Behind His Eyes - Consequences Read online

  Tony wondered why he was giving her the chance to talk her way out. Maybe he wanted to push that bravado. Would she try to talk her way out of this? Most people would know better—they would accept the consequences and leave him alone. Should he even allow it?

  Claire’s voice interrupted his internal debate. “Tony, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you are talking about.”

  He threw the pages toward her and watched as they scattered on the floor near her feet. He didn’t move; instead he stared and watched as Claire moved to the floor. Tony knew every word—hell, he’d read it fifty times. He watched as she fumbled with the pages, and her breathing became ragged.

  “Tony, oh my God, I did not agree to an interview.”

  He was once again beside her. What kind of pull did she have on him? He pointed to the picture. “So you’re telling me that the picture of you talking to this woman is a print shop fabrication and this is a colossal misunderstanding?”

  “It is me, but—”

  He seized her shoulders, lifted her from the floor, and pinned her against a wall. The falling picture and fear in her eyes didn’t register.

  Her voice begged for understanding. “I wasn’t giving an interview.”

  She was lying to him! He slapped her again! If he had to, he’d force the truth out of her. He leaned down until their noses almost touched. Would she have the audacity to look him in the eye and continue lying? “Then what in the hell were you doing?” He shook her again. “Claire, I trusted you! You told me I could trust you, and I believed you. I sent you to a spa day. This is how you thank me? This is how you repay me? By breaking all my rules? By public failure?”

  Abruptly, he released her shoulders. He wasn’t going there. He refused to reveal how betrayed he felt. That would give her too much power. She didn’t have the power, he did. And he would prove it!

  When he turned around, Claire was scurrying to pick up the papers. The sight of her face finally registered: it was red and blotchy, yet her voice fought for steadiness. “What is this?”

  Fine—he could be steady too. “It’s an exclusive Internet release of an upcoming story. It’ll run simultaneously in People and Rolling Stone.”

  In an effort to control the emotions he didn’t want to feel, he stepped away, went to the bookshelf, picked up a book, and threw it into the fireplace. The release served as a small vent. After a deep inhale, he answered, “Shelly, my publicist, found it today and immediately forwarded me a copy. I flew home as soon as I could.”

  While she read, Tony walked to the sofa, sat, and watched. The pages in her hand trembled as tears fell onto the printed words. What the hell did she think—that he wouldn’t find out? That he wouldn’t know she’d betrayed his trust?

  “Tony, I did go to school with Meredith. She did come up to me the other day and start talking. I didn’t know she was a reporter. I wasn’t giving an interview. I didn’t say anything about you.” She cried, “Your name was never mentioned!”

  Tony didn’t speak; instead, he nodded toward the pages. Claire continued reading. When it appeared as though she were finally done, she didn’t move. She didn’t look up, or speak—or anything. Tony waited. The only sound in the suite was that of their breathing. Tony’s was getting louder while Claire’s became shallower. Eventually, she laid the pages on the carpet and kept her eyes downcast.

  His fury had ebbed. On much steadier legs, he walked toward her. “Appearances, Claire. How many times have I told you? Appearances mean everything. There’s a picture, right here, of you sitting with her, the author. It doesn’t matter if what she writes is accurate. It’s believable because she’s seen talking to you.”

  He wasn’t yelling; he’d regained some control, yet the aura of rage remained. Claire still didn’t look up. He wanted to see her face; instead, all that he could see was the top of her head. Some of her hair had come loose from the ponytail and hung in front of her eyes. “Get up,” he ordered.

  She didn’t move—not a flinch.

  His volume increased. “Claire, get up!”

  Still looking at the carpet she begged, “P-please, Tony, I-I’m so sorry.”

  He reached for her arm, lifted her, and said, “The entire way home I was praying that somehow this was another misunderstanding. You wouldn’t do this, not after I put my trust in you, but I knew if it wasn’t a misunderstanding, there had to be consequences. There had to be punishment for this blatant disregard for the most fundamental of rules.”

