John Hart - Iron House

They met at the lowest step. Gale looked up the stairs, thought for a moment, then said, “She’s in her suite. I believe the senator is with her.”

“Thanks.”

Jessup took the stairs two at a time, and when he was out of sight, one of Gale’s men said, “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“You know what?” Gale looked after Jessup, then smoothed his lapels. “I believe our job here is done.”

Abigail’s suite of rooms was at the far end of a long wing on the north side of the mansion. She’d moved in seven years after her wedding day: clothing, furniture, everything. No one said a word about it; no one asked. The staff adjusted, and life went on with the senator and his wife living apart. Jessup rarely came onto this hall, not only because doing so would look improper-it would-but also because it was the safe place to which Abigail withdrew, her personal space in a house that was not really hers. He admired what she’d done with it: the colors, the light. She’d made the entire wing a reflection of her own impeccable taste.

He hit the hall at a fast walk. It was empty and still, his feet quiet on lush carpet. Abigail kept an entire suite of rooms: bedroom, sitting area, music room, library. Her bedroom door was the last in a row of six.

He heard the scream from twenty feet out, hit the door at a dead run, tore it open and stopped cold. The senator was on the floor, screaming. Abigail had one knee on his throat, the blade of a letter opener jammed into the soft spot beneath his collarbone. “You’re going to hurt Michael?” She twisted the blade, made him scream louder. “I don’t think so.”

“Abigail, please…” He was begging, one hand on the floor, the other on her wrist. She twisted the blade again. “Ahh! Shit! What the fuck? Get off! Let go! Abigail!”

Jessup stepped inside. “Abigail…”

“Jessup. For God’s sake…” The senator reached out a hand. “Get this crazy woman off me!” Jessup hesitated, torn. He knew exactly what was happening. Had no love for the senator. “For God’s sake, man…”

Abigail leaned in close, pushed the blade deeper. “You touch Michael and I’ll kill you. You understand?”

Jessup stepped closer, eyes full of knowing and dread. “Abigail?”

She laughed, flicked her head so that hair swung out of her face. “You know better than that.”

“Oh, no.”

She grinned. “Say it.”

“No, no, no.”

“Say it you poor, sad man.”

“Salina.”

“Louder,” she said.

“Salina!”

She looked up, eyes bright over the same, sharp slit of smile. “You going to screw me this time?”

“Salina, don’t.”

“Salina? What the hell’s going on?” Vane tried to force her wrist up, but she leaned on the blade. “Ahh! Damn!”

She said, “Do that again and I push it all the way to your heart. You understand me, fat boy?”

“Yes! Yes! Stop!”

She looked at Jessup. “Tell you what, handsome. You screw me good and I’ll let him live.”

“You know I can’t-”

“I know that, you dick-less wonder. You don’t think I’ve figured that out by now? Though, the times we had…” Her smile spread in a knowing way.

“Salina, listen.” Jessup held up his hands, fingers spread. “This won’t be good for anybody. You can’t kill a United States senator.”

“I won’t take the rap. She will.”

“You’ll both go away. You and Abigail. You can’t kill a senator and wish it all away. There are consequences .”

“He’s going after Michael.” She put more pressure on the blade. “Tell him, fat boy.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“I can’t allow that.” She looked at Jessup. “This would be a good time for you to leave.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Yeah, I know.” She laughed a crazy laugh, and the senator found strength in the sound of it. He yelled and rose up beneath her, bucked his entire body, then caught her waist and flung her off. She struck the bed and he fought to his knees, bone handle protruding. He tried for his feet, but Salina was fast and sure. Even as Vane struggled, as Jessup hesitated and then tried to stop her, she reached for the thirty-eight on the bed, got her hand on the grip and spun.

Jessup froze.

The senator tore out the blade.

“This is my kind of party.” Salina held the gun steady. The men were five feet apart.

Only Jessup truly knew how close to death they were. “Salina, don’t…”

But Salina did.

The shot was a bright, hard crack, gray smoke and a lick of fire. The bullet struck high on the senator’s forehead, lifted the top of his skull and dropped him on his back. Jessup looked from the body to the face of the woman he loved. It was exactly the same, and terribly different. The eyes were too hard, the smile too grim. He felt his way to the bed and sat. “Why did you do that?”

“Nobody touches Michael.”

“But-”

“I did what I had to do,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

Jessup was in shock. His head felt heavy in his hands. “My turn?”

“That’s right.”

She sat on the bed beside him. He looked up, distraught. “To do what?”

“Fix it.”

He stared at her and felt such hatred. “I should let you fry.”

She traced three fingers along his thigh. “We both know you won’t do that.”

“You are an evil woman, Salina Slaughter.”

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

Michael found a small bar on the outskirts of town. It was quiet inside, largely empty with the only real noise coming from a jukebox in the back. He ordered a beer from the bartender and took a booth in the corner. The beer was cold and he sipped as he dug the cell phone out of his pocket and put it on the table. It was prepaid, untraceable; for a moment he pondered the power of technology.

Then he thought of bodies.

And his brother.

Michael could have grilled the senator for details about anything he wanted-Slaughter Mountain, Abigail Vane, Iron House-but it would have taken time, become confrontational, and in the end there was no point. He didn’t care who killed those Iron House pricks as long as Julian was safe from criminal prosecution; the blackmail file gave him that certainty. Had he pushed for information, the senator could have balked, delayed or demanded further proof. Getting to truth could take time-if Vane even knew the truth-and Michael was not so worried about niceties. He could fix it now, make it go away before the cops dragged Julian kicking and screaming from whatever hole he’d found.

He spun the phone on the slick, black table.

Checked his math one last time.

Bodies had been pulled from the lake, men who had once been boys at Iron House, men who knew Julian. The cops would make the connection because cops were plenty smart and the math was not that hard. Why Julian might have killed them wouldn’t matter in such a large case. The finer points of motive would fall beneath the weight of speculation and circumstance. The victims knew the killer. They had been enemies once, lured with cash to the estate, and then sunk in the same lake where a girl well known to Julian had died eighteen years ago. All things being equal, Julian would go down for the murders.

But circumstance, thankfully, was not a one-trick pony. Four miles away was a farm piled high with dead gangsters who for years had been blackmailing Senator Vane. The file would speak for itself. Photographs, ledgers, records of bribes taken and payments made. Michael’s plan was elegant in its simplicity. Send the cops to the farm; let them find the bodies; let them find the file. Two things would happen immediately.