Convicted (39 page)

“We haven’t located her yet, but according to the messages we accessed from your phone, it sounds like she’s with Rawlings. If you think he’s responsible, and he sees that picture, then she may be in danger.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t ready to tell his supervisor that Rawlings had already seen the picture. “I need my phone back. It’s the number Clai—Ms. Nichols called. It’s her only way to get in touch with me or the FBI.”

“We have your number being monitored. If she or Rawlings calls, it’ll be answered.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry wanted to be the one to answer either one of those calls; however, he understood. Right now, he wasn’t in the best condition to do that. “Can I see Liz now?”

SAC Williams smiled. “We have more to discuss, but I don’t see any harm in that. First, I believe you need to be checked out by the doctor. They made me promise I’d alert them when you woke.” As he began to leave the room, he paused and said, “Oh, Agent, your sister’s here too.”

Harry grinned. “Good, I’d like to see both of them as soon as the doctor’s done.”

By the time the nurses were done checking Harry out from every angle—yes, he knew that wasn’t their intent, but he sure felt like it was—he was exhausted. He wondered how he could be tired after being unconscious for over ten hours. Next, the doctor came in and probed and prodded; then he asked Harry questions. The doctor didn’t ask how Harry received his injuries—Harry couldn’t have answered if he did; however, he asked questions like, does this hurt? How many fingers am I holding up? Do you know who the president is? All in all, Harry believed he passed.

He was just about to doze off when his door opened again. Each time someone passed the threshold, Harry saw the uniformed officers posted outside of his door. Their presence gave him comfort. If Rawlings was bold enough to have him attacked in broad daylight—anything was possible.

The expressions on Liz and Amber’s faces told him more about his appearance than SAC Williams or any of the nurses or doctors.
He must really look like shit!
“So, do I really look that bad?” His attempt at levity was lost as both women began to cry.

It was Amber who reached his bedside first. She started to hug him and stopped. “Oh my God, will I hurt you if I hug you?”

Harry lifted his arms and Amber leaned in. When she backed away, she asked, “Why Harry? Why would someone do this?”

He heard her question, but it was Liz standing near the wall with her arms crossed over her chest who had his attention. She was looking his direction with her lower lip sucked into her mouth as she tried to control the sobs she muffled. His heart broke—he couldn’t imagine how scared she must have been when those men took her. He reached out his hand. It seemed like she was moving in slow motion; however, after an eternity her hand finally touched his. “I’m so sorry they involved you in this. You must have been petrified!”

Liz nodded. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to me...” She allowed the ragged breaths to overtake her words. Amber got up from the side of Harry’s bed and Liz sat down. He pulled her close. As she collapsed across his chest, Harry’s ribs screamed out in pain; however, he didn’t wince. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder.

“Shhh, you’re all right. Williams said they didn’t hurt you.” His voice changed—hardened—slowed—deepened. “They didn’t hurt you...did they?”

Liz looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy. “No, but I couldn’t help you. I wanted to save you...they made me watch...” Her voice trailed away as she buried her head into his chest.

“Hey, I’m fine. No saving necessary.”

Amber laughed sarcastically. “Yeah bro, you look great! Maybe now you’ll decide to take that SiJo job for real?”

He looked at his sister like she had three heads. “What are you talking about?”

“If being in the FBI is going to do this to you and Liz, you need to have a safer job.”

“No freak’n way! This wasn’t about the FBI—it’s about my research. Rawlings wants me to stop, but I’m not doing it.”

Liz lifted her head. “Please, Harry, think about this. He didn’t stop at anything when he wanted Claire back. You already know he’s capable of murder. Think about Jillian. You have to end this madness—now!”

“Jillian is safe and so is Ilona”—he took a deep, painful breath—“and so are we. All three of us will have around the clock surveillance until Rawlings is found.”

“Three?” Amber asked. “I don’t need to be watched by the FBI. I’ll have SiJo take care of me.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think it’s my call, sis. It’s pretty standard procedure in cases like this. Why do you think I have those nice greeters at my door?”

Amber asked, “How do you know Jillian is safe?”

“I really can’t say. I just do.”

“Well, I’m going to call Ilona.”

“No, you’re not.”

Amber’s eyes narrowed. “The FBI has them, don’t they?”

“I can’t say.” Of course, that was all he needed to say.

It takes two to speak the truth: one to speak, and another to hear.

—Henry David Thoreau

Claire woke up to darkness. She wasn’t wearing her mask; the darkness was the time of day—or more accurately—night. This was her new routine; waking two to three times a night to accommodate their growing baby. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, Claire wondered if her skin could possibly stretch any farther. The changes to her body only confirmed the miracle living within her—well that, and the reaffirming movements of their child. She enjoyed the sensation of their baby’s movements. Claire told herself, if she were still alone, she’d feel the same way about her growing midsection; however, Tony’s constant reassurance made each pound and stretch mark easier to bear. It amazed her how he could sit for hours with his hands on their child. Often, she’d be in front of him on a lounge chair with her back against his chest. Sometimes they talked; often she napped; at times they read, but they were always connected.

