Iron House

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Abigail took coffee on the rear terrace. An awning shaded her from the low sun, but light glinted off the lake. She was clean, dressed in attire she deemed appropriately somber. Cops had been on the lake since dawn, and as far as she knew, another body could come up any minute. That’s how uncertain life had become, how tenuous the bonds of normalcy.

She sipped as she watched, said nothing as the senator dropped into a seat beside her. “If they find another one,” he said, disgusted, “I’ll kill someone myself.”

She looked at the boat and saw thin, black lines come in over the side. Water trailed from metal hooks, and as they flew out again, someone in the boat turned her way, looked up the hill and shaded his eyes. It was Jacobsen, she thought. He had that stiff, officious air.

Vane poured coffee. “Three bodies and the whole damn world watching. There’ll be subpoenas soon, warrants for the house. They’ll want Julian in custody, I suspect. Interrogation, at the very least. It’s a goddamn disaster.”

He added cream, and she said, “I won’t let you take Michael down.”

“What?”

Her skin was washed of color, her eyes clear even though she’d been up all night, thinking. “You’ll drag him down for no good reason. You’ll ruin him for your own cause.”

“That’s absurd.”

“I know how you work, Randall. I’ve seen you do it before.”

He smiled, but convinced no one. “It would be nothing sinister, Abigail, just public relations, just politics. Smoke and mirrors. It wouldn’t stick.”

“I won’t let you do it.”

“You couldn’t stop me if your life depended on it.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, keep those offensive comments to yourself, Randall. I know how the world works.”

He frowned, changed the subject. “You were seen with Victorine Gautreaux this morning. You brought her to the house.”

“I gave her Julian’s medicine.”

“Why?”

Abigail watched boats move for the shore. “Because he’s delusional. Because he needs it.”

“I mean, why did you let her go? Do you even know where Julian is?”

“In the woods, I suspect.”

“He needs to be controlled.”

“Until his head is clear, I’d prefer him anywhere but here. He’s hallucinating.”

“But you hate that family.”

“I hate Caravel. There’s a difference. The daughter surprised me.”

“Meaning?”

“I was impressed.”

“How could the white trash daughter of a white trash whore possibly impress you? What could she have possibly said?”

“She wants a better life. Julian is helping her.”

“I bet he is.”

“Must you be so juvenile? She’s an artist. Carves bone, apparently. Something her grandmother taught her. She must be exceptional at it.”

“Because Julian wants to bang her?”

“Because for all Julian’s faults,” Abigail finally raised her voice, “he is a man of exquisite taste. If he says she has talent, she does. He sent her work to New York. He got her a showing at one of the finer galleries. His publisher wants to do a book.”

“About bones?”

“About a disappearing art form. About an illiterate child who does this exceptional thing.”

“Artists. Writers. Jesus. How did my life come to this?” The senator stood. “If you need me, I’ll be with the lawyers. They’re bloodsuckers, but at least I understand them.”

He got halfway to the door before Abigail stopped him. “What I said about Michael…” She waited for him to look back. “I meant it. If you try to hurt him, I’ll take it personally.”

The senator smiled thinly. “You would choose him over me?”

“Don’t force the choice.”

“Sometimes, Abigail, it’s you who I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps it’s best that way.”

“And perhaps not.”

The senator left; she finished her coffee.

Two hours later, they came for Julian.

Michael heard about it on the radio. He was doing 110 on the interstate, eyes wide for state troopers, weapon cocked on the seat beside him. He’d never killed a cop or a civilian, but knew Jimmy well enough to know that four hours meant four hours.

The needle touched 120.

He checked the rearview mirror again, turned up the radio.

“… sources close to the investigation indicate an arrest warrant has been issued for Julian Vane, the internationally best-selling children’s author and adopted son of Senator Randall Vane. Authorities have converged on the sprawling estate…”

They had few details, but the story was sensational. Celebrity. Politics. Multiple bodies. When it was over, he called Abigail. “How’s Julian?”

“Michael? Where are you?”

He heard voices in the background, a low, vital hum. “Is he arrested?”

