Iron House

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Michael hit the parking lot at a fast walk. He’d been around long enough to know the feel of things coming together. Pieces were shifting in his mind, working for the fit. He didn’t have the picture yet, but believed now that it would come. He had this thing about Slaughter Mountain.

Call it a conviction.

He unlocked the Mercedes, fired it up and blew out of the parking lot, map open on the seat beside him.

Slaughter Mountain. Salina Slaughter.

The words tumbled over each other in his head. There was history at Slaughter Mountain, money, politicians, connective tissue. If Michael was to save Julian, he needed to know more about the makeup of that tissue. Was it linked to Iron House? The boys from Iron House? Could it be connected to the senator? Michael heard the old man from the gas station.

Money. Politicians. Parties.

He reached the edge of town.

Word is they raped that mountain bare.

Michael wondered at the origin of Randall Vane’s money. Could that be the connection? He was chewing on that question when the phone went off in his pocket. He dug it out, looked at the screen and then cut the wheel right, tamping hard on the brakes as the car hammered rough pavement and slewed to a stop on the edge of the road. The world was empty around him; hope a warm glow as the weight of her absence lifted.

“Elena?”

“Michael…”

“Thank God, baby-”

“Michael, listen…”

Something was off in her voice, something bad. He looked down the long snake of twisted road, and Elena started screaming.

“Elena!”

He pushed the phone against his ear.

“Elena!”

The screaming went on for a long time. He bore it because he had no choice, and because he knew how the game would play. Jimmy wanted something. Or Stevan. They wanted him dead, and this was their play, so Michael gripped the phone and died inside as Elena’s voice rose and broke and finally failed. He listened to the sobs, so pale with rage and hurt that when Jimmy came on the line, Michael looked as if God himself had turned him to stone.

“I suppose you know what I want?”

“Your life?” Michael said it coldly. “You can’t have it.”

Jimmy laughed, but said, “No, no. Too late for humor.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Jimmy. You shouldn’t have made this personal.”

“Oh, Michael. Still acting as if the old man were alive to cover your ass.”

“You know how this will end.”

“Of course, I do. That’s why I called you. It’s why I’ve been entertaining your friend.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“And you will. Right after you bring me sixty-seven million dollars.”

There it was. Michael was not surprised. Rumors of the old man’s money ran long and deep. “Let me talk to Stevan.” Jimmy laughed, and Michael understood. “Stevan is dead.”

Elena screamed again, louder, longer. When it was over, Jimmy said, “This is not a discussion. I want the numbers. Either you have them or you don’t.”

“I have them. Don’t do that again.”

“Where are you?”

Michael looked at the empty street, the high pink stone of a distant mountain. “Five hours away.”

Elena screamed.

“I’m in the mountains! I swear it! Five hours. I swear, Jimmy. I can be there in five hours. I have what you want. A few hours. Don’t hurt her again. Please.”

“You really love her, don’t you?”

“I’m begging you.”

Jimmy was silent for a moment. Michael squeezed the phone until his hand ached. Finally, Jimmy said, “I’ll give you four. Call when you hit town. I’ll tell you how to find me.”

“Four hours is not enough time-”

“Four hours, and don’t be late. This phone’s running low on juice.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“Sixty-seven million, Michael.”

“Jimmy…”

“You’d better have it.”