Iron House (50 page)

“Trouble with a big damn T.” She waved a hand. “All you boys did.”

Michael felt new rage. “You should have gone away for this. You should have fried.”

“And if there was justice in the world, I’d be living rich or holding that gun. But that ain’t the world God made. Now…” She thumped the tree with her cane. “You seen it. You said your piece. Now, give an old lady a few dollars or go on and get the hell out.”

“Did you say justice?”

“You heard me.”

Michael felt the gun in his hand and it felt like the hand of God, like the universe rolled back to show the meaning of poetry and purpose. This woman had made him a killer so that he might one day kill this woman. It was a circle so perfect it smelled of providence. The gun came up and it was light in his hand. Mountain air tasted fresh in his throat. He could kill her now and bring closure to what remained of his family. Abigail would be free, Robert’s death avenged. Justice for the boys he and Julian had been.

“Do it,” she said.

He stared into her eyes, and saw nothing.

“Fucking do it!”

But even as the trigger creaked under his finger, Michael pictured Otto Kaitlin, who’d raised him to be better than the things he did. He thought of Elena, and the man she wished him to be, then of his own child and the father it deserved. He thought of the future he wanted.

The gun came down.

“I knew it, you pussy.” She spit on the dirt. “You limp-dick, red-assed cocksucker.”

Michael looked at the ravaged leg and unrepentant eyes, the cracked lips and bitterness. “I hope you live a very long time,” he said, and walked away.

He made it fifteen feet before she called after him. “Did Abigail tell you your real name?”

Michael looked back, momentarily undone as spite spread on his mother’s face. It was an orphan’s ultimate question. Who are my parents? What is my name?

“She didn’t tell you Robert’s name, so I’m guessing she didn’t tell you yours, either. She didn’t, did she? Selfish little brat.”

“We’re done here.” Michael started walking. She raised her voice.

“Whatever they named you at that orphanage ain’t the name God will know you by! That name comes from me!”

Leaves slapped at his face. The ground was smooth and damp.

“A momma leaves a mark when she names a child!”

Michael turned. “I want nothing from you.”

“What about your father’s name? You want that?” Michael raised the gun, pointed it at the soft place beneath her chin. “We already know you don’t have the guts.”

Michael put a shot past both sides of her head, the bullets so close and fast they lifted hair.

She froze, mouth open and dead silent. Michael said, “Next one goes in your right eye.” She risked a step back, and Michael matched her movement, the forest very green around them. “No one would miss you. No one out here would even care.”

Arabella held perfectly still, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. Behind her, the gulley dropped off forty feet, water creaming white at the bottom. “You want your real name or not?”

“Not.”

“Then you’re nothing.”

“I disagree.”

“You have nothing.”

“I have eighty million dollars,” Michael said. “I have a brother and a sister, a family of my own.” He dropped the hammer on the gun, slipped it under his belt. “What do
you
have?”

Two days later, the last reporters left Chatham County. The police were finished with Abigail and Julian; the feds were gone, headlines fading as bodies were buried and the investigation moved north. Late-morning sun slanted through Julian’s window as he stood before the tall mirror and finished knotting a silk tie. His suit was pressed and dark; he was anxious.

“May I come in?”

Abigail stood in the open door, a half-smile on her face.

“Sure.”

She crossed the room and stood beside him, peering into the mirror. “So serious,” she said.

“Don’t.”

“So thin.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.” She moved in front of him, adjusted his tie and then ran fingers down his lapels. “You’re right. It’s just that the world has been so serious. We should be the opposite. You’re safe. You’re well.”

“I don’t feel well.”

He was pale and terribly thin. The suit hung from his frame. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know.” Julian held very still, eyes large and wounded as he studied his image in the mirror. “I feel ... divided.”

“You don’t mean…?”

She was thinking of his schizophrenia, so Julian shook his head. “Not like that, no. It’s just…”

“What?”

