John Hart - Iron House

“I don’t know anything.”

The senator frowned. “I don’t pretend to know all of you, my dear, and have found you, in fact, as layered as any politician. But I know when you’re lying.”

“I tire of this game.”

“And I marvel at your depths; but I still want to know what’s going on.” His head moved, and she saw it reflected in the Plexiglas window. “Running back to Iron Mountain with Michael was neither accident, nor idle destination. You do nothing without good cause.”

“Nor do you. And this interrogation makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.” Vane glanced down, and Abigail said, “Oh my God. There is something you’re not telling me.” A pit opened in Abigail’s stomach. She thought she understood. “They’ve identified the bodies, haven’t they?”

The senator had connections everywhere: men on the payroll, people who owed favors. He had at least one person in the local police department, and probably more.

Please, God…

“George Nichols went missing five weeks ago.”

“George Nichols…” Abigail repeated the name, appalled and suddenly nauseous.

“He runs a lawn service in Southern Pines.” Vane leaned closer. “He has friends, Abigail. Employees. People who reported him missing. The police found his car weeks ago, burned out and abandoned on a deserted lot in the far south of Chatham County, less than twenty miles from the estate. The license plate was removed, but the VIN number was intact. The police traced it as a matter of course, so his name was already on file, the missing persons report. Dental records were faxed in this afternoon, the body confirmed by dinnertime.”

Abigail’s mouth went dry.

“Does the name mean anything to you?” he asked. “George Nichols. White male. Thirty-seven years old.”

She shook her head, unfeeling.

“What about Ronnie Saints?”

“Ronnie who?”

The deadness spread to her arms, her legs. Vane nodded. “They pulled him out of the lake less than an hour ago. He’d not been in the water long. Still had his wallet in his pocket. I suppose that name means nothing.”

“Should it?”

The senator leaned back. “I think we both know that’s a lie, too. It’s been years, but I’ve heard those names. George Nichols. Ronnie Saints. I can’t remember where or the precise context, but I’m certain it had something to do with Julian. Something to do with Iron Mountain.”

Abigail looked away.

“Why did you go back there, Abigail?”

She said nothing, but felt panic well up in her chest. He took her hand, and his touch was surprisingly gentle.

“Can’t you see how dangerous this is?” He waited for her to turn. “Can’t you trust me?” Her head moved, and the senator looked crushed. “Why not?”

He was pleading with her, begging in a way she’d never seen. There were a dozen lies she could tell, and a handful he might actually believe. In the end, she told none of them. “You’ve never loved Julian as I have.” She lifted her chin. “You’ve never loved him enough.”

Their gaze held for three seconds, then Vane released her hand. His mouth opened, but in the end he simply looked away.

He could tell when she was lying.

And knew enough to see the truth.

Victorine knew something big was going down. Helicopters everywhere. Cops and more cops. She’d followed the noise to the edge of the woods and seen them all at the lake. She’d seen the body come out of the water just as the sun went down: a big man, his skin oily white and gnawed-looking; water running out of his mouth. She’d watched for a good, long time, then crept back through the darkening woods. In the cave, she’d lit her candles and eaten the small bit of food that was left.

Then she stretched out and thought about what to do. She had no money, and no car. Her momma was like to kill her and she’d lost the gun she’d stole out of the cupboard. She thought on that, a wicked smile at play on the planes of her face. She pictured her mother’s face as their argument got hot, how she’d been so high and mighty and then brought low when Victorine squeezed a round through the roof of her kitchen. That had settled the fight, right there, and it had been so sweet, the look on her mother’s face, the fear and full-on shock. But now things were messed up. Julian had put her up in the guest house, all quiet-like and full of promises about how no one ever stayed there.

But then someone stayed there, and now Victorine was in this cave with no food, no money and nowhere to go. That shouldn’t have been a problem, but Julian had gone missing, too. How many days, now? Three days? Four? When he’d told her to run away, she’d believed that he would help her. He’d told her so, sworn it, even. They had a plan, a good one, so good she’d done something she’d never done before. She gave a man her trust; and now she had to wonder.

Where the hell was he?

She fell asleep pondering that, woke late in the dark. All of the candles but one had burned out, and the one was barely a stub, its light low and fluttery. Victorine started to rise, but stopped sudden.

Something was wrong.

Low, rustling sounds came from out past the cave’s mouth. Something pushing through the scrub. Whispers. Talking.

Victorine picked up a flat rock as big as a carton of cigarettes. If somebody planned to come in this cave, he’d have to do it headfirst.

She blew out the candle, and darkness plunged down. She waited, still and stiller, yet. The sounds were louder, closer, a body dropping down and the sound of something heavy sliding in. She lifted the stone over her head, and then heard Julian’s voice. “Please God…”

“Julian?”

She lowered the stone.

“Victorine?”

“It’s me.” She caught his hands and dragged him the rest of the way inside. He was breathing hard and hot, his neck slick with sweat as he wrapped her up with both of his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know what’s happening. Sorry you’re alone. Sorry for being so… thick.” He let her go and pounded one fist against the side of his head. “Everything’s wrong and nothing’s right. I can’t…” He struck himself again. “I just can’t…”

“Hang on, now. Let me get us some light.”

Victorine disentangled herself and groped around for the matches. Finding them, she lit the last candle, Julian’s face damp and washed out in the bright, sudden flare. “Damn, Julian.” She smoothed sweat and dirt off his face. Small streaks of blood from where brambles had caught his skin. “You look like hell.”

He pulled his knees up, and put his head against her chest. “I just don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“I can’t stop seeing…”

He clawed at her shirt, drove his face hard against her breasts.

“Seeing what?”

“A dead man on the floor. Red spray and the sound of something heavy dropping. I see my brother and my mother, bits of Iron Mountain, bits of stuff long gone. Old faces. Voices. Nothing makes sense.” He pulled harder. “I forgot about you, V. I’m sorry for that, but my head’s not on right. Everything’s messed up.”

“Slow down, Julian. Just tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I can see it, and then it just goes. It goes and I’m deep in the black. Water all around. People laughing. Memories. Faces. It’s never been this bad.”

He pulled at his hair, pushed one heel on the cave floor.

“Just breathe, now.” She hugged him tighter, knowing he was a struggling kind of man, but never having seen him like this. The man she knew was more boy than not, a quiet soul with a store of patience for a lonesome girl brought up rough. He knew what it meant to be stepped on, knew how long, black hours piled up in the night, and how even the sun could rise too pale. But now she was starting to think maybe she should have listened to her momma after all, her momma who said there was no God in heaven and no man worthy of faith, no truth beyond flesh, family and folding money, no decent place in the world for women named Gautreaux. “It’s all good, Julian.” She said it like she meant it. “Victorine’s here, now.”