Iron House

anger. Michael was a killer, and in that word- killer -Elena found the threads of her strength. It seemed a small thing at first, this tangle of poor threads, but she gathered them up, pulled until she felt strong in her soul. She would recover, and the pain that lingered-the memory of his hands on her skin-that, too, would wither and fade. She promised this to herself, swore it; but lies are slippery and quick-that’s how they work- and some part of Elena knew she was being faithless. She loved him. There was no other man like him.

But the things he’s done…

She turned off the water, which died to a trickle as she smoothed hair from her face.

“I’m okay.”

It felt wrong the way she said it, so she tried again.

“I will be okay.”

That was better. That was real.

She opened the curtain with a metallic scrape, and reached for a robe that was no longer where she’d left it. She saw a man, instead-parts of a man, a blur of skin and hair and eyes. They were cold eyes, and blue, a look of amusement over thin lips and pale, fine skin. He stood a foot from the shower, his forehead high and square, hair wispy thin on the crown of his head. The moment was so unreal, so utterly unexpected, that she almost laughed. It was a misunderstanding, some hotel employee at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the look was wrong. He was too calm, too amused. Her robe was in one of his hands, something black and square in the other. It was only when his smile spread that the scream gathered fully in the back of Elena’s throat.

“You’re not okay,” he said.

And, Elena knew who he was.

Her arms came up, but his hand moved in a blur. Something blue flashed, and she heard a crack of energy as fire tore through her ribs. She felt agony, white heat, and then nothing at all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Control was part of what made Michael so good at his job: choosing the time and place of the things he did, manipulating the elements involved and then acting with calm regard for every possible consequence. Most people in the business were the exact opposite of Michael. They killed in rage and fear or got off on it for their own screwed up reasons. They let emotions run, and those guys rarely lasted. They burned out or got sloppy, became a liability for the organization that paid their freight. More than a handful ended up with a target on their backs, and Michael had taken out a few, himself. The math was simple in Michael’s world. Emotions are bad. Control is good. But there was no control now.

Elena was gone.

A wave of dizziness struck, and he sat on the top step. Everything had seemed clear last night, the problem and how to correct it. It’s what he did, fix things, handle them. He’d just assumed Elena could handle it, too. She would be patient, let him explain. But, the way she’d looked at him! There’d been such regret in her eyes, such disgust and loathing.

What have I done?

She was gone and it was his fault. She had hours behind the wheel of a car, could be in Virginia or South Carolina, maybe even Georgia or Tennessee.

Jesus, she could be anywhere.

Stevan and Jimmy could be anywhere.

Worry gnawed at Michael, but he forced himself to think it through. Without law enforcement resources, Stevan and Jimmy would be as blind as Michael. They couldn’t subpoena credit card records, couldn’t tap into a law enforcement database. It’s why they’d threatened Julian in the first place, to force Michael into the open. Once clear of the estate, Elena would be clear of everything. They couldn’t track her. She was safe. She would be safe.

Michael told himself that, repeated it. He forced the emotion down, then stepped to the edge of the porch and studied the scene at the boathouse. A handful of police cars were parked there, lights flashing in the clear, bright air as two boats moved on the water. Men called out and heaved draglines.

They would have divers soon, Michael thought, and wondered how long it would take them to find the body. The lake was large, and although he had no certain knowledge, it felt deep. The earth sloped in from both sides, and he could almost see it plunging down to form the lakebed far below. The water looked very black, and even in the sun it seemed to radiate a deep and steady cool.

But that could be wishful thinking.

He watched one of the lines fly out, a thread from this distance. Broad, metal hooks flashed and then sank. The line was hauled back, and hooks came up trailing weed. Michael’s gaze drifted right.

About there, he thought.

A second line flew out, and as it arced and dropped, Michael debated whether or not it was Elena who’d called the police. It was certainly possible. Violent death is not the norm, nor is the sight of one’s boyfriend wrapping a body in chains to sink it in a lake. But would she call the police? Michael doubted it. If she’d sold him out, Michael would be running, dead or in cuffs. That left one possibility.

Someone else had seen.

He replayed the events in his mind: the silent approach and grass stained purple, a sound from across the lake’s narrow end. He felt a slight chill, and not at the thought that he’d been watched. He heard a dead man’s voice. He saw the old man’s face, and it was as sharp in the eye of his mind as if the man were alive and sharing the same porch.

Don’t look for fancy explanations, son. If the cops are here, then your woman told.

Michael blinked, and the image faded. That was the old man who’d raised him, not the dying man who spoke of loves lost and daughters never born. That man had understood that life is change and life is faith, that not everything is simple. He’d released Michael, after all, and to the detriment of his only son.

Nothing simple about that, old man.

And nothing was simple about his own life, either. Was Michael a killer or a father? Could he be both? Could he change for Elena and still be strong enough to protect Julian? Raise a child? Build a life? One part of Michael was cool as he analyzed this. Another felt compartments fold in his chest. He needed to be cold, but Elena was gone; needed strength when emotion made him weak. He could go crazy thinking about this shit.

Michael went inside, ran cold water and splashed it on his face. When the towel came away, he fingered the glossy scar on the side of his neck. It was long and flat and white as pearl. An inch to the right and it would be in the same location as the knife he’d pulled from the dead man’s throat the night before.

Where are you, Elena?

He dropped the towel next to the sink, and forced himself to concentrate. Elena would accept him or not-come back to him or not-and worrying about it wouldn’t help him figure out the dead man at the bottom of the lake.

Compartments.

Control.

Michael took a deep breath, and pictured Ronnie Saints. Not the feel or the smell of him, but the whys of him. Why was Ronnie Saints here, in Chatham County? What did he want? Why was he dead, and what did Julian know about it? Michael studied his face in the mirror, trying to remember what the face had looked like more than two decades ago. All he could remember was hunger and ragged hair, the feel of rough wool on his skin and shirt cuffs so filthy they were stiff. He closed his eyes and tried again. He wanted to see Ronnie Saints clearly, but this time saw his brother, not tortured and broken and small, but younger than that, his face turned sideways on a pillow. He was maybe five.

Let’s pretend we were adopted…

Few memories remained of Julian with a smile on his face, and for an instant, Michael found himself unmade. There’d been times when things were good, a moment here, an afternoon there: small, shy flickers of joy. Had those memories simply faded, or had he buried them with all the other remnants of his childhood? For