She peered up, worried for him, frightened of a world that, to her, looked so thin beneath his feet. It had always been like that, soft words and troubled looks, the conviction he would melt as slow and sure as newsprint dropped on an empty sea. He shook his head, unwilling to talk about it. “I’m nervous, I guess.”

“Your name is known in forty countries,” Abigail said. “You’ve sold millions of books. I’ve seen you speak to a room of thousands…”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

Urgency gave weight to her question. The moment stretched, and Julian felt a connection between them, a bond that was real and strong and dark with things unsaid.

“It just is.”

It was a child’s answer, and he knew it. Yet, how could he explain that this was not about knowledge or strength or the man he’d set out to be? No matter what he accomplished, he would always be the boy from Iron House. He would always feel hunted and exposed, a half step too close to shadowed corners. He could bury such feelings for a while, but there was only so much dirt in the world. And that was the problem. For as wonderful as Michael’s presence was, it reminded Julian of secrets and shadows, of roots in loose soil and the unforgivable thing he’d done. He was everything his mother said, yet had stabbed a boy in the throat and let his brother take the blame.

“Suppose he doesn’t care for the man I’ve become?”

Abigail smiled and pressed her palms on his chest.

“You’re an artist and exceptionally kind. You’re a wonderful son. A fine man.”

“Does he know I take medicine? That I’m, you know…”

“He knows.” She nodded, her fingers again on his tie. “He understands.”

Julian caught her hands, and felt words tunnel from some deep place. “What if he hates me?”

His fingers tightened on hers, but she laughed the question off. “He’s your brother, and he loves you. He’s family.”

Julian nodded, though she had to be wrong. “You’re probably right.”

“I know I am.”

He stepped away, looked in the mirror and saw eyes that were too naked for the world outside. Michael would look into them and see all the way down. “Does this suit look okay? I could wear the navy with chalk stripes.” She studied him, pensive, and he said, “What do you think?”

“I think you shouldn’t try so hard. The suit. The expensive shoes.” She cupped his face, kissed him on the forehead. “He’s your brother, Julian. Be yourself, and don’t worry so much.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Smile for me, now.” She waited for the smile, then wiped an imaginary smudge from his cheek. “Ten minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

She left, and Julian watched his smile fall apart. In the mirror, he was tall and thin and perfectly dressed; but that’s not what he saw. He saw the boy who’d put a knife in Hennessey’s throat and let his brother take the blame, the same boy Michael would see, the weakling and the failure, the child he’d been. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, then took off the suit and hung it in the closet. His arms were thin, his chest bony. He felt guilt for all the wonderful things in his room, for the mother and the money and all the other things Michael had lost when he took the knife and ran into the snow. He felt guilt for his life, then sat on the bed and hugged himself as small certainties crumbled like sand. “Make me like Michael,” he said. “Make me strong.”

But in the mirror he was pale and weak and small.

“Please don’t let him hate me…”

He listened for an echo in his mind, but heard only silence.

“Please, God…”

He put on jeans and tucked in a shirt.

“Please don’t let him hate me.”

Jessup drove them to a small park forty miles from the estate. It was anonymous, he said, a good place to meet far from prying eyes. “You guys okay back there?”

“We’re fine,” Abigail said.

But Julian’s mouth was dry; his hands itched. “Are we late?”

“Right on time.” Jessup turned into the park, and followed a narrow lane to a shady place with benches and tables and views of a lake. Julian saw a car parked by itself, a man alone by the hood.

“Is that him?”

“It is,” Abigail said.

They drew close, and Michael stepped out to meet them. Julian took his mother’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

“This is for you and Michael.”

Julian peered out. “He looks stern.”

She smiled and said, “He always looks like that.”

Julian hesitated, terrified. “I’m frightened,” he said.

“Don’t be.”

“But what if…?” The words trailed off, and he heard the rest in silence.

What if he hates me?

What if he looks into my soul and simply leaves?

“Have faith.” She squeezed his hand. “Be strong.”

