Dexter expected obedience. But she couldn't. If she did as he'd said, there was no hope. The person in the booth was her hope. He or she had to believe Natalie when she said her real name, not the one Dexter wanted her to say.
Nellie Smithers.
The name was in her head and on the tip of her tongue. Dexter had made her repeat it, even write it on a paper napkin as they descended airspace. Surprisingly, the signature she wrote resembled the one on the fake passport and the New York driver's license. He also made her say her birth date. At first, she hadn't noticed the subtle alteration: one month and one year different than her real one. Similar, yet changed.
That was how he'd ordered her wine.
By the time their dinner arrived, the world was fuzzy. Natalie had initially assumed that international flights allowed her to drink at twenty; however, a flight's alcohol limitation was based upon the laws of the country of origin. It was her falsified ID that gave Dexter the ability to ply her with alcohol as well as his cocktail.
Step by step, they moved forward. She'd simply nod as he spoke, having difficulty concentrating. She had questions, ones she couldn't ask, but important ones nevertheless.
When was her connecting flight scheduled to leave Munich? Her absence on that flight would set off alarms. After all, she wasn't just any passenger. She was Natalie Rawlings and her father was waiting for her arrival. That was what Jamison had told her.
And Phil.
Jamison had said that Phil would be meeting her at the airport. The dread she'd felt at disappointing him with her grades was forgotten. She longed for the security of his presence.
“With your recent change of plans, you would have gone through customs here.”
She jumped, startled by the way Dexter spoke close to her ear.
“What?”
He tilted his chin toward the ceiling. “You're making it a point to look at the cameras. Your presence here will neither be considered odd nor unusual.”
Nat took a breath and spoke in a low voice. “No. I shouldn't be in customs until France. I don't want my plans to change.”
“My bug, that's no longer an option.” He nodded toward one of the custom booths. “See that woman, barely more than a girl really, the one who just passed this checkpoint?”
Natalie saw her. She was young, tall, and slender. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that flowed through the back of a cap. Her clothes were expensive yet average: jeans, boots, a dark green top covered by a light brown sweater. Just before the woman disappeared into the crowd, Natalie noticed her bag: it was one identical to the bag she carried.
And the cap...Natalie wasn't wearing it, but she had one exactly the same.
Suddenly, the room grew warmer, and her skin prickled.
Nat's mouth dried as her knees grew weak. “Why? Why did you point her out?”
“I thought you were smarter than that. You're disappointing me.”
There were only a few more passengers ahead of them before they would reach the front of the line. The tears returned as she swallowed the bubbling bile. “She's me?”
“Now there's something you probably didn't expect to say. Who expects to see herself walk away and disappear into a crowd?
“Technically, no, she isn't you. You are you. However, the identity you may be contemplating telling to the man or woman we approach in one of those booths has been cleared to enter Germany. The name you had when you boarded is already officially in Munich. That woman has her—or should I say your—old passport, your boarding pass, all your information.” Dexter pressed the small of her back, forcing her to take a few more steps, moving with the line. “The government officials won't believe you if you claim to be her.”
Nat's heart thundered as the room teetered. What would happen if she fainted? “I’m the real Natalie Rawlings. My parents—”
“What will happen if you make insane claims? Do you know the kind of mental facilities they have in Germany?” Dexter asked. “Not exactly as luxurious as the resort where your mother stayed.”
She looked up to his face, her mouth agape, as her already-twisted stomach formed another knot. “How do you...?”
Her mother's episode had been ages ago, after Nichol was born and before Nate. It was part of the family history no one mentioned. The time before was how it was referenced and by all accounts, there was no need to bring any of it up. Throughout all of Nat's life, her mother was steady and stable, kind and loving. The story Nat had been told was that a traumatic event, combined with an injury she'd suffered in an earlier accident, had sent her mother into what the professionals called a break with reality.
What would happen to her mother if Nat disappeared? Could it send her back? Would that be another traumatic event?
Dexter continued to whisper, “I can't help you if they take you away.”
Help me?
Studying his expression, Nat assessed her captor. Could she simply outrun him? He was tall, taller than she, possibly as tall as her father, and he was a large man—not fat by any means but solid and hard. Those same adjectives could be used to describe his expression. Solid and hard, as if he were discussing the weather, not her mother's mental health or her own. “But if I disappear, my mom...”
“You won't,” he said reassuringly, tenderly rubbing her lower back, his large hand beneath her sweater, yet above her top. To the casual observer, it was a kind, encouraging gesture. “Don't worry, bug. Behave as we've discussed and the other you will send your parents a planned text message. You won't disappear. You simply decided that Munich was as far as you would travel and changed your plans.”
“Why would I do that?”
They were nearly at the front of the line.
“Which do you think would be easier for your mother? Her baby girl missing the Christmas holiday because she's embarrassed about her failing grades or her baby girl in a foreign psychiatric hospital after a mental breakdown brought on by the same thing? I mean, that episode on the plane...and now confusion? A case could be made for a break with reality.”
