Iron House

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Michael spent the next forty minutes with Arabella Jax, and it felt like an eternity. It was more than the sight of her, more than the smells or the slow, certain crumble of everything around him. There was black poetry to her unpleasantness, a rhythm of lies and pride and cunning that Michael had rarely seen, even on the street. She pushed when she could, drew back when she felt threatened and then pushed again. She wanted everything she could get, dollars and knowledge and insight, the key to Michael’s soul if she could find a way to trick it out of him. She’d say horrible things, then preen like an insane teenager and look at him sideways. Michael couldn’t tell how much was act and how much was real, but his skin crawled at the way she watched him, the way she sunk her barbs then opened her mouth and let smoke linger.

“You sleeping with my Abigail? She’d be pretty enough for a fine, young buck like you. That’s a trait we share.” Arabella smoothed limp hair behind her ear. “Is it hot where she’s living?”

“I’m the one asking questions,” Michael said.

“You have eyelashes like a girl. You like boys, maybe?”

“Let’s talk about Abigail and Salina Slaughter.”

“Bet that Jessup Falls is sleeping with her. She’d know how to work a man, all right. I think he may have been from Raleigh. You from Raleigh?”

“I’m not telling you where she is.”

“I don’t care where she is.”

That was a lie; her eye twitched every time she brought up her daughter. She wanted to know where Abigail was, what she was doing. She was hungry for it, and she was afraid. It went like that for a long time. Michael asked a question, and she tried to turn it around. She wanted to know who he was, why he was really there. She tried to find the angles, but Michael was holding the gun, and he knew all about angles. “Let’s talk about Jessup Falls.”

“What happened to your leg?” She sucked on a cigarette.

“Jessup Falls. Salina Slaughter.”

“You want I should rub it?”

She played bold like that, but Michael played in a different league. He leaned forward, took her hand in his. She tried to pull it back, but Michael squeezed hard and let her see enough of his soul to know it could get worse. “Now…” He loosened his grip, patted her hand. “I’m going to ask you again…”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’d rather not.” He squeezed harder, pressure building.

“Oh, Jesus…”

The joints creaked.

“He sent you!” Her eyes flared wide, mouth suddenly slack. “Oh, sweet Lord. He really did.” There was a new fear in her, a specific, urgent terror. She licked her lips, eyes darting frantically as her body locked rigid. The posturing fell away, the slyness and the rough edge. “There’s no need to do like he done. I’ll talk. Watch me. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you. Watch, now. Just you watch me.”

She was so eager that Michael understood. “You’re talking about Jessup Falls.”

She nodded fiercely, shut her eyes tight, and Michael released her hand. Whatever happened between her and Jessup Falls, it wasn’t pretty. She was scared to death. “Let’s talk about Abigail,” he said.

And they did. She started weak and broken, but the spirit came back into her as minutes passed and Michael didn’t touch her again. He watched it build, the slyness and calculation, the belief that maybe he wouldn’t hurt her the way Falls had. In the end, though, Michael had what he needed. He understood some things, and none of them were very pretty. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll come back.”

Her face crinkled as color returned. “Come or don’t. I’ll be dead in six months anyway.”

She flicked a cigarette butt at his right eye.

Spit on the floor.

Michael took one last look at everything-the leg, the house and the loose, brown teeth-then left, and took the gun with him. There was a lot he didn’t understand, and a lot that he did. Abigail was raised poor. Fine. Happens all the time. The most loathsome woman ever born brought her into the world, then did her best to screw her up. That happens, too. Life’s a bitch.

But there was no one ever born named Salina Slaughter. Michael could still feel the hate in Arabella Jax when she’d laid it out for him.

“Dumb shit of a girl wanted to be rich so bad, she made it up. Didn’t like that her momma scrubbed taters and washed dishes and did every other fucking thing just to put food in her face. Know how I heard about it? People down to the store were laughing at me! Said little Abigail was telling everybody her name was Salina Slaughter and she would own the mountain one day when her mother died. Not me, mind you, but that queen bitch Serena Slaughter, who was low and cruel and treated me worse than her dog. That’s who Abigail wanted for her momma! That was the game she liked to play, and everybody in this hollow knew it! Salina Slaughter. Shit. Even after I beat that child bloody…”

That child had been ten years old at the time. Four years later, she stole every dollar her mother had, ran away in the middle of the night and hadn’t been back since. But Jessup Falls had. He’d hurt Arabella Jax so badly that even now she was terrified of him. What had pushed Falls to such an extreme? Was it love of Abigail or some other thing? Just how hard was the man, and what did any of it have to do with Julian and the dead boys from Iron House? Pieces were still missing-big ones-and Michael felt them out there like spinning blades.

