Iron House

by John Hart

  Their gaze held for three seconds, then Vane released her hand. His mouth opened, but in the end he simply looked away.

  He could tell when she was lying.

  And knew enough to see the truth.

  * * *

  Victorine knew something big was going down. Helicopters everywhere. Cops and more cops. She’d followed the noise to the edge of the woods and seen them all at the lake. She’d seen the body come out of the water just as the sun went down: a big man, his skin oily white and gnawed-looking; water running out of his mouth. She’d watched for a good, long time, then crept back through the darkening woods. In the cave, she’d lit her candles and eaten the small bit of food that was left.

  Then she stretched out and thought about what to do. She had no money, and no car. Her momma was like to kill her and she’d lost the gun she’d stole out of the cupboard. She thought on that, a wicked smile at play on the planes of her face. She pictured her mother’s face as their argument got hot, how she’d been so high and mighty and then brought low when Victorine squeezed a round through the roof of her kitchen. That had settled the fight, right there, and it had been so sweet, the look on her mother’s face, the fear and full-on shock. But now things were messed up. Julian had put her up in the guest house, all quiet-like and full of promises about how no one ever stayed there.

  But then someone stayed there, and now Victorine was in this cave with no food, no money and nowhere to go. That shouldn’t have been a problem, but Julian had gone missing, too. How many days, now? Three days? Four? When he’d told her to run away, she’d believed that he would help her. He’d told her so, sworn it, even. They had a plan, a good one, so good she’d done something she’d never done before. She gave a man her trust; and now she had to wonder.

  Where the hell was he?

  She fell asleep pondering that, woke late in the dark. All of the candles but one had burned out, and the one was barely a stub, its light low and fluttery. Victorine started to rise, but stopped sudden.

  Something was wrong.

  Low, rustling sounds came from out past the cave’s mouth. Something pushing through the scrub. Whispers. Talking.

  Victorine picked up a flat rock as big as a carton of cigarettes. If somebody planned to come in this cave, he’d have to do it headfirst.

  She blew out the candle, and darkness plunged down. She waited, still and stiller, yet. The sounds were louder, closer, a body dropping down and the sound of something heavy sliding in. She lifted the stone over her head, and then heard Julian’s voice. “Please God…”

  “Julian?”

  She lowered the stone.

  “Victorine?”

  “It’s me.” She caught his hands and dragged him the rest of the way inside. He was breathing hard and hot, his neck slick with sweat as he wrapped her up with both of his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening. Sorry you’re alone. Sorry for being so … thick.” He let her go and pounded one fist against the side of his head. “Everything’s wrong and nothing’s right. I can’t…” He struck himself again. “I just can’t…”

  “Hang on, now. Let me get us some light.”

  Victorine disentangled herself and groped around for the matches. Finding them, she lit the last candle, Julian’s face damp and washed out in the bright, sudden flare. “Damn, Julian.” She smoothed sweat and dirt off his face. Small streaks of blood from where brambles had caught his skin. “You look like hell.”

  He pulled his knees up, and put his head against her chest. “I just don’t…”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I can’t stop seeing…”

  He clawed at her shirt, drove his face hard against her breasts.

  “Seeing what?”

  “A dead man on the floor. Red spray and the sound of something heavy dropping. I see my brother and my mother, bits of Iron Mountain, bits of stuff long gone. Old faces. Voices. Nothing makes sense.” He pulled harder. “I forgot about you, V. I’m sorry for that, but my head’s not on right. Everything’s messed up.”

  “Slow down, Julian. Just tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I can see it, and then it just goes. It goes and I’m deep in the black. Water all around. People laughing. Memories. Faces. It’s never been this bad.”

  He pulled at his hair, pushed one heel on the cave floor.

  “Just breathe, now.” She hugged him tighter, knowing he was a struggling kind of man, but never having seen him like this. The man she knew was more boy than not, a quiet soul with a store of patience for a lonesome girl brought up rough. He knew what it meant to be stepped on, knew how long, black hours piled up in the night, and how even the sun could rise too pale. But now she was starting to think maybe she should have listened to her momma after all, her momma who said there was no God in heaven and no man worthy of faith, no truth beyond flesh, family and folding money, no decent place in the world for women named Gautreaux. “It’s all good, Julian.” She said it like she meant it. “Victorine’s here, now.”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  He told her.

  “Your mother?” He nodded, and Victorine pictured lily hands and white skin, servants and bankers and beds that were feather soft. She thought of her own hard years, of beatings and loneliness and a crazy mother who whored herself out to any man with fifty dollars and a truck strong enough to force its way up the road that led to her bed. “I know how to handle your mother.”

  Light flickered, and a moment passed.

  “Do you know why I love you?” he asked.

  She rocked him, silent, and he asked again.

  “You know why?”

  “I know,” she said.

  And, she did. It wasn’t her looks or her brains or her fine, hard body. Julian loved her for one reason.

  “You’re so strong,” he said.

  And that was it.

