Iron House

an instant, Michael felt cheapened and untrue.

How much did he need the ice at his core?

How hard did he need to be?

He gripped the sink. What did it matter? The past was gone. This was now. But was it only now? That was a good question. First Hennessey and now Ronnie Saints. Two dead boys from Iron House. Twenty-three years between them, and both stabbed in the neck.

What is going on? Michael wondered.

And who called the cops?

Back on the porch, he dialed Elena’s number on his cell. He wanted her to answer, but knew, deep down, that she would not.

Too soon.

Too complicated.

Perhaps it was for the best, he thought, a clean break and a safe, easy life far from his. He tried to feel good about that, but the lie burned deep as an image of them gelled in his mind: Elena and the child-a girl, perhaps, a dark-eyed beauty with her mother’s skin. They walked through high fields in the mountains of Catalonia, one lean and sad, one far too young to understand the empty place in her life.

Tell me again about my daddy…

The sky above them would be painfully blue, and in the wake of Elena’s silence, the question would come again. Michael saw it so clearly: a small child, and lies told often enough to taste of truth. Elena would move on, and his daughter would grow without him. Michael felt that future like a hole ripped in the wall of his heart. But, it didn’t have to end like that. There were options, always.

He called her phone again.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Abigail Vane arrived in the same beat-up Land Rover Defender. She looked good in linen pants and light makeup. The fear in her was less obvious, a hint of raw, rough panic buried deep. “I thought you might be curious.” She gestured at the boathouse, but Michael kept his eyes on the large, flat envelope in her hand.

“A little, maybe.”

She showed no signs of obvious distress, but little things gave her away. Sudden color in fingers squeezed white. A tiny swallow before she spoke. Too much glaze on her eyes. “Let’s sit.” She gestured at rocking chairs, and they sat in the shade of the deep porch. Abigail leaned forward, the envelope shaking slightly in her hands. “The police came early this morning, local detectives with a warrant to search the boathouse and lake.”

“Search for what?”

Her gaze steadied. “A body.”

Every nerve in her was strung tight, but Michael could play this game in his sleep: cops, death, secrets. “Any particular body?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Did they show you the warrant? Do you know why they’re looking?”

“Someone reported a death in the boathouse, a body put into the lake. That’s all I know.”

“When you say someone reported?”

“A confidential informant-that’s what the affidavit said. According to a confidential informant someone was killed in the boathouse. A body was sunk in the lake sometime last night. Our lawyers are circling the wagons, but couldn’t stop the search.”

“Why would you want to stop it?”

Michael was checking for a reaction, and got one. For an instant, she was dumbfounded, her mouth open and wordless. It didn’t last. “They checked the boathouse first, and found blood on the floor. A lot of it, apparently, though, someone tried to conceal the fact of it.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“They’re calling it a crime scene. It’s sealed.”

“Why are you here, Mrs. Vane?”

“Call me Abigail.”

Michael leaned closer. “What do you want with me, Abigail?”

This was the crux of it; he saw it in every line of her face. She was frightened, but not for herself. She needed something. Desperately.

“Do you love your brother?” she asked. “I don’t mean the memory of him or the thought of him. Do you love him like I do? Like he’s still a part of you?”

“Julian will always be a part of me.”

“But, do you love him? There’s a difference between love and the memory of love. The memory of it is warm but basically meaningless. Love means you’ll do anything. Burn bridges. Tear down houses. Love makes normal life mean nothing at all. I want to know if that’s what you feel.”

“Why?”

“Because I want a reason to trust you.”

“You’re worried he had something to do with this.” Michael gestured at the lake.

“Something made him break. You said it yourself.”

She shifted her feet, and Michael leaned away, thoughts moving in the back of his mind. He saw the boathouse, abandoned and rotting, the fear in Abigail’s eyes. “What do you think happened here?” he asked.

“I would kill to protect your brother. I need to know if you feel as strongly. Not want to know. Need to know.”

Something was happening. A steadiness rose up in her, a moral certainty that went straight through to her soul.

“I love my brother,” Michael said.

Abigail closed her eyes, then exhaled deeply as she laced her fingers and tilted at the waist. “What did he say to you? In his room yesterday, what did he whisper? Something disturbing, I think. I was watching your face when it happened, so please don’t tell me I’m wrong. I won’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll beg if I have to. I’m not above it.”

She was whispering now, a conspirator, and Michael wondered how much of it was an act. It was gently done, this corralling of common interests. He stood, took two steps toward the lake. “If there is a body under that water…” He looked back, and found that her face was ivory-still. “Do you really think Julian is capable of that?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were bright and hard. “I do.”

“Why?”

That was the question, and in spite of her need and talk of love, it unsettled her. They’d gone too far, too fast. She was shutting down. “You came alone this morning,” he said. “I’m surprised Jessup Falls allowed it.”

“Jessup’s a good man, but he thinks you’re bad.”

“Bad?” Michael lifted an eyebrow.

“New York bad.” She ran one hand across the envelope in her lap, and Michael sensed a weightless moment as she took a step and the earth dropped away beneath her. “Otto Kaitlin bad.”

“Otto Kaitlin?”

“I think you heard me.”

Michael blinked once as Jessup Falls went up a notch in his estimation. In twenty years, not even the police had made such a solid connection. They knew of him, but had no photographs or composites, not even his name; they’d seen his work up close, but had conflicting descriptions. He was short, tall, white, black. Michael was a ghost and a rumor; a threat of violence masked by false names and