John Hart - Iron House

Michael stood, box of money in his left hand. He believed her. “Do you know where I can find Andrew Flint?” She rolled into herself, nose red and wet, head shaking. Michael looked down for a moment, then placed the box of money on the coffee table. “Buy a house,” he said. “Have a baby if you want. But I wouldn’t count on Ronnie Saints.”

“What do you mean?”

He thought of Ronnie Saints, dead in the lake. His gaze lingered on the circle of puckered white scars. “You can do better.”

There is an awareness born of fear: Elena knew this, now. She saw every mark on the walls, felt the softness of worn denim, the stiff collar of a shirt that hung to her knees. She smelled her skin, and the staleness of the house. Her heart was more than a distant thump.

At the door, she heard voices and a television. Drawing back, she considered the room for the fifteenth time. She wanted a way out. A weapon. She checked the closet, but it was still empty. No hangers or clothing. Even the rod had been removed. In the room itself, there was only the bed and the chair. She checked the bed frame. It was heavy iron.

Maybe one of the legs…

She spent ten minutes trying to turn a single bolt with her fingertips, then went back to her corner and sat. She felt heat on her skin when the sun dipped low. The waiting was killing her. The uncertainty.

Damn it…

Angry now, she got to her feet and crept back to the door. The television sounds were clearer: a news channel, something about New York and bloodshed and violence. Someone said, “Fuck this.” And then glass broke. Arguments. Shouts. Several men raised their voices, then a gunshot so loud that silence, when it came, was total and complete. Emotions were hot in the small, airless house. She felt it like electricity in the air. After a minute, a key scraped in the lock. The door opened and there was Jimmy. “Feeling better?”

He wore different clothes that smelled of gunpowder; carried her purse and a handgun. Behind him, men stood in disarray. Some looked angry, others frightened. In their midst, the television sat dead and still, a perfect hole in the center of its screen. Jimmy stood as if none of that mattered.

“This is bullshit, Jimmy.”

The words came from a man down the hall. Big, thick-boned. Angry. Jimmy’s arm came up, and although his eyes were still on Elena, the gun sights settled squarely on the man who had spoken.

“Will you hold this?” Jimmy handed her the pocketbook, then walked back down the hall, men parting. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

The barrel settled an inch from the man’s face. His heavy arms lifted a few inches from his waist. “I didn’t say anything, Jimmy.”

“Are you quite certain?”

The big man nodded. Jimmy lowered the gun, and turned his back in a show of obvious contempt. In a casual manner, he put one foot against the television and rocked it onto its side, the screen shattering completely as it struck the floor. Then he gathered up a handful of newspapers and stopped in the center of the room. “I don’t want to hear any more complaining.” He glared around the room. “We leave when I say.”

No one met his gaze. Feet shuffled, and someone said, “Sure, Jimmy.”

A few others nodded.

Most did not.

He walked back to Elena’s room, took the purse and closed the door. “I would like to leave, now,” she said.

“I know you would. I’m sorry. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

He tossed newspapers on the bed, and Elena saw a flash of headlines. Street warfare. Explosions. Gangsters. She saw photos of dead bodies, cops in assault gear. Jimmy saw her looking and said, “People are fighting over the old man’s scraps. A vacuum rushing to be filled.” He paused, eyes flat as he hooked a thumb toward the living room. “They think we should be in the city instead of here.”

“You don’t think so?”

“The scraps are meaningless. Most of Otto Kaitlin’s wealth is legitimate, now, and has been for years. Advertising. Modeling agencies. Car dealerships. He actually owned two beauty pageants when he died. Priceless. Can you believe it? Beauty pageants. Otto Kaitlin.”

“Why don’t you just tell them that?”

“Because they’re children.”

He sat on the bed, opened her purse and began removing the contents. He placed each item on the bed, a long line of things side by side. A hairbrush and makeup. Passport. Wallet. Keys. Gum. A few loose receipts. “You can tell so much about a woman by what she carries in her purse. Although, in your case, it’s more about what you don’t carry.” He rummaged more deeply in the purse. “No cigarettes or pill bottles. No booze. No mace. No contraception. No address book. No photographs.” He straightened the items, touching each. “Such a minimalist.”

He removed her cell phone. “But this…” He flipped it open, scrolled through the phone log. “Not many calls the past week. A few women, looks like. Michael, mostly. The restaurant.” He pursed his lips in what Elena knew immediately to be false surprise. “You have texts from Michael.” He flashed the phone in her direction. “Want to see?”

Elena did not rise to the bait.

Jimmy shrugged, then scrolled through the texts. “Call me. Where are you? I’m sorry. Blah blah. Very domestic.”

“What do you want?”

“You have four new messages from Michael. I’d like to hear them.” He waited. “To do that, I need the password.”

“Why do you care?”

“I just do.”

He smiled, but she saw the same insanity from before. Whatever his obsession with Michael, whether fear or pride or something deeper, it was complete. She gave him the password, and his mouth opened as he dialed voice mail. “Ah.” He held up a hand, and whispered, “There you are…”

His voice fell off.

His eyes drifted shut as he listened.

When Michael got back to the car, Abigail looked shaken. “I’ve been online.” She held up her BlackBerry. “Every major outlet has the story.”

“Anything solid?”

“Police presence at the estate. A body found. Some of the bigger outlets are running bits about Christina’s death eighteen years ago. One has a chopper over the estate. You can see boats on the lake, police cars at the boathouse.”

“Has anyone mentioned Julian?”

“Only that he was a suspect last time. But they’re showing his picture. They’re leaving the implication out there.”

“Your friend Jacobsen made that happen. They’re trying to force him out, shame him into facing their questions. Typical cops.”

“They’ll drag him through the mud, won’t they?”

“Drag him. Trample him. Cops are all about pressure points.” Michael glanced at Ronnie’s house, then started the engine. It was a few minutes after five. The sun would be down in three hours. “Let’s get out of here.”

They rolled off Ronnie Saints’s street; neither of them looked back. Abigail sank into her seat and asked, “What did you find out?”

Michael said nothing. He was thinking.

“Michael?”

He turned right, and the road opened up. Another turn and they were out of residential, two lanes gone to four, light industrial dotting the roadside. He was thinking of Julian and Abigail Vane, of the things he’d learned, and of the names on that piece of paper. He didn’t know exactly where he was, not on a map, but the sun was setting and he planned to follow it down.

“Iron Mountain is west?”

She nodded, looked at him oddly. “What happened in there, Michael?”

Michael gave her a look that he knew was equally strange. They’d been allies, but things felt different, and Michael had to get his head around that fact. He had to interpret, and decide. So, he kept silent as the car slid from the shadow of a wooded peak into a burst of flat, yellow sun. He put his eyes back on the road as Abigail glanced at the navigational system and cleared her throat.