Iron House

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They waited for the basket to come up, Michael and Abigail. Bubbles rose from the lakebed and broke the surface, but the basket stayed down. “What do we think about this?” Abigail watched his face as if he could provide an answer that made sense.

“I sank Ronnie over there.” He gestured with his chin. “Three hundred yards, at least.”

“No current in the lake. No way the body could have moved.”

“Unless somebody moved it.”

Abigail shook her head. “That seems unlikely.”

Michael agreed. “The sun was almost up when I put him in. If somebody moved him, they did it in daylight.”

“So, where does that leave us?”

“Two choices, I guess. Either they’ve made a mistake.” Both looked at the cops, the boats. “Or there’s another body in that lake.”

Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. She rolled her shoulders and looked ill. “I don’t like this at all.”

Michael looked at his watch, the angle of the sun. “We should go.”

“Go?”

“If they pull up a body, they’ll shut this place down. It will go from a search to a full-blown murder investigation. There’ll be interviews, interrogations. They could declare the entire estate a crime scene. Jacobsen’s a hard-ass with a reason to be upset. Nothing will get in or out of here without cop approval.”

“But my husband-”

“They’ll push harder because of who your husband is, and because of what happened last time. It’ll be worse. Federal cops may get involved. Media. No way they can keep this quiet.” On the lake, men began to pull on ropes. Water churned between the boats, and Michael took her arm. “We have to go.”

“Where?”

“They’re bringing something up. We don’t have much time.”

“I want to see.” He pulled gently, but she pulled back, stubborn, and her arm came loose from his hand. “I need to see.”

He gave her a minute. She rocked where she stood, the edge of the ridge just a few feet away. On the lake, men leaned over the boats’ sides. Agitated movement. Loud voices that barely carried. A diver broke the surface, then a second. Between them, the basket hung just below the surface, a hint of silver the shape and size of a coffin.

“It’s too far,” Michael said. “You won’t see detail.”

“I can’t stand this.” The basket rose the last few inches. It was not empty. “Oh, God.”

The cops were shouting now, trying to heave the basket out of the water.

“We need to go.” Michael got her in the Land Rover and started the engine. The transmission ground as he shifted into first. “We need to be gone by the time they get that body to shore.”

“Gone, where?”

“Asheville’s five hours away.”

“Asheville?”

“We need answers. Whose body is that? Why is it here and what does it have to do with Ronnie Saints? Why did he die? How? And who the hell put the body in your lake? That’s a pile of questions, I know, but they must be connected to Ronnie, somehow. His house seems like a good place to start.”

“How do you know Ronnie Saints lived in Asheville?”

“I found his driver’s license.”

“But what could you possibly learn there? He’s dead. It’s done.”

Michael shook his head. “This just feels wrong.”

“You mean Julian doing this?”

She gestured at the lake, and Michael tried to come up with a good answer. Julian could kill, he knew. He’d killed Hennessey when they were just boys, and the thought that he could kill Ronnie Saints was not a great stretch to make. He’d killed one Iron House boy, after all. Why not another? But none of this felt right. He and Julian had connected, and even though Julian had been in the throes of a mental break, even though he’d known about a body being in the boathouse, the idea still felt off. “I could see him killing Ronnie, maybe. Ronnie shows up, old emotions rise, they fight, it goes bad. I can see it like that. But this second body…”

“You don’t think he could do that?”

“It’s too much. Another body. Hiding it in the lake. Julian acts in the moment.”

“May I ask why you sound so certain?”

Michael considered that, wondering how much he could say. That Julian had learned from birth that he should run before he fought? That he was fearful in his soul? That killing Hennessey had been an aberration? That none of this truly fit? “You’ve read Julian’s books?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Bad things happen in his books.”

She touched her throat. “Horrible things.”

“His characters struggle; they suffer.”

“Evil and violence and children.” She looked bleak. “Even the pictures are terrifying.”

