by John Hart
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Why don’t you just let him walk away, then?” Jimmy could barely hide his disgust. “Just let him go.”
“Because he killed my father in his own damn bed!”
Jimmy felt his eyes go flat. Stevan didn’t want Michael dead because of how the old man died. He wanted Michael dead because of how the old man lived. Because he loved Michael more than he loved his own son. Because he respected Michael more. Because Stevan was a coward, and Michael was not.
Anything else was a lie.
“I have a plan,” Stevan said. “Things are in motion. You don’t have to worry about Michael until I tell you. You just have to sit and wait.”
“I want to worry about Michael.”
“Don’t make this personal, Jimmy. It’s not about who’s best. It’s about killing him and moving on.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, it’s arranged.”
“Just like that?”
“I’ll tell you when I need you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Tell me why the records are sealed.” Michael struggled to keep his emotions level, but he still felt his brother’s skin, hot under his palm and stretched across a curve of bone that felt so much like his own. For the first time since coming to North Carolina, Michael felt the flesh and blood of his brother’s dismay. Not the theory of it or the possibility, but the blade of it, the full and unfettered hurt. For the first time in a decade, Michael was truly in danger of losing his cool.
“He didn’t mean what he said.” Abigail was distraught. They stood in an empty hall one floor down. “He needs you.”
“Don’t change the subject. You knew those drugs. You’ve heard the diagnosis before.” She opened her mouth in denial, but Michael said, “Courts don’t seal medical records without good reason.”
“They do if a ranking senator calls in favors.”
“That’s what happened?”
“Favors. Threats. Whatever it took.”
“To cover up what Julian did.”
“To protect my son.”
“We’re talking about the boathouse, aren’t we? How long ago was it? Fifteen years? Twenty?”
“What do you know about the boathouse?”
“I know it’s been neglected to the point of decay. The parking area is overgrown, the road in disrepair. The deck is rotten, boats ignored. Everything else on the estate is immaculate, but the boathouse is left to rot. So, how long has it been? Fifteen years? Twenty?”
Abigail hesitated, then said, “Eighteen years next month.”
“Who did he kill?”
Her head snapped up. “How do you see these things?”
“You said yourself that he was capable, that you expected a body to come out of that water. So, let’s quit screwing around. Who did he kill?”
She shook her head. “I can’t talk about it here.”
“Then where?”
She was breaking. “Anywhere but here.”
* * *
They ended up in the Land Rover, Michael driving. He followed estate roads at random.
“It happened five years after we brought him home. He was fourteen.” Abigail’s face was stone, her gaze locked straight ahead. “He’s had very few friends in his life—your beautiful, damaged brother—but his very first was a young girl, Christina Carpenter. She was older than he was, seventeen when she died, but very small. A tiny young thing. Very pretty. Her mother ran the stables; her father worked in town. They lived in a small house a few miles down the road. They were good people, and their daughter took an interest in Julian. Nothing physical, of course. They were young and she was a good girl. They were friends.” She blinked, and Michael knew she was looking into the past. “Normal teenage friends.”
Michael nodded as if he could see it, but in reality he could not imagine having had a normal teenage friend. His childhood had been about violence and hunger and mistrust, the total absence of friends. At that age, he’d been on the street, and the only girl he’d ever met was one who offered to prostitute herself for a ten-dollar bill and half of the canned fruit she saw in the mouth of his open pack. When he said no, she forced a smile and a hollow laugh, then told him she was relieved. She told him she’d never been with a boy, but thought that’s what all boys wanted.
A girl’s mouth down there …
She said it slow and guilty.
I’ll put my mouth down there for ten dollars and half that fruit …
Michael had said nothing at first. He was cautious because this was how it happened on the street: distract from the front and attack from the rear. But no one was paying any attention.
No one gave a flying shit.
She had a plastic water bottle and grimy skin, clothes that were crusty and smelled bad. She was a young girl at the end of a short, sorry rope; so, Michael let her talk. She was a runaway, she told him, from some town in Pennsylvania whose name meant nothing to him. She’d been in the city for over a week, but wasn’t really sure how many days. She’d stepped off a midnight bus, started walking and still had no idea where in the city she was, no notion of Harlem or Queens or Manhattan.
It’s all New York, isn’t it?
Michael was dumbfounded by her ignorance. But she was alone and cold and hungry, so he gave her some fruit, and then a little more when she shivered and stole small glances at the can. He remembered how she ate it: small pink tongue darting out, pale juice on her chin and a clean spot where she’d rubbed it off. Afterward, she’d sniffed once and told Michael she was pretty without all the dirt, that if she could get cleaned up somewhere, then maybe she could get a job modeling clothes or shoes or hats. That’s why she’d come to New York, because all the men back home said she was pretty as a picture.
One man said I was a flower.
Pretty as a pink, pink rose.
