Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 3. Chapter 3: Letter from the Dead

Chapter 3: Letter from the Dead

It's one week to the day after that shambles of a funeral. Bruised and bloodied, we managed to lower my father's casket into his final resting place without much further happening.

But mysteriously, with the plodding down of the first ceremonial handful of dirt from me, the avian intruders became quiet. By the time our sad little assembly of kith and near-relatives left the sheltering comfort of our funerary tent, all trace of the crows and their raven king was gone.

Now I sit alone in a mahogany-paneled office in the Old Toronto section of town. This is where all the banks are, and from whence all the power flows.

Before me is a massive antique desk. The writing surface is as big as my bed, and front and centre on it is an engraved ivory plaque – Ronald R. Ionescu, Esq.

I silently jeer to myself, 'Leave it to old Ronald to etch his name on endangered-species contraband for all his bigwig clients to see.'

I extract my phone: 12:35; he's late. I palm it and pivot my neck aimlessly around the office. First I wonder at the source of a sedate ticking sound, and find it to be coming from a French gilt clock on the marble mantelpiece behind me.

"Damn," I say out loud. "How much did my father pay him..?"

The rest of the room is as one would expect for a high-priced Dominion Centre lawyer. There are velour-draped casements with teak Venetian blinds on the windows, built-in bookcases to match the chocolate-brown wall paneling, and here and there are several wall-mounted electric candle sconces. I think the appointments all resemble 'stuff' one might pick up from Versailles's garage sale. 'High-cost tacky,' that's how I'd paraphrase it, and I suppose it's the opposite of what John Gomery termed 'small town cheap.'

The door flies open behind and to my left.

"Ah, young Master Emeric. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

My small-town cheap denim slightly squeaks as I rotate on his Corinthian leather to get a glimpse at him. The lawyer's arms are laden with manila accordion files, loose papers, and ledger books.

"It seems your father had a secret safe deposit box down in the depths of the lowest bank vaults." An unconvincing chuckle lingers in his throat, as he adds, "Secret, from me at least."

"Do you need a hand," I offer.

"No, no." He uses the side of his knee to glide the door shut. "Do not get up, please."

In another moment, Ronald R. Ionescu, Esquire staggers to his desk and drops his papery charges with a plop.

He sits like a king behind his massive workstation, and then remembers to adjust his client smile for me. It's as if he has just recalled that his retainer cheques will bear a new signature from now on, and that the bearer of the pen-stroke is sitting before him.

I straighten up a little, wondering if my Hudson's Bay jeans and polo shirt are appropriate attire to meet with 'my attorney.' Oh well, at least I did not omit to slip on a sports jacket.

"This is never a pleasant proceeding, young Mr. Corvin, however in this case you father did all he could to mitigate the pain of it for you."

I hardly hear him. My attention is locked onto a nasty scab. It's nearly centered with his nose; crooked and jagged as it comes down from his grey hairline.

"Are you all right, after…the funeral?"

My question seems to set him back.

He folds his hands over his vest, leans back on this mahogany desk chair and eyes me coldly from behind his gold glasses.

Ronald cracks a halfway believable leer. "Hazard of the job, I guess."

Okay. Now that's officially weird; what's that supposed to mean? He expects raven attacks at the interments of his top-echelon clients?

"Do you know," he suddenly intones wide-eyed wonder through nearly clenched lips. "What a collection of crows are called?"

"Ummm," I stammer.

He interrupts. "A 'murder,' Mr. Corvin. A murder of crows, and we saw them with their bloody raven king."

"I…I've never heard of that – "

"The bird got you too, didn’t he?" There is a stunning dearth of anything like sympathy in his question to me.

My hand mindlessly rises to pet the lump and scar formed under my hairline, just straight above my left eye.

"Yeah. I guess. But I don’t remember that bird getting close to me at all."

Ronald springs erect on his chair seat. "No, funny that, isn't it? It must have sneaked up on you, or been one of the other birds." He leans elbows on his desktop, folds his hands before him, and seems to dare me to say otherwise.

"Yes," I let slip out. "What else could it have been?"

A faint smile cracks his thin lips. "Indeed, what else. Chalk it up to one of the world's strange happenings."

