Iron House

Michael stared out beyond the far gate. Jimmy was out there, coming. Elena’s hand felt warm and small when he squeezed it. “Other people need me, too,” he said.

That thought burned in Michael’s mind, and in Elena’s, too. She squeezed his hand in return, and he felt her relief in the way she molded against him. He’d done what he needed to do. Julian was safe. Now, they could make a life, build a family. “We have to go,” he said.

But Abigail was not finished. “You said he’s safe.”

“He is.”

“From what?”

Their gazes locked, and she was so desperate to know that Michael almost told her the truth. Jimmy. Stevan. The target painted on his back. But what purpose would such disclosure serve? “I have enemies.” He kept it simple. “People I thought might choose to hurt me through Julian.”

“What kind of enemies?” Falls forced himself into the conversation.

“People that don’t want to hurt Julian badly enough to risk security like this.” Michael was confident. Julian was bait, nothing more. “The risk leaves when I do.”

“That’s not good enough,” Falls said. “What risks? What threats? If there’s a danger out there, I need to know what it is. I want specifics: names, timing, all of it.”

But Michael was confident. Stevan had used Julian to flush Michael into the open. “Julian’s in no danger. Not here. Not with this security.”

“How did you even find us?” Falls demanded. “Adoption records are sealed. Julian’s father is a United States senator.”

Michael gave him a second, then said, “I’ve known for a long time how to find my brother.”

“How?”

A shrug. “I have resources.”

“That give you access to private information on a senator and his family? What kind of resources?”

What could Michael say? How could he explain that he knew Julian’s GPA from high school, that he had copies of their tax returns, photographs of the senator with two different prostitutes. Michael remembered his seventeenth birthday. Early in the morning, the sky outside still black. The old man had come to Michael’s room with a thick folder in his hand.

A man should know his family. He’d put the file on Michael’s bed, offered a sad, knowing smile. Happy birthday, Michael.

It was a dark gift, but extensive. Michael later learned that the old man had spent almost five hundred thousand dollars on private investigators and corrupt officials. The old man did nothing in a small way.

So, yes.

Michael knew the senator and his family. He squeezed Elena’s hand. “We’re leaving now. It’s better for us, better for Julian.”

“But you saw him!” Abigail was desperate. “You can’t just leave.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Why did you?”

She looked desperate, and Michael answered the question in his mind: Because I had to see the security for myself; because I had to know he was protected.

“He’s your brother, Michael. Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What kind of danger?” Falls demanded. “What kind of threat?”

“Nothing you can’t handle.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Michael aimed for the far gate and started walking. Abigail took a dozen running steps and cut him off a final time. “Damn it, Michael.” She flattened her palm on his chest, and then hesitated. She threw a glance at Falls, the giant house. “Nothing is ever as it seems. Understand? Nothing. I need you to reconsider.”

“Why?”

Elena pulled on Michael’s hand, and even he was thinking of the places they could go. Europe. South America.

Large cities where they could disappear.

Long stretches of lonely beach.

“The guard in whom you found such comfort.” Her words were clipped. “Richard Gale. In the hall outside Julian’s room.”

“What about him?” Michael asked.

“He’s not just there to keep people out.”

“Are you saying Julian is a prisoner?”

Michael felt Elena stiffen beside him. Her fingers tightened in a quiet, insistent squeeze, and he thought of what his brother had said in his moment of clarity. Then he considered the clarity, itself-the cleanness of it, the sharp, bright edges surrounded by madness. He allowed his gaze to drift down and left as he studied the long, narrow lake, the things he saw on its shores. When he looked back, Abigail was imploring with her eyes.

“I’m saying it’s complicated, and you should stay.”

She stood taller, one hand on his arm.

“I’m begging you.”

* * *

There was a time, once, when Michael could walk away from people who slowed him down. It was the most basic rule of life on the street: survival first. It was the first thing he learned after stepping off the bus in New York: people will lie, and people will kill. That truth was wound so tightly in his core it was part of him; but that was changing. Looking at Elena, he felt the cable loosen in his chest.

“Are you okay?” They were back in the car, following Jessup Falls to the guesthouse.

“We shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s just a day. Just to make sure.”

She stared at a far, gray line in the sky. “Clouds are piling up.”

“He’s my brother.”

“And what am I?”

Michael took her hand. She was angry, and he understood. “Look at me, baby.”

“No.”

“Look at me.” She looked, and Michael said, “You’re everything else, you understand? You’re my life.”

* * *

At the guest house, Falls waited for them to climb from the car, then rolled down his window. Like Elena, he was unhappy. “It’s unlocked,” he said. “There’s everything you need. Call the house if something comes up.”

“All right.” Michael stayed near the car. Elena went onto the porch and sat.

“You won’t find the gun in your car,” Falls said.

“I noticed.”

“I’ll give it back to you when you leave.”

“Do I need to count the money?” Michael dropped his duffel bag on the gravel, and watched Falls stare for long seconds before looking up.

“There’re no thieves here, young man. And no fools, either.”

“I’ll remember that.”