“No, but they’re looking for him, and its only a matter of time. He can’t hide forever, and if he runs, God alone knows what’ll happen. I’m coming apart, Michael. Randall says the warrant is trumped up, but it won’t matter. If they arrest him, they’ll break him. You said it yourself. He can’t handle it.”

“I’m on the road-”

“Don’t come here!”

Michael hesitated as hairs stood up on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Just… don’t.”

Michael thought for long seconds. “I need my gun,” he finally said.

“What?”

He pictured Elena, broken in some dark hole; Jimmy with an unknown number of men, and a full day to prepare. Michael had the forty-five, and that was it. “The nine millimeter you took from my car. I need it. I don’t have time to find another one.”

“What’s going on, Michael? Please don’t tell me you’re in trouble, too.”

“Can you get it?”

“Yes, of course. But-”

“Where can we meet?”

Abigail descended shallow, mossy steps and knocked on Jessup’s door. She knocked again, then opened the door and stepped into the low, spare room. Dim light filtered through covered windows. A teakettle whistled on a small stove in the kitchen alcove. “Jessup?” She lifted the kettle from the heat. It was light, most of the water boiled away. The whistle died, and she turned off the stove. “Jessup?”

The bedroom door stood ajar. Inside, she saw Jessup. He wore a crisp, white shirt, buttoned at the cuffs, black pants, a black tie and shoes that had been recently shined. He sat on the edge of a narrow bed that was tightly made. His back was rigid and straight, head bent so that his neck creased at the collar.

“Do you remember when you gave this to me?”

He kept his head down, but lifted a hand so she could see the small cross that swung from a platinum chain. She’d given it to him for Christmas on their fifth year together. They’d become very close, and he’d told her one cold night that he believed in hell. Not the vague concept of it, but the physical place: a lake of fire and remembrance. There’d been weight on his shoulders when he said it, tears in his eyes and sweet, dark whiskey on his breath. He was one of the strongest men she knew, and he was breaking. She’d always imagined some terrible thing that haunted him: the barbarism of war, a breach of faith or some poor woman broken to the marrow. But he would never talk about it.

“I remember.”

She stepped closer, rounding the end of the bed. His eyes were sunken, cheeks drawn. The nine millimeter lay on the bed beside his leg.

He let the cross swing. “Did you know then that we would spend our lives together?”

“How could I have known such a thing? I was barely into my twenties.”

She stared at the gun. Jessup shook his head. “Yet, here we are, twenty years later.”

“And you have been the most perfect friend.”

He laughed, but the laugh was broken.

Abigail hesitated. “Is that Michael’s gun?”

His hand moved unerringly to the gun, and Abigail was reminded that Jessup Falls was a dangerous man. That was the reason her husband hired him. Ex-special forces. Ex-cop. Her driver and bodyguard.

“Yes.”

His voice remained empty, and Abigail thought of screaming kettles and boiled-off water. She wondered how long he’d been sitting in the dark, a cross in his hands and a gun by his side. For that instant, Abigail felt as if she knew nothing of this man at all, but when he looked up, his gaze was familiar and fresh and raw. “I thought for a long time that you loved me…”

“Jessup, we’ve discussed this.”

“You’re married, I know.” He smiled, and was suddenly the same old Jessup. “It’s just that I’m torn.” He met her eyes, then lifted the gun. “Do I do what you want me to do? Or do I do what’s right?” He put the gun down. “What I know is right.”

“You’re speaking of Michael.”

“He’s dangerous.”

Abigail saw it, then. She understood what he wanted to do, and why he was so torn. “You want to give the gun to the senator.”

“To his people,” Jessup said. “The gun. The photographs. Everything we know about him and Otto Kaitlin.”

“You can’t do that.”

“His arrest would take the pressure off everybody. The cops would have a warm body and the media would have its story. A year from now, this would all be a fading memory. Our lives would go on.”

“And what of the truth?”

“No one wants that.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Then call it a sacrifice for the greater good.”

Abigail sat beside him, the gun between them. “Such a sacrifice would be my decision.”

