Iron House

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Abigail sat in an antique chair before a Victorian dressing table. She felt disconnected from a day that was too big. From the past week. From her life as she’d made it. So, she sought comfort in the familiar. She applied makeup with a deft touch. She kept her shoulders square, but felt the shame of her weakness. She was drunk, and she was needful. Her heart was breaking as her lips moved in a low, fierce whisper.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

It had been her mantra since childhood. She closed her eyes, and said it again.

Normally, it centered her, gave her the balance to drive her life with the precision it required. But when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of a child, a small girl beaten bloody and trying hard not to cry as she dabbed and cleaned and wondered why her mother hated her with such passion. It was a terrible image, and terribly real: the bruises and torn skin, the raspberry dimple where pale, blond hair had been ripped out at the roots. She closed her eyes before the tears could find her, swayed in the narrow chair as the room faded to a bare, cold shack, and she heard a baby cry.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

Her hands spread on the table, eyes squeezed tight as her fingers touched a silver brush, a comb with ivory teeth. She tried to find herself, but could not. Julian would be arrested, and Jessup didn’t love her. The past was rising up.

Survival, strength, perseverance.

Survival, strength-

No.

The comb was pink plastic, tears hot on the girl’s face as she tried to comb wisps of hair over a weeping, wet bald spot the size of her mother’s fist. Her feet were cold and bare under a cheap print dress stained black from lack of soap. The mirror was cracked through, large streaks of silver gone so that in places it was like staring into nothing. But where there was silver, there was fear, raw and fresh and caught in wide, green eyes. She tried to blink the world away, but the room smelled of fatback and collards; she heard her mother’s step in the door, the call of that precious child…

“What’re you waiting for, you little shit monkey?”

The girl held herself very still. Her mother moved into the room, brought the smell of hairspray and sweet tobacco.

“No, Momma.”

“Do it before I do the same to you.”

“Please don’t make me-”

“Do it!”

“No, Momma. Please.”

“No-good ingrate.” Fingers twined in her hair. “Worthless, selfish brat.” Face slammed into the table. “Do it!” Slammed again, nose bloody.

“Please…” The girl saw broken teeth on checkered wood.

“Do it!” Face against wood. “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

Until another lump of hair came free and the world went black. The next thing she remembered was sitting wet on the bank of the creek, blue with cold and blinking in the flat, winter sun. The dress clung to her narrow chest, water in her nose. Her hands were shaking, and strange noises came from her throat. On the bank beside her, her mother was hard-faced and satisfied. “Now you’re mine forever.”

The girl looked down.

And saw the thing she’d done.

Abigail jumped when she heard the doorknob rattle. A small cry escaped, and she cast a worried, guilty look at her reflection. Her eyes were still wounded, but the mirror was flawless and the comb in her hand worth eighteen hundred dollars. She dabbed at her eyes, and smoothed herself.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Randall, what?”

“Open the door.”

“Give me a moment.”

The knob rattled harder, wood vibrating in the frame. Abigail crushed the past, as she had so many times, then opened the door for her husband. He stood large and winded, his hands so fisted that bone showed at the knuckles. He came into the room and shut the door.

Abigail stepped back, wary. Her husband had never been truly violent toward her, but there was something in his eyes like a hot, cherry glow. “What is it, Randall?”

“Where’s Michael?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play with me, Abigail. I need to know where to find him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie. You two are thicker than thieves.”

He stepped closer, and Abigail gauged the impatience and suppressed rage. She knew her husband’s moods, and this was a bad one. “I’ve answered your question,” she said carefully. “I don’t know where he is. You should go.”

“It’s not that simple this time.”

“I don’t know-”

“Bitch!” He struck a table hard enough to crack wood. “I don’t have time for games or lies or your misplaced, overprotective nature. This is important, so I’ll ask again. Where is he staying? What hotel?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has something I need, Abigail, something very, very important. Do you understand? I need him. I need you to help me.”

“Why?” She stepped back, got her hands on the desk chair.

“Because he wants to hurt me, so I have to hurt him first. Because if he hurts me, he hurts you. Because if I don’t find him, it’s over. Everything. You get it? Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I am.”

But Abigail had stopped listening. “You want to hurt him?”

“He’s a threat.”

“You want to hurt Michael?”

“Where is he, Abigail?”

She was at the desk, one hand spread as her vision constricted and a low, dull thrumming rose in her skull. The room dimmed, but the senator was oblivious. Abigail’s head tilted, and her neck creaked. The thrumming in her skull grew louder, a hive of bees that swarmed until her skin prickled. Her hand found a letter opener on the desk, a gift from Julian. The handle was bone, the blade sterling. “You want to hurt my Michael?”

“Hurt him. Kill him. Whatever.”

She blinked and felt a swirl of dark current, a cold, wet blackness that rose up and roared into her skull.

Her eyelids closed, then opened.

Abigail went away.

Jessup made it outside and under the stars before he realized that walking away from Abigail would not be that easy. Something in her voice sounded broken, and she was not a woman to easily break. But she did not tolerate impertinence, either, and rarely appreciated help that came unasked for.

He stood for long seconds, then said, “Damn it all.”

