John Hart - Iron House

“Here.”

“Don’t…”

“It’s okay.”

Michael lifted her from the bed, carried her to the bathroom and helped her. When she was finished, he got her back to the bed. She was drawn and shaky, so Michael held a warm, wet towel to her face. He cleaned tape gum from her skin, bits of dried blood and dirt.

“I thought I was going to die.”

“Elena, don’t.”

“I thought the baby would die with me. I thought we’d be dumped in the woods and lost forever. Just gone. My parents would never know. The baby would… the baby…” She wiped at her eyes, and looked stronger. “I’ve never felt anything like I did when you came into that barn. I can’t even describe it. It wasn’t relief or happiness or anything like that. I didn’t think you could save us. He was waiting for you, and ready, he was so crazy, so goddamned confident…”

“Baby…”

“I was so scared, but I saw you and I thought at least we’d die together.”

“But it didn’t happen like that. It’s over.”

“It doesn’t feel over.”

“I promise you it is.”

“Can I be alone, Michael?”

“Sure, baby.”

“Just for a minute.”

He walked outside and looked at the sky, watched a line of pink thin out and fade. Ten minutes later she called his name, and he went back inside. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Her hair was damp from the towel, face rubbed clean. “Abigail left a car.” Michael nodded at the window. “I found these inside.” He held out clothes and crutches, then helped her dress and got her into the car. She wanted to be up front, so he slid the seat back and tilted it as low as it would go. “There.” He tucked a blanket around her. “Almost like you’re still in bed.”

He smiled to make it a joke, but she didn’t smile back. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe. We’ll get you to a doctor, get that foot fixed. You’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’ll take care of you. We’ll get everything fixed.” He was babbling, and knew it.

He was losing her.

“I want to go home,” she said.

“Spain could work. We’ll get tickets in Raleigh.”

“I want to go home alone.” His smile faded, but she did not release his arm. “I’m not saying good-bye. I’m saying I need to think. There’s so much. There’s what’s happened, the baby. There’s us.”

“Of course.”

“Michael-”

“No. It’s okay.” Filters snapped across his eyes. “A lot has happened. Bad stuff. Questions. I don’t blame you. Going alone is smart. It’s reasonable.”

“You don’t have to be so businesslike.”

“Actually, I do.” He closed her door gently, then circled to the driver’s side. “The Raleigh airport’s not far. We have cash. The doctor says you can travel. Where’s your passport?”

“Oh, God.” She looked stricken. “He took it.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay.” He started the car. “I’ve got this.”

Everything looked different in the early light. Fog blanketed the fields, so thick the house almost disappeared. The barn looked broken.

“I don’t want to be here,” Elena said.

“I’ll be in and out.” Michael handed her the nine millimeter. “You remember how to use this?”

She took it without question.

“I’ll check the barn first, then the house.”

“He had my cell phone, too.”

“I’ll get it.”

He opened the door and Elena said, “Michael.”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re not like him.” She meant Jimmy. “That’s not why I’m leaving.”

“Why, then?”

“It’s just…” She sniffed, shook her hair back.

“Hey, forever is a long time. We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I wanted to kill him myself. I wanted to make him hurt and beg and die. Don’t you see? I hated myself for not being strong enough to do it. Hated my weakness.”

“There’re different kinds of strength.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Well, I do. You’re Carmen Elena Del Portal, and you’re the most beautiful person alive.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s one of the few things I know for fact.”

He closed the door, smiled through glass.

She hugged herself and watched him go.

The barn was darker, but the same. Same smells and sights; same dead bodies. Michael stepped inside, angry with himself. Even shot and dealing with Elena, he’d been sharp enough to collect weapons and shell casings. The cell phone had slipped his mind.

Stupid…

The phone was in her name, and could have dragged her into the fallout. If cops had found it first…

Stupid, stupid…

But he’d been emotional. Elena, hurt. Dead men who had once been family. This time, he was doubly careful. He checked Jimmy’s corpse from top to bottom; found her cell phone in his pocket, but no passport. He looked once at Stevan-felt mild disappointment-then kicked dirt in Jimmy’s face.

Motherfucker.

He kicked more dirt.

Sorry, sadistic, disloyal, greedy motherfucker…

The living room was a slaughterhouse. Even with the door standing wide, the dank, copper reek was unmistakable. Michael stepped carefully, emotionally disengaged as he cataloged faces of men he’d known for most of his life. They were soldiers and earners, hard men who’d died hard.

He found Elena’s passport on a battered desk in a room under the eaves; slipped it into a pocket. He found another body there, too, and the hardware case Jimmy preferred. There were half a dozen handguns in padded foam. Knives. Wire. An ice pick. The weapons would be clean and untraceable, but taking one felt wrong, somehow. Not stealing wrong, but dirty wrong. The man was burning in hell.

Let the bastard burn.

Michael left the weapons untouched. Downstairs, he checked the other rooms for anything that could connect Elena to this place. He tried to see the scene from a cop’s eyes, and shook his head at the thought. He should dispose of the bodies, burn the buildings. Because there was another truth about murder this complete: the cops would never let it go. They would dig and worry and scrape; they would track down every angle, every possible lead. And who knew where that might take them? Every one of these bodies could be traced back to Otto Kaitlin. That would tie them to the killings in New York: the dead soldiers at Otto’s house, the civilians in the street. How many bodies? Michael tried to count, lost track because he had no idea how many civilians had actually died. And there was a chance, however slim, that it could all lead back to him. He could not allow that. Not now. Not when he was this close.

He considered logistics, timing, the things he would need. He nodded to himself, convinced. Three hours, he thought, maybe four. He would take Elena to the airport, then come back here to dispose of the bodies and burn it all. It made sense. He was satisfied.

Then he found the file.

It was a simple manila folder, four inches thick and bound up with rubber bands. It rested at an angle on a bedside table in a back bedroom. This was Stevan’s room, Michael realized. Fine suits hung in the closet; Italian shoes and pocket squares made of silk. Michael sat on the bed, opened the file.

And everything shifted.

He didn’t see all the pieces, but certain things made sense: why Stevan was here and what he’d planned, why he’d threatened Julian in the first place. Michael flipped through photographs and affidavits and financial records. Some of this material he’d seen a long time ago. But this file was more complete, more damaging; its presence here changed things. There were implications to its presence. Possibilities.