Convicted (12 page)

Standing before the grand double doors, he remembered the last time he’d been in the office. It was to retrieve the small key from the top right drawer. That, some cash from the safe, and the alternative identifications, including the
Anton Rawls
identification were Mr. Rawlings’ only requests. Eric never said
no
; therefore, when the call came in the middle of the night from a non-traceable phone, those requests—just like all before them—were carried out exactly as instructed. The last thing Mr. Rawlings told Eric, before he walked through security was to go back home and act like nothing happened. He instructed Eric to act like the last time they were together was in Provincetown. Eric didn’t question; instead he said, “Yes, sir. Stay safe.” Mr. Rawlings nodded in return. It was as close as they would get to an emotional good bye.

Opening the door and stepping inside the regal office, Eric caught the hard gray stare as Catherine rose from the leather chair and said, “In the future, I’d appreciate you knocking before you enter this office, just as you would for Mr. Rawlings.”

Although he had years of practice at maintaining a stoic expression, the scene before him incited a combination of shock and rage. His mind swirled with possibilities for Catherine to be behind Mr. Rawlings’ desk. None of them made sense.

Reigning in the emotion which threatened his impenetrable veneer, Eric stood before the grand desk and asked, “Catherine, where is Mr. Rawlings?”

“First, I’d like to know where you’ve been. I needed you two days ago and you were gone.”

“I talked to Mr. Rawlings about my aunt a week ago. He gave me a few days to visit her.”

Catherine sat again and nodded. “I see, an aunt. Have you mentioned her before?”

“I’ve mentioned her many times. I don’t recall you being present during those conversations. Where is Mr. Rawlings? Mr. Simmons said they’d be back.”

Catherine leaned back against the soft leather chair as her cheeks rose in a smile. In Eric’s opinion, it was neither warm nor comforting. She began, “That’s why I was looking for you. Haven’t you listened to the news?”

Eric relaxed his stance. “Why so many questions about my personal habits? No, I usually avoid anything that isn’t music or silence.” He went on, “Before you ask, there’s no real reason, I like quiet.”

She motioned toward the chairs near the desk. “Have a seat; we need to discuss a few things.”

Suspiciously, Eric eyed the chairs. “Before I sit, tell me what’s going on Catherine.”

Sitting straighter and squaring her shoulders, Catherine exhaled, “From now on, you and anyone else who wishes to maintain their position here on the estate will address me as Ms. London.” When Eric didn’t speak, Catherine’s eyebrow raised. “Tell me, do you wish to maintain your position?”

Honestly, he had enough money to walk away and live contently for the rest of his life. He’d invested well and had little to no living expense; however, Mr. Rawlings told him to go back to Iowa and act normal. Maintaining his current position would be
normal
. “Yes, Ms. London”—the title only hurt the first time. Eric Hensley was a man of service; as such, he’d accommodate whomever necessary—“I would like to retain my position.” With that, he made his way to the chair and listened as Ms. London informed him of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance.

While she spoke about the plane and the emergency landing, he did his best to maintain his facade, while showing the appropriate amount of concern and shock. The best part of being a man of service was that silence was considered accommodating. He didn’t need to agree or disagree with Catherine. He only needed to maintain eye contact, nod occasionally and say, “Yes, Ms. London.” He had years of practice.

The text Harry received was exactly what he’d wanted. He looked up and glanced toward the young waitress. With a sly grin, he nodded. Oh, he’d already paid her for her photography skills, and now he had his proof. On his phone were two pictures of him with Claire. There was one of the two of them in the booth talking, and there was the one of them in the same booth with, her hand in his. She was in disguise, but to the knowing eye, it was Claire Nichols. Within seconds, Harry forwarded the non-contact picture to his superiors in the FBI with a text message:

“
CLAIRE NICHOLS FOUND AND SAFE
.” After he hit
SEND
, he saved both photos to his card. He didn’t know if they would be useful.

His confident grin began to fade as he realized Claire hadn’t returned. It was true, a woman in her condition needed to use the restroom, frequently, but looking at his watch, he thought it seemed odd she hadn’t returned. It wasn’t until the waitress returned with his beer and no tea that Harry questioned her absence. “Where is my friend’s tea?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Signore. I assumed, since she left...”

He didn’t wait for the rest of the story. Harry pulled a few euros from his pocket, placed them on the table, and hurried towards the restrooms. Seeing the rear exit, he quickly reached the door. Harry couldn’t believe she’d left. He never assumed she’d slip away that fast. As the cool autumn air filled his lungs, Harry scanned the crowds. Since she’d left the booth over five minutes ago, he truly didn’t expect to see her.

After a brisk walk through the Piazza, Harry leaned against a pillar and pulled out his phone. Hitting a few buttons, he found the beacon. According to the locating device he’d successfully dropped in the pocket of her jacket, Claire wasn’t far away or moving. Following the pulsating dot, Harry headed toward what he assumed to be Claire’s hotel.

Phil helped Claire with her coat and led her to the sofa. He must have felt her trembling as he said, “Calm down and tell me everything.”