Before I can comfortably blink and inquire what that is supposed to mean, my father's lawyer and investments manager inhales decisively and pulls some paperwork in front of him.

"Shall we?" he asks, ripping open a ledger without looking at it. He stares me down.

"Yes. Of course," I say.

"The final filing with the Crown Probate Court will go through in the morning. Before you leave today, my law clerk will sit down with you and obtain all necessary signatures – "

Suddenly he stops. His entire legal attitude falls away as he asks me, "To the extent that my research can show, you are the last male in the line of the Corvins. Do you know much about your family history?"

I shrug. "Not much. Father never wanted to talk about it. 'We came from the old country,' is all he'd ever say."

The man in the five-thousand-dollar suit slowly takes off his glasses. "Well, the 'old country' for your family is Hungary. Your great-grandfather came to Canada in 1903, and set up a funeral parlour in the Cabbage Town neighbourhood of Toronto. With his spare cash, he bought up real estate and did quite well for himself, financially that is."

Master Ionescu, Esquire seems odd, like not only does he know more about my family history that I do – almost like he's lived it – but more than that, he leaves the unpleasant hint in the air that he possibly knows more about me than I do as well.

"Now…" He rubs his hands together, praying mantis fashion. "On to the disposition of the estate."

He pauses; his un-spectacled eyes do not blink while they stare unmoved upon me.

"Well..?" I puzzle.

"It's already entirely yours. Your father set up a trust fund and receivership in your name two years ago, that is shortly after you moved out of the house…"

He can no doubt see this subject instantly puts me on edge. I grip my chair tightly, and he alters his tone.

"…That is to say, when you began your studies at university – "

I nonetheless cut him off with a breathless, "He did?!"

"Yes – "

"But," I interrupt him again with amazed tones of quietude. "He never told me."

"No. As I was saying, he set it up and began transferring all his liquid assets into it. Naturally, I managed the entire affair for him, personally. Nevertheless…" Ronald slips on his glasses and consults the ledger. "He subsequently began a process whereby he liquidated all his holdings, real and otherwise."

"You mean he sold all his investment properties?"

"Yes. Master Emeric, I am saying he sold it all. It's in the fund that exists with your name on it. All proceedings had completed transfer more than twelve months ago. And because of it, his foresight will ensure you owe no one a 'death tax.' As far as the Province of Ontario, and the federal government is concerned, the money has been yours for over a year now."

"Are you saying…" The thought was almost too dreadful to bear. "That my father, planned – "

"His death!" Ronald immediately scoffs.

"Yes..."

"No, young Master Corvin. Not as far as I know. No, he just wanted to insure you were set to pursue your ambitions as you see fit."

"And if he hadn't died, when would I have been granted knowledge of this 'secret fund?'"

The investment manager's glasses came off again and bobbed in his tightly pinched fingers. He then told me as if it were obvious, "Upon the completion of your studies."

I reel back on my seat. It seems so much to take in at once. "But, how did he live?"

"He generated a rider when establishing the fund that he was to receive a monthly stipend from the assets-income for as long as he lived. Now, naturally that clause is no longer in effect."

I suddenly felt an unaccountable heat. How dare he reduce my father to the cancellation of a contractual clause!

"So," I ask, literally getting a grip on the arms of my chair. "The house is gone?"

"Yes. Sold. He rented an apartment via a month-to-month arrangement."

"And all the contents of the mansion?"

"Also, sold. Your personal items from the house were completely packed up and moved to a climate-controlled storage facility downtown."

"Oh."

"Yes. I have a packet of information to give you today. Instructions on how to access it will be included. You do not need to do anything. The rent is paid automatically by the fund manager, by me, that is."

"Why…" I stumble on my own thoughts. "Didn't he tell me..?"

Ronald swallows what appear to be the beginnings of a grin. "You and I both know your father was…well, shall we say 'private.'"

It grates to hear another man speak of my father like that, especially a man who's prime directive with my dad was to exact a living from him, but he was correct. My father was difficult to comprehend, even on one of his good days.

Evidently Ronald has no idea what I am thinking or feeling, for he immediately 'moves on.' He does so by fumbling with something from the central drawer of his desk.

He holds up an importantly-sized cheque. "Per your father's wishes, upon his demise, you are to receive twice-monthly living expenses."

