Iron House (33 page)

“Jesus, Jimmy. Nice to see you, too.”

“That was not a polite greeting. Cops are all over the estate. The men are pissed, and Michael is still alive. You’re fucking this up.”

“I’m too tired for this, Jimmy.”

Stevan looked stressed, tie loose enough for coarse hairs to show at his collar, eyes drawn into their sockets. He pushed past, but Jimmy stopped him two feet from the door. “Your people need to be led.”

“That’s the right phrase, isn’t it?” He squared up on Jimmy. “
My
people.”

He reached for the door, but Jimmy stopped him again. “I want to call Michael. I want to get this done.”

“We’ve had this discussion. I have a plan. It’s set.”

“Will you finally tell me what this genius plan is?”

“Look, Jimmy, my father may have trusted you to run parts of his business—I get that—but we’re not even close to that point, you and me.”

“This is bullshit.”

Stevan touched his chest, and spoke as if to a child. “Brains,” he said, then pointed at Jimmy. “Muscle. Brains. Muscle.” Hand moving. “You get how this works?”

“What about the girl?”

An eyebrow came up. “Is she still alive?”

“What do you want me to do with her?”

“It’s your mess.” Stevan opened the door. “You clean it up.”

The door clicked shut, and Jimmy thought of things unspoken. He thought of Michael and the girl, of how Stevan was a fraction of the man his father had been. He thought about sixty-seven million dollars, and about the things he’d found in the dark, silent barn: the chains and metal hooks, the old stone wheel and the many tools it could sharpen. He pictured Stevan spread-eagled and weeping blood, then wondered how long the little bastard would last, how many hours he might scream before giving up the account numbers and access codes.

Sixty-seven million dollars.

A dusty barn and a world of silent woods.

Jimmy took a deep breath, and smelled all the places he could bury a man.

“So, that’s it?” Michael leaned forward. Flint was talked dry, the bottle down to fumes. A few things made sense, now. Not all things, but some. It’s the funny thing about liquor and fear—they can break most men, given time and careful application.

And then there were men like Flint.

He was an edgy drunk, the kind that got cold and sharp the more he drank. Michael could see the gears turning, the mechanical precision oiled by the cheap, brown booze. Flint was smart enough to stick mostly to the truth, but he told small, careful lies. Michael didn’t know yet what they were, but he knew they were out there, and he knew they were keys to something bigger. Drunk or not, a man does not lie lightly when a forty-five is pointed at his face. “You have another bottle?” Michael asked.

“In the kitchen. I don’t want any more.”

That was a lie. Flint was quiet and determined with a bottle, the kind of drinker who stoked low, warm fires, and knew how to keep them banked. Michael knew drinkers like that, hard men and weak, quiet, hungry souls who wouldn’t quit drinking until they passed out or the booze was gone.

“Kitchen, huh?” Michael half-turned where he sat, the coffee table smooth and warm under him. He pointed at a closed cabinet under the bookshelf. “The way you’ve been staring at that cabinet, I thought maybe you had some closer than that.”

“I haven’t been staring.”

Michael smiled because it was the first lie poorly told. Flint had looked at three things since he sat down: Michael’s face, the forty-five and that cabinet. “How about I take a look?”

Michael stood, and Flint actually lurched in his seat. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Please…” Michael kept an eye on Flint as he opened the cabinet. There was only one thing in it. He pulled out the box and sat back down. Flint’s mouth hung open, a world of pain in his eyes. “Please.”

Michael lifted the lid and saw cash. Lots of it. He shook the box. The bills were loose, and he stirred them with the barrel. All hundreds. Maybe eighty thousand dollars. He put the box by his side. “This is what’s left?”

“All of it. I swear. Please don’t take it.”

“Tell me again about the man who brought it.”

They’d been over this twice. Michael wanted to hear it again.

“It was just a delivery,” Flint said. “A package wrapped in plastic. A young man. I had to sign for it.”

“Not the same man from before?” Flint shook his head, and Michael considered the things he’d learned. A man claiming to be an attorney had approached Flint seven weeks ago. He wore an expensive suit, carried a briefcase and presented a card from a legitimate firm. North of middle-aged, stern and uncompromising, this man spoke of a client whose name he could not reveal. The client had a proposition. He wanted something very simple, the current addresses of four men who had once been boys at Iron House. Chase Johnson. Billy Walker. George Nichols. Ronnie Saints. Andrew Flint had a memory, access to records. The client would pay well.

