Solid oak.
He found the key under a planter.
Abigail saw him check under the mat and on the lintel above the door. She saw him find the key, watched him open the door and slip inside. Her heart hammered for reasons of its own, her breath so short she wondered if she were having a panic attack, if everything had simply become too much. Bodies. Secrets. A broken son.
Sweat rolled beneath her shirt.
She could barely breathe.
Michael felt the lock give. Metal slid over metal and he was inside. He listened for movement, and heard nothing but the rush of air through vents. The room was neat and orderly, with hardwood floors that needed stain, a brick fireplace and furniture that didn’t quite match. On the right, an arched opening led through to a dining room with burgundy walls and better furniture on a cream-colored rug. Ahead, another opening led to a small study. He smelled chicken and cigarette smoke that had not yet had time to fade. His hand found the forty- five at the small of his back. He moved farther into the room, saw a table that could seat four, and shelves with cheap crystal and ceramic ducks. He paused in an archway, and the woman spoke even as he rounded into the room, gun up and tracking right.
“I already called the cops.”
She had both legs pulled up on the broken-down sofa, an eight-inch butcher knife in her fist. She was small-boned and pale, with pretty features and thick, wavy hair. Twenty years old, maybe, with eyes that were deep and afraid. The knife shook. A cardboard shoebox was clenched under her left armpit.
“Anyone else in here?” Michael kept the gun up.
“Cops are coming,” she said, but that was a lie. The weight of her arm had squeezed the shoebox out of shape so the lid gapped. Michael saw bands of cash in the box. Lots of it. She was nowhere near the phone.
“You planning to stick somebody with that knife?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
She wore pink, terry cloth shorts, a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Michael leaned back, checked the kitchen. There’d be a bedroom somewhere, maybe two. “I’m not planning to hurt anyone, okay? But if I get surprised, it could happen. So, tell me. Do you have children? Anyone that might decide to walk in unannounced?”
“No children. No surprises.”
“You sure of that?” He kept his voice low, and let her see him drop the hammer on the gun.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I trust you. You trust me. That’ll make this go much smoother.” He tucked the gun under his belt. She watched it all the way down; the knife in her hand didn’t move. “Are you Ronnie’s wife?”
“You know Ronnie?” She lifted the knife higher, but Michael could tell it was getting heavy.
“Are you his girlfriend?”
Her arm bent at the elbow. “Fiancee,” she said.
“I’m not here for your money.”
She looked down, surprised to see that the money was visible. She fumbled the box into her lap, jammed the lid closed. “Do you work for Flint?” She sniffed wetly.
“Andrew Flint who ran the orphanage at Iron Mountain?” She nodded, and Michael tried to get his head around that. He’d not heard Flint’s name in over twenty years, and to come across it in Ronnie Saints’s house was surreal. Michael had never imagined anyone from Iron House keeping in touch. It was not that kind of place. “Why do you ask about Andrew Flint?”
“Ronnie said if Flint showed up, I should run. That was four days ago. When I saw your fancy car, I figured you were with Flint.”
“Do you know where Ronnie is?” Michael asked.
“Not run off on me, is all I know for sure. Not with this still here.” She shook the box.
“May I see that?”
Michael nodded at the box of money, and her arm tightened on it. “He’ll kill me.”
“I won’t take it if you tell me what I need to know.” Her eyes flicked to the gun. “I promise.”
She blinked away sudden tears, and the fight went out of her, knife coming all the way down. “I told him this was too good to be true.” She put the knife on a coffee table, then put the box next to it. She picked up a pack of cigarettes, sparked one with a cheap lighter. Michael put the knife on top of the television and moved a chair from the far corner.
“What’s your name?”
She blew smoke, rolled her eyes up and left. “Crystal.”
Michael lifted the lid from the box. The bills inside were crisp, still in bands of ten thousand each. He began to lift them out, lining them up on the table.
Fifteen bands.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said.
“He’s going to kill me.” She stared at the cash, both arms crossed beneath small breasts. Michael saw a pattern of scars on one arm, a dozen perfect circles puckered white. She saw him looking and covered the scars with one hand. Michael caught her eyes and she looked down. He knew cigarette burns when he saw them.
“How long have you been with Ronnie?”
“Since I was in high school.” She flicked ash in a white saucer. “He had a job and told me I was special. He was good like that. A man, you know.”
Michael riffled the bills. They were nonsequential and, as far as he could tell, real. At the bottom of the box was a scrap of paper. He picked it up. “Ronnie’s handwriting?”
“He writes pretty for a man.”
The paper held five names written one below the other. “Where’s the money from?” Michael asked.
She looked away.
“Crystal…”
“It was delivered last week.” Her lips left lipstick on the filter. “All official and sealed up, brought first thing in the morning by a fancy man in a shiny car, all yes-ma’am’s and no-sir’s. Ronnie had to sign for it and everything.”
“What’s it for?”
“Ronnie says it’s not my place to know. Just ’cause we’re getting married…” Her voice broke. She stubbed out her cigarette, and covered her eyes. “Please don’t take it. I just want a baby and a paid-for house. Please, mister. Ronnie’ll do terrible things if he comes home and finds that money gone.”
“I’m a killer, not a thief.” He gave her a second to process that. He wanted her scared enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Wanted her honest with him. “You understand me, Crystal?” He waited until she looked up and met his gaze. “You understand what I’m saying?”
She stared, white-faced and still. Something in his eyes convinced her, because when she nodded the rest of her body was as frozen as a deer in headlights. “Yes, sir.”
