John Hart - Iron House

Every nerve in her was strung tight, but Michael could play this game in his sleep: cops, death, secrets. “Any particular body?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Did they show you the warrant? Do you know why they’re looking?”

“Someone reported a death in the boathouse, a body put into the lake. That’s all I know.”

“When you say someone reported?”

“A confidential informant-that’s what the affidavit said. According to a confidential informant someone was killed in the boathouse. A body was sunk in the lake sometime last night. Our lawyers are circling the wagons, but couldn’t stop the search.”

“Why would you want to stop it?”

Michael was checking for a reaction, and got one. For an instant, she was dumbfounded, her mouth open and wordless. It didn’t last. “They checked the boathouse first, and found blood on the floor. A lot of it, apparently, though, someone tried to conceal the fact of it.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“They’re calling it a crime scene. It’s sealed.”

“Why are you here, Mrs. Vane?”

“Call me Abigail.”

Michael leaned closer. “What do you want with me, Abigail?”

This was the crux of it; he saw it in every line of her face. She was frightened, but not for herself. She needed something. Desperately.

“Do you love your brother?” she asked. “I don’t mean the memory of him or the thought of him. Do you love him like I do? Like he’s still a part of you?”

“Julian will always be a part of me.”

“But, do you love him? There’s a difference between love and the memory of love. The memory of it is warm but basically meaningless. Love means you’ll do anything. Burn bridges. Tear down houses. Love makes normal life mean nothing at all. I want to know if that’s what you feel.”

“Why?”

“Because I want a reason to trust you.”

“You’re worried he had something to do with this.” Michael gestured at the lake.

“Something made him break. You said it yourself.”

She shifted her feet, and Michael leaned away, thoughts moving in the back of his mind. He saw the boathouse, abandoned and rotting, the fear in Abigail’s eyes. “What do you think happened here?” he asked.

“I would kill to protect your brother. I need to know if you feel as strongly. Not want to know. Need to know.”

Something was happening. A steadiness rose up in her, a moral certainty that went straight through to her soul.

“I love my brother,” Michael said.

Abigail closed her eyes, then exhaled deeply as she laced her fingers and tilted at the waist. “What did he say to you? In his room yesterday, what did he whisper? Something disturbing, I think. I was watching your face when it happened, so please don’t tell me I’m wrong. I won’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll beg if I have to. I’m not above it.”

She was whispering now, a conspirator, and Michael wondered how much of it was an act. It was gently done, this corralling of common interests. He stood, took two steps toward the lake. “If there is a body under that water…” He looked back, and found that her face was ivory-still. “Do you really think Julian is capable of that?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were bright and hard. “I do.”

“Why?”

That was the question, and in spite of her need and talk of love, it unsettled her. They’d gone too far, too fast. She was shutting down. “You came alone this morning,” he said. “I’m surprised Jessup Falls allowed it.”

“Jessup’s a good man, but he thinks you’re bad.”

“Bad?” Michael lifted an eyebrow.

“New York bad.” She ran one hand across the envelope in her lap, and Michael sensed a weightless moment as she took a step and the earth dropped away beneath her. “Otto Kaitlin bad.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“I think you heard me.”

Michael blinked once as Jessup Falls went up a notch in his estimation. In twenty years, not even the police had made such a solid connection. They knew of him, but had no photographs or composites, not even his name; they’d seen his work up close, but had conflicting descriptions. He was short, tall, white, black. Michael was a ghost and a rumor; a threat of violence masked by false names and manufactured stories. He was a shadow who took orders from Otto Kaitlin and no one else. Someone to fear. A cipher. That’s how it had been designed twenty years ago-Jimmy’s idea-and Michael, too, was careful. He’d never been arrested or printed. He had a dozen false identities and they were all rock solid. “Why would Falls think I have something to do with Otto Kaitlin?”

Abigail narrowed her eyes, and Michael sensed the return of her earlier implacability. Whatever fear she harbored, she’d made her decision. “What do you think I am, Michael?” She opened the manila envelope in her lap. “A rich man’s wife who spends her days in idle pursuits? A dilettante?” She slipped a photograph from the envelope and handed it over.

Michael tilted it in the light. It was a copy of the only picture in existence that showed him and Otto Kaitlin together: Michael and the old man and the 1965 Ford GTO Kaitlin had given him for his sixteenth birthday. The photo that had been in his duffel bag. Michael studied the photograph, then handed it back. His face betrayed none of the emotions that tugged at him: love and regret at the sight of the old man; anger that his photograph had been copied and was being used against him. “It’s only a photograph,” he lied.

She slipped it back into the folder. “There’s quite a stir in the city right now, talk of terrorism and organized crime. Police are looking for a man and woman.”

“New York seems a long way from here.”

“Not that far.”

Michael shrugged. He had plenty of money. Julian was protected. All he had to do was find Elena and walk. “So what?” he asked. “Falls thinks I’m bad, and you don’t?”

“I think I don’t care.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think a body is going to come out of that water.” She leaned forward, her mouth a bitter line. “And I think you know something about it.”

When Elena woke, she heard engine noise and the hiss of traffic. She was blind in the dark, her wrists bound behind her back, ankles crossed and tied. Her limbs had gone numb, but she tasted tape on her lips-a bitter, chemical gum-and when she tried to move, her head struck metal in the blackness. Pain shot down her neck, and in the stifling heat, she panicked. Thrashing and rolling, she smashed her knees and elbows, the small bones of her toes and the soft bottoms of her feet. The air was close and thick, a gasoline burn so strong in the back of her throat it made her gag.

It was a nightmare, she told herself, the skin of some horrible dream; but the skin stuck. She was in the trunk of a killer’s car.

Killer’s car.

Killer.

None of this could be real! The motel. The shower. But she felt the hotel robe on her skin, electrical burns on her side. She tried to stay calm, to think of the baby; but somewhere, the car would stop, and when that happened he would drag her out at the bitter end of some thin, dirt road. She would see a last wedge of sun, and then it would happen. She would die in the mud, and her baby would die inside her.

The thought made her nauseous, but she tried to think clearly. What would Michael do? God, the question was insane. She didn’t even know who Michael was. But, she had to think like him. She had to be strong. Think, Elena! Her fingers found a can of some sort, then touched nylon strapping and a hank of stiff rope. She tried to gauge distance, but the car slowed and accelerated, turned left and right. Once there were railroad tracks-a brief clatter as the car angled up, then down-then two more lefts, and the car turned onto gravel. The shocks worked harder, and Elena pictured the empty, dirt road she feared. The trees, when he pulled her out, would be very tall, and their leaves would move as if nothing in the world had changed. She thought, perhaps, that she should pray; but then silence came, and it was sudden. The car slid to a stop and the engine died. She felt for something sharp or hard, but there was nothing. There never had been.