Money. Parties. Politicians…

The line twisted through Michael’s thoughts like a bright, sudden banner.

Was the senator connected to Slaughter Mountain? When and where did he and Abigail meet? Did he know her humble roots, and where did he get his money? Michael kept coming back to that, but Arabella Jax knew nothing about her daughter’s relationship with Randall Vane, knew nothing about her daughter at all.

The girl was fourteen when she ran away…

Michael had all these questions, and as much as they burned, he didn’t need the answers to save Julian. He had the file, and it would be enough. Chatham County was a powder keg, and the file would be the torch to light it. He touched it briefly and ran through the steps he would take. He looked for flaws, found none, but had to make one stop first, and that was at the Iron Mountain Home for Boys.

He found Flint in the same bathrobe with a bottle of the same booze in front of him. He nodded once at the sight of Michael, then knocked back what was left in his glass. “Have you found revenge too sweet a song to ignore?”

“I beg your pardon.”

Flint poured another glass, waved it in a vague circle. “Have you come to kill us after all?”

“I have no fight with you, Mr. Flint. In fact, I wish you both well. Where’s Billy?”

“Doing the things that Billy does.”

“I need to ask you a question.”

“Then, sit, drink.”

Michael sat, but no glass was offered. Flint was bleary and loose, the kitchen a mess around him. “Has anyone ever come here looking for me? Asking about me? It might have been a long time ago?”

Flint squinted, sipped. “So many boys, so many years.”

“You would remember this person.”

“Can you describe him?”

Michael described Stevan as best he could. “He would have asked about Julian, too. He would have either threatened you or tried to bribe you. He would have been very smooth or very unpleasant.”

“I remember him, now, an unpleasant man with an expensive suit and an attitude. He came some years after Julian was adopted. Threw some money around and made threats. As I recall, he wasn’t just interested in your brother. He wanted to know more about Senator Vane, too. Their relationship. The circumstances of the adoption.”

“His name is Stevan Kaitlin. Is that familiar?”

“Vaguely, yes. Stevan. But I don’t think he gave a last name. And the other one. What was it? Otto, I think.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“No last name for him, either, but he was an older man, calmer, kind of in the background, but very intent. Just sat there and took it in.”

Michael nodded because it made sense, then put a hundred thousand dollars on the table and ignored the way Flint choked on his liquor. “If anybody else comes up here asking the same question-cops, anybody-I want you to tell them the truth. Tell them his name was Stevan Kaitlin and that he wanted to know all about the senator. Feel free to mention Otto, too. Can you remember that?”

Flint’s eyes stayed locked on the cash. “Yes.”

“It will happen soon. In a week or two. Police or FBI.”

“Week or two…”

“Just tell them the truth. Afterward, you should take Billy and leave. Find someplace new. Start fresh. No more gambling. No more drinking.” Flint touched the money, and Michael stood. “Mr. Flint?”

Flint looked up from the cash. He was drunk and overwhelmed. Michael spread his hands on the table, money between them. “The compassion you’ve shown for Billy is a rare thing in this world.” Flint’s eyes drifted to the money, then snapped back up. “I almost killed you the last time I was here. I was angry, you understand? It was that close.” Michael held his thumb and finger an inch apart, and Flint, either frightened or full of regret, tucked his hands in his lap as Michael leaned even closer. “Every day since then has been a gift. Every day from now forward is also a gift. Every minute. Every hour.”

Michael straightened.

“You’re a compassionate man, Mr. Flint, and I think you deserve a second chance.” He slid the money across the table. “Ask yourself what happens to Billy if you drink yourself to death, then give yourself a break. This place messed up a lot of people, but it’s just a place. You can move past it.”

Flint looked up, eyes red and raw. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“It’s what I’m coming to believe.”

Flint reached for the bottle. “Maybe it’s not that simple.”

“And maybe it is.”

Flint poured another glass and put it on the table.

“Take the money, Mr. Flint. Start fresh.”

“I’ll tell the police what you said.”

Michael sighed deeply. “Give Billy my regards.”

Flint nodded, glass untouched. He stared at it for long seconds, then tucked his face into his hands, his whole body shaking as Michael turned on his heel and left.