Iron House

by John Hart

  Motherfucker.

  He kicked more dirt.

  Sorry, sadistic, disloyal, greedy motherfucker …

  * * *

  The living room was a slaughterhouse. Even with the door standing wide, the dank, copper reek was unmistakable. Michael stepped carefully, emotionally disengaged as he cataloged faces of men he’d known for most of his life. They were soldiers and earners, hard men who’d died hard.

  He found Elena’s passport on a battered desk in a room under the eaves; slipped it into a pocket. He found another body there, too, and the hardware case Jimmy preferred. There were half a dozen handguns in padded foam. Knives. Wire. An ice pick. The weapons would be clean and untraceable, but taking one felt wrong, somehow. Not stealing wrong, but dirty wrong. The man was burning in hell.

  Let the bastard burn.

  Michael left the weapons untouched. Downstairs, he checked the other rooms for anything that could connect Elena to this place. He tried to see the scene from a cop’s eyes, and shook his head at the thought. He should dispose of the bodies, burn the buildings. Because there was another truth about murder this complete: the cops would never let it go. They would dig and worry and scrape; they would track down every angle, every possible lead. And who knew where that might take them? Every one of these bodies could be traced back to Otto Kaitlin. That would tie them to the killings in New York: the dead soldiers at Otto’s house, the civilians in the street. How many bodies? Michael tried to count, lost track because he had no idea how many civilians had actually died. And there was a chance, however slim, that it could all lead back to him. He could not allow that. Not now. Not when he was this close.

  He considered logistics, timing, the things he would need. He nodded to himself, convinced. Three hours, he thought, maybe four. He would take Elena to the airport, then come back here to dispose of the bodies and burn it all. It made sense. He was satisfied.

  Then he found the file.

  It was a simple manila folder, four inches thick and bound up with rubber bands. It rested at an angle on a bedside table in a back bedroom. This was Stevan’s room, Michael realized. Fine suits hung in the closet; Italian shoes and pocket squares made of silk. Michael sat on the bed, opened the file.

  And everything shifted.

  He didn’t see all the pieces, but certain things made sense: why Stevan was here and what he’d planned, why he’d threatened Julian in the first place. Michael flipped through photographs and affidavits and financial records. Some of this material he’d seen a long time ago. But this file was more complete, more damaging; its presence here changed things. There were implications to its presence. Possibilities.

  Michael closed the file and slipped on the rubber bands. Between the porch and the car he decided that nothing would burn, not the house and not the bodies. The cops wanted to play? He’d play. The media wanted a story? Fine.

  The file changed everything.

  Back at the car he climbed in, slammed the door and sat for long seconds. Elena gave him a strange look, but his mind was still on the implications of what he’d found. He saw a path to walk, and was looking for dangers.

  “You all right?”

  “What? Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Did something happen? You look rattled.”

  “Rattled? No. Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  He considered telling her, but this was not her problem. It affected him and Julian. He’d get her on a plane, then deal with it. “Nothing, baby.” He jammed the file in the crack next to the driver’s seat and smiled as he pulled Elena’s passport from his pocket. “Now, don’t lose it this time.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” She took the passport.

  “Just lightening the mood.”

  She looked at the house and the barn, the mist that hung in the trees. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He winked, then took the gun from her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He found the interstate as the sun rose and mist burned, as Elena swallowed more pills and tunneled deeper into the blanket. “Lightening the mood,” she said once, and laughed a little. After that, it was an odd drive, and difficult. She was close, yet far. He was losing her, but knew deep down that she should go, at least for a while. Things were getting complicated. After a while, she said, “How much further?”

  “Thirty minutes. Maybe forty.”

  She nodded loosely, and he knew the pills were taking her down. He lifted his phone from the center console. “Do you want to call about flights?”

  “I called while you were in the barn. There’s one this afternoon.”

  He pictured her in the fog, gun in one hand and a phone in the other. The image was clear, and hurt because it came so easily. “Did you call your father?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”

  That was hard for Michael, because the scene had played out in his head so many times: flying to Spain to meet Elena’s father. Doing it right and proper. Asking for her hand in marriage so that their family would be built on tradition and truth. Now, she would go home pregnant, alone, and the chance would never come again. “Of course,” he said; and it was one more lie between them, one more bitter nail in the wall of his heart.

  * * *

  The senator called as they hit the outskirts of Raleigh. “Michael. Hi. It’s Senator Vane. Am I calling too early?”

  “Not at all, Senator.” Michael glanced at the file beside his leg, and felt anger rise like a welt. “What can I do for you?”

  “Abigail says you’re back in town. I want you to join us for brunch. I thought maybe we could talk about Julian. Things are getting complicated, and we three, I believe, are the boy’s best hope. We can put our heads together, plan our best course of action. Are you free around eleven?”

