Текст книги "Truth "
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 42 страниц)
Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false naming of real events.
—Adrienne Rich
Chapter 8
Claire gripped the phone tighter, “What texts and emails are you talking about?”
“It must’ve been in March, if I remember right. March of the year you left Atlanta.”
“That is what I’ve been saying, Emily. Tony took me away in March, March 17, 2010, and I was at his house on the 20th. I never sent emails or texts.”
“Yes, you did. You sent out emails telling about a new job possibility. They said how excited you were about it.” Although Emily couldn’t see, Claire shook her head. “Actually you also sent out emails via Facebook. I remember thinking, you must really be excited.”
“I never sent those. Did you respond?”
“I did and you replied. Then about a week later you sent a text saying you’d be getting a new phone number and would call. As you know, you didn’t call for months, and your old number no longer worked.”
Claire pondered this new information, “I wonder if messages went out to other people?”
“I know John received the same emails and texts – you know, like you did a mass send? And when we didn’t hear from you again for a while, I called your apartment complex. They said you’d moved out and paid to break the lease. They also said something about a new job opportunity but couldn’t remember any details.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention this?”
At first Emily remained silent. When she spoke it was with a recent reoccurring sharpness to her tone, “And when do you suppose I should’ve done that? Maybe while your every word was scrutinized or perhaps while my every word was overheard?” Those details, about their conversations during Claire’s marriage, were just recently revealed by Claire. Obviously Emily still found them upsetting.
“No, Emily. I’m sorry. I know you couldn’t have said anything then, but now?”
“Well, perhaps I’ve been busy trying to get to know my sister again and oh yeah – my husband. Details of your disappearance three years ago, when I thought you just didn’t want me in your life, well, they haven’t been high on my priority list.”
Claire inhaled deeply and exhaled. Emily’s anger was justified. “I want you to know I did not, and would not, just email or text you or John out of my life. If it happens again, please know it isn’t me.”
Emily’s end of the line went silent. She finally responded, with distress not resentment, “Why? Are you seriously afraid it could happen again?”
Claire didn’t hesitate. She no longer wanted to delude her sister. “Yes.”
“I promise, if I can’t get ahold of you, or I get those kinds of messages – I’ll have the police break down Anthony Rawlings’ door.”
Claire smiled. “Thanks, Sis. Hopefully, that’ll never be necessary. Right now I’m learning what I can about how he did it last time.”
The two spoke for a while longer. During her time in Iowa, her calls were not only monitored but time restricted. The two sisters relished their new lengthy soul revealing conversations. Emily informed Claire she’d be going to New York the first week of April to bring John home. With his sentence complete, the condition of his probation required regular interaction with a probationary officer. As long as he did that, he could travel, or live, anywhere within the continental United States.
Due to the charges of fraudulent billing, The New York State Bar Association suspended John’s admission to the bar, disabling him from practicing law. For any chance at redemption, an appeal must be made to the governing body’s disciplinary committee. Emily wasn’t sure what he’d do. She was just happy they’d be together.
Claire wanted to ask to join Emily in New York. However, instinctively she believed her presence was currently unwelcome. She hoped it was only momentary, besides Emily and John needed private time.
Amber arrived home to find her dining room table covered in piles of disheveled papers. It was the information Claire saved from Tony’s box, along with new information Amber and Harry helped accumulate. Harry’s connection to the Bureau of Investigation and Intelligence was definitely advantageous.
From the box, Claire saved pictures. Looking through the stack, she placed them in chronological order. The first series was from her parent’s funeral. If she hadn’t stared at them for hours, in her cell in Iowa, the subject would be upsetting. Instead, the circumstance of their existence dominated her thoughts. The photo in her hand was of the grave site. She saw the vibrant autumn trees surrounding the double plot and a seemingly appropriate gray sky. The faraway shot showed Emily with John on one side and Claire on the other. There were many people behind them. The next one caused Claire’s stomach to churn. It showed a close-up of her, alone – her name handwritten on the back. She recognized the distinguishable writing. She’d seen that same script on many notes throughout her two years with Tony.
