Iron House

by John Hart

  “How is he this morning?” She kept her voice crisp enough to fool anyone else. She leaned close to the horse, one palm on the broad, flat plane of its cheek. She wished she had an apple or a carrot, but the decision to ride had been impulsive. Five in the morning. Rain falling in sheets.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he worse?”

  “I honestly don’t know. No one knew where to find you, not your husband or the staff. No one. The first place I checked was the stable.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Not that I know.”

  She stroked the horse as water dripped from her face. It was colder now that she was off the horse; in the dim light, her skin looked blue. “What time is it?”

  “A little after seven.”

  Abigail turned to look more closely at his face. She saw that he was unshaven, and that the skin beneath his eyes was dark enough to seem bruised. An image gathered in her mind: Jessup awake most of the night, sitting unhappily beside an untouched whiskey, pacing dark hours in the small room he kept. His worry for Julian would be real, as would his concern for her, and for a moment, she felt deep affection for the man whose own emotions were so obvious. “I should go,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Not like that.”

  “Like what?” She palmed a streak of mud from her face.

  “Barely dressed.” Jessup smiled awkwardly. “The rain has made your shirt quite transparent.”

  Abigail looked down and saw that he was right. Jessup retrieved a long, waterproof coat, then stepped forward and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of canvas, hunting dogs, and burned powder. She reached out an arm to pull the coat tighter, and Jessup caught her deftly by the hand. His eyes settled on the yellow-green marks on her wrist. They were large and finger-shaped. The moment stretched between them, and he said, “When?”

  “When, what?” Her chin rose.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Abigail.”

  She pulled her hand free. “Whatever you think happened, you’re mistaken.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “God, no. Of course not. I’d never allow it.”

  “He got drunk and put his hands on you. That’s why you’re out here.”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” Anger sharpened his features.

  “I just needed something bigger.” She patted the horse again. “Something clean.”

  “Damn it, Abigail…”

  She handed him the reins and made it plain that the subject was closed. “Walk him back to the stable for me. Cool him down.”

  “Talk to me, Abigail.”

  “I’m more of a doer than a talker.”

  Jessup’s face showed his displeasure. “Just like that?”

  She looked up, and let rain strike her face. “You still work for me.”

  “And the truck?” His neck stiffened, and a wounded look settled in the dark centers of his eyes.

  “I’ll take the truck.”

  She walked to the truck without looking back, but felt him there, unhappy and staring.

  “This is not right,” he said.

  “Walk him the long way, Jessup.” She opened the door, slid inside. “He worked hard this morning.”

  * * *

  The Land Rover Defender was old, purchased as an estate vehicle in the infancy of her marriage. She remembered the day it was delivered; she was twenty-two years old, and still in awe of her husband. He was two decades her senior, about to run for the Senate and wealthy beyond belief. He could have had any woman in the world, but he chose her over all the others—not just for her beauty, he’d said, but for her elegance and refinement, for the poise she wore like a garment. After long years as a bachelor he needed a face to go with his political life, and she was perfect. When the Defender was delivered, they drove it to the highest point on the estate, a long narrow ridge that looked down on the house and grounds. He’d lifted her skirt, put her on the hood, and she’d thought then that his sweaty hands were the precursors of happiness. But he never looked her in the face as he screwed her; he watched the house and thought of his glory: four thousand acres and a pair of trophy tits. Two months later, he won the Senate seat in a landslide. A year after that, he had his first new girlfriend.

  Leaving Jessup with the horse, she drove to the same spot on the same ridge, a slab of granite that had probably been there for a million years. She parked and looked down on the manicured lawns, the stables, and the twin lakes that looked like black glass shot with gray. The grass was colorless in the rain, the forest beyond a hint of dark canopy. Rain muted everything, but the house, rising, looked as tall and massive as it had that day so many years ago. For an instant, Abigail wished she could reach back through time and touch the young woman she’d been, all smooth skin and conviction. She wanted to slap that girl in the face, tell her to pull down her skirt and run like the devil was at her heels. Instead, she pulled out the revolver she kept in the glove compartment. It was heavy in her hand, the metal cool and blued. She looked into the brutish barrel, then at the bullets nestled like eggs in the chambers. She straightened her arm, sighted at the house, and for a moment entertained dark fantasies. Then she put the pistol back where it belonged: in the glove compartment, locked.

