by John Hart
“When did it close?”
Abigail shook her head. “I’m not exactly sure. Some years after I brought Julian home.”
He stared at the nightmare building, the smaller ones that hunkered down in its shadow. High grass bent in a hiss of wind. The river ran black as oil. “You say this was an asylum?”
“That’s why it was built so far from anything important. Why it was built so big and so strong.”
Michael struggled with the idea, but looking at the two high turrets and the broad sweep of stairs he remembered some of the things he’d discovered as a child, roaming the subbasement. Small, low rooms with iron rings bolted to the walls. Chairs with rotted leather straps. Strange machines rusted solid.
“It was built right after the Civil War,” Abigail said. “Many of the patients were soldiers suffering from posttraumatic stress. Of course, back then the affliction had no name. People wanted to do right by the soldiers, but they wanted to forget, too. The war was hard on this state. A lot of suffering. A lot of pain. The Iron Mountain Asylum was built to hold five hundred patients, but quickly overflowed to four times that many. Then, six. Damaged soldiers. The deranged. Some truly god-awful criminals feeding off the ravages of war. There’re books on this place if you care to read them. Stories. Pictures…” She shook her head. “Awful things.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I read up after Julian came home. I was trying to find some kind of insight. You know how it is when you’re grasping.”
She closed fingers on empty air, and Michael felt anger boil up. Kids in an asylum …
“What else?” he asked.
“There was never much oversight, never enough money; it got really bad near the turn of the century. Patients were naked and filthy, the medical practices barbaric. Bleedings. Ice baths. Muzzles. Overcrowding was terrible, illness systemic. There were deaths.” She took a breath, discouraged. “Eventually, there was enough public backlash to get the politicians involved. They closed the asylum after its conditions were deemed inhumane.”
“So, they made it into an orphanage.”
“A few years later, yes.”
“Perfect.” Michael eyed the gunmetal sky, the road that ran empty in both directions. “That’s just perfect.”
“What do we do now?”
Abigail hugged herself, and Michael jerked hard on the gate. Beyond it, the drive ran off, cracked pavement and weeds pushing through. He put his forehead against two of the warm, iron bars. He wanted a plan, a course of action, but in that moment he was more in the past than not. He saw boys in the yard, heard voices like far, faint cries.
“It’s not always pretty, is it?” Abigail put her hands on the bars. “Coming back to the place you’re from.”
Michael shook his head. “I thought we’d find answers here.”
“What kind of answers?”
“Andrew Flint, maybe. Something to tie all this together. A direction.” He looked at the wreckage beyond the fence. “Somehow, this is not what I expected.”
As if sensing his distress, Abigail said, “It’s okay, Michael.”
But it was not. Michael thought of asylums and prison and the cage of his brother’s mind. “If they arrest Julian,” he said, “the things that keep him sane will crack. Walls. Pillars. Whatever props him up will fail. He’ll go to prison or to another asylum. He won’t survive it.”
“But the lawyers…”
“The lawyers can’t save him, Abigail.” Michael struck one of the heavy bars with the flat of his hand. “You think Julian’s mind will make it to trial? You think he’ll survive a year in lockup while the lawyers collect their fees and drag the case out? While Julian’s abused in one of the few institutional settings worse than that?” He jabbed a finger at the ruins of Iron House. “I know people who’ve pulled time—hard men and violent—and even they’ve come out a shadow. For Julian, it would be like throwing a rape victim in with a pack of sex offenders. Scars are so deep, they wouldn’t have to touch him to break him. No. Even if he’s acquitted, he won’t come back the same. We need to either prove he didn’t do it or give the cops another suspect. We need to understand so that we can take steps.”
“Surely it’s not that bad.”
“Have you ever seen the inside of a prison?”
Michael put both hands on the bars as rage built and a weight settled on his chest.
Julian, schizophrenic.
Children in an asylum.
He thought of his years on the street—the hunger and cold and fear—then of the man he’d become. He saw bodies and blood on his hands, the ghost of a life bereft as Elena ran in disgust from the truth of what he was. He felt the way she saw him now, and knew things could never go back to the simple way they’d been. She would never look at him the same.
He’d given up two lives, and done it all to keep Julian safe.
“I won’t let him go down for this,” Michael said. “I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
His eyes searched hers, and he recognized the connection, the shared commitment to doing what must be done. But her cell phone rang before she could answer. She studied the screen, said, “It’s Jessup.” The phone rang a second time, and she answered it. “Hello, Jessup.”
Michael heard a squawk of voice, and watched Abigail move the phone back a few inches. “No,” she said, “I’m not ignoring you.” She went silent, her face pinking with emotion. “No. It’s none of your business where I go, or with whom.” She looked at Michael, lowered her shoulders. “No. We’re in the mountains. Reception is sporadic. Yes, the mountains. Michael and me. Yes, he’s with me. Where are we?” Her eyes tracked up the weed-choked drive, settled on the highest turret. “Iron Mountain.”
Falls’s voice rose even further, and Abigail lifted a finger to Michael. “Damn it, Jessup…”
Michael looked again at Iron House. He found the third-floor corner where he and Julian had shared a room. Two windows looked out on the yard; one of them was broken.