“And yet, you don’t always make the right choice.”

She put her hand on the gun; his hand settled on hers.

“You are a good and decent man, Jessup, but you’ve never told me no, and this is not the time to start.”

His hand tightened. “They’ve pulled three bodies from the lake, Abigail. How long before they link them to you?”

She smiled, but it was tired. “I didn’t kill anyone, Jessup.”

“But you brought them here. You tracked them down; you paid them. The cops will figure that out.”

“What I did, I did for Julian. No one here had ill intent.”

He shook his head. “There will be witnesses somewhere. A paper trail. A girlfriend. Someone at the law firm you hired. Something will lead the cops here, to you.”

“I didn’t kill those men, and neither did Julian. That’s all that matters.”

“You should let me do this, Abigail.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Michael matters.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And I don’t expect you to.” He peered down, his deep eyes filled with strong emotion. She stared back until he lifted his hand. Then she kissed his cheek and stood with the gun. “It’s been a good twenty-five years, Jessup.”

“It’s been grand.”

“As for what might have been…”

He swallowed hard, and let two fingers brush her leg. “In another life,” he said.

She pressed a palm to his face, felt her own eyes soften.

“In another life.”

Michael met Abigail at eleven o’clock in a drugstore parking lot on the far edge of town. The building was tired, with a flat roof and lime-white streaks that ran from the mortar. An empty lot stretched away to the left, and another ran out behind the building, both of them overgrown and littered. Traffic was sparse. Michael approved of the choice. Few people around. Good sight lines. Easy to find.

He parked in back.

Abigail came in the beat-up Land Rover. Damp mud coated the wheels and splattered paint as high as the mirrors. She swung out, dressed in high boots and crisp khaki pants. A green vest hung over a white shirt that clung damply. She saw him looking at the truck. “Reporters,” she said.

He understood. The rear of the estate was un-walled, protected only by three thousand acres of woods. She’d gone off-road to slip out unseen. He looked at his watch. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Tell me what’s happening.” Michael hesitated, and she spoke bluntly. “You want a gun. I brought it. Now, tell me why.”

They stood at the rear of the Land Rover. Her gaze was unflinching and he was out of time, so he told her about the phone call, the screams, the threat and the white-knuckle drive he’d just made.

“Are you sure it was Elena?”

She’d accepted every word he’d said. No hand wringing. No judgment. Her head was tilted up, jaw set.

“I’m sure, yes.”

“And this Jimmy person will do what he says? He’ll kill her?”

“Without hesitation.”

“And kill you, too, when he gets the account numbers.”

Michael shrugged. “He’ll try, yes.”

“Who’s more dangerous?”

“I am.” No hesitation.

“But he has Elena.” Michael nodded. “And you don’t know if he has other men with him. Other guns. Going in there alone is not very smart.”

“I have no choice.”

“Do you really have sixty-seven million dollars?”

“More like eighty.” Michael opened the trunk and pulled the Hemingway from his duffel bag. He ran his hand over the cover, smiled. “This was Otto’s favorite book. He’d read it so many times he could quote entire passages. Toward the end, when he was failing, I would read it to him. It was a thing we shared, a love of the classics.” Michael opened the book and showed her the inscription.

For Michael, who is more like me than any other…

For Michael, who is my son…

Think well of an old man…

Make a good life…

The writing was spidery and thin, a dying man’s scrawl. “He wrote that eight days before he died. It was the day I told him I wanted out of the life.”

“I don’t understand.”

Michael opened the book to the middle and riffled the pages. Numbers blurred past. Pages and pages in the same loose hand. “Twenty-nine different offshore accounts. Different countries. Different banks. He never wrote the numbers down; kept them all in his head. Then he did this. For me.”

“A generous man.”

“I loved him.”

Michael closed the book, touched it to his forehead, then put it in the car. Abigail went silent for a long minute. “He’ll kill you, Michael. You know that. He’ll kill the girl. He’ll kill you.”

An ironic smile touched Michael’s lips. “It’s not in my nature to call the police.”