  She drove down the rough track, gravel clanking on the undercarriage, the shocks worn and loose. Where the forest ended, she turned across a final field, then picked up the main estate road that ran to the stables and the back of the house. She saw Jessup at the stables, then turned for the garage and caught a brief glimpse of the long, impossibly straight drive. At the far end, the gate was a postage stamp of twisted iron.

  Abigail drove to the rear door and killed the engine. Inside, she ignored the stares and the hurried movements of the household staff. She turned down a narrow hall, then through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen, where two cooks looked up, too startled say a word as they took in the long, ill-fitting coat, the mud on her feet, and the ruin of her hair. “Where is Mr. Vane?” Abigail asked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Mr. Vane? Where is he?”

  “He is in the study.”

  “Has Julian eaten?”

  The cooks shared a worried glance. “Mr. Vane says no one is to go into that part of the house.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Mr. Senator says—”

  “I don’t care what Mr. Senator says.” Her voice came too loudly, and she calmed herself. No point in scaring anyone. “Fix a tray,” she said. “I’ll send someone for it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Abigail left the back halls used by the servants and entered the main house, the ceiling soaring above her. She passed window treatments that hung twenty feet to the floor, a dining room table that could seat thirty. She entered the foyer and felt coolness in the air as the ceiling rose forty feet, the stairwell curving around the vast space as it spiraled to the third floor and the vaulted cupola beyond. She climbed the stairs, passing an iron chandelier the size of her bed and portraits of long-dead men who weren’t actually related to her husband. At the first landing, she turned for the guest wing, which was long and broad and rich. Six rooms lined the hall, three on each side. More paintings hung on the walls. Antique sideboards gleamed. A man sat in a chair halfway down the hall. He was middle-aged and fit, with black hair and shoes that caught the light when he stood. He was neither a member of the house staff, nor, as far as she could tell, a member of her husband’s office. His hands were large under thick wrists and snow-white cuffs.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Vane.”

  His tie was the same navy as the rug, his gaze as flat as the floor on which it lay. Yet, the eyes moved: up and down, light blue and steady. She let him have his look. Stories circulated about her, she knew; and her appearance this morning would no doubt make for another one.

  She could not care less.

  “Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Sleeping, I assume. The senator deemed her unfit
to watch over his son.”

  “The senator deemed?”

  “He dismissed her three hours ago.”

  She tilted her head, her own face as hard as his, her eyes just as appraising. “Do I know you?”

  “Richard Gale. I work for your husband.”

  “That was not my question.”

  “We’ve never met.”

  “But you know who I am?”

  “Of course.”

  She weighed his appearance even further: wide shoulders and narrow waist, the first hint of creases in the skin of his neck. He stood perfectly still, light on his feet and amused. Abigail recognized the arrogance common to men of a certain physical quality. She’d seen it often in military officers and in field agents prized by the intelligence community. Years ago, she’d found such men exciting, but she’d never been as wise in her youth as she’d imagined herself to be. “Are we going to have a problem?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. You’re cleared to go in.”

  “Cleared?”

  “On the senator’s list.”

  She frowned. “What is it, exactly, that you do for my husband?”

  “Whatever is required.”

  “Are you a federal agent?” He blinked once, and kept his mouth shut. “A private contractor,” Abigail concluded.

  “I work for your husband. That’s really all I’m obligated to say.”

  “Is my son under guard?”

  “He’s not tried to leave. He’s—”

  “What?”

  Gale shrugged.

  “Let’s get a few things straight, Mr. Gale. My son is not a prisoner. This is his home. So, if he wishes to leave this room, you may call me or his father, you may follow him if you must; but if you lay a hand on him or try to restrain his movement in any way, I’ll make you regret it.”

