spoke to the pilot. Occasionally, he radioed the estate with updates on their position and flight path.
After twenty minutes, Abigail tuned out. The cabin was warm, the noise soothing, even through the headset. She replayed the last few hours with Michael. His face at the gates of Iron House. His determination as they parted. She closed her eyes, and flinched when the senator put a hand on her leg, sat still as he flicked a switch that would isolate their headsets.
“I thought we could use a little privacy.”
His features were heavy in the dim light, his eyes wide-set and deep. She smelled the cologne he preferred, something French, and marveled at the strength in his thick fingers. “It’s a little late to whisper sweet nothings.”
“Do you doubt that I love you?”
“I’m no longer sure.”
“Don’t confuse the occasional dalliance for anything other than what it is. It’s just sex and ego.”
“You’re a man of appetites.”
She said it flatly, but he nodded as if she were preaching. “And honesty where it matters.”
“And does honesty still matter with me?”
He squeezed her leg, a dark twinkle in his eye. “You’ve never been anything but a perfect spouse-elegant and beautiful and poised. I knew the moment I saw you-”
“That I would look good on your arm.”
Vane frowned. “That you would be discrete and loyal to your husband. That you would know the value of the things I was building, and the many ways in which you would benefit from those things.” He shifted in his seat. “That as beautiful as you were, you would also understand how the game is played. That you were a pragmatist.”
“Perhaps I’m not as mercenary as you imagine.”
“Perhaps you are more so.”
“What are you saying, Randall?”
He showed his cold, politician eyes. “I’m asking if you know anything about these bodies.”
“I would never-”
“Let’s not pretend you’re incapable.”
“Of killing a man?”
“Of keeping secrets.” The senator glanced at the pilot and at Jessup. They were cut off from the conversation, oblivious. “Of protecting Julian, even if it meant lying to me.” Abigail touched her throat, but he was unflinching. “Dead people are turning up on my property, and I’m being crucified in the media. They’re calling me obstructionist, elitist and every other thing. It’s eighteen years ago all over again, and the election is in three months! I need to know what’s happening, Abigail. This is no time for reticence or misplaced loyalty.”
“I don’t know anything.”
The senator frowned. “I don’t pretend to know all of you, my dear, and have found you, in fact, as layered as any politician. But I know when you’re lying.”
“I tire of this game.”
“And I marvel at your depths; but I still want to know what’s going on.” His head moved, and she saw it reflected in the Plexiglas window. “Running back to Iron Mountain with Michael was neither accident, nor idle destination. You do nothing without good cause.”
“Nor do you. And this interrogation makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.” Vane glanced down, and Abigail said, “Oh my God. There
The senator had connections everywhere: men on the payroll, people who owed favors. He had at least one person in the local police department, and probably more.
“George Nichols went missing five weeks ago.”
“George Nichols…” Abigail repeated the name, appalled and suddenly nauseous.
“He runs a lawn service in Southern Pines.” Vane leaned closer. “He has friends, Abigail. Employees. People who reported him missing. The police found his car weeks ago, burned out and abandoned on a deserted lot in the far south of Chatham County, less than twenty miles from the estate. The license plate was removed, but the VIN number was intact. The police traced it as a matter of course, so his name was already on file, the missing persons report. Dental records were faxed in this afternoon, the body confirmed by dinnertime.”
Abigail’s mouth went dry.
“Does the name mean anything to you?” he asked. “George Nichols. White male. Thirty-seven years old.”
She shook her head, unfeeling.
“What about Ronnie Saints?”
“Ronnie who?”
The deadness spread to her arms, her legs. Vane nodded. “They pulled him out of the lake less than an hour ago. He’d not been in the water long. Still had his wallet in his pocket. I suppose that name means nothing.”
“Should it?”
The senator leaned back. “I think we both know that’s a lie, too. It’s been years, but I’ve heard those names. George Nichols. Ronnie Saints. I can’t remember where or the precise context, but I’m certain it had something to do with Julian. Something to do with Iron Mountain.”
Abigail looked away.
“Why did you go back there, Abigail?”
She said nothing, but felt panic well up in her chest. He took her hand, and his touch was surprisingly gentle.
“Can’t you see how dangerous this is?” He waited for her to turn. “Can’t you trust me?” Her head moved, and the senator looked crushed. “Why not?”
He was pleading with her, begging in a way she’d never seen. There were a dozen lies she could tell, and a handful he might actually believe. In the end, she told none of them. “You’ve never loved Julian as I have.” She lifted her chin. “You’ve never loved him enough.”
Their gaze held for three seconds, then Vane released her hand. His mouth opened, but in the end he simply looked away.
He could tell when she was lying.
And knew enough to see the truth.
Victorine knew something big was going down. Helicopters everywhere. Cops and more cops. She’d followed the noise to the edge of the woods and seen them all at the lake. She’d seen the body come out of the water just as the sun went down: a big man, his skin oily white and gnawed-looking; water running out of his mouth. She’d watched for a good, long time, then crept back through the darkening woods. In the cave, she’d lit her candles and eaten the small bit of food that was left.
Then she stretched out and thought about what to do. She had no money, and no car. Her momma was like to kill her and she’d lost the gun she’d stole out of the cupboard. She thought on that, a wicked smile at play on the planes of her face. She pictured her mother’s face as their argument got hot, how she’d been so high and mighty and then brought low when Victorine squeezed a round through the roof of her kitchen. That had settled the fight, right there, and it had been so sweet, the look on her mother’s face, the fear and full-on shock. But now things were messed up. Julian had put her up in the guest house, all quiet-like and full of promises about how no one ever stayed there.
