Iron House

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Michael hit the Chatham County line close to dusk, and found the road empty by the mailbox with blue reflectors. He parked on the grass shoulder a half-mile down and watched the dirt track that led to a house full of dead mobsters. No police. No movement. He checked the sky for aerial surveillance, and then craned his neck to check the gas station lot two hundred yards behind him.

It looked quiet, he thought, the air hushed and warm as the sun made its slow burn through the trees. But still, he was patient. He waited, watched; and when the last light grayed out, he drove in. Within seconds, he knew the site was undisturbed.

Ignoring the barn, Michael drove straight to the house, lifted the file and got out of the car. He stepped carefully, and made his way to Stevan’s room. Nothing had changed there, either. At the bedside, he replaced the file where he’d found it. He took one last look around and then left, satisfied.

Forty minutes later, he had a room in a decent hotel. He showered, changed and found the senator’s number in his phone’s memory. The call was answered on the first ring. “I wondered if you might still like to meet?”

“Michael, I was just thinking of you.”

“Would you like to have brunch tomorrow?”

“Are you back in town?”

“Just this moment. Do you still want to discuss Julian?”

“Of course, my boy. Of course. But why wait? My evening is free; I just poured a drink. Join me. I have the most wonderful study in which to drink, and the best selection of scotch this side of the highlands.”

“All right.”

“Shall we say, half an hour? Just give your name to the guard at the gate.”

Michael squeezed the phone hard. He thought of the file, then of blackmail, betrayal and the price of a political career. “Half an hour.”

Abigail was not a drinker. Drinkers lost control, made mistakes. Drinkers were weak. But tonight Abigail made an exception. It came in a clear glass bottle, and it burned going down. But, that was okay.

She was in mourning.

And she was appalled.

Jessup…

She dragged herself off the bed, sat at the dressing table and stared hard at the face she’d worn for so many years. She’d worked so hard to portray confidence and certainty of purpose, and yet the one person with whom she could be herself was Jessup. He’d seen her fail and seen her break. He knew truths about her, but had spent twenty-five years at her side, unfailing and true.

“How could I have been so wrong?”

The words slurred; her face fell into a blur. All those years of faithfulness to the senator, and she’d been so proud. Of what? Her fortitude? Her moral character? Always determined to do the right thing, to make the good choice. What a joke! What a sad, tired delusion!

Her reflection laughed a bitter laugh.

Jessup didn’t want her anyway.

She picked up the gun he’d given her all those years ago. For two decades it had ridden with her in the Land Rover, and yet she’d never fired it. It was heavy, cool, and she thought of his face when he’d first pressed it into her palm: a hint of smile, but serious, first touch of white in his hair. It’s a dangerous world, he’d told her. You should keep this close.

Had she been wrong even then?

Had he ever loved her?

She dropped the gun on the bed, stood and paced. She had brief thoughts of Julian and Michael, of the horrors she’d seen in the barn. But mostly she thought of her life, of choices made and opportunity missed. She thought of things she could not forget, and of failures she could not unmake.

To do and do and make oneself replete with change…

She wondered if she’d managed to change at all. All the tough decisions, all the sacrifices and lofty ideals. Had they made any difference? Or was she still the same person she’d been thirty-seven years ago? The same girl who swore she could do better? The very thought depressed her. The bottle emptied, and at some point she heard a light knock on the door.

“Abigail?”

She moved to the door and stood, silent.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Pressure built behind her eyes, but no one could help her. “Go away, Jessup.”

“Are you sure?”

His voice was soft; she touched the door and tried not to cry.

Michael left the guns in the hotel room. He wouldn’t get them through security, and didn’t need them anyway. That was the thing about knowledge.

It was full dark when he arrived at the estate. Reporters were still camped out: vans and gear and talent. They rustled when he slowed. Lights came on, then somebody yelled: “It’s nobody.”

Cameras went down; smokers lit up.