  * * *

  The helicopter circled the far side of the estate and came in where the reporters couldn’t see it. Treetops thrashed as it slowed, then an opening appeared below the skids and Abigail saw the hard, sharp edge of the helipad. It was lit. Cars in the darkness beyond. When the pilot made his final adjustment and the skids scraped concrete, Abigail unfastened her harness.

  Her anger had grown as dark, broken countryside flicked past outside her window. She knew it was unfair and fed largely by fear, but the smell of her husband made her furious. His self-interest. His calculation. Outside, blades ripped the air into vicious downdrafts; engine noise like a rockslide. Abigail was at the first car when a hand landed on her shoulder. She spun and found her husband.

  “Think about what I said.”

  He had to yell, white hair aflutter on his large head.

  Abigail raised her voice to match. “No. You think about what I said.”

  He looked at the long, black car. Two members of his private security stood waiting. Beside the car, the Land Rover looked worn and old in a way that seemed to insult him. “I assume you’d prefer to ride with Jessup.” He said it with wounded pride and a need to hurt.

  “We have things to discuss,” Abigail said.

  “Will I see you in the morning, then?”

  The leer spread on his face, and Abigail’s anger kicked up a notch. She strove to be civil with her husband, but was only so strong. “I’ve never cheated on you. Whatever you choose to believe, I would never do that.”

  “Please…”

  “We’re different that way.”

  “I’ve told you before that we can all use distractions, but, don’t insult my intelligence. Screw him all you want, but be honest about it.”

  She shook her head. “I chose a long time ago the kind of person I wished to be.”

  “You’re absurd, sometimes. Do you know that?”

  She wanted a clever retort but had nothing, so
what came out was simple and plain. “Were you ever a moral man?”

  “Morality is a relative concept. You, of all people, should know that.” He settled into the car, and when his window came down, he said, “Tomorrow morning, first thing. I need an answer to my question.”

  Jessup materialized beside her as the senator’s window slid up and the car eased into motion.

  “You okay?”

  “In the car.”

  They got in and the doors closed as the helicopter engine finally died. The silence was shocking, Jessup’s voice equally so. “What the hell’s going on, Abigail? You leave without telling me, take off with a man you barely know, a dangerous man, a goddamn gangster…”

  But she had thoughts only for Julian, and waved him off angrily. “You’ve checked local motels? The friends we know of?”

  “Of course.”

  “The grounds?”

  “All four thousand acres? No. Of course not.”

  “He’s with Victorine Gautreaux—”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Jessup. It’s the only explanation. That little bitch has got her claws in him. We need to search Caravel’s place.”

  “Already done.”

  “She allowed it?”

  “For a five thousand dollar cash payment. We checked every inch. She sat on the porch the whole time, counting her money and laughing at us. Julian was not there. Victorine, either. By the time we left, the police were there.”

  “Police?”

  “Jacobsen and some other detective. I don’t know what they wanted.”

  Abigail shook her head. “Ronnie Saints. George Nichols.” She felt herself staring. The windshield was a blur; outside was a blur.

  “Don’t even go there, Abigail.”

  “I’m frightened, Jessup.”

  “There’s nothing here we can’t handle.”

  Abigail scrubbed her face with both hands, then said, “I know who those dead men are. Ronnie Saints. George Nichols. Dear God, help me, I know who they are. But I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “You don’t have to. Okay. Just take a breath. I’ll take care of this.”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Just start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  She explained where she and Michael had gone and what they learned. “The list was at Ronnie Saints’s house. George Nichols’s name was on the list. So were Billy Walker and Chase Johnson.”

  “That’s why you were at Iron House?”

  “To talk to Andrew Flint. Michael thought he might know something.”

  “But you didn’t see Flint?”

  “No.” She bit the edge of a finger, thinking about the lake. “There’s a third body they’ve not yet identified, the second one out of the water, the one that was all bones.” The finger came away from her mouth. “What if it’s Billy Walker or Chase Johnson? It can’t be coincidence. Oh God, Jessup, what if there’s another body in that lake? What if they’re all dead? What is happening here?”

  “Julian did not kill those men.” Jessup was firm. “You have to believe that. No matter what, he needs you to believe that.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why, Jessup? Even the senator struggles and fails.”

  “I love him because you do.”

  Abigail touched his cheek. “Thank you for that, Jessup. Thank you so very much.” Jessup leaned into her touch and she said, “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything to you?”

  He drew his face back. “Why would you ask that?”

  “The name was on the list.”

  Jessup shook his head. “No.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “Yes. But, look. I have a question of my own.”

  “Okay.”

  “How do you feel about Michael?”

  “It’s complicated. Why?”

  “The senator has been asking about him. He’s mentioned him to the cops. His men are digging for background. They want to know everything. Who he is. Where he’s from. Everything. They want to track him. They want to find his girlfriend. They’re building a file.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think your husband is looking for a scapegoat.”

  She saw it, then, how it could play. “Someone to blame for the murders.”