  “Senator Vane left strict instructions.”

  “Senator Vane is not the one of whom you should be frightened.”

  The humor drained out of his eyes.

  She stepped closer.

  “The senator has concerns that I do not: appearances, for one, lawsuits and reporters and voters. His worries are larger than his son, so he does foolish things, like make you sit in this hall with a responsibility you cannot possibly handle. But that’s not my problem. I’m a mother of one son, that son. Do you understand me?”

  “I think so.”

  “No, Mr. Gale, you don’t. If you did, you’d be leaving at a fast walk and praying that I forget your name.”

  “But, the senator—”

  “Don’t fuck with my son.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, step away from the door.”

  Abigail brushed past and opened the door that for three days had shut her son off from the world.

  Three days of doubt and uncertainty.

  Three days of hell.

  She crossed the threshold and closed the door. Inside, the dark was a shock to her eyes, a blackness that was nearly complete. Heavy curtains hung over windows that opened to the lakes below. No lamps burned. Warm air pressed her skin as she put her back to the door and dug deep for the courage to force a smile before turning on the lights. She was a mother first, and found the weight of Julian’s collapse nearly unbearable. Wounded and unsure, he’d been a delicate child from the first, a boy prone to night terrors and doubt. Yet, she’d worked hard to make him whole, first for months and then years, until fixing the broken parts of Julian had become her resolve and her religion. She’d given all she could: education and activity, love and patience and strength, and in many ways it had worked, for as weak as he was, as scarred and bereft, Julian had always found the will to endure. He’d overcome the trauma of his childhood, the loss of his brother, and the mark of long years at Iron Mountain. He’d become an artist and a poet, a children’s author, successful in his own right. To the world at large, he was a man of deep feeling and nuance, but in his heart, Abigail knew, Julian remained little more than a shattered boy, the brittle precipitate of the things he’d endured. It was a secret they kept, dark matter buried deep.

  “Julian?”

  Her eyes began to adjust. To her right, the bed was dark and flat and empty. Furniture made vague, humped shapes in the room, while from somewhere deeper, a dull, rapping sound made itself heard.

  “Julian?”

  There were two more thumps, and then the sound stopped. Something moved in a far corner.

  “I’m going to turn on a light. You might want to cover your eyes.”

  She shuffled to the bedside table and clicked on a small lamp, a Tiffany piece whose soft light touched a pale yellow rug and cream-colored baseboards beneath walls papered French blue with gold fleur-de-lis. Shadows gathered under furniture, and she saw Julian, hunched in the corner beyond the bed. His hair was unwashed, his face buried in knees drawn to his chest. His pants were stained with mud and grass, his shirt untucked and greasy at the collar. Clean clothes sat in neat piles, but he refused to touch them. He refused to eat. Refused to drink.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Abigail moved closer, and Julian pushed into the corner. He clenched his arms more tightly, and in the light she saw that gauze wrapped his hands. The fabric extended from his wrists to the tips of his fingers, tightly wrapped except at the edges, where it had begun to tear and fray. Blood soaked through at the knuckles, red stains on white, and on the walls around him—on all the walls—blood discolored the fine, blue paper. Where Julian huddled, the blood was fresh and wet, while farther away it had dried to thin smears of rust-colored ink.

  Abigail froze when she saw how wet the bandages were, how stained the walls. This was something terrible and new: damaged hands and bloodstained walls. She asked why, but had no answer; looked for reason and saw only madness. She turned a circle, barbs of fear hooked in the walls of her chest, the strings of her will simply cut. The marks went as high as the ceiling, as low as the floor. The walls were dashed with red and rust and questions she could not bear.

  She sank to her knees and put her hands on those of her son. “Julian.”

  The bandages were warm and wet.

  My baby …

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Abigail found her husband in the study, reading the Washington Post, half-glasses on his nose, mouth slightly open. Behind him, French doors showcased the formal gardens and the pool house beyond.

