Iron House (41 page)

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’ve never been fussed over before.”

“Not even once?”

“Not ever.”

That touched something in Abigail. “Let me get you some water.”

She came back with a glass, and Michael said, “What I need is a car.”

“I have the Land Rover…” She hooked a thumb at the lot.

“I can’t drive a stick shift with this leg.”

“I’ll bring another. How do you want to handle it?”

“Just leave the keys at the desk.” He was exhausted, voice fading as his body finally crashed. He reached for the pill bottle, but Abigail beat him to it.

“Let me.”

She shook out two pills and watched him swallow them down. The bed creaked as she sat beside him.

“How’s Julian?” he asked.

“Still hiding.”

“Cops?”

“Looking for him with a frenzy. His face is all over the news. They’re talking about roadblocks and dogs. They’ve got search warrants, helicopters. Sheriff’s deputies are coming in from other counties to help search the grounds. The senator has lawyers, but they’re helpless. It can’t last much longer.”

Michael needed to worry about Julian, to think of names and connections.

Iron House ...

Slaughter Mountain ...

He closed his eyes, drifted, and then snapped awake. “The guns—”

“Beside you.” He saw them on the table. “It’s okay,” she said. “Everything’s done that can be done.”

“We need to find him. We need to understand—”

“I know we do. I know. But, tomorrow.”

Michael felt warmth and weight. Pills or blood loss or both. “I’ve only trusted one person who knew the truth about me.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” She folded her hands, stood.

“Thank you, Abigail.”

He closed his eyes and was gone.

“You’re welcome, Michael.”

The clock read 4:00 when he woke: red numbers that glowed in the dark. Demon eyes. A double barrel, fired and hot. Michael blinked, and the clock rolled to 4:01. His throat was dry, but pain stood at a respectful distance. He checked Elena, who made a hump in the dark; then, he checked the guns. The forty-five was down to two rounds; the nine millimeter had a full clip. The thirty-eight was gone.

Michael went to the window, where he studied the lot and the cars in it. A late-model Range Rover angled in near their door, and he guessed that Abigail had been true to her word. Everything else matched the motel—old and tired and dirty—but the Rover’s paint was clean enough to catch starlight. He looked at the sky, at the white moon and high, clear flecks of gold, and was confused about what to feel. Men were dead: Stevan, who’d once been like a brother, and Jimmy who, for good or ill, had helped make Michael the man he was. He didn’t regret that they were gone, but it was strange to be so alone in that world.

Otto was dead.

Stevan. Jimmy.

Then the enormity of that settled on Michael. No one was looking for him or had reason to want him dead. In one fell swoop, his life had been made free of violence and baseness and fear. Elena slept eight feet away, and they had eighty million dollars to start a new life. They could disappear in safety. Have the baby. Be together. Michael took a deep breath, and felt his chest loosen.

No one was looking for him ...

As illusions went, it was a good one.

The van rolled up two minutes later. It entered the lot slowly, lights off, windows black; Michael knew at a glance it meant trouble. It was the darkness of it, the slow, predatory roll. It eased onto the asphalt and stopped on a silver spray of broken glass. For long seconds nothing happened, then it rolled deeper into the lot, pulled toward the center, then backed to a stop near the first room Michael had occupied. The door slid wide and men spilled out as smooth and quiet as blown smoke. They moved professionally: hand signals and short-barreled, automatic weapons, black clothes and body armor. But they weren’t cops.

No badges or insignia.

License plate covered.

They took position on either side of the door, the center man with a two-handled battering ram. In two seconds they were in: a violent entry and a spill of silent black. In another twenty seconds they were out. They displayed no disappointment or anything else unprofessional. Three of them got back in the van, while the fourth dragged the damaged door closed. He walked to the passenger side, looked once around the dim lot then climbed inside and said something to the driver. As the van began to move, he looked in Michael’s direction.

Then the van moved past.

