by John Hart
He stood for long seconds, then said, “Damn it all.”
He walked briskly across the broad drive, then entered through one of the smaller doors in the back. He passed through the kitchen, the dining room, and was in the grand foyer when he saw Richard Gale and three of his men coming down the stairs. He’d met Gale once or twice over the years—brief stints when the senator traveled overseas or during random periods of heightened security—and had measured respect for the man’s training and demeanor, both of which were professional. He was a mercenary, yes, but a good one. The man came, did his job and went. Jessup suspected that Gale found him provincial, but didn’t care. “Have you seen Mrs. Vane?”
They met at the lowest step. Gale looked up the stairs, thought for a moment, then said, “She’s in her suite. I believe the senator is with her.”
“Thanks.”
Jessup took the stairs two at a time, and when he was out of sight, one of Gale’s men said, “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“You know what?” Gale looked after Jessup, then smoothed his lapels. “I believe our job here is done.”
* * *
Abigail’s suite of rooms was at the far end of a long wing on the north side of the mansion. She’d moved in seven years after her wedding day: clothing, furniture, everything. No one said a word about it; no one asked. The staff adjusted, and life went on with the senator and his wife living apart. Jessup rarely came onto this hall, not only because doing so would look improper—it would—but also because it was the safe place to which Abigail withdrew, her personal space in a house that was not really hers. He admired what she’d done with it: the colors, the light. She’d made the entire wing a reflection of her own impeccable taste.
He hit the hall at a fast walk. It was empty and still, his feet quiet on lush carpet. Abigail kept an entire suite of rooms: bedroom, sitting area, music room, library. Her bedroom door was the last in a row of six.
He heard the scream from twenty feet out, hit the door at a dead run, tore it open and stopped cold. The senator was on the floor, screaming. Abigail had one knee on his throat, the blade of a letter opener jammed into the soft spot beneath his collarbone. “You’re going to hurt Michael?” She twisted the blade, made him scream louder. “I don’t think so.”
“Abigail, please…” He was begging, one hand on the floor, the other on her wrist. She twisted the blade again. “Ahh! Shit! What the fuck? Get off! Let go! Abigail!”
Jessup stepped inside. “Abigail…”
“Jessup. For God’s sake…” The senator reached out a hand. “Get this crazy woman off me!” Jessup hesitated, torn. He knew exactly what was happening. Had no love for the senator. “For God’s sake, man…”
Abigail leaned in close, pushed the blade deeper. “You touch Michael and I’ll kill you. You understand?”
Jessup stepped closer, eyes full of knowing and dread. “Abigail?”
She laughed, flicked her head so that hair swung out of her face. “You know better than that.”
“Oh, no.”
She grinned. “Say it.”
“No, no, no.”
“Say it you poor, sad man.”
“Salina.”
“Louder,” she said.
“Salina!”
She looked up, eyes bright over the same, sharp slit of smile. “You going to screw me this time?”
“Salina, don’t.”
“Salina? What the hell’s going on?” Vane tried to force her wrist up, but she leaned on the blade. “Ahh! Damn!”
She said, “Do that again and I push it all the way to your heart. You understand me, fat boy?”
“Yes! Yes! Stop!”
She looked at Jessup. “Tell you what, handsome. You screw me good and I’ll let him live.”
“You know I can’t—”
“I know that, you dick-less wonder. You don’t think I’ve figured that out by now? Though, the times we had…” Her smile spread in a knowing way.
“Salina, listen.” Jessup held up his hands, fingers spread. “This won’t be good for anybody. You can’t kill a United States senator.”
“I won’t take the rap. She will.”
“You’ll both go away. You and Abigail. You can’t kill a senator and wish it all away. There are consequences.”
“He’s going after Michael.” She put more pressure on the blade. “Tell him, fat boy.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“I can’t allow that.” She looked at Jessup. “This would be a good time for you to leave.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Yeah, I know.” She laughed a crazy laugh, and the senator found strength in the sound of it. He yelled and rose up beneath her, bucked his entire body, then caught her waist and flung her off. She struck the bed and he fought to his knees, bone handle protruding. He tried for his feet, but Salina was fast and sure. Even as Vane struggled, as Jessup hesitated and then tried to stop her, she reached for the thirty-eight on the bed, got her hand on the grip and spun.
Jessup froze.
The senator tore out the blade.
“This is my kind of party.” Salina held the gun steady. The men were five feet apart.
Only Jessup truly knew how close to death they were. “Salina, don’t…”
But Salina did.
The shot was a bright, hard crack, gray smoke and a lick of fire. The bullet struck high on the senator’s forehead, lifted the top of his skull and dropped him on his back. Jessup looked from the body to the face of the woman he loved. It was exactly the same, and terribly different. The eyes were too hard, the smile too grim. He felt his way to the bed and sat. “Why did you do that?”
“Nobody touches Michael.”
“But—”
“I did what I had to do,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Jessup was in shock. His head felt heavy in his hands. “My turn?”
“That’s right.”
She sat on the bed beside him. He looked up, distraught. “To do what?”
