Convicted (Consequences)

knew his first goal was in sight. He’d sacrificed comfort to maintain the cash necessary to, once again, become Anton Rawls. That wasn’t who he planned to be forever; nevertheless, Anton was a necessary step to accessing his hidden treasure.
    The new suit hanging near his bed took more of his cash reserve than he’d used on living expenses for the entire two weeks. That, plus the razor he’d just bought, was waiting to reveal the man beneath. Tony tried unsuccessfully to sleep as thoughts of his morning filled his mind. In the morning, he’d finally access the financial institution and resume a more accustomed lifestyle.
    During the past seventeen days, Tony had done more than travel. He’d spent time at internet cafés, learning what he could. At first, he followed the developments of Rawlings Industries. The Vandersols were continuing to taunt the press with accusations. With each statement or news release, the price of stock in Rawlings and it’s many subsidiaries took another hit. One article said the board of directors named Timothy Bronson temporary CEO, in the absence of CEO Anthony Rawlings.
    Tony wasn’t sure how he felt about their decision. Did they truly feel he was that easily replaced? Then, as the days passed, Tony came to the realization that he supported Tim’s new role. After all, over the past few years, he’d been grooming him for just such a move. It wasn’t like Tony planned to disappear, but Tim had shown promise from the beginning. It was good to know he was the man in charge.
    Once that realization struck, Tony experienced an unexpected release from his business obligations. He could spend his time watching his empire struggle to survive and still do nothing, or he could spend his time learning more about Agent Jackson’s odd remarks and tracking down his family. For the first time in his life—Rawlings Industries paled in importance.
    Whenever he could, Tony researched rabbit trails of information. Nothing came together. He knew he was missing too many pieces of the puzzle.
    He’d also taken two short calls from Agent Jackson. He read somewhere that fifty-six seconds of connection was necessary to track a call. He wasn’t sure if that were true, but to be safe, he kept their conversations under that mark. Understandably, the FBI wanted more; nevertheless, Tony divulged just enough to keep them pacified.
    “Yes, I’m in Europe”—“No, I haven’t been in contact with anyone in the States”—“Yes. If I didn’t have the damn phone, then you wouldn’t be talking to me now”—“Goodbye.” Although he hated the monitoring, thinking about the calls made Tony grin. Each time he kept the information limited and heard the distain in Agent Jackson’s voice, Tony felt like he’d accomplished a small victory. Maybe it was only one hand in an all-night card game; nonetheless, each winning hand adds to the final jackpot.
    The razor pulled at his facial hair as Tony worked to, once again, become Anton Rawls. The financial institution was a mere drive from the hostel where he’d slept. Although his body ached from the too soft bed, it was nothing compared to the mayhem cursing through his mind. After all these days, his goal was so close.
    During the last few weeks, he’d learned to utilize public transportation, but Tony knew that wouldn’t do for the bank; therefore, dressed in his new, finest suit, Tony entered the lobby of one of the nearby five star hotels and casually ate breakfast in one of its finer restaurants. No one questioned his presence—he obviously belonged. Tony wanted to enjoy the fine cuisine. Undoubtedly, it was the best he’d eaten in a while, but his thoughts of the safety deposit box wouldn’t allow the aroma or taste of Eggs Benedict to register. When he was done, he exited the front door, told the bellman to flag him a cab, and rode to the bank. On any other day, it would have been a customary thing for him to do, but today it was revolutionary.
    No one within the financial institution questioned his identity. Even if they’d seen him before, he was the same Anton Rawls who always visited the institution—the only one to access the safety deposit box in the last twenty-five years.
    When presented with the customary ledgers, Tony stared at the list of signatures. There were his own—or more accurately—Anton Rawls written repeatedly; however, that wasn’t what caught Tony’s attention. That wasn’t what caused his neck to straighten and