Iron House (20 page)

“My name is Calvert.” He gestured at the low ceiling, the carpet worn through. “This is my place.”

“Thank you, Calvert.”

“So…” Fingers drummed the small, tight bowl of his stomach. “Anything at all.”

“Do you have a map?”

He scratched at the crown of his head. “Where are you going?”

“What’s the nearest major airport?”

“That’d be Raleigh.”

“Then that’s where I’m going.”

He showed her Raleigh on the map, and then gave her the key to a room down the hall. Elena put the map on the front seat of the car, then unloaded her few belongings and carried them through the lobby and into a small, dark room whose air was damp enough to feel on her skin. She locked the door and pulled off her clothes. The floor of the bathroom was freshly cleaned, the shower curtain white vinyl faded to gray. Collecting small bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the paper-wrapped soap, Elena climbed into the shower and let needles of hot water stitch dull, red marks on the planes of her face.

Calvert was leaning on the counter when the bell above his door chimed twice. He caught a flash of movement and color, just enough to give the sense of a narrow-shouldered, effeminate man in fancy clothes, none of which made him eager to be of help. He disliked rich people and hated queers, so did not immediately look up from the newspaper he was reading. His mind was still flush with thoughts of the hot little Mexican who’d bent low enough to show some bra when he pointed out Raleigh on the map.

The man cleared his throat.

Calvert turned the page and looked up to see a middle-aged man in black velvet pants and a burgundy coat. He wore sunglasses that let you see his eyes, and a big, gold watch that probably cost more than most cars. Calvert allowed his distaste to show when he said, “A little hot for them pants, don’t you think?”

“I find that they breathe.”

The man smiled, and Calvert realized he was too dumb to know he’d been insulted. He just stood there, calmly, and some reptile part of Calvert’s brain recognized that things were not quite right; but this was his place, and the man was wearing velvet pants. Beyond the glass was a road-stained car with New York plates. “Okay, fancy-pants. What do you want?”

“That’s clever. Fancy-pants.”

“Look, I’m busy here.”

“The lady who just came in…”

“I don’t give out room numbers.”

“I’d like you to reconsider.”

“And I’d like you to turn around and go back to whatever big city you came from. As you can see…” He flicked a yellow nail at the newspaper. “I’m busy.”

“You’re not being very helpful.”

The paper rustled as a page turned. “I suppose not.” A long moment passed, and without looking up he said, “Are you still here?”

“Actually, I’d like to show you something.”

“Show me what?”

“It’s like a trick.”

Calvert looked up, and the man in velvet pants lifted his left hand above his shoulder. He made a flourish—fingers rolling open, and then closed.

“You mean, like magic?”

“Sort of. Are you watching?”

“No.”

“It’s really quite good.”

Calvert closed his newspaper. “Okay, sure. I’m watching.”

“It happens fast.”

Calvert watched the hand. The fingers moved. The hand closed into a fist.

“Here it comes.” One finger straightened, then two. “Get ready.”

Calvert was still watching the left hand when Jimmy shot him in the heart with a silenced twenty-two. The shot pushed him back a step, and for an instant, his mouth opened; then he fell where he stood. Jimmy walked around the counter, put one more in the skull for good measure then stepped daintily over the mess and looked at the computer screen. Satisfied, he lifted the key to room twelve from the pegboard, then brushed lint from his sleeve.

“Fucking redneck,” he said, and walked down the hall to room twelve.

Steam clogged Elena’s throat, hot water crashing down. She gripped the showerhead and felt metal pitted with corrosion, a tongue of wet curtain that licked her leg and stuck. She washed herself again.

Yet the smell lingered.

The images.

She lathered her hair, digging hard with her fingers, scraping as she saw so many things that had once been good: the yellow paint on Michael’s hands, the smile that lit his face when he spoke of the baby. Seven months condensed to a single moment as she saw his hands on her stomach, her breasts, and then on the skin of that corpse. He’d been so ... proficient. The body didn’t bother him. The smell. The very fact that the man was dead.

There’s a chain there ...