“Fix it.”
He stared at her and felt such hatred. “I should let you fry.”
She traced three fingers along his thigh. “We both know you won’t do that.”
“You are an evil woman, Salina Slaughter.”
“What’re you waiting for, you little shit monkey?”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Michael found a small bar on the outskirts of town. It was quiet inside, largely empty with the only real noise coming from a jukebox in the back. He ordered a beer from the bartender and took a booth in the corner. The beer was cold and he sipped as he dug the cell phone out of his pocket and put it on the table. It was prepaid, untraceable; for a moment he pondered the power of technology.
Then he thought of bodies.
And his brother.
Michael could have grilled the senator for details about anything he wanted—Slaughter Mountain, Abigail Vane, Iron House—but it would have taken time, become confrontational, and in the end there was no point. He didn’t care who killed those Iron House pricks as long as Julian was safe from criminal prosecution; the blackmail file gave him that certainty. Had he pushed for information, the senator could have balked, delayed or demanded further proof. Getting to truth could take time—if Vane even knew the truth—and Michael was not so worried about niceties. He could fix it now, make it go away before the cops dragged Julian kicking and screaming from whatever hole he’d found.
He spun the phone on the slick, black table.
Checked his math one last time.
Bodies had been pulled from the lake, men who had once been boys at Iron House, men who knew Julian. The cops would make the connection because cops were plenty smart and the math was not that hard. Why Julian might have killed them wouldn’t matter in such a large case. The finer points of motive would fall beneath the weight of speculation and circumstance. The victims knew the killer. They had been enemies o
nce, lured with cash to the estate, and then sunk in the same lake where a girl well known to Julian had died eighteen years ago. All things being equal, Julian would go down for the murders.
But circumstance, thankfully, was not a one-trick pony. Four miles away was a farm piled high with dead gangsters who for years had been blackmailing Senator Vane. The file would speak for itself. Photographs, ledgers, records of bribes taken and payments made. Michael’s plan was elegant in its simplicity. Send the cops to the farm; let them find the bodies; let them find the file. Two things would happen immediately.
First, the bodies in the lake would pale beside the carnage at the farm. The dead gangsters would be traced back to Otto Kaitlin, and from there to the violence in New York: the explosion at the restaurant, the killings at Sutton Place, the escalating body count since the old man’s death. The feds would get involved. FBI. ATF. It would be a massive response.
Second—and very quickly—they would connect all this organized activity to Senator Randall Vane. When that happened, the tone of the investigation would tilt away from Julian. With this much death and this many mobsters, entirely different avenues of investigation would open up. Eventually, someone would make a trip to the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, and there that person would meet Andrew Flint.
And Flint had things to say about the Kaitlins.
They’d come to Iron House asking about the senator. Julian had been a mere child at the time, and Flint would tell the cops as much. That would add one more link to the chain of evidence connecting Senator Vane to organized crime. The case, then, would no longer be about a few bodies in the lake. It would be about mobsters and crooked politicians, about payoffs and killers and lots and lots of bodies. Michael liked it because it was messy and powerful and could be read in ways that had nothing to do with a troubled children’s author named Julian Vane. Maybe the mob killed the Iron House boys to implicate the senator. Maybe the senator retaliated. Maybe there were other connections, other players. Cops could only speculate at the extent.
Whatever the case, it was too big to be about Julian.
Way too big.
Michael was about to dial when his legitimate phone rang. For a second his heart skipped, but it was not Elena. It was Abigail’s number, and he answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Michael? Thank God.”
It was Jessup Falls.
* * *
They met on the edge of an empty field three miles south of the east gate, far from reporters or other prying eyes. Jessup looked washed-out and old; even in the dim light, Michael recognized the look of a good man dealing with a bad thing. “The body is in Abigail’s room. I can’t move it by myself, and there’s no one else I can ask. Everyone in the house is loyal to the senator. She’ll go down for this if I don’t fix it. You have to help me. Please.”
That part hurt. The begging.
Michael looked out at the field. The cars were parked head-to-head, parking lights burning. He thought about what Jessup had told him, and found it thin. “Tell me again what happened.”
“There’s no time! Someone may have heard the shot. He could be found any second!”
Except for the fact that the senator was dead and that Abigail had pulled the trigger, Michael doubted everything Jessup had said. “It doesn’t make sense the way you described it. She wouldn’t kill him without good reason. Certainly not over some stupid argument. She’s too controlled for that. Too smart.”
“What does it matter? Please!”
“Where is she now?”
“In my room. Safe, for now.”
“And the gun?”
“It’s here. I have it.”
“It’s untraceable?”
“I bought it clean twenty years ago. It won’t come back to us.”
Michael searched Jessup’s face. If he’d ever doubted the man’s feelings for Abigail Vane, he no longer did. Jessup Falls was coming apart at the seams. Worry. Fear. Desperation. Michael understood. He knew the same feelings, but for Elena. He considered all that had happened, all that he knew and had learned. Then he decided to push. “Tell me about Salina Slaughter.”
“Oh, God.”