He gave his name at the gate, and a uniformed guard leaned in at his window. He wore a sidearm, carried a clipboard. Michael tried to read his face, but it was blank. “Identification, please.”

“You know who I am.”

The guard measured him with a stare that lasted fifteen seconds. “Any weapons in the car or on your person?”

“Is that a normal question?”

“We’ve received unspecified threats.”

“No,” Michael said. “No weapons.”

“Straight up to the house. Someone is waiting to take you to the senator.”

Michael drove through and the gate swung shut. Gas-burning streetlamps lit the drive; far in, the house glowed as if on fire. Michael rolled slowly, and saw two men waiting for him on the steps. One opened his door. The other was Richard Gale. “I’ll need to pat you down,” he said.

“Is that how the senator greets all his guests?”

“We’ve received-”

“Yes, I know. Unspecified threats.”

Gale smiled tightly. “If you would?”

“Careful of the leg.” Michael lifted his arms and let Gale pat him down. The talk of threats was just that, but they needed an excuse, and Michael let them have it.

“Will you follow me, please?”

The senator was right about one thing: his study was spectacular. Wood panels gleamed like honey; the rugs were handmade silk and at least a century old. Vane rose from a leather chair and opened his arms expansively. “Was I kidding?”

“It’s very nice.”

The senator wore a three-piece suit with French cuffs and a pink tie. He took big strides and offered a big hand. Behind him, French doors opened to formal gardens that were lit with colored lights. “What’re you drinking?”

“I’ll have what you’re having. Thanks.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“Nothing really. Not important.”

“If you say so.” Vane turned his back, selected a bottle and poured. When he turned, he looked like every politician Michael had ever seen, all smiles and twinkle and subtle dark. He handed over the glass, sipped his own, then pretended his question had not been ignored. “You’ve met Richard Gale.”

Michael knew this could play two ways: long or short. Either way, the end would be the same. “Sure.” Michael limped across the room and sat in one of the big leather chairs. He held up the glass, let light shine through the liquor, and decided to make it short. “He and a couple of his buddies smashed in my hotel door last night.”

He sipped scotch in the dead silent room.

“I don’t-”

Vane offered false confusion. Michael said, “You need better men.”

The senator put his own glass down. “That’s how it is?”

“I think we both know I’m not here to talk about Julian.”

The moment held, then Vane nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Gale, who opened the door and let three more men enter the room, probably the same three who’d been with him at the hotel. They fanned out, each of them discretely armed.

Michael held up his glass. “Can I get another one?”

The senator smiled and sat. “You’re flip. I like that. It won’t help you, but I like it. And I apologize for what has to happen tonight.”

Michael put his glass on a table by the chair. “Let me save you some trouble.”

“You’re no trouble at all.”

“And yet you plan to kill me.” Michael looked at Gale. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”

“Kidnap,” the senator said. “Not kill. Deliver might be a better word.”

“To Stevan Kaitlin.”

His eyes hardened. “What do you know about Stevan Kaitlin?”

“He’s blackmailing you-I know that much. He’s been doing it for some time, too. Years, I should think, based on the numbers I’ve seen.”

“Numbers?”

“More like a ledger, a record of what started a long time ago with Otto Kaitlin.”

Michael pictured the file that Otto had given him for his seventeenth birthday. Information on Julian’s new family. Pictures of the senator with various prostitutes. He’d assumed it was just for him, but realized now that Otto would have never let that kind of information go unused. “You paid a half-million dollars a year for five years, then three years at six hundred thousand. You’ve been at seven-fifty a year for a while, now. I’m guessing you’ve shelled out thirteen million dollars over the past sixteen years.” Michael let that sink in, then smiled. “Give or take.”

“Where did you see those numbers?”

“Same place I saw the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“I have the file.”

Vane paled, suddenly still. “Get out.” He waved a hand at Richard Gale.

“All of us?” Gale asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Get the hell out!”

“Very well.” Gale and the other men left.