“But the books are about more than that, aren’t they? They’re about damaged people finding a way to move beyond the things that damaged them. They’re about light and hope and sacrifice, love and faith and the fight to do better. No matter how troubling or terrible the story, his characters find doors through the violence. They cope and move on.” Michael struggled, then said, “You can see in his books the life that Julian chose.”

“Helplessness and abuse?”

“No.”

“Fragility?”

Her own fragility leaked through, and Michael understood. Julian would always suffer, and it would always be hard to watch. But that’s not what Michael saw in his brother’s lifework. “His books don’t end happily, no. His characters go through hell and end up close to destroyed, but you see good in the people he makes. You see small strength and the power of choice, movement through fear and loathing and self-doubt.” Michael shifted gears and the vehicle lurched. “His characters are conflicted and hurt, but that’s the magic of what he does. That’s the point.”

“Magic?”

“Julian writes dark because the light he hopes to convey is so dim it only shows when everything around it is black. You’ve read it: dark characters and black deeds, pain and struggle and betrayal. But the light is always there. It’s in his people, in his endings. His books are subtle, which is why so many school systems and parents want them burned or banned. They think the godlessness is about a lack of God, but that’s not the truth of what he writes. God is in the little things, in a last, faint flicker of hope, a small kindness when the world is ash. Julian scrapes beauty from the dirt of ruined worlds and does it in a way that children understand. He shows them more than the surface, how beneath the ugliness and horror, we can choose the hard path and survive. I’ve always taken comfort in Julian’s books, always believed that he found the same path for himself.”

“He’s unhappy and frightened.”

“Maybe the path is longer for some. Maybe he’s still walking it.”

“And maybe he killed those men.”

Michael’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “I won’t believe that until I know it for a fact, and even then I’ll try to find some way to make it disappear.”

“Make it disappear?”

Michael was unfazed. “I’ll fix it.”

“Like you did with Hennessey?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Michael looked right, and earnestness gave weight to her features. “I used to sit by Julian’s bed when he first came home.” Her smile was knowing and wan. “He still talks in his sleep.”

“What exactly are you saying, Abigail?”

“You’re the one talking about love and sacrifice and doors through violence. You tell me what I’m saying.”

“You think Julian killed Hennessey?”

“It doesn’t matter to me if he did, but yes. I think maybe so. Mostly, I’m glad you see his books that way. I do, too.”

“Really?”

“I think your brother’s a genius. He’s also the most deep-feeling, thoughtful man I’ve ever known. Take a left here.”

Michael came to a fork in the road, the house to the right, a Y-shaped divergence to the left. He didn’t know what to say, but Abigail didn’t seem to expect any response. “There are two smaller gates on either side of the perimeter.” Her voice was still empty. “No guards. Just keypads.”

“Which way to the closest one?”

“Left.”

Michael turned right.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I want to take Julian with us.”

“He won’t talk to us,” Abigail said.

“Maybe, maybe not. In the end, I don’t care.”

“Then, why?”

“I don’t want him near the cops.” Michael saw the house ahead, a slab of gray stone through thinning trees. “I don’t want him confessing.”

Abigail closed her eyes, and in her mind saw Julian broken in his room. She saw a body in a long wire basket. It was nearing the surface, black water going green, green water fading to clear. The sockets were empty and frayed. Fish had chewed flesh from the bone, and the lips were tattered over clean, white teeth. Something flickered in the open mouth.

“Jesus…” It came as a whisper.

“You okay?”

She rubbed her temples. “Headache.”

Michael said nothing. He drove fast, and at the mansion Abigail told him to drive around back, where he saw a twelve-car garage. It was made of stone, long and low. Wooden doors gleamed. Abigail pointed to a bay near the end, and when he stopped they got out.

“Come with me.”

She disappeared into a side entrance, and Michael followed. Inside, he saw hints of steel and glossy paint, keys on a long row of hooks. Abigail did not waste time. The car she chose was a thing of exceptional beauty. He didn’t know much about Mercedes Benz, but guessed that this car was the most expensive one they made.

