Iron House (34 page)

“I’ll leave early.”

“Early or not.” Flint shrugged. “I sleep late.”

Michael gestured at the orphanage. “I’d like to have a look first.”

“Really?” Flint leaned left. “You want to go inside?”

It was more of a need than a want, to touch the place where he’d been made. Abigail had said it best: it was powerful, coming back. “Not now,” Michael said. “In the morning.”

“Okay. Sure. I guess you know your way around.” He pointed at the key ring. “The big silver one opens the front door. Just leave the keys on the kitchen counter.”

“I’ll leave your gun, too.”

Flint swayed again, creases like map lines in his skin. “I feel like there’s more to say.”

Michael shook his head. “Enough is enough.”

“Just good-bye, then.” Flint put out his hand, and after two long seconds, Michael took it.

“Good-bye, Mr. Flint.”

Flint released his hand and turned. He stumbled on the bottom step but got himself inside without falling. Michael saw a light go on three windows down, the silhouette of a frail, thin man tipping back a bottle. In another minute, the light went out, and Michael put Flint out of his mind. He walked to the gate and moved his car down the long, broken drive. Then he dug out his phone and called Abigail. “Hi. It’s me. No, I’m okay. Any sign of Julian?”

“No.”

“How about Elena?”

“Nothing, Michael. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Michael said, but it was not. Faint, high stars spread out, and the night air was cool. A wisp of cloud crossed the rising moon as he tried to force Elena from his thoughts. He needed to know she was okay. “Listen.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “I have a question.”

“Anything.”

“Does Julian have money?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does he have access to large sums of cash?”

“Oh, Michael.” She almost laughed. “Do you have any idea how many books your brother sells?”

“A lot, I guess.”

“Millions. Many millions. Why do you ask?”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s not important.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Abigail asked.

“I’ll leave early.”

A silence spread between them, dark and difficult until Abigail broke it. “Listen, be careful when you come back. Okay?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Just ... be careful.”

“Abigail…”

“I’m very tired.”

Michael felt it through the phone, a well of worry and fatigue. “Good night, Abigail.”

“Good night, Michael.”

Jimmy gave Stevan ten minutes to play mighty ruler and disappear into his room, then he went back inside and stopped in the entry to the living room. The place was disgusting: pizza boxes and cigarettes, clothes worn for days without washing. Jimmy saw bare feet and socks stained black on the bottom. Fingers scratched at hairy skin. A man dug in his ear with a pen cap.

Animals.

“Hey, Jimmy. What’s up?”

That was Clint Robins, the only man in the room who was not a total embarrassment. He was lean and quick, an exceptional thinker in a crew of dullards. He was playing solitaire and winning. Jimmy lifted his chin. “Stevan in his room?”

“Yeah.”

“How about the girl.”

Robins smiled. “She’s a honey.”

“That was not my question.”

“I know, Jimmy. Just messing with you. She’s locked down.”

“Did you give her dinner?”

“It’s like Stevan said.” He winked at the man sitting beside him. “We’re not animals.”

Jimmy frowned, and another man leaned forward. He sat on the sofa. His name was Sean. His had Irish parents, and some of that accent remained. “When are we doing this, Jimmy?” The room stilled, and suddenly everyone was listening. Sean lowered his voice in dramatic fashion, hooking his thumb toward the room Stevan had taken as his own. “Rich-and-perfect won’t say.”

Several of the men nodded, and it was a sign of dwindling respect that Stevan was mocked so freely. Jimmy took stock of the room. He saw seven men, all frustrated and ripe with scorn. Guns lay scattered about. Handguns, mostly, a few pump-action twelves. Nothing fully automatic. That was good.

“This will be over soon,” Jimmy said.

“You sure about that?” Sean asked.

The room remained dead silent, and Jimmy allowed himself a smile. “Ninety-nine percent sure.”

“When will you be a hundred?” Robins asked.

“Soon.”

“Better be.”

Jimmy felt cold steel snap shut behind his eyes. That disrespect had been directed at him. Veiled. Not enough to call the man out for, but it didn’t matter. “Five minutes,” Jimmy said.

Robins laid his final card.

