Iron House

by John Hart

  Clint Robins looked up. “Jimmy.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Are we at a hundred percent?”

  “Ninety-nine point five. Come with me.”

  Jimmy slipped back into the hall, and felt Robins behind him. He turned deeper into the house and made his way up a flight of steep, narrow stairs to a room with angled ceilings and small, square windows. In the corner of the room, an old desk showed water stains and the scars of hard use. Its surface was littered with yellowed papers and plastic pens that had dried out years ago.

  “Pull up a chair.”

  Jimmy pointed to a chair across the room, then sat at the desk and fiddled with pens while Robins pulled the chair closer. Four pens: three blue ones and a pink one. He lined them up as Robins sat. They were in similar chairs. Carved wooden seats. Ladder backs. The room smelled of mold and dust and mouse shit. Robins said, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Getting to a hundred percent.” Jimmy selected the pink pen, and spun it between his fingers. It had no cap, and some kind of grunge on the point. “There’s a certain frustration with Stevan, and I understand that. What I want you to tell me is this: If Stevan were gone, would the men follow me?”

  “If he was gone…”

  “Retired. Missing. Dead.”

  Both men knew only one of those words mattered. “Look, Jimmy—”

  “I know the men are scared of me, but would they follow me? Would they trust me?”

  “If Stevan … retired?”

  “Exactly.”

  Robins shrugged. “Stevan has the money. The companies are in his name. The real estate. The old man is dead, but the Kaitlin name still carries weight on the street.”

  Jimmy nodded. “That matters, of course.”

  “And most of the guys are comfortable with him. He may not be his father, but they know where he stands. He’s steady.”

  “And with me, they worry.”

  “Truthfully?”

  Jimmy smiled. “We’re friends. You can speak plain.”

  “You’re edgy.” Robins showed his palms. “Unpredictable.”

  “And how about you, Clint? Where would you stand?”

  “Look, Jimmy, I don’t feel great about this conversation.”

  “I guess that’s your answer, then.”

  “Kind of.”

  Jimmy offered a thin smile. “Hey, I asked for the truth and you gave it to me.”

  “Still friends?” Nervous.

  Jimmy held out his hand. “Just keep it between us.”

  “Of course. Obviously.” Robins took his hand—relieved—and was still holding it when Jimmy slammed the pen into his eye socket. He drove it deep, made a bright pink pupil in the ruined eye. The body went limp, one leg twitching as Jimmy lowered him to the floor. Blood was minimal. Little sound. Jimmy wiped his hands on the dead man’s shirt. “Now, we’re at a hundred percent.”

  He stepped to the bed and dragged a hard case from underneath. He put it on the bed, opened it. Inside was an array of weapons, none of them indiscriminate. No Uzis. Nothing fully automatic. He selected a nine millimeter and released the clip so bright casings and copper jackets shone. When Michael shot his way out of Otto’s house, he’d killed six men with only seven bullets. That story was already on the streets.

  Six armed men, seven bullets. A legend in its infancy.

  Michael, Michael, Michael …

  Jimmy thumbed out every bullet in the clip, then reloaded seven and racked one into the chamber. With Robins dead, there were seven men in the house. Seven men, seven bullets. ’Course, he wasn’t going to kill Stevan just yet.

  But still …

  Jimmy lifted a second weapon from the foam padding. It was one of his favorites, a twenty-two automatic that was light, accurate and held an awful lot of bullets. He tucked that one against the small of his back.

  Vain as he was, he wasn’t stupid.

  Closing the case, he slipped it back under the bed. In the mirror, he looked ready enough to wink at himself, so that’s what he did: a slow wink over a happy grin.

  Sixty-seven million dollars.

  Finality.

  Change.

  He went down the stairs on light feet, rounded into the living room without slowing down. Part of him knew it would never meet the challenge Michael had overcome, but most of him didn’t care. So the men were half-drunk and not expecting it, so they blinked like cattle when the gun came up in Jimmy’s hand. So what? The gun felt light as a feather. Reflexes sharp as a blade, vision perfect.

  Two men were standing when Jimmy came into the room. They went down first; both shot center mass and lifted off their feet. Two more were seated, one trying to stand. Jimmy took head shots for all of them, rounds snapping off as he pivoted and dropped to a crouch.

  Five down. Where was the sixth?

  There.

  Kitchen door, gun coming out of his belt.

  Jimmy shot him through the mouth before the barrel cleared leather. Then there was silence and smoke in the air, a taste like matches in the back of Jimmy’s throat. He checked the room, no movement.

  Six bullets. Six dead.

  Eight seconds, max.

  He had one bullet left, and there was Stevan. He stood in the door, eyes so pink and glassy they did not look real. His hand came up as Jimmy straightened. “You…”

  “I know. It was something, wasn’t it?”

  “Something?”

  Jimmy shook his head as he stepped wide to clear a patch of bloody carpet. “Yeah. Did you see how fast that was? Michael couldn’t do it that fast.”

  “You killed them.”

  “Obviously.”

  They were only feet apart, now, Stevan’s shock wearing off. Color spiked in his cheeks as he found his anger. “What the hell, Jimmy?” He stopped and drew up taller. “You’re fucking done. I don’t even know what to say, you insane bastard, you dumb, stupid shit.”