  Claire wouldn’t look at his eyes. When he reached for her chin, she moved away from his touch. The red returned and filled every molecule of the suite. How dare she pull away from him! He moved again, not to lift her chin, but to strike her face. If she were going to pull away, he’d give her something to pull away from. His hand caught her pearl necklace, and Tony watched as the small pearl charm flew across the room.

  He would do more than punish her physically for her betrayal. Next time, she would remember to follow his rules. Tony emphasized his control over her liberties as he continued, “I believe some time away from people, some time alone in your suite, will help you remember who and who not to talk to.”

  The betrayal combined with the fear in her eyes was too much. She was speaking, but he couldn’t hear. She was fighting him or protecting herself. Tony wasn’t sure anymore. Nothing made sense.

  It was like the boy at the Academy—only multiplied. It wasn’t right, but he couldn’t stop. Claire’s behavior caused him pain. At the moment, the only thing he could think to do was return the favor.

  How long did he hurt her? Tony truly didn’t know. It wasn’t until she stopped fighting, stopped begging, and stopped moving, that the red disappeared.

  When it did, the only thing that remained was Claire.

  “Claire, get up.” She didn’t move. “Claire?” Tony reached for her shoulder as she lay upon the floor. Blood trickled from her lip, and her face was beginning to bruise.

  Tony fell to his knees and shook her. She still didn’t respond. He tried again. This time his touch was soft and gentle. He wanted to shake her harder and wake her from this sleep, but he couldn’t. The rage and fury, which seconds earlier had consumed his entire being, faded into nothingness. Momentarily, his soul felt empty. Then, slowly, the void within his chest filled. It filled with fear—a fear like he’d never known.

  “Oh, my God, what have I done?” he murmured. Reaching for her pulse, he said a prayer. Tony really wasn’t sure to whom, but at that moment he knew the thing he wanted more than anything else in the entire world was for her to live. Not because he didn’t deserve to pay for what he’d done. He prayed for her to live, because Claire didn’t deserve to die or to suffer as he’d made her suffer. “Please, don’t be dead. Oh God, help … Claire … please, please, let her wake up …”

  Before his fingers found her pulse, the suite door opened.

  “What have you done?”

  His eyes met Catherine’s, but words failed him.

  She knelt beside Claire and pushed Tony’s hand away. Finally, she said what he’d prayed to hear. “She has a pulse.” Catherine stood. Her stance straightened as her expression turned stoic. There was no understanding or compassion, only determination in her steel-gray eyes as she looked down at him. “Anton, you need to think straight. What are we going to do?”

  Tony didn’t answer. His mind couldn’t process. Did Catherine actually think he wanted this to happen? Had that ever been his desire? Seeing Claire’s crumpled body, he couldn’t remember what they’d wanted or planned. Instead of answering, he scooped her petite, unconscious frame into his arms and carried her to her bed. Catherine exhaled audibly, followed, and pulled back the blankets. Tony gently laid Claire upon the soft mattress and watched as she lay still, exactly as he placed her. Sitting next to her, his shoulders heaved as his head fell to her chest. Catherine waited.

  After a deep breath, Tony sat straight, turned toward Catherine, and said, “Call 911. She needs medical care.”
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  “No! You can’t do that. Don’t you know what will happen to you?”

  Slowly, he covered Claire’s body with the blankets and tenderly placed her hands above the covers. Taking her hand in his, he momentarily caressed her soft skin with his thumb. Next, he smoothed her disheveled hair away from her battered face and gently kissed her forehead. His thoughts moved much slower than before, as if all his adrenaline were gone. Even his words sounded far away. “She looks like she’s sleeping.” He looked to Catherine for confirmation. “That’s it, isn’t it? She’s sleeping?”

  “We can take care of her, like I took care of—”

  “No,” he interrupted. His determination was back. “She needs a doctor.”

  Catherine moved near Claire’s head and touched her cheek. This situation wasn’t negotiable; he wouldn’t compromise. After a moment of obvious internal debate, Tony saw Catherine’s shoulders droop and heard the slightest hint of compassion. “Then we need a story. You helped me. I’m here to help you.”

