Chapter 23
The cyanide pill.
It was all Matthew could think of as he sat at the breakfast table with his head in his hands. It was over. His work. His love. His life. All gone.
Everything had been going according to plan. Or so he had thought.
But in the final plan, Matthew had not been included. Once more he replayed the scene that had taken place just an hour before.
Pulling into the Good Earth restaurant's parking lot, Matthew was surprised to see an exact duplicate of his own car. Of course it could be anyone's, but Matthew could not help but think that it was Peter's black BMW coupe parked beside the limousine. What were the chances of Peter happening to be here at the same time? One in a thousand. And Peter Jones was the last person he needed to see today. Matthew would simply ask the host to find William's table, and ask him to come outside. They would take their breakfast meeting elsewhere.
He parked his car at the other end of the lot and walked around the back of the building. He went inside, looking around cautiously. At first he had not really noticed the two Wallaby security guards standing near the hostess station. Seeing him, guards left the station and went into the restaurant.
Positioning himself out of sight of the dining room, he motioned for the hostess
"I'd like to ask a favor, please," he said. "There's a man I'm meeting here. His name is Mr. Harrell, and he's - "
Just then William appeared, the two guards flanking him on either side.
"We can't stay here," Matthew said. "Peter Jones is in there somewhere."
"Yes, I know."
"But I'd rather not see him. Today especially. I haven't seen him since he left the company."
"Matthew," William said calmly, "please come inside."
Bewildered, Matthew followed.
"William, I'd much rather we go elsewhere," he said, then halted abruptly when he saw Peter, dressed in an oxford shirt and jeans and sitting in one of the booths. Seated beside him was an older man wearing dark slacks and a tie.
William pressed him onward, directing him right toward Peter.
Peter looked up, and for the first time since the boardroom showdown, their eyes met. His face bore no surprise, no expression whatsoever.
To Matthew's astonishment, William led him right up to the booth that Peter occupied. The older man rose and seated himself on the other side of the table.
"Matthew, sit down please," William said, indicating the vacant seat beside Byron.
Matthew looked at Peter uneasily, but Peter said nothing, he just sat there quietly and watched Matthew.
Adding yet another element to Matthew's confusion, Hank Towers materialized and joined the surprise party. Positively astonished, Matthew turned to William for an explanation. "What's going on? What the hell is the meaning of all this?"
"I'll get right to the point," William said. "Matthew, the Wallaby board and the executive staff decided to vote on whether you are suited to maintain your position at Wallaby."
Matthew struggled to keep his voice down. "What? This is absurd.
How could you do this?"
"Matthew, I did it," Hank said.
Matthew stared at Hank with disbelieving eyes.
"I initiated the vote," Hank said, "after several of the executives and board members came to me with their concerns."
"Why?" Matthew said breathlessly.
"Because in your effort to make the company successful, you acted with negligence and selfishness. What's more, you have no long-term strategy for our product line. And in order for us to survive and continue innovating our company must have a plan."
Instantly, Matthew put the pieces together in his mind. He turned his blanched face to Peter and met the dark, unwavering eyes of his nemesis with hateful resignation.
"So that's it. Now, after I've turned the company around, you come back to run the show?"
Peter kept quiet.
"Not exactly," William said. "Byron Holmes here," he said, indicating the man seated beside Matthew, "will temporarily take over as Wallaby's president."
Matthew was deeply shocked.
William said, "Peter has decided to rejoin Wallaby in an at-large position, working on our future products. However he'll only come back if you leave." William produced a folded document from his coat pocket. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I have to ask you to resign."
"I will not," Matthew protested loudly.
Several diners, most of them Wallaby employees, turned their heads in the group's direction.
"Matthew," William said, his voice empathetic now, "I'm afraid you have no choice." He unfolded the document and placed it before Matthew. "We've put together a first-rate severance package for you."
For what felt like a long time, Matthew was unable to do anything but sit there and stare down at the document that spelled out the rewards of his terrific failure. His brain sizzled as he attempted to focus on the details. He saw numbers and lots of parenthesized paragraphs. There was a long line at the bottom, with his name printed beneath it.
He raised his head and looked across the table at Peter. "Why? Why didn't you just agree with me when I suggested all this? It would have had the same outcome."
"Sorry, Matthew, but it was never that simple."
But it could be now, Matthew thought, sitting there at the breakfast table, clutching tightly in his fist the little circular thing he had been hiding in his briefcase for so many years.
He was completely spent, used up. Alone. There was no one for him
now. No one he could call on. William had informed him that
Laurence had arranged for a transfer to an ICP office in France.
And, effective immediately, Eileen, his former secretary, was
Byron Holmes's personal assistant.
And then there was Greta.
He opened his fist and looked at the gold object in his palm. It rolled out of his hand onto the tabletop.
He twirled Greta's wedding band round and round with his fingertip. On that awful day years ago, he had retrieved the ring from the boat deck before kicking her severed finger into the ocean. Unable to face the horror of what had happened to her, to her hand, he had hidden the ring in his briefcase ever since.
She was the only person in the world who had ever truly supported him, the only person who would know just what to say right now. And she was gone. He had destroyed her, too, with his damnable, selfish dream. A dream that had become a nightmare. One from which there would be no waking. It was all over. Really and truly through.
Ah, but the cyanide pill. It was his grandest plan ever. He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and straightened, contemplating the details of his new plan. Had Greta left anything in the medicine cabinet? Sleeping pills? What about the garage, in that damned car? He lowered his head to his folded arms again, considered his options.
He was awakened by the sound of the doorbell.
As everything came back to him all at once, his first reaction was paranoia. The press. Reporters and photographers. They had scaled the gate, and they were coming for him, coming to mock him.
"Go away," he shouted.
But instead of leaving him alone, they resorted to pounding, screaming his name. They rang again, more pounding.
He called for Marie and ordered her to send them away. The housekeeper came back a moment later and told him who it was at the door.
He grabbed the ring and leaped up from his chair, tears finally coming as he staggered down the foyer.
He twisted the lock and swung open the door.
And there she stood. A sobbing Greta, wearing, he noticed at once and unmistakably, the very gloves he had bought for Laurence. Pigskin, and fit for a queen. His queen.
Yes, she was wearing them now, and didn't that then mean that he had bought them for her, really? That they belonged together?