She didn’t meet Anthony Rawlings until almost five years after these pictures were taken. Yet, the looming question remained; did he personally shoot these photos? It added to the mystery. She wished for pictures of the crowd, some way she could scan for his familiar face. Thinking back, Claire remembered news coverage – her father was a policeman, and even though his death wasn’t in the line of duty, it was considered newsworthy. Suddenly, she wondered if the footage still existed. Working at a television news station, she knew many videos were disposed of after a certain length of time. Nonetheless, if she could watch, even a few seconds of the crowd, Claire would find Tony – tall, dark and handsome – if he were present.
The next stack of photos revealed images from Emily and John’s wedding, with the same alarming close-ups of Claire with her name written on the back in Tony’s handwriting. The sea foam green dress made Claire smile.
She realized if she took these pictures to the police, they didn’t prove Tony’s presence. Of course, he could pay someone to take the pictures. Yet, Claire was certain a handwriting specialist could verify his handwriting.
The other bit of information, Claire retained, from Tony’s box of confessions, was the Top Secret report. Over the past four months she’d wondered how he obtained the document. It looked official, containing the Top Secret watermark. Originally, she placed it in the box of information to burn. However, just before leaving her cell, Claire decided to remove it. Looking back, she chastised herself for taking the box to the incinerator at all.
She couldn’t really justify her actions, only that at the time she wanted freedom and separation. Watching the contents burn proved temporarily therapeutic. As the flames enveloped the box and its contents, she felt her life with Tony shrivel into parallel nothingness. At the time, it was cathartic.
In the days and weeks that followed, she realized the error of her ways. With time to meditate, muse, and contemplate her life’s milestones, it seemed that at many junctures she’d acted impulsively. Whether it was refusing to leave Atlanta after the loss of her job, signing a seemingly benign napkin, getting into a car and fleeing Anthony’s estate, or burning a box of confessions, the choices and their consequences continued to return and rear their ugly heads.
The Top Secret report told the true identities of two important players in the downfall of Nathaniel Rawls; securities officer, Jonathon Burke and FBI agent, Sherman Nichols. It was the glue that held Claire to Tony’s well played plan of revenge.
After contacting Amber, they worked together to regenerate the information Claire could recall. If only she hadn’t burnt it. Regrets were useless. Their progress thus far was all that mattered.
Claire was lost in her thoughts of the photos when Amber entered the condominium. Claire looked up at her roommate and said, “Hi, I didn’t expect you this early.”
“The day is too nice to spend cooped up in my office. What’re you doing in here?”
Claire explained her less than conventional pile system. First, she had the stack of Rawls information. She was surprised how easy it was to obtain supporting documentation that Nathanial Rawls not only existed, but was married to a woman named Sharron, had one son named Samuel. Samuel married a woman named Amanda and they had one son, Anton. The information was all available through public records from New Jersey. She’d even been able to access the appropriate websites online while in prison. The birth records confirmed Anton Rawls was born February 12, 1965, not surprisingly, the same day as Anthony Rawlings. His change of name didn’t include a change of birthdate. Claire wondered why he didn’t change that too. It seemed like a serious piece of evidence to overlook. He must not have deemed it necessary. Claire doubted he ever considered his identity would be discovered. Truthfully, without his box of secrets, it would have remained hidden.
As Claire and Amber discussed some of the information, Claire picked up a police report from Santa Monica Police Department. Claire asked, “How did Harry get these reports about Samuel and Amanda’s deaths?”
“Since it occurred in California, I think he called in a few favors from some investigators he used to work with.”
Claire scanned the report, “I haven’t seen this before. It tells all about the scene and even has statements from neighbors and…” flipping another page, “oh my, here’s the statement from their son.” Claire pulled out a chair and sat. She imagined a young Tony finding his parents dead in their Santa Monica bungalow. Being only twenty-four, she shuttered at his endured horror. Imagining wasn’t difficult; the report gave a very detailed description of the crime scene. Thankfully there weren’t pictures.
Claire’s parents’ death at only twenty-one was tragic, but she wasn’t the one to find them. Suddenly thoughts triggered. Could Tony be responsible for the death of her parents? Could he be responsible for the death of his own parents?
