Final Paradox

Chapter 25

The mob is tightening the noose around Peter's neck. Peter can run, but there's nowhere to hide from George Pappas.

Peter, now the lawyer for Archie’s estate, reported directly to the executor—George Pappas. He was duty-bound to make a preliminary inventory of its assets as soon as possible. Since the share certificate had not showed up in the Parrish estate, it had to be in Archie’s stuff. If not, then Norma had it. Dear Bronwyn’s godmother, the crafty bitch.

The day of the burial, Peter was in Archie’s office. Offering up a silent prayer, he spun the vault’s combination lock. Perspiration rolled down his cheeks, and his stomach lurched with fear and anticipation.

The door of the vault swung open easily. Peter grabbed the first bundle of papers and set them on the desk. When he had settled into the deep leather chair, he realized he was panting. Archie had plenty of assets, all recorded in reasonably current lists. He had made a few killings in the market and been wiped out at least twice. But the real money was safely tucked away somewhere else. His hands shook as he slit open the envelopes.

Pappas’ booming commands echoed in his head. You find that share certificate, Saunderson, or find somewhere to hide fast. Don’t come back with excuses.

He unfolded the first document. For God’s sake! Norma’s will. He tucked it in his briefcase. Peter stacked the remaining envelopes in a pile, trying to maintain a semblance of order. More shares, bonds, and debentures, but nothing relating to Elixicorp.

Find that certificate, Saunderson, or we’ll be paying you a visit. Victor’s pleasantly smiling face hovered before Peter as he continued his chore. At last all the envelopes were open and their contents spread on the desk.

Jesus! Money everywhere. Stacks of bearer bonds he could cash at any bank, but no Elixicorp share certificate. He picked up the phone, then hesitated. Call the airlines to book a flight? Too obvious. Pappas would be on him in a second. The train? Couldn’t get far enough, fast enough. What about the bus? That was it. He could walk right now to the bus station and buy a ticket with cash. Totally anonymous. But a ticket to where?

Peter stuffed a dozen of the highest denomination bearer bonds into his briefcase. Within minutes, he was outside. With the bag clutched to his chest, he leaned into the icy wind slicing down Bay Street and headed for the bus station. Like an insubstantial moth, he was blown into a doorway where he took cover from the blast. Grit swirled up into his eyes, and he shivered in the alcove, wondering if he really cared anymore. Thinking he might get a bus to Florida or Vancouver, he stepped off the curb and into freezing slush, which slopped into his shoe. Shuddering, he was too cold to curse. Five minutes later, he reached the bus station.

In shock, he thought at first the ticket agent was Mr. Prince. Ridiculous! Prince was dead, his body exploded underneath the expressway. The man’s chins sagged over his collar, but there was no bow tie. His belly bulged just above his belt, where the buttons were strained.

“When does the next bus leave?” Peter asked.

The ticket agent squirmed around on his stool and said in a falsetto voice, “Whitby at 11:30.”