Michael never told her different, not even as she pulled grubby fingers through matted hair. He gave her the last of his fruit and said she could stay with him for a while if she wanted. But, she said no. She wanted a place to get clean so she could get on with being a model. “You have to start young,” she explained, and Michael watched a blue fly buzz the sweet spot that fruit juice had made on her face. He doubted she was older than he, and doubted, too, her claim that she’d never been with a boy. Michael knew jaded when he saw it—just like he knew bitter and afraid—and imagined that whatever man told her she was a pink, pink rose had done so for his own reasons. But that was life, and this was the street; so, he said they could be friends, and pointed her toward midtown because he thought it would be safest, what with tourists and cops and all the wealth of the world. But she never got that far. She died four blocks away—knifed and left to bleed out in a cardboard box. It was the talk of the street for a day, and then it was nothing at all. But Michael remembered her name: Jessica, who preferred “Jess,” a pink rose in the gray, cold city.
For the first time in his life, Michael felt a twinge of honest jealousy. It would have been nice to have friends, or anything else normal. It would have been nice to have a mother.
“How did he kill her?”
Michael drove out all thoughts of regret or what might have been. He parked on a hilltop and watched black water, cops in dark suits.
A third boat was on the water.
He saw divers.
“They were on the lake,” Abigail said. “They did that a lot: boating, fishing, swimming. Sometimes, Julian would take a book and read to her while they floated. He thought that’s what you were supposed to do with a pretty girl in a boat. But he didn’t read poetry or a young love’s prose, he read science fiction novels, adventure books, comics. He never really understood the point of reading to a pretty girl on still water. I think he saw it in a movie, once, and thought it’s what men should do.” Abigail paused. Downhill, water shone between green banks that rose like knees softly spread. “No one saw it happen. They went out on Saturday morning. That afternoon, Julian was f
ound walking down the side of the road, wet to the skin, blood on his hands.”
“And the girl?”
“They found Christina’s body the next day. Drowned in the lake. She had contusions on her face, bruising around one wrist. The police believed that Julian’s damaged hands matched the damage done to her face, but there was never any credible motive, no reason in the world he would hurt that girl.”
“I don’t believe he would.”
“Harm a girl?”
“Harm a friend.”
“The police felt differently. From the first, they believed Julian killed her. They thought he made a pass and she rejected him. They say he most likely killed her in a blind rage.”
“Did Julian deny it?”
“He was as lost as a newborn child, with no memory of what happened, no idea where he’d been or how he ended up on that roadside. All I know is he wept at the sight of her body being pulled from the water. He cherished that girl.”
She trailed off, and Michael said, “But?”
“But questions were posed, and the implications led to no other possibilities. The bruising and Julian’s blackout, the skin under her nails; their history together. Julian was the last person to see her alive.”
“Says who?”
“The police, for one.”
“Was he charged?”
“Charged, but never tried.”
“Favors and threats?”
“Let’s just say an alternative disposition was made.”
“What kind?”
“Twenty million dollars to the dead girl’s family. Another five to establish a charity in the victim’s name.”
“You bought off her parents.”
“We did what we had to do to protect Julian.”
“And the senator.”
“We did what we had to do. Period.”
She was angry, defensive, and Michael didn’t blame her. “What about the schizophrenia diagnosis?”
“That came before the charges were dismissed; part of the investigation. A police psychiatrist first, then a court-ordered evaluation. The judge agreed to seal the records.”
“But Julian was treated?”
“Medication. Therapy. Eventually, he quit. He said the medicine made him weak. He didn’t like people to think he was weak. A leftover from Iron Mountain, I always supposed; a tear in some deep place.” For a moment, they were silent; then a cloud blotted the sun and Abigail said, “Look, I’ve been patient.”
“So have I. There are still a lot of things unsaid.”
“Please, Michael. I need to know.”
“You want to talk about the warrant.”
It was not a question. They watched a diver roll backward off a metal skiff. Sun flashed on his faceplate, then he was gone. “I need to hear the truth,” she said.
“You trust me?”
“Yes.”
Michael started the engine. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned the Land Rover and started down the sloping track. He waited until the cops disappeared from view, and then told Abigail Vane what she needed to hear. “They’ll find a body in your lake.”
“Oh, no.”
Michael downshifted as the track steepened. Abigail may have been prepared, but Michael couldn’t tell it from looking at her. She was pale and shaken.
“How do you know there’s a body in my lake?”
“I put it there.” She covered her mouth, and Michael said, “Can you handle this?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
She held still as Michael told her what he’d found in the boathouse, and why he was there in the first place. He told her what Julian had said to him, then gave her the name of the dead man, and explained that he knew Ronnie Saints very well. It took a few minutes.
“Ronnie Saints?” She turned away. “Oh, God.”
Michael watched her. She was in shock. “You know the name?”
“Give me a minute.” She took several deep breaths, then nodded, eyes closed. “Julian knew him.”
Michael nodded, too. “Knew him. Feared him. Hated him.”
“Saints was one of the boys that harassed him.” Her face was still turned toward the side window. It was not a question.
“Tortured him,” Michael said. “Let’s call it what it is.”