In the information she read about Nathanial Rawls’ trial there were actually three people responsible for Nathanial’s conviction. Besides the security officer and FBI agent, there was Samuel Rawls, Tony’s father. He testified for the state. The articles said his testimony played a significant role in the conviction. After all, being the son of the defendant and present during most of the business dealings, he knew details. Samuel testified he was against the avenues his father pursued to increase their income. And although he voiced his objections, his father was very strong willed. Claire recognized that familiar trait.
As she learned more and more about Nathaniel Rawls, Claire felt as though she knew him. She knew someone who took after him in more ways than just dark eyes.
Claire checked the dates… Samuel and Amanda were found by their son in September of 1989. Nathanial died while incarcerated May of 1989. She continued to read the police report:
Anton Rawls recalled entering the home, via an unlocked door at approximately 8:30 PM. He stated the television was on, and he called for his parents. When they didn’t answer he walked in and found his mother on the floor of the kitchen. He ran to her. She was unresponsive. He noticed blood and yelled for his father. He found his father lying on the bed in the master bedroom. The suspected weapon, a Weston revolver, was found beside Mr. Rawls’ body. After discovering his father, Anton left the house and used the neighbor’s phone to call the police.
Patrick Chester, neighbor, stated he heard loud voices at the Rawls’ home earlier in the day in question. Mr. Chester saw a small blue Honda but not the license plate. He believed the car belonged to Samuel’s sister whom he’d seen once before. He recalled Mrs. Rawls saying the woman was Samuel’s sister. He didn’t know her name.
Claire quit reading and went back to her computer. The website she accessed months before was entered into the search engine. She used the web address from the bottom of the printed pages holding the information regarding Nathanial and Sharron’s records. While she waited for the site to load she went back to the police report.
Mr. Chester stated the sister left during the afternoon. He remembered, because he was outside working in his yard and saw her leave. He heard voices from within the Rawls’ bungalow after she left. He was unable to confirm if the voices were of the Rawls or the television. He didn’t see Anton Rawls until he knocked on his door to call the police.
While scanning the computer screen, Claire called to Amber, “Did you read this police report?”
Amber came through the archway from the kitchen. “I did. It didn’t mean a lot to me. Why? Do you see something interesting?”
“I didn’t remember Nathanial having two children. Yet, there’s a statement about Samuel’s sister.” Claire typed the necessary information into the New Jersey public record’s website. “I’m trying to see if I can find any record of her under Nathanial’s information.”
Amber stood behind Claire as she typed. The information popped up: Children: 01. Samuel Rawls. Claire tried another avenue; she typed in Sharron Rawls and waited. The screen read: Children: 01. Samuel Rawls. She looked up at Amber and shook her head.
Amber exhaled, “Is there a name listed?”
“No, not on this report.” She scanned the pages. “I wonder if they pursued this angle. The article I read before, said the crime scene looked like murder – suicide. Why would they decide that, if someone else was there?” She hoped Tony wasn’t truly responsible for his parents’ death. Maybe he included the article because he felt their deaths were a product of the work of the securities officer and FBI agent who testified at Nathanial’s trial.
“I don’t know. Maybe they decided that person wasn’t connected.” Amber offered.
Claire shrugged and went back to the report. It contained the dialogue of the 911 call. She read, thinking of Tony calling about his own parents. No doubt, this kind of trauma would have long lasting effects. His grandfather died and then only months later his parents. She knew she shouldn’t, but Claire’s heart ached for the young dark-eyed man. No wonder he had issues with relationships and control.
Amber went back to the kitchen as Claire settled into the high backed dining room chair. The dialogue on the printed page incited goose bumps on her arms. She read:
21:02:36: Caller: I’m at 7208 Mongolia Drive. Please send the police. I just found my parents and I think they’re dead.
21:02:39: Operator: I will send the authorities immediately. Please tell me your name.
21:03:02: Caller: My name – my name is Anton Rawls.
21:03:09: Operator: Anton, are you in the house?
21:03:47: Caller: No. I’m next door.
21:04:07: Operator: Good. Don’t reenter the residence until the police arrive. Did you see anyone else?
21:05:02: Caller: No. Send someone fast.