Claire stared into his eyes. She’d expected him to be upset. Obviously, he was unhappy when she left him at the cafe; however, instead of anger, she saw concern as golden flecks shone from the depths of his green eyes. Taking unexpected solace in his calming presence, Claire began, “I was sitting on a concrete bench, in St. Mark’s Square, looking out at the water...” As she told Phil about her unlikely encounter with Harry, he remained quiet and supportive. She also told him about Tony’s plane. When she finally finished, she said, “I’m so sorry. All this work you’ve done to keep me and my baby safe and in one afternoon I throw it all away.”

Phil stood, leaving Claire alone on the sofa, and paced the width of their suite. Claire watched as he contemplated her story. Finally, he answered, “First, you didn’t throw it all away. You and your baby are still safe. Also”—he turned towards her and smiled—“your instincts are getting better, I’m glad you’re learning to listen to them.”

Claire opened her eyes in question.

“Claire, you’ve been far
too
trusting of
too
many people for way
too
long.”

She nodded. “I realize that. I suppose it’s the way I was raised. I never expected my life to be like this. Truthfully, I can’t even remember what I expected”—she shrugged—“Something like my parents, I guess. Isn’t that the basis of everyone’s expectations? You either want the same as them or better. My parents were married twenty-six years when they died—together. I never once dreamt that I’d be twenty-nine, divorced and pregnant with my ex-husband’s/fiancé’s/ex-fiancé’s child, nor did I imagine that I’d be hiding from some crazy woman who’s a threat to me and my child—or that I’d be filthy rich, because I stole my child’s father’s secret money.” Claire shook her head and grinned. “I don’t think I could’ve even made-up that scenario!”

Phil sat back down. Claire marveled at the emotions she saw in his expression. It wasn’t that long ago that he was her shadow, her voyeur; now she considered him a trusted friend. Phil’s voice reflected his earlier concern. “No one signs up for this. It is what it is, and life goes on—or it doesn’t. I’ve made choices I regret. I’d assume everyone has. I also made the decision that life would go on. Perhaps some of the things I’ve done are less than scrupulous; however, my more recent endeavor, despite the legalities, could be considered one of my most honorable. I will
not
fail. You and your child will be safe. I realize you’re paying me, well, as you stated, but even you should understand this is about more to me than money.”

Claire fought the urge to look away. She knew what he meant. Claire knew she meant more to Phil than anyone ever had. Over the weeks, they’d been together, she learned a lot about Phil. She knew about his military background and some of his special ops. She knew he had no family and no connections. From the time he was very young, he succeeded in his assignments and moved on. This was the first—the only—time he’d made personal contact with anyone. Claire also knew he respected her enough to keep their friendly relationship professional—
or was it, their professional relationship friendly?
Either way, it was more than he’d ever had, and she was grateful for his commitment.

“I don’t know what it was about this afternoon,” Claire said. “Something didn’t feel right. I have no reason to be suspicious of Harry. He’s never been anything but nice to me. It’s just...I mean, I know how hard you’ve worked to keep our location secret, and with the help of some
California policemen
, he tracked me down?”

“See, that’s the kind of intuition that’ll keep you and that baby safe”—Phil sat straighter—“I should also tell you, I’ve known about Mr. Rawlings’ plane since it happened, or since they released the information. I thought you knew and weren’t saying anything.”

“No, I’ve been avoiding news from the states lately. I’m so tired of hearing about Emily’s quest to find me. It makes me feel guilty”—she looked back to Phil—“If we’re confessing, I should tell you, I left something for Tony in the safety deposit box in Geneva.”

Phil’s brows creased.

“It wasn’t like I told him where we’re going. I hoped that after Marcus Evergreen, or the FBI, contacted him, he’d know to get away from Catherine. I assumed he’d eventually get to Geneva, to the safety deposit box. I figured after he opened it, he’d want to contact me”—she snickered—“He won’t be happy to find his money is mostly gone.”

Incredulous, Phil asked, “You left something in the box that allows him to contact you?”

“I promise—he’s the only one who’ll know. I have a back-up plan if someone else gets in the box.”

“Is that why you’ve been so hesitant to leave Europe?”

She shrugged. “It was; however, after this afternoon, I’m ready.”

Phil patted her hand as it rested upon her knee. “Good, we’ll leave soon.” Standing once again, he asked, “And where, Ms. Nichols, are we going?”

Claire smiled, and this time, despite the colored contacts, even her eyes joined the celebration. “You swear it’s a real medical facility?” Phil nodded. “Then, Mr. Roach, I trust you, and we”—she paused and widened her grin—“the Alexanders, are going to paradise!”

I cannot say whether things will get better if we change; what I can say is they must change if they are to get better
.

—Georg C. Lichtenberg

Derek listened as Sophia talked about her unusual encounter with Mr. Rawlings. Although she held all the information, her expression was that of a doe in headlights, wide-eyed with wonder. He couldn’t understand why the CEO of his parent company would travel all the way to Provincetown and visit Sophia’s small studio.