Simply Lies, page 32
She made her mind go blank for a moment and then proceeded to fill it up with as much as she could remember about the room she had been in.
There would have been an easier way to do this, but Rochelle had been smart enough to turn off Francine’s phone so she couldn’t go back and track where she had been taken.
She recited out loud, “Plank floor, small bed, tattered drapes, one window, peeling paint, cold, though the day had not been especially chilly.”
She didn’t remember much sun coming in the window. So perhaps lots of shade trees?
“Wooden two-panel door, looked old. Smell was musty, place was dusty.”
Abandoned house? That would make sense.
Now she focused on sounds, or lack thereof. No nearby traffic. No train rumble or whistle. No aircraft, so not on a flight path, presumably.
But there had been a sound. Consistent, loud. Mechanized.
A farm tractor?
She turned on the light, took off the headphones, opened an app on her phone, and plugged in her mileage parameters with Stormfield as the center.
She grabbed her car keys. And a Glock pistol she had purchased. She might need it against Rochelle’s knife or gun. It would certainly take the treasure to get her mother back. And it might take something more. Whichever it was, she was willing to pay the price. She wasn’t exactly sure why.
But I am willing to pay the price. Because I know Rochelle is.
* * *
Gibson had arranged for her parents to come over and watch the kids. Her dad had hugged her especially tight, something her mother noted but did not comment on.
“You look okay,” muttered her father into her ear.
“That’s because I am.”
“So it’s really over then?”
“That part is.”
“That part! Oh my God, I feel another ulcer coming on.”
“Just pop some Rolaids. Works for me.”
She left her parents with Tommy and Darby, and headed to her home office.
She fired up her computer. While Francine was looking for her mother, Gibson was going to make one more all-out assault on Langhorne’s treasure.
While they had used the cryptocurrency subterfuge to ensnare Nathan Trask, Gibson hadn’t thought that Langhorne was involved in that type of digital currency at all. But as she went over some records of Pottinger’s financial accounts again, she saw an intriguing bit of code that had been left there, like a dangling participle.
She copied the line of code and pasted it into an online search. She sat back and waited for the search to run.
“Damn!”
Harry Langhorne had just thrown her a curve.
The search had taken her to a site that sold NFTs, or Non Fungible Tokens, basically digital assets separate and apart from bitcoins. Each NFT was unique and equated to a specific asset. They ran the gamut from a one-of-a-kind meme autographed tweet, to a fractional ownership of a Banksy work, to a digital sports trading card signed by a superstar in very limited quantities. The very first tweet, from Twitter founder Jack Dorsey, had sold for nearly $3 million as an NFT.
Now that is some crazy shit, but, hey, it’s only money. Or bitcoin.
One could buy an NFT with cryptocurrency, or, with some platforms like PayPal and Robinhood, a simple credit card would suffice. If crypto was used, the buyer would need a digital wallet to hold both the NFT and the crypto.
She’d chased down debtors who had stashed some of their wealth in NFTs. Thus, she knew that most NFTs were Ethereum based. Ethereum was a blockchain-based economic trading platform. In fact, many NFT marketplaces would take only Eth tokens as payment. You had to have a user account to create a transaction on Ethereum.
So had Langhorne bought an NFT? And if so, why? Was that the treasure?
She might be able to find out because, while NFTs were not bitcoin, they were pieces of digital information housed on blockchains. While one bitcoin could replace another, NFT tokens represented a unique digital asset. She wasn’t sure why someone would spend a ton of money on a tweet or sports card that anyone could take a screenshot of and claim it was original. But then collectors were strange beasts, and the blockchain would prove the authenticity of the NFT and its concomitant value, at least in theory. So there was that.
But the thing was NFTs could not really be traded for other NFTs or traditional currency. So once you bought one you really could sell it only for crypto. And recently, NFTs had been taking a beating in the news and financial markets because of fraud and hidden fees and the cost of or impossibility of maintaining the article on the Ethereum blockchain, as well as a host of other issues. Gibson wasn’t sure whether the whole market wouldn’t implode at some point, but she didn’t care about that. She just wanted to find the treasure, if it existed.
Okay, here we go.
On blockchains she started searching for ERC-721 tokens, upon which NFTs on Ethereum were based. She had to find some that had been owned by Langhorne and then used to buy one or more NFTs. There were many places to buy NFTs, platforms like OpenSea, Rarible, AtomicMarket, and SuperRare, among others. Hell, apparently even Amazon was thinking about selling them. She worked away, following one trail, which took her to another one. Some ended in dead ends. In fact, all of them did.
Until one did not.
IT TOOK ABOUT TWO HOURS, but Francine finally found what she thought was the place to which she’d been taken.
A farm was within earshot and she could hear the tractor, approximately the same sound she had heard while being held prisoner.
The dilapidated house was down a curvy, dirt road. It was clearly abandoned, which made sense. Rochelle had always been stingy, even with the proceeds from a diamond haul in the bank. She wouldn’t be shelling out money to rent a safe house to keep Mommy hostage when she could do that for free.
