Iron House

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Slaughter Mountain was as far off the main roads as you could get and still be reached by anything that looked remotely like pavement. More like rubble, Michael thought, slamming through a rut that held a foot of muddy water.

But he was close; he felt it.

Close to answers.

Close to something.

The dead boys were connected to Iron House. So were Julian, the senator and the senator’s wife. Salina Slaughter’s name was on the same list as Abigail Vane, the dead men he’d known as boys, and Slaughter Mountain was no more than thirty miles from Iron House. In a world this large, that was damn close. There had to be a connection.

But what?

The road dropped low, then bottomed out where a single-lane bridge spanned a fifty-foot gulley. It was early afternoon, but dim in the draw. Michael had not seen a car or a person since he’d actually found a gas station clerk who knew how to get to Slaughter Mountain. That was thirty minutes ago. Before that, Michael had already stopped three times with no luck. It wasn’t that people were unkind or unwilling, but that road signs seemed nonexistent and directions were hard if you didn’t know the dead pine at the edge of Miller’s Field or the bridge where that fool tourist kid fell in the ditch and broke his ass bone.

Michael rolled over the bridge and looked downslope. Through a break in the tree cover he could see flashes of the river, which ran fast and white. He eased forward, studying the left side of the road until he found a secondary road that cut through the trees as it rose up. It was narrow and overgrown, limbs pushing in far enough to make it dark as a tunnel. Michael turned, then stopped and got out. The sign was hidden by scrub, but exactly where the clerk had said it would be. Michael pulled off brambles and vines, saw the slab of granite that looked like a tombstone.

Slaughter Mountain

1898

He drove to the top of the mountain and found it ruined. Two-thirds of it had been carved away-blasted and split and hollowed out. He saw pit mines and dross piles, metal equipment that was broken and rusted and spent. The wreckage stretched for two miles.

Ruins of a mansion perched on a far knoll.

Michael followed the road as it curved around the mine site. Stone was gray and shattered and pooled with water that caught reflections of the high, blue sky. He passed conveyors, shelled-out trucks and old, wooden structures fallen into decay. Mountains rolled off to the horizon, hazy blue, and Michael wondered how tall this mountain had been before the Slaughters stripped it down to nothing. He looked west, into Tennessee, east to Iron Mountain, then drove into more trees and up to the high glade and the rubble that dominated it.

One of the wings still stood, but barely. The rest of the structure had burned some time long ago. Grass grew around blackened timbers and mounds of chiseled stone; bits of glass winked in the sun. Four chimneys clawed up from the debris, but two more had collapsed. The house had been massive, once. Now it was as ruined as the mountain.

An old pickup truck was parked near the closest corner, its red paint faded to the color of clay, rust on the hood and knobby tires worn smooth in the center. Michael stopped next to the truck, opened the door and got out. A small bent figure was pushing a wheelbarrow down a path cleared through the wreckage. Michael waited until the man was close. “Need any help with that?”

The man started, and the wheelbarrow tipped. He tried to correct it, but his arms were thin and his load was heavy. The wheelbarrow toppled over. Bricks spilled out. The old man looked frightened, then angry. There was no way to put a number on the years he’d seen. He could be eighty-five or a hundred and ten. His face was a mask of lines and puckered skin, his body wiry and bent. He wore poor clothes and leather boots scuffed white. “Damn, son.”

“Sorry about that.”

The man squinted, one hand in his pocket like it might hold a knife. “I ain’t stealing nothing. Nobody owns this no more.”

Michael noticed that the truck bed was full of brick that looked hand-formed, and was probably worth something on the salvage market. He shrugged. “Take all of it for all I care.”

The old man looked him up and down. “You some kind of tourist?”

Michael shook his head. “Let me help you.”

He stepped onto the path, righted the wheelbarrow and started replacing the bricks that had fallen out. The man watched, then bent and began shifting bricks, his gnarled hands shaky but deft. “Sorry about that, I guess.”

“What?”

He pointed at the Range Rover. “Most rich people are assholes. Figured you’d be the same.”

“I work with my hands. You going to sell this brick?”

“Building a barbecue pit.”

“Really?”

“Might do some entertaining.”

Michael smiled, not sure if the man was pulling his chain. “This the Slaughter place?” he asked.

“What’s left of it.”

“What happened?”

“Burned. Thirty years, maybe.”

Michael picked up the last brick, then took the handles and started rolling the wheelbarrow toward the truck. “Any Slaughters left around these parts?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Been here all my life. Reckon I’d know.”

They reached the truck and Michael set the wheelbarrow down. He picked up the first brick, dropped it in the truck bed. “Any idea where the family went?”

“Hell, I suppose.”

“All of them?”

“Far as I know, there was just the lady.”

“Serena Slaughter?”

“Meanest cocksucker ever wrote a check or broke a man’s back for working. Rich as God a’mighty, but nasty to her bones. She died in the fire, and I hope she died screaming.”

