Iron House

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Andrew Flint was gone when they got to Iron House. The gate stood wide, the old house empty. When Michael told Julian about Billy Walker, he found his brother strangely silent. He stood by the patched door and gazed up at the third-floor corner room in which they’d lived. “Flint had all your books,” Michael said. “I think he read them to Billy.”

“It’s not why I wrote them.”

“I know it’s not.”

“I wrote them to teach children about evil, not for evil children to read them.”

“I don’t think Billy’s evil anymore.”

A light breeze ruffled the grass, and Julian closed his eyes as dusk gathered in the valley. It was very silent where they stood, just wind and the slow churn of memory. “They’re really dead.”

He meant Ronnie Saints, George Nichols and Chase Johnson. Michael stripped a tall weed from the ground. “Dead and gone.”

Julian opened his eyes and they caught a glint of red sun. “Do you know how they died, Michael?”

Julian was thinking about the boathouse, about the memory fragments still buried in his mind. He saw Abigail kill Ronnie Saints. But was it real or delusion? That’s what he really wanted to know. Michael thought for less than half a second, then rolled his shoulders and said, “I don’t think it really matters.”

And he believed that. Because Michael’s job was still to protect his brother; because what Jessup had said was right.

We can all live with doubts.

It’s the knowing that breaks us.

“I’m sorry I killed Hennessey.”

Michael put his arm around Julian’s neck and said, “Fuck that kid. He was a dick.”

“Yeah?”

Michael squeezed tight and said, “Julian, my brother, I think it’s time to build a very large fire.”

They made their way to the front door. Michael used the key Abigail had given him. “Do you want to see anything first? Our room? Anything?”

“Why?”

Michael liked that answer, because it was damn good. Because it fit the man Julian needed to be. They went to the subbasement so the place would burn from the bottom up. They piled boxes and busted furniture and bundles of rotted cloth. They put on everything they could find, until the pile was so tall they had to throw stuff to get it on top. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Michael said.

The mound rose eight feet and was another ten feet wide at the base. Stepping back, breath short, Julian stared for a long time, then asked, “Do you remember what old man Dredge told me?”

“Sunlight and silver stairs?” Michael asked.

“Doors to better places.”

“I remember.”

Julian struggled for a moment, then asked, “Do you think there are such things?”

“Doors to better places?” Michael flattened his palm and showed the lighter. “I think we’re going to make one right now. Do you have your lighter?”

Julian pulled it warm from his pocket, a scared, delighted grin on his face. “We’re really doing this.”

“You want to go first?” Michael asked.

“Together.”

Michael bent, Julian three feet away. “Wouldn’t it be funny if she forgot to put in lighter fluid?”

Julian laughed, and they lit the fire that would bring Iron House down. Flames licked up piled boxes and they moved for the door as it reached the ceiling. They stood for a full minute, watching as Julian turned the lighter in his fingers, then slipped it into his pocket. “Do you feel anything?” Michael asked.

“I feel warm.”

“Are you being funny?”

“All kinds of warm.”

They watched until it was too hot to stay, then made their way up and out, drove to the high, metal gate, then got out of the car to watch yellow fingers stroke the basement glass. “Soon,” Michael said, and Julian touched the place above his heart.

“Mom should have come.”

But Michael shook his head. “This is for us.”

“Are you happy?” Julian nodded toward Iron House.

“Shhh.” Michael said it gently. “Just watch.”

So they watched as night fell and cool air spilled from the face of the mountain. Michael draped an arm across his brother’s shoulders, and they stood in silence as glass shattered from the heat, as smoke poured out and Iron House burned.