  “You still don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  Jimmy put his last bullet in Stevan’s knee.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  There was near-perfect silence in Elena’s room, stillness as every muscle strained against the iron bar on the headboard. Her feet pressed the wall, widely spread and white from the pressure. The cuff cut cruelly into her wrist. It bruised bone, tore skin, but she pulled harder, sweat popping on her face, her free hand on the chain, fingers slippery-wet, three nails already broken. The other manacle scraped up the length of the iron bar, peeling white paint as it moved. Elena dug deeper, and it hurt as if the bones in her narrow wrist were burning.

  She pulled harder, misery in her back, now, legs shaking as she built a sheltered place in her mind, a tall, square room with soft floors and cotton sheets that touched her skin like feathers. A cool fountain gurgled in the corner. There was music, and Michael waiting beyond a closed door. She tried to feel it, thick stone walls and a breeze on her face. For long moments, the vision held, then the sound of gunshots brought it crashing down.

  They were loud and close, concussions she actually felt. She sat up on the bed, handcuffs forgotten.

  What was happening?

  She had no idea. Everything felt compressed after the noise, the stillness absolute.

  Then voices. Another gunshot.

  And screaming.

  God, the screaming …

  Elena held herself still, and knew she’d never been so scared. Not when Jimmy took her from her hotel room. Not when he doused her with gasoline. This was so sudden and absolute, a handful of seconds and screaming like she’d never heard, a horrible, animal sound that went on and on and on. She watched the door, knowing that it would open and she would be the next to scream and die. She knew it, felt it as sure as anything.

  But it didn’t happen.

  The screaming faded and she heard a door slam, then the noise was outside. Elena got off the bed and moved for the window.

  Cuffs.

  Damn!

  She gr
ipped the iron frame and pulled the bed across the floor. At the window, she had a view of the yard and the barn on the other side of it. A low moon hung over the trees, and in its light she saw Jimmy dragging a man across the dirt. She couldn’t tell who it was, but thought maybe it was Stevan. Jimmy had him by the foot. The barn rose above them, and its shadow obscured them until Jimmy opened the door and light spilled out. Then she saw them clearly: Stevan on the ground, clutching his leg; Jimmy in the open door. He had a baling hook in his right hand. She could see it clearly—dark metal, a vicious point—and remembered them from childhood, from long days on her grandfather’s farm.

  Stevan had his hands up, now. Voice lower.

  Begging.

  “Oh, God!”

  The words escaped her throat, and she felt her stomach lurch as Jimmy swung the hook in a fast, looping curve that drove the point through the palm of Stevan’s hand and jerked the arm tight. For a second, the image froze—arm extended, hook rising from a palm stained black—then Stevan screamed again, feet drumming dirt as Jimmy dragged him into the barn.

  For a moment more, light spilled out on the yard, then the door closed and Elena found herself alone in the still, hot air of the silent house. For long seconds, she was paralyzed as the scene flashed again in her mind. She saw the glint of steel, then yellow light and crazy shadows as the taste of fear rose like acid on her tongue and her ribs ached from the hard, sharp stutter in her chest.

  “Michael…”

  His name fell soft from her lips.

  “Please…”

  But Michael couldn’t save her. That was real; that was fact. She felt horror and panic, the ache in her arm as she stared around the room and found nothing there. If she was going to escape, she realized, she would have to do it on her own. Not later or tomorrow, but now, while Jimmy was busy. Because she knew one thing with certainty: he’d left her alive for a reason. And whatever that reason might be, it would not be good for her.

  So she attacked the bed. She didn’t care about noise, pain or saving some last reserve of will. This was about survival, about whatever time she had left. She tore at the metal frame. She ripped off the mattress, then lifted one end of the bed and slammed it down over and over. She drove it against the wall, kicked hard metal and leaned on the cuffs until her arm was slick and torn and red. It lasted for a long time, until she was exhausted, worn and shaking weak. But she never gave up, never cried.

  Not until Jimmy came.

  It was dawn. His clothes were dripping wet, and even his hair was spiked red. Bits of Stevan spattered his arms, the backs of his hands, but it was the calm that scared her most. He walked through the door as any man might at the end of working day. Breath exhaled in a light puff; small shake of the head. As if to say, You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Elena pressed into the corner. He stepped into the room, lit a cigarette.

  “That man…” He took a drag, shook his head and pushed out smoke. “Tougher than I thought.”

  The lighter snapped shut, and Jimmy shoved his hand into a pocket, kept it there. Elena went totally still, eyes on the cigarette, the stained fingers.

  “Still…” Jimmy looked pensive, but content. “Lots of time, you know.”

  “Is he…”

  Her voice cracked, and Jimmy picked up the thought.

  “Is he dead? No.”

  He was still too calm. Too matter-of-fact. Elena waited for the bad thing that was coming. “Why are you here?”

  A shrug. “Thought I’d make coffee.”

  “Please, let me go.”

  “Maybe some breakfast.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  She was losing it; she was going to lose it.