Abigail handed him the keys. “The Land Rover’s terrible on the highway.”

“What’s the best way to get Julian out?”

“Julian’s not going with you. Neither am I.”

“You heard my reasons.”

“We don’t run from our problems in this family. I trust the senator. Whatever his faults, he always does what needs to be done.”

“Julian could implicate himself.”

“He needs to be in his home, with people he loves. He’s not strong enough to go tearing around the state with you.”

“If this is about trust-”

“I trust your intent,” Abigail said. “I know nothing of your ability to care for Julian.”

“So, come with me.”

“I’m staying with my son.”

Michael looked at his watch. Minutes were ticking past. “Give a cop a body, and he’s like a dog with a scent, especially if it’s a headline case, which this will be. These cops…” Michael paused to give his words weight. “The only thing they smell is Julian. Understand? They missed him last time. This time, they’ll come with the weight of the world behind them. They’ll eat him for lunch.”

“Julian’s under a doctor’s care. The lawyers say that will buy us time.”

“Lawyers can only do so much. We need to find out why Ronnie Saints was here. We need to know who the other body is. If Julian didn’t kill these men, we need to know who did. And if he did do it, we need a plan to save him. We can’t do any of that without information. We can be in Asheville in five hours. It’s a start, Abigail. It’s what we have.”

“Just take the car and go.”

“They’ll break him. Do you understand? Julian’s mind will not handle a custodial interrogation.”

“I’m sorry, Michael. I have to stay with Julian, and my heart says he should stay home, where he feels safe. You’ll have to go without me.” Abigail pushed a button and the bay door began to rise. They saw pavement, then trees and a hint of sky. Michael saw the cops first.

“Ah, shit.” He stepped to the door. Cars were on the lake road, lights flashing as they accelerated for the house. “We’ll never get him out.”

The police were a quarter mile away, and coming fast. Abigail’s cell phone rang. “It’s Jessup,” she said, then answered, her face still and smooth, her gaze on the police cars. “Hello, Jessup.” A pause while she listened. “Yes, I know. I see them coming now.” Another pause. “No, I’m in the garage. Yes, Michael is with me. They found something in the lake.”

She listened for a long minute, then covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Michael. “Jessup was on-scene when the body came to shore. He says its been in the water for a few weeks; a male, mostly skeletal. Weighted with cement blocks. No identification.”

The first police car disappeared around the front of the house.

“They’re at the front door,” Abigail said, back on the phone. “I’m going in now.” She listened for a moment, and then said, “No. I want to be there.”

Michael heard Falls’s voice this time, tin-like in the quiet of the garage. “That’s not wise.”

“But I need to be there. I need…”

“I don’t want you involved with this. It’s not smart. You know it. The senator’s there, the lawyers. We need to keep emotion out of this, let the professionals handle it.”

“But Julian…”

She stopped talking. Falls’s voice faded to a low thrum, and Abigail seemed to shrink as she listened. Finally, she said, “Okay. Yes. I know you’re right. Yes. May I-”

A light died in her face, and she lowered the phone. “He had to go.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“He’s afraid I’ll lose it. Emotionally.”

“Would you?”

“Normally, no, but it’s different with Julian. I get protective. I overreact. It won’t help Julian to see that.”

“Come with me, then.”

Abigail looked momentarily lost, her gaze uncertain as it moved from Michael to the car, the house. “Do you really believe Julian didn’t do it?”

“Ronnie died about the same time that Julian had his breakdown, so maybe he had something to do with it. But you say the other body is skeletal. That means weeks have passed, maybe more. How was Julian a week ago?”

“He was fine.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Same thing.”

Michael shook his head. “He didn’t do it. We need to know more.”

“But, Asheville…?”

“Elena’s gone. I can’t get to Julian. This is what I have: my brother, who needs me.” Abigail looked at the house, and Michael said, “You can’t help him here.”

