But she could not.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An iron gate rose twelve feet in front of the stolen car. It was beautifully made, but functional, four thousand pounds of hand-wrought metal strong enough to stop anything short of a tank. Behind it, a strip of black pavement cut a straight line through velvet grass. Farther in, the house looked impossibly large; a castle behind ten-foot stone walls. Michael leaned against the car and watched traffic on the road. He studied the gates, the guards. Inside the car, Elena said his name.
“You okay?” He ducked low enough to look in through the window. Elena scooted across the seat until she was behind the wheel. She was exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and hollows worn into her cheeks. The wear showed in her voice and in the times she’d drifted and twitched, a pale, worn soul on endless miles of interstate. Even at the motel last night, she’d curled alone on the other bed, quiet and still, but awake. In the morning, she’d showered in silence, dressed with the barest smile. She could hardly meet Michael’s eyes, and when she did, there was a secret place where none had been before.
“Are they going to let us in?”
Michael studied the men who guarded the gate. They were professional and alert, broad, fit men with short hair and impeccable suits. Both carried holstered weapons and were as polite as they were confident. Their communications gear was state-of-the-art. If they were private, they were expensive, and Michael wondered just how good they really were. “If Julian’s here, they’ll let us in.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“Depends, I guess.”
“I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Michael studied the gate, the walls. The guards’ attention was unbroken. Security cameras pivoted from high mounts, and one of them was pointed directly at them. “He’s coming,” Michael said.
“What if they’re not here?”
“Senate’s out of session. This is their summer home. It feels right.”
Elena chewed a fingernail, hair sliding on her neck as she checked the road, the deep, black woods. She felt naked in the car, and Michael understood. But how could he tell her the truth? How could he explain that Stevan and Jimmy would never let it end with a quick, clean shot from the deep woods? How could he look her in the eyes and tell her that when they came-which they would-it would be to make things close and personal?
“I don’t like this.”
Cars blew past, and in the forest, a bird’s wing flashed. Michael peered up the drive as a vehicle appeared in the distance, a bullet of metal that became a Ford Expedition as it drew closer and slowed at the gate. Michael saw the same white-haired man behind the wheel. He got out and spoke to the guards, who remained alert but impassive as the gate swung wide and the man walked out to speak with them. “Mrs. Vane has agreed to see you. You can ride with me.”
Michael checked the road, which was empty. The walls stretched for at least a mile in either direction. “I’d prefer to have my own transportation.”
“If you want inside the gate, the car stays here.” The moment stretched between them. “The weapon stays, too.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Weapon?”
“Don’t insult me, son. The one tucked in the back of your pants. Put it in the car. Lock the car. Get in. Time’s wasting.”
Michael studied his face, which was sunburned, rugged, and blunt. It looked like the face of an honest man, but looks meant little to Michael. He’d known so many liars, so many frauds. “Do you know my brother?”
The man squinted, and skin puckered around his eyes. “I know Julian like he was my own son.”
“Is he here?”
“He is.”
Michael looked away first. “Just a second.” He slipped into the car, tucked the gun under the seat, and rolled up the windows.
“Are you sure about this?” Elena ran both palms down the length of her thighs.
“We’ll be fine.”
They climbed from the car and Michael locked it. The driver hitched a thumb and said, “She goes in the back. You sit up front where I can see you.”
When they were in, the old man dropped a hand to the left side of his seat, then turned in a hard circle and drove back toward the big house. Michael saw formal gardens and trees so beautifully groomed they were ornamental. In the distance, another guard stood at the front door; two more patrolled the corners. Michael could not see any sign of it, but he suspected there would be electronic measures as well: cameras, motion sensors, infrared.
“Why so much security?” he asked.
“How many billionaires do you know?”
Halfway down the drive, the vehicle turned left on a narrow, gravel lane that disappeared into a stand of oaks. “I thought we were going inside,” Michael said.
“Not to the main house. That comes later. Maybe. My name is Jessup Falls.”
“This is Elena,” Michael said.
Falls’s eyes rose to meet hers in the rearview mirror. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other in the hollow place between his seat and the door. “Ma’am.”
“You took longer than expected.”
Falls looked at Michael, shrugged. “Your arrival was unexpected. Discussions were had.”
“Whether to let me in,” Michael said.
“I was on Iron Mountain the day you killed the Hennessey boy, so, yes. That was part of the discussion.”
“Is that why your left hand is holding a gun?”
Falls shrugged, then pulled the gun from beside the seat and tucked it between his legs. “Old habits,” he said.
“Are you in charge of security?”
“Only for Mrs. Vane. The senator has his own people.”
They drove for a half mile, first through forest, then along a ridge that offered long views of the house and grounds. When that view dropped away, Falls stopped the car.
“Are we meeting Mrs. Vane here?” Michael asked.
Falls put the transmission in park. His face was all business. “We’re on the west side of the estate. We’re going to the guesthouse. That way.” He pointed. “It’s private. No one ever uses it.” He pivoted so he could see Elena and Michael at the same time. He stared for long seconds, then frowned and said, “There’s no money for you here.”
“That’s not why we came.”
“Then why?”
“To see my brother.”
“Just like that? After all this time?” Michael shrugged, and Falls asked, “Why do you carry a gun?”
“Why do you?”
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere, at the moment.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“My last job was washing dishes.”