Michael lifted a handful of bills and let them fall. “How much did he offer?”

“Fifty thousand for each address. I gave him three.”

“Which three?”

Flint closed his eyes and swallowed. “Ronnie Saints. George Nichols. Chase Johnson.”

“Why not Billy Walker?”

“I couldn’t find him, okay. Just those three. Just them. Please. Can you just go, now?”

Michael lifted the box, shifted it. “It’s a lot of money.”

“Take it.”

That got Michael’s attention. He reevaluated. Flint was no longer hostile or despairing; he was borderline frantic. “Take it?” Michael asked.

“Yes.” Flint waved his fingers. “It’s yours.”

Michael waited.

Flint said, “Look, I’ve answered your questions.”

Michael said nothing, and in the silence, Flint glanced down the hall. Since Michael had walked through the door, Flint had not looked down that hall. Not once. Not for any reason.

Then Michael heard it, too: a faint shuffling sound. He came to his feet, gun leveled. And in an astonishing display of speed and coordination, Flint threw himself toward the hall, screaming “No” even as he spread his arms. He faced Michael, pale and drunk and shaking. “Don’t. Please.”

He was trying to block the hallway. His robe gapped open to show the bones of his narrow breastplate, the few white hairs that remained.

“Who’s back there?”

The gun was steady in Michael’s hand. The footsteps solidified behind Flint, strange, halting sounds and the scrape of fabric. “He’s just a boy,” Flint said.

But it was no boy coming down the hall. The man was every bit of six feet tall, with thick legs and broad, heavy hands. He walked in a shuffle, one foot dragging slightly. Michael saw jeans and bare feet and a shock of black hair. He was in partial shadow, blue glow on his face as he passed the television room, eyes down and angled left.

Flint tried to make himself larger. “Please.”

“That’s far enough.” Michael thumbed the hammer.

“Don’t shoot!” Something broke in Flint’s voice. He was on the verge of tears, cheeks an unhealthy pink. “I’m begging you.”

Michael hesitated, and the man behind Flint said, “Hi.” Just like a kid would. He scrubbed at his face, then stepped into the light even as Flint tried to shield him. The sight of the gun had no effect. Nor did Michael’s presence. The man moved Flint aside as if he were a curtain, and Michael saw that one of his eyes drooped beneath an obvious depression in the curve of his skull. “I’m thirsty.” There were long scars on his forehead, old stitches that ran into the hairline. “Can I come out yet?”

Flint flashed a glance at Michael, then put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sure, you can.” Small defiance, now. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Okay.”

“Say hello to the nice man.”

The man shifted from one foot to the other. He looked shy and embarrassed, then lifted one hand in a furtive, boyish way. “Hello, nice man.”

And Michael recognized him.

“Hello, Billy.”

Billy Walker smiled at the sound of his name. “Do we have any milk?”

“Sure we do,” Flint said.

“Chocolate?”

Worry deepened the lines on Flint’s face, but he kept his voice warm as he smiled lightly and smoothed the hair on Billy’s head. “Let’s go see.”

“What happened to him?” Billy was visible at a table through an open door. He was eating sugared cereal, milk on his chin as he rocked in his seat and stared at the glass of chocolate milk. Flint was broken, now, the lies all told and done. He had nothing left, and Michael knew it.

“He got into an argument with Ronnie Saints.” Flint dug a knuckle into his right eye, and then sighed deeply as he poured another glass of bourbon. “This was about a year after you ran away. The argument got ugly, and Billy went headfirst down some concrete stairs.”

“Ronnie pushed him?”

“He denied it, of course.” The glass went up and came down empty. “Didn’t really matter in the end. Doctors spent six hours picking pieces of skull out of Billy’s brain, and he’s been like this ever since.”

“But why is he here? Why with you?”