  Michael looked at the road, and could see for miles. He thought of the file, and could see even farther. “I can’t join you today, Senator.”

  “Oh.”

  Genuine surprise sounded in his voice, and Michael smiled. The senator was like Stevan had been. Both spoiled. Both used to getting their way. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “If you’re certain you can’t make it today…” He left it hanging.

  “Tomorrow, Senator. I’ll call when I’m back in town.”

  “Oh, you’re traveling?”

  “I’ll call tomorrow. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Michael disconnected, then dialed Abigail, who answered on the second ring. “It’s Michael.”

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong? How’s Elena?”

  “She’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Sorry. I’m jumpy today. I didn’t sleep at all. Randall kept asking how I got hurt. He wouldn’t let it drop. Jessup got involved. It was a mess. Then there’s the mind, the tricks it plays. Images, you know.”

  Michael did. Death had that power.

  “Listen,” he said. “Do you have plans for brunch today?”

  “What? No.” She was confused. “Brunch?”

  “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you at the motel?”

  “I’m taking Elena someplace safe.”

  “That’s good, smart.” She did not ask where, and Michael was glad. “You’re coming back though, right?”

  There was small panic in her voice, and he knew she was thinking about the bodies. “I don’t leave jobs unfinished, Abigail. I can promise you that.”

  She exhaled audibly. “It’s been a hard night in a life of hard nights. I didn’t mean anything negative.”

  “I have something to do, and it might keep me away until late tonight or early tomorrow. I’ll call you, though. And you call me if Julian turns up.”

  “You know I will.”

  “One more question,” Michael said. “It’s personal.”

  “You’ve earned the right to do personal.”

  “It’s very personal.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…”

  “Do you love your hu
sband?”

  “That’s a very odd question.”

  “I don’t mean in a small way, Abigail. I mean the big way. Does he matter to you?”

  She was quiet for long seconds. “Can you tell me why you’re asking this question?”

  “No, but it’s important. I won’t repeat your answer.”

  “I’m forty-seven years old, Michael. I don’t like riddles.”

  “I need to know if you love the senator.”

  “No.” Silence spooled out as the world flicked past. “I love someone else.”

  * * *

  They reached the Raleigh-Durham International Airport at ten minutes after nine. Traffic was heavy, the sidewalks crowded. Michael found a car-length of curbside near the American Airlines departure gate, and parked. Elena sat upright, both hands in her lap, neck rigid. Michael leaned forward and looked past her at the crowd. “I’m going to find a skycap.” He flagged a porter just inside the door, gave him a hundred dollars and asked for a wheelchair. “The silver Range Rover.” He pointed. “Just outside.”

  “Give me a few minutes to get the chair.”

  “Another hundred if you’ll bring two cups of coffee, one black, one café au lait. And some fresh pastry, please.”

  The skycap hurried off, and Michael pushed through the crowd. He dug money from the bag in back of the car, then opened Elena’s door and dropped into a crouch, one leg stiff and straight. She didn’t want to look at him. Creases cut the corners of her eyes. Her foot was heavily wrapped, her lips swollen. Michael folded the currency into a thick wad, took her hand and cupped the money against it. “This is thirty thousand dollars—”

  “I don’t need that much.”

  “You don’t know what you need. Take it. I’d give you more, but it would be bulky and obvious.” He opened the glove compartment and found a large envelope, the owner’s manual inside. He pulled out the manual. “Here.” He handed her the envelope, and scanned the sidewalk as she stuffed the bills inside. “Listen.” He put a hand on her undamaged leg. “Everyone with a reason to want you hurt is dead. Jimmy. Stevan. No one is looking for you.” He ducked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “All of that is behind you, now.”

  “I still taste metal.” She paused, breaking. “I feel it in my mouth.”

  “Don’t—”

  “I thought I was dead, Michael. I close my eyes and see his fingers going for that stick. I see you shooting, but he never stops.” She touched bruised lips. “I still taste metal.”

  His hand tightened. “It’s done. It’s over.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  But she was already shaking her head. “I want to be home, to be with my father. After all this, I need something pure.”

  “My love for you is pure.”

  “I believe your feelings are.”

  “But not me.”

  “Can you blame me, Michael?”

  He looked away, shook his head.

  “Then give me time.”

  “How much?”

  “Weeks, months. I don’t know. But I’ll call you.”

  “To say what?”

  “To say good-bye, or to tell you where I am. One or the other. Nothing in-between.”

  Michael studied the lines of her face and felt something like panic. He didn’t even know where she’d been raised—she would never talk about it. He knew only that it was a village in the mountains of Catalonia. Once she left, she was gone.

  But what choice did he have?

  He gestured for the chair, then helped Elena into it. He handed the crutches to the skycap.

  “Any luggage?”