It was real, all of it.

Elena pressed a palm on her stomach, and then prayed as she had as a girl, not just for strength or guidance, but for God to reach down and make it right. But there was no easy fix, and deep down, she was ashamed of her need. Her father taught her to be strong, to count on herself, so she pushed the weakness away. She dug deep and found the core of who she was. She felt fear and sorrow, a blinding streak of bright, sharp anger. Michael was a killer, and in that word—
killer
—Elena found the threads of her strength. It seemed a small thing at first, this tangle of poor threads, but she gathered them up, pulled until she felt strong in her soul. She would recover, and the pain that lingered—the memory of his hands on her skin—that, too, would wither and fade. She promised this to herself, swore it; but lies are slippery and quick—that’s how they work—and some part of Elena knew she was being faithless. She loved him. There was no other man like him.

But the things he’s done ...

She turned off the water, which died to a trickle as she smoothed hair from her face.

“I’m okay.”

It felt wrong the way she said it, so she tried again.

“I
will
be okay.”

That was better. That was real.

She opened the curtain with a metallic scrape, and reached for a robe that was no longer where she’d left it. She saw a man, instead—parts of a man, a blur of skin and hair and eyes. They were cold eyes, and blue, a look of amusement over thin lips and pale, fine skin. He stood a foot from the shower, his forehead high and square, hair wispy thin on the crown of his head. The moment was so unreal, so utterly unexpected, that she almost laughed. It was a misunderstanding, some hotel employee at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the look was wrong. He was too calm, too amused. Her robe was in one of his hands, something black and square in the other. It was only when his smile spread that the scream gathered fully in the back of Elena’s throat.

“You’re not okay,” he said.

And, Elena knew who he was.

Her arms came up, but his hand moved in a blur. Something blue flashed, and she heard a crack of energy as fire tore through her ribs. She felt agony, white heat, and then nothing at all.

Control was part of what made Michael so good at his job: choosing the time and place of the things he did, manipulating the elements involved and then acting with calm regard for every possible consequence. Most people in the business were the exact opposite of Michael. They killed in rage and fear or got off on it for their own screwed up reasons. They let emotions run, and those guys rarely lasted. They burned out or got sloppy, became a liability for the organization that paid their freight. More than a handful ended up with a target on their backs, and Michael had taken out a few, himself. The math was simple in Michael’s world. Emotions are bad. Control is good. But there was no control now.

Elena was gone.

A wave of dizziness struck, and he sat on the top step. Everything had seemed clear last night, the problem and how to correct it. It’s what he did, fix things, handle them. He’d just assumed Elena could handle it, too. She would be patient, let him explain. But, the way she’d looked at him! There’d been such regret in her eyes, such disgust and loathing.

What have I done?

She was gone and it was his fault. She had hours behind the wheel of a car, could be in Virginia or South Carolina, maybe even Georgia or Tennessee.

Jesus, she could be anywhere.

Stevan and Jimmy could be anywhere.

Worry gnawed at Michael, but he forced himself to think it through. Without law enforcement resources, Stevan and Jimmy would be as blind as Michael. They couldn’t subpoena credit card records, couldn’t tap into a law enforcement database. It’s why they’d threatened Julian in the first place, to force Michael into the open. Once clear of the estate, Elena would be clear of everything. They couldn’t track her. She was safe. She would be safe.

Michael told himself that, repeated it. He forced the emotion down, then stepped to the edge of the porch and studied the scene at the boathouse. A handful of police cars were parked there, lights flashing in the clear, bright air as two boats moved on the water. Men called out and heaved draglines.

They would have divers soon, Michael thought, and wondered how long it would take them to find the body. The lake was large, and although he had no certain knowledge, it felt deep. The earth sloped in from both sides, and he could almost see it plunging down to form the lakebed far below. The water looked very black, and even in the sun it seemed to radiate a deep and steady cool.

But that could be wishful thinking.

He watched one of the lines fly out, a thread from this distance. Broad, metal hooks flashed and then sank. The line was hauled back, and hooks came up trailing weed. Michael’s gaze drifted right.

