John Hart - Iron House

Men like us?

Men for whom life makes very few gifts.

But how do I tell her?

The truth? You don’t.

Never?

Not if you wish to keep her…

“Michael?” Elena’s voice was worried.

“Just give me a minute.” But it took more time than that. There was so much to convey and so little she could understand. He killed a man at ten to save his life, and killed the next to make the old man proud. “There are no innocents,” he said, and the words were a memory of childhood.

“What does that mean?”

Michael touched a patch of skin above his eye. “Something someone told me once. It doesn’t matter.”

“I need to know more. You told me you loved him and that you killed him. You can’t leave it at that. You can’t leave me with that and nothing else.”

“Just give me a minute.”

But the right minute never came.

They hit traffic north of Baltimore. One hour stretched to two. The engine droned, and at one point Elena slept. She went deep and hot, dreamed of babies and fire, then woke with a scream trapped behind her teeth.

“You’re dreaming,” he said.

“How long have I been out?”

“A few hours.”

The car was barely moving. Blue lights flashed through the glass, and she saw police cruisers in front of them, ambulances and cars with ripped skin. Shattered glass made stars on the road, and for one instant she wanted to fling herself from the car, to give herself to the police and be done. She pressed a palm against her stomach, heard a last, far cry as if from the babies burning in her dream.

Michael touched her hair.

“Just a dream,” he said.

“Am I okay?” She was not sure what she meant.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

It was a thing he said, words she’d heard a thousand times: late after a bad night at work; walking home in the dark or after some other nightmare; days when she was sick or feeling lonesome. He stroked her hair, and like that, the fear was gone. The nightmare faded, and his voice settled like a blanket.

Heavy…

“I’ve got you, baby.”

Warm…

She woke again in Washington, still blurry and scared and uncertain. Fifteen miles later, Michael said, “You haven’t asked me where we’re going.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing is real until tomorrow.” Her eyes glittered, and she shifted in her seat. “Today’s too big.”

They drove a bit farther. Headlights lit one side of Michael’s face and left the other side dark. “There are things I’ve done-”

“Don’t.”

“It’s important.”

“Please, don’t.”

Her grip was strong on his hand, but when Michael looked right he saw that she was struggling, one eye bright as a star in the hard rush of yellow light.

North of Richmond, Michael found a motel that took cash and didn’t worry about identification. It was cheap and clean, fifty yards off the interstate. He let Elena into the room, then watched as she pulled off her clothes and crawled between the sheets. The room was dim but for a blade of light between drawn curtains. Her head found a pillow and she rolled onto her back, one arm up. “Come to bed.” She pulled back the sheet, and said nothing as Michael withdrew the pistol from his belt and put it on the bedside table. He stripped off his clothes, slipped in next to her, and stretched out on his back. Elena rolled against him, put warm skin on his. She tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder, spread a palm on his chest, and Michael knew that she could feel his heart.

“Elena,” he said.

“Sshh. Sleep first.”

She pushed closer into his side, slipped a leg across the two of his. Her stomach pressed his hip, her breasts heavy on his ribs. Breath made a hot wind on the side of Michael’s throat, and he knew she was pretending that nothing had changed. Her man was just her man. All was right in the world. He let her have it, the gift of a night; and when she slept, Michael rose. He pulled on his pants and shirt, lifted the gun and checked it from long habit. He released the clip and racked the slide. Copper jackets gleamed in the dim light. Brass casings. Oiled steel. He reassembled the weapon, jacked a round into the chamber, and lowered the safety. Outside, the parking lot was still. Michael noted cars and sight lines and exits. Stevan had fifty guns on the payroll and unlimited resources. He also had Jimmy.

Jimmy could be a problem.

Moving a chair to the window, Michael sat and placed the gun on the windowsill. He watched, he waited; an hour before dawn, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated. Michael looked at the number and was unsurprised. His foster brother had always been a talker. “Hello, Stevan.”

“Do you know where I am?” The phone was warm on Michael’s ear. Stevan sounded low and tired and angry.

“How could I know that?” Michael kept his own voice low, but when he looked at Elena, she was stirring. He opened the door and stepped outside. The air was velvet smooth, the interstate strangely quiet. In the east, the sky hinted at dawn.

“I’m parked outside the city morgue. Do you know why? Because they took my father’s body. The cops took him, and now they’re cutting him open. That’s on you, Michael, that desecration.”

“I’m sorry, Stevan. I never wanted that. I just want out.”

“If I let you go, I look weak. Then, there’s my father. You killed him in his own bed.”

“You killed Elena. We’re even.”

“That would not come close to making us even, the death of a woman. Besides, I know she lived.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“How long do you think you can keep her safe?”

“You touch Elena, and I’ll kill you. It’s that simple.”

“Should I be scared?”

“You’ll never find me.”

“I don’t have to find you.”

“Why not?”

“Say hello to your brother.”

“I told you, I don’t-”

The line went dead. Michael closed the phone, and when he turned he found Elena standing in the open door. She’d wrapped herself in a sheet from the bed. “Was that him?” she asked.

“Stevan? Yes.” Michael turned her back into the room and closed the door.

“He really wants me dead?”

She was afraid. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her once on the lips. “I won’t let that happen.”

“How can you know?”

“You said nothing was real until tomorrow. It’s not tomorrow yet.” It was a lie they chose to accept, that dawn’s fingers were not yet clawing red from the sky, that it could even make a difference. She nodded, eyes closed, and Michael said, “Let’s go back to bed.”

Michael took the sheet and spread it over the bed. They climbed in, and she pressed against his skin as she had before. “Love me,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

The air was black around them, the door bolted shut. She nodded again, lips soft on his, and Michael rolled her onto her back. His fingers found the vellum of her skin, the warm planes and the dusky bits of her. She kissed his neck, his chest. They loved as if the night were their last, and in a way it was, for both felt the morning sun coming, the stark truths of the day that raced to find them.

Michael slept hard and woke to the sound of the television. When he opened his eyes, he saw Elena perched on the end of the bed, wrapped in a blanket. The clock said it was almost noon. She was watching CNN. “They’re talking about us.” She did not turn, and Michael threw off the covers, scrubbed two hands across his face, and moved to sit beside her. The image on the screen was from the day before: the restaurant, burning. He watched firefighters assault the blaze, then the camera angle cut away, and the reporter was interviewing a man and a woman, both middle-aged and white, both nervous. They described a man who looked like Michael. They spoke of automatic weapons and people screaming, people dead. They described Elena, and it was a very good description.