Consequences
Page 38
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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 white, 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.
“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 white, 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.
