Chapter 58:

The fury of the storm had passed, leaving behind a bitter chill. There were not enough blankets or insulation to ward off the relentless cold, not nearly enough natural gas, even with the heater going full blast, to bring the temperature back to survivable levels. Layering was useless; the deep freeze found a path, through every crack and crevice, and, when possible, bullied its way in, directly through the eyes. Once in, it found no opposition, no natural enemy to impede its takeover. There was no effective defense, and, therefore, Marcel offered none.

If only the cold had been leaking in from the outside, it would have responded to remedies, such as sealing doors and windows. It would also have yielded to time; today’s sun promised to turn last night’s ice storm into a memory by sunset. Unfortunately for Marcel, the chill permeating the Roundup house was emanating from his wife, Cassie, who continued to target him with barbed shots of derision, refusing to forgive him for yesterday’s debacle, or the litany of repercussions that were sure to follow in the coming days. The financial cost might be only one part, but one that would be hard not to focus on when writing the check. He had changed their future.

Cassie had finally ended her rant, last night, at the demand of Emille, who, upon entering the house, could see there was nothing left of Marcel to deride. The defeated man, broken and unemployed, had been reduced to pulp, first by Arthur Plummer, while his incredulous wife looked on, then by her again, after Plummer ran out of steam. When Emille arrived home from work, and assessed the escalating situation, he and Arthur had gone into the dining room to negotiate a truce.

That had been last evening. But no one could stop Cassie from applying a woman’s prerogative, the freeze-out. She hadn’t said a word to Marcel since, and it was now morning, one promising to be full of further reprisals and accusations. All pointless. The damage had been done, and reimbursement, painful as it would be, assured.

Outside, the abrupt change to sunshine, ending last night’s ice spectacle, might have been a welcome relief, had anyone inside the Roundup house noticed. Residents of the Mill were accustomed to such rapid turnarounds. While northern states tracked below freezing streaks in days or weeks, Central Texas measured them in hours, usually resorting to using wind chill levels, instead of actual temperatures, to keep the streaks alive. The concept of ‘cabin fever’, while bandied about in conversation, had no relevance here, where every cold snap was followed by a day or more of perfection, in the form of shorts-and-tee-shirt 60’s and 70’s, bright sun and pleasant westerly breezes.

Yesterday, while Marcel was busy getting terminated, Cassie had just finished lunch, and was reading to Annabelle, while baby Anton slept. Often still in pajamas this early – she always made a point of dressing before Emille came home – she was decked out in functional tunic-top and leggings, warm enough, if she threw on a light jacket, to pick up Marcel in, later that afternoon, although she wasn’t planning on leaving the car. She’d been busy all morning; shopping with a baby and a toddler was exhausting, and hardly worth the effort, but she had little option, so close to Christmas. The crockpot bubbled with a lamb stew, filling the house with a meaty aroma. The stereo was set to random play; she was simply skipping anything obnoxious or vulgar. In other words, any of Marcel’s rap music.

She heard the thud, close by, and immediately thought, accident, on our block. Going to the window, she saw two unexpected vehicles: a huge yellow pickup in Janet’s driveway, and Arthur Plummer’s pickup in her own, pushed tight against the van, its engine running and Arthur at the wheel. Baby in her arms, she cracked the door for a better look.

“I want Marcel!” Arthur yelled from the cab.

“My husband’s not home,” she replied, not expecting that to help much.

“Bullshit! I know he’s in there. Get him out here!”

“But he’s not. I’m here alone, with the kids. Who you’re scaring.” Cassie pleaded, hoping more information might convince him to leave. “I have to pick him up at his office, downtown, in three hours.”

Arthur appeared to consider the significance of that before replying, “I think we need to talk,” and got out of the car, no longer seething, but not willing to take her word at face value. He marched towards the door, his anger apparent, but unable to maintain its intensity while walking towards a mother holding a baby.

Cassie was scared but allowed the man to enter the house, his diesel engine continuing to idle outside. Largo, from the backyard, had started barking, seeing a stranger through the backdoor window. Cassie motioned for him to be quiet, but half-wished he was with her for protection.

“Your husband is a thief,” Arthur started with, pulling no punches. “He’s just been caught hacking into my computer, and its gonna cost him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Cassie was compelled to say, even though she knew Marcel was capable of such a maneuver. He’d bragged, repeatedly, about his ability to do pretty much anything with computers and networks.

“Oh yeah?” he said, “Show me his PC.” Arthur had calmed somewhat, hoping that the evidence would be visible. The ransomware app Kathy had found and installed had not been specific about how it would handle access done through a chain of endpoints, which was obviously what Marcel was doing. If he wasn’t home, he must be running the app, remotely, from work.

Upstairs in the bedroom office, the red screen could be seen before they even entered the room. The irritating background noise was missing, only because Marcel had disabled the PC’s audio hardware, to prevent errant noise, late at night when he was online.

Traumatized, Cassie read the message and the $31,467.42 ransom demand.

“Surely this can’t be legal. How do you expect him to pay such an amount?”

“That sum is exactly what he has stolen from me with his dirty scheme. As far as legality, its gone past that. This computer, and probably whatever one he was using at work, is locked and useless, until the bitcoin transaction is confirmed. This is my money. He stole it. I want it back.”

They had reached a stalemate, at least until the perpetrator was willing to weigh in on the issue, and Marcel Roundup was not answering his cell phone. Cassie wondered if Arthur was going to let her leave to pick him up. And then, what about Emille? She couldn’t begin to sort it all out.

She didn’t have to. Several things happened in the next hour that simplified the situation, at least the immediate one, and probably saved the Roundups from being sued and possible bankruptcy.

