Iron House

“Keep Abigail clear of the room; let the body be found. All hell will break loose in the next few hours, by dawn at the latest. Deny everything. Give her an alibi. It will look dicey for a day or two, but I promise you, this will not come back on her.”

Jessup put a hand on Michael’s arm. “This is hard for me. Trusting you.”

“I could say the same thing.”

Understanding flashed across Jessup’s face. Michael had the murder weapon under his belt; he was a killer with mob ties. If Jessup wanted to take pressure off Abigail, all he had to do was call the cops on Michael. One call, and it would all go away. Michael arrested, Abigail free and clear. He looked at Michael differently. Something fundamental shifted, and Michael noticed.

“A little trust can be a dangerous thing, Jessup.” He nodded from the car door. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

“You’ll call me?”

“Keep the phone close.”

* * *

Michael made his third trip to the farm in the dark of night. He eased down the long, twisted drive, found a likely spot in the house and left the gun where no cop could miss it. Abigail would be pushed hard in the first few days-cops usually looked first at the spouse-but ballistics would eventually come back to the thirty- eight on Stevan’s bedside table. The timing wouldn’t fit, as everyone at the farm had been long dead when a fatal bullet hit one of the nation’s most politically divisive senators. But that wouldn’t matter in the long run. All Abigail required was reasonable doubt, and in the end there would be too many other possibilities out there, too much connection between the senator and Otto Kaitlin’s criminal empire, too much money and too much bile. After all, someone killed all the gangsters at the farm. Someone left the gun there. Would the cops really think that someone was Abigail Vane? Of course not. People were dead in New York, dead at the farm, dead in the lake.

And the senator was connected to all of them.

Michael left the farm. He turned right onto the blacktop and drove a half-mile to the Exxon station where he parked out of easy sight. He pulled out the disposable cell phone and thought how close Jessup Falls had come to the precipice of one-minute-too-late. Had he called even a minute later than he did, Michael would have been helpless to assist. He’d have already made the call.

But that’s how thin the margin often was.

Seconds.

Michael powered up the phone, called the police department and told the desk sergeant he had a message for Detective Jacobsen. He didn’t want to talk to the detective, just a message. “That’s right,” Michael said. “Half-mile past the Exxon. The mailbox with three blue reflectors.”

The sergeant wanted more, but Michael wouldn’t stay on the line. No name, no particulars, no explanation. Bodies at the farm. Dead guys and guns. People cut to pieces. Maybe the sergeant thought he was crazy; maybe he’d get promoted.

Michael looked at his watch. He’d been ready to scapegoat Senator Vane even before the man was dead. Why? Two reasons. He’d planned to turn Michael over to Stevan, so screw him. Most important, though, was Abigail. Whether she knew it or not, he’d given her the chance to call it off. I love someone else, she’d said, and that was good enough for Michael.

He looked at his watch again, and wondered if Jessup knew how she felt.

The cops came eighteen minutes later.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Abigail woke from the same dream that had haunted her every night for thirty-seven years. She kept her eyes squeezed tight, breaking softly as the images flickered, faded, refused to die. She was ten years old and half-frozen on the bank of her mother’s creek. Her teeth chattered, and her mind ached with a terrible emptiness. She didn’t know what had happened, only that she’d done bad. She saw it in her mother’s face, in the leveled eyes and the sly, contented smile.

Now you’re mine forever.

And Abigail looked down at what she’d done. She saw the face of that baby boy, water in his mouth, eyes half-open. She tried to wake him but he wouldn’t wake. He was still as a doll, all powder blue and lifeless in her hands.

Now you’re mine forever.

“No, Momma.”

Forever and ever and ever…

“No!”

“Abigail.”

“No!”

“Abigail. It’s okay. You’re okay. Just a dream.” The voice was real, familiar. Abigail opened her eyes, confused. Something warm rested in her hand. She squeezed and felt Jessup’s fingers. Faint blue light shone through a high, small window. It seemed to wink. She sat up, brushed hair from her face.

“Jessup?”

“Yes.”

“Did I say anything in my sleep?”

“Not really,” he said. “Just at the end when you said, ‘no.’”

Some of the tension bled out. “Where am I? What time is it?”

“You’re in my room. It’s late. You’re fine.”

She shuddered from the dream, and he touched her shoulder. “What am I doing here? Oh, God. I blacked out again, didn’t I?”

“Just for a bit.”

“Did I do anything… you know.”

“Nothing bad. No.”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Do you remember the senator in your room?”

“Vaguely. An argument.”

Jessup nodded. “I came in in the middle of it. Your husband didn’t like it. We left and came here. You zoned out after that.”

“God, it feels like they’re getting worse.”

“It’s nothing to worry about. You got a little fuzzy. I brought you here to sleep it off.”

“My head hurts.”

Jessup offered a weak smile. “I think you were drunk.”

“I suppose I should feel relieved.”

She started to rise, but Jessup pulled her down. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Abigail.”

“What?”

“It’s important. Something bad did happen, but you had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, God.” She tried to rise again, but Jessup stopped her.

“Listen. You and the senator argued. I came in and the argument stopped. We left and came here. This is very important. We talked about Julian. We talked about what’s been happening the past few days. We talked about what to get your husband for Christmas this year. We thought maybe some art. An oil painting from that gallery he likes in Washington. Do you remember this?” She shook her head, fear spreading. “This is what