“Perhaps my husband’s men. They’re professional, highly trained.” She thought about it, then said, “It’s not an option. They’re looking for a scapegoat and you’re tops on the list.”

Michael saw it. “They’ll implicate me to protect Julian.”

“Julian. Me. The senator.”

“It’s a good plan. You should let them do it.”

“That’s not how I am.”

Michael held out his hand, asking for the gun. “I need to do this, now. It’s not far. They’re waiting.”

“I could go with you.”

Michael lowered his hand. “To what end?”

“To buy your life as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll offer him another ten.”

“Ten million dollars?”

“Or twenty. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re Julian’s brother.”

“That’s not good enough.”

She shrugged, unmoved. “Because I chose a long time ago the person I wished to be. Because ten million dollars is pocket change.”

“And that’s it? That’s the only reason?”

“What else could there be?”

Michael stared down at her for long seconds. His face was naked, as rare emotion stirred; but, for once, he didn’t fight it. He let it move him, let it show. “Do you know what fantasy all orphans share? Strong, weak, young, old. Do you know the thing they have in common?”

Abigail’s head moved, but she kept her jaw clenched tight. Cicadas called from the scrub, and sweat rolled on her cheek as the bright sun beat down.

“Why did you come for us?” Michael asked.

“I wanted children, but couldn’t bear them. The senator and I agreed-”

“Why Julian? Why me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We were too old to be cute, or easy, too long in the system to be anything but damaged goods. So, why did you want us?”

“I had my reasons.”

“Personal reasons?” A touch of anger showed on Michael’s face.

“Yes.”

“And now? You don’t need this. You barely know me.”

Abigail tried to stand tall, but a weight was pushing down. She looked at the scrub, the high blue sky. “I chose a long time ago the person I wished to be.”

“And what person is that?”

“The kind that’s brave enough to do the right thing. Always. No matter what.”

A thing remained unspoken, something large. He saw it in the line of her jaw, the way she drew her shoulders back. It was a big decision she’d made, and a hard life to live. Something caused her to make that choice, and Michael thought he knew what it was. “Are you my mother?”

Abigail’s mouth opened, eyes wide and green above it.

“That’s the fantasy,” Michael went on doggedly. “That your mother will come back for you. It’s what we all dreamed, day and night: that it was a giant mistake, that we’d been misplaced, and the error might be fixed. The math works. I’m thirty-three, you’re not yet fifty. You’d have been young, but kids make mistakes. No one would blame you for walking away. I wouldn’t. I would understand.”

Abigail felt momentarily overwhelmed. She looked up at this tall, strong man, this rawboned killer with his beautiful face and his wide, naked eyes. She felt so many things, but first among them was the disappointment she was about to deliver. “No, Michael.” She touched his arm. “I’m not your mother.” He looked away, nodded. “But I am Julian’s.”

He nodded again, blinked twice, and the emotion was gone. “You should stay here,” he said.

“Everybody has a price, Michael. Jimmy will have one, too.”

“How can you know that?”

“I’m a senator’s wife.”

She was right about Jimmy. He would do anything for that kind of money: kill his own mother, put personal vendettas aside. He would take the money and come back for Michael later. No question. No doubt. “Do you propose to write him a check?”

Her mouth tilted. “Do you still have that bag of cash?”

“Yes.”

“All we have to do is give him a taste.” She let the words sink in. “Human nature will do the rest.”

“I can’t guarantee your safety. You understand? This man is not like other men. There’s no balance in him, no limits.”

“If you don’t take me, Elena will die and so will you. It’s a setup, Michael. It’s why he called you in the first place.”

“Then I’ll take the cash. I’ll arrange it.”

“The cash is just the start. We’ll need to settle on the price, then it’ll take a wire transfer that only I can authorize. I have to be there. It’s not optional.”

Michael looked away, torn. “It’s not your fight.”

“I lost you once.”

He shook his head. “I was a child. You were there for a reason.”

“I’m a big girl, Michael. I want to do this.”

He studied her face, which had become very familiar. “Someone is liable to die,” he said.

“Then let’s make damn sure it’s Jimmy.”