Flint smiled a melancholy smile. “No one was going to adopt a sixteen-year-old boy with half his skull smashed in. But it’s funny, life. The concrete edge that put that dent in his head seems to have driven the rottenness right out of him, just took all that blackness and baked it in the sun.” Flint shrugged. “He was different, after, gentle and sweet and unassuming. Even after he turned eighteen, I couldn’t bear to see him loose in the world, so, I let him stay. He’d do odd jobs. Picking up sticks, sweeping. It was okay for a while. Billy. The orphanage. Then they opened the casinos.” A bright edge came into Flint’s eyes, and he sniffed loudly. “And I lost everything.”

“Are you speaking of the money Abigail Vane donated?”

“Five million dollars and I blew it. Gambling. Bad investments.” Flint was too guilty to be apologetic. “I thought I could make things better, double down, you know. But I failed everybody. All those boys. Myself. I ruined everything.”

“And when the orphanage closed?”

“There’s salvage value here. Copper gutters and pipes. Slate roof.” Flint rolled his shoulders. “A company up north bought the property and kept me on as caretaker until they could break it up. That should have been years ago, but they keep putting it off. Not that I’m complaining. They pay me a little. We have a place to live.”

Michael looked for more lies, but found none. “You’ve kept Billy with you this whole time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Flint lifted eyes that shone with bright, clear love. “Because in sixty years of screwing up, caring for that boy is the one thing I’ve done right.”

Twenty minutes later, Flint put Billy Walker back to bed. When he came out, Michael said, “I’ll help you do something with the door.”

They patched it with plywood and ten-penny nails. Outside, with the moon rising low and fat, Michael said, “You really think they’re dead, don’t you? All of them.”

“They’ve all gone missing.”

“Why were you checking on them?”

“I got a bad feeling after I gave up the addresses. I was hoping I was wrong.”

“Did you talk to any of them?” Michael asked.

“Just Ronnie Saints, but he was paranoid and confused. Thought I was after his money or some such thing. I warned him other boys had gone missing, but he told me to mind my own damn business. Said he knew what he was doing. Two days later he was gone, too.”

Michael nodded, unsurprised. Even as a kid, Saints had been paranoid. “Any of them have families?”

“They were never going to be the family types, if you follow.”

Michael closed the door, pounded a fist on the patch. He thought of Ronnie Saints’s girlfriend, who wanted a baby and a paid-for house. “Maybe you should leave. Take Billy and find some other place. A new start.”

Flint was nodding when he said, “I just need one big win.”

Michael said nothing. Drunks and gamblers rarely changed. He picked up the shotgun and emptied it of shells. When he finished, Flint was staring.

“You really didn’t kill them?”

Michael studied the ruins that spread out in the dark. “I haven’t thought of those boys in twenty years.”

“Maybe they’re not dead,” Flint said.

“Maybe.”

Flint picked up the bottle of bourbon, swayed. “I did the best I could, you know.”

Michael tightened his jaw, but Flint was oblivious.

“When you were here,” Flint went on, “I never meant for bad things to happen. I hope to God you’ll believe me when I say that. It was just hard. So many boys, and so few of us.” He sniffed wetly, truth in his voice. “I know it was bad.”

Michael stared hard at Flint, mind turning as he sifted his own emotions and came up cool and unfazed. It was done; he was over it. He didn’t tell Flint the truth, though, did not explain that he’d come over the fence more or less inclined to kill the man. Strange that it was Billy Walker who’d saved him. Stranger still that Michael felt such compassion.

“It’s good what you’re doing for Billy.”

That was all Michael had, simple words and the gift of his life.

Flint cleared his throat. “I’m going to bed. Sofa’s yours, if you want it.”

Michael considered the offer. He wanted to see Iron House in the light of day. He wanted to walk its halls, to see the places of childhood. Maybe, he’d find unexpected insight, some sort of fresh understanding; or perhaps in the high-ceilinged halls his rage would find cause for resurrection. “There’s a hotel in town,” Michael said.

“The Volonte. It’s decent.”

A hotel sounded good: a shower and four hours of blackness; but Michael didn’t trust Flint yet, and the locals cops would love a shot at closing the Hennessey file from all those years back. A simple phone call would do it. Cops at his hotel door. A hard rush in the predawn stillness. That would be the height of irony, if with all the blood on Michael’s hands he went to prison for the one murder he didn’t commit. “The sofa’s good. Thanks. I’d like to bring my car inside the gate, though.”

Flint fished a ring of keys from the pocket of his robe. “The brass one opens the lock.”