John Hart - Iron House

“I’ll miss you.”

“Then don’t go.”

But she was already shaking her head. “I want to be home, to be with my father. After all this, I need something pure.”

“My love for you is pure.”

“I believe your feelings are.”

“But not me.”

“Can you blame me, Michael?”

He looked away, shook his head.

“Then give me time.”

“How much?”

“Weeks, months. I don’t know. But I’ll call you.”

“To say what?”

“To say good-bye, or to tell you where I am. One or the other. Nothing in-between.”

Michael studied the lines of her face and felt something like panic. He didn’t even know where she’d been raised-she would never talk about it. He knew only that it was a village in the mountains of Catalonia. Once she left, she was gone.

But what choice did he have?

He gestured for the chair, then helped Elena into it. He handed the crutches to the skycap.

“Any luggage?”

“No.” Michael peeled a thousand dollars off a sheaf in his pocket. “Whatever she wants.” He handed the money over. “As long as she wants it. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“Give us a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael took his coffee and put it on the car. He handed a cup to Elena, then a small paper bag. “I know how you like pastry.”

She looked at the bag, thought of yellow paint and breakfast in bed. She thought of unborn children and promises never kept.

“You were right, you know.”

“About what?” she asked.

“I should have taken you out of there. None of this would have happened.”

“Julian must be very special for you to love him so much. You’re right to help him.”

“But you’re my family.”

“And he’s your brother. It’s okay, Michael. I get it.”

Michael blinked several times, cleared his throat. “What are you going to do?”

“Be with family. Heal. Try to process this. How about you?”

Michael thought of Slaughter Mountain, a list of names and the contents of a four-inch file. He thought of all the cops looking for his brother, the unique fragility of Julian’s mind. “I’m going to find some answers,” he said. “Dig Julian out of this mess. Finish what I started.”

“Is that all? Save a man’s life, solve some murders.” She offered a smile. “Little things.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Do it again.”

Her smile faded. “I need to go.”

“Reconsider.”

“I need to go now.”

“Listen, baby. I know you think I’m… impure.” His hands found the arms of the chair and he leaned close. “But I’m more than the things I’ve done. I hope you find your way to that truth.”

“Michael…”

He leaned closer and kissed both cheeks. She put a hand on her stomach, felt it move.

“Have a good flight,” he said.

And then turned away.

Abigail was perched on the edge of her bed when her husband walked in, restless and tired and rough. White stubble covered his cheeks; his eyes were bloody red and he smelled of last night’s liquor. “You look disturbingly fresh.”

“Thank you.” Abigail stood and smoothed crisp white cotton.

“Jesus. You’re too dumb to know sarcasm when you see it.”

“That’s your fear talking.”

“Fear?”

“Your world is falling apart, isn’t it?”

“It’s your world, too.”

Abigail shrugged. “Win the next election. Lose it. I’ve never much cared for your politics or your reputation.”

“Just my money.”

She lifted her chin. “I think we’ve been frank for years about what we expect from each other. Yes, I like your money. What of it?”

“You’re still the grasping little tramp I found all those years ago.”

“I was never a tramp.”

“No. You’re right. A tramp would know how to screw worth a shit.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And Nero played his fiddle. What of it?”

“Nothing.” She forced a smile. “I’m leaving. I hope you have a nice morning.”

She turned, and he put thick fingers on her arm. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t have your dirty little secrets.”

“Let me go, Randall.”

“Your own dark little world.” She tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip, swayed. “Where were you yesterday, my loyal wife? Huh? Where’s the Mercedes? Where’d you get that eggplant on the side of your face?”

“That’s enough.”

“Where’s Michael? Oh, that got your attention. Look at you now.” He waved the same heavy fingers. “That got you.”

“What do you know about Michael?”

“I know he got shot. I know you paid off my doctor. With my money. What? You didn’t think he’d tell me?”

“I thought you’d be smart enough to trust me to do what’s right. I thought if nothing else that we had that part figured out. No one has done more to protect the integrity of this family than I.”

“Michael is not family.”

“I’m leaving.”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing.”

She stepped for the door, but he moved with shocking speed for such a large man. He threw out an arm, drove the door shut. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”

“I’m not going to speak with you when you’re like this.”

He made a claw with one hand. “There are things happening…”

“I know.”

“Things you can’t possibly understand or appreciate…”

“I know plenty.”

“You don’t know anything.” He pushed closer, towered above her. “Where’s Julian? What do these dead men have to do with him? I know there’s a connection. The names are familiar.”

Abigail eyed the door, then sighed deeply. “Can you calm down enough to have a discussion? Can you be reasonable?”

He took her arm again, and squeezed enough to make it hurt. “Tell me what you know.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Good.”

“Damn it, Randall.”

He released her arm, and she rubbed the sore spot. “They were at Iron House with Julian. Okay? They were at Iron House.”

“How can you know that? They haven’t even identified the third body yet.”

“Chase Johnson. It’s Chase Johnson. Has to be.”

“Another Iron House boy?”

“Yes.”

“What are they doing dead in my lake?”

“I don’t know. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I brought them here, okay? I paid them to come here. I found them and I paid them.”

“Paid them, why?”

“To apologize to Julian. He’s never gotten over the things that happened in that awful place. I thought if they apologized, he could get some kind of closure. He could finally put it all behind him. He’s thirty-two years old, too old to live under that kind of weight.”

“You brought them here without asking me.”

“Yes.”

“To my house.”

“Randall…”

“You brought them to my house and Julian killed them.” It was not a question. His skin was loose, mouth a thin line. “You brought them here and that daft, bastard son of yours killed them.”

“And what if he did?” It was Abigail’s turn to be angry. “They deserved it.” The senator raised a hand as if to strike her, but Abigail stepped even closer, chin up, eyes bright. “I fucking dare you.”

He lowered his hand. “Sometimes, my dear, the past seems to come out in you.”

“What past?”

“Little glimpses of what you were before I met you.”

“Take that back.”

He smiled a hard smile. “Bits of white trash…” He shook his head, threw her words back at her. “I fucking dare you.” He straightened his jacket. “Who raised you?”