  “Well, there’s a difference. When she gets better, she’ll be able to tell someone the truth. Unlike before, they never got that chance.” Tony reached for his cell phone.

  Before he could dial, Catherine touched his arm. Her voice was calm and reassuring. “Listen to me and listen carefully. Claire went for a walk. The ground was wet; she slipped; she didn’t come home. I called and told you. We were worried. You rushed home. You went looking for her and found her—like this. Maybe someone else was out there?”

  Tony looked around the suite. It was as if he were looking at the path of a tornado. How did this all happen? The picture that usually hung near the fireplace was lying on the carpet. The pages of the news release were scattered near the sofa. Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I deserve whatever she tells the authorities.”

  “If she’s able to tell them.”

  “She will be. I’ll spare no expense. We’ll get her anything she needs. One day, she’ll have the opportunity to send me away for this.”

  “And maybe she won’t. Why confess now? Let’s see what happens first.”

  Tony caressed Claire’s right cheek; the left one was turning a darker shade of purple by the minute. “I need to get her help. She didn’t deserve this.”

  “Then call Dr. Leonard. If you call 911, the police will come. Just call him directly.”

  Tony nodded. Telling the authorities would be Claire’s decision. He needed to get her well enough to do it. Searching his contacts, he found the doctor’s number. Moments later he heard a voice on Dr. Leonard’s private line. “Hello, Dr. Leonard, this is Anthony Rawlings. I need you to come to my estate immediately. There’s been a terrible accident …”

  You usually have to wait for that which is worth waiting for.

  —Craig Bruce

  Tony stroked the side of Claire’s arm as he mindlessly listened to the conversation behind him. Dr. Leonard spoke softly. “Ms. London, I’m obligated to call the authorities.”

  “Doctor, Mr. Rawlings has already contacted the Iowa City police department. They currently have officers combing the grounds for signs of the assailant—if there was one. We don’t know for sure what happened.”

  He cleared his throat. “Then Mr. Rawlings won’t mind if I speak with them, too?”

  “You’ll need to discuss that with him. However, I don’t believe now is a good time. As you can see, Mr. Rawlings is very distraught over Ms. Nichols’ condition.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “Can you tell me again what you believe happened?” Dr. Leonard inquired.

  “We don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Ms. Nichols likes to go for walks in the woods—she does it frequently. When she didn’t return, I became worried and called …”

  Tony blocked out their voices; he knew each word before Catherine said it. He’d told the same story multiple times. After summoning Dr. Leonard, he’d called the police. While the doctor assessed Claire, two seasoned officers arrived at the door and took Tony’s statement. He met with them in his office and gave them his statement: got home—woods—found her—unsure. They’d worked for ICPD for years, were well aware of Anthony Rawlings, and unquestioningly took Tony’s statement at face value. When they asked to speak to Claire, Tony explained that she was with the doctor and unconscious. They thanked him for his time, shut their notepads, and promised to comb the grounds for clues. Tony explained that his security team was already searching, but the ICPD was more than welcome to join the hunt. There were probably more footprints in the back woods than there’d been in a decade.

  Not surprisingly, nothing was found; however, each time the contrived story was retold, the fiction became more plausible. At some point, even part of Tony began to believe it—until he looked at Claire.

  The police said that they’d do another search of the grounds once it was light. As Tony peered toward the heavy drapes, he realized that despite the longest day of his life, the sun had yet to rise—but he knew it would. That happened every morning. What ate at him—nagged at the depths of his soul—was Claire. Would she rise? It had been over six hours since her accident, and Dr. Leonard remained evasive at best, regarding her diagnosis. Even after all of his tests and examination, she remained the same—suspended in time. The only change was her appearance. The areas on her face and body that had at one time been red were darkening and swelling—distorting her facial features in a way that Tony would never be able to forget.

  After Dr. Leonard’s initial examination, he’d said that Claire’s vitals were strong, but he wanted to run more tests. He recommended an MRI and other procedures that had acronyms instead of names. Tony agreed to any test or any treatment that could be done on the estate. He refused to move her to a hospital, but instead offered any amount of money to bring the hospital to her.