“What?” Her voice was loud and tinged with panic. “How did this happen?” She listened. “When? And where were you? And the senator’s man—what’s his name? What about him?” She ran a hand through her hair, left it mussed. “Well, somebody screwed up.” She found Michael with her eyes, then she turned away, back straight, one arm locked at her side. She spoke for another few minutes, and even when she hung up the phone she kept her back turned, her spine as hard and straight as any of the iron bars that hung between the ancient brick columns.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
She turned. “He’s sending the helicopter. It’s fast.” She nodded to herself. “I can fix this.”
“What?”
“Hour and fifteen minutes to get here. Another one-fifteen back. I can fix this.”
“Fix what? Abigail?”
“The police found another body in the lake.”
“Ronnie?”
“No.” She shook her head, voice bleak. “Not Ronnie.”
Michael processed, his mind slipping into this new gear with practiced ease. Two bodies, now, with Ronnie Saints still to be found. The discovery would inflame the investigation, the media. They would scour every inch of the lake, and that made it only a matter of time. They would find Ronnie Saints very soon. Once they linked a body to Julian, they would get their warrant and they would bring him in.
Michael looked at the building, at high, broken glass that caught the sky.
Ronnie Saints. Iron House.
The cops would figure it out plenty quick.
He checked his watch.
Abigail’s phone rang again.
“Yes.” She listened, turned left and stared off as if she could see something far away. She nodded. “We’ll find it. Okay. Yes.” She hung up. “Jessup,” she said. “There’s a high school on the eastern edge of town. Shouldn’t be hard to find. It has a football field. We’ll meet the chopper there.”
“
Tell me about the body.”
She shook her head, swallowed. “Not like Ronnie. It’s older. Maybe a month in the water. Clothes have rotted off. Mostly bones.” She pulled at her hair. “Oh, God, oh God, oh God…”
“Abigail.” She was scattered and trying hard to fight through it. “Look at me. What can you fix?”
She looked at everything but his face, and Michael knew what she was thinking. Sun would be down soon. High school. East side of town. She threaded her fingers, twisted them white, and Michael thought maybe he understood that, too.
“Is it Julian?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What about him?”
She blinked once, caught a tear on one finger and then straightened as best she could. “He’s gone,” she said. “Run away.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The helicopter came in low and fast. It started as a rumble down-valley, then swelled to thunder as it roared across small, painted houses and circled the high school at a thirty-degree bank. The sun was twenty minutes down, purple sky turning black. Michael and Abigail stood beside the heavy Mercedes. Its headlights spilled out onto the football field, and in the bright cone of light they saw brown grass and white hatch marks worn through to nothing. Across the street, people stepped onto porches to watch the helicopter and point at the bright light that stabbed down as it circled. It came in over the east bleachers, swung onto the length of the field and flared at the twenty-yard line. For an instant, it hovered—dead grass flat beneath it—and then it settled as gentle as a kiss.
The rotors slowed, but did not stop.
A door opened.
“This is a surprise.”
Michael looked at Abigail. “What?”
She tilted her head at the chopper. Two men climbed down, and walked, bent, beneath the blades. “The senator came, too.”
Michael recognized Jessup Falls: tall and rangy, his face unforgiving. Beside him, the senator looked broader, more solid and more sure. His hair was white, his suit impeccable. He moved as if the world owed him a living.
Abigail stepped out to meet them. Michael followed.
“Hello, darling.” She raised her voice to be heard. The senator kissed her lightly, then held out a hand to Michael.
“I’m sorry we have to meet like this,” he said. “Abigail has told me much, of course, but I would have preferred to do this in a more civilized manner. I’m Randall Vane.”
“Senator.”
They shook. Jessup Falls did not offer a hand. He held back and looked unhappy as the senator took Abigail’s hand and cupped it in the two of his. “When Jessup said you’d left the house, I didn’t think you’d gone quite so far.”
“It’s a long story.”
“And a long flight home. You can tell me all about it.”
“Any word on Julian?”
“No. Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Do the police know he’s gone?”
“Of course not. God. It would be a disaster.”
“How did this happen, Randall?”
“He’s a grown man, Abigail. He’ll be fine.”
“I wish you would not be so blasé.”
“And I wish you would keep the boy under control.” He kept the smile, but his voice cut. “This is not doing me an ounce of good. Christ, the headlines alone…”
“You don’t think Julian has something to do with those bodies?”
“I don’t know what to think, and neither do you. That’s the problem with Julian—after all these years, we still don’t know what goes through that head of his.”
“God, I hate that politician’s smile.” Abigail stepped past, angry. “It’s a miracle anyone buys it. Jessup…” She took Jessup’s hand. “How did it happen?”
“We took men off to cover the perimeter. A few reporters came over the wall earlier in the day. The crowd was building. Apparently, the doctor left for a few minutes, and Julian simply walked off. He wasn’t under lock and key, as you know. I suspect he’s on the grounds, still. Too much commotion beyond the wall. It’s his pattern. We’ll find him.”
“Does he know about the bodies? Is he aware of what’s happening?”
