John Hart - Iron House

“You planning to stick somebody with that knife?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

She wore pink, terry cloth shorts, a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Michael leaned back, checked the kitchen. There’d be a bedroom somewhere, maybe two. “I’m not planning to hurt anyone, okay? But if I get surprised, it could happen. So, tell me. Do you have children? Anyone that might decide to walk in unannounced?”

“No children. No surprises.”

“You sure of that?” He kept his voice low, and let her see him drop the hammer on the gun.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I trust you. You trust me. That’ll make this go much smoother.” He tucked the gun under his belt. She watched it all the way down; the knife in her hand didn’t move. “Are you Ronnie’s wife?”

“You know Ronnie?” She lifted the knife higher, but Michael could tell it was getting heavy.

“Are you his girlfriend?”

Her arm bent at the elbow. “Fiancée,” she said.

“I’m not here for your money.”

She looked down, surprised to see that the money was visible. She fumbled the box into her lap, jammed the lid closed. “Do you work for Flint?” She sniffed wetly.

“Andrew Flint who ran the orphanage at Iron Mountain?” She nodded, and Michael tried to get his head around that. He’d not heard Flint’s name in over twenty years, and to come across it in Ronnie Saints’s house was surreal. Michael had never imagined anyone from Iron House keeping in touch. It was not that kind of place. “Why do you ask about Andrew Flint?”

“Ronnie said if Flint showed up, I should run. That was four days ago. When I saw your fancy car, I figured you were with Flint.”

“Do you know where Ronnie is?” Michael asked.

“Not run off on me, is all I know for sure. Not with this still here.” She shook the box.

“May I see that?”

Michael nodded at the box of money, and her arm tightened on it. “He’ll kill me.”

“I won’t take it if you tell me what I need to know.” Her eyes flicked to the gun. “I promise.”

She blinked away sudden tears, and the fight went out of her, knife coming all the way down. “I told him this was too good to be true.” She put the knife on a coffee table, then put the box next to it. She picked up a pack of cigarettes, sparked one with a cheap lighter. Michael put the knife on top of the television and moved a chair from the far corner.

“What’s your name?”

She blew smoke, rolled her eyes up and left. “Crystal.”

Michael lifted the lid from the box. The bills inside were crisp, still in bands of ten thousand each. He began to lift them out, lining them up on the table.

Fifteen bands.

“That’s a lot of money,” he said.

“He’s going to kill me.” She stared at the cash, both arms crossed beneath small breasts. Michael saw a pattern of scars on one arm, a dozen perfect circles puckered white. She saw him looking and covered the scars with one hand. Michael caught her eyes and she looked down. He knew cigarette burns when he saw them.

“How long have you been with Ronnie?”

“Since I was in high school.” She flicked ash in a white saucer. “He had a job and told me I was special. He was good like that. A man, you know.”

Michael riffled the bills. They were nonsequential and, as far as he could tell, real. At the bottom of the box was a scrap of paper. He picked it up. “Ronnie’s handwriting?”

“He writes pretty for a man.”

The paper held five names written one below the other. “Where’s the money from?” Michael asked.

She looked away.

“Crystal…”

“It was delivered last week.” Her lips left lipstick on the filter. “All official and sealed up, brought first thing in the morning by a fancy man in a shiny car, all yes-ma’am’s and no-sir’s. Ronnie had to sign for it and everything.”

“What’s it for?”

“Ronnie says it’s not my place to know. Just ’cause we’re getting married…” Her voice broke. She stubbed out her cigarette, and covered her eyes. “Please don’t take it. I just want a baby and a paid-for house. Please, mister. Ronnie’ll do terrible things if he comes home and finds that money gone.”

“I’m a killer, not a thief.” He gave her a second to process that. He wanted her scared enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Wanted her honest with him. “You understand me, Crystal?” He waited until she looked up and met his gaze. “You understand what I’m saying?”

She stared, white-faced and still. Something in his eyes convinced her, because when she nodded the rest of her body was as frozen as a deer in headlights. “Yes, sir.”

“Then, I’ll ask you again. What’s the money for?”

“All I know is he said there’d be more, another delivery, just like that one. Soon as he got back. That’s it and that’s all.”

“What about Andrew Flint?”

“I just know the name, and what Ronnie said. That I should run if the man ever showed up. I should take the money and go to a place we know. I should wait for Ronnie there.”

“Do you know where Ronnie went?”

“Back east somewhere. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”

Michael considered the bands of cash, the scrap of paper in his hand. He held it up for her to see. “Do these names mean anything to you?”

“No, sir.”

Michael began stacking the money back inside the box. He smelled ink and paper and Crystal’s fear. He put the top on the box, and saw that she had her hands out.

“Mister?”

He put one hand on the box, looked at the names.

Billy Walker

Chase Johnson

George Nichols

They were names from the past, Hennessey’s crew from Iron House. Michael saw them like twenty-three years ago was yesterday. Big kids, and mean.

Predators.

Dogs.

Michael looked down at the names written in a dead man’s hand, and in looking he felt it all come tearing back, a current so dark and strong it hurt.

“Mister?” She must have seen the change in him, because her voice came smaller. “Mister…”

He looked again at Ronnie Saints’s list of names. The three boys were listed first, one above the other, and then a line beneath. Under the line were two other names.

“Who is Salina Slaughter?” He watched carefully, but saw no artifice as Crystal shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

He held up the paper so she could see it. “Ronnie didn’t say?”

“No, sir. I saw the list, same as you, but he was in no mind to talk about it. Ronnie’s particular like that. I’m not allowed to question.”

“But you see things.” Michael pushed. “You pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else did you notice?” Michael drew the box of money a little closer.

“Nothing.”

“Phone calls?” Her eyes stayed on the box. “People?”

“No.”

“Did he speak to any of the men on this list? George Nichols? Billy Walker? Chase Johnson?”

“Chase Johnson. They’re friends, still.”

“Where does Chase Johnson live?”

“Charlotte, I think.”

“What does he do in Charlotte?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve only met him once.”

“Has Ronnie called you since he left?”

She shook her head. “He says cell phones give you brain cancer.”

“Who is Salina Slaughter?” Michael lifted the box, put it in his lap. “Tell me that and you can keep the money.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, a kind of wild panic at the thought of losing the money. “I just want a baby and a paid-for house.”

“Salina…”

“I ain’t done nothing wrong…”

“… Slaughter.”

“She called here once, that’s all I know. Right before he left. That’s it and that’s all.”