  Randall Vane looked good under his silver hair. He was sixty-nine, wide-shouldered and tall enough to carry some extra weight. He had a strong nose and green eyes that worked well with the silver hair. Leonine, he’d once been called; it was a word he favored.

  Leonine.

  Lion-like.

  Abigail entered without knocking. She felt nothing physical as she walked, neither her feet nor the smears of blood that her son’s bandages had left on her cheeks. She felt the ache of Julian’s eyes and the memory of heat in his wounded hands. She stopped at the desk’s edge, her fingers pressed white on the wood. “Julian needs a doctor.” Her voice shook, and she thought she might be in shock. Randall lowered the paper, took off his glasses. He considered her appearance: the fine nose chiseled white at the nostrils, the large eyes, and the once-plump lips drawn tight. His gaze traveled to the man’s coat she wore and the muddy pants beneath it. “It’s getting worse,” she said.

  “Whose coat are you wearing?”

  “It’s getting worse.”

  She put the force of her will behind her words, and, hearing that force, Senator Randall Vane leaned back in his chair, folded the newspaper, and dropped it on the desk. The shirt pulled across his broad chest, the swell of his stomach. His face was ruddy, his teeth impossibly white. The cuffs of his shirt were monogrammed with pale, blue thread. “What do you mean?”

  “Julian is harming himself.”

  The senator laced thick fingers and rested them on his stomach. His voice came smoothly. “It started last night. I don’t know when.”

  “Where is Mrs. Hamilton? Julian should be wi
th someone he knows and loves.”

  “I found Mrs. Hamilton asleep in the hall.”

  “She helped raise him, Randall. If I’m not there, she is. That was our deal. How could you send her away without bringing me there first?”

  “She was sleeping on the job while Julian beat his hands bloody. I sent her to bed and brought in someone I can trust.”

  “What happened to my son, Randall?”

  The senator rocked forward in his chair, big elbows landing on the desk. “He started hitting the walls. What else can I tell you? We don’t know why. He just did it. He was already bleeding when I went to check on him. He could have been doing it for hours.”

  “And you didn’t come get me?”

  “Come get you where, exactly?” His eyes drove the knife home, and Abigail looked away, angry and ashamed. “You ran out in the middle of our discussion.”

  “Our argument.”

  “Argument. Discussion. No matter. You were not to be found and I was left to deal with Julian. We bandaged his hands, sedated him. The injuries are minor. We’re watching him.”

  “He needs a doctor.”

  “I disagree.”

  “He hasn’t spoken since he came home. We don’t know where he’s been, what happened to him…”

  “It’s only been a few days. We agreed—”

  “We did not.”

  “We agreed to give him time to come out of this on his own. He’s upset about something. Fine. It happens to all of us. There’s no point in blowing this out of proportion. It’s probably just a girl, some sweet young thing that broke his heart.”

  “He’s injuring himself.”

  “Doctors keep records, Abigail. And records can be leaked.”

  “Please don’t make this about you.”

  “He’s a political liability.”

  “He’s your son.”

  It was an old argument, the line drawn when Julian was a boy. He had trouble looking people in the eyes, and rarely shook hands or allowed himself to be touched. Even now, he was painfully shy, so reticent he did poorly with people he did not know well. To complicate matters further, the books he wrote were as dark as could be and still be for children. They dealt with difficult themes: death and betrayal and fear, the pain of childhood’s end. Critics often remarked that a distinct godlessness characterized his stories, and because of that, some conservative communities had banned his books, even burned them. The power of his artistry and storytelling, however, was undeniable, so powerful, in fact, that few could read them without being emotionally challenged in some meaningful way. So, while in some circles he was demonized, in others he was celebrated as an artist of the highest order. His own explanation was simple: The world is cruel and children can be stronger than they know. Yet, his books, like life, did not always end well. Children died. Parents failed. Telling children less, he’d often said, would be cruelty of a different sort.