Since he hadn’t officially been informed of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance, Eric planned to enter the office as he would on any given day. Unless he was told others were present, Eric usually opened the door without hesitation. He assumed Mr. Rawlings allowed this because there wasn’t much that Eric didn’t know. Years of overheard conversations and encounters gave Eric a database of information. Rarely had he opened any door to find something of surprise. On those numbered occasions, when the scene caught him off guard, staying true to form, Eric neither reacted nor later mentioned the incident. In Eric’s line of work, secrecy was a valued and essential commodity.
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?”