  Jimmy took a final drag, then pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped a bloody ear on the floor.

  “Nothing yet,” he said.

  And Elena lost it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Abigail rode hard in the cool dawn: same horse she always rode, same muddy track through the low field by the river. The animal was a wellspring of strength and purpose, a touchstone when nothing else made sense—and right now, nothing made sense. Not Julian’s collapse and disappearance; not the bodies in the lake or the things Jessup said when he tried to make it right.

  “Hah!”

  She drove her heels into the horse’s flank, and the animal did what it was meant to do. Mud flew, and the reins snapped once in white lather before they found their stride.

  It was all coming apart.

  Everything.

  She reached the end and turned, ran it again as her thoughts burned and the sun rolled close enough to ignite the sky. This was the day, she thought. Another body would surface or Julian would be found and arrested. Michael would find Andrew Flint or learn some terrible thing.

  She reached the end of the field and was startled when Victorine Gautreaux stepped out of the trees. Abigail reined hard, horse sidestepping. “Damn, child, you’re going to get somebody killed.” The girl said nothing. “What are you doing here?”

  Victorine rolled lean shoulders. “Looking for you.”

  “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “You’re here often.”

  “You watch me ride?”

  “I like your horse.”

  Abigail looked from the girl to the far house. They were alone. “What do you want?”

  “Julian says there’s medicine—”

  “What do you know about my son?”

  “I know he came to me instead of you.”

  There it was, the challenge that made Abigail despise Gautreaux women. “Is he okay?”

  “He tells me there’s medicine to help get his head on right. He says you’d know what it was and that I was to collect it.”

  Abigail peered down at this ragged child with perfect skin, small breasts and blades for hipbones. She was pretty enough, but pretty only went so far. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Nobody touches me ’less I say.”

  “We found condoms.”

  “I’m not saying we haven’t talked about it, neither.” She shrugged. “Julian’s nice and all, but still…”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “He’s helping me.”

  “With what?”

  “With running away.”

  Abigail could find no argument there. Running away from Caravel Gautreaux made more sense than most things. Her voice softened. “Are you telling me Julian sees some reason beyond the obvious to help you?”

  She lifted her chin. “Coming from nothing don’t make me nothing.”

  Abigail studied the girl more closely. She talked tough, and stood straight, but there was fear there, too. The stare didn’t hold as long as it could have. “I want my son back,” Abigail said.

  “And he wants to get his head straight first. He’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Will you give me the medicine?”

  The horse moved back a step, and Abigail put a hand on its neck. “You’re out in these woods a lot.”

  “I’m not doing nothing. I just like the woods.”

  “Do you know anything about the bodies they’re finding?”

  She shook her head, but it looked like a lie.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Abigail said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Julian says he’ll help you, fine. I’ll help you, too. Money. A place to live. I’ll set you up, little girl. I’ll change your life.”

  Defiance dwindled to shiftiness. “You lie.”

  “We have a billion dollars and change. Try me.”

  The stare held between them, and it was Victorine Gautreaux who broke first. “All I know is what Julian told me.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “He told me it was you.”

  “What?”

  “He told me it was you who killed them boys.”


  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The second time Jimmy came for Elena, he was breathing heavily. She heard the front door slam, then fast, hard steps. When her door opened, it struck the wall and framed him perfectly: shoulders square and locked, jaw so tight muscles showed under the skin. The calm was gone, and in its place Elena saw anger so clear and bright it was unmistakable.

  “Stubborn son of a bitch…”

  Muttering.

  “Goddamn selfish…”

  Then he seemed to remember that he was not alone. His gaze settled on Elena, and he forced a smile. “Ah, still with me. Good.”

  Elena tensed, and the chain drew tight.

  “I’d like you to call Michael,” Jimmy said. “I’ll give you directions. He can come collect you.”

  She dragged herself up from the floor. “No.”

  “No?” Jimmy was too surprised to be angry. He laughed, a small, conflicted sound. Then he got angry. “Is that what you said? No?”

  “I’m not going to help you.”

  “I’m not required to ask, you know.” A dangerous glint came into his eyes. “I can put the phone to your bland, female face and I can make you scream. But as I’m tired…” He offered a wholly unconvincing smile. “I’d rather not do that.”

  Elena understood, then, and in spite of her fear, she stood taller. “You want Michael to come, unsuspecting. You want me to set him up.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You’re frightened.”

  Her chin came up, and Jimmy grew very still. “Do you believe in free choice?” he asked. “I do. It’s an important concept, a right that far too many people take for granted. They follow the herd; do the expected thing. Even Michael is guilty. He plays the good son, the good lover, the good man. It’s disgusting because it’s not who he is. He’s like me. Same thing.”

  “Michael’s nothing like you.”

  “If he told you different, he’s a liar.”

  “I won’t help you.”

  “Ah, ah. You don’t know what the choice is, yet.” Jimmy took a small key from his coat pocket. He stepped closer and Elena moved back until her cuffs snapped tight. The bed slid a few inches before Jimmy put a hand on the rail and halted it. “See…” He leaned close. “Words are easy.” He unlocked the cuff from the bed rail. “Choice is hard.”