Iron House (45 page)

The girl was fourteen when she ran away ...

Michael had all these questions, and as much as they burned, he didn’t need the answers to save Julian. He had the file, and it would be enough. Chatham County was a powder keg, and the file would be the torch to light it. He touched it briefly and ran through the steps he would take. He looked for flaws, found none, but had to make one stop first, and that was at the Iron Mountain Home for Boys.

He found Flint in the same bathrobe with a bottle of the same booze in front of him. He nodded once at the sight of Michael, then knocked back what was left in his glass. “Have you found revenge too sweet a song to ignore?”

“I beg your pardon.”

Flint poured another glass, waved it in a vague circle. “Have you come to kill us after all?”

“I have no fight with you, Mr. Flint. In fact, I wish you both well. Where’s Billy?”

“Doing the things that Billy does.”

“I need to ask you a question.”

“Then, sit, drink.”

Michael sat, but no glass was offered. Flint was bleary and loose, the kitchen a mess around him. “Has anyone ever come here looking for me? Asking about me? It might have been a long time ago?”

Flint squinted, sipped. “So many boys, so many years.”

“You would remember this person.”

“Can you describe him?”

Michael described Stevan as best he could. “He would have asked about Julian, too. He would have either threatened you or tried to bribe you. He would have been very smooth or very unpleasant.”

“I remember him, now, an unpleasant man with an expensive suit and an attitude. He came some years after Julian was adopted. Threw some money around
and
made threats. As I recall, he wasn’t just interested in your brother. He wanted to know more about Senator Vane, too. Their relationship. The circumstances of the adoption.”

“His name is Stevan Kaitlin. Is that familiar?”

“Vaguely, yes. Stevan. But I don’t think he gave a last name. And the other one. What was it? Otto, I think.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“No last name for him, either, but he was an older man, calmer, kind of in the background, but very intent. Just sat there and took it in.”

Michael nodded because it made sense, then put a hundred thousand dollars on the table and ignored the way Flint choked on his liquor. “If anybody else comes up here asking the same question—cops, anybody—I want you to tell them the truth. Tell them his name was Stevan Kaitlin and that he wanted to know all about the senator. Feel free to mention Otto, too. Can you remember that?”

Flint’s eyes stayed locked on the cash. “Yes.”

“It will happen soon. In a week or two. Police or
FBI
.”

“Week or two…”

“Just tell them the truth. Afterward, you should take Billy and leave. Find someplace new. Start fresh. No more gambling. No more drinking.” Flint touched the money, and Michael stood. “Mr. Flint?”

Flint looked up from the cash. He was drunk and overwhelmed. Michael spread his hands on the table, money between them. “The compassion you’ve shown for Billy is a rare thing in this world.” Flint’s eyes drifted to the money, then snapped back up. “I almost killed you the last time I was here. I was angry, you understand? It was that close.” Michael held his thumb and finger an inch apart, and Flint, either frightened or full of regret, tucked his hands in his lap as Michael leaned even closer. “Every day since then has been a gift. Every day from now forward is also a gift. Every minute. Every hour.”

Michael straightened.

“You’re a compassionate man, Mr. Flint, and I think you deserve a second chance.” He slid the money across the table. “Ask yourself what happens to Billy if you drink yourself to death, then give yourself a break. This place messed up a lot of people, but it’s just a place. You can move past it.”

Flint looked up, eyes red and raw. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“It’s what I’m coming to believe.”

Flint reached for the bottle. “Maybe it’s not that simple.”

“And maybe it is.”

Flint poured another glass and put it on the table.

“Take the money, Mr. Flint. Start fresh.”

“I’ll tell the police what you said.”

Michael sighed deeply. “Give Billy my regards.”

Flint nodded, glass untouched. He stared at it for long seconds, then tucked his face into his hands, his whole body shaking as Michael turned on his heel and left.