21:05:27: Operator: The Santa Monica Police are on their way. They’ll be there in three minutes. Please stay on the line with me. (silence) Anton? Are you there?
21:06:18: Caller: Yes – I’m—I’m – here.
21:06:49: Operator: Good. Did you see a weapon?
21:07:13: Caller: I don’t remember.
21:07:42: Operator: Are you sure they’re dead?
21:08:29: Caller: My mother is. I checked her when I found her on the floor. (Gasp)Oh! There’s blood on my hands, I didn’t even realize…
21:09:42: Operator: Did you say there’s blood? (Voices in background) Anton? – Anton?
21:10:52: Caller: This is Patrick Chester. Anton is sitting down. The cord doesn’t each that far. Are the police on their way?
21:11:03: Operator: Yes, Patrick. Who are you?
21:11:28: Caller: I’m the neighbor of the Rawls. Anton called from my phone. Oh, I hear the sirens. Can I hang up now?
21:12:01: Operator: Just another minute. Let me please speak to one of the officers when they arrive.
21:13:12: Caller: All right, let me go answer the door. (Silence – voices) This is Officer Griffiths – ten four. (Line disconnected: 21:14:03).
Claire stared at the report and felt moisture coat her cheeks. Yes, she hated her ex-husband for the things he’d done to her, but no one should have to experience what she just read. She placed the pages on the shiny polished table and pushed back the tall upholstered chair with her feet. Dabbing her eyes, she tried to focus on the melting stacks of pages before her. It was too much. They were acquiring evidence to prove Tony’s guilt, but at this moment Claire didn’t feel vengeance. She felt pity for the man she’d loved.
Unconsciously, she used her sleeve to wipe her eyes and massaged her throbbing temples. She couldn’t stop the awful images of Tony’s parents that floated through her mind. Trying desperately to think of something else, she remembered Amber saying it was a nice day. She’d spent most of it inside. Claire needed a break from all this information.
As she put the report on a stack of pages, another title caught her attention: Santa Monica Coroner’s Report. Her stomach lurched. Claire didn’t want to read more; she was on overload. Closing her eyes she contemplated the unread information. Would it tell the estimated time of death? If it did, would it condemn her ex-husband, or absolve him? Did she want to know the evidence? Or could ignorance allow her peace?
Opening her eyes she looked at the clutter. The pounding in her head and twisting of her stomach told her to walk away. She placed the coroner’s reports in a manila folder, closed the folder, and allowed her hand to linger on the smooth cardstock. The information wouldn’t go away. She could read it another time. In more of a dream state, she continued to fight the visualization of Amanda Rawls lying on her kitchen floor, a dark red puddle of thick liquid surrounding her form.
By the time she and Emily were asked to identify the bodies of her parents, they were cleaned, laid on cold silver tables, and covered with clean white sheets. The coroner reported they both died instantly; their deaths were quick and painless.
Claire often hung to that information. Losing people you love is difficult. It wasn’t a conscious thought process, but those who remain often contemplate the final moments of their loved ones lives. Claire imagined her parents driving down the dark country road, talking jovially, laughing about some story her mother was undoubtedly telling about one of her students. Her mother often dominated the conversations. Claire’s father didn’t mind, actually he seemed to enjoy the sound of his wife’s voice. The endless chatting created a melody which sang continually throughout Claire’s childhood.
The wet roads combined with wet leaves made the road slippery. As physics would prove, their tires lost their grip. The moisture and wet leaves widened the separation. Within an instant, the car slid and the automobile connected a royal hundred year old oak. Due to force and speed, her parents didn’t have time to regret their drive or worry about their children. They just transcended from a loving, happy discussion, directly to a heavenly sleep. Many times in the months and years that followed, this story, this fantasy, gave Claire peace. She never shared this account with anyone, even Emily. Truthfully, she’d compartmentalized the entire momentous event away. Nonetheless, it occasionally decompartmentalized.
Groggily, she got up and walked into the warm kitchen. Amber stood near the counter cutting vegetables. When she looked up from the bright red, yellow, and green peppers, she saw Claire’s tears. “What’s the matter?”
“I just read the 911 call from Samuel and Amanda’s crime scene. I feel bad for Tony.”
