the highlights weren’t blonde: they were white. How could she possibly have graying hair? The last thing she remembered was…

  That was so difficult. She tried to remember. In that room they took her to, they asked her to look at pictures. Sometimes those pictures would trigger something. When that happened, she tried with all her might to keep the emptiness out. Sometimes she’d cover her eyes or her ears.

  There were other times where they asked her to do simple tasks like picking up things and putting them in the right places. They didn’t tell her what was right. She didn’t know if it was acceptable to ask, so she avoided their tasks until they insisted. Claire didn’t like to hear people tell her what to do, especially if they sounded upset. Finally, one day, she picked up the miscellaneous items and put them in the small little compartments. Instead of releasing her from the room, they came up with more things for her to do.

  The constant that Claire began to anticipate was Meredith’s visits. It was only recently she realized who the woman was. After all, even with saying her name, the context was wrong. Why would Meredith Banks be feeding her? Then Claire realized it wasn’t meant to make sense, it just was, and Meredith did what no one else would do: she talked about Tony.

  Since his visits had lessened, when Claire tried to think of him, she felt waves of sadness. He was gone. He had to be gone. Why else wouldn’t he visit any longer? Meredith’s stories of happy times brought him back. The memories were difficult for her to recall on her own. Meredith’s recollections gave her sustenance that no food could. She’d replay the words over in her head and remember. She couldn’t feel his touch as she once had, but she could picture the scenes as Meredith spoke.

  It recently became obvious that the stories flowed more freely outside. When they walked and were alone, Meredith’s stories took on a life of their own. As she went on about dinners or engagements, Claire pictured her dress and Tony’s tuxedo. When she talked about trips, Claire’s mind saw the snow of Tahoe or the crystal blue waters of Fiji.

  There were some memories Claire didn’t want to remember. When Meredith mentioned the bad times or the bad Tony, she tried to stop the visions in her mind. She didn’t want to feel the fear resurrected by those stories.

  She questioned the reality of everything, yet in life or fantasy, Claire had promised Tony she’d keep their private life private. That’s what made Meredith safe: she already knew their private life. Claire had disobeyed Tony a long time ago; she wasn’t telling Meredith anything. No, Meredith was telling Claire. So she reasoned, telling her to stop was acceptable. After all, Tony wouldn’t want Meredith telling someone else these stories. That was why Claire had to stop her.

  She didn’t mean to make Meredith cry. Claire didn’t want her sad. She was the only person willing to help her remember. “Shhh… I’m sorry.” “Please don’t cry.”

  Suddenly, Meredith laughed.

  Claire was sure she was having another delusion. People didn’t cry then laugh. Maybe Claire wasn’t really on a walk with her old friend. Maybe she’d soon feel that too familiar sharp pain in her arm. Settling to the ground, Claire waited. The people would come and then she’d wake up somewhere else. Closing her eyes, she hoped when the sharpness came Tony would be waiting…

  “Claire, you need to stand. You’ll get cold out here on the ground.” Meredith’s voice had regained the composure it momentarily lost.

  Claire looked up, then side to side. Where were the people?

  “I know you heard me. You spoke to me. Don’t worry, you won’t be in trouble, but we need to get back.” Meredith put out her hand. “Please, let’s go back.”

  Claire reached up. The sensation of her hand in Meredith’s was real. At least, Claire believed it was.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.

  —Denis Waitley

  Harry stared at his notes and relived his recent conversation with Agent Jackson from the Boston field office. Jackson was very specific: Anthony Rawlings was cooperating with the FBI and would not be apprehended at this time. When Harry questioned the attempt on his own life and the threat to his family, Jackson reminded him that there was no proof of a connection to Rawlings.

  He was right: there was no proven connection. Could Harry’s gut be telling him he wanted Rawlings guilty, instead that the man was guilty? Maybe the whole beat down in the back-alley accomplished the exact opposite of its intention. Since it occurred, Harry was more focused and determined to close the case. He needed assurance that everyone he cared about was safe. Surprisingly, that list of people, people whom he cared about—really cared about—was more static than he’d previously realized. Harry had family who’d been there for him and friends he could count on. Those people deserved his attention.

  Everything became clearer the other day when the deputy director allowed Harry to speak with Ilona. Although he wanted to be assured of her safety, he was prepared for her tirade. The call progressed much differently than he’d anticipated.

  “Ilona, are you all right?”

  “Harry?”

  “Ilona, I’m so sorry. I never imagined there’d be a connection from me to you. I thought you were safe.”

  “I know. Ron knows.”

  Harry couldn’t believe Ilona’s resolve: if only she’d been that strong when they were married. Then again, maybe strength came with the love and support of a devoted spouse, something she now had in Ron. “Is Jillian all right?” he asked.

