Maybe me included, since I don’t have a job right now and I’ve got two kids to feed, clothe, and take care of.
Sam Trask’s words came rushing back to her, so she finally picked up that phone and called the woman.
“Yes?” said Clarisse, not sounding like herself.
“Did something else happen?” asked Gibson. “After you left my place?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Can we just cut the shit, please? We both have a lot to lose here.” Gibson paused and steeled herself for what she was about to say because, if she was right, it was going to be a tsunami for the woman, and she had no idea how Clarisse would react. “For God’s sake, they kidnapped your mother, Francine.”
Gibson had not turned on her stress analyzer app. She didn’t have to. She was a daughter. She had a mother. And if what had happened to Francine’s mother had happened to hers? She would be out of her mind with worry.
The woman said nothing. All Gibson could hear was elevated breathing.
“I put two and two together, Francine. I’m good at that, which I guess is why you brought me into this. I just found out your mother’s name was Agnes, coupled with what you let slip about—”
“Okay, okay, you’re fucking Sherlock Holmes!”
The call cut off.
Ten minutes went by and Gibson did nothing except stare at the phone. Come on, come on, I can help you. I really can. I want to help you.
When it rang she nearly fell out of her chair.
“I’m sorry about that,” said a now-composed Clarisse.
“I’m sorry I dumped all over you like that,” replied Gibson. “I just didn’t know if we had time to waste. Do you have any idea where your mother is? Have they made contact? Do you know who it is?”
“Can you get away?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me at this address in an hour.”
Gibson wrote down the address of a restaurant in Newport News, clicked off, quickly changed her clothes, and headed out after checking in with Silva and the kids.
She took great pains to make sure she was not followed. When Gibson pulled up in her van there was a woman standing out front. She had on a hat and sunglasses. She walked over to the van and held up her hand.
Gibson unlocked the door and Francine Langhorne climbed in.
Francine took off her glasses and said, “You’re right, we don’t have time to waste.”
“Okay.”
“You want to drive while we talk? I don’t like sitting here exposed.”
Gibson put the van in gear and headed off.
“Have they made contact?” asked Gibson.
“She’s made contact twice.”
“ ‘She’?”
“Rochelle Enders.”
Gibson looked puzzled for a moment. “Wait, is that RE?”
Francine nodded. “We were in Albuquerque together. Her family was in WITSEC, too. They lived right across the street.”
“And BD? Bruce Dixon?”
“He and Rochelle dated some back then. Rochelle broke it off, I never knew why. Then Bruce’s father died, and he and his mom left WITSEC.” She looked over at Gibson. “Rochelle killed Bruce. I don’t know the reason. She stole his identity as Daryl Oxblood to rent the van she used to take my mother from the facility in Greenville. She didn’t have to kill him. She really didn’t.”
“And she killed your father, too?”
“She denied it. And she never denied anything if she had done it. Love her or hate her, she took responsibility for what she did.”
“But who could have killed him then?”
“I was going to kill him when I got to Stormfield that night. Then I found him dead, and saw the phrase on the wall.”
“ ‘Do as I say, not as I do’? What was that about?”
“It’s what my father always said. But he meant it in a different way than normal.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
“We always had to do exactly what he said. They were commands, not parental advice.”
“So if she didn’t kill him, whoever did would have known that?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be your brother?” Gibson said, watching her carefully.
“Doug’s with Rochelle.”
“But I thought you and your brother left together. That he waited for you to turn eighteen.”
“He was actually waiting for Rochelle to turn eighteen, not me. He loved her. I did go with them initially. Rochelle and I just never saw eye to eye. I’m not like her and she’s not like me. But... we all endured shit that maybe allowed us to form a bond, at least for a while. Then she... made it clear I was not wanted.”
“What sort of shit?” Gibson said slowly. “And just so you know, I read the story about your father molesting little girls from your old neighborhood in New Jersey.”
Francine dropped her gaze. “Mr. Enders and my dad became really good friends. They each told the other about their backgrounds and why they were in WITSEC. They formed a bond around that. Mr. Enders had been a hit man for some Mexican cartel and then got nailed. So he flipped to keep himself out of prison and went into WITSEC with his family. Rochelle was an only child. Her father was scum; the guy had even killed little kids when working for the cartel. So of course he and my father got along great. We weren’t supposed to tell anyone about who we really were, but they didn’t give a crap about that. They just... rolled with whatever they wanted to do.”
“When you were little, did your father...?”
“I think he wanted to. I mean, he acted really... weird around me, and Dougie. But... my mother...”
“She protected you both?”
“Yes. For the only time in her life.”
“When you were older and living in New Mexico, did your father and Ender abuse you and Rochelle?”
Now Francine looked up. “In some ways it was worse.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You ever read Oliver Twist?”
“I’ve heard of it of course, but I never read it.”
“It’s about a gang of street criminals, mostly kids. Oliver Twist becomes one. The leader of the pack is Jack Dawkins, nicknamed the Artful Dodger. He was trained by an old guy named Fagin.”
“I’m not following.”
“My father and Enders went into business selling product — and Rochelle and I were the product. They pimped us out to anybody with money. And for the rich assholes, they secretly filmed the stuff. And then they blackmailed the shit out of them. And the rich assholes all paid. Because we were way, way underage. And we were expected to steal whatever we could from the men while we were with them. If we came home empty-handed, we got beaten.”
“Holy shit!”
“I slept with my first man at age thirteen. They even tried to pimp Dougie out, but he was too big and strong by then. He wouldn’t do it.”
“Then why didn’t he stop them?”
“You never knew my father. It wasn’t a matter of muscle. It was a matter of mind games. Of intimidation. Of putting you in mortal fear of your life. And no one was better at that than our old man. He ripped off the mob. Teenagers were not a challenge. My brother knew if he tried to stand up to him, Dad would’ve killed me and Rochelle without a second thought.”
“And where was your mother in all of this?”
“Drunk and stoned. I think she had given up by then.”
“I heard about what he did to knock you out of being in the school play.”
She slid back her shirtsleeve to reveal a long scar. “That was in addition to him screwing me out of starring in Twelfth Night. And the cat I brought home that pissed him off? He burned it alive, right in front of me.”