They left as slowly as they’d come, and did not turn on headlights until all four tires were on the road. Taillights faded, died; Michael watched the empty road. After five minutes, he lowered the hammer on the nine millimeter and climbed back into bed. They would need to leave soon, but Elena still slept, and her body was warm on his. He pushed closer and thought of the man he’d seen, a flicker of face in the high, thin light. Michael had met him once, outside Julian’s room.

Richard Gale.

The senator’s man.

Michael gave it forty minutes, then woke Elena in the dark. She was groggy, confused. “Where am I?”

“You’re with me, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

“I don’t remember—”

“Shh. Take it easy. Take it slow.”

She tried to move, and the pain hit her. “Oh, God. Oh, my God…” She curled up in the bed, and Michael knew it was more than pain that found her. “I thought maybe it was a dream.”

“Just take a minute. Here.” He shook painkillers out of the bottle and helped her get them down. She choked a little, and he dabbed water off her chin.

“What day is it?” she asked.

“Friday.”

“Everything feels off. It feels wrong.”

“Hang on a second.”

Michael stood and cracked the curtains so that dim light filtered in. He limped back to the bed, and Elena said, “You’re hurt. God, I forgot that, too.”

“You were in shock. It’s normal.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“It hurts. I’ve had worse.”

“And you really have, haven’t you? That’s not just an expression.” She stared at him for a long time, but when he sat on the bed, her eyes dipped so he saw lashes against her skin. “I’ve never seen anybody move like that. When you went for the gun, when you shot ... when you shot…”

“Let’s not talk about it right now. It’s a new day. It’s behind us.”

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

She looked embarrassed when she said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Let me help you.”

“Michael, I’m not comfortable…” Her head moved.

“It’s still me, baby.”

He flashed a grin, and for that moment he looked the same, felt the same. He had the same dimple in his right cheek, the same twinkle. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Here.”

“Don’t…”

“It’s okay.”

Michael lifted her from the bed, carried her to the bathroom and helped her. When she was finished, he got her back to the bed. She was drawn and shaky, so Michael held a warm, wet towel to her face. He cleaned tape gum from her skin, bits of dried blood and dirt.

“I thought I was going to die.”

“Elena, don’t.”

“I thought the baby would die with me. I thought we’d be dumped in the woods and lost forever. Just gone. My parents would never know. The baby would ... the baby…” She wiped at her eyes, and looked stronger. “I’ve never felt anything like I did when you came into that barn. I can’t even describe it. It wasn’t relief or happiness or anything like that. I didn’t think you could save us. He was waiting for you, and ready, he was so crazy, so goddamned confident…”

“Baby…”

“I was so scared, but I saw you and I thought at least we’d die together.”

“But it didn’t happen like that. It’s over.”

“It doesn’t feel over.”

“I promise you it is.”

“Can I be alone, Michael?”

“Sure, baby.”

“Just for a minute.”

He walked outside and looked at the sky, watched a line of pink thin out and fade. Ten minutes later she called his name, and he went back inside. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Her hair was damp from the towel, face rubbed clean. “Abigail left a car.” Michael nodded at the window. “I found these inside.” He held out clothes and crutches, then helped her dress and got her into the car. She wanted to be up front, so he slid the seat back and tilted it as low as it would go. “There.” He tucked a blanket around her. “Almost like you’re still in bed.”

He smiled to make it a joke, but she didn’t smile back. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe. We’ll get you to a doctor, get that foot fixed. You’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’ll take care of you. We’ll get everything fixed.” He was babbling, and knew it.

He was losing her.

“I want to go home,” she said.

“Spain could work. We’ll get tickets in Raleigh.”

“I want to go home alone.” His smile faded, but she did not release his arm. “I’m not saying good-bye. I’m saying I need to think. There’s so much. There’s what’s happened, the baby. There’s us.”

“Of course.”

“Michael—”

“No. It’s okay.” Filters snapped across his eyes. “A lot has happened. Bad stuff. Questions. I don’t blame you. Going alone is smart. It’s reasonable.”

“You don’t have to be so businesslike.”

“Actually, I do.” He closed her door gently, then circled to the driver’s side. “The Raleigh airport’s not far. We have cash. The doctor says you can travel. Where’s your passport?”

