John Hart - Iron House

“It will happen soon. In a week or two. Police or FBI.”

“Week or two…”

“Just tell them the truth. Afterward, you should take Billy and leave. Find someplace new. Start fresh. No more gambling. No more drinking.” Flint touched the money, and Michael stood. “Mr. Flint?”

Flint looked up from the cash. He was drunk and overwhelmed. Michael spread his hands on the table, money between them. “The compassion you’ve shown for Billy is a rare thing in this world.” Flint’s eyes drifted to the money, then snapped back up. “I almost killed you the last time I was here. I was angry, you understand? It was that close.” Michael held his thumb and finger an inch apart, and Flint, either frightened or full of regret, tucked his hands in his lap as Michael leaned even closer. “Every day since then has been a gift. Every day from now forward is also a gift. Every minute. Every hour.”

Michael straightened.

“You’re a compassionate man, Mr. Flint, and I think you deserve a second chance.” He slid the money across the table. “Ask yourself what happens to Billy if you drink yourself to death, then give yourself a break. This place messed up a lot of people, but it’s just a place. You can move past it.”

Flint looked up, eyes red and raw. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“It’s what I’m coming to believe.”

Flint reached for the bottle. “Maybe it’s not that simple.”

“And maybe it is.”

Flint poured another glass and put it on the table.

“Take the money, Mr. Flint. Start fresh.”

“I’ll tell the police what you said.”

Michael sighed deeply. “Give Billy my regards.”

Flint nodded, glass untouched. He stared at it for long seconds, then tucked his face into his hands, his whole body shaking as Michael turned on his heel and left.

Michael hit the Chatham County line close to dusk, and found the road empty by the mailbox with blue reflectors. He parked on the grass shoulder a half-mile down and watched the dirt track that led to a house full of dead mobsters. No police. No movement. He checked the sky for aerial surveillance, and then craned his neck to check the gas station lot two hundred yards behind him.

It looked quiet, he thought, the air hushed and warm as the sun made its slow burn through the trees. But still, he was patient. He waited, watched; and when the last light grayed out, he drove in. Within seconds, he knew the site was undisturbed.

Ignoring the barn, Michael drove straight to the house, lifted the file and got out of the car. He stepped carefully, and made his way to Stevan’s room. Nothing had changed there, either. At the bedside, he replaced the file where he’d found it. He took one last look around and then left, satisfied.

Forty minutes later, he had a room in a decent hotel. He showered, changed and found the senator’s number in his phone’s memory. The call was answered on the first ring. “I wondered if you might still like to meet?”

“Michael, I was just thinking of you.”

“Would you like to have brunch tomorrow?”

“Are you back in town?”

“Just this moment. Do you still want to discuss Julian?”

“Of course, my boy. Of course. But why wait? My evening is free; I just poured a drink. Join me. I have the most wonderful study in which to drink, and the best selection of scotch this side of the highlands.”

“All right.”

“Shall we say, half an hour? Just give your name to the guard at the gate.”

Michael squeezed the phone hard. He thought of the file, then of blackmail, betrayal and the price of a political career. “Half an hour.”

Abigail was not a drinker. Drinkers lost control, made mistakes. Drinkers were weak. But tonight Abigail made an exception. It came in a clear glass bottle, and it burned going down. But, that was okay.

She was in mourning.

And she was appalled.

Jessup…

She dragged herself off the bed, sat at the dressing table and stared hard at the face she’d worn for so many years. She’d worked so hard to portray confidence and certainty of purpose, and yet the one person with whom she could be herself was Jessup. He’d seen her fail and seen her break. He knew truths about her, but had spent twenty-five years at her side, unfailing and true.

“How could I have been so wrong?”

The words slurred; her face fell into a blur. All those years of faithfulness to the senator, and she’d been so proud. Of what? Her fortitude ? Her moral character ? Always determined to do the right thing, to make the good choice. What a joke! What a sad, tired delusion!

Her reflection laughed a bitter laugh.

Jessup didn’t want her anyway.

She picked up the gun he’d given her all those years ago. For two decades it had ridden with her in the Land Rover, and yet she’d never fired it. It was heavy, cool, and she thought of his face when he’d first pressed it into her palm: a hint of smile, but serious, first touch of white in his hair. It’s a dangerous world, he’d told her. You should keep this close.

Had she been wrong even then?

Had he ever loved her?

She dropped the gun on the bed, stood and paced. She had brief thoughts of Julian and Michael, of the horrors she’d seen in the barn. But mostly she thought of her life, of choices made and opportunity missed. She thought of things she could not forget, and of failures she could not unmake.

To do and do and make oneself replete with change…

She wondered if she’d managed to change at all. All the tough decisions, all the sacrifices and lofty ideals. Had they made any difference? Or was she still the same person she’d been thirty-seven years ago? The same girl who swore she could do better? The very thought depressed her. The bottle emptied, and at some point she heard a light knock on the door.

“Abigail?”

She moved to the door and stood, silent.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Pressure built behind her eyes, but no one could help her. “Go away, Jessup.”

“Are you sure?”

His voice was soft; she touched the door and tried not to cry.

Michael left the guns in the hotel room. He wouldn’t get them through security, and didn’t need them anyway. That was the thing about knowledge.

It was full dark when he arrived at the estate. Reporters were still camped out: vans and gear and talent. They rustled when he slowed. Lights came on, then somebody yelled: “It’s nobody.”

Cameras went down; smokers lit up.

He gave his name at the gate, and a uniformed guard leaned in at his window. He wore a sidearm, carried a clipboard. Michael tried to read his face, but it was blank. “Identification, please.”

“You know who I am.”

The guard measured him with a stare that lasted fifteen seconds. “Any weapons in the car or on your person?”

“Is that a normal question?”

“We’ve received unspecified threats.”

“No,” Michael said. “No weapons.”

“Straight up to the house. Someone is waiting to take you to the senator.”

Michael drove through and the gate swung shut. Gas-burning streetlamps lit the drive; far in, the house glowed as if on fire. Michael rolled slowly, and saw two men waiting for him on the steps. One opened his door. The other was Richard Gale. “I’ll need to pat you down,” he said.

“Is that how the senator greets all his guests?”

“We’ve received-”

“Yes, I know. Unspecified threats.”

Gale smiled tightly. “If you would?”

“Careful of the leg.” Michael lifted his arms and let Gale pat him down. The talk of threats was just that, but they needed an excuse, and Michael let them have it.