She might be having a break. How could this really be happening?
And how did Dexter know about her grades? She hadn't even told her parents. Neither her sister nor her brother knew. “I-I...”
“Come, dear,” Dexter said, tugging her hand, “it's our turn. Nellie Smithers,” he reminded softly as they approached the booth.
Chapter 6
Our lives are defined by opportunities,
even the ones we miss. ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
“Reason for your visit?” the man with a heavy German accent asked as he scanned the passport barcodes over a light and looked from the small documents to their faces.
Dexter answered, offering their forms and then quickly encasing Natalie's hand in his own. He confidently explained, with just the right amount of detail to sound convincing, that he and his new wife were on holiday—a delayed honeymoon, something about her passport coming with her new name, about castles, snow, and magic. With each word, the gravity of the situation settled around them with the doom of a suffocating cloud—the opposite of his answers—invisible to everyone but her, imprisoning her body and soul as it dazed her vision and stole her rebuttal.
His words sounded innocent and benign. No one but Natalie heard the reality. His speech was a malignant cancer gnawing at her insides and consuming her future.
Though she tried to listen, her thoughts centered on his threat, the one where he said she’d be thought insane. Her mind recalled stories of foreign mental institutions, conjuring images of bleak, lonely rooms with a single cot and no window. She didn't want to believe him.
Mental health didn't hold the stigma it had when her mother was diagnosed. During the last quarter-century, science and medicine had made significant progress, especially in the field of traumatic brain injuries. That was the contributing factor to her mother's episode. It wouldn't be a factor for Nat. She hadn't had an accident. Instead, if she were misdiagnosed, they’d o
nly assume her to be crazy—a family trait.
She wasn't crazy. Neither was her mother. This was all ridiculous. Germany was a modern industrialized country with top-notch doctors who aided in cutting-edge research. This wasn't a third-world country. There were US military installations. The US embassy...
She was a US citizen. A kernel of hope sprouted to life. The officials would help her. She just needed to make her case.
It wasn’t until Dexter nudged her shoulder that she remembered she was part of the farce occurring around her, assigned with the task of perpetuating his story.
“Time difference and a few glasses of wine,” Dexter said to the man, with a laugh.
His chuckle rang with mocked joviality through the air, yet his eyes spoke louder, demanding her obedience and her speech. Her heart accelerated—what was normally one beat became two, if not three. The increased blood flow lacked the required oxygen, making her lightheaded. Maybe if she'd taken the cocktail, this wouldn’t hurt as much.
“Mrs. Smithers,” the agent asked, “what is your occupation?”
“M-my occupation?” That wasn't a question she'd anticipated.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Dexter hadn't prepared her for this query. “I’m a student...I was.”
Dexter wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I suppose that now makes her a wife.”
The agent nodded, looking from one to the other. Finally, he asked, “Do either of you have anything to declare?”
Nat began to open her lips to declare her real name. But the agent hadn’t asked her name. Why?
He already knew it—the wrong one. He’d addressed her with it, and she’d answered.
Before her words formed, the agent stamped each passport and pushed the folders across the counter. When Dexter reached for their documentation, the agent nodded. “Enjoy your stay.” He turned toward the crowd. “Nächster.”
“Next,” Dexter whispered in her ear, translating the gentleman’s one-word sentence.
Next.
Next.
The word rang in Nat's ears as Dexter escorted her into the crowd. A puppeteer was what he was—able to control her simply with pressure upon her back—pulling strings and moving levers. Passing through a large archway, they entered another cavernous room that reminded her of the train or bus stations in big US cities: Grand Central Station in New York, or perhaps Union Station in Chicago. Sounds echoed off the domed ceiling and tiled floor. Though attached to a modern airport, it felt as though they’d stepped into the country's past, into history.
Silently, he led her to a bench where she sat, dejectedly doing as the puppet master commanded. The crowd and commotion faded into a mist of despondency. Voices and faces disappeared. Her hand went to her chest as her breathing labored. Could the mist be poisonous? Or was this debilitating pain physical? Wasn't she too young for a heart attack?
Why wouldn't her lungs fill?
The answer stared her in the face with eyes as cold as the ocean’s depths.
His plan was in motion. Stepping away from the booth was her final mistake, her opportunity to stop this—whatever it was—from happening. Her eyes went to the direction from which they’d come as her mind tried desperately to comprehend her dire situation.
Natalie blinked once and then again. Air slowly filled her lungs. Like a fading computer screen, the fog dissipated as the world came back into focus. There were people and noise. She turned toward her captor as he put his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. If he’d spoken, she hadn’t heard.
“Did you call her...me?” Natalie asked.
He kissed the top of her head. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“But my parents, will she text them?”
Natalie hadn't been thrilled about the chateau, but now that it was gone, she wanted it. She couldn’t stop the tears as she imagined the scene: waking Christmas morning, the chateau beautifully festive—for her mother loved decorations, her father’s deep laugh and mother’s approving gaze as they all sipped coffee around the tree. Other people may be there, but through it all, Nat could count on her immediate family. From the moment she arrived, her siblings, Nichol and Nate, would tease her about being the baby. She wasn’t just her parents’ baby, but theirs too. And now...
