Iron House

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Elena drove with tears in her eyes and a burn the length of her throat. She could still smell the body, the scent so pervasive it was in her hair, her clothes, steeped into the oils of her skin. And images came with the scent: mottled skin and swollen hands, the look on Michael’s face, the cool detachment and methodical precision.

There’s a chain there…

She checked the mirror and scrubbed one arm across her face, a dark laugh building in the hollow courses of her soul. How could she have allowed herself to believe that he was the same man she’d once thought him to be, that he could kill in cold blood, yet be a decent father to the child he’d put inside her?

“Oh, God…”

The laughter came then, an expulsion so sharp and tattered she frightened herself. In the mirror, her eyes were not her own. They were glass eyes, stone eyes painted black. Her fingers felt the wheel, but the wheel felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. Elena did not know where she was: some town in North Carolina, a road with four lanes, fast-food joints and cheap motels. There had been countryside and red light fading to orange, a whisper of trees.

I’ve done no wrong of which to be ashamed.

The thought felt false but she clung to it, one hand moving to the seat beside her. She had clean clothes and her passport, enough money to get back to Spain. She would forget about Michael, and the death she had seen. She would find her father and tell him that she’d been wrong to leave, that life in a small village was life enough. Elena almost wept at the thought, and at the images that came with such clarity: home and family and people that never changed. Her fingers brushed the warmth of her stomach, and where the fear had been she felt resolve. She would go back to her parents, she decided. She would go home and raise from this mistake a small and perfect child that would never know the provenance of its conception.

Elena reached for the mirror and twisted it up and away. She had had enough of painted eyes and emotionality. She was Carmen Elena Del Portal, and she would go home. But first, she had to rid herself of the smell. That meant a shower, a place to change clothes. The thought was so attractive it became an imperative. Her clothes felt heavy and soiled, her very skin corrupt, so that when a roadside motel appeared on an approaching rise, she signaled a right turn and rolled into the parking lot.

For a moment, she sat in silence as emotion took her down. She thought of Michael and felt a soft place in her heart.

“No.”

She smeared both hands across her face, shook her head.

“No.”

She got out of the car, her eyes red but dry; a bell chimed as she walked inside. The clerk behind the counter was a tall, spare man, whose face was severely lined for a man who otherwise appeared to be in his forties. He had long arms and wide, square palms. He thumbed a key on a plastic fob and his smile lingered as she placed four bills on the smudged counter. “You need anything…” He held onto the key two seconds longer than he should have. “You just call the desk.”

She sniffed, then palmed the last moisture from the skin beneath her eyes. “Thank you.”

“My name is Calvert.” He gestured at the low ceiling, the carpet worn through. “This is my place.”

“Thank you, Calvert.”

“So…” Fingers drummed the small, tight bowl of his stomach. “Anything at all.”

“Do you have a map?”

He scratched at the crown of his head. “Where are you going?”

“What’s the nearest major airport?”

“That’d be Raleigh.”

“Then that’s where I’m going.”

He showed her Raleigh on the map, and then gave her the key to a room down the hall. Elena put the map on the front seat of the car, then unloaded her few belongings and carried them through the lobby and into a small, dark room whose air was damp enough to feel on her skin. She locked the door and pulled off her clothes. The floor of the bathroom was freshly cleaned, the shower curtain white vinyl faded to gray. Collecting small bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the paper-wrapped soap, Elena climbed into the shower and let needles of hot water stitch dull, red marks on the planes of her face.

Calvert was leaning on the counter when the bell above his door chimed twice. He caught a flash of movement and color, just enough to give the sense of a narrow-shouldered, effeminate man in fancy clothes, none of which made him eager to be of help. He disliked rich people and hated queers, so did not immediately look up from the newspaper he was reading. His mind was still flush with thoughts of the hot little Mexican who’d bent low enough to show some bra when he pointed out Raleigh on the map.

The man cleared his throat.

Calvert turned the page and looked up to see a middle-aged man in black velvet pants and a burgundy coat. He wore sunglasses that let you see his eyes, and a big, gold watch that probably cost more than most cars. Calvert allowed his distaste to show when he said, “A little hot for them pants, don’t you think?”

“I find that they breathe.”

The man smiled, and Calvert realized he was too dumb to know he’d been insulted. He just stood there, calmly, and some reptile part of Calvert’s brain recognized that things were not quite right; but this was his place, and the man was wearing velvet pants. Beyond the glass was a road-stained car with New York plates. “Okay, fancy-pants. What do you want?”

“That’s clever. Fancy-pants.”

“Look, I’m busy here.”

“The lady who just came in…”

“I don’t give out room numbers.”

“I’d like you to reconsider.”

“And I’d like you to turn around and go back to whatever big city you came from. As you can see…” He flicked a yellow nail at the newspaper. “I’m busy.”

“You’re not being very helpful.”

The paper rustled as a page turned. “I suppose not.” A long moment passed, and without looking up he said, “Are you still here?”

“Actually, I’d like to show you something.”

“Show me what?”

“It’s like a trick.”

Calvert looked up, and the man in velvet pants lifted his left hand above his shoulder. He made a flourish-fingers rolling open, and then closed.

“You mean, like magic?”

“Sort of. Are you watching?”

“No.”

“It’s really quite good.”

Calvert closed his newspaper. “Okay, sure. I’m watching.”

“It happens fast.”

Calvert watched the hand. The fingers moved. The hand closed into a fist.

“Here it comes.” One finger straightened, then two. “Get ready.”

Calvert was still watching the left hand when Jimmy shot him in the heart with a silenced twenty-two. The shot pushed him back a step, and for an instant, his mouth opened; then he fell where he stood. Jimmy walked around the counter, put one more in the skull for good measure then stepped daintily over the mess and looked at the computer screen. Satisfied, he lifted the key to room twelve from the pegboard, then brushed lint from his sleeve.

“Fucking redneck,” he said, and walked down the hall to room twelve.