Iron House

by John Hart

  “I’m a killer, not a thief.” He gave her a second to process that. He wanted her scared enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Wanted her honest with him. “You understand me, Crystal?” He waited until she looked up and met his gaze. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  She stared, white-faced and still. Something in his eyes convinced her, because when she nodded the rest of her body was as frozen as a deer in headlights. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, I’ll ask you again. What’s the money for?”

  “All I know is he said there’d be more, another delivery, just like that one. Soon as he got back. That’s it and that’s all.”

  “What about Andrew Flint?”

  “I just know the name, and what Ronnie said. That I should run if the man ever showed up. I should take the money and go to a place we know. I should wait for Ronnie there.”

  “Do you know where Ronnie went?”

  “Back east somewhere. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”

  Michael considered the bands of cash, the scrap of paper in his hand. He held it up for her to see. “Do these names mean anything to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Michael began stacking the money back inside the box. He smelled ink and paper and Crystal’s fear. He put the top on the box, and saw that she had her hands out.

  “Mister?”

  He put one hand on the box, looked at the names.

  Billy Walker

  Chase Johnson

  George Nichols

  They were names from the past, Hennessey’s crew from Iron House. Michael saw them like twenty-three years ago was yesterday. Big kids, and mean.

  Predators.

  Dogs.

  Michael looked down at the names written in a dead man’s hand, and in looking he felt it all come tearing back, a current so dark and strong it hurt.

  “Mister?” She must have seen the change in him, because her voice came smaller. “Mister…”

  He looked again at Ronnie Saints’s list of names. The three boys were listed first, one above the other, and then a line beneath. Under the line were two other names.

  “Who is Salina Slaughter?” He watched carefully, but saw no artifice as Crystal shook her head.

  “I don’t know.”

  He held up the paper so she could see it. “Ronnie didn’t say?”

  “No, sir. I saw the list, same as you, but he was in no mind to talk about it. Ronnie’s particular like that. I’m not allowed to question.”

  “But you see things.” Michael pushed. “You pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else did you notice?” Michael drew the box of money a little closer.

  “Nothing.”

  “Phone calls?” Her eyes stayed on the box. “People?”

  “No.”

  “Did he speak to any of the men on this list? George Nichols? Billy Walker? Chase Johnson?”

  “Chase Johnson. They’re friends, still.”

  “Where does Chase Johnson live?”

  “Charlotte, I think.”

  “What does he do in Charlotte?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve only met him once.”

  “Has Ronnie called you since he left?”

  She shook her head. “He says cell phones give you brain cancer.”

  “Who is Salina Slaughter?” Michael lifted the box, put it in his lap. “Tell me that and you can keep the money.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, a kind of wild panic at the thought of losing the money. “I just want a baby and a paid-for house.”

  “Salina…”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong…”

  “… Slaughter.”

  “She called here once, that’s all I know. Right before he left. That’s it and that’s all.”

  Michael stood, box of money in his left hand. He believed her. “Do you know where I can find Andrew Flint?” She rolled into herself, nose red and wet, head shaking. Michael looked down for a moment, then placed the box of money on the coffee table. “Buy a house,” he said. “Have a baby if you want. But I wouldn’t count on Ronnie Saints.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He thought of Ronnie Saints, dead in the lake. His gaze lingered on the circle of puckered white scars. “You can do better.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  There is an awareness born of fear: Elena knew this, now. She saw every mark on the walls, felt the softness of worn denim, the stiff collar of a shirt that hung to her knees. She smelled her skin, and the staleness of the house. Her heart was more than a distant thump.

  At the door, she heard voices and a television. Drawing back, she considered the room for the fifteenth time. She wanted a way out. A weapon. She checked the closet, but it was still empty. No hangers or clothing. Even the rod had been removed. In the room itself, there was only the bed and the chair. She checked the bed frame. It was heavy iron.

  Maybe one of the legs …

  She spent ten minutes trying to turn a single bolt with her fingertips, then went back to her corner and sat. She felt heat on her skin when the sun dipped low. The waiting was killing her. The uncertainty.

  Damn it …

  Angry now, she got to her feet and crept back to the door. The television sounds were clearer: a news channel, something about New York and bloodshed and violence. Someone said, “Fuck this.” And then glass broke. Arguments. Shouts. Several men raised their voices, then a gunshot so loud that silence, when it came, was total and complete. Emotions were hot in the small, airless house. She felt it like electricity in the air. After a minute, a key scraped in the lock. The door opened and there was Jimmy. “Feeling better?”

  He wore different clothes that smelled of gunpowder; carried her purse and a handgun. Behind him, men stood in disarray. Some looked angry, others frightened. In their midst, the television sat dead and still, a perfect hole in the center of its screen. Jimmy stood as if none of that mattered.

  “This is bullshit, Jimmy.”

  The words came from a man down the hall. Big, thick-boned. Angry. Jimmy’s arm came up, and although his eyes were still on Elena, the gun sights settled squarely on the man who had spoken.

