Iron House (39 page)

She felt the thirty-eight, smooth and hard against her skin. “I know so,” she said.

He handed her the cash.

The road Michael followed took them around the south edge of town. Abigail sat beside him, the duffel bag heavy enough to drive metal against the bone of her hip. The taste was back in her mouth; pressure behind her eyes. She tried to blink it away.

“Are you okay?”

His voice sounded distant. She licked her lips, nodded. “Just warm.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“Just drive, please.”

“You sure?”

She touched her thudding chest, felt vibration at the back of her skull. “Just let me think.”

Michael found the turnoff exactly where Jimmy said it would be. A narrow, dirt drive three miles past the Exxon station. It was on the left, a gash in the trees next to a mailbox with blue reflectors.

He nosed in and stopped the car.

Took out his phone.

“What are we doing?”

Abigail didn’t look great. She was flushed and sweaty, her breath shallow. “The only way this works is if the guns don’t come out.” Michael spoke softly; he wanted her calm. “Jimmy’s good and he talks a big game, but he’s scared of me deep down. He’s got something to prove here, something that matters in ways you and I can’t fully appreciate. That makes him even more unpredictable.” Michael held up the phone. “I’m going to let him know we’re coming in.”

She flicked a glance down the long stretch of dirt road. Her eyes lingered on the forest wall, the places light cut in. “Are you sure that’s smart?”

“All I can do is go in there, hands open, and hope for the best. He either likes your idea or he doesn’t. He makes a mistake or not. Maybe he’s alone; maybe he’s got ten guys in there.” He gave her time because he thought she needed it. “I have two fine weapons and can use them better than most, but this will probably not end well.”

She looked skittish, got control. “How good are you?”

He showed steady eyes. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Because he has Elena.”

Michael saw no need to answer.

He dialed the phone.

It was hot in the barn, and Elena hurt in ways she’d never imagined possible. Her foot. Her bones. Her soul. The wire at her throat cut deep, and breath came at a price. She looked for Jimmy, could not see him. She tasted gun oil and blood. Her mouth ached; she could not move. For long minutes, she wondered if she’d made the right choice. She thought of the baby, and of Michael’s dark eyes. She wept and thought of dying.

Behind her, a phone rang.

Jimmy answered, and there was a smile in his voice when he spoke. “Michael, my friend. Where are you?”

“I’m at the end of the drive.”

“Well, come on down. Someone here’s very eager to see you. Wait. Here. Say hello.” Michael heard muffled noises, then a muted scream. “Sorry.” Jimmy had the same smile in his voice. “She can’t talk right now. She has something large in her mouth.”

“I’m doing what you asked—”

“Well, you’re late!”

The smile was gone. Tight anger in his voice. Impatience. Michael forced himself to stay calm. “I’ve brought someone with me.”

“That wasn’t our deal.”

“It’s a better deal. More money. No trouble.”

“How much more money?”

“Another ten.”

“Million?”

“Plus what Otto had offshore. It’s a lot of money, Jimmy. Let me come down. We’ll work out the details.”

“Who’s with you?”

Michael told him.

“Ah, the good senator’s wife. I’ve seen her picture. Pretty lady. What does she hope to buy with her extra ten?”

“The lives of everyone involved.”

Silence for a full minute, then, “Why does she care about you?”

“She just does.”

“Anyone else with you?”

“No.”

“All right, Michael. We’ll talk about it. I’m in the barn with your lady-friend. No windows; one door in. So, let’s make this nice and simple. You both come in. I tell you what to do. I want your hands where I can see them.”

“I want to talk to Elena—”

The phone went dead.

Elena heard the phone click shut. Jimmy was right behind her; had been right behind her the whole time. How long? She’d not seen him in over an hour. He’d been behind her and dead silent.

Then the pain!

God ...

Such terrible pain. She fought to control herself, felt breath on her ear, fingers where the wire cut into her throat. Her eyes settled on Stevan, spread on the tractor. She had no idea if he was dead or alive. No movement or sound.

Black flies buzzed the open wounds.

“Sorry about that.”

Jimmy’s voice was intimate; his mouth so close that if he stretched his lips he could kiss the shell of her ear. She sobbed around the metal lodged in her throat, choking, barely able to breathe. Wires cut her skin in a dozen places. His hand slid down her shoulder, traced the edge of her breast, then ran down her arm to the finger he’d just broken. He touched it lightly, and her whole body locked in anticipation. But he didn’t hurt her further; he took her palm in his hand and gently squeezed.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

He stepped where she could see him.

