John Hart - Iron House

“Yes. No. Get in here.” Richard Gale entered warily, eyes moving over the damage. “I want you to follow that motherfucker. Find out where he is, where he’s staying. I need that file.”

Gale kept his distance. “You told us to let him go. He’s already through the gate. He’s gone.”

“Gone? You stupid idiot.”

“That’s uncalled for, Senator. The instructions were yours-”

“Get out. Just get the hell out. No, wait. Where’s my wife?”

“Your wife?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No, but-”

The senator grabbed his lapels. “Where’s my fucking wife?”

Abigail sat in an antique chair before a Victorian dressing table. She felt disconnected from a day that was too big. From the past week. From her life as she’d made it. So, she sought comfort in the familiar. She applied makeup with a deft touch. She kept her shoulders square, but felt the shame of her weakness. She was drunk, and she was needful. Her heart was breaking as her lips moved in a low, fierce whisper.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

It had been her mantra since childhood. She closed her eyes, and said it again.

Normally, it centered her, gave her the balance to drive her life with the precision it required. But when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of a child, a small girl beaten bloody and trying hard not to cry as she dabbed and cleaned and wondered why her mother hated her with such passion. It was a terrible image, and terribly real: the bruises and torn skin, the raspberry dimple where pale, blond hair had been ripped out at the roots. She closed her eyes before the tears could find her, swayed in the narrow chair as the room faded to a bare, cold shack, and she heard a baby cry.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

Her hands spread on the table, eyes squeezed tight as her fingers touched a silver brush, a comb with ivory teeth. She tried to find herself, but could not. Julian would be arrested, and Jessup didn’t love her. The past was rising up.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

Survival, strength-

No.

The comb was pink plastic, tears hot on the girl’s face as she tried to comb wisps of hair over a weeping, wet bald spot the size of her mother’s fist. Her feet were cold and bare under a cheap print dress stained black from lack of soap. The mirror was cracked through, large streaks of silver gone so that in places it was like staring into nothing. But where there was silver, there was fear, raw and fresh and caught in wide, green eyes. She tried to blink the world away, but the room smelled of fatback and collards; she heard her mother’s step in the door, the call of that precious child…

“What’re you waiting for, you little shit monkey?”

The girl held herself very still. Her mother moved into the room, brought the smell of hairspray and sweet tobacco.

“No, Momma.”

“Do it before I do the same to you.”

“Please don’t make me-”

“Do it!”

“No, Momma. Please.”

“No-good ingrate.” Fingers twined in her hair. “Worthless, selfish brat.” Face slammed into the table. “Do it!” Slammed again, nose bloody.

“Please…” The girl saw broken teeth on checkered wood.

“Do it!” Face against wood. “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

Until another lump of hair came free and the world went black. The next thing she remembered was sitting wet on the bank of the creek, blue with cold and blinking in the flat, winter sun. The dress clung to her narrow chest, water in her nose. Her hands were shaking, and strange noises came from her throat. On the bank beside her, her mother was hard-faced and satisfied. “Now you’re mine forever.”

The girl looked down.

And saw the thing she’d done.

Abigail jumped when she heard the doorknob rattle. A small cry escaped, and she cast a worried, guilty look at her reflection. Her eyes were still wounded, but the mirror was flawless and the comb in her hand worth eighteen hundred dollars. She dabbed at her eyes, and smoothed herself.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Randall, what?”

“Open the door.”

“Give me a moment.”

The knob rattled harder, wood vibrating in the frame. Abigail crushed the past, as she had so many times, then opened the door for her husband. He stood large and winded, his hands so fisted that bone showed at the knuckles. He came into the room and shut the door.

Abigail stepped back, wary. Her husband had never been truly violent toward her, but there was something in his eyes like a hot, cherry glow. “What is it, Randall?”

“Where’s Michael?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play with me, Abigail. I need to know where to find him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie. You two are thicker than thieves.”

He stepped closer, and Abigail gauged the impatience and suppressed rage. She knew her husband’s moods, and this was a bad one. “I’ve answered your question,” she said carefully. “I don’t know where he is. You should go.”

“It’s not that simple this time.”

“I don’t know-”

“Bitch!” He struck a table hard enough to crack wood. “I don’t have time for games or lies or your misplaced, overprotective nature. This is important, so I’ll ask again. Where is he staying? What hotel?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has something I need, Abigail, something very, very important. Do you understand? I need him. I need you to help me.”

“Why?” She stepped back, got her hands on the desk chair.

“Because he wants to hurt me, so I have to hurt him first. Because if he hurts me, he hurts you. Because if I don’t find him, it’s over. Everything. You get it? Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I am.”

But Abigail had stopped listening. “You want to hurt him?”

“He’s a threat.”

“You want to hurt Michael?”

“Where is he, Abigail?”

She was at the desk, one hand spread as her vision constricted and a low, dull thrumming rose in her skull. The room dimmed, but the senator was oblivious. Abigail’s head tilted, and her neck creaked. The thrumming in her skull grew louder, a hive of bees that swarmed until her skin prickled. Her hand found a letter opener on the desk, a gift from Julian. The handle was bone, the blade sterling. “You want to hurt my Michael?”

“Hurt him. Kill him. Whatever.”

She blinked and felt a swirl of dark current, a cold, wet blackness that rose up and roared into her skull.

Her eyelids closed, then opened.

Abigail went away.

Jessup made it outside and under the stars before he realized that walking away from Abigail would not be that easy. Something in her voice sounded broken, and she was not a woman to easily break. But she did not tolerate impertinence, either, and rarely appreciated help that came unasked for.

He stood for long seconds, then said, “Damn it all.”

He walked briskly across the broad drive, then entered through one of the smaller doors in the back. He passed through the kitchen, the dining room, and was in the grand foyer when he saw Richard Gale and three of his men coming down the stairs. He’d met Gale once or twice over the years-brief stints when the senator traveled overseas or during random periods of heightened security-and had measured respect for the man’s training and demeanor, both of which were professional. He was a mercenary, yes, but a good one. The man came, did his job and went. Jessup suspected that Gale found him provincial, but didn’t care. “Have you seen Mrs. Vane?”