  “Will you hold this?” Jimmy handed her the pocketbook, then walked back down the hall, men parting. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  The barrel settled an inch from the man’s face. His heavy arms lifted a few inches from his waist. “I didn’t say anything, Jimmy.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  The big man nodded. Jimmy lowered the gun, and turned his back in a show of obvious contempt. In a casual manner, he put one foot against the television and rocked it onto its side, the screen shattering completely as it struck the floor. Then he gathered up a handful of newspapers and stopped in the center of the room. “I don’t want to hear any more complaining.” He glared around the room. “We leave when I say.”

  No one met his gaze. Feet shuffled, and someone said, “Sure, Jimmy.”

  A few others nodded.

  Most did not.

  He walked back to Elena’s room, took the purse and closed the door. “I would like to leave, now,” she said.

  “I know you would. I’m sorry. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  He tossed newspapers on the bed, and Elena saw a flash of headlines. Street warfare. Explosions. Gangsters. She saw photos of dead bodies, cops in assault gear. Jimmy saw her looking and said, “People are fighting over the old man’s scraps. A vacuum rushing to be filled.” He paused, eyes flat as he hooked a thumb toward the living room. “They think we should be in the city instead of here.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “The scraps are meaningless. Most of Otto Kaitlin’s wealth is legitimate, now, and has been for years. Advertising. Modeling agencies. Car dealerships. He actually owned two beauty pageants when he died. Priceless. Can you believe it? Beauty pageants. Otto Kaitlin.”

  “Why don’t you just tell them that?”

  “Because t
hey’re children.”

  He sat on the bed, opened her purse and began removing the contents. He placed each item on the bed, a long line of things side by side. A hairbrush and makeup. Passport. Wallet. Keys. Gum. A few loose receipts. “You can tell so much about a woman by what she carries in her purse. Although, in your case, it’s more about what you don’t carry.” He rummaged more deeply in the purse. “No cigarettes or pill bottles. No booze. No mace. No contraception. No address book. No photographs.” He straightened the items, touching each. “Such a minimalist.”

  He removed her cell phone. “But this…” He flipped it open, scrolled through the phone log. “Not many calls the past week. A few women, looks like. Michael, mostly. The restaurant.” He pursed his lips in what Elena knew immediately to be false surprise. “You have texts from Michael.” He flashed the phone in her direction. “Want to see?”

  Elena did not rise to the bait.

  Jimmy shrugged, then scrolled through the texts. “Call me. Where are you? I’m sorry. Blah blah. Very domestic.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You have four new messages from Michael. I’d like to hear them.” He waited. “To do that, I need the password.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I just do.”

  He smiled, but she saw the same insanity from before. Whatever his obsession with Michael, whether fear or pride or something deeper, it was complete. She gave him the password, and his mouth opened as he dialed voice mail. “Ah.” He held up a hand, and whispered, “There you are…”

  His voice fell off.

  His eyes drifted shut as he listened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Michael got back to the car, Abigail looked shaken. “I’ve been online.” She held up her BlackBerry. “Every major outlet has the story.”

  “Anything solid?”

  “Police presence at the estate. A body found. Some of the bigger outlets are running bits about Christina’s death eighteen years ago. One has a chopper over the estate. You can see boats on the lake, police cars at the boathouse.”

  “Has anyone mentioned Julian?”

  “Only that he was a suspect last time. But they’re showing his picture. They’re leaving the implication out there.”

  “Your friend Jacobsen made that happen. They’re trying to force him out, shame him into facing their questions. Typical cops.”

  “They’ll drag him through the mud, won’t they?”

  “Drag him. Trample him. Cops are all about pressure points.” Michael glanced at Ronnie’s house, then started the engine. It was a few minutes after five. The sun would be down in three hours. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They rolled off Ronnie Saints’s street; neither of them looked back. Abigail sank into her seat and asked, “What did you find out?”

  Michael said nothing. He was thinking.

  “Michael?”

  He turned right, and the road opened up. Another turn and they were out of residential, two lanes gone to four, light industrial dotting the roadside. He was thinking of Julian and Abigail Vane, of the things he’d learned, and of the names on that piece of paper. He didn’t know exactly where he was, not on a map, but the sun was setting and he planned to follow it down.

  “Iron Mountain is west?”

  She nodded, looked at him oddly. “What happened in there, Michael?”

  Michael gave her a look that he knew was equally strange. They’d been allies, but things felt different, and Michael had to get his head around that fact. He had to interpret, and decide. So, he kept silent as the car slid from the shadow of a wooded peak into a burst of flat, yellow sun. He put his eyes back on the road as Abigail glanced at the navigational system and cleared her throat.

  “We’ll go right a few miles up, then straight for ten miles. After that, it gets complicated.”

  “How?”

  “Back roads and deep woods. No major roads go from here to Iron Mountain.”

  “How long?”