“Oh, God.” She looked stricken. “He took it.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay.” He started the car. “I’ve got this.”

Everything looked different in the early light. Fog blanketed the fields, so thick the house almost disappeared. The barn looked broken.

“I don’t want to be here,” Elena said.

“I’ll be in and out.” Michael handed her the nine millimeter. “You remember how to use this?”

She took it without question.

“I’ll check the barn first, then the house.”

“He had my cell phone, too.”

“I’ll get it.”

He opened the door and Elena said, “Michael.”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re not like him.” She meant Jimmy. “That’s not why I’m leaving.”

“Why, then?”

“It’s just…” She sniffed, shook her hair back.

“Hey, forever is a long time. We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I wanted to kill him myself. I wanted to make him hurt and beg and die. Don’t you see? I hated myself for not being strong enough to do it. Hated my weakness.”

“There’re different kinds of strength.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Well, I do. You’re Carmen Elena Del Portal, and you’re the most beautiful person alive.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s one of the few things I know for fact.”

He closed the door, smiled through glass.

She hugged herself and watched him go.

The barn was darker, but the same. Same smells and sights; same dead bodies. Michael stepped inside, angry with himself. Even shot and dealing with Elena, he’d been sharp enough to collect weapons and shell casings. The cell phone had slipped his mind.

Stupid ...

The phone was in her name, and could have dragged her into the fallout. If cops had found it first ...

Stupid, stupid ...

But he’d been emotional. Elena, hurt. Dead men who had once been family. This time, he was doubly careful. He checked Jimmy’s corpse from top to bottom; found her cell phone in his pocket, but no passport. He looked once at Stevan—felt mild disappointment—then kicked dirt in Jimmy’s face.

Motherfucker.

He kicked more dirt.

Sorry, sadistic, disloyal, greedy motherfucker ...

The living room was a slaughterhouse. Even with the door standing wide, the dank, copper reek was unmistakable. Michael stepped carefully, emotionally disengaged as he cataloged faces of men he’d known for most of his life. They were soldiers and earners, hard men who’d died hard.

He found Elena’s passport on a battered desk in a room under the eaves; slipped it into a pocket. He found another body there, too, and the hardware case Jimmy preferred. There were half a dozen handguns in padded foam. Knives. Wire. An ice pick. The weapons would be clean and untraceable, but taking one felt wrong, somehow. Not
stealing
wrong, but
dirty
wrong. The man was burning in hell.

Let the bastard burn.

Michael left the weapons untouched. Downstairs, he checked the other rooms for anything that could connect Elena to this place. He tried to see the scene from a cop’s eyes, and shook his head at the thought. He should dispose of the bodies, burn the buildings. Because there was another truth about murder this complete: the cops would never let it go. They would dig and worry and scrape; they would track down every angle, every possible lead. And who knew where that might take them? Every one of these bodies could be traced back to Otto Kaitlin. That would tie them to the killings in New York: the dead soldiers at Otto’s house, the civilians in the street. How many bodies? Michael tried to count, lost track because he had no idea how many civilians had actually died. And there was a chance, however slim, that it could all lead back to him. He could not allow that. Not now. Not when he was this close.

He considered logistics, timing, the things he would need. He nodded to himself, convinced. Three hours, he thought, maybe four. He would take Elena to the airport, then come back here to dispose of the bodies and burn it all. It made sense. He was satisfied.

Then he found the file.

It was a simple manila folder, four inches thick and bound up with rubber bands. It rested at an angle on a bedside table in a back bedroom. This was Stevan’s room, Michael realized. Fine suits hung in the closet; Italian shoes and pocket squares made of silk. Michael sat on the bed, opened the file.

And everything shifted.

He didn’t see all the pieces, but certain things made sense: why Stevan was here and what he’d planned, why he’d threatened Julian in the first place. Michael flipped through photographs and affidavits and financial records. Some of this material he’d seen a long time ago. But this file was more complete, more damaging; its presence here changed things. There were implications to its presence. Possibilities.