by John Hart
Abigail drove into the clearing and saw details she’d forgotten in two decades’ worth of trying. To the right, a springhouse gave birth to a trickle of water. Beyond it, a smokehouse stood with its door open, metal hooks hanging on the inside. Abigail stepped out of the car and a damp smell hit her nose, a scent like wet talcum and crushed flowers.
Wind chimes tinkled.
Bits of colored glass on brown string.
Abigail moved past a fire pit full of scattered ash and small bones charred black. On the steps were stones scarred with pentagrams, mason jars filled with what looked like urine and rusted nails. Hides were nailed to a frame near the wall, and dried plants hung on the porch.
Abigail stopped as the front door swung wide. Something moved in the murky interior, and a woman stepped out. “Well, isn’t this a thing to behold?”
The voice was the same, as was the knowing look in the bright, mocking eyes.
“Hello, Caravel.”
“Richness.”
Caravel Gautreaux stopped in a spill of light and put a hand on the rail. If Abigail had expected her to be ground down by poverty and hard living, she was disappointed. Caravel’s hands were rough, but she still had the kind of shape men would like. Five and a half feet tall and burned brown, she was barefoot and lean in a dress made transparent by time and the sun. White streaked her hair in places, but her lips were full and lush. “You look well,” Abigail said.
“Well enough.” She lit a cigarette. “How’s your husband?”
“He’s yours if you want him.”
Gautreaux lifted the left corner of her mouth. “I guess I had the best of him already. Have you come to settle our score after all this time?”
Abigail shrugged. “Men will be men.”
“Does he still say my name in his sleep?”
“Hardly.”
“No, I suppose not.” Caravel flicked ash. “What do you want down here, richness?”
“I came to see your daughter.”
“Oh.” An amused expression rose. “This is about Julian.”
Abigail tensed. Until now, her theory had been just that. “What do you know about my son?”
“Only that he has the same taste for Gautreaux women as your husband, that he has the same wisdom in his soul yet chooses to keep such choices from you. It all seems so familiar—the lies and carrying on, candlelight and warm air, the smell of young lovers—”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I enjoy many things.” Caravel rolled the words off her tongue. “Men and smoke and warm, red meat.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“The pleasures of your company when you’re in disarray…”
“Damn it, Caravel.”
The smile fell off, and her voice hardened. “Victorine’s not here.”
“Then I’ll come back when she is.”
“You don’t understand. She’s been gone a week. Might not be coming back at all.”
“Ah, the girl finally wised up.”
“What?”
“Wised up. Moved on.”
“The girl is mine,” Caravel said.
“Not anymore, it seems.”
A weight of anger settled in Caravel’s eyes, deep lines at her mouth. “You take that back.”
“Just keep your daughter away from my son. You do that and we’ll have no problems. Keep her off the estate, away from the house.”
Caravel came off the porch, one shoulder lifted and a sudden, crazy light in her eyes. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
Abigail took a step back. “I wouldn’t be here if I had.”
Caravel pointed a finger. “Where’s my baby?”
“I told you—”
“You tell her Momma Gautreaux’s not mad anymore. You tell her all’s forgiven if she comes home.”
“You just stay away from us.”
“You’ll tell her what I said?”
“First of all, I don’t know where your crazy daughter is. I’ve told you that a few times already. And second, the best thing that child could do is keep far away from you. I’ll tell her that if I see her.”
Gautreaux flicked her cigarette into the dirt, a sudden, wild hate in her voice. “You come between me and my daughter? You come between?” She came closer, her sanity gone as if a switch had dropped. “That child is mine! You understand? I won’t have you and your boy tellin’ some kind of lies to drive us apart. I see it, now.” She reached out to touch Abigail. “I see it.”
“Stay away from me.” Abigail stumbled backward.
“Distance makes no never-mind, richness. I can hurt you from a world away.”
Abigail reached the truck, got her hand on the door. “Just stay away from my son.”
“Two feet away or the whole damn world.” Gautreaux sat on the porch step, laughing. “No never-mind at all.”
Abigail got in the truck and fired the engine, wheels chewing dust as she turned a tight circle. Her window was down and she saw Gautreaux watching.
“All roads lead back to Momma Gautreaux,” she called.
The house swung into the rearview mirror. Trees rose and Abigail heard last words, faint beneath the engine. “You tell my baby girl…”
Abigail drove fast.
“Ever’ damn road…”
Five minutes into the woods, Abigail finally slowed the truck. She was rattled and shaken, her heart running like a small animal as she took deep breaths and confronted the fact that Caravel Gautreaux scared her on some deep, fundamental level. Abigail was forty-seven years old, a rational woman; but evil, she knew, was as real as she. It had the same beating heart, the same blood. Call it sin or corruption, call it whatever you like, but that woman was evil. It was in the lines of her skin and in the history of that place, in the smell of dust and the weakness of men. All Abigail really knew was that she’d panicked at the look in Caravel’s eyes. The madness was too familiar, the cold, hard look.