At first Amber stood silently scanning Claire’s face and expression, finally she spoke, “Do you remember saying you thought I might have a halo?”
Claire nodded.
“Well, I think you’d be a better candidate.” Amber rinsed the vegetable juices from her hands and dried them on a towel. Empathy no longer evident in her voice, “I find it very difficult to feel compassion for the man who’s caused you so much distress and could – according to your theories – be responsible for my fiancé’s death.”
Claire walked to the kitchen table and looked out at the street. Long shadows from the trees covered the ground as the setting sun neared the western horizon. Watching the pedestrians four stories below, she saw people wearing only light jackets. It appeared the temperature had indeed risen. Maybe she needed air.
“I think I’m going to go for a walk.”
Amber exhaled, “Claire, I wish you’d talk to me. Tell me why I should feel compassion? I don’t get it?”
To be honest, Claire didn’t get it either. Nonetheless, she was mad. Involuntarily, her neck stiffened and shoulders squared. Intellectually she knew this was ridiculous. Why would she be mad at Amber? Why did she feel the need to suddenly defend Tony? “I think I’ll get something to eat at one of the cafés. I’m sorry if you’re cooking me dinner.” Claire turned to leave the kitchen.
Focused on her light jacket in the hall closet she stepped into the living room. The swirl of emotions combined with her pounding head and queasy stomach stymied her footsteps. She became mesmerized by the tall floor to ceiling windows. Flooding the luxurious room were hues of red and orange; the panoramic expanse radiated colors of the setting sun as it reflected off the purple haze covered mountains. Momentarily she became awestruck by the beautiful view.
Amber switched on the lights, filling the room with sudden brilliance and taking away the outside. Claire turned from the now dark window back to reality, which now included the glare of her roommate, accompanied by an unfamiliar angry tone, “Don’t you get mad?”
Claire stared at Amber’s expression. She’d met more intimidating expressions before. Slowly she responded, “Yes, I get mad.” Nonetheless, her true emotion remained concealed by her calm tone.
“Then show it!” An eternal silence pursued. Eventually, Amber huffed and returned to the kitchen.
The sound of cabinets closing too loudly declared Amber’s ability to show her emotion. Claire knew she should talk – she had no idea what to say. So instead, she reached for her jacket, grabbed her purse, and walked out the front door.
Palo Alto had many small cafés on University Boulevard, only a short walk from their condo. Most were open during the early hours, with all kinds of delicious coffee. While many of these establishments closed their doors in the evening, other street fronts brightened with dining choices as the sky darkened and the lights of the city came to life. When she opened the door and walked from the brightly lit foyer of their building, the cool dusk air hit her face. The street lights illuminated the sidewalk, and people hustled along the pathway. Suddenly, Claire realized it was Saturday night.
She didn’t want to go to a real restaurant. She didn’t want to sit and watch happy patrons chat and eat. No, she wanted time alone, time to sift and consider her thoughts and feelings. Without thinking, she turned toward the northeast, away from the setting sun and toward the water.
During her first week in Palo Alto, Harry showed her a beautiful park along the San Francisco Bay. Perhaps she’d lived too long on private property. Her desire for fresh air and nature overtook concerns for the descending darkness or abandoning side streets. With each step toward her goal, the tension in her head and neck eased.
Could it be possible to hate and love someone too? Claire wondered. The overpowering compassion back at the condo wasn’t just for a young man in a tragic situation; it was for the young man who grew up to become the husband she had loved. She blinked her eyes against the breeze and remembered good times. Theirs was a heated passion. She contemplated the man who made her hate her own existence one moment and love it the next.
As her unconsciousness flooded with memories, feelings stirred deep inside. Concurrently, her consciousness screamed for her to remember his atrocities, the cruelties which outnumbered the kindnesses. However, her heart ached and argued – perhaps, his positives could overtake his negatives. After all, doesn’t everyone have a good and a bad side?
This is why I’m not ready to face him. This is why I can’t face anyone right now.
Claire knew her thoughts and feelings were wrong. He’d given her every reason to hate him, seek vengeance, and aid in his destruction. So why was this so hard? She tried to push Tony back into his assigned compartment.