Tortured …
The word fell from her lips, and Michael felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “After Hennessey, Ronnie Saints was the worst, big and strong and sadistic, a juvenile delinquent from the mountains of north Georgia. He broke Julian’s index finger three times. Same one. Every time it healed. The one time Julian tried to defend himself, Ronnie Saints tore his ear so badly part of it had to be stitched back on.”
“Were there no adults?”
“Too few and too uncaring. As long as no one died, we were left to ourselves. The place was tribal.”
“But Julian could have told—”
“No one rats at Iron House.”
Abigail finally turned his way. She drew herself up and said, “I’m glad he’s dead.”
Michael felt the same way. But there were problems Abigail had not yet considered. “They spent a year together on Iron Mountain, Julian and Ronnie Saints. The cops will figure that out, eventually. It will give them motive, and after the dead girl eighteen years ago, that’s all they’ll need to go after Julian with everything they have.”
“But Christina died so long ago. Julian was just a boy.”
“Nobody holds a grudge like a cop. They’re already thinking about Julian. I guarantee it.”
Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. It was hot inside the vehicle. “Let’s back this up. How do the police even know about the body? Who could have called them?”
“Whoever saw me sink it.”
“Why aren’t you in custody?”
“Maybe it was darker than it felt. Maybe there’s some other reason.”
Abigail drooped, still shaken. “Do you think Julian killed him?”
“If he did, he had a reason.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“Reasons always make a difference.”
She kept her eyes on his face. “Have you killed people, Michael? I mean other than the Hennessey boy?”
She said it scared, and Michael did not need to see her face to know what it took to force the words out. She had ideas about him, the kind of theories that make most people squeamish; he understood that. He’d let her see more than he would normally do, but they had this thing they shared, this bond that came close to blood. So, Michael had a choice to make. He could ignore the question or he could tell the same lies he’d told for most of his life. Today, he did something new. “I’ve killed people,” he said.
“And were the reasons good?”
“Some good.” He shrugged. “Some maybe not so great.”
“But nothing you can’t live with?”
“That’s right.”
She stared out the window, and her voice came faintly. “That must be nice.”
* * *
They circled the south end of the lake and cut back through the woods toward the guest house. Even before Michael stopped the car, they saw that the door stood wide open.
Michael killed the engine before they got too close.
“Is your girlfriend back?”
Michael didn’t answer right away. He studied the open door, the windows, then checked the woods around them, the tree line on both sides of the house. Elena was strong-willed and had good reason to be upset. No way would she be back yet, not after what she’d seen in the boathouse. “Her car’s not here.”
“But the door’s open.”
“That’s not the kind of thing she would do.”
“Wind, maybe?”
“I don’t think so.”
Michael studied the windows, saw something flicker inside. “Movement,” he said.
Abigail looked back at the house, and when Michael shifted in the seat, she saw
that he had a gun in his hand. She had no idea where it had come from. One instant his hand was empty; the next, the gun was simply there. She thought of his talk of reasons, then of bodies on the streets of New York. She thought of blood and death and Otto Kaitlin’s forty-year reign of violence.
“Stay here,” Michael said.
He exited the car, gun low against his leg as he crossed a patch of grass and dirt, then found the bottom step with his foot. Through the door, he saw shadows and light but no other sign of movement. A look back showed Abigail out of the car, one hand on the open door; then he heard movement deep in the house. He eased onto the porch and felt vibration through the floor.
Abigail appeared beside him.
Inside, something hammered on wood, a dull thump repeated twice.
“Right side. In the back.” Michael risked a glance inside, and then spread five fingers, making sure Abigail knew to stay behind him. She nodded, and the hammer moved under Michael’s thumb as he slipped inside and shadow swallowed him up. Two feet in, he heard a voice from the back bedroom.
“Damn it…”
Michael felt Abigail tense behind him, felt her hesitate. A hallway ran to the back of the house, two bedrooms at the end of it. Michael cleared the kitchen, then heard glass shatter, the sound loud in the small house. Whatever the source, it was a lot of glass. Halfway down the hall he realized what was happening, and rounded into the room in time to see a figure drop through the window and disappear.
Rushing forward, he tried to identify the intruder, but forest pushed close against the back of the house, and all he caught was a glimpse of skin and movement as a body pushed through leaves and disappeared.
Without a thought, Michael followed. He landed on the balls of his feet and took off at a run, stretching hard to clear a wooden stool that lay half-hidden in the moss and ferns. He guessed it had been thrown through the window by the person he was chasing, and that person was fast, cutting hard between trees, staying far ahead as the forest thickened around them. In the distance, he heard Abigail calling his name. He ignored her, pushed harder, ran faster; when a trail opened in the woods, he gained enough to see clearly for the first time.
It was a woman. Long legs under short cutoffs. A narrow waist and a gymnast’s build. Small muscles flexed under skin burned brown, and she moved as if she could run forever. Michael pushed harder, closed; as if sensing the change, the woman dodged right, off the trail. For long seconds, Michael lost sight of her, but as smooth as she was, as agile in the woods, she couldn’t run in silence. So, he followed the sound of her, and when the trees parted in a shallow clearing, he caught up with her, flicked out a foot and knocked one ankle into another so she came down in a tangle.