When the door closed, Senator Vane picked up Michael’s glass, slopped in some scotch and handed it back. He poured one for himself and knocked it down, color coming back to his cheeks. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

Michael pulled a photograph from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it over. “I picked one of the good ones.”

“Son of a bitch.” The senator studied it for a long time. “Who are you? And don’t give me that Julian’s brother shit. What do you have to do with Kaitlin? How’d you get that damn file?”

He was furious, embarrassed; Michael understood. Like a lot of public figures, the senator had unfortunate tastes. Prostitutes. Pages. Cocaine. “Stevan offered you a trade,” Michael said. “My life for the file.”

“Actually, he wanted you alive. He was very specific.”

“Whatever. The trade is off. I’ll keep the file, and you keep your toy soldiers to yourself.” Michael stood, put down his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

“What? You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“I’ve said what I came to say. I plan to be here until I know Julian’s okay. In the meantime, I don’t want any more late-night visits.”

“What about the file?”

“What about it?”

The senator struggled. “What are you going to do with it?”

Michael smiled darkly as he thought of the phone call he was about to make. “Whatever I please.”

Michael was gone; the room was empty, door closed. Randall Vane stood in a raw, blind fury. Those Kaitlin fuckers had blackmailed him for sixteen years, the threat so personal and damning that he’d had no choice but to pay. Some of the worst pictures went back years, to a time when very few people knew about pinhole cameras and fiber optics. God, the shame! If the pictures came out, he would never survive it. Politically. Socially. Suicide was a real possibility.

He pulled the photograph from his pocket.

Shuddered.

Taken fifteen years ago, it showed him with a seventeen-year-old page named Ashley, a beach girl from Wilmington with blond hair and an all-over tan. They were naked in a Washington hotel room, the bed a puddle of wrecked sheets. She was laughing as he snorted cocaine off the smooth swell of her right breast.

“God…”

He burned it in the fireplace, stirred the ashes until they were dust. When he’d heard that Otto Kaitlin was dead, he’d dared to hope. But the son called a day later, Stevan Kaitlin, who wanted Michael dead. The senator didn’t even know who this Michael guy was. He’d never heard of him. Didn’t know. Didn’t care.

But Stevan did. And Stevan still had the file.

He’s coming to you. And when he does, you bring him to me.

Why?

That’s none of your business.

And the file?

Yours, if you do as I say.

It should have been so simple. Bring in some hired guns, people he could trust. The guy was a dishwasher, for God’s sake! But now…

The senator poured another drink, spilled it as his hands shook. In spite of what Michael had said, the photograph with Ashley was not nearly the worst. Otto Kaitlin had sent copies years ago: photos of him with prostitutes and attractive young lobbyists, some hard-core, graphic stuff. But the sex was not the worst of it-hell, he could survive a good sex scandal. There were financial records, too, a paper trail of payoffs and sold votes. Not all of them, but a few. It would only take one, and he had few friends on the ethics committee. “What do I do, what do I do, what do I do…”

It would start over. The payoffs. The worry. The fear. He would be forced to yield, forced to bow. Another puppet master would take the strings, and the great Randall Vane would be made to dance.

Again!

Again, again, again!

The fire tool came alive in his hands. It smashed vases and crystal, tore great, white streaks in all his lovely wood.

“Shit!” He threw the heavy metal against the wall. “Shit, shit!”

“Senator?” The door opened a crack. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. Get in here.” Richard Gale entered warily, eyes moving over the damage. “I want you to follow that motherfucker. Find out where he is, where he’s staying. I need that file.”

Gale kept his distance. “You told us to let him go. He’s already through the gate. He’s gone.”

“Gone? You stupid idiot.”

“That’s uncalled for, Senator. The instructions were yours-”

“Get out. Just get the hell out. No, wait. Where’s my wife?”

“Your wife?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No, but-”

The senator grabbed his lapels. “Where’s my fucking wife?”