“Unknown, but possible.”
The senator interrupted. “The locals are getting restless.” He gestured at a small crowd forming on the roadside. Cars angled on the verge. People had come down off their porches. “If there’s nothing that can’t wait, we should go. Jessup can drive the car back.”
“I’ll drive it back,” Michael said.
The group pulled up short, and Michael saw Jessup press his hand against the small of Abigail’s back. “You’re not coming?” She stepped away from the other men, closer to Michael.
“I need to finish this.”
He lifted his chin toward the far, black mountain, and she knew he meant the orphanage beneath.
“Andrew Flint?” she asked.
“I still need to find him. It’s connected. It has to be.”
“It’s been decades, Michael. You saw how the orphanage is. Flint could be anywhere.”
“It’s a starting place. It’s something.”
Abigail glanced over her shoulder; she looked at the chopper, the men waiting for her. “Come with me,” she said. “There are no answers here. Julian needs us.”
“Do you remember what you said at the gate? How it’s hard going back to the place you’re from?”
“Yes.”
“I need to see it again. The halls. The rooms. Maybe I’ll get lucky with Flint.”
“What about Elena? Women get angry. They settle down. What do I tell her if she comes back?”
Michael glanced at the helicopter and felt an unexpected weight of emotion. He wanted on that chopper, and for an instant regretted every decision that had brought him to this place. They could be in Spain, by now, or on a beach in Australia. He felt Elena’s hand in his, imagined the small, bright spark she carried. “I’ll be back by tomorrow night. If she shows up, tell her that. Tell her I love her and to please wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“You should go.”
“Michael…”
“Go.”
“Okay.” She nodded in a small way, eyes unsure as the senator took her arm and led her to the helicopter. Falls gave them five seconds, then leaned in close to Michael, his anger unmistakable. “I can’t keep her safe if I don’t know where she is.”
Michael felt armor drop across his eyes. “She’s a big girl.”
“In a dangerous world, you arrogant, insensitive prick. She’s my responsibility, and has been for twenty-five years. Do you get that?”
“I was looking out for her.”
“Did it occur to you that there might be risks you don’t understand? Skills you don’t actually possess?”
“You’re going to miss your flight.”
Falls glanced back, saw that everyone was in the helicopter. He raised one finger. “Don’t take her away from me again.”
Michael watched him climb in beside the pilot and strap himself down. Abigail’s face was a pale, round blur as she lifted a hand in his direction. Michael waved back, conflicted. He knew what to do, but didn’t want to do it; needed Elena, yet was here. Michael told himself to get a grip, to chill out. He could still fix everything: Julian, Elena, the life they’d yet to make. But the comfort was illusory. Everything he loved was far away.
He dropped his hand as the helicopter lifted and turned. Its nose dipped, and it accelerated past the car, red paint flashing once and then gone in the dark.
Michael was alone with the mountain.
He drove back to Main Street and found a parking place between a diner and one of the open bars. Standing on the sidewalk, he checked his phone and willed it to ring. He glanced once at the mountain, a black hulk that blotted out the stars, then turned his back and called information. When the call was answered, he asked if there was an Andrew Flint in or around the town of Iron Mountain. Was told no. Unsurprised, he hung up the phone
. Then, knowing that she would not answer, he dialed Elena’s cell and left a message.
I can fix this.
I can change.
And he thought that he could. If the circumstances were right. If the world changed, too.
Turning for the diner, Michael walked along the broken sidewalk, then swung in through the glass door. A small bell chimed, and the smell of buttered greens came like a memory. He took in the row of booths along the window, the aged bar with small, round stools, the pies under glass and the thick, pretty woman who offered up a smile from behind the register. “Sit anywhere, sugar.”
A few people looked up, but nobody looked twice. Michael said hello to the woman as he passed, then sat in the farthest booth, a redbrick wall behind him, thirty feet of plate glass stretching halfway to his car. He caught a glimpse of a white-shirted man moving in the kitchen.
Suddenly, he was starving.
He studied the menu, a laminated sheet greasy with fingerprints and ketchup smears, then ordered a cheeseburger and a beer. “Want fries with that, sugar?”
She was in her thirties, and happy enough, a genuine twinkle in her eyes as she held her pen ready.
“That’d be great.”
“Glass with your beer?”
“Sure.”
She wrote that down, and before she could leave, Michael asked, “Do you have a phone book, by any chance?”
“Who you looking for? I know most everybody.”
“Do you know Andrew Flint?”
“Sure. ’Course. He lives out at the orphanage.”
“I was out there earlier.” Michael shook his head. “Nobody lives there.”
The waitress smiled and stuck the pen behind a tuft of soft, brown hair. “Have you been out there after dark?” Michael admitted that he had not, and she smiled more broadly. “Then you should trust old Ginger.”
She winked and walked off to the kitchen, a slow, proud swing in her hips.
The beer was good. The burger was better. At the register, he asked Ginger, “Is there a hotel in town?”
“Two miles that way.” She pointed to the south end of town. “It’s not much, but I’ve caught my ex-husband there enough to know it gets the job done. We close at nine if you’d like me to show you the way.”