John Hart - Iron House

“Black dress and long legs… very pretty…”

The wife tugged on her husband’s shirt, interrupting.

“She was holding his hand, running. They got in the same car.”

At the bottom of the screen, a grainy surveillance photo of a dark Navigator appeared with the caption, POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR THIS CAR. Below the photo, they gave the license plate number.

Michael rose to check the parking lot. When he came back, the couple had disappeared, replaced by images of smoke-stained firefighters and paramedics bent over bodies. They showed a row of vinyl bags, wounded people that were blank-eyed and in shock. When the reporter began her recap, Michael heard the words “possible terrorist attack” on three occasions.

Elena stood and did not look at Michael. “The police think I’m involved, don’t they?”

“I don’t-”

“They’re looking for me.”

Michael nodded sadly. “Yes.”

“They think I killed my friends.”

“They don’t know what to think,” Michael said. “They have your description and mine. They have the car and a lot of questions. That’s it. That’s all. They don’t have our names; they know nothing about us.”

“Police want to arrest me and your friends want to kill me?”

“I won’t let any of that happen.”

“I’m going to take a shower.” She gestured at the television screen. “There’s more. You should watch it.” She hesitated at the bathroom door, still refusing to meet his eyes. “I’ll be in here for a very long time. Please, don’t come in.”

She closed the door. The lock dropped and Michael watched the television: “Sources close to the investigation indicate that organized crime may be involved…”

The television cut to an image of the old man’s town house in Sutton Place. Police cars lined the street. Yellow tape. Barricades. Cops moved in and out of the front door. Body bags rolled on wheeled gurneys and were hoisted into ambulances with dark lights.

“… the Navigator identified leaving the scene of the explosion has been traced to this address. Initial reports indicate seven bodies were discovered here just minutes before the explosion in Tribeca…”

Michael glanced at the bathroom door. His name was not mentioned, though Stevan’s was. The cops wanted to talk to him. They showed his picture.

And Jimmy’s.

Michael turned off the television and checked the parking lot again. The day was blue and flawless. He called the front desk, got an older man with a smoker’s voice. “What’s the best place to shop for clothes?” The man gave directions to the local mall. Michael wrote them down, then pulled on the same clothes from yesterday. He tied his shoes, ran fingers through his hair, then wrote a note that read, WENT OUT TO BUY CLOTHES, ETC. BACK SOON. PLEASE DON’T LEAVE. She wouldn’t, he was sure, not after last night. There were too many questions, too much to say.

Outside, the air was hot and tasted of traffic. Michael drove ten minutes into Richmond, then got off the interstate and found the big shopping mall exactly where he’d been told it would be. He parked the car and entered near the food court. Shopping as quickly as he could, he bought three changes of clothes for himself and for Elena. He kept it simple when it came to his own needs: jeans, casual shirts, good shoes. A light jacket with a zipper would hide the gun.

Michael knew Elena’s sizes, the kinds of shoes she liked. He spent lavishly and paid cash for everything. Back in the parking lot, he took the plates off the Navigator and switched them with a dark blue pickup parked in the far, back corner. The last store he visited was a drugstore two blocks from the hotel. He bought toothbrushes, shaving gear, whatever he thought they’d need. At the motel, he did a slow drive through the lot and saw nothing that alarmed him. The place was like a million others.

He parked and went inside.

Elena was sitting in one of the chairs, wrapped in a towel. “I couldn’t bear to put the same clothes back on,” she said. “They felt soiled.”

He put the bags on the floor. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Elena said, “You should take a shower.”

Michael turned the shower on as hot as he could bear it. He lathered and scrubbed and shaved, so that by the time he came out, dressed in new jeans and a blue shirt, he was fresh as he thought he could be. “You look better.” Elena’s gaze lingered. She wore expensive jeans and brown leather boots with low heels and buckles at mid-calf. She stood, uncomfortable. “Can we walk?”

“There’s not much out there.”

“I just need to move.”

Michael put on the jacket and clipped the nine millimeter back onto his belt. They slipped out of the room, Elena in front. The parking lot had few cars. Large, metal-sided buildings could be seen down a slight incline. Storage. A boat retailer. Used cars. A second motel pushed close to the feeder road that ran parallel to the interstate. Blank windows stretched in rows, looking out on the same parking lot. Next to the motel was a diner with brushed metal sides and booths behind the glass. On its sign was a giant coffee cup. Elena pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I feel like I should run.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Instead, she walked. She aimed for the back of the lot and seemed content to walk along the verge where scrub trees and chain-link fencing met. They walked in silence until the trees thinned and they could see rooftops across a wide gulley. Elena closed her eyes and lifted her chin as if testing the faint, acrid breeze with her nose. When she opened her eyes, there was a firmness to her mouth, an edge of decision.

He was going to lose her.

“How many people have you killed?”

The question caught Michael off guard. The words were matter-of-fact, but her face twisted, and fear, suddenly, inhabited everything around them; it gave urgency to the limbs that rattled and scraped, voice to the cars that screamed on the interstate, depth to the reflections caught in motel glass. It was fear of the next step, of crossing some uncrossed line and finding oneself trapped on the other side. Michael worried how Elena would react to the words he chose, and knew, too, the thing she feared. “One or a hundred,” Michael said, “does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters. What kind of stupid question is that?” She shoved her hands into her pockets, and together they watched a dog by the interstate. It loped along the verge, nose down, tongue lolling over brown, broken teeth. It looked once up the hill, then nosed a diaper that littered the roadside.

“With the exception of the man who raised me,” Michael said, “that dog is better than any man I’ve ever killed.”

Elena shivered at the certainty in his voice, the implications. “A man is not a dog.”

“A dog is usually better.”

“Not always.”

“I have good judgment.”

The dog pulled its snout from the diaper, and Elena wanted to scream; she wanted to run and vomit and carve great chunks from her heart. “What do we do now?”

“I take you to lunch.”

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Michael laid three fingers on her arm, and said, “It’s not about the food.”

The restaurant was an Italian bistro with white tablecloths and deep booths. Soft leather sighed as they sat. A waiter brought menus and filled their water glasses. “Anything else to drink while you’re thinking about your order?”

“Elena?” Michael asked.

“This is too normal.” Her hands found the white cloth and she pushed herself from the booth. “Excuse me.” She moved past the waiter and disappeared into the ladies’ room.

The waiter’s face showed his confusion.