“Michael’s coming.”

A killer’s calm descended on Michael, and he knew the feeling like an old friend. The way time slowed, the clarity of his perceptions. His thoughts ordered themselves, as muscles loosened and possibility stretched out like lines on a graph.

“There it is.”

Light swelled where the drive emptied from the forest. Trees fell off and the land opened. Michael saw an old house at the edge of uncut fields. He saw vehicles. And he saw the barn.

“So many cars.” Abigail hunched forward, her hands white on the bag of money. “He’s not alone.”

Michael checked windows in the house, saw blackness behind empty glass. He considered the tree line, the high, brown scrub. There was deep shadow and lots of cover. Anyone with a decent rifle could take them out. He stopped the car. Everything around them was perfectly still.

“Jesus, Michael. We’re sitting ducks.”

“He wants his money. We control it. Try to remember that.”

“Okay.” She nodded, swallowed. “Where are we going?”

“There.”

The barn was like any barn, rough and angular on a patch of dirt and weed. The wood was weathered and unpainted, the roof rusted metal. On its peak, a fox-shaped weathervane leaned at a drunken angle. There was an opening in the loft, but other than that, it looked as if Jimmy was right.

One way in.

One way out.

“Don’t do anything unless I say.” Michael opened his door. “Understand?” She reached for the door handle, fumbled it. “Abigail?”

“I can take care of myself.”

And then they were out, in the yard, with the barn tall above them. Michael had a gun in the front of his belt, and one at the back. Rounds chambered. Safeties off. He looked once more at the empty clearing, then lifted the book from the dash and walked for the barn door. Three feet from the place it gapped, he called out. “Jimmy. It’s Michael.” He waited, but got no answer. “Abigail Vane is with me. We’re coming in.”

He put a foot through the gap and nudged the door, which scraped on dirt and old straw. He went in, hands first, Abigail close on his back.

“Slowly.”

That was Jimmy, deep and to the left. Out of sight.

“Slowly,” Michael said.

He eased around the door, came five feet into the barn and stopped, Abigail hard against him. The place was brighter than he expected, well lit by at least a dozen lanterns. He heard Abigail take in a shocked breath, but felt his own calm flow as he catalogued the barn in a few clear, brutal seconds. He saw Stevan first, but wasted no time breaking down the extent of his injuries. He was dead or not. No matter. He glimpsed Elena, but forced himself to move away from that, come back later. He located Jimmy in a shadowed place, partially concealed by a heavy post. One arm was out, gun in hand.

That was not the hand that Michael feared ...

“Can I assume we understand each other?”

Jimmy’s voice sounded surprisingly deep in the high, vast space. Michael watched the hand that held a small, wooden dowel that was maybe ten inches long. The dowel was tied to a length of baling twine. The twine ran through an eyehook embedded in the post, then to another hook in a second post, then to a third, and then to ...

Elena.

She was wired to the barn’s central support structure, a thirty-inch beam that soared to the roofline. The wires that held her were twisted razor tight, so they cut into her forehead, her neck and limbs. Her arms were pulled back so fiercely that her shoulder bones jutted. Blood from her throat made a sharp V at the collar of her shirt. She stood on one foot, and Michael saw lacerations and several toes bent sideways. The other leg was broken at the ankle, bent at the knee and wired high on the post so the foot dangled at a tortured angle. Michael had no idea how long she’d been forced to stand like that, but he’d suffered enough broken bones to imagine the hurt. Yet, the pain was nothing compared to the fear he saw in her eyes. They nailed him where he stood; they begged and said so many things.

“It’s okay, baby.”

But it wasn’t.

A double-barreled shotgun wedged her jaw open; it was jammed deep in her mouth and secured with bright, silver tape that twisted thickly around the barrel, her head and jaw. Michael saw teeth smeared red, a glimpse of crushed lips. She was sucking hard through her nostrils: panicked, in shock. Her skin had blued out. Tears gathered in her lashes.

The shotgun hung from nylon straps.

Twine ran from the trigger to the dowel in Jimmy’s hand.

“Are we clear on the stakes?” Jimmy said.