“I’ve been to Slaughter Mountain. I know you were there, too.”
Jessup looked desperate to the point of collapse. He looked over his shoulder, toward the far, invisible house, then begged with every angle in his face. “There’s no time. Don’t you see? This will ruin her. Please, Michael. Help me. Please. I can’t let this destroy her.”
“If I help you—”
“Yes, yes. I’ll do anything.”
“—I want to know everything.”
“Yes.”
“Slaughter Mountain. Salina Slaughter. Everything.”
“I swear.”
Jessup nodded, but looked tortured, so Michael showed him a small mercy. “I won’t do anything to hurt Abigail. She’s a good woman; she’s Julian’s mother.” He actually smiled. “I don’t think less of her for killing a man like Randall Vane.”
A shaky breath escaped. “Okay. Thank you.”
“But after I do this, we talk.”
Jessup nodded, grateful, and Michael said, “Let me have the gun.”
Jessup retrieved it from the car, then hesitated. It was the murder weapon. It carried Abigail’s prints, his prints. Their eyes met, and Michael held out his hand. “You have my word.”
Jessup handed over the gun, and Michael took it. He wiped it down with a handkerchief, then withdrew the shells and wiped them down, too. He reloaded the pistol, wrapped it in cloth and tucked it under his belt. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“What about the body?”
“Don’t worry about the body. Leave it.”
“But—”
“A little faith, Jessup.”
Michael turned for the car, but Jessup stopped him. “I need more than that. The body is in her room. The implications…”
“Keep Abigail clear of the room; let the body be found. All hell will break loose in the next few hours, by dawn at the latest. Deny everything. Give her an alibi. It will look dicey for a day or two, but I promise you, this will not come back on her.”
Jessup put a hand on Michael’s arm. “This is hard for me. Trusting you.”
“I could say the same thing.”
Understanding flashed across Jessup’s face. Michael had the murder weapon under his belt; he was a killer with mob ties. If Jessup wanted to take pressure off Abigail, all he had to do was call the cops on Michael. One call, and it would all go away. Michael arrested, Abigail free and clear. He looked at Michael differently. Something fundamental shifted, and Michael noticed.
“A little trust can be a dangerous thing, Jessup.” He nodded from the car door. “But it doesn’t have to be.”
“You’ll call me?”
“Keep the phone close.”
* * *
Michael made his third trip to the farm in the dark of night. He eased down the long, twisted drive, found a likely spot in the house and left the gun where no cop could miss it. Abigail would be pushed hard in the first few days—cops usually looked first at the spouse—but ballistics would eventually come back to the thirty-eight on Stevan’s bedside table. The timing wouldn’t fit, as everyone at the farm had been long dead when a fatal bullet hit one of the nation’s most politically divisive senators. But that wouldn’t matter in the long run. All Abigail required was reasonable doubt, and in the end there would be too many other possibilities out there, too much connection between the senator and Otto Kaitlin’s criminal empire, too much money and too much bile. After all, someone killed all the gangsters at the farm. Someone left the gun there. Would the cops really think that someone was Abigail Vane? Of course not. People were dead in New York, dead at the farm, dead in the lake.
And the senator was connected to all of them.
Michael left the farm. He turned right onto the blacktop and drove a half-mile to the Exxon station where he parked out of easy sight
. He pulled out the disposable cell phone and thought how close Jessup Falls had come to the precipice of one-minute-too-late. Had he called even a minute later than he did, Michael would have been helpless to assist. He’d have already made the call.
But that’s how thin the margin often was.
Seconds.
Michael powered up the phone, called the police department and told the desk sergeant he had a message for Detective Jacobsen. He didn’t want to talk to the detective, just a message. “That’s right,” Michael said. “Half-mile past the Exxon. The mailbox with three blue reflectors.”
The sergeant wanted more, but Michael wouldn’t stay on the line. No name, no particulars, no explanation. Bodies at the farm. Dead guys and guns. People cut to pieces. Maybe the sergeant thought he was crazy; maybe he’d get promoted.
Michael looked at his watch. He’d been ready to scapegoat Senator Vane even before the man was dead. Why? Two reasons. He’d planned to turn Michael over to Stevan, so screw him. Most important, though, was Abigail. Whether she knew it or not, he’d given her the chance to call it off. I love someone else, she’d said, and that was good enough for Michael.
He looked at his watch again, and wondered if Jessup knew how she felt.
The cops came eighteen minutes later.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Abigail woke from the same dream that had haunted her every night for thirty-seven years. She kept her eyes squeezed tight, breaking softly as the images flickered, faded, refused to die. She was ten years old and half-frozen on the bank of her mother’s creek. Her teeth chattered, and her mind ached with a terrible emptiness. She didn’t know what had happened, only that she’d done bad. She saw it in her mother’s face, in the leveled eyes and the sly, contented smile.
Now you’re mine forever.
And Abigail looked down at what she’d done. She saw the face of that baby boy, water in his mouth, eyes half-open. She tried to wake him but he wouldn’t wake. He was still as a doll, all powder blue and lifeless in her hands.
