corner. The beer was cold and he sipped as he dug the cell phone out of his pocket and put it on the table. It was prepaid, untraceable; for a moment he pondered the power of technology.
Then he thought of bodies.
And his brother.
Michael could have grilled the senator for details about anything he wanted-Slaughter Mountain, Abigail Vane, Iron House-but it would have taken time, become confrontational, and in the end there was no point. He didn’t care who killed those Iron House pricks as long as Julian was safe from criminal prosecution; the blackmail file gave him that certainty. Had he pushed for information, the senator could have balked, delayed or demanded further proof. Getting to truth could take time-if Vane even knew the truth-and Michael was not so worried about niceties. He could fix it now, make it go away before the cops dragged Julian kicking and screaming from whatever hole he’d found.
He spun the phone on the slick, black table.
Checked his math one last time.
Bodies had been pulled from the lake, men who had once been boys at Iron House, men who knew Julian. The cops would make the connection because cops were plenty smart and the math was not that hard. Why Julian might have killed them wouldn’t matter in such a large case. The finer points of motive would fall beneath the weight of speculation and circumstance. The victims knew the killer. They had been enemies once, lured with cash to the estate, and then sunk in the same lake where a girl well known to Julian had died eighteen years ago. All things being equal, Julian would go down for the murders.
But circumstance, thankfully, was not a one-trick pony. Four miles away was a farm piled high with dead gangsters who for years had been blackmailing Senator Vane. The file would speak for itself. Photographs, ledgers, records of bribes taken and payments made. Michael’s plan was elegant in its simplicity. Send the cops to the farm; let them find the bodies; let them find the file. Two things would happen immediately.
First, the bodies in the lake would pale beside the carnage at the farm. The dead gangsters would be traced back to Otto Kaitlin, and from there to the violence in New York: the explosion at the restaurant, the killings at Sutton Place, the escalating body count since the old man’s death. The feds would get involved. FBI. ATF. It would be a massive response.
Second-and very quickly-they would connect all this organized activity to Senator Randall Vane. When that happened, the tone of the investigation would tilt away from Julian. With this much death and this many mobsters, entirely different avenues of investigation would open up. Eventually, someone would make a trip to the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, and there that person would meet Andrew Flint.
And Flint had things to say about the Kaitlins.
They’d come to Iron House asking about the senator. Julian had been a mere child at the time, and Flint would tell the cops as much. That would add one more link to the chain of evidence connecting Senator Vane to organized crime. The case, then, would no longer be about a few bodies in the lake. It would be about mobsters and crooked politicians, about payoffs and killers and lots and lots of bodies. Michael liked it because it was messy and powerful and could be read in ways that had nothing to do with a troubled children’s author named Julian Vane. Maybe the mob killed the Iron House boys to implicate the senator. Maybe the senator retaliated. Maybe there were other connections, other players. Cops could only speculate at the extent.
Whatever the case, it was too big to be about Julian.
Way too big.
Michael was about to dial when his legitimate phone rang. For a second his heart skipped, but it was not Elena. It was Abigail’s number, and he answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Michael? Thank God.”
It was Jessup Falls.
They met on the edge of an empty field three miles south of the east gate, far from reporters or other prying eyes. Jessup looked washed-out and old; even in the dim light, Michael recognized the look of a good man dealing with a bad thing. “The body is in Abigail’s room. I can’t move it by myself, and there’s no one else I can ask. Everyone in the house is loyal to the senator. She’ll go down for this if I don’t fix it. You have to help me. Please.”
That part hurt. The begging.
Michael looked out at the field. The cars were parked head-to-head, parking lights burning. He thought about what Jessup had told him, and found it thin. “Tell me again what happened.”
“There’s no time! Someone may have heard the shot. He could be found any second!”
Except for the fact that the senator was dead and that Abigail had pulled the trigger, Michael doubted everything Jessup had said. “It doesn’t make sense the way you described it. She wouldn’t kill him without good reason. Certainly not over some stupid argument. She’s too controlled for that. Too smart.”
“What does it matter? Please!”
“Where is she now?”
“In my room. Safe, for now.”
“And the gun?”
“It’s here. I have it.”
“It’s untraceable?”
“I bought it clean twenty years ago. It won’t come back to us.”
Michael searched Jessup’s face. If he’d ever doubted the man’s feelings for Abigail Vane, he no longer did. Jessup Falls was coming apart at the seams. Worry. Fear. Desperation. Michael understood. He knew the same feelings, but for Elena. He considered all that had happened, all that he knew and had learned. Then he decided to push. “Tell me about Salina Slaughter.”
“Oh, God.”
“I’ve been to Slaughter Mountain. I know you were there, too.”
Jessup looked desperate to the point of collapse. He looked over his shoulder, toward the far, invisible house, then begged with every angle in his face. “There’s no time. Don’t you see? This will ruin her. Please, Michael. Help me. Please. I can’t let this destroy her.”
“If I help you-”
“Yes, yes. I’ll do anything.”
“-I want to know everything.”
“Yes.”
“Slaughter Mountain. Salina Slaughter. Everything.”
“I swear.”
Jessup nodded, but looked tortured, so Michael showed him a small mercy. “I won’t do anything to hurt Abigail. She’s a good woman; she’s Julian’s mother.” He actually smiled. “I don’t think less of her for killing a man like Randall Vane.”
A shaky breath escaped. “Okay. Thank you.”
“But after I do this, we talk.”
Jessup nodded, grateful, and Michael said, “Let me have the gun.”
Jessup retrieved it from the car, then hesitated. It was the murder weapon. It carried Abigail’s prints, his prints. Their eyes met, and Michael held out his hand. “You have my word.”
Jessup handed over the gun, and Michael took it. He wiped it down with a handkerchief, then withdrew the shells and wiped them down, too. He reloaded the pistol, wrapped it in cloth and tucked it under his belt. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“What about the body?”
“Don’t worry about the body. Leave it.”
“But-”
“A little faith, Jessup.”
Michael turned for the car, but Jessup stopped him. “I need more than that. The body is in her room. The implications…”