He places the money draft in my hand. As I lift it up to make out the figure, he preens on.

"Oh course, we can set up direct deposit – "

"But!"

"Is there some error..?"

"You tell me. This is made out for ten-thousand dollars."

"Yes. The figure can be adjusted, upwards."

"What?! Let me get this straight. You are saying my new 'allowance' – my mad money – will be in excess of twenty thousand dollars, a month!"

A condemning sneer plays about his lips. He reclines back on his chair and folds interlocked fingers over vest buttons. "I trust that sum proves satisfactory."

Yes richly ironic, and he knows it. He's made a statement meant to floor me no doubt, but I manage to tell him, "I'm not used to spending ten grand in six months of living." It suddenly hits me. "What's the value of the whole estate?"

"Are you sure you wish to know?"

"I think I have a right to know."

"Yes. Naturally. It's just that exact figures fluctuate, but your net worth is in the high eight figures."

'Shit,' I think to myself. 'I'm the richest starving university student I know.'

I pull forward on my chair, hearing my jean rivets mar his leather, and for that first time in the day I dare to place my hands on his desktop. "It that it then?" I try to control my tone. "Just like that? No legacy, to speak of?" In my barely suppressed ill temper, the amorphous flash of that woman's face from my dream comes to me. It makes me blink and shake it slowly out of my head. Why did my father live like a hermit and a miser when sitting on all of this wealth?

I open my eyes to find my father's lawyer staring unimpressed at me. "Glass of water, young Master Emeric?"

"Um…yes. Please."

He shoves his chair back and uses his hands to help himself stand. As he walks towards his window, and the copious silver tray arrayed with crystal decanters on a cart, he says, "I trust this all pleases you."

"I…"

"Your father's foresight is commendable." He un-stoppers a bottle and pours a stream of water into a heavy-footed highball glass.

Coming back to me with it, he adds, "I trust the services that I have rendered for your father shall be allowed to continue…"

His fingers touch my hand as he transfers the room-temperature glass, and they are icy cold.

I take a drink before I answer. His gaze burns into me.

"Don’t worry. You are 'retained.'"

"Ah. Very good. Continuity is good, for these moments of stress and trial are always rough on – on new clients."

I take another sip of water, and nearly choke wondering just how much Ronald R. Ionescu, Esquire's retainer actually is.

My new lawyer and investment manager strolls over behind his desk. He digs through the pile of papers, ledgers and accordion files. Clearly he is looking for something. "You asked earlier about your father leaving a legacy. Perhaps he did."

"What do you mean?"

"As I mentioned when I arrived, I was late because I had to go down into the bank vaults."

He holds up a small brass key with a large manila tag dangling from it. "Your father was not a man to keep secrets from me, or so I thought."

"What is that?"

"Well, as executor of your father's will, I received written notice just before you were to arrive that your father had a safe deposit box down in the lowest crypts of this bank. I only had time to fetch the key, and be told in no uncertain terms that only you are allowed to go in there."

He rancourously drops the clavis into my extended palm.

"Only me?"

"Yes. I was told your father left express instructions, and the bank is honouring them to the letter."

"Oh." I finger the cold key and eye it up and down. "That's weird."

Ronald R. Ionescu, Esquire seems to agree, but holds his tongue as he simply folds his arms against me and leans back in hie seat.

"What do you think I'll find down there?"

He scoffs, "Your legacy, no doubt."

˚˚˚˚˚

The odd little clavis lingers a moment in my fingers. The paper label is slightly crumpled, and as a stall tactic I raise it up. In my father's stoic handwriting is written: "Emeric Corvin, only access."

The bank guard led me here and left me. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead and the lamps make that hissing sputter that always gives me the creeps. This vault is not large, about four meters square, and the back three walls are lined with safe deposit boxes above a U-shaped counter. The guard used his master key, plus mine, to open the door and pull out the box that now sits on the counter before me. All I have to do is lift the lid.

Ronald is upstairs making sure all the paperwork I have to sign is in order, and I decided to take this break and come down here.

I glance over my shoulder. The iron bars of the inner gate stand open in the room, and the massive vault door stands open in the other direction. I glanced that way because I thought I… oh well. I'm sure it was nothing, but still with that damn buzzing drone in my ear, it's hard not be paranoid that someone will lock me in here.

