Petrovich let out a laugh. He turned toward the others and spoke like Harcourt wasn’t there. His voice was high-pitched and his hand motions effeminate as he squealed almost with delight. “It’s true, then. I thought it was just a rumor. He has no idea what’s been going on with his company. Powerful evidence if you ask me.”
Gooding and Forestdale nodded, like they agreed with the little runt.
“Evidence of what?” Harcourt shouted. He wanted to jump through the screen and pound all three men into a fucking pulp, starting with the little runt.
Gooding took off his glasses and leaned in, enjoying himself as he spoke. “You’ve made a series of decisions recently which have been devastating to the company. As Petrovich says, the fact that you appear to be unaware of what you’ve done only supports the rumors that you’ve lost your nut. No offense, sir.”
Harcourt’s throat tightened and his mouth felt dry. “But I’ve been on a leave of absence. I haven’t been making any decisions. I don’t know what you people are talking about. I left Peter in charge. I signed over all authority to him. You should be having this conversation with him, not me.”
Forestdale hoisted himself up after pushing his chair way back to clear his enormous gut. He stood up and leaned forward, pointing his chubby finger at Harcourt. His fleshy oatmeal-colored face had turned red as he almost shouted his response. “No, sir. That is not true. You did not sign anything away. The truth is, you’ve made countless decisions regarding the company, you’ve refused to account for missing funds, and you’ve refused to set foot in New York or respond to our numerous demands for your attention.”
Harcourt wanted to correct them, to set them straight, but the wind had been knocked out of his sails. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t going to get any help from the men in the room. He slumped into his chair, unable to respond. He closed his eyes. He’d been manipulated. Played like a fucking fool. Trying to explain that to these men would be pointless, futile. He didn’t think they were part of the plot, but he was starting to understand who was.
He tugged at his tie. He needed to get off the call, get out of his suit. He needed to get ahold of Peter and confront him. He needed to find out what the fuck was going on.
“Sir?”
When Harcourt spoke again, his voice was calm and even, defying the boiling turmoil inside. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your communication. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
Before letting him go, the lawyers gave Harcourt the details of the date, time, and location of the emergency board of directors meeting. Upon hearing that it was going to take place the following Wednesday in New York, Harcourt’s fake confidence slipped another notch. They explained that he would have a chance to state his case at this meeting and that if he wanted to keep his position, it would be his only chance before the board put his removal to a vote.
As soon as the call disconnected, Harcourt had one last burst of anger. He tore the video camera away from the monitor and fast-pitched it into the far wall. It broke and clattered to the floor, and he staggered down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out into the back of his house.
“Fuck!” he screamed into the sky, as the trees surrounding his property seemed to close in around him.
There was an old-fashioned porch swing on the deck behind the kitchen and he sat on it, slumping forward. He put his hands on his head and shook it, still not able to believe what had just happened. Then his shoulders began to shake. Not from crying, but from laughter.
“You idiot, what did you expect?” he yelled, as his laughing broached hysterical. “You’ve had your head in the fucking sand for a year and you handed over your company to a man that once coveted your wife, you fucking moron. Could you have been more of a fool? Not likely!”
He hadn’t had a drink since giving it up after Molly came on board, but he sure as hell wanted one now. As he gathered himself up to go get good and drunk, he felt for the note in his pocket with his bullet points on why he felt it was best for him to resign, and pulled it out.
No. He wouldn’t get drunk like some beaten weakling. He was going to fight, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to resign. He held out the paper in front of him in two hands and tore the note into tiny pieces, then went back inside, ready to start making calls to the men and women in his company he trusted to find out what the fuck was going on.
Despite spending the next few hours diligently attempting to get to the bottom of things, Harcourt could not get any useful information because he couldn’t get through to anyone that knew anything. He’d started by calling Peter Talbert, and was ready to rip him a good one sideways and up and down his ass. Peter wasn’t unavailable to take his calls according to his new executive assistant, a snotty woman named Bianca. She wouldn’t tell him anything, not where he was, or when he might be able to call him back.
He had no better luck with the executive staff, or even the members of the board that he was acquainted with. After an hour of burning up the company switchboard to no avail, the receptionist—who’d been the only supportive person he’d spoken with the whole time—said with much regret in her voice, “I’m so sorry, sir, but I’ve been told not to put you through to anyone anymore. They asked me to tell you to call Gooding and Associates instead. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right, Abagail, thank you for your help,” he said, not wanting to take his frustrations out on her. When he hung up, he pounded his fist so hard on the desk that pain shot through his arm and he bit his tongue.
“Fuck,” he said as he thought about what else he could do. It had been almost a year since he’d tried to log onto the company intranet. No surprise, his old password no longer worked, and he doubted he’d be getting any support from IT under the current circumstances.
He sat back and tried to think things through. His situation was more precarious than he’d first imagined. He’d need to be close and he’d need help to deal with the crisis. He called Molly and hoped she was still in Diversion, and that she hadn’t started her weekend trip to Victoria to visit the grandkids early.
When Molly didn’t pick up, Harcourt cleared his throat. “Molly, it’s me,” Harcourt began. “If you’re still in town, I need your help with some urgent business, mostly travel arrangements. Call me as soon as you get this message.”
He hung up. Molly would handle his travel arrangements and get him a flight to New York out of Vancouver as early as tomorrow. For the rest of the day, he’d go to plan B, gathering troops—lawyers mostly—to help him fight this upcoming vote.
The only attorneys he knew all had dealings with his company, so he spent an hour researching law firms and left messages with his top choices. He’d have Molly book a floor at the fanciest hotel nearest his headquarters, and if necessary he’d pay to have an entire law firm set up a room in that hotel with the sole purpose of helping him get to the bottom of whatever was going on and keep him in power. He hoped that they’d figure out a way to stall the vote, to give him more time to prepare a response and dig into what kind of shenanigans Peter had been up to.
But after an hour of doing internet research and reading dry CVs about the partners of New York’s top law firms, Harcourt’s head was pounding. Wanting to talk to someone in his camp, he tried Molly again, but got voicemail. This time he just hung up and considered grabbing his keys and driving down to her house to check if she was still there.