Abigail knew women like that.
Had reason to fear them.
A final shudder rolled under her skin, then she collected herself as she always did. She crushed the weakness and the doubt, drove home to tall, stone walls and mirrors that failed to see so deep. She reminded herself that she was iron on the inside, and harder than any woman alive.
Ten minutes later, she parked the Land Rover. Jessup Falls waited at the back door. “Where have you been?”
She considered the red flush in his face, the tension in his frame. “I went to see Caravel Gautreaux.”
“Why? The woman’s insane.”
“I think Julian’s involved with her daughter.”
“Victorine Gautreaux is only nineteen.”
“So was her mother when she cut a ninety-mile swath through the married men of Chatham County. Age is irrelevant to Gautreaux women. Caravel started when she was fourteen. High school boys. Farm hands. Drifters.”
“That’s a rumor…”
“Anyone with five dollars and an erection.”
“I don’t like it when you get like this.”
Abigail let a breath escape, and with it went much of her tension, the memory of her fear. “Maybe. Perhaps. Tell me what’s happened.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“I’ve known you a long time, Jessup.”
“Walk with me.” He turned and Abigail fell in beside him. They moved along the drive, then off and into shaded grass. “There’s someone at the gate.”
“There’s always someone at the gate. This is a senator’s house. That’s what the gate is for.”
“You’ll want to see this person.”
“For God’s sake—”
“He’s Julian’s brother.”
“That’s not possible.”
Abigail looked into Jessup’s eyes; she saw certitude and worry, the steady flow of a deep current.
“It’s him.”
“It can’t be…”
The voice was not hers. It was too small, too young.
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br /> “Abigail…”
She bent as her vision grayed at the edges.
“Abigail…”
She bent farther, no breath. She saw a boy in sideways snow: one glimpse as he ran, the night that stole him away. He was so small, so lost. She tried to straighten, but the weight of twenty-three years settled on her neck.
Michael …
“Breathe,” a voice said.
But she could not.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An iron gate rose twelve feet in front of the stolen car. It was beautifully made, but functional, four thousand pounds of hand-wrought metal strong enough to stop anything short of a tank. Behind it, a strip of black pavement cut a straight line through velvet grass. Farther in, the house looked impossibly large; a castle behind ten-foot stone walls. Michael leaned against the car and watched traffic on the road. He studied the gates, the guards. Inside the car, Elena said his name.
“You okay?” He ducked low enough to look in through the window. Elena scooted across the seat until she was behind the wheel. She was exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and hollows worn into her cheeks. The wear showed in her voice and in the times she’d drifted and twitched, a pale, worn soul on endless miles of interstate. Even at the motel last night, she’d curled alone on the other bed, quiet and still, but awake. In the morning, she’d showered in silence, dressed with the barest smile. She could hardly meet Michael’s eyes, and when she did, there was a secret place where none had been before.
“Are they going to let us in?”
Michael studied the men who guarded the gate. They were professional and alert, broad, fit men with short hair and impeccable suits. Both carried holstered weapons and were as polite as they were confident. Their communications gear was state-of-the-art. If they were private, they were expensive, and Michael wondered just how good they really were. “If Julian’s here, they’ll let us in.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“Depends, I guess.”
“I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Michael studied the gate, the walls. The guards’ attention was unbroken. Security cameras pivoted from high mounts, and one of them was pointed directly at them. “He’s coming,” Michael said.
“What if they’re not here?”
“Senate’s out of session. This is their summer home. It feels right.”
Elena chewed a fingernail, hair sliding on her neck as she checked the road, the deep, black woods. She felt naked in the car, and Michael understood. But how could he tell her the truth? How could he explain that Stevan and Jimmy would never let it end with a quick, clean shot from the deep woods? How could he look her in the eyes and tell her that when they came—which they would—it would be to make things close and personal?
“I don’t like this.”
Cars blew past, and in the forest, a bird’s wing flashed. Michael peered up the drive as a vehicle appeared in the distance, a bullet of metal that became a Ford Expedition as it drew closer and slowed at the gate. Michael saw the same white-haired man behind the wheel. He got out and spoke to the guards, who remained alert but impassive as the gate swung wide and the man walked out to speak with them. “Mrs. Vane has agreed to see you. You can ride with me.”
Michael checked the road, which was empty. The walls stretched for at least a mile in either direction. “I’d prefer to have my own transportation.”
“If you want inside the gate, the car stays here.” The moment stretched between them. “The weapon stays, too.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Weapon?”
“Don’t insult me, son. The one tucked in the back of your pants. Put it in the car. Lock the car. Get in. Time’s wasting.”