Michael took his eyes off Elena; felt his cold center expand. What was the trigger pull on a Remington twelve gauge? Three and half pounds? Less? He looked at Stevan, spread on the tractor. Most of his face was gone, fingers clipped off and lying in the dirt. Hours of work, there. Lots of screaming, lots of noise. Jimmy had hung a mirror so that Stevan could watch the work on his face. That meant Jimmy had felt free to take his time, enjoy himself. Michael guessed that whoever else had come south with Stevan was dead now, too. Jimmy wouldn’t run the risk, not with Stevan alive. “I think we understand each other.”

“Weapons on the ground, please.” Michael removed both guns, placed them on the ground. “Kick them away.” Michael did as he was told. “Lift the shirt.” Michael did it. “Pant legs.” Michael did that, too. “What’s with the book?”

Michael lifted it. “It’s Otto’s.” Jimmy hesitated, hand tight on the dowel. “The numbers you want are inside.”

“All of them? Accounts. Passwords. Routing numbers?”

“Everything you need.”

Michael watched Jimmy’s mind churn. He wanted to hold the book, check the numbers, but his hands were literally full. He gestured with the gun. “If the woman would step out where I can see her better…”

“It’s okay,” Michael said. “Just do as he asks. Nice and slow.”

Abigail stepped sideways, duffel bag at her side.

Jimmy cocked his head. “That doesn’t look like ten million dollars.”

“It’s just a start,” she said. “I can get the rest.”

“How fast?”

“I just need a computer.”

“Bring it closer.”

Abigail glanced at Michael, who nodded. She walked closer, and when Jimmy told her to stop, she did.

“Drop it there.”

The bag landed in soft, dry dirt.

Jimmy took his hand off the dowel and stepped out of the shadows. His shirt was bloodstained under the left armpit, his nose swollen and split. Other than that, his eyes had the same cold, crazy light Michael had seen so many times. The man was a narcissist and a psychopath, an unpredictable, deadly son of a bitch. He pulled a second pistol from his belt, kept one trained on Michael and pointed the other at Abigail’s face. “Open it.”

She looked scared, uncertain.

“Get on your knees and open it.”

Abigail felt the lump of steel at her waist. Something sharp dug into her skin, but all she cared about was the gun in her face. It had a giant, black muzzle, a circle with a silver sheen on its edge and a center that was dark and deep and smelled of burned powder. It moved, and her eyes followed it as they would a snake. Left and right, small circles. She felt the same vibration at the back of her skull. Headache. Dizziness.

“Open it!”

Jimmy thumbed back the hammer, leaned in so the muzzle was inches from her right eye. Abigail stared into it. She swayed once, then told her knees to bend. They were stiff; they fought. But once they bent, they broke fast. Her legs failed, and she hit the dirt, hard.

Hair swung over her face.

The thirty-eight fell out of her pants.

Before Abigail could move or blink or utter a word, Jimmy kicked her in the head, sent her sprawling in the dust. He kept a gun on Michael. “Uh-uh.” Michael forced himself to stillness. Jimmy kicked Abigail in the ribs, drove her on her side, where she rolled halfway to the wall. He took quick strides; kicked her again. She came off the ground and hit a wall covered with tools. A shovel fell, the handle cracking her on the head. Metal rattled and scraped. A sledgehammer toppled on its side. A jar of nails spilled with the sound of dull, metal chimes. Jimmy waited, but Abigail didn’t move. She slumped, on all fours. Her head hung loosely, eyes swimming. He tapped her on the head with the barrel of his gun. “Stay there, you crazy bitch.” He looked at Michael. “Can you believe that? Jeez. People.”

Michael risked a glance at Elena, then back at Jimmy. “I didn’t know she had that.”

“You think?” Sarcastic. Biting. “I didn’t train you to trust a woman with a gun. Jesus. Give them anything more dangerous than a salad fork, and they’re liable to ruin somebody’s day.” He tucked one of the pistols back into his belt. “Now, where was I?” He looked at the bag of cash. “Ah.”

Jimmy stooped for the bag. Michael surveyed the room. His pistols were seven feet away, which may as well be the moon, fast as Jimmy was. A collection of knives and other edged instruments sat on a table by Stevan, but again, too far. He looked at Abigail. She was breathing, eyes open, but barely. Near her were axes and scythes and sickles. He’d never get his hands on them.