  “It’s how the senator thinks. Michael is an outsider.”

  She sat up straighter. “You haven’t told my husband what we know, have you? You haven’t told him about Otto Kaitlin, about the things you found in Michael’s car—the cash, the photos, the gun? Jesus. You didn’t give him Michael’s gun.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Not yet. What are you saying?”

  He shrugged, unmoved. “I’m saying it might not be a bad idea.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jimmy was waiting on the front porch when Stevan finally decided to show up. It was late, most of the men either racked out or playing cards. A subtle anger filled the house, a whiff of mutiny. There was no air-conditioning. The only television had a hole, dead center. But it was more than that. Every man inside was an earner. They didn’t have Stevan’s millions or Jimmy’s plans. They had their turf, their hard-won, blood-soaked piece of the American dream, and Stevan was screwing that up—and for what? They should have killed Michael days ago. They should have never let him out of the city. Now, they felt cut off and exposed.

  Jimmy understood.

  He didn’t care, but he understood. Every man needs a reason to feel proud, just like he needs a dollar in his pocket. None of that was a problem for Jimmy, of course. His wants had evolved beyond the simple matter of fear, respect and opportunity. They’d grown, yet become simpler. He wanted Michael dead, so people would know for certain who was best between them; and he wanted sixty-seven million dollars. It was a very specific number. He thought about it as he stood.

  Maybe an estate in California …

  Something with a vineyard …

  Headlights swept across the house as Stevan parked the car, and Jimmy touched the weapon in his belt. He met Stevan at the top step. “Where have you been?”

  “Are you channeling the ghost of my father?”

  “Your father would beat you first and ask questions second. He would never drag his people down here in the first place. He would have killed a traitor at the first sign of treason. He’d have never given his men reason to doubt.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy. Nice to see you, too.”

  “That was not a polite greeting. Cops are all over the estate. The men are pissed, and Michael is still alive. You’re fucking this up.”

  “I’m too tired for this, Jimmy.”

  Stevan looked stressed, tie loose enough for coarse hairs to show at his collar, eyes drawn into their sockets. He pushed past, but Jimmy stopped him two feet from the door. “Your people need to be led.”

  “That’s the right phrase, isn’t it?” He squared up on Jimmy. “My people.”

  He reached for the door, but Jimmy stopped him again. “I want to call Michael. I want to get this done.”

  “We’ve had this discussion. I have a plan. It’s set.”

  “Will you finally tell me what this genius plan is?”

  “Look, Jimmy, my father may have trusted you to run parts of his business—I get that—but we’re not even close to that point, you and me.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  Stevan touched his chest, and spoke as if to a child. “Brains,” he said, then pointed at Jimmy. “Muscle. Brains. Muscle.” Hand moving. “You get how this works?”

  “What about the girl?”

  An eyebrow came up. “Is she still alive?”

  “What do you want me to do with her?”

  “It’s your mess.” Stevan opened the door. “You clean it up.”

  The door clicked shut, and Jimmy thought of things unspoken. He thought of Michael and the girl, of how Stevan w
as a fraction of the man his father had been. He thought about sixty-seven million dollars, and about the things he’d found in the dark, silent barn: the chains and metal hooks, the old stone wheel and the many tools it could sharpen. He pictured Stevan spread-eagled and weeping blood, then wondered how long the little bastard would last, how many hours he might scream before giving up the account numbers and access codes.

  Sixty-seven million dollars.

  A dusty barn and a world of silent woods.

  Jimmy took a deep breath, and smelled all the places he could bury a man.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “So, that’s it?” Michael leaned forward. Flint was talked dry, the bottle down to fumes. A few things made sense, now. Not all things, but some. It’s the funny thing about liquor and fear—they can break most men, given time and careful application.

  And then there were men like Flint.

  He was an edgy drunk, the kind that got cold and sharp the more he drank. Michael could see the gears turning, the mechanical precision oiled by the cheap, brown booze. Flint was smart enough to stick mostly to the truth, but he told small, careful lies. Michael didn’t know yet what they were, but he knew they were out there, and he knew they were keys to something bigger. Drunk or not, a man does not lie lightly when a forty-five is pointed at his face. “You have another bottle?” Michael asked.

  “In the kitchen. I don’t want any more.”

  That was a lie. Flint was quiet and determined with a bottle, the kind of drinker who stoked low, warm fires, and knew how to keep them banked. Michael knew drinkers like that, hard men and weak, quiet, hungry souls who wouldn’t quit drinking until they passed out or the booze was gone.

  “Kitchen, huh?” Michael half-turned where he sat, the coffee table smooth and warm under him. He pointed at a closed cabinet under the bookshelf. “The way you’ve been staring at that cabinet, I thought maybe you had some closer than that.”

  “I haven’t been staring.”

  Michael smiled because it was the first lie poorly told. Flint had looked at three things since he sat down: Michael’s face, the forty-five and that cabinet. “How about I take a look?”