  “No.” Michael peeled a thousand dollars off a sheaf in his pocket. “Whatever she wants.” He handed the money over. “As long as she wants it. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  “Give us a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Michael took his coffee and put it on the car. He handed a cup to Elena, then a small paper bag. “I know how you like pastry.”

  She looked at the bag, thought of yellow paint and breakfast in bed. She thought of unborn children and promises never kept.

  “You were right, you know.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “I should have taken you out of there. None of this would have happened.”

  “Julian must be very special for you to love him so much. You’re right to help him.”

  “But you’re my family.”

  “And he’s your brother. It’s okay, Michael. I get it.”

  Michael blinked several times, cleared his throat. “What are you going to do?”

  “Be with family. Heal. Try to process this. How about you?”

  Michael thought of Slaughter Mountain, a list of names and the contents of a four-inch file. He thought of all the cops looking for his brother, the unique fragility of Julian’s mind. “I’m going to find some answers,” he said. “Dig Julian out of this mess. Finish what I started.”

  “Is that all? Save a man’s life, solve some murders.” She offered a smile. “Little things.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Do it again.”

  Her smile faded. “I need to go.”

  “Reconsider.”

  “I need to go now.”

  “Listen, baby. I know you think I’m … impure.” His hands found the arms of the chair and he leaned close. “But I’m more than the things I’ve done. I hope you find your way to that truth.”

  “Michael…”

  He leaned closer and kissed both cheeks. She put a hand on her stomach, felt it move.

  “Have a good flight,” he said.

  And then turned away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Abigail was perched on the edge of her bed when her husband walked in, restless and tired and rough. White stubble covered his cheeks; his eyes were bloody red and he smelled of last night’s liquor. “You look disturbingly fresh.”

  “Thank you.” Abigail stood and smoothed crisp white cotton.

  “Jesus. You’re too dumb to know sarcasm when you see it.”

  “That’s your fear talking.”

  “Fear?”

  “Your world is falling apart, isn’t it?”

  “It’s your world, too.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Win the next election. Lose it. I’ve never much cared for your politics or your reputation.”

  “Just my money.”

  She lifted her chin. “I think we’ve been frank for years about what we expect from each other. Yes, I like your money. What of it?”

  “You’re still the grasping little tramp I found all those years ago.”

  “I was never a tramp.”

  “No. You’re right. A tramp would know how to screw worth a shit.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “And Nero played his fiddle. What of it?”

  “Nothing.” She forced a smile. “I’m leaving. I hope you have a nice morning.”

  She turned, and he put thick fingers on her arm. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t have your dirty little secrets.”

  “Let me go, Randall.”

  “Your own dark little world.” She tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip, swayed. “Where were you yesterday, my loyal wife? Huh? Where’s the Mercedes? Where’d you get that eggplant on the side of your face?”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Where’s Michael? Oh, that got your attention. Look at you now.” He waved the same heavy fingers. “That got you.”

  “What do you know about Michael?”

  “I know he got shot. I know you paid off my doctor. With my money. What? You didn’t think he’d tell me?”

  “I thought you’d be smart enough to trust me to do what’s right. I thought if nothing else that we had that part figured out. No one has done more to protect the integrity of this family than I.”

  “Michael is
not family.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing.”

  She stepped for the door, but he moved with shocking speed for such a large man. He threw out an arm, drove the door shut. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”

  “I’m not going to speak with you when you’re like this.”

  He made a claw with one hand. “There are things happening…”

  “I know.”

  “Things you can’t possibly understand or appreciate…”

  “I know plenty.”

  “You don’t know anything.” He pushed closer, towered above her. “Where’s Julian? What do these dead men have to do with him? I know there’s a connection. The names are familiar.”

  Abigail eyed the door, then sighed deeply. “Can you calm down enough to have a discussion? Can you be reasonable?”

  He took her arm again, and squeezed enough to make it hurt. “Tell me what you know.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Good.”

  “Damn it, Randall.”

  He released her arm, and she rubbed the sore spot. “They were at Iron House with Julian. Okay? They were at Iron House.”

  “How can you know that? They haven’t even identified the third body yet.”

  “Chase Johnson. It’s Chase Johnson. Has to be.”

  “Another Iron House boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they doing dead in my lake?”

  “I don’t know. I just…”

  “Just what?”

  “I brought them here, okay? I paid them to come here. I found them and I paid them.”

  “Paid them, why?”

  “To apologize to Julian. He’s never gotten over the things that happened in that awful place. I thought if they apologized, he could get some kind of closure. He could finally put it all behind him. He’s thirty-two years old, too old to live under that kind of weight.”

  “You brought them here without asking me.”

  “Yes.”

  “To my house.”

  “Randall…”

  “You brought them to my house and Julian killed them.” It was not a question. His skin was loose, mouth a thin line. “You brought them here and that daft, bastard son of yours killed them.”