Michael hit the Chatham County line close to dusk, and found the road empty by the mailbox with blue reflectors. He parked on the grass shoulder a half-mile down and watched the dirt track that led to a house full of dead mobsters. No police. No movement. He checked the sky for aerial surveillance, and then craned his neck to check the gas station lot two hundred yards behind him.

It looked quiet, he thought, the air hushed and warm as the sun made its slow burn through the trees. But still, he was patient. He waited, watched; and when the last light grayed out, he drove in. Within seconds, he knew the site was undisturbed.

Ignoring the barn, Michael drove straight to the house, lifted the file and got out of the car. He stepped carefully, and made his way to Stevan’s room. Nothing had changed there, either. At the bedside, he replaced the file where he’d found it. He took one last look around and then left, satisfied.

Forty minutes later, he had a room in a decent hotel. He showered, changed and found the senator’s number in his phone’s memory. The call was answered on the first ring. “I wondered if you might still like to meet?”

“Michael, I was just thinking of you.”

“Would you like to have brunch tomorrow?”

“Are you back in town?”

“Just this moment. Do you still want to discuss Julian?”

“Of course, my boy. Of course. But why wait? My evening is free; I just poured a drink. Join me. I have the most wonderful study in which to drink, and the best selection of scotch this side of the highlands.”

“All right.”

“Shall we say, half an hour? Just give your name to the guard at the gate.”

Michael squeezed the phone hard. He thought of the file, then of blackmail, betrayal and the price of a political career. “Half an hour.”

Abigail was not a drinker. Drinkers lost control, made mistakes. Drinkers were weak. But tonight Abigail made an exception. It came in a clear glass bottle, and it burned going down. But, that was okay.

She was in mourning.

And she was appalled.

Jessup ...

She dragged herself off the bed, sat at the dressing table and stared hard at the face she’d worn for so many years. She’d worked so hard to portray confidence and certainty of purpose, and yet the one person with whom she could be herself was Jessup. He’d seen her fail and seen her break. He knew truths about her, but had spent twenty-five years at her side, unfailing and true.

“How could I have been so wrong?”

The words slurred; her face fell into a blur. All those years of faithfulness to the senator, and she’d been so proud. Of what? Her
fortitude
? Her
moral character
? Always determined to do the right thing, to make the good choice. What a joke! What a sad, tired delusion!

Her reflection laughed a bitter laugh.

Jessup didn’t want her anyway.

She picked up the gun he’d given her all those years ago. For two decades it had ridden with her in the Land Rover, and yet she’d never fired it. It was heavy, cool, and she thought of his face when he’d first pressed it into her palm: a hint of smile, but serious, first touch of white in his hair.
It’s a dangerous world,
he’d told her.
You should keep this close.

Had she been wrong even then?

Had he ever loved her?

She dropped the gun on the bed, stood and paced. She had brief thoughts of Julian and Michael, of the horrors she’d seen in the barn. But mostly she thought of her life, of choices made and opportunity missed. She thought of things she could not forget, and of failures she could not unmake.

To do and do and make oneself replete with change ...

She wondered if she’d managed to change at all. All the tough decisions, all the sacrifices and lofty ideals. Had they made any difference? Or was she still the same person she’d been thirty-seven years ago? The same girl who swore she could do better? The very thought depressed her. The bottle emptied, and at some point she heard a light knock on the door.

“Abigail?”

She moved to the door and stood, silent.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Pressure built behind her eyes, but no one could help her. “Go away, Jessup.”

“Are you sure?”

His voice was soft; she touched the door and tried not to cry.

Michael left the guns in the hotel room. He wouldn’t get them through security, and didn’t need them anyway. That was the thing about knowledge.

It was full dark when he arrived at the estate. Reporters were still camped out: vans and gear and talent. They rustled when he slowed. Lights came on, then somebody yelled: “It’s nobody.”

Cameras went down; smokers lit up.

He gave his name at the gate, and a uniformed guard leaned in at his window. He wore a sidearm, carried a clipboard. Michael tried to read his face, but it was blank. “Identification, please.”

“You know who I am.”

