John Hart - Iron House

“You say his car is stolen?”

“Yes.”

Abigail watched for a few more seconds. Outside, the girl paced, agitated; but Michael held Abigail’s eyes. There was power there, she thought. Knowing and cunning and calm. “Have it searched,” she said. “I want to know everything about him. Where he works. What he does. Who he is. Everything.”

Jessup opened his cell phone. “What changed your mind?”

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Then, what?”

“You’re right about one thing,” Abigail said.

“What’s that?”

She tilted her head, peered out through black lashes. “The man’s no dishwasher.”

Michael was thinking of Elena’s last words when he became aware of a subtle perfume on the air. He looked up to find a woman as elegant as the perfume she wore. She stepped onto the drive, and the moment was so many things: commonplace and strange and bittersweet. She could have been his mother. She was a stranger, but knew his own brother better than he did. Michael stepped closer, and saw that her skin was parchment pale.

“Have I interrupted?”

“Not at all.” Michael kept his own features neutral. “Thank you for seeing us. This is Elena.”

She acknowledged Elena with a nod, and when her gaze snapped back to Michael, she looked embarrassed. “I’ve often asked myself what I would say to you should we meet. It’s a normal question on its surface, you see. An everyday concern. Would I be matter-of-fact, as if we were, indeed, strangers? Or would I simply fold at the knees?” She laughed, a small sound. “I’m not the folding kind of person, but I wondered if it would all just be too much?” She looked awkward. “I’m not making sense.”

“You make perfect sense,” Michael said. “I completely understand.”

She curled one finger across her lips, and her eyes brightened. “I was at Iron Mountain the day you ran. I saw you in the snow that night, coat flapping, then gone. I saw that terrible storm take you away.”

“That was a long time ago,” Michael offered.

Her eyes went from bright to shiny wet. “If I could have found you, I would have.”

“It’s okay.” Michael didn’t know why he said it-he owed this woman nothing-but he said it, meant it, and in that moment felt the pluck of ice on his skin, the memory so real the frostbitten spots on his hands tingled. He never thought of that dark, cold run, saw it only in dreams; yet here they were, the both of them. Her eyes were large and green, and she was about to cry. “It’s okay,” he said again.

But she stepped closer and put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.” For a moment, Michael tensed, but her hair was featherlight on his cheek. Her skin smelled of lavender and that elegant perfume. “You poor thing,” she said.

Jessup stepped closer. “Mrs. Vane…”

But she ignored him. “You poor boy.”

A small part of Julian knew where he was. He understood that he was in one of the guest rooms, that his mother came and went, that there was a doctor. But that knowledge was a flicker in the dark. He didn’t know why he was there or what was going on, didn’t know the day or the month or the year. Julian barely knew his own name.

He was scattered.

Afraid.

The bed was too small, a jumble of hot sheets that twisted around his legs and made him feel trapped. That was bad, claustrophobic. He kicked off the sheets, but kept his eyes closed so that he saw red through his lids, red and heat and smears of black. He waited for some kind of pattern, the coolness of reason.

But there was no reason.

The blackness moved, and in the red were flashes of bright, sharp metal. Julian rolled onto his side. His hands hurt and something smelled, so, he focused on the black. The black was safe, and the black was cool. Beyond it was heat, and beyond that was something bad.

Julian squeezed into a ball.

The black made an island, and if he stayed on the island nothing could touch him. That was another thing he knew, the island he’d made in his mind. He could go there when things got rough or frightening or hard. The island was safe, and the island was his. Beyond the island was…

He shied from the thought of it, looked for something else; but there were strange voices in the hall.

And that was scary, too.

Voices.

Strangers.

Julian thought he might fade, but the door creaked, and when he opened his eyes, he saw feet on the floor and legs that rose. He saw his mother and a woman he did not know. And there was a man, but the man made no sense. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing your own face twisted.

Julian blinked and darkness rose up. The man said something, but Julian didn’t want to see anyone. He wanted to be alone in the black, so he closed his eyes, and tried to break a bridge with his mind.

He knew how to do that, break bridges, float away.

Somebody touched his arm, and when he opened his eyes he saw the face that was his, but not. There was comfort there, and warmth, a reason to not feel so lonesome. But the bridge was already breaking. Julian heard his name, but it had no weight to settle. It touched him once and was gone.

Julian wanted it back, the touch of this voice. Some part of him understood what was happening, and that part wanted the man with the familiar face to understand why he was on the island, that something had happened . He had the wild, insane thought that the man with the face could make everything better.

So, Julian waited for the man to kneel, and when he was close, Julian said the horrible thing; he screamed as the bridge twisted and cracked and fell.

But the man was fading.

The island was an island. The red was gone, and there was only dark. But Julian, finally, understood.

Michael…

His voice echoed.

He was alone in the black.

Michael rocked back on his heels, then stood. His brother’s eyes were closed now, but what Michael had seen of them hinted at insanity. They’d been dilated, shot with red and the kind of wild, raw panic he’d not seen since the worst moments of childhood.

“What did he say to you?”

That was Jessup Falls. He stood in the door, an armed guard in the hall behind him. The guard was like the ones at the gate, competent but detached. Professional. Michael gave Falls a single glance, and then shook his head. There’d been a second of awareness when Michael took Julian’s shoulders, one instant of clarity and recognition as they leaned close. He’d whispered something so quietly only Michael could hear. The madness had stilled-understanding between brothers-then, somebody pulled the drain and Julian was gone.

“I’m going to have to ask again.” Falls started to cross the room, but Abigail stopped him with a hand.

“Please,” she said. “He’s not spoken for three days. Tell us what he said.”

“It was nothing,” Michael lied. “Something from childhood. Gibberish.” He squatted again and lifted one of his brother’s arms and then the other. Julian remained unresponsive, even as Michael pulled up his sleeves, checked the skin for needle tracks.

“There’s no sign of intravenous drug use.” The doctor pointed. “I checked between his toes, the backs of his legs. All the usual places.”

Michael rose. “May I see the other room?”

Dr. Cloverdale shot a glance at Abigail, who nodded. They’d moved Julian out of the bloodstained room, but the walls had yet to be cleaned. Together, they left Julian’s room and crossed the hall. The guard stepped back to make room.

“You can see why I hesitated.” Abigail stopped in the door, as if unwilling to commit.