John Hart - Iron House

One of the wings still stood, but barely. The rest of the structure had burned some time long ago. Grass grew around blackened timbers and mounds of chiseled stone; bits of glass winked in the sun. Four chimneys clawed up from the debris, but two more had collapsed. The house had been massive, once. Now it was as ruined as the mountain.

An old pickup truck was parked near the closest corner, its red paint faded to the color of clay, rust on the hood and knobby tires worn smooth in the center. Michael stopped next to the truck, opened the door and got out. A small bent figure was pushing a wheelbarrow down a path cleared through the wreckage. Michael waited until the man was close. “Need any help with that?”

The man started, and the wheelbarrow tipped. He tried to correct it, but his arms were thin and his load was heavy. The wheelbarrow toppled over. Bricks spilled out. The old man looked frightened, then angry. There was no way to put a number on the years he’d seen. He could be eighty-five or a hundred and ten. His face was a mask of lines and puckered skin, his body wiry and bent. He wore poor clothes and leather boots scuffed white. “Damn, son.”

“Sorry about that.”

The man squinted, one hand in his pocket like it might hold a knife. “I ain’t stealing nothing. Nobody owns this no more.”

Michael noticed that the truck bed was full of brick that looked hand-formed, and was probably worth something on the salvage market. He shrugged. “Take all of it for all I care.”

The old man looked him up and down. “You some kind of tourist?”

Michael shook his head. “Let me help you.”

He stepped onto the path, righted the wheelbarrow and started replacing the bricks that had fallen out. The man watched, then bent and began shifting bricks, his gnarled hands shaky but deft. “Sorry about that, I guess.”

“What?”

He pointed at the Range Rover. “Most rich people are assholes. Figured you’d be the same.”

“I work with my hands. You going to sell this brick?”

“Building a barbecue pit.”

“Really?”

“Might do some entertaining.”

Michael smiled, not sure if the man was pulling his chain. “This the Slaughter place?” he asked.

“What’s left of it.”

“What happened?”

“Burned. Thirty years, maybe.”

Michael picked up the last brick, then took the handles and started rolling the wheelbarrow toward the truck. “Any Slaughters left around these parts?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Been here all my life. Reckon I’d know.”

They reached the truck and Michael set the wheelbarrow down. He picked up the first brick, dropped it in the truck bed. “Any idea where the family went?”

“Hell, I suppose.”

“All of them?”

“Far as I know, there was just the lady.”

“Serena Slaughter?”

“Meanest cocksucker ever wrote a check or broke a man’s back for working. Rich as God a’mighty, but nasty to her bones. She died in the fire, and I hope she died screaming.”

He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and honked his nose. Michael stared off at mountains that rolled blue and soft to the east. “Did you know her?”

“Most people around here did. Worked for her, anyways.”

“What can you tell me?”

“You already done shifting brick?”

Michael smiled again, then tossed more brick and watched the man use the same bandanna to mop his face. “Did you know her personally?”

“Never cared to.”

“Who owns the mountain now?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Michael put the last brick in the truck. “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything?”

“Nope. Catch that side, will you?”

Michael gripped the side of the wheelbarrow and they heaved it into the truck, wedged it upside down among the pile of brick. “Anybody around here that might be able to tell me more? Did she have friends-”

“Son, that’s like asking does a rattlesnake have friends, or if a rock gives two shits about the dirt it’s sitting on.” Michael’s disappointment must have shown. The man narrowed one eye and said, “Means something to you, does it?”

“I’m looking for answers, yes.”

“You squeamish?” The same glint caught in his eye, part humor and the rest mischief.

“Not at all,” Michael said.

“Then you’ll be wanting to follow me.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a nasty old woman who might be able to help you, and because you’d not find her in a million years if I weren’t to show you how.”

Michael followed the old man around the truck, watched him get in and slam the door. “Who is she?”

The man put an elbow through the open window, fired up the truck. “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “she’s the crazy bitch what burned this place down.”

The old man was right. Michael would have never found his way to the place he was led. They went down the mountain, left and then right a half-mile past the draw. There was no sign or pavement or indication of any kind that making that right turn was a smart move. They followed a mud track that fell away and then split twice to end up in a narrow gorge divided by a two-foot trickle of water. Trees had been cleared for the most part-stumps jutting up-but there were enough trees left to put shadows on the ground and keep the whole place from sliding off the mountain. Michael guessed there were about thirty structures in the gorge, a few of them painted, but most of them not. He saw a few trailers that had been somehow dragged down the track, but most of the buildings were poor, unpainted shacks on cinder-block foundations. There were covered porches and oil tanks, ruined cars and dead appliances. Mud was the rule, but flowerpots made a splash of color here and there. Even though it was hot, smoke rose from chimneys. Michael noticed that there were no power lines snaking down from the road above.

The old man stopped by the largest structure, which had been painted white once. The windows were broken out, roof caved in. “You ever heard the term, ‘company store’?” He walked around to Michael’s window, pointed at the building. “There she sits.”

Michael climbed out of the Rover. “I don’t understand.”

The old man took a round can from his back pocket, pinched a half-inch of tobacco and stuffed it under his bottom lip. “Slaughters built all of this back in the day. Wrote mortgages so we could own our own place, then paid us with a mix of cash and store credit. Half the folks here either worked for them or watched their parents get old and broke doing it.”

“Half of them?”

“Rest are hippies and homeless and Mexicans. Lady you want is at the end of that track, last one back, where the water falls off.” He pointed at a sloppy, wet scar through the trees. “House used to be yellow. Sits on the creek’s edge, with a big, flat boulder for a front yard. Kind of pretty once upon a time.”

Michael stared off down the track. “You’re not coming?”

“That’s my house, right there.” He pointed at an unpainted shack fifty yards off. A half-built barbecue pit dominated the patch of dirt off the front porch.

“Your pit looks good.”

The man shrugged. “Been telling the wife I’d do it for twenty years.” He winked. “Figure building it’s the best shot I got of dying in peace. You go on down, now. Her name’s Arabella Jax. She hears better than she sees, and has shot more than one dog what wandered onto her porch. So, let her hear you coming. Just don’t tell her I’m the one who sent you.” He squelched back toward his truck, but Michael had a few more questions.

“Why do you think she knows anything about Serena Slaughter?”