He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and honked his nose. Michael stared off at mountains that rolled blue and soft to the east. “Did you know her?”

“Most people around here did. Worked for her, anyways.”

“What can you tell me?”

“You already done shifting brick?”

Michael smiled again, then tossed more brick and watched the man use the same bandanna to mop his face. “Did you know her personally?”

“Never cared to.”

“Who owns the mountain now?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Michael put the last brick in the truck. “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything?”

“Nope. Catch that side, will you?”

Michael gripped the side of the wheelbarrow and they heaved it into the truck, wedged it upside down among the pile of brick. “Anybody around here that might be able to tell me more? Did she have friends-”

“Son, that’s like asking does a rattlesnake have friends, or if a rock gives two shits about the dirt it’s sitting on.” Michael’s disappointment must have shown. The man narrowed one eye and said, “Means something to you, does it?”

“I’m looking for answers, yes.”

“You squeamish?” The same glint caught in his eye, part humor and the rest mischief.

“Not at all,” Michael said.

“Then you’ll be wanting to follow me.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a nasty old woman who might be able to help you, and because you’d not find her in a million years if I weren’t to show you how.”

Michael followed the old man around the truck, watched him get in and slam the door. “Who is she?”

The man put an elbow through the open window, fired up the truck. “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “she’s the crazy bitch what burned this place down.”

The old man was right. Michael would have never found his way to the place he was led. They went down the mountain, left and then right a half-mile past the draw. There was no sign or pavement or indication of any kind that making that right turn was a smart move. They followed a mud track that fell away and then split twice to end up in a narrow gorge divided by a two-foot trickle of water. Trees had been cleared for the most part-stumps jutting up-but there were enough trees left to put shadows on the ground and keep the whole place from sliding off the mountain. Michael guessed there were about thirty structures in the gorge, a few of them painted, but most of them not. He saw a few trailers that had been somehow dragged down the track, but most of the buildings were poor, unpainted shacks on cinder-block foundations. There were covered porches and oil tanks, ruined cars and dead appliances. Mud was the rule, but flowerpots made a splash of color here and there. Even though it was hot, smoke rose from chimneys. Michael noticed that there were no power lines snaking down from the road above.

The old man stopped by the largest structure, which had been painted white once. The windows were broken out, roof caved in. “You ever heard the term, ‘company store’?” He walked around to Michael’s window, pointed at the building. “There she sits.”

Michael climbed out of the Rover. “I don’t understand.”

The old man took a round can from his back pocket, pinched a half-inch of tobacco and stuffed it under his bottom lip. “Slaughters built all of this back in the day. Wrote mortgages so we could own our own place, then paid us with a mix of cash and store credit. Half the folks here either worked for them or watched their parents get old and broke doing it.”

“Half of them?”

“Rest are hippies and homeless and Mexicans. Lady you want is at the end of that track, last one back, where the water falls off.” He pointed at a sloppy, wet scar through the trees. “House used to be yellow. Sits on the creek’s edge, with a big, flat boulder for a front yard. Kind of pretty once upon a time.”

Michael stared off down the track. “You’re not coming?”

“That’s my house, right there.” He pointed at an unpainted shack fifty yards off. A half-built barbecue pit dominated the patch of dirt off the front porch.

“Your pit looks good.”

The man shrugged. “Been telling the wife I’d do it for twenty years.” He winked. “Figure building it’s the best shot I got of dying in peace. You go on down, now. Her name’s Arabella Jax. She hears better than she sees, and has shot more than one dog what wandered onto her porch. So, let her hear you coming. Just don’t tell her I’m the one who sent you.” He squelched back toward his truck, but Michael had a few more questions.

“Why do you think she knows anything about Serena Slaughter?”

“Not sure she does, but everybody down here worked in the quarry or the mines. She’s the only one left who worked in the house.”

“Doing what?”

“Dishes. Laundry. Rubbing the old lady’s feet. Hell, I don’t know.”

“Why do you think she’s the one that burned the house?”

“They had some kind of falling out.” The man swung into his truck, spoke through the passenger window. “Mostly, she’s the only one down here mean enough to do it.” He put the truck in gear, lifted a hand. “Hang on to your wallet,” he said, and drove off laughing.

Michael watched his tires sling mud, then catch. He stepped back to his own vehicle and felt eyes watching him, caught movement in shady places behind open windows. It would be a short walk, he thought, but doubted the Rover would survive his absence. So, he drove.

The track went between two houses, then bent toward the creek and followed it deeper into the gorge. Michael had seen a lot of poverty in his time, but never as entrenched as this. This place had been here for a long time, and it had always been poor. No power. No phone. Trees chopped down for firewood.

The yellow house sat far back from the rest, and he saw how it could have looked once upon a time. The creek slid past the front of it, touched the side of a giant, flat boulder as it formed a wide, deep pool and then dropped off in a whisper of spray. There was a view down-gulley, and the river itself glinted far down in the green.