  “She is.” Ilona chuckled. “She thinks we’re on vacation.”

  Harry smiled.

  “Do whatever you need to do, Harry. I have no idea who you’re after or what this is about, but if there’s a connection to us—please take care of it.”

  “The threat was meant as a warning for me to back off.”

  Ilona’s voice rang through the field office’s telephone. “I think I know you better than that—at least, I hope I do. You nail this person, whoever it is who’s threatening us. I know you can!”

  “Thanks, Ilona. I expected you to chew me out for getting you into this.”

  “You’re a few days late. I would’ve, but I’ve had time to think. Someone feels very threatened. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t resort to this. I’m fine and Jillian will forget this vacation as soon as it’s over.”

  When they hung up, the indecision that had been looming like clouds around Harry since he’d re-entered the case evaporated. Claire was where she wanted to be. Her message said so. There was a time he’d let his personal feelings get in the way. Now, it
was strictly business. Claire Nichols was an informant and the granddaughter of an agent who’d been murdered. If the Boston office was confident in her safety then Harry would concentrate his talents where they were better utilized: interrogation and research. Currently, with his ability to communicate with Rawlings severed, research was his mode of operation.

  Harry looked over his recent findings. An inspection of the bureau of motor vehicles for the state of New Jersey found twenty-two-thousand-plus blue Hondas registered in 1989. The search could be considerably refined if Harry could enter a year or model for the Honda. He couldn’t. However, thanks to Claire’s phone call, he had a name: Catherine Marie London. When he ran her name, he hit the jackpot: 1987 Honda Prelude registered to Catherine Marie London. Further scrutiny of the registration revealed the color: blue.

  To further follow up on Claire’s information, Harry searched marriage records for New Jersey. His search came up blank. Thinking of the Rawlings’ somewhere in the South Pacific, he realized that people can go anywhere and get married. The FBI’s databases weren’t restricted by state or country. Utilizing the bureau’s database, Harry tried again. This time, he hit pay dirt: marriage license issued by the state of New York, February 25, 1988, to Nathaniel Rawls and Catherine Marie London.

  Harry referred to his timeline: Nathaniel Rawls was convicted on charges of multiple counts of insider trading, misappropriation of funds, price fixing, and securities fraud in 1987, and sentenced to three years in Camp Gabriels, a minimum-security prison in upstate New York. Nathaniel’s sentence was reduced to twenty-four months due to prison overcrowding. It made sense that he and Catherine Marie London were married in New York, at the prison where Nathaniel was incarcerated. Harry wondered why Catherine hadn’t kept the name Rawls. Was she hiding from Nathaniel’s crimes as Rawlings had done with his change of name?

  The search he’d started on Nathaniel Rawls continued to generate information. The screen of his computer sustained a non-stop scroll listing a plethora of civil suits. Scanning the generalities, most cases named Nathaniel Rawls as defendant and asked for financial restitution. Perhaps that was Catherine’s reasoning, distance herself from the financial ramifications of Nathaniel’s crimes.

  Out of curiosity, Harry scrolled the list of plaintiffs. The name Rawls caught his attention. He clicked: Samuel Rawls seeks to void marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls. Harry’s head spun. The complaint was initially filed with the New York state court in March of 1988. Harry rubbed his temples. Damn, Samuel didn’t waste much time voicing his disapproval of Daddy Dearest’s new wife.

  It appeared the complaint met substantial roadblocks until June of 1989, less than a month after Nathaniel’s death, when the case went from summons to disposition in record time. Based on mental incompetence and undue influence, Samuel Rawls’s complaint was granted, and the marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls was voided by the state of New York.

  Harry knew without checking that three months later Samuel and Amanda Rawls were found dead in their rented California bungalow. He also knew that Patrick Chester was the only witness to a commotion the same day at the Rawls’s home. In the initial interrogation, Chester mentioned a woman: Samuel’s sister and a blue Honda. No wonder Amanda Rawls wasn’t anxious to introduce Chester to her step-mother-in-law. Her husband had just had the woman’s marriage voided. Wow, and Harry thought his family life was screwed up!

  Harry shoved his chair backward and paced about the living room of his condominium. How in the hell did the police in Santa Monica not put these pieces together? The ballistics evidence alone should’ve sent up red flags. Damn, flares! A rookie cop should’ve seen that it wasn’t a murder/suicide!

  Harry’s questions continued: What did Rawlings do, besides pay off Chester, to cover it all up? Why? Why would he help the woman who killed his parents, unless he was involved in their murder? This may be circumstantial, but it created a connection and a reason why Catherine would want Amanda and Samuel dead. Was there a reason Rawlings would want them dead?

  Picking up his phone, Harry called Agent Jackson. After a string of button pushes and requests, his call was finally answered.