Francine knelt next to a bank of trees and surveyed the place. She didn’t see a car, but it probably was parked in back, just in case anyone came down this far.
She wondered if there was electricity even turned on in the place. If not, there was no way they had an oxygenator in there. They were probably providing her mother’s oxygen needs purely from tanks. She wondered how they had managed that. That cost money, and the place you got it from delivered the tanks. She doubted they would haul oxygen canisters to a place like this.
Had they ripped off the supply from the assisted living center they had taken her from? Rochelle had intimated something like that when she had spoken to a trussed-up Clarisse. That was more in Rochelle’s line. Why pay if you could steal?
But that’s sort of my mantra, too.
She stiffened when he came out of the house.
And she felt her heart grow both soft and sad.
Her tall, handsome brother had not aged well. He looked too thin and bowed, and . . . just worn out.
Shit. What the hell have you two been doing? But then look at me. I know what I’ve been doing. Leading a life I had to manufacture to forget the other one.
Her brother had always been sensitive and aloof. Her father had called him stupid, inept, useless. And those were the kinder terms the monster had used. That just ground you down, year after year. And now all these years later, here, perhaps, was the result.
He smoked a cigarette, idly flicking the ash away. His hair was thinning and he’d grown a mustache that looked wispy and far too small for his broad face. His clothes were cheap and hung baggy on him. She remembered them together as kids, before their father had revealed his abominable ways. They had loved each other, had fun together, supported each other, eventually forming a little two-person army to keep all the shit at bay.
Too bad the shit won.
She had hoped that he would have found happiness and good health and something altogether better than had been available to him as a member of the Langhorne family.
He didn’t seem to have achieved any of that.
Part of her instinctively wanted to call out to him.
But her brother clearly was not the same person he had been all those years ago.
His life could have turned out so differently, but for Harry Langhorne.
I wouldn’t blame you, Dougie, if you’d killed him.
Now if I could only get you away from Rochelle.
There was a noise from inside the house. Then the door opened and Rochelle joined him. She took a puff off his offered smoke and gazed around. She had on jeans and a hoodie, and was barefoot. Her substantial hip butted up next to Doug’s slim one. She smiled and kissed him.
And he smiled back, and in that smile Francine had to admit that her brother looked like a little boy again. The one she remembered. He looked . . . happy.
She put a hand in her pocket and felt for the gun there. This could turn out fabulously. Or this could be the worst day of her life, and that would be saying something. She drew a deep breath and transformed herself into what she knew she could be when the need arose: commanding, confident, and courageous. Like she had been with Nathan Trask, conning him and his people just enough to allow her to survive. To allow her to win.
She stepped out into the open. “Lovely spring day, isn’t it? And how is Mommy doing? Spry and spirited?”
Rochelle took a step forward, putting herself between brother and sister.
“Oh, like I would ever hurt my brother? But you shouldn’t give me such a tempting target, Rochelle.”
Francine looked past Rochelle, and her tough facade faded for a moment. “I would never hurt you, Dougie. Never. For so long we were all each other had.”
Francine wasn’t sure if he reacted to this, though he did drop and grind out his smoke.
He nodded at her, she supposed, in hello. Her brother had never been loquacious.
“How did you find us?” asked Rochelle. “I turned off your phone.”
Francine walked closer. “Never reveal sources and methods. And is my swagger still there?”
Rochelle pointed to the gun. “What’s that for?”
“You brought a gun last time. Only fair that I have one. So, how is Mommy?”
“The same as when you were here before,” said Rochelle. “And you better hurry up and find the money because I can’t deal with the woman much longer.”
“Is there electricity in there? Otherwise, how are you managing the oxygen?”
“We rigged it off a feeder line. At least Dougie did. He’s real good with stuff like that. And we got an oxygenator.”
“Where?”
Rochelle’s mouth curved to a grin. “Sources and methods.”
Francine glanced at her brother. “Did Mom recognize you?”
He shook his head and looked off.
“I’m sorry.”
He glanced back at her. “Why?” His voice was husky and dull and unfamiliar.
She drew closer, pointing the gun to the dirt. “Because she’s our mother. In spite of all the shit.”
“Forgive and forget?” said Rochelle in a sneering way.
“Neither. But we can move forward.”
“Maybe you can. That shit messed us up but good,” said Rochelle. “Just treading water now. Probably forever.”
“And you think I’m the picture of perfect mental health?” said Francine.
“I don’t know. Are you trying to be?”
“All I try and do is get out of bed every day.”
“Us too,” said Doug. He added quietly, again looking off, “Us too, really.”
“And Bruce?” asked Francine.
Her brother glanced nervously at Rochelle. “I did it,” he said.
“Why?”
Doug once more glanced at Rochelle and shrugged. His gaze fixed on his shoes.
“You didn’t know Bruce like I did,” said Rochelle.
“But you two were dating,” retorted Francine.