Tears blurred the noisy crowd.
Dexter stood and reached for her hand. The scene she’d created was gone. She was back in the hands of this...man.
“No tears, bug. Not yet. Save those for me.”
Icy chills scurried up her spine like the tiny feet of a million mice. Save her tears for him? What the hell? And then there was the nickname he called her. She wasn’t a bug. The moniker grated on her nerves, yet she needed to pick her battles, another of her mother’s sayings.
Outside, the wind whipped around them, blowing her hair and chilling her skin. A car was waiting. As they approached, Dexter spoke to a uniformed man in German—another thundering blow. Natalie couldn't ask for help if she wanted to. While she was fluent in both French and English and knew enough Spanish to get by, speaking German was outside her capability.
Dexter opened the passenger side door and gallantly gestured for her to enter.
With her hand on the top of the door, her steps stuttered. She took one last look at the crowd, the bustling world around her, as the cool breeze prickled her moist eyes. Where was she going?
“Your coach awaits you for our magical adventure.”
There weren’t words capable of expressing her thoughts. Instead, with a deep sigh, she got into the car, settling into the cold seat. After Dexter positioned himself behind the wheel, he offered her a water bottle. She'd watched him buy it, watched his every move. She didn’t trust him, not one bit. If she weren't so thirsty, she wouldn't consider drinking what he offered, but she was.
Hesitantly, she opened the cap and sipped, barely enough to wet her parched lips.
With a huff, Dexter took the bottle from her hand, placed it to his lips, and took a long draw. His Adam’s apple bobbed as nearly a quarter of the liquid disappeared. Handing it back, he asked, “There, does that make you feel better?”
It did...until it didn't.
He'd taken a drink from it with his lips—his mouth. The small sip she'd consumed percolated within her stomach. It was silly. She wasn't the baby her family made her out to be. She was twenty years old, despite the falsified date on her bogus identifications. She knew what was coming. Drinking from the same bottle would be the least of her concerns or of their connection. Yet if she could fight, she would.
As if reading her mind, Dexter retrieved the water bottle and offered her another. “Here, this one is without my germs. Remember, bug, we'll soon be sharing more than a bottle of water; there won't be a place my lips won't touch.”
“My luggage?” she asked, after taking a drink from the new bottle, trying to think of anything but his unappreciated and completely unnecessary verbal confirmation.
“Your layover was long enough. The other you will retrieve it. The real you doesn’t need it.”
She did need it. She may not have packed presents for her family, but her things were there—personal items. Her favorite robe, the one she planned to wear on Christmas morning. Her warm socks and cosmetics. A vision of the packed suitcases showed fleetingly behind her closed lids. How could he determine what she needed and didn’t need?
Natalie pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and tugged the cuffs over her fingers. Beyond the windows the sky was gray and over the ground was a dusting of snow. “I need my coat. It’s in my suitcase.” If only she had carried it onboard. Another mistake to add to her never-ending list.
Dexter hit a few buttons on the dashboard, bringing the heat to life, and then shimmied out of his sports jacket. “Here you go.”
Tentatively, she reached for the wool sports jacket. Instead of putting it on, she laid it over herself like a blanket. All at once, his scent—fresh and masculine with the addition of his spicy cologne—filled
her senses, mixing with the dread of the future. It was a new concoction bubbling in her gut and challenging her sanity.
“Where are we going?” she asked, needing her bearings if she were to plan her escape. As she waited for his answer, warmth flowed from the car's vents. It didn't only fill the air but surrounded her. Had he turned the heater on in her seat? Her eyelids grew heavy. And then she remembered his phone was in his jacket. Maybe she could somehow use it...
The thought slipped away.
He hadn't answered her earlier question. She tried again. “Where...?”
With her inability to complete the question, the realization hit: the cocktail must have been in the second water bottle. She wanted to call him out, but she couldn't. Thoughts disappeared, no longer making it to her lips as she submitted to the warmth and his scent. The world went dark.
Chapter 7
The premonitions we so quickly dismiss are sometimes
our truest glances at reality. ~ Richard Paul Evans, The Letter
Claire’s eyes snapped open. A dream or a nightmare? She peered around their large suite. She wasn’t in Iowa. Her heart rate accelerated as she fought the battle between real and imagined. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t put her finger on it. It wasn’t her location, though this wasn’t their home in Iowa. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of breaking dawn peering around the drapes’ edge, she recognized the chateau.
Catching her breath and reassuring herself it was only a dream, Claire reached for Tony across the large bed, seeking the safety of his embrace. His side of the bed was empty, the soft sheets no longer warm from where he’d slept. The clock on the bedside stand read a little before six in the morning. That was seven hours ahead of Iowa. Traveling always did this to her, messed up her sleep.
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