Elena heard the knob turn, and opened her eyes in time to see Jimmy come inside. It was eerie, the way he moved. Like his joints were oiled. She swung her legs off the bed, and a chain rattled. Jimmy nodded toward the handcuffs that locked one arm to the bed. “Sorry about that,” he said. “It’s dark out. Can’t have you running off.” He nudged her plate with his foot. A fast-food burger, congealed and untouched. “Not hungry?”

Elena flicked hair from her face. “What do you want?”

“An answer to a question.”

“What question?”

Jimmy tilted his head. “Does Michael love you?”

“What?”

“Not generic love, mind you. The real thing.”

“I…”

“He implied as much, you see. But I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve never seen him love anything but himself and Otto Kaitlin. If he loves you half as much as his own reflection, then maybe I’ll trade you for him. That’s where my business is, really. With Michael. You can go home. Have a life.” He paused. “Have your baby.”

Her hand moved involuntarily to her stomach. The man was smiling, but his eyes were too cold for the question to be random. He would use her to hurt Michael. It was the only thing that made sense. “I used to think so,” she said. “But no. He doesn’t love me like that.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

She pictured the good in Michael, all the things she loved. He would lie for her, kill for her. A day ago, the thought ruined her. “Yes,” she said. “That’s the truth.”

“You’re a pretty woman.” Jimmy laughed. “But a poor liar.”

“We fought. It’s over. He doesn’t love me.”

“A pretty woman.” Jimmy turned, and Elena jerked on the cuffs. “Telling poor, pretty lies.”

“It’s not a lie!”

The woman’s voice followed him down the hall.

“It’s not a lie!”

He heard the bed rattle and scrape, and smiled in the black place behind his eyes. She’d chosen Michael over the baby, and that told him everything he needed to know. They loved each other, which meant that whatever plan Stevan had, Jimmy didn’t need it. He stepped back into the living room. “Robins.”

Clint Robins looked up. “Jimmy.”

“We need to talk.”

“Are we at a hundred percent?”

“Ninety-nine point five. Come with me.”

Jimmy slipped back into the hall, and felt Robins behind him. He turned deeper into the house and made his way up a flight of steep, narrow stairs to a room with angled ceilings and small, square windows. In the corner of the room, an old desk showed water stains and the scars of hard use. Its surface was littered with yellowed papers and plastic pens that had dried out years ago.

“Pull up a chair.”

Jimmy pointed to a chair across the room, then sat at the desk and fiddled with pens while Robins pulled the chair closer. Four pens: three blue ones and a pink one. He lined them up as Robins sat. They were in similar chairs. Carved wooden seats. Ladder backs. The room smelled of mold and dust and mouse shit. Robins said, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Getting to a hundred percent.” Jimmy selected the pink pen, and spun it between his fingers. It had no cap, and some kind of grunge on the point. “There’s a certain frustration with Stevan, and I understand that. What I want you to tell me is this: If Stevan were gone, would the men follow me?”

“If he was gone…”

“Retired. Missing. Dead.”

Both men knew only one of those words mattered. “Look, Jimmy—”

“I know the men are scared of me, but would they follow me? Would they trust me?”

“If Stevan ... retired?”

“Exactly.”

Robins shrugged. “Stevan has the money. The companies are in his name. The real estate. The old man is dead, but the Kaitlin name still carries weight on the street.”

Jimmy nodded. “That matters, of course.”

“And most of the guys are comfortable with him. He may not be his father, but they know where he stands. He’s steady.”

“And with me, they worry.”

“Truthfully?”

Jimmy smiled. “We’re friends. You can speak plain.”

“You’re edgy.” Robins showed his palms. “Unpredictable.”

“And how about you, Clint? Where would you stand?”

“Look, Jimmy, I don’t feel great about this conversation.”

“I guess that’s your answer, then.”

“Kind of.”

Jimmy offered a thin smile. “Hey, I asked for the truth and you gave it to me.”

“Still friends?” Nervous.

Jimmy held out his hand. “Just keep it between us.”

“Of course. Obviously.” Robins took his hand—relieved—and was still holding it when Jimmy slammed the pen into his eye socket. He drove it deep, made a bright pink pupil in the ruined eye. The body went limp, one leg twitching as Jimmy lowered him to the floor. Blood was minimal. Little sound. Jimmy wiped his hands on the dead man’s shirt. “Now, we’re at a hundred percent.”

