John Hart - Iron House

“What?”

Falls watched her carefully. “The man’s no dishwasher.”

Some things are best done in the dark, and alone. This is what Michael told himself, and it was almost enough to wash the taste of betrayal from his throat as he slipped from the covers and swung his feet to the floor. The clock read four twenty; in the bed, Elena lay still. Michael watched her as he dressed, and as the gun came silently from the bedside table. It was loaded-full clip, one in the pipe-and he considered how quickly she had become accustomed to its presence. One day it was an unknown; the next it was merely part of the scenery. In a strange, sad way, the thought gave him hope. He would change what he could to make her happy, but knew, deep down, that violence was more than a stain on his soul.

He tucked the gun into his belt, eased open the door and slipped out. Windows were dark in the far mansion, the night very still under high clouds and a slash of moon. Michael was in the drive when Elena called his name. The open doorway framed her perfectly, shadowed face and wild hair, the ghost of her shape beneath a sheet pulled tight. A catch in her voice made his name a desperate sound. “You’re leaving?”

“There’s something I have to do. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I won’t be gone for long.”

Her eyes looked black and damp and slick as glass. “I want to come with you.”

She was shaking, and Michael understood. Her world had gone dark, and she was hanging by a thread. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I don’t care. I want to be with you.”

“You’re safe here.”

Crescents cut the swell of her bottom lip: white teeth and dry skin. “What if something happens to you?”

Michael crossed to where she stood. He kissed her cheek. “I guess, you’d better get dressed.”

“You won’t leave?”

One eye twinkled. “How could I?”

She slipped into the house. A light winked on, burned for a few minutes, then clicked off. When she came out, she wore jeans, dark shoes and a dark shirt. A clip gathered hair at the base of her neck.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I go where you go.”

She was determined; as far as answers went, it was a good one. So, Michael told her what Julian had said and where they were going. She thought about it long enough for Michael to doubt the wisdom of telling her. This was about instinct and trust, about knowing that something bad had pushed Julian over the edge. His brother’s fears were textured and complex, but they were real, and Michael knew every nuance. Elena might claim to understand, but at the end of the day she was just a normal person.

“Why would Julian say that?” she asked. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“That’s what I hope to find out.”

“But you saw him. He’s a wreck. It could mean anything or nothing. This could be pointless.”

“I know my brother, and there was a second there when we connected. The confusion disappeared and it was Julian. He knew me. Whatever he’s dealing with, whatever hideaway he’s made for his mind, he wasn’t crazy when he said it.”

“But I thought Hennessey was dead.”

“Trust me, he’s dead.”

“Then why would Julian say that?”

Michael replayed the moment in his mind, the sweat on Julian’s face, the moment his pupils constricted and the madness fell away.

Hennessey is in the boathouse…

“All I know is he believed it, and he was scared.”

“That’s why we stayed, isn’t it? Because Julian is scared, because he said this thing that makes no sense.”

Michael shook his head. “It’s more than that.”

“Then, tell me Michael. Why can’t we go far away, have this baby, and be safe? Why must we stay in this place?”

“Because he’s my brother, and because helping him is what I do. Because when I see him again, he needs to know that I’m still looking out for him. I need to tell him that I checked, that I made sure. You saw him, baby. He needs to know that people care.”

Elena stared into the damp, dark night. “Is there even a boathouse on this property?”

“Northeast corner of the largest lake. You can just see it; stone, I think. It’s built out over the water, three large doors, wooden decking along one side. There’s a trail along the water’s edge.”

Her eyes locked on the stain of dark water. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yes.”

Michael pictured chalky lips, the knotted muscle of Julian’s shoulders.

Please, Michael…

“He begged me.”

Michael knew the smell of death like he knew the scent of Elena’s hair. He caught the first whiff when they were still fifty feet out. “Hang on a second.”

“What?”

“Just hang on.”

He put a hand on her arm and pulled her down in the dark. The smell was elusive, a light drift of tainted air. Beneath their feet, the trail ran thin and soft around the lake’s edge, a footpath between black water and a stand of forest that pushed down from a far ridge. Ahead, the boathouse made a dark lump against the curving shore. Michael took another deep breath and caught a stronger scent. “I need you to stay here.”

“Forget it.”

He squeezed her arm, one hand finding the pistol wedged at the small of his back. “Don’t argue with me, Elena. This is serious.” He rose to a crouch and checked the trail behind them, the water with its dull, rippled surface. He stared long into the woods as a finger of warm air slipped along the trees and carried more of the scent.

“I’m not staying here, Michael.”

“I can’t let you come further.” She opened her mouth, but Michael spoke over her. “Don’t you smell it?”

“No.”

“Wait for it.”

Another eddy stirred the air, the same warm finger that brushed once against his face, then stalled and came again. It was a flicker, a taste, and when Elena tilted her head, Michael knew that she had it. “What is that?”

“Something dead.”

“You mean like an animal?”

“Stay here. Stay quiet.”

“You do mean, like an animal? Right?”

Michael said nothing. No way was this a raccoon.

“You can’t leave me in the woods.”

“We’re alone,” he said, then immediately questioned his own words. A sound carried across the water, a scrape that could have been stone on stone. He cut his eyes right, where the lake curved into a shallow cove. Distant light touched the water: pale white of the high moon, a few bold stars. On the far shore, pastureland rolled to the water’s stony edge, the grass more purple than black.

“Michael, this-”

“Shhh.”

Michael listened but heard no other sounds that seemed out of place. The far shore was empty and still, a long spill of shadow and mottled grass. He stared up the trail, and felt the boathouse solidify: the hard edge of roof, the jut of wood decking on the closest side. The structure was low and broad, with stone walls that grew darker as they neared the waterline. The building extended thirty feet into the lake, and Michael could make out three curved doors for the boats, dark squares that were shuttered windows. “Here.” He pushed the gun into her hand. “Same as before. Remember? Safety’s off. Don’t shoot me.”

“I don’t want a gun.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t you dare leave me.”

But the last thing he wanted was for her to see what he suspected he’d find in the boathouse, so he denied her the chance to argue. He turned and loped along the trail, the death-smell growing stronger with every foot he moved. Twenty feet out, the scent was thick enough to catch in the back of his throat. Another ten, and the last doubt vanished. Whatever was dead, it was in the structure or near enough to make no difference. Michael cast a quick glance behind him, but Elena was lost in the dark. He hesitated, knowing she was frightened and confused, but risks were mounting with every step he took-the risk of being caught, the risk of making a mistake-so he built compartments in his mind and pushed Elena from his thoughts as the boathouse rose before him, taller than he’d expected, longer. At its rear edge, the woods fell away, and he saw hints of gravel where a roadbed slit the grass. He paused, and then made for the back corner, stooping as he hit a final stretch of open grass. He reached the structure, and stopped. Beneath his fingers, the stone felt damp and cool.