Abigail hugged herself, and Michael jerked hard on the gate. Beyond it, the drive ran off, cracked pavement and weeds pushing through. He put his forehead against two of the warm, iron bars. He wanted a plan, a course of action, but in that moment he was more in the past than not. He saw boys in the yard, heard voices like far, faint cries.
“It’s not always pretty, is it?” Abigail put her hands on the bars. “Coming back to the place you’re from.”
Michael shook his head. “I thought we’d find answers here.”
“What kind of answers?”
“Andrew Flint, maybe. Something to tie all this together. A direction.” He looked at the wreckage beyond the fence. “Somehow, this is not what I expected.”
As if sensing his distress, Abigail said, “It’s okay, Michael.”
But it was not. Michael thought of asylums and prison and the cage of his brother’s mind. “If they arrest Julian,” he said, “the things that keep him sane will crack. Walls. Pillars. Whatever props him up will fail. He’ll go to prison or to another asylum. He won’t survive it.”
“But the lawyers…”
“The lawyers can’t save him, Abigail.” Michael struck one of the heavy bars with the flat of his hand. “You think Julian’s mind will make it to trial? You think he’ll survive a year in lockup while the lawyers collect their fees and drag the case out? While Julian’s abused in one of the few institutional settings worse than that?” He jabbed a finger at the ruins of Iron House. “I know people who’ve pulled time-hard men and violent-and even they’ve come out a shadow. For Julian, it would be like throwing a rape victim in with a pack of sex offenders. Scars are so deep, they wouldn’t have to touch him to break him. No. Even if he’s acquitted, he won’t come back the same. We need to either prove he didn’t do it or give the cops another suspect. We need to
“Surely it’s not that bad.”
“Have you ever seen the inside of a prison?”
Michael put both hands on the bars as rage built and a weight settled on his chest.
He thought of his years on the street-the hunger and cold and fear-then of the man he’d become. He saw bodies and blood on his hands, the ghost of a life bereft as Elena ran in disgust from the truth of what he was. He felt the way she saw him now, and knew things could never go back to the simple way they’d been. She would never look at him the same.
He’d given up two lives, and done it all to keep Julian safe.
“I won’t let him go down for this,” Michael said. “I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
His eyes searched hers, and he recognized the connection, the shared commitment to doing what must be done. But her cell phone rang before she could answer. She studied the screen, said, “It’s Jessup.” The phone rang a second time, and she answered it. “Hello, Jessup.”
Michael heard a squawk of voice, and watched Abigail move the phone back a few inches. “No,” she said, “I’m not ignoring you.” She went silent, her face pinking with emotion. “No. It’s none of your business where I go, or with whom.” She looked at Michael, lowered her shoulders. “No. We’re in the mountains. Reception is sporadic. Yes, the mountains. Michael and me. Yes, he’s with me. Where are we?” Her eyes tracked up the weed-choked drive, settled on the highest turret. “Iron Mountain.”
Falls’s voice rose even further, and Abigail lifted a finger to Michael. “Damn it, Jessup…”
Michael looked again at Iron House. He found the third-floor corner where he and Julian had shared a room. Two windows looked out on the yard; one of them was broken.
“What?” Her voice was loud and tinged with panic. “How did this happen?” She listened. “When? And where were you? And the senator’s man-what’s his name? What about him?” She ran a hand through her hair, left it mussed. “Well, somebody screwed up.” She found Michael with her eyes, then she turned away, back straight, one arm locked at her side. She spoke for another few minutes, and even when she hung up the phone she kept her back turned, her spine as hard and straight as any of the iron bars that hung between the ancient brick columns.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
She turned. “He’s sending the helicopter. It’s fast.” She nodded to herself. “I can fix this.”
“What?”
“Hour and fifteen minutes to get here. Another one-fifteen back. I can fix this.”
“Fix what? Abigail?”
“The police found another body in the lake.”
“Ronnie?”
“No.” She shook her head, voice bleak. “Not Ronnie.”
Michael processed, his mind slipping into this new gear with practiced ease. Two bodies, now, with Ronnie Saints still to be found. The discovery would inflame the investigation, the media. They would scour every inch of the lake, and that made it only a matter of time. They would find Ronnie Saints very soon. Once they linked a body to Julian, they would get their warrant and they would bring him in.
Michael looked at the building, at high, broken glass that caught the sky.
The cops would figure it out plenty quick.
He checked his watch.
Abigail’s phone rang again.
“Yes.” She listened, turned left and stared off as if she could see something far away. She nodded. “We’ll find it. Okay. Yes.” She hung up. “Jessup,” she said. “There’s a high school on the eastern edge of town. Shouldn’t be hard to find. It has a football field. We’ll meet the chopper there.”
“Tell me about the body.”
She shook her head, swallowed. “Not like Ronnie. It’s older. Maybe a month in the water. Clothes have rotted off. Mostly bones.” She pulled at her hair. “Oh, God, oh God, oh God…”
“Abigail.” She was scattered and trying hard to fight through it. “Look at me. What can you fix?”
She looked at everything but his face, and Michael knew what she was thinking. Sun would be down soon. High school. East side of town. She threaded her fingers, twisted them white, and Michael thought maybe he understood that, too.
“Is it Julian?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What about him?”
She blinked once, caught a tear on one finger and then straightened as best she could. “He’s gone,” she said. “Run away.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The helicopter came in low and fast. It started as a rumble down-valley, then swelled to thunder as it roared across small, painted houses and circled the high school at a thirty-degree bank. The sun was twenty minutes down, purple sky turning black. Michael and Abigail stood beside the heavy Mercedes. Its headlights spilled out onto the football field, and in the bright cone of light they saw brown grass and white hatch marks worn through to nothing. Across the street, people stepped onto porches to watch the helicopter and point at the bright light that stabbed down as it circled. It came in over the east bleachers, swung onto the length of the field and flared at the twenty-yard line. For an instant, it hovered-dead grass flat beneath it-and then it settled as gentle as a kiss.