  “Forty miles, but it gets bendy. Maybe an hour and a half.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are we going to Iron Mountain, Michael? And if we are…” She struggled with the very concept. “Can you please tell me, why?”

  He considered how much to say, and the order in which to say it. It was no small thing, this collision of past and present, so he spoke with caution. He told her of Ronnie’s girlfriend, and of Andrew Flint. He told her about the box of cash, and then about Billy Walker, Chase Johnson and George Nichols. “Hennessey, Ronnie Saints and those three. They’re the ones that ruined Julian’s life.”

  “I remember Andrew Flint,” she said. “A nervous man to have such responsibility. He seemed in over his head but eager to do better things.”

  “And the others? Walker? Johnson? Nichols?”

  “I know who they are.”

  Her voice was brittle, unforgiving, and Michael knew she’d heard stories of the things those boys had done. There was too much anger in her voice, too much bitter feeling. Julian had told. He’d painted pictures with his words, and with the ink of his eyes. He’d opened up and let her see the pain, because Julian, Michael knew, was the kind of boy who had to share. His strength was in the goodwill of others, in strong, knowing hands and souls that had not broken so young.

  “What are you not telling me?” she asked.

  Michael drove as Asheville fell away and the road twisted higher into the mountains.

  “Michael?”

  “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything to you?”

  “Salina?” She hesitated, then said, “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “It’s familiar sounding, but like a name I heard on the radio. I can’t place it.”

  The road bent right then left; lumber trucks hammered past in the opposite direction. He looked for reasons to doubt, for lies or twisted truth, but her posture was relaxed, her eyes clear and unflinching.

  “Michael…”

  “I’m thinking.”

  The highway twisted, rose.

  “About what?”

  “Nothing,” he said, but that was false.

  There were five names on the list.

  Abigail Vane’s was number five.

  * * *

  “Powerful, isn’t it?” Abigail looked sideways. “Coming back.”

  They were at the crest of the last high pass, the valley spread out below and Iron Mountain rising up on the opposite side, a great slab of stone touched with light so soft it did not seem real.

  Michael nodded, wordless.

  “That’s the town of Iron Mountain.” Abigail dragged herself taller, pushing her hips back in the seat and clearing her throat as Michael worked the car down the mountain. Last sun was on the valley floor, a long spill of gold that made the river shine. “It’s not as pretty as it looks.”

  “Where’s the orphanage?”

  “Through the town and four miles out the other side. The mountain hangs over it.”

  “I remember the mountain,” Michael said, then drove them out onto the valley floor. They crossed small streams that would eventually feed the river, passed barbwire fences and bottomland pasture. Michael strained for a sense of connection, but only the mountain made sense. It piled up as they drew close: low, blanketed slopes and then the massive thrust of granite. The valley itself was three thousand feet above sea level; the mountain soared up another two, its face splintered, its crown brushed dark green.

  “Are you all right?” Abigail asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  She touched his arm. “Past is past.”

  “I may have heard something about that.”

  “And yet we can all use reminding.”

  She squeezed his arm, then let it go. They passed small houses on low lots, everything poor and dirty. “Not much here,” Michael observed.

  “The town was built on mining and lumber, but the coal played out.” She tilted her head. “Most of that is national forest and c
an’t be logged. The private holdings were timbered out years ago. Sawmills folded when that happened. Trucking firms. A paper company. All gone.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I made it my business to know. I wanted you boys, and came prepared. Money. Knowledge.” She pointed. “Left here, I think.” Michael turned onto Main Street, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “None of this has changed. Twenty-three years and I still remember.”

  And she did: package stores and open bars, bent people in red, cracked skin. They passed an open diner, a gas station. A few of the storefronts were boarded up. People watched them pass, and the watching made her uncomfortable. “Did you know that Iron House was an asylum before it was an orphanage?”

  “What?”

  She hugged herself. “For the criminally insane.”

  * * *

  Nine minutes later, Michael parked the big Mercedes in front of tall, iron gates. The columns were familiar, a memory of straight, hard fingers rising up through fallen snow. He’d touched one as he ran, knife in his hand, neck craning back.

  The gates were new.

  So was the chain-link fence.

  Michael climbed from the car, Abigail following. The fence was eight feet high and ran off in both directions. Chain hung from the gates, a large, brass lock clanging as Michael shook the gates. Through the bars, Iron House humped up against the foothills, massive and dark.

  “Frightful, isn’t it?”

  He looked down on Abigail, then back at the gothic sprawl of the place he’d once called home. The building jutted up, its brick black with age, its stonework eternal and unchanged. Sunset put yellow stain on the high, slate roof, but below the soffits and the high third floor everything else looked gray and abandoned. The ruined wing stretched across the same ground, but its back was broken now, walls crumbled, small trees pushing through the rubble. The rest of the building didn’t look much better. Shattered windows gaped, shards of glass jammed like teeth in the rotted frames. Ivy climbed the broad, front steps, and weeds stood chest-high in the yard. The place radiated a sense of neglect and institutional decay. It looked forgotten and obscene.