“No we weren’t. He had some crazy-ass fantasy about me. Told me I was Wonder Woman to his Superman. He creeped me out. I told him to leave me alone. But unlike Doug, Bruce had no problem playing in the reindeer games.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He paid my father to have sex with me. And it was not voluntary. My old man had to hold me down.”
“He never tried that with me.”
“He wanted to, trust me,” said Rochelle, who was now looking off like Doug had been.
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Because he had me instead. I figured if he did the shit to me, he’d leave you alone. In fact, I made him promise to leave you alone.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Twelfth Night?”
“What?”
“You were a much better actress than I was. I could never get Viola’s cadence right. Or really get into the spirit of her character. I just memorized the lines and regurgitated them when I was supposed to.”
“I heard the performance was well received.”
“It should have been you onstage, not me.” Rochelle paused. “That was one reason why I let Bruce do what he did to me.”
“And the other reason?”
Rochelle looked at Doug. “You’re his sister. That means you’re precious to me. And just in case you’re wondering, as soon as Bruce saw us when he opened the door at his house he went after Dougie with a machete. Dougie didn’t have a choice. It was him or Bruce.”
“Why did you even try to find him?” asked Francine.
“He had something of mine that I wanted back.”
“What?”
In answer Rochelle lifted a small gold necklace off her chest. “Your brother gave it to me. Worked his ass off doing construction when we were in New Mexico. Bruce took it one time when I was forced to have sex with him. Next thing I knew his father croaked, and he and his mom vanished.”
“How did you find him?”
“Remember, I worked at the marshal’s office cleaning shit, too. I found what I needed to find. Unlike us, Bruce and his mom kept in touch with the WITSEC folks. But old Bruce thought we were there for another reason, I guess. Like revenge for raping me. Anyway, he tried to cut Dougie’s head off before Dougie showed him who was the better man.”
“I saw the aftermath. Didn’t look to be much of a struggle.”
“We cleaned it up. And put Bruce in the bed. We knew the cops would probably figure shit out, and they’d never believe it was self-defense, even though it was. Dougie was a lot bigger than Bruce, but I guess Bruce still thought he was Superman.”
Francine looked at her brother, who was now rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out another smoke and lit up.
She turned back to Rochelle. “You cut my neck.”
“I never said I was completely good,” noted Rochelle. “Or entirely sane.”
“You went to visit Harry. How and why?”
“We were looking for him all that time. Finally found him. Dougie went in to negotiate with him. Basically, he gives us a share of the money if we don’t expose him. Then Harry tells Dougie that he’s dying and basically to fuck off.”
Francine said, “I talked to the housekeeper. She said Dougie told her to get another job and it was because he knew Harry was dying?”
Doug nodded. “Yes.”
Francine slid the gun into her jacket pocket. “I’ll get the money. Tell Mommy I said hello, and that I’ll be back for her. And that we’ll all live happily ever after.” She started to walk away and then turned back. “It was good to see you, Dougie.”
Her brother nodded, and didn’t glance away this time. He watched her leave, even as his fingers curled around Rochelle’s in a firm, unyielding grip.
CAN WE MEET?” SAID GIBSON.
She was on the phone with Francine, who had just gotten back from her encounter with Rochelle, and her brother.
“Yes, same place?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
Gibson drove over in her van and found Francine waiting for her in front of the café. She had on a floppy hat, glasses, and a dark blue suit.
They sat outside with iced teas, and Gibson opened her laptop.
Before she could show what was on it, Francine said, “I found my mother. And I saw Rochelle and Dougie.”
“What! How?”
Francine explained her method for tracking them down.
“Pretty ingenious,” noted Gibson. “But you left her there?”
“She’s actually far happier with them than she was at the facility in Greenville. And they won’t let anything happen to her. They want the money.”
“Okay. So . . . how was your brother?”
“In some ways the same, and in some ways different. I was going to try to figure out how to get him away from Rochelle.”
“And?”
“And then I realized he was happy with her. In fact, I think they were made for each other. Sort of threw a wrench in my plans.”
“Of what, reuniting your family?” Gibson said dubiously.
She gazed off. “I’ve spent so much time alone that . . . well, I thought I might try another slice of life.”
“But?”
“But I can see now that that won’t work. Too much time has passed. We’re all too different.” She looked at the laptop. “So, show me what you found.”
“You know about NFTs?”
“I do, but don’t tell me my father did, too?”
“It looks like it.” Gibson clicked on some keys and then held the laptop at an angle so Francine could see. “I found a bit of dangling code on one of the accounts that your father had closed out. I think he did that on purpose, sort of another breadcrumb to the treasure. So I followed it up.”
“Well, NFTs are definitely twenty-first century,” remarked Francine.
“Yes, they are. So that fits in with the note he left.”
“But what sort of NFT could he have dumped a half billion dollars on?”
Gibson gaped. “Is that how much money we’re talking about?”
“That’s what I calculated, yes.”
“Holy shit.”
“ ‘Holy shit’ probably doesn’t cut it.”
“I found this.” She hit one more key, and an image came up on the screen.
“That’s a room,” noted Francine. “Where is it?”
“Heard of the metaverse?”
