John Hart - Iron House

For a moment more, light spilled out on the yard, then the door closed and Elena found herself alone in the still, hot air of the silent house. For long seconds, she was paralyzed as the scene flashed again in her mind. She saw the glint of steel, then yellow light and crazy shadows as the taste of fear rose like acid on her tongue and her ribs ached from the hard, sharp stutter in her chest.

“Michael…”

His name fell soft from her lips.

“Please…”

But Michael couldn’t save her. That was real; that was fact. She felt horror and panic, the ache in her arm as she stared around the room and found nothing there. If she was going to escape, she realized, she would have to do it on her own. Not later or tomorrow, but now, while Jimmy was busy. Because she knew one thing with certainty: he’d left her alive for a reason. And whatever that reason might be, it would not be good for her.

So she attacked the bed. She didn’t care about noise, pain or saving some last reserve of will. This was about survival, about whatever time she had left. She tore at the metal frame. She ripped off the mattress, then lifted one end of the bed and slammed it down over and over. She drove it against the wall, kicked hard metal and leaned on the cuffs until her arm was slick and torn and red. It lasted for a long time, until she was exhausted, worn and shaking weak. But she never gave up, never cried.

Not until Jimmy came.

It was dawn. His clothes were dripping wet, and even his hair was spiked red. Bits of Stevan spattered his arms, the backs of his hands, but it was the calm that scared her most. He walked through the door as any man might at the end of working day. Breath exhaled in a light puff; small shake of the head. As if to say, You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Elena pressed into the corner. He stepped into the room, lit a cigarette.

“That man…” He took a drag, shook his head and pushed out smoke. “Tougher than I thought.”

The lighter snapped shut, and Jimmy shoved his hand into a pocket, kept it there. Elena went totally still, eyes on the cigarette, the stained fingers.

“Still…” Jimmy looked pensive, but content. “Lots of time, you know.”

“Is he…”

Her voice cracked, and Jimmy picked up the thought.

“Is he dead? No.”

He was still too calm. Too matter-of-fact. Elena waited for the bad thing that was coming. “Why are you here?”

A shrug. “Thought I’d make coffee.”

“Please, let me go.”

“Maybe some breakfast.”

“What do you want with me?”

She was losing it; she was going to lose it.

Jimmy took a final drag, then pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped a bloody ear on the floor.

“Nothing yet,” he said.

And Elena lost it.

Abigail rode hard in the cool dawn: same horse she always rode, same muddy track through the low field by the river. The animal was a wellspring of strength and purpose, a touchstone when nothing else made sense-and right now, nothing made sense. Not Julian’s collapse and disappearance; not the bodies in the lake or the things Jessup said when he tried to make it right.

“Hah!”

She drove her heels into the horse’s flank, and the animal did what it was meant to do. Mud flew, and the reins snapped once in white lather before they found their stride.

It was all coming apart.

Everything.

She reached the end and turned, ran it again as her thoughts burned and the sun rolled close enough to ignite the sky. This was the day, she thought. Another body would surface or Julian would be found and arrested. Michael would find Andrew Flint or learn some terrible thing.

She reached the end of the field and was startled when Victorine Gautreaux stepped out of the trees. Abigail reined hard, horse sidestepping. “Damn, child, you’re going to get somebody killed.” The girl said nothing. “What are you doing here?”

Victorine rolled lean shoulders. “Looking for you.”

“How’d you know I’d be here?”

“You’re here often.”

“You watch me ride?”

“I like your horse.”

Abigail looked from the girl to the far house. They were alone. “What do you want?”

“Julian says there’s medicine-”

“What do you know about my son?”

“I know he came to me instead of you.”

There it was, the challenge that made Abigail despise Gautreaux women. “Is he okay?”

“He tells me there’s medicine to help get his head on right. He says you’d know what it was and that I was to collect it.”

Abigail peered down at this ragged child with perfect skin, small breasts and blades for hipbones. She was pretty enough, but pretty only went so far. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“Nobody touches me ’less I say.”

“We found condoms.”

“I’m not saying we haven’t talked about it, neither.” She shrugged. “Julian’s nice and all, but still…”

“Then why do you care?”

“He’s helping me.”

“With what?”

“With running away.”

Abigail could find no argument there. Running away from Caravel Gautreaux made more sense than most things. Her voice softened. “Are you telling me Julian sees some reason beyond the obvious to help you?”

She lifted her chin. “Coming from nothing don’t make me nothing.”

Abigail studied the girl more closely. She talked tough, and stood straight, but there was fear there, too. The stare didn’t hold as long as it could have. “I want my son back,” Abigail said.

“And he wants to get his head straight first. He’s scared.”

“Of what?”

“Will you give me the medicine?”

The horse moved back a step, and Abigail put a hand on its neck. “You’re out in these woods a lot.”

“I’m not doing nothing. I just like the woods.”

“Do you know anything about the bodies they’re finding?”

She shook her head, but it looked like a lie.

“Don’t lie to me,” Abigail said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Julian says he’ll help you, fine. I’ll help you, too. Money. A place to live. I’ll set you up, little girl. I’ll change your life.”

Defiance dwindled to shiftiness. “You lie.”

“We have a billion dollars and change. Try me.”

The stare held between them, and it was Victorine Gautreaux who broke first. “All I know is what Julian told me.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“He told me it was you.”

“What?”

“He told me it was you who killed them boys.”

The second time Jimmy came for Elena, he was breathing heavily. She heard the front door slam, then fast, hard steps. When her door opened, it struck the wall and framed him perfectly: shoulders square and locked, jaw so tight muscles showed under the skin. The calm was gone, and in its place Elena saw anger so clear and bright it was unmistakable.

“Stubborn son of a bitch…”

Muttering.

“Goddamn selfish…”

Then he seemed to remember that he was not alone. His gaze settled on Elena, and he forced a smile. “Ah, still with me. Good.”

Elena tensed, and the chain drew tight.

“I’d like you to call Michael,” Jimmy said. “I’ll give you directions. He can come collect you.”

She dragged herself up from the floor. “No.”

“No?” Jimmy was too surprised to be angry. He laughed, a small, conflicted sound. Then he got angry. “Is that what you said? No?”

“I’m not going to help you.”

“I’m not required to ask, you know.” A dangerous glint came into his eyes. “I can put the phone to your bland, female face and I can make you scream. But as I’m tired…” He offered a wholly unconvincing smile. “I’d rather not do that.”