Michael studied his face, which was sunburned, rugged, and blunt. It looked like the face of an honest man, but looks meant little to Michael. He’d known so many liars, so many frauds. “Do you know my brother?”
The man squinted, and skin puckered around his eyes. “I know Julian like he was my own son.”
“Is he here?”
“He is.”
Michael looked away first. “Just a second.” He slipped into the car, tucked the gun under the seat, and rolled up the windows.
“Are you sure about this?” Elena ran both palms down the length of her thighs.
“We’ll be fine.”
They climbed from the car and Michael locked it. The driver hitched a thumb and said, “She goes in the back. You sit up front where I can see you.”
When they were in, the old man dropped a hand to the left side of his seat, then turned in a hard circle and drove back toward the big house. Michael saw formal gardens and trees so beautifully groomed they were ornamental. In the distance, another guard stood at the front door; two more patrolled the corners. Michael could not see any sign of it, but he suspected there would be electronic measures as well: cameras, motion sensors, infrared.
“Why so much security?” he asked.
“How many billionaires do you know?”
Halfway down the drive, the vehicle turned left on a narrow, gravel lane that disappeared into a stand of oaks. “I thought we were going inside,” Michael said.
“Not to the main house. That comes later. Maybe. My name is Jessup Falls.”
“This is Elena,” Michael said.
Falls’s eyes rose to meet hers in the rearview mirror. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other in the hollow place between his seat and the door. “Ma’am.”
“You took longer than expected.”
Falls looked at Michael, shrugged. “Your arrival was unexpected. Discussions were had.”
“Whether to let me in,” Michael said.
“I was on Iron Mountain the day you killed the Hennessey boy, so, yes. That was part of the discussion.”
“Is that why your left hand is holding a gun?”
Falls shrugged, then pulled the gun from beside the seat and tucked it between his legs. “Old habits,” he said.
“Are you in charge of security?”
“Only for Mrs. Vane. The senator has his own people.”
They drove for a half mile, first through forest, then along a ridge that offered long views of the house and grounds. When that view dropped away, Falls stopped the car.
“Are we meeting Mrs. Vane here?” Michael asked.
Falls put the transmission in park. His face was all business. “We’re on the west side of the estate. We’re going to the guesthouse. That way.” He pointed. “It’s private. No one ever uses it.” He pivoted so he could see Elena and Michael at the same time. He stared for long seconds, then frowned and said, “There’s no money for you here.”
“That’s not why we came.”
“Then why?”
“To see my brother.”
“Just like that? After all this time?” Michael shrugged, and Falls asked, “Why do you carry a gun?”
“Why do you?”
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere, at the moment.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“My last job was washing dishes.”
Falls peered through the windshield. The road stretched out. “You’re giving me no reason to trust you.”
“You’re private security, which means you’re probably ex-cop. You don’t trust me, and you won’t. Nothing I say will change that, so let’s not waste time. I want to see Julian. You say I need to speak to Mrs. Vane first. Fine. She’s agreed to see me. Let’s get on with it.”
“Fair enough. I need you both to step out of the car.”
“Why?”
“Just because I’m unwilling to pat you down on the side of a public road doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Outside, in the cool of the woods, Michael let Falls pat him down. The man was thorough and quick. “I apologize,” he said to Elena.
“It’s okay,” Michael told Elena, and watched Falls frisk her, too. He was just as thorough, and unapologetic.
“You can get back in the car.”
They climbed in, and when Falls turned, his mouth was an uncompromising line. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder in North Carolina.” He squinted, looked from Michael to Elena and back. “I want to make sure you’re aware of that.”
“I don’t understand.” Elena leaned forward.
“He’s talking about what happened at Iron House.” Michael let a few seconds slip by, not taking his eyes off Falls. “He’s threatening me.”
“Advising you.”
Michael smiled a thin smile, no light in his eyes. “We both know there’s no warrant with my name on it. No indictment. Nothing in the system.”
“Yet, the police spent a long time looking for you.”
“Twenty-three years ago and half a state away.” Michael leaned a bit closer. “No one is looking for me, Mr. Falls; and we both know the deeper truth of why that is.”
They measured each other for ten seconds, and Falls broke first. “Just don’t push me, young man. I take my job seriously.”
“I love my brother,” Michael said.
“Then we should have no problem.”
* * *
The guesthouse was a stone cottage on a low knoll that overlooked the lakes and house. It had iron boot-scrapes by the door, a covered porch, and green shutters with black metal hinges. A lawn swept down to the water, and dense trees crowded against the back.
“Wait here.”
They watched Falls step onto the porch, then open the door and disappear. The house was small and looked as if it had been there forever. The roof was heavy slate stained green in the cracks. Blue sky shone in high windows; the low ones were black. A beat-up Land Rover Defender was parked at the entrance. Michael watched for movement inside, saw none. Elena took his arm, worried.
“Is it true, what he said? Can they really arrest you?”