About there
, he thought.

A second line flew out, and as it arced and dropped, Michael debated whether or not it was Elena who’d called the police. It was certainly possible. Violent death is not the norm, nor is the sight of one’s boyfriend wrapping a body in chains to sink it in a lake. But would she call the police? Michael doubted it. If she’d sold him out, Michael would be running, dead or in cuffs. That left one possibility.

Someone else had seen.

He replayed the events in his mind: the silent approach and grass stained purple, a sound from across the lake’s narrow end. He felt a slight chill, and not at the thought that he’d been watched. He heard a dead man’s voice. He saw the old man’s face, and it was as sharp in the eye of his mind as if the man were alive and sharing the same porch.

Don’t look for fancy explanations, son. If the cops are here, then your woman told.

Michael blinked, and the image faded. That was the old man who’d raised him, not the dying man who spoke of loves lost and daughters never born. That man had understood that life is change and life is faith, that not everything is simple. He’d released Michael, after all, and to the detriment of his only son.

Nothing simple about that, old man.

And nothing was simple about his own life, either. Was Michael a killer or a father? Could he be both? Could he change for Elena and still be strong enough to protect Julian? Raise a child? Build a life? One part of Michael was cool as he analyzed this. Another felt compartments fold in his chest. He needed to be cold, but Elena was gone; needed strength when emotion made him weak. He could go crazy thinking about this shit.

Michael went inside, ran cold water and splashed it on his face. When the towel came away, he fingered the glossy scar on the side of his neck. It was long and flat and white as pearl. An inch to the right and it would be in the same location as the knife he’d pulled from the dead man’s throat the night before.

Where are you, Elena?

He dropped the towel next to the sink, and forced himself to concentrate. Elena would accept him or not—come back to him or not—and worrying about it wouldn’t help him figure out the dead man at the bottom of the lake.

Compartments.

Control.

Michael took a deep breath, and pictured Ronnie Saints. Not the feel or the smell of him, but the whys of him. Why was Ronnie Saints here, in Chatham County? What did he want? Why was he dead, and what did Julian know about it? Michael studied his face in the mirror, trying to remember what the face had looked like more than two decades ago. All he could remember was hunger and ragged hair, the feel of rough wool on his skin and shirt cuffs so filthy they were stiff. He closed his eyes and tried again. He wanted to see Ronnie Saints clearly, but this time saw his brother, not tortured and broken and small, but younger than that, his face turned sideways on a pillow. He was maybe five.

Let’s pretend we were adopted ...

Few memories remained of Julian with a smile on his face, and for an instant, Michael found himself unmade. There’d been times when things were good, a moment here, an afternoon there: small, shy flickers of joy. Had those memories simply faded, or had he buried them with all the other remnants of his childhood? For an instant, Michael felt cheapened and untrue.

How much did he need the ice at his core?

How hard did he need to be?

He gripped the sink. What did it matter? The past was gone. This was now. But was it
only
now? That was a good question. First Hennessey and now Ronnie Saints. Two dead boys from Iron House. Twenty-three years between them, and both stabbed in the neck.

What is going on?
Michael wondered.

And who called the cops?

Back on the porch, he dialed Elena’s number on his cell. He wanted her to answer, but knew, deep down, that she would not.

Too soon.

Too complicated.

Perhaps it was for the best, he thought, a clean break and a safe, easy life far from his. He tried to feel good about that, but the lie burned deep as an image of them gelled in his mind: Elena and the child—a girl, perhaps, a dark-eyed beauty with her mother’s skin. They walked through high fields in the mountains of Catalonia, one lean and sad, one far too young to understand the empty place in her life.

Tell me again about my daddy ...

The sky above them would be painfully blue, and in the wake of Elena’s silence, the question would come again. Michael saw it so clearly: a small child, and lies told often enough to taste of truth. Elena would move on, and his daughter would grow without him. Michael felt that future like a hole ripped in the wall of his heart. But, it didn’t have to end like that. There were options, always.