John Hart - Iron House

Michael closed the file and slipped on the rubber bands. Between the porch and the car he decided that nothing would burn, not the house and not the bodies. The cops wanted to play? He’d play. The media wanted a story? Fine.

The file changed everything.

Back at the car he climbed in, slammed the door and sat for long seconds. Elena gave him a strange look, but his mind was still on the implications of what he’d found. He saw a path to walk, and was looking for dangers.

“You all right?”

“What? Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Did something happen? You look rattled.”

“Rattled? No. Just thinking.”

“About?”

He considered telling her, but this was not her problem. It affected him and Julian. He’d get her on a plane, then deal with it. “Nothing, baby.” He jammed the file in the crack next to the driver’s seat and smiled as he pulled Elena’s passport from his pocket. “Now, don’t lose it this time.”

“Are you making fun of me?” She took the passport.

“Just lightening the mood.”

She looked at the house and the barn, the mist that hung in the trees. “You’re kidding, right?”

He winked, then took the gun from her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

He found the interstate as the sun rose and mist burned, as Elena swallowed more pills and tunneled deeper into the blanket. “Lightening the mood,” she said once, and laughed a little. After that, it was an odd drive, and difficult. She was close, yet far. He was losing her, but knew deep down that she should go, at least for a while. Things were getting complicated. After a while, she said, “How much further?”

“Thirty minutes. Maybe forty.”

She nodded loosely, and he knew the pills were taking her down. He lifted his phone from the center console. “Do you want to call about flights?”

“I called while you were in the barn. There’s one this afternoon.”

He pictured her in the fog, gun in one hand and a phone in the other. The image was clear, and hurt because it came so easily. “Did you call your father?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”

That was hard for Michael, because the scene had played out in his head so many times: flying to Spain to meet Elena’s father. Doing it right and proper. Asking for her hand in marriage so that their family would be built on tradition and truth. Now, she would go home pregnant, alone, and the chance would never come again. “Of course,” he said; and it was one more lie between them, one more bitter nail in the wall of his heart.

The senator called as they hit the outskirts of Raleigh. “Michael. Hi. It’s Senator Vane. Am I calling too early?”

“Not at all, Senator.” Michael glanced at the file beside his leg, and felt anger rise like a welt. “What can I do for you?”

“Abigail says you’re back in town. I want you to join us for brunch. I thought maybe we could talk about Julian. Things are getting complicated, and we three, I believe, are the boy’s best hope. We can put our heads together, plan our best course of action. Are you free around eleven?”

Michael looked at the road, and could see for miles. He thought of the file, and could see even farther. “I can’t join you today, Senator.”

“Oh.”

Genuine surprise sounded in his voice, and Michael smiled. The senator was like Stevan had been. Both spoiled. Both used to getting their way. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“If you’re certain you can’t make it today…” He left it hanging.

“Tomorrow, Senator. I’ll call when I’m back in town.”

“Oh, you’re traveling?”

“I’ll call tomorrow. Thanks for the invitation.”

Michael disconnected, then dialed Abigail, who answered on the second ring. “It’s Michael.”

“Are you okay? What’s wrong? How’s Elena?”

“She’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Sorry. I’m jumpy today. I didn’t sleep at all. Randall kept asking how I got hurt. He wouldn’t let it drop. Jessup got involved. It was a mess. Then there’s the mind, the tricks it plays. Images, you know.”

Michael did. Death had that power.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you have plans for brunch today?”

“What? No.” She was confused. “Brunch?”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you at the motel?”

“I’m taking Elena someplace safe.”

“That’s good, smart.” She did not ask where, and Michael was glad. “You’re coming back though, right?”

There was small panic in her voice, and he knew she was thinking about the bodies. “I don’t leave jobs unfinished, Abigail. I can promise you that.”

She exhaled audibly. “It’s been a hard night in a life of hard nights. I didn’t mean anything negative.”

“I have something to do, and it might keep me away until late tonight or early tomorrow. I’ll call you, though. And you call me if Julian turns up.”

“You know I will.”

“One more question,” Michael said. “It’s personal.”

“You’ve earned the right to do personal.”

“It’s very personal.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…”

“Do you love your husband?”

“That’s a very odd question.”

“I don’t mean in a small way, Abigail. I mean the big way. Does he matter to you?”

She was quiet for long seconds. “Can you tell me why you’re asking this question?”

“No, but it’s important. I won’t repeat your answer.”

“I’m forty-seven years old, Michael. I don’t like riddles.”

“I need to know if you love the senator.”

“No.” Silence spooled out as the world flicked past. “I love someone else.”

They reached the Raleigh-Durham International Airport at ten minutes after nine. Traffic was heavy, the sidewalks crowded. Michael found a car-length of curbside near the American Airlines departure gate, and parked. Elena sat upright, both hands in her lap, neck rigid. Michael leaned forward and looked past her at the crowd. “I’m going to find a skycap.” He flagged a porter just inside the door, gave him a hundred dollars and asked for a wheelchair. “The silver Range Rover.” He pointed. “Just outside.”

“Give me a few minutes to get the chair.”

“Another hundred if you’ll bring two cups of coffee, one black, one café au lait. And some fresh pastry, please.”

The skycap hurried off, and Michael pushed through the crowd. He dug money from the bag in back of the car, then opened Elena’s door and dropped into a crouch, one leg stiff and straight. She didn’t want to look at him. Creases cut the corners of her eyes. Her foot was heavily wrapped, her lips swollen. Michael folded the currency into a thick wad, took her hand and cupped the money against it. “This is thirty thousand dollars-”

“I don’t need that much.”

“You don’t know what you need. Take it. I’d give you more, but it would be bulky and obvious.” He opened the glove compartment and found a large envelope, the owner’s manual inside. He pulled out the manual. “Here.” He handed her the envelope, and scanned the sidewalk as she stuffed the bills inside. “Listen.” He put a hand on her undamaged leg. “Everyone with a reason to want you hurt is dead. Jimmy. Stevan. No one is looking for you.” He ducked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “All of that is behind you, now.”

“I still taste metal.” She paused, breaking. “I feel it in my mouth.”

“Don’t-”

“I thought I was dead, Michael. I close my eyes and see his fingers going for that stick. I see you shooting, but he never stops.” She touched bruised lips. “I still taste metal.”

His hand tightened. “It’s done. It’s over.”