John Hart - Iron House

“He’s been saying this quite a bit,” the doctor said.

“Saying what, exactly?”

Julian lifted his chin, eyelids slipping down to half-mast as a wicked smile cut the planes of his face. “We don’t need Michael.”

Julian’s words sucked the air from the room, and just as quickly as the venom had arisen, slackness overcame his face. His eyes rolled white. His breathing deepened and slowed. The doctor shook his head, then found Michael’s troubled eyes. Sadness touched the doctor’s face as he spoke. “I think Julian may be schizophrenic.”

Michael glanced at Abigail, and the moment crystallized as she stared at a spot on the floor, her face so rigid a hard word might shatter it. “I need to talk to him,” Michael said. The doctor looked a question at Abigail, and when she hesitated, Michael hardened his voice. “Alone.”

The door opened, closed, and people left the room. Michael sat by the bed, and for Julian, it was as if a black cloud, after many years, had slipped from the face of the sun. His brother’s hands were strong, and even though lines creased the skin at his eyes, Julian felt the same connection, like they were boys, still, and Michael had the strength to see him through another night of hell. Relief welled so strongly that Julian thought he might cry, and maybe he did, because he heard Michael say, “It’s okay.”

One of his hands touched the back of Julian’s head.

Such worry in his eyes.

“Talk to me, brother. It’s just us. You and me. Whatever has happened, I can fix it. I can make it right.”

Julian was so happy, then. All the years he’d been alone. All the years he’d wondered about his brother; worried and missed him. Now, Michael was back, and there were so many things to say, so many words they built like a tide in his throat. Eyes bright, Julian nodded and opened his mouth.

“We don’t need you.”

No…

A steel door crashed in Julian’s mind, and from far off, he heard the sound of laughter.

His voice.

No!

But Michael was already standing. Julian tried to call out, but could not. He stood on the shore of a falling island, and laughter burned in the blackness that took him down.

The lighter spun at the end of Jimmy’s long fingers. It snapped open and closed, bright metal against the pink skin of his palm. Sun beat down as Elena tried to crawl away.

Jimmy said, “Uh-uh.”

He put a foot on her neck and pressed her face into the mud. She tried to stop crying, but her hair reeked where it clung to her lips, gasoline on her tongue.

Jimmy lit a cigarette.

“Jimmy…” a man’s voice broke in.

“What?”

“Stevan’s coming.”

Elena heard tires on raw dirt, the sound of an engine. Jimmy stood and flicked the cigarette far away before looking down the drive and sighing deeply. “Typical,” he said, and slipped the lighter into his pocket.

Elena watched the hand come back empty, and her relief was so intense that when the car rolled to a stop she was as curled and still as a beaten child.

“What’s going on, Jimmy?” A door closed. Feet rounded the car and Elena saw an attractive man in a snowy shirt and crisp suit. Dark hair framed a tanned, even face. He wore no tie, and no smile.

Jimmy raised his palms. “It’s all good.”

Stevan’s gaze settled on Elena, and his curiosity descended into stone cold anger. “Is that who I think it is?”

“No reason to get upset.”

Elena clenched her stomach, trying to hold still, but she knew she was begging with her eyes. “Please, don’t let him burn me.” The words croaked from her throat.

Jimmy nudged her with a shoe. “She pissed me off.”

“What’s she doing here?”

Jimmy shrugged. “She was running, so I followed her. I thought maybe she could tell us something.”

Stevan glanced at her once more, grunted. “Well, get her inside. And clean her up, for God’s sake. We’re not animals.”

Stevan disappeared inside, people stepping out of his way. “Do it,” Jimmy said, and two men hoisted Elena. They carried her down the same hall, but when they reached the bedroom door, Jimmy said, “Uh-uh. Bathroom.” They squeezed into the small bathroom at the end of the hall. It was not much larger than a closet. No window. A small bulb that protruded above the mirror. “Put her in the tub.”

They eased her down, and Jimmy cut the tape from her wrists and ankles. She tasted blood, and realized she’d bit down on her tongue. Her hands burned as circulation returned.

“Get me some clothes,” Jimmy said to one of the men.

“What clothes?”

“I don’t care. Whatever.”

The man came back with some rumpled men’s clothing and stacked it on the sink. Jimmy turned the shower on, then squatted by the tub and watched her shake in the bottom of it. “I can cut you, burn you, kill you. I’ve got seven men here who would love to screw you senseless. The only reason they’re not is because I don’t allow that kind of behavior.” He moved hair from her face. “Do we understand each other?”

Elena said nothing.

He stood and looked down. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything. Scented soap. A fresh robe.”

There was no humor in his voice. He closed the shower curtain, closed the door. Elena was alone and alive, cold in the shower as she spit blood, and watched red water circle the drain. She curled tight, breathing hard and trying to hold onto herself. It wasn’t easy. This terrified person shaking in a cold shower was strange to her. She spit more blood, then tugged her robe open and put a palm on her stomach as she pictured the scars on Michael’s body, his strong and capable hands. She saw him differently, saw him the same, and for the first time since running she prayed that he would find her, that he would kill Jimmy while she watched. It was a new feeling, this rage that spread out from beneath her palm. It was maternal, fierce, and in the cold wash of her helplessness, it offered the first real taste of hope.

Jimmy found Stevan outside the bathroom door. The hall behind was empty, and the house had a powerful, vacant feel.

“I asked the men to wait outside,” Stevan said. “We need to have words, and I don’t want them confused. They need to know where we stand, you and me.”

“There’s no confusion, Stevan. When the bitter end comes, I’ll be standing behind you. The men know that.”

“That’s good, because…” His voice trailed away. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“Sorry.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Fine. Done.”

Stevan gave a hard stare, then said, “Do you know what my father told me before he died? What warning he gave?”

Jimmy almost laughed. Stevan was using his entitled voice, which had come to mean very little since the old man died. Stevan was smart enough, but he was weak and the street knew it. Bookmakers were already taking odds on how long he would last and who would be the triggerman to take him out. The smart money was on “not long.” The really smart money was on Jimmy. The only reason he was still breathing was because of certain considerations, sixty-seven million of them at last count. That was the rumored amount of the old man’s cash holdings at his death. Not business interests or future cash flows, but cash. Hard dollars in a dozen offshore accounts.

Only Stevan had the account numbers, the passwords.

Otherwise, he’d already be dead.

Stevan lowered his voice and stepped closer. “My father said I should kill you in your sleep, and count myself lucky. He wanted me to do it before he died.”

That got Jimmy’s attention. “Really?”