Julian took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out as if onto another planet. Colors were too bright, the sun like a palm on his cheek. Michael looked tall and broad, and Julian studied the lines on his face as they walked toward each other. He looked for reason to hope, for something to take the great, giant weight off his chest. When they were two feet away, Michael said, “Hello, Julian.”

A vacuum opened in Julian’s head and sucked away every clear thought he had. Michael looked the same, but different. Slight stubble covered his cheeks and his eyes were very bright. His hands were large and twitched once as Julian looked for words and failed.

“I…”

His voice was a bare whisper, but Michael nodded, the clean lines of his brow coming down, eyes softening. Julian saw then how he would draw him, a square-shouldered man with one hand rising up, head tilted slightly down as he said, “It’s okay.”

Michael stepped closer.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said.

Michael’s hand settled on the back of Julian’s neck. He was shaking his head, but smiling. “For what?”

“I’m so sorry…”

Then the arms wrapped Julian up. He felt heat and strength—his brother—and there was no anger in him. His cheek was rough on Julian’s, something warm and wet. “It’s okay,” Michael said.

He was crying.

“We’re okay.”

They met again the next day, and the day after that. They sat in the sun and talked, and it was a strange thing for both of them. So many years had passed; so many things had changed. But they were brothers, so they found their path. They talked and they grew and their time apart seemed less monumental. Michael didn’t tell Julian everything about his life—not the killing, not yet—but he opened up about Elena and the baby, spoke with great truth about the things that truly mattered.

“You still haven’t heard from her?”

“Not yet, no.”

There was pain there, raw and deep. “I might be in love, too,” Julian said.

Michael looked across the park to where Abigail sat at a picnic table with Victorine Gautreaux. They, too, were trying, but the struggle was hard to watch. A gulf still existed between them, but occasionally they laughed. “Tell me about her,” Michael said.

They were sitting on a bench in the same park. Shade made the place cool, and children played across the lawn. Julian watched a small boy kick a ball, then said, “She’s a lot like us.”

“Screwed up?”

Julian laughed awkwardly. “Yeah.”

Michael nudged him with a shoulder, smiled. “The poor girl.”

“Are you serious?”

Julian looked worried, so Michael shook his head. “She’s beautiful and strong. She knows what she wants.”

“I’d like to marry her, I think.”

Michael looked at the girl, saw cold blue eyes and the careful mask that hid her fear. He thought of her childhood, and what he knew of Abigail’s. “You should do that,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, certain. “You should do that soon.”

Those times in the park were the best parts of Michael’s day. Afterward, he would return to the hotel and stare for long hours at his silent phone. Abigail had asked him twice to stay at the house, but he’d declined, pleading the need for discretion. But that was only part of it. He needed time to be alone, time to miss his woman and mourn.

Jessup called once, and asked to meet. “Abigail doesn’t know,” he said. “This is just me talking.”

“Where?” Michael asked.

They met in a parking lot halfway between the estate and Chapel Hill. Jessup was in the Land Rover; Michael slid into the front seat beside him. “How’s Julian?” he asked.

“Better, I think. You’ve seen him.”

“He puts on a strong face.”

“You should see him with Victorine, though. She’s hard and opinionated and ignorant about a million things—but she’s smart and fierce and unbelievably talented. She’s good for him. They fit in a way that’s satisfying to watch.”

Michael nodded because that was his read, too. One was strong, the other less so. Both damaged, both artists. “How about you and Abigail?”

“There’s a wall between us,” Jessup said.

“You should tear it down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Tear it down,” Michael said. “Don’t wait. Just do it. Talk to her. Tell her.”

“Look, this is not really why I called you.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Abigail asked me to go through some of the senator’s effects. Papers, files she lacked the heart for. I found some things you might be interested in.”

“For instance?”

“The senator had the autopsy report on the girl that drowned all those years ago.”

“Christina?”

“Christina Carpenter, yes. He had the report in his private safe. It turns out she’d had an abortion the day before she died. The cops kept it quiet, but the senator knew.”