Her thoughts moved to Amber. Instead of crossing Middlefield Road, Claire should be back at the condo talking to her friend. However, after spending so much time alone and years hiding her true emotion with Tony, Claire wasn’t comfortable sharing her feelings.
She couldn’t control the way she felt. Apparently her mask wearing skills were rusty.
Hopefully a walk along the shore will help me sort out my feelings and revive my energy. Then maybe I can face Amber. She deserves that.
*****
Parked near a four story stucco condominium on Forest Avenue, Phillip Roach compiled his information for Mr. Rawlings. Although Claire Nichols hadn’t used the phone with the number he’d determined was hers since she received the calls from Mr. Rawlings, Phil believed this was her place of residence.
In the past twenty-four hours, Phillip learned a lot about Claire Nichols: She’d applied for her birth certificate and social security card – all matters of public record. She opened a bank account with a deposit of $100,000 from an unknown source – not public record.
He also discovered, just yesterday, her account received a life-giving infusion. Phil wasn’t the investing type, but from his scan of the information, Claire Nichols had an impressive investment portfolio. The notable wealth came from a wire transfer. The originator of the transfer was an account in Switzerland. To most people that would be the end of that transaction. Phillips’s sources were not that easily deterred. The monies came from a high-end gems and jewelry broker named Pulvara operating in San Francisco. Phil planned to visit his business Monday.
He gave Ms. Nichols credit. She’d tried to remain under the radar, even using a post office box at the Palo Alto Post Office. It would have worked, except the federal government, as well as the Indiana state government, didn’t accept P.O. Box numbers as an acceptable address to send official documents. Ironically, Ms. Nichols adherence to domestic laws led Phillip Roach to the corner of Forest and Gilman.
Phil wasn’t willing to relay all of this information to Mr. Rawlings. First, he wanted to visit Mr. Pulvara to learn more before he jumped to conclusions on her recent windfall. Second, he wouldn’t divulge the exact address without visual conformation. After all, she could have deceivingly listed a friend’s address. Or perhaps, she paid someone for the use of their mail box. Phil glanced between the large luxurious building and his laptop, as he worked to compile a detailed report. He planned to say he was getting closer to pin-pointing Ms. Nichols’ whereabouts when he saw a petite brown haired woman suddenly visible through a large window on the fourth floor. He strained to see the woman, stories above. Yes, it looked like Claire Nichols.
Reaching for his camera with the telephoto lens, she walked away from the plates of glass, and he lost sight of her. Momentarily questioning his vision, he debated adding her address to the report. Then like a gift from the surveillance gods, Claire Nichols stepped through the front doors of the building.
Wearing a jacket to protect her from the spring wind, the brunette turned toward the northeast. Phil watched her bury her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. The breeze blew back her hair, exposing her face and slender neck. Utilizing the long telephoto lens, he zoomed in on her features. Due to the wonders of technology his camera’s illumination element diffused light, creating the illusion of daytime even in dusk.
Despite the brown hair, Phil’s intuition told him this was the same woman in the photos he’d studied. Without question, the surveillance gods had offered him Claire Nichols. Depressing the button on his camera, multiple photos snapped in seconds. Phil pulled his car out of the concealed parking space and slowly eased his way along Forest Street. He drove ahead of where she seemed to be going.
In his rearview mirror, he watched Claire progress along the sidewalk, only feet from his newly parked car. He snapped her photo. She clearly appeared absorbed in her thoughts. Forcing her into his automobile would be easy, but that wasn’t Mr. Rawlings’ request. Mr. Rawlings wanted information.
An investigator’s job was not to question. Therefore, he would never do so aloud. Yet, internally, Phillip Roach wondered why, if Mr. Rawlings was concerned about the woman who reportedly tried to kill him, he only wanted facts. As Phil observed the attractive lady his instinct told him he hadn’t been hired to keep Mr. Rawlings safe. No, he’d been hired to report the every move of a woman Mr. Rawlings wasn’t willing to emancipate.
As Claire passed, Phil pretended to look down. Once she passed, he eased out of his car, onto the sidewalk and fell into rhythm with her steps.