First off, Marcel arrived home, contrite and defeated, absorbing Arthur’s rage and Cassie’s disgust without pushback. The man was so humbled and vulnerable, unable to raise the slightest justification for his actions, that Arthur finally quit punching, and accepted the TKO. Cassie was less forgiving, but decided to wait in the weeds, until alone with her husband, and his misdeeds.

The second event was unanticipated, but should have been. As they quietly sat, presumably waiting for Emille to show and make some kind of pronouncement, the ‘PAY NOW’ popup suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a string of encryption codes. A minute later, the red screen of shame evaporated as well, and the computer initiated a restart.

Someone, almost certainly Arthur’s previous employer, had paid the ransom, transferring the requested amount of bitcoin in an untraceable but fully verifiable manner. Arthur had called Kathy, who had verified his account had received every cent of the transaction. The company would almost certainly move to recover the amount from Marcel, but, assuming their files were recovered as fully as Marcel’s home computer had been, the aggregate damages were miniscule compared to the risks of running a backup recovery from tape. The company had dodged a bullet, and purged a bad apple, all in one day.

The IT department would review their backup and security procedures, stepping up enforcement of rules against game playing, and limiting use of flash drives and other portable storage devices, capable of infiltrating the system. The increased focus would last six months, tops, before tapering off. After two years, no one would remember the incident, or that Marcel Roundup had ever worked there.

Today, as the sun climbed in the sky, it was obvious the tempest inside the house had not yet abated. Being forced to endure most of last night without power had not lessened Cassie’s fury; it was evident in her every movement and utterance. The children were on edge; no one had slept in their beds. Instead, they had congregated in the living room, in front of a fire, built and managed by Emille, using firewood previously split and stacked in the garage, to combat the chill taking over the house after the furnace died. The undisputed usurper to the family throne had made a decision to let Cassie and her husband sort this out between them. He would be there to pick up the pieces and assess the financial fallout.

Under most circumstances, such a gathering could have been romantic, laced with adventure and tomfoolery, toasting marshmallows and smores, thumbing their respective noses at mother nature, creating a bonding memory or Facebook movie. But with Cassie on the warpath, it was hard to visualize any kind of happy ending.

Being stuck inside wasn’t making life more tolerable. Annabelle seemed tethered to Cassie, who was cradling Anton, the three of them restlessly moving about the living room, unable to find a comfortable spot. Marcel was being careful to stay out of her way, and her line of sight. He hadn’t looked up from the floor all morning, sensing her movements and slinking silently away in response. Only Emille remained aloof, staking out the recliner next to the fireplace, stoically watching the flickering flames, but keeping one eye on the family discord unfolding around him. Unwilling to challenge Cassie and her self-righteous anger, regardless of his own innocence, he would not be the one to break the silence; that job fell to the grandfather clock, its mechanical ticking agonizingly slow, each chime a call to action for someone to end the standoff. amazing prom dresses

The chance came from an unexpected direction. The surreal sound of laughter, outside, caused Cassie to pull the front curtains, just in time to catch a glimpse of Rosie Shea gliding past, in the street, arms overhead in a Releve ballet pose, all smiles, sparkling in a sequined blue body suit that may have fit her a few years ago, but now was stretched to its limit. She didn’t seem to mind. Behind her, in jeans and a sweater, was her daughter, Claire, somewhat less proficient, but having just as much fun. Down the street, Jeremy and Michael, in parkas, were devising their own games, without skates, but each with a pillow belted around their backside. It was obvious, from their cavalier attitude, that using the pillow was part of the fun.

Jaylung was in his driveway, wearing cleated boots, working with a cautious and stiff Ashby, who had probably had never worn a pair of ice skates, and wasn’t completely committed to the experience. She was supporting herself using a pair of carbide-tipped hiking poles, while rocking tentatively back and forth, testing the skates, while Jay urged her to glide down the gentle slope. She was not ready to let go.

The show brought the Roundups, and Emille to the window, where they stood, side by side, watching the Liangs and their extended family make lemonade from lemons, while the rest of the block felt trapped in their homes. Rosie was the star, skating forward and backward, doing spins interspersed with entertaining dance moves. Her daughter watched and imitated, taking instruction from her mother, but not risking a fall.

For the boys, falling seemed to be the end goal; they had discovered how to glide down the driveway on their backs, side-by-side, playing bumper cars on the way down. Ashby remained a spectator, while Jay had assumed the role of emergency support, clomping around in his cleats to stay close to the boys, while urging on his wife and daughter as they whizzed by.

The mood outside was so cheery, with Rosie and Claire waving each time they passed their audience, that even Cassie couldn’t maintain her icy mood. She began by pointing out events to Anna, and then the two of them started clapping for Rosie. Emille joined in, sensing an opportunity to end, or at least take the edge off the current gloom. Standing next to him, Marcel followed Emille’s lead, reacting to the man, much more than to the antics going on outside the window. Slowly, the trio reached a rhythm, responding in unison, and even Annabelle appeared to appreciate the fading tension, as the family started its first steps in surviving a major breach of trust.

Emille was glad there was no sign of Arthur Plummer outside to remind them of yesterday’s disaster. His house was dark; the pickup, used so forcibly to assert his victory and his dominance, was nowhere to be seen. Only time would tell whether he would accept the result and move on, or continue to salt the wound.

Emille contemplated the possibilities but knew this was not the time for a group discussion. Not that having one would sway his opinion. If Arthur Plummer continued to be a problem, the Roundup household would be forced to move.

For someone who placed no emotional value on property, especially someone else’s property, the move was based on logic and, therefore, not subject to debate. Whether Cassie or Marcel felt differently, was of no importance. To him, that such a unilateral decision might be as upsetting as what they had just gone through, never crossed his mind. Instead, he looked at Marcel, the family cook, and said, “How about some lunch?”