  Although that apparently couldn’t include an MRI, it did include portable ultrasound and x-ray machines. The images those machines generated confirmed that a few of Claire’s ribs were broken. The doctor suspected that she also suffered a concussion, but without all the tests, he couldn’t confirm that diagnosis. A large needle was inserted and held in place on Claire’s left arm delivering a combination of fluids and pain medication. Even though she appeared blissfully asleep, Dr. Leonard said that if she were conscious, she’d be in a lot of pain. The doctor warned repeatedly about brain swelling—something about the brain being trapped within the skull and unable to heal. He mentioned the possibility of long-term damage, side effects, possible death. Tony listened, he did. For someone who could retain figures and information, what the doctor was telling him proved too overwhelming. He couldn’t retain the prognosis if he wanted to—and he didn’t. It wasn’t possible. Just seven hours ago, she’d been fine.

  Repeatedly, Tony cursed the bastard or circumstance that did this to his companion.

  Tony’s shoulders ached and his head throbbed as his eyes opened and his blurry world began to focus. It took a few seconds for reality to register—but when it did, it hit with a vengeance. Sometime after 4:00 AM, he’d fallen asleep with his head on the side of Claire’s mattress and his hand over her arm. She wasn’t sleeping in their bed. No, Dr. Leonard had done as Tony wished and brought the hospital to her. That included a motorized hospital bed and monitors that beeped. Tony scanned her petite frame looking for any sign of movement: there was none. She lay exactly as she had before he’d fallen asleep.

  Wisps of sunlight reddened the outside sky and still Tony had yet to take any calls from Tom or Tim, or anyone at Rawlings Industries. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure what he’d done with his cell phone. The big deal in New York seemed like a million years ago. He no longer cared if it worked out or if it didn’t. All that time and all that money suddenly seemed inconsequential. Tony didn’t care about anything other than seeing Claire’s eyes open. Once, late last night, when they were alone, he lifted one of her eyelids to try to see the green, but he couldn’t. He lifted the lid, but all he saw was wh
ite, and it was full of red. The other lid he didn’t dare touch. It was swollen and dark, as was the area surrounding it.

  Tony’s stomach lurched at the sight of her bruises as they colored and swelled. He convinced himself to look beyond her exterior and see the real Claire underneath. With time, he no longer saw the bandages or the discoloration. When Tony looked at the woman before him, he saw the vivacious, strong-willed woman whom he loved to bait. He saw the woman who could look him in the eye when most would turn away. He saw the beautiful blonde highlights and the emerald-green eyes. He saw the refined woman he’d created—the one who fit perfectly on his arm at social gatherings and perfectly beneath him on a soft mattress. He imagined the fire—he wanted the fire. The images gave him a false sense of hope as the blissfulness of sleep once again took him to a better place.

  The next time Tony woke, it was due to Catherine’s hand on his shoulder. “Anton, Dr. Leonard will be in here in a few minutes. Do you want me to sit with her while you clean up?”

  Tony glanced at his watch—after 8:00 AM. The morning sun streamed across Claire’s makeshift bed and accentuated the bruises he didn’t want to see. It wasn’t just her face: her arms were discolored too. It didn’t take a forensic pathologist to recognize that one bruise on her left arm resembled a handprint.

  Where had he been for the last few hours? He’d awakened once, but then he began remembering and scenes floated in and out. He remembered Claire describing the lake on his property. He remembered her excitement and joy. It was almost contagious as her eyes and expression glowed. Maybe he could take her there? Maybe then she’d wake?

  No, she’d been there—yesterday.

  Tony squeezed Claire’s hand. How could that have only been yesterday? Her cold unresponsive skin caused the bile in his empty stomach to bubble and surge upward. He nodded his approval to Catherine and moved quickly to Claire’s bathroom. He had just enough time to close the door before he was headfirst into the toilet. It wasn’t like he’d eaten recently, yet his memories wouldn’t give him a reprieve.