“Just there and back, right?”

He nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go.”

They got in the car, and the road out was silent and smooth. Abigail said little. Turn here. Straight ahead. At the perimeter wall, an arched gate opened in equal silence, and Michael pushed down on the gas, the heavy car sliding into light traffic. Michael worked his way west around the edge of town. Fields gave way to subdivisions. Shopping centers marred the roadside. Traffic thickened.

“You want the main highway north.” Abigail spoke softly. “A few miles up. That’ll take you to Interstate 40. The interstate goes all the way to the mountains.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s how I brought Julian home.”

She said it quiet and small, and when Michael looked at her, their eyes met as a very simple idea hung in the air between them. Iron House was not far from Asheville.

An hour, maybe.

A lifetime.

Fifty minutes later, Michael gunned it onto the interstate, the Mercedes at 110 before the speed even registered. He took his foot off the gas and settled down at nine over the limit. Put the car on cruise.

When he checked his phone, Abigail noticed. “She hasn’t called?”

“No.” He put the phone in his pocket.

“Did you two have a fight?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a pretty girl.”

“She’s my life.”

“Are you married?”

“Not yet.” A mile of tarmac slid under the car. “She’s pregnant.”

Abigail turned her head, and Michael expected to hear something predictable and bland: Congratulations.

That’s not what he heard.

“If a schizophrenic has a sibling, that sibling has a forty to sixty-five percent chance of being schizophrenic. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Forty to sixty-five. Better than half. It tends to run in the family. Siblings. Children.”

She was talking about Elena’s pregnancy. Michael tensed.

“Have you ever been diagnosed?”

“No.”

“Have you ever felt-”

“I’m not schizophrenic.”

She watched hills rise and fall, shook her head. “It’s a terrible affliction.”

“A violent one?”

“Different people suffer differently.”

“How about Julian?”

“Memory loss. Hallucinations. Muddled thinking. It’s why he still lives at home. Home is safe. Less chance of stress. Less chance of delusions.”

“What kind of delusions?”

“Voices.” Her jaw tightened. “The medicine helps.”

“Does he ever talk about what it feels like?”

“Once, a long time ago. He said the voice hurts, but keeps him strong. He said it props him up, makes him big when he knows he’s small. He was drunk that night, distraught. It sounded pitiful, and he knew it. I think he’s always regretted telling me. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and he always looks worried. He asked me once if I love him less.”

Michael pictured Hennessey, dead on the bathroom floor. He saw the blade in his throat, squares of black tile etched in red. Julian’s disconnect. “What about stereotypical schizophrenia?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you see in the movies. Multiple personalities.”

“That’s rare, and overdramatized, a Hollywood inflation that helps no one. The disease is more complicated than that. It has infinite degrees. Julian is confused, but his problems don’t rise to that level.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“I know this disease inside and out.”

The senator called when they were an hour from Asheville. Abigail asked a few questions, then listened for a long time. When she hung up the phone, she said, “Media’s at the gate. It’ll go national soon.”

Michael was not surprised. “What else?”

“Julian’s okay for now. A superior court judge granted a temporary injunction protecting him from police interrogation until he hears evidence from medical experts. They’ve bought a day, maybe two. Cloverdale put him back on antipsychotics.”

“Is that it?”

“They’re still searching the lake.”

Asheville nestles into the Blue Ridge Mountains in the western part of North Carolina, a jewel of a city surrounded by places with names like Bat Cave, Black Mountain and Old Fort. There was culture in Asheville, music and art and money; but there was poverty, too, great swaths of it in the deep mountains that stretched out in all directions. North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee-it didn’t matter. Abigail explained it as they rolled across the city line. “Iron Mountain is forty miles further west, deep in the mountains, three thousand feet higher, close to Tennessee. It’s not much more than an hour’s drive, but may as well be in a different country.”

“A poor part of the state?”