He stepped to the bed and dragged a hard case from underneath. He put it on the bed, opened it. Inside was an array of weapons, none of them indiscriminate. No Uzis. Nothing fully automatic. He selected a nine millimeter and released the clip so bright casings and copper jackets shone. When Michael shot his way out of Otto’s house, he’d killed six men with only seven bullets. That story was already on the streets.

Six armed men, seven bullets. A legend in its infancy.

Michael, Michael, Michael ...

Jimmy thumbed out every bullet in the clip, then reloaded seven and racked one into the chamber. With Robins dead, there were seven men in the house. Seven men, seven bullets. ’Course, he wasn’t going to kill Stevan just yet.

But still ...

Jimmy lifted a second weapon from the foam padding. It was one of his favorites, a twenty-two automatic that was light, accurate and held an awful lot of bullets. He tucked that one against the small of his back.

Vain as he was, he wasn’t stupid.

Closing the case, he slipped it back under the bed. In the mirror, he looked ready enough to wink at himself, so that’s what he did: a slow wink over a happy grin.

Sixty-seven million dollars.

Finality.

Change.

He went down the stairs on light feet, rounded into the living room without slowing down. Part of him knew it would never meet the challenge Michael had overcome, but most of him didn’t care. So the men were half-drunk and not expecting it, so they blinked like cattle when the gun came up in Jimmy’s hand. So what? The gun felt light as a feather. Reflexes sharp as a blade, vision perfect.

Two men were standing when Jimmy came into the room. They went down first; both shot center mass and lifted off their feet. Two more were seated, one trying to stand. Jimmy took head shots for all of them, rounds snapping off as he pivoted and dropped to a crouch.

Five down. Where was the sixth?

There.

Kitchen door, gun coming out of his belt.

Jimmy shot him through the mouth before the barrel cleared leather. Then there was silence and smoke in the air, a taste like matches in the back of Jimmy’s throat. He checked the room, no movement.

Six bullets. Six dead.

Eight seconds, max.

He had one bullet left, and there was Stevan. He stood in the door, eyes so pink and glassy they did not look real. His hand came up as Jimmy straightened. “You…”

“I know. It was something, wasn’t it?”

“Something?”

Jimmy shook his head as he stepped wide to clear a patch of bloody carpet. “Yeah. Did you see how fast that was? Michael couldn’t do it that fast.”

“You killed them.”

“Obviously.”

They were only feet apart, now, Stevan’s shock wearing off. Color spiked in his cheeks as he found his anger. “What the hell, Jimmy?” He stopped and drew up taller. “You’re fucking done. I don’t even know what to say, you insane bastard, you dumb, stupid shit.”

“You still don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Jimmy put his last bullet in Stevan’s knee.

There was near-perfect silence in Elena’s room, stillness as every muscle strained against the iron bar on the headboard. Her feet pressed the wall, widely spread and white from the pressure. The cuff cut cruelly into her wrist. It bruised bone, tore skin, but she pulled harder, sweat popping on her face, her free hand on the chain, fingers slippery-wet, three nails already broken. The other manacle scraped up the length of the iron bar, peeling white paint as it moved. Elena dug deeper, and it hurt as if the bones in her narrow wrist were burning.

She pulled harder, misery in her back, now, legs shaking as she built a sheltered place in her mind, a tall, square room with soft floors and cotton sheets that touched her skin like feathers. A cool fountain gurgled in the corner. There was music, and Michael waiting beyond a closed door. She tried to feel it, thick stone walls and a breeze on her face. For long moments, the vision held, then the sound of gunshots brought it crashing down.

They were loud and close, concussions she actually felt. She sat up on the bed, handcuffs forgotten.

What was happening?

She had no idea. Everything felt compressed after the noise, the stillness absolute.

Then voices. Another gunshot.

And screaming.

God, the screaming ...

Elena held herself still, and knew she’d never been so scared. Not when Jimmy took her from her hotel room. Not when he doused her with gasoline. This was so sudden and absolute, a handful of seconds and screaming like she’d never heard, a horrible, animal sound that went on and on and on. She watched the door, knowing that it would open and she would be the next to scream and die. She knew it, felt it as sure as anything.