John Hart - Iron House

Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. She rolled her shoulders and looked ill. “I don’t like this at all.”

Michael looked at his watch, the angle of the sun. “We should go.”

“Go?”

“If they pull up a body, they’ll shut this place down. It will go from a search to a full-blown murder investigation. There’ll be interviews, interrogations. They could declare the entire estate a crime scene. Jacobsen’s a hard-ass with a reason to be upset. Nothing will get in or out of here without cop approval.”

“But my husband-”

“They’ll push harder because of who your husband is, and because of what happened last time. It’ll be worse. Federal cops may get involved. Media. No way they can keep this quiet.” On the lake, men began to pull on ropes. Water churned between the boats, and Michael took her arm. “We have to go.”

“Where?”

“They’re bringing something up. We don’t have much time.”

“I want to see.” He pulled gently, but she pulled back, stubborn, and her arm came loose from his hand. “I need to see.”

He gave her a minute. She rocked where she stood, the edge of the ridge just a few feet away. On the lake, men leaned over the boats’ sides. Agitated movement. Loud voices that barely carried. A diver broke the surface, then a second. Between them, the basket hung just below the surface, a hint of silver the shape and size of a coffin.

“It’s too far,” Michael said. “You won’t see detail.”

“I can’t stand this.” The basket rose the last few inches. It was not empty. “Oh, God.”

The cops were shouting now, trying to heave the basket out of the water.

“We need to go.” Michael got her in the Land Rover and started the engine. The transmission ground as he shifted into first. “We need to be gone by the time they get that body to shore.”

“Gone, where?”

“Asheville’s five hours away.”

“Asheville?”

“We need answers. Whose body is that? Why is it here and what does it have to do with Ronnie Saints? Why did he die? How? And who the hell put the body in your lake? That’s a pile of questions, I know, but they must be connected to Ronnie, somehow. His house seems like a good place to start.”

“How do you know Ronnie Saints lived in Asheville?”

“I found his driver’s license.”

“But what could you possibly learn there? He’s dead. It’s done.”

Michael shook his head. “This just feels wrong.”

“You mean Julian doing this?”

She gestured at the lake, and Michael tried to come up with a good answer. Julian could kill, he knew. He’d killed Hennessey when they were just boys, and the thought that he could kill Ronnie Saints was not a great stretch to make. He’d killed one Iron House boy, after all. Why not another? But none of this felt right. He and Julian had connected, and even though Julian had been in the throes of a mental break, even though he’d known about a body being in the boathouse, the idea still felt off. “I could see him killing Ronnie, maybe. Ronnie shows up, old emotions rise, they fight, it goes bad. I can see it like that. But this second body…”

“You don’t think he could do that?”

“It’s too much. Another body. Hiding it in the lake. Julian acts in the moment.”

“May I ask why you sound so certain?”

Michael considered that, wondering how much he could say. That Julian had learned from birth that he should run before he fought? That he was fearful in his soul? That killing Hennessey had been an aberration? That none of this truly fit? “You’ve read Julian’s books?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Bad things happen in his books.”

She touched her throat. “Horrible things.”

“His characters struggle; they suffer.”

“Evil and violence and children.” She looked bleak. “Even the pictures are terrifying.”

“But the books are about more than that, aren’t they? They’re about damaged people finding a way to move beyond the things that damaged them. They’re about light and hope and sacrifice, love and faith and the fight to do better. No matter how troubling or terrible the story, his characters find doors through the violence. They cope and move on.” Michael struggled, then said, “You can see in his books the life that Julian chose.”

“Helplessness and abuse?”

“No.”

“Fragility?”

Her own fragility leaked through, and Michael understood. Julian would always suffer, and it would always be hard to watch. But that’s not what Michael saw in his brother’s lifework. “His books don’t end happily, no. His characters go through hell and end up close to destroyed, but you see good in the people he makes. You see small strength and the power of choice, movement through fear and loathing and self-doubt.” Michael shifted gears and the vehicle lurched. “His characters are conflicted and hurt, but that’s the magic of what he does. That’s the point.”

“Magic?”

“Julian writes dark because the light he hopes to convey is so dim it only shows when everything around it is black. You’ve read it: dark characters and black deeds, pain and struggle and betrayal. But the light is always there. It’s in his people, in his endings. His books are subtle, which is why so many school systems and parents want them burned or banned. They think the godlessness is about a lack of God, but that’s not the truth of what he writes. God is in the little things, in a last, faint flicker of hope, a small kindness when the world is ash. Julian scrapes beauty from the dirt of ruined worlds and does it in a way that children understand. He shows them more than the surface, how beneath the ugliness and horror, we can choose the hard path and survive. I’ve always taken comfort in Julian’s books, always believed that he found the same path for himself.”

“He’s unhappy and frightened.”

“Maybe the path is longer for some. Maybe he’s still walking it.”

“And maybe he killed those men.”

Michael’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “I won’t believe that until I know it for a fact, and even then I’ll try to find some way to make it disappear.”

“Make it disappear?”

Michael was unfazed. “I’ll fix it.”

“Like you did with Hennessey?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Michael looked right, and earnestness gave weight to her features. “I used to sit by Julian’s bed when he first came home.” Her smile was knowing and wan. “He still talks in his sleep.”

“What exactly are you saying, Abigail?”

“You’re the one talking about love and sacrifice and doors through violence. You tell me what I’m saying.”

“You think Julian killed Hennessey?”

“It doesn’t matter to me if he did, but yes. I think maybe so. Mostly, I’m glad you see his books that way. I do, too.”

“Really?”

“I think your brother’s a genius. He’s also the most deep-feeling, thoughtful man I’ve ever known. Take a left here.”

Michael came to a fork in the road, the house to the right, a Y-shaped divergence to the left. He didn’t know what to say, but Abigail didn’t seem to expect any response. “There are two smaller gates on either side of the perimeter.” Her voice was still empty. “No guards. Just keypads.”

“Which way to the closest one?”

“Left.”

Michael turned right.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I want to take Julian with us.”

“He won’t talk to us,” Abigail said.

“Maybe, maybe not. In the end, I don’t care.”

“Then, why?”

“I don’t want him near the cops.” Michael saw the house ahead, a slab of gray stone through thinning trees. “I don’t want him confessing.”