“State lines don’t really mean much down here. Lost Creek, Tennessee. Snake Nation, Georgia. Blackstrap Pass. Hells Hollow. It’s all mountains. It’s all history.”

“You’ve never been back, have you?”

“Iron Mountain?” Abigail shook her head. “No desire to, and no reason. Julian was safe and you were lost.” The road dropped off and Asheville flattened out beneath them. “This part of the world has felt wrong to me ever since.”

They found Ronnie Saints’s house where the Asheville line rubbed against a broad valley at the base of steep mountains. The road was narrow, black and winding. Michael saw small houses with kids’ toys on short grass. Pickup trucks sat in driveways, and American flags flew on short poles. Water flowed fast in the streams and hemlocks rose close to a hundred feet.

“This is somehow not what I expected,” Abigail said.

“Ronnie Saints was a horror story figure from your son’s worst nightmare. No reason to suspect he’d be human.”

They turned onto a short street. The houses were yellow and brick and white with green shutters. Ronnie’s house was the smallest on the street, old but decent, the paint just beginning to crack. A panel van was parked in the driveway, SAINTS ELECTRIC on the side in white letters.

“Looks like the right place.” Michael drove slowly past. He checked the neighbors’ houses, the side yards and parked cars. “That’s his work truck. He must have a second car. That could mean he’s married. No kids’ toys, though. Maybe a roommate.”

“This feels wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” She was agitated, hands closed tight. The truck sat like a barrier in the drive. The house was dark and still. “Deep down, something says this is dangerous.” She shook her head. “I can’t place it. It’s like a vibration.”

Michael turned around where the street ended, drove back and parked at the curb. The Mercedes stood out on the narrow street. So far, nobody seemed to care. “Let’s do this.”

He opened his door, and Abigail said, “Michael…”

She looked frightened, pale, and Michael felt a stab of sympathy. “You should probably stay in the car. If the cops in Chatham County find Ronnie and ID the body, they’ll have Asheville PD out here first thing. You’re recognizable. It would be best if no one here sees you. Could be hard to explain back home, senator’s wife rings dead man’s doorbell. You see what I’m saying?”

“Are you sure?”

“Just sit tight.”

Michael closed the door and she locked it. He looked back once, then the house was coming up, a white bungalow with a wide driveway, a covered porch and a single car garage. The gutters were clear of debris. A tall tree grew in a patch of grass near the sidewalk. Michael studied the windows. The truck’s hood was cold when he touched it. Stepping onto the porch, he looked back once, then rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

He rang it again.

A third time.

Michael stepped left and cupped his hands at the window. No crack in the curtains. He listened for a long minute, then he tried the door.

Locked.

Solid oak.

He found the key under a planter.

Abigail saw him check under the mat and on the lintel above the door. She saw him find the key, watched him open the door and slip inside. Her heart hammered for reasons of its own, her breath so short she wondered if she were having a panic attack, if everything had simply become too much. Bodies. Secrets. A broken son.

What the hell?

Sweat rolled beneath her shirt.

Jesus…

She could barely breathe.

Michael felt the lock give. Metal slid over metal and he was inside. He listened for movement, and heard nothing but the rush of air through vents. The room was neat and orderly, with hardwood floors that needed stain, a brick fireplace and furniture that didn’t quite match. On the right, an arched opening led through to a dining room with burgundy walls and better furniture on a cream-colored rug. Ahead, another opening led to a small study. He smelled chicken and cigarette smoke that had not yet had time to fade. His hand found the forty-five at the small of his back. He moved farther into the room, saw a table that could seat four, and shelves with cheap crystal and ceramic ducks. He paused in an archway, and the woman spoke even as he rounded into the room, gun up and tracking right.

“I already called the cops.”

She had both legs pulled up on the broken-down sofa, an eight-inch butcher knife in her fist. She was small-boned and pale, with pretty features and thick, wavy hair. Twenty years old, maybe, with eyes that were deep and afraid. The knife shook. A cardboard shoebox was clenched under her left armpit.