He walked briskly across the broad drive, then entered through one of the smaller doors in the back. He passed through the kitchen, the dining room, and was in the grand foyer when he saw Richard Gale and three of his men coming down the stairs. He’d met Gale once or twice over the years-brief stints when the senator traveled overseas or during random periods of heightened security-and had measured respect for the man’s training and demeanor, both of which were professional. He was a mercenary, yes, but a good one. The man came, did his job and went. Jessup suspected that Gale found him provincial, but didn’t care. “Have you seen Mrs. Vane?”

They met at the lowest step. Gale looked up the stairs, thought for a moment, then said, “She’s in her suite. I believe the senator is with her.”

“Thanks.”

Jessup took the stairs two at a time, and when he was out of sight, one of Gale’s men said, “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“You know what?” Gale looked after Jessup, then smoothed his lapels. “I believe our job here is done.”

Abigail’s suite of rooms was at the far end of a long wing on the north side of the mansion. She’d moved in seven years after her wedding day: clothing, furniture, everything. No one said a word about it; no one asked. The staff adjusted, and life went on with the senator and his wife living apart. Jessup rarely came onto this hall, not only because doing so would look improper-it would-but also because it was the safe place to which Abigail withdrew, her personal space in a house that was not really hers. He admired what she’d done with it: the colors, the light. She’d made the entire wing a reflection of her own impeccable taste.

He hit the hall at a fast walk. It was empty and still, his feet quiet on lush carpet. Abigail kept an entire suite of rooms: bedroom, sitting area, music room, library. Her bedroom door was the last in a row of six.

He heard the scream from twenty feet out, hit the door at a dead run, tore it open and stopped cold. The senator was on the floor, screaming. Abigail had one knee on his throat, the blade of a letter opener jammed into the soft spot beneath his collarbone. “You’re going to hurt Michael?” She twisted the blade, made him scream louder. “I don’t think so.”

“Abigail, please…” He was begging, one hand on the floor, the other on her wrist. She twisted the blade again. “Ahh! Shit! What the fuck? Get off! Let go! Abigail!”

Jessup stepped inside. “Abigail…”

“Jessup. For God’s sake…” The senator reached out a hand. “Get this crazy woman off me!” Jessup hesitated, torn. He knew exactly what was happening. Had no love for the senator. “For God’s sake, man…”

Abigail leaned in close, pushed the blade deeper. “You touch Michael and I’ll kill you. You understand?”

Jessup stepped closer, eyes full of knowing and dread. “Abigail?”

She laughed, flicked her head so that hair swung out of her face. “You know better than that.”

“Oh, no.”

She grinned. “Say it.”

“No, no, no.”

“Say it you poor, sad man.”

“Salina.”

“Louder,” she said.

“Salina!”

She looked up, eyes bright over the same, sharp slit of smile. “You going to screw me this time?”

“Salina, don’t.”

“Salina? What the hell’s going on?” Vane tried to force her wrist up, but she leaned on the blade. “Ahh! Damn!”

She said, “Do that again and I push it all the way to your heart. You understand me, fat boy?”

“Yes! Yes! Stop!”

She looked at Jessup. “Tell you what, handsome. You screw me good and I’ll let him live.”

“You know I can’t-”

“I know that, you dick-less wonder. You don’t think I’ve figured that out by now? Though, the times we had…” Her smile spread in a knowing way.

“Salina, listen.” Jessup held up his hands, fingers spread. “This won’t be good for anybody. You can’t kill a United States senator.”

“I won’t take the rap. She will.”

“You’ll both go away. You and Abigail. You can’t kill a senator and wish it all away. There are consequences.”

“He’s going after Michael.” She put more pressure on the blade. “Tell him, fat boy.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“I can’t allow that.” She looked at Jessup. “This would be a good time for you to leave.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Yeah, I know.” She laughed a crazy laugh, and the senator found strength in the sound of it. He yelled and rose up beneath her, bucked his entire body, then caught her waist and flung her off. She struck the bed and he fought to his knees, bone handle protruding. He tried for his feet, but Salina was fast and sure. Even as Vane struggled, as Jessup hesitated and then tried to stop her, she reached for the thirty-eight on the bed, got her hand on the grip and spun.

Jessup froze.

The senator tore out the blade.

“This is my kind of party.” Salina held the gun steady. The men were five feet apart.

Only Jessup truly knew how close to death they were. “Salina, don’t…”

But Salina did.

The shot was a bright, hard crack, gray smoke and a lick of fire. The bullet struck high on the senator’s forehead, lifted the top of his skull and dropped him on his back. Jessup looked from the body to the face of the woman he loved. It was exactly the same, and terribly different. The eyes were too hard, the smile too grim. He felt his way to the bed and sat. “Why did you do that?”

“Nobody touches Michael.”

“But-”

“I did what I had to do,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

Jessup was in shock. His head felt heavy in his hands. “My turn?”

“That’s right.”

She sat on the bed beside him. He looked up, distraught. “To do what?”

“Fix it.”

He stared at her and felt such hatred. “I should let you fry.”

She traced three fingers along his thigh. “We both know you won’t do that.”

“You are an evil woman, Salina Slaughter.”

“What’re you waiting for, you little shit monkey?”