Free The Gatekeeper's Son by C.R. Fladmark Page A

friend’s truck and drove to the desert. I was broke—I’d worked my butt off getting through college, so I was inclined to hope for buried treasure.” He hesitated for a moment. “I asked around. The local Indians set me on the right track, but they wouldn’t go near the place. Said something about ‘those who come from below’ and if they felt the earth shake, they wouldn’t leave their dwellings until the next day.” Grandpa let out a snort. “Of course, I didn’t believe any of that crap. I was a university graduate. I figured I’d be back in San Francisco in a few days, probably still penniless, enjoying the summer of love.”
    Lin was smiling again. “You were a hippie!” Then she poked Grandpa’s arm. “So who’s this Tomi girl with the big butt?”
    Grandpa looked sheepish. “I’m sorry I said that, I truly am.” He let out a long sigh. “I’m sure the whole thing was a delirious dream, a hallucination caused by sunstroke. There was no girl out there … couldn’t be, not in the middle of the Mojave Desert.”
    “It was a good enough dream to name your yacht after her.” Lin sounded sarcastic.
    “And what about the gold?” I said. “You didn’t dream that.”
    “No, you’re right.” He glanced at me and then back at Lin. “I knew I was in trouble, I wasn’t used to the desert … At some point I passed out, and when I woke up … there was a girl—a woman. She said her name was Tomi. I told her about the map and she led me to the gold.”
    I glanced at Lin. I got the feeling Grandpa was leaving a lot of things out.
    “Anyway,” he said, “I ended up back at my truck with a stack of these strange gold disks. But once I got home, I didn’t have a clue how to sell them. I couldn’t just walk into a pawnshop. At the time, I was working at an exclusive businessmen’s club, so I started asking around, real casual, pretending I was an aspiring novelist, and I learned two things. First, Geneva was the place to go, especially if it was gold of a questionable source. And time and time again, one man was referred to, but no one would say his name.”
    “Bartholomew?”
    He shot me a look. “Do you want to tell the story?”
    “Sorry.”
    He cleared his throat. “There was a man who visited the club once or twice a year. The managers treated him better than they treated anyone else. He had a certain … commanding presence. One night he got incredibly drunk and the manager assigned me to keep him hydrated and off the floor. When he mumbled that he was from Geneva, I started asking questions. He didn’t have much to say at first, but when he sobered up he asked more about the gold. The next day he took me to Geneva to see Bartholomew, all expenses paid.”
    “Wow!” Lin said.
    “He didn’t want the gold, not at first, but he offered me a lot of financing. He became a mentor or sorts and encouraged me to start my Committee.”
    “Your investment club?”
    “It’s far more than that,” Lin said. “True power comes from the production of intended effects.”
    I blinked. “What?”
    “We create the market, James, and we control it.” I’m sure I heard a hint of pride in Grandpa’s voice. “Everyone else has to ride the currents we create.”
    “Isn’t that … a little like cheating?” It sounded a little like illegal .
    “Anyhow,” he said with a dismissive wave, “Bartholomew never gave up asking about the gold. He became obsessed. I wouldn’t sell it to him and he started putting financial pressure on me, so I paid him back, every cent with interest, and I cut off all ties—and that was the end of it.”
    “Until now,” Lin said.
    I looked from one to the other. “You had to know that Bartholomew was bad news from the beginning, right?”
    Grandpa gazed at me in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold.
    “Your dad knows all this, but he still takes my money. I don’t give a damn if you approve of my methods.” Then he forced a smile.