John Hart - Iron House

He shook his head. “There will be witnesses somewhere. A paper trail. A girlfriend. Someone at the law firm you hired. Something will lead the cops here, to you.”

“I didn’t kill those men, and neither did Julian. That’s all that matters.”

“You should let me do this, Abigail.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Michael matters.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And I don’t expect you to.” He peered down, his deep eyes filled with strong emotion. She stared back until he lifted his hand. Then she kissed his cheek and stood with the gun. “It’s been a good twenty-five years, Jessup.”

“It’s been grand.”

“As for what might have been…”

He swallowed hard, and let two fingers brush her leg. “In another life,” he said.

She pressed a palm to his face, felt her own eyes soften.

“In another life.”

Michael met Abigail at eleven o’clock in a drugstore parking lot on the far edge of town. The building was tired, with a flat roof and lime-white streaks that ran from the mortar. An empty lot stretched away to the left, and another ran out behind the building, both of them overgrown and littered. Traffic was sparse. Michael approved of the choice. Few people around. Good sight lines. Easy to find.

He parked in back.

Abigail came in the beat-up Land Rover. Damp mud coated the wheels and splattered paint as high as the mirrors. She swung out, dressed in high boots and crisp khaki pants. A green vest hung over a white shirt that clung damply. She saw him looking at the truck. “Reporters,” she said.

He understood. The rear of the estate was un-walled, protected only by three thousand acres of woods. She’d gone off-road to slip out unseen. He looked at his watch. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Tell me what’s happening.” Michael hesitated, and she spoke bluntly. “You want a gun. I brought it. Now, tell me why.”

They stood at the rear of the Land Rover. Her gaze was unflinching and he was out of time, so he told her about the phone call, the screams, the threat and the white-knuckle drive he’d just made.

“Are you sure it was Elena?”

She’d accepted every word he’d said. No hand wringing. No judgment. Her head was tilted up, jaw set.

“I’m sure, yes.”

“And this Jimmy person will do what he says? He’ll kill her?”

“Without hesitation.”

“And kill you, too, when he gets the account numbers.”

Michael shrugged. “He’ll try, yes.”

“Who’s more dangerous?”

“I am.” No hesitation.

“But he has Elena.” Michael nodded. “And you don’t know if he has other men with him. Other guns. Going in there alone is not very smart.”

“I have no choice.”

“Do you really have sixty-seven million dollars?”

“More like eighty.” Michael opened the trunk and pulled the Hemingway from his duffel bag. He ran his hand over the cover, smiled. “This was Otto’s favorite book. He’d read it so many times he could quote entire passages. Toward the end, when he was failing, I would read it to him. It was a thing we shared, a love of the classics.” Michael opened the book and showed her the inscription.

For Michael, who is more like me than any other…

For Michael, who is my son…

Think well of an old man…

Make a good life…

The writing was spidery and thin, a dying man’s scrawl. “He wrote that eight days before he died. It was the day I told him I wanted out of the life.”

“I don’t understand.”

Michael opened the book to the middle and riffled the pages. Numbers blurred past. Pages and pages in the same loose hand. “Twenty-nine different offshore accounts. Different countries. Different banks. He never wrote the numbers down; kept them all in his head. Then he did this. For me.”

“A generous man.”

“I loved him.”

Michael closed the book, touched it to his forehead, then put it in the car. Abigail went silent for a long minute. “He’ll kill you, Michael. You know that. He’ll kill the girl. He’ll kill you.”

An ironic smile touched Michael’s lips. “It’s not in my nature to call the police.”

“Perhaps my husband’s men. They’re professional, highly trained.” She thought about it, then said, “It’s not an option. They’re looking for a scapegoat and you’re tops on the list.”

Michael saw it. “They’ll implicate me to protect Julian.”

“Julian. Me. The senator.”

“It’s a good plan. You should let them do it.”

“That’s not how I am.”

Michael held out his hand, asking for the gun. “I need to do this, now. It’s not far. They’re waiting.”

“I could go with you.”

Michael lowered his hand. “To what end?”

“To buy your life as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll offer him another ten.”

“Ten million dollars?”

“Or twenty. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re Julian’s brother.”

“That’s not good enough.”

She shrugged, unmoved. “Because I chose a long time ago the person I wished to be. Because ten million dollars is pocket change.”

“And that’s it? That’s the only reason?”

“What else could there be?”

Michael stared down at her for long seconds. His face was naked, as rare emotion stirred; but, for once, he didn’t fight it. He let it move him, let it show. “Do you know what fantasy all orphans share? Strong, weak, young, old. Do you know the thing they have in common?”

Abigail’s head moved, but she kept her jaw clenched tight. Cicadas called from the scrub, and sweat rolled on her cheek as the bright sun beat down.

“Why did you come for us?” Michael asked.

“I wanted children, but couldn’t bear them. The senator and I agreed-”

“Why Julian? Why me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We were too old to be cute, or easy, too long in the system to be anything but damaged goods. So, why did you want us?”

“I had my reasons.”

“Personal reasons?” A touch of anger showed on Michael’s face.

“Yes.”

“And now? You don’t need this. You barely know me.”

Abigail tried to stand tall, but a weight was pushing down. She looked at the scrub, the high blue sky. “I chose a long time ago the person I wished to be.”

“And what person is that?”

“The kind that’s brave enough to do the right thing. Always. No matter what.”

A thing remained unspoken, something large. He saw it in the line of her jaw, the way she drew her shoulders back. It was a big decision she’d made, and a hard life to live. Something caused her to make that choice, and Michael thought he knew what it was. “Are you my mother?”

Abigail’s mouth opened, eyes wide and green above it.

“That’s the fantasy,” Michael went on doggedly. “That your mother will come back for you. It’s what we all dreamed, day and night: that it was a giant mistake, that we’d been misplaced, and the error might be fixed. The math works. I’m thirty-three, you’re not yet fifty. You’d have been young, but kids make mistakes. No one would blame you for walking away. I wouldn’t. I would understand.”

Abigail felt momentarily overwhelmed. She looked up at this tall, strong man, this rawboned killer with his beautiful face and his wide, naked eyes. She felt so many things, but first among them was the disappointment she was about to deliver. “No, Michael.” She touched his arm. “I’m not your mother.” He looked away, nodded. “But I am Julian’s.”

He nodded again, blinked twice, and the emotion was gone. “You should stay here,” he said.