The guard measured him with a stare that lasted fifteen seconds. “Any weapons in the car or on your person?”

“Is that a normal question?”

“We’ve received unspecified threats.”

“No,” Michael said. “No weapons.”

“Straight up to the house. Someone is waiting to take you to the senator.”

Michael drove through and the gate swung shut. Gas-burning streetlamps lit the drive; far in, the house glowed as if on fire. Michael rolled slowly, and saw two men waiting for him on the steps. One opened his door. The other was Richard Gale. “I’ll need to pat you down,” he said.

“Is that how the senator greets all his guests?”

“We’ve received—”

“Yes, I know. Unspecified threats.”

Gale smiled tightly. “If you would?”

“Careful of the leg.” Michael lifted his arms and let Gale pat him down. The talk of threats was just that, but they needed an excuse, and Michael let them have it.

“Will you follow me, please?”

The senator was right about one thing: his study was spectacular. Wood panels gleamed like honey; the rugs were handmade silk and at least a century old. Vane rose from a leather chair and opened his arms expansively. “Was I kidding?”

“It’s very nice.”

The senator wore a three-piece suit with French cuffs and a pink tie. He took big strides and offered a big hand. Behind him, French doors opened to formal gardens that were lit with colored lights. “What’re you drinking?”

“I’ll have what you’re having. Thanks.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“Nothing really. Not important.”

“If you say so.” Vane turned his back, selected a bottle and poured. When he turned, he looked like every politician Michael had ever seen, all smiles and twinkle and subtle dark. He handed over the glass, sipped his own, then pretended his question had not been ignored. “You’ve met Richard Gale.”

Michael knew this could play two ways: long or short. Either way, the end would be the same. “Sure.” Michael limped across the room and sat in one of the big leather chairs. He held up the glass, let light shine through the liquor, and decided to make it short. “He and a couple of his buddies smashed in my hotel door last night.”

He sipped scotch in the dead silent room.

“I don’t—”

Vane offered false confusion. Michael said, “You need better men.”

The senator put his own glass down. “That’s how it is?”

“I think we both know I’m not here to talk about Julian.”

The moment held, then Vane nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Gale, who opened the door and let three more men enter the room, probably the same three who’d been with him at the hotel. They fanned out, each of them discretely armed.

Michael held up his glass. “Can I get another one?”

The senator smiled and sat. “You’re flip. I like that. It won’t help you, but I like it. And I apologize for what has to happen tonight.”

Michael put his glass on a table by the chair. “Let me save you some trouble.”

“You’re no trouble at all.”

“And yet you plan to kill me.” Michael looked at Gale. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”

“Kidnap,” the senator said. “Not kill.
Deliver
might be a better word.”

“To Stevan Kaitlin.”

His eyes hardened. “What do you know about Stevan Kaitlin?”

“He’s blackmailing you—I know that much. He’s been doing it for some time, too. Years, I should think, based on the numbers I’ve seen.”

“Numbers?”

“More like a ledger, a record of what started a long time ago with Otto Kaitlin.”

Michael pictured the file that Otto had given him for his seventeenth birthday. Information on Julian’s new family. Pictures of the senator with various prostitutes. He’d assumed it was just for him, but realized now that Otto would have never let that kind of information go unused. “You paid a half-million dollars a year for five years, then three years at six hundred thousand. You’ve been at seven-fifty a year for a while, now. I’m guessing you’ve shelled out thirteen million dollars over the past sixteen years.” Michael let that sink in, then smiled. “Give or take.”

“Where did you see those numbers?”

“Same place I saw the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“I have the file.”

Vane paled, suddenly still. “Get out.” He waved a hand at Richard Gale.

“All of us?” Gale asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Get the hell out!”

“Very well.” Gale and the other men left.

When the door closed, Senator Vane picked up Michael’s glass, slopped in some scotch and handed it back. He poured one for himself and knocked it down, color coming back to his cheeks. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

Michael pulled a photograph from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it over. “I picked one of the good ones.”