When Claire returned to bed, it was empty. Looking to the clock, she saw it was only 3:18 A.M. “Tony?” she called to the open air—No answer. “Tony?” she called again as she stepped onto the lanai.

He was standing near the railing, looking out to the lagoon. In the distant sky, lightening flashed, and seconds later, the low rumble of thunder rolled through the night air. Wrapping her arms around his back, Claire laid her cheek against his warm bare back.

“Hmmmm,” he said as he seized her arms and pulled her in front of him. “You need your sleep.” His lips brushed her lips. “You should go back to bed.”

“I don’t like being alone.”

Placing a quick kiss on her stomach, Tony smiled. “You’re not.”

“Why are you out here?”

With his arm around her waist, he caressed the satin of her nightgown as his palm dipped down over her round behind. “I heard the thunder. Do you think the storm will make it here?”

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. Francis talked about the storms and rough seas, but so far, all I’ve experienced have been afternoon showers. They seem to pop up, out of nowhere and disappear just as fast.”

“Come now, Mrs. Rawlings, you’re a meteorologist; will that storm make it to our island?”

“Well, you see, if I had a computer with the right programs where I could assess wind speed, direction, and see the different fronts—”

His lips seized hers—stopping her words. When he spoke again, it wasn’t about weather, “You really do need to go back to bed.”

There was something in his voice. Claire couldn’t determine the meaning or decipher its origin. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He smiled and stood taller. “Good night, Mrs. Rawlings.”

Claire took his hand and led him back to their room. When they were both under the soft, satin sheet, Claire cuddled close and asked, “Please tell me what woke you, and I know it wasn’t a low distant rumble of thunder.”

“You woke me when you got out of bed.”

She lifted her head to her elbow and looked down at her husband. His skin was darker from only a few weeks on the island. It was his eyes that held her attention. They contained the multi-tasking look she knew too well. “Fine, I woke you. Sorry. What made you go outside?”

The tips of his lips moved upward. “Will you take the answer—thunder?”

Claire shook her head. “No, I won’t. Remember our promise?”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“A lot that you don’t want to share?”

Tony exhaled. “I don’t want to tell you anything you’re not ready to hear; however, talking about everything has brought back memories I’d forgotten. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking about another person”—he paused—“a person I’m no longer proud to have been.”

Claire rested her head on his shoulder and gently wove her fingers through his chest hair. Tony’s eyes stared up to the dark ceiling as his voice resonated distantly, overflowing with pain. Although there were times Tony’s confessions upset her, Claire knew in her heart that there was nothing she could say that would punish him more than he was already punishing himself.

He spoke slowly, revisiting the subject of him watching her through the years. He explained how, at first, it was done as a means of identification. He and Catherine had a list—the children of the children. In the early years, Tony was busy creating CSR with his business partner Jonas Smithers. Later, his energies were used creating and building Rawlings Industries. He supported his grandfather’s vendetta, but Catherine did, or had, most of the research done. He emphasized that he wasn’t blaming her. “I never tried to stop her. It never occurred to me—I mean—it’s what my grandfather wanted. He mentioned it to me—Catherine knew more of his plans, so I went along.” He stressed, “Claire, I more than went along. She would never have been able to afford to have the people, like you, watched, or have things occur, if I hadn’t bankrolled everything. I knew what I was supporting.”

Claire nodded into his chest. It was her way of encouraging his words, without interrupting his thoughts.

“You were different.” His arm tightened around her shoulder, pulling her closer. “You were the first person who personally interested me. You were so young. I was curious if I could actually influence someone’s life without them knowing it. The first thing I did—well, it wasn’t really to you. It was—”

The warmth radiating from within Claire suddenly increased; she couldn’t stay silent any longer. The subject he was approaching was one of her greatest worries.
Simon!
She lifted her head to see Tony’s eyes. “It was Simon, wasn’t it?” She tried to keep her voice and breathing calm. “His internship with Rawlings Industries wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

Tony closed his eyes and didn’t respond.

As the silence prevailed, Claire exhaled, lay her head back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling. The fan in the darkness hummed while the blades created a hazy blur. In the time it took her to blink, Tony’s face was over hers. She’d wanted to see his eyes and understand his emotion, and now, she had him right on top of her. His palpable rage filled their room, the humid air no longer moved, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. Claire’s training told her to walk the fine line; however, somewhere in the three years since that training began, she’d taught herself to disobey. Defiantly, she asked, “Are you going to answer my question?”

“No.” His warm breath bathed her face, adding to the still, humid air.

She waited for more clarification. When he didn’t continue, she asked, “No? You aren’t going to answer?”

“No”—each syllable was strained—“it wasn’t a coincidence.”

The fury, which had saturated their conversation, evaporated as Claire’s muscles relaxed and the air re-entered her lungs. With his confession, she realized the anger she felt wasn’t directed at her or her questioning, it was directed back to Tony—he was upset with himself.

The rumble of thunder loomed louder and closer. With their noses almost touching, Claire smiled. “Thank you. I know this is hard on you. I also know that revelation should upset me.” She lifted her lips to his. “Honestly, it was more of a confirmation than a revelation. Somehow, I think I feel better knowing the truth, no matter what it is.”