I inhale deeply, stiffen my spine and turn back to my task. My hands glide forward along the long sides of the box. It is cold as I move them up to the front rim and slowly lift the hinged cover.

I peer into it, and think, 'Is this some kind of joke?'

Reaching in, I pick up the one and only item of content: a letter.

The envelope is the old-fashioned kind my father preferred, big and of light brown paper. 'Emeric' is written on it, and it is in my father's cursive script.

I swallow down my fear with the notion that I do not really have much time. I slide my finger through top and make as clean a tear as I can; somehow on an intuitive level I feel this is one correspondence I will want to keep. I crack open the envelope to peer in.

Oddly among the folds of a piece of paper are glints of gold.

I reach in and grab onto some rope-like thing. Pulling it out reveals a heavily linked chain. Slowly the drag on the chain becomes twice fold, and out follows a twirling circle of gold.

I set it into my hand. A plain yellow-gold loop encases an ancient-looking gold coin.

On the 'head' side is a standing man – a king or a saint – with crown and halo. In his right hand, atop his upraised arm, he brandishes a curved axe, while his left holds one of those ball thingies with a cross, the one that all kings have. Around the rim of the coin is a running text in Latin, but what it says, I have no idea. The one thing I can read is '1462.'

On the reverse of the coin is more perimeter text, and a shield in the middle.

I set it down on the counter, and pull out the paper.

Unfolding it, I can see it's headed: "My Dearest Boy; My Own Emeric."

I have to pause a moment. Something makes me glance over my shoulder again. This is turning out to be difficult… No more stalling! I open it flat and read:

No Corvin man is ever ready for this – but now with my death, peculiar things will begin to form themselves around you. In time, I am sorry to say, you will grow to be as paranoid and cautious as you claim me to have been – you will not be able to help it.

"Be wary of the spider's web, and of who you think you can trust from now on. Seek further answers under the sign of the Seeing Fox.

"I apologize for the seemingly cryptic nature of this missive, but I can reveal no more to you directly. This is for your own safety.

"I love you, my son, more than you will be able to believe at this moment. Perhaps in time, you will see me differently. But the fact of my love for you is pure and unwavering, even from beyond the grave.

Your Father.

I flip the paper over. There is a postscript:

P.S. Wear the coin. It is imperative that you wear the chain and coin for your protection, and relay none of this to Ronald: EVER!

I'm stunned. What is this, cloak and dagger time..? But then again, weird things have been happening, and I suppose they all started just after my father died.

I turn again, and Ronald is peering over my shoulder.

"Fuck!" I yell and turn around.

He looks as peaceful as the eye of a storm. "Is everything in order, young Master Corvin?"

"What are you doing down here?!" My heart's racing a million kilos an hour. I see his eyes drift to the paper dangling loosely in my hands.

"You were taking so long, I thought I should check on you."

I inhale defensively, and try to regulate my tone. "Can you give me a minute, please?"

He bows slightly. "I will be waiting to escort you back upstairs."

I watch him exit the vault and gather my thoughts. I fold the letter and return it to its envelope. It goes into my inner jacket pocket. Did Ronald see this chain and coin? It was on the counter in front of me, and perhaps my body blocked it from his view.

'Fuck,' I think to myself. 'What is going on..?'

˚˚˚˚˚

It's late afternoon, and the unpleasant business is over.

I watch Ronald turn and head back to the elevator banks to return upstairs. He's just left me in the lobby, and it feels nice for the light to come through the windows and strike my face.

This is all so much to take in, I really…I really feel creeped out and lost.

My hand goes and presses the gold coin into my flesh through my shirt, then it drifts to pat the letter from the outside of my jacket. As I do so, I puzzle over the information in the 'missive.' Under the sign of the Seeing Fox; what does that mean?

With new inspiration, I extract my phone from my jean's front pocket.

I pull up the web. I google: "seeing fox" toronto.

I almost can't believe it. One match.

I click on the blue text that highlights the search results, and to the right comes up a map to the Harbord Village section of the city.

The link is to a business website. I click it, and swallow hard. Is this some kind of joke?

I mumble in a faltering staccato: "The Seeing Fox Psychic Readings Shop."

Oh, shit. My dad was a sly one.