  “Agent Jackson, this is Agent Baldwin from San Francisco.”

  “Baldwin?”

  “I believe I have significant information in the Rawlings case.”

  “Are you well enough to travel, Agent?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “We’ll see you in Boston, tomorrow.”

  Harry exhaled. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”

  His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Traveling cross-country was a hell of a lot better than sitting in his damn condominium. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to all of this. Harry couldn’t shake the thought that somehow Rawlings was still involved; nevertheless, Catherine London was the reason Claire ran, the person who scared Claire into leaving the country, her family, friends, even at the risk of sullying Rawlings’ reputation and company in the process. Claire wouldn’t have done that if the threat wasn’t real. Now, Rawlings was cooperating with the bureau. How deep did this go? Did Rawlings have information on Sherman Nichols or Nathaniel’s murder? Harry wanted to know what Rawlings had told Agent Jackson.

  He’d share his information, then Jackson could share his—quid pro quo.

  Gathering his research, Harry made a mental list. He needed to call SAC Williams and let him know he was going to Boston, and since he’d been forbidden to travel, he needed to be sure to emphasize: this trip was at the request of Agent Jackson. While Harry waited for the computer to finish running a backup, he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

  “FYI—LEAVING 1ST THING IN THE MORNING—BUSINESS.”

  He entered Amber and Liz’s names and hit SEND.

  One last computer search, Harry entered Catherine’s current full name: Catherine Marie London. Very little information surfaced, not even a reference to her one time husband or his last name. As he was about to exit the search, something caught his attention:

  Executor of Anthony Rawlings estate, effective: September 18, 2013—fourteen days after the disappearance of…

  The short article described the efficient and unaffected running of the Rawlings’ estate, due in essence to Ms. London’s ability to oversee day to day operations. It was a small counter article to one about the ramifications of Anthony Rawlings’ disappearance in relation to Rawlings Industries.

  Hmmm… maybe Harry should visit Iowa City? Did he want to see Rawlings’ estate: the place Claire lived, was held captive, and returned to? He shrugged. The past was what it was. Closing this case was his number one priority. First, he’d see how things went in Boston. Then, he’d consider Iowa a definite possibility.

  His phone vibrated. Looking to the screen, he saw he had two text messages. The first one was from Amber:

  “NEW INFORMATION? WHAT? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

  Harry shook his head and replied.

  “LOVE YA, SIS. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I’M BACK.”

  The second text message was from Liz:

  “TOMORROW MORNING? DOES THAT MEAN YOU’RE STILL IN TOWN TONIGHT? COINCIDENCE, SO AM I!?”

  He smiled. They’d been through a lot, but finally, Liz seemed to understand the whole work and personal life separation. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to have that special someone in his life, someone who supported you, no matter what. Harry replied.

  “YOUR PLACE? I’M SICK OF THESE FOUR WALLS!”

  Phil was thankful Rawlings had projects for him to research. Sophia Burke continued to be uneventful. Honestly, Phil sensed his assignment would soon be over. Ms. London hadn’t shared her reasoning for his reconnaissance; nevertheless, with the information from Rawlings, it wasn’t difficult to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Ms. London requested to know Sophia’s habits and schedules. Once she did, she purposely intertwined their lives. Suddenly, Ms. London’s routine included lunch at a deli
near the University of Iowa, visits to art galleries in the Quad Cities, and frequenting art museums in Cedar Rapids. At each encounter, the women appeared more at ease.

  Phil had no reason to believe Ms. London had revealed her true identity to Sophia. She hadn’t shared it with him either; nonetheless, his job was to help arrange their coincidental meetings.

  Although the Rawlings had Internet, the jumping through servers, private networks, and shell accounts slowed things down considerably. It was much easier for Phil to do the Internet surfing for him. Phil’s current project was Nathaniel Rawls. He knew Rawls’ basic information from Claire’s research, and from Rawlings, he learned Nathaniel was married to Ms. London when he died in prison. Numerous news articles discussed Nathaniel’s demise from natural causes: a heart attack only two months prior to his release. Rawlings wanted to learn more about Nathaniel’s medical records, especially while in prison. His inquiry was in relation to the civil case awarded to Samuel Rawls. The case claimed mental incompetence and undue influence and resulted in the successful voidance of Nathaniel’s marriage to Catherine London.

  Rawlings admitted he never saw his grandfather as being mentally incompetent. He wanted to know if there was any evidence which aided the court in its decision. To Phil it seemed irrelevant: the man was dead; the marriage was voided. What good would it do now to learn if he were or weren’t off his rocker?

  Then, Phil would walk into another gallery, see tin cans glued together with paint splashed over it, and remember—research! Infiltrating the records of a state penitentiary as well as the state and federal court systems was much more fun than deciphering art.

  Phil sent his latest findings:

  To: ARA