“Anyone else in here?” Michael kept the gun up.

“Cops are coming,” she said, but that was a lie. The weight of her arm had squeezed the shoebox out of shape so the lid gapped. Michael saw bands of cash in the box. Lots of it. She was nowhere near the phone.

“You planning to stick somebody with that knife?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

She wore pink, terry cloth shorts, a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Michael leaned back, checked the kitchen. There’d be a bedroom somewhere, maybe two. “I’m not planning to hurt anyone, okay? But if I get surprised, it could happen. So, tell me. Do you have children? Anyone that might decide to walk in unannounced?”

“No children. No surprises.”

“You sure of that?” He kept his voice low, and let her see him drop the hammer on the gun.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I trust you. You trust me. That’ll make this go much smoother.” He tucked the gun under his belt. She watched it all the way down; the knife in her hand didn’t move. “Are you Ronnie’s wife?”

“You know Ronnie?” She lifted the knife higher, but Michael could tell it was getting heavy.

“Are you his girlfriend?”

Her arm bent at the elbow. “Fiancée,” she said.

“I’m not here for your money.”

She looked down, surprised to see that the money was visible. She fumbled the box into her lap, jammed the lid closed. “Do you work for Flint?” She sniffed wetly.

“Andrew Flint who ran the orphanage at Iron Mountain?” She nodded, and Michael tried to get his head around that. He’d not heard Flint’s name in over twenty years, and to come across it in Ronnie Saints’s house was surreal. Michael had never imagined anyone from Iron House keeping in touch. It was not that kind of place. “Why do you ask about Andrew Flint?”

“Ronnie said if Flint showed up, I should run. That was four days ago. When I saw your fancy car, I figured you were with Flint.”

“Do you know where Ronnie is?” Michael asked.

“Not run off on me, is all I know for sure. Not with this still here.” She shook the box.

“May I see that?”

Michael nodded at the box of money, and her arm tightened on it. “He’ll kill me.”

“I won’t take it if you tell me what I need to know.” Her eyes flicked to the gun. “I promise.”

She blinked away sudden tears, and the fight went out of her, knife coming all the way down. “I told him this was too good to be true.” She put the knife on a coffee table, then put the box next to it. She picked up a pack of cigarettes, sparked one with a cheap lighter. Michael put the knife on top of the television and moved a chair from the far corner.

“What’s your name?”

She blew smoke, rolled her eyes up and left. “Crystal.”

Michael lifted the lid from the box. The bills inside were crisp, still in bands of ten thousand each. He began to lift them out, lining them up on the table.

Fifteen bands.

“That’s a lot of money,” he said.

“He’s going to kill me.” She stared at the cash, both arms crossed beneath small breasts. Michael saw a pattern of scars on one arm, a dozen perfect circles puckered white. She saw him looking and covered the scars with one hand. Michael caught her eyes and she looked down. He knew cigarette burns when he saw them.

“How long have you been with Ronnie?”

“Since I was in high school.” She flicked ash in a white saucer. “He had a job and told me I was special. He was good like that. A man, you know.”

Michael riffled the bills. They were nonsequential and, as far as he could tell, real. At the bottom of the box was a scrap of paper. He picked it up. “Ronnie’s handwriting?”

“He writes pretty for a man.”

The paper held five names written one below the other. “Where’s the money from?” Michael asked.

She looked away.

“Crystal…”

“It was delivered last week.” Her lips left lipstick on the filter. “All official and sealed up, brought first thing in the morning by a fancy man in a shiny car, all yes-ma’am’s and no-sir’s. Ronnie had to sign for it and everything.”

“What’s it for?”

“Ronnie says it’s not my place to know. Just ’cause we’re getting married…” Her voice broke. She stubbed out her cigarette, and covered her eyes. “Please don’t take it. I just want a baby and a paid-for house. Please, mister. Ronnie’ll do terrible things if he comes home and finds that money gone.”

“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.”