But that’s where the prettiness ended. Most of the gutters had fallen down years ago and lay rusted in the dirt. Those that remained were clogged and sprouting saplings two feet tall. A blue tarp covered part of the roof, and tarpaper showed where windowsills had rotted off the sides. Boards were missing in the porch. What paint remained was deep in the grain.

Michael turned off the car and got out.

A sickly smell wafted from an open window.

“Arabella Jax?”

He stayed well back from the porch. Didn’t have to wait long.

“Who wants to know?”

A smoker’s voice, and strong enough.

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

“May I come up?”

He thought she was near a window. Right side. He couldn’t see her, though. Just a hint of furniture and mustard-yellow curtain.

“I don’t talk for nothing,” she said. “You got money?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t let grass grow under your feet.”

Michael stepped carefully onto the porch. The door was open, a torn screen hanging off-kilter. The smell was stronger this close, fetid and thick as oil. “I’m coming inside,” he said.

“Don’t need a goddamn play-by-play. I see your hand on the door.”

The screen door stuck, then swung wide enough to knock against the house. The room beyond was dim and low. Michael caught a glimpse of worn carpet and ancient furniture. Arabella Jax sat in chair by the window. She wore a housecoat that had once been white, but now looked like dirty dishwater. Gray hair clung to her skull; her face was collapsed and sallow, sockets pushing against the skin around her eyes. She had one leg up on a lime green ottoman, and it was the leg that smelled. From the foot to the knee, it was swollen and purple. Two toes were missing, and open sores showed where the skin had broken down.

Diabetes, Michael guessed. Bad, too.

She acted as if unaware of the smell or sight. An ancient shotgun lay across her lap: double barreled with big, scrolled hammers. “Come closer,” she ordered.

Michael did as she asked, and she leaned forward. “Pretty one, aren’t you?” She leaned back, held out a hand. “Money first.”

“How much?”

“All of it.” He didn’t argue. He had three hundred dollars in his pocket, and handed it over. She thumbed it professionally, then shook an unfiltered cigarette from a rumpled pack and struck a match against the table. Smoke gathered in her open mouth. “Now, tell me sweetness…” She narrowed her eyes. “What can I tell you that’s worth three hundred American dollars?”

Michael thought of the many ways he could approach this. He could finesse, give the backstory, tell lies. In the end, he said what was most on his mind. “What can you tell me about Salina Slaughter?”

She froze, smoke around her face. “Salina Slaughter?”

“Yes.”

“Salina…” Her hands went white on the gun. “Motherfucker.”

She got a thumb on one of the big hammers, cocked it as the barrel came up and her bad leg thumped once on the floor. There was fear in her face, and anger, too. But fast as she was, she was not that fast. Michael kicked the ottoman aside, stepped forward and snatched the gun out of her hands. She pressed back in the chair, hands up and teeth bared. “God damn it,” she said. “No-good motherfuckin’ jumped-up city-boy…”

Michael pointed the gun at her, let the hammer stay up and cocked. She stopped talking. “Are you finished?” he asked.

She eyed him steadily. “Nobody gets that fast doing God’s work.”

“Maybe not.”

“You planning to pull that trigger?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, think fast, boy, ’cause I dropped my cigarette and it’s burning my ass.”

“Go ahead.”

She dug the cigarette out from between her leg and the cushion. Stuck it in her mouth. “Do you mind?” She gestured at the ottoman. “My leg ain’t what it was.” Michael nudged the ottoman with his foot. She propped her leg, then leaned back and studied him like she didn’t care if he pulled the trigger or not. “That flatland ball-licker send you up here to kill me?”

“Which flatland ball-licker are we talking about?”

“There ain’t but one.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hell, boy, I don’t remember his name. It’s been nigh on fifteen years, and he put a gun in my face, too. A lady of my refinement don’t think so clear under such circumstances.”

Michael stepped closer and put the barrel against her forehead. “I’m not the kind to ask twice.”

“Okay, okay. No need for that. I’ve got his name in here somewhere. Let me think, Let me think…”

“Tick tock, lady.”

“I don’t-”

Michael cocked the second hammer.

“Falls.”

Michael backed the gun off an inch. “Jessup Falls?”

“That’s the one. No patience for the suffering of regular folk. Black-souled and unforgiving. No value put on family.”

“Family?”

A sly look came into her face. “You think you’re the first one come up here asking after Salina Slaughter?”

“She’s your family?”

Her mouth opened wide, eyes crinkling as she laughed in his face. “You don’t know fuck-all, do you, boy? There ain’t no Salina Slaughter. Never has been and never was. Who you’re really asking after is Abigail Jax.”

“Abigail?”

“My daughter.” She spun her cigarette through the open window. “How is the heartless, thieving, no-good ingrate?”