Stevan looked stressed, tie loose enough for coarse hairs to show at his collar, eyes drawn into their sockets. He pushed past, but Jimmy stopped him two feet from the door. “Your people need to be led.”
“That’s the right phrase, isn’t it?” He squared up on Jimmy. “
He reached for the door, but Jimmy stopped him again. “I want to call Michael. I want to get this done.”
“We’ve had this discussion. I have a plan. It’s set.”
“Will you finally tell me what this genius plan is?”
“Look, Jimmy, my father may have trusted you to run parts of his business-I get that-but we’re not even close to that point, you and me.”
“This is bullshit.”
Stevan touched his chest, and spoke as if to a child. “Brains,” he said, then pointed at Jimmy. “Muscle. Brains. Muscle.” Hand moving. “You get how this works?”
“What about the girl?”
An eyebrow came up. “Is she still alive?”
“What do you want me to do with her?”
“It’s your mess.” Stevan opened the door. “You clean it up.”
The door clicked shut, and Jimmy thought of things unspoken. He thought of Michael and the girl, of how Stevan was a fraction of the man his father had been. He thought about sixty-seven million dollars, and about the things he’d found in the dark, silent barn: the chains and metal hooks, the old stone wheel and the many tools it could sharpen. He pictured Stevan spread-eagled and weeping blood, then wondered how long the little bastard would last, how many hours he might scream before giving up the account numbers and access codes.
Jimmy took a deep breath, and smelled all the places he could bury a man.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“So, that’s it?” Michael leaned forward. Flint was talked dry, the bottle down to fumes. A few things made sense, now. Not all things, but some. It’s the funny thing about liquor and fear-they can break most men, given time and careful application.
And then there were men like Flint.
He was an edgy drunk, the kind that got cold and sharp the more he drank. Michael could see the gears turning, the mechanical precision oiled by the cheap, brown booze. Flint was smart enough to stick mostly to the truth, but he told small, careful lies. Michael didn’t know yet what they were, but he knew they were out there, and he knew they were keys to something bigger. Drunk or not, a man does not lie lightly when a forty-five is pointed at his face. “You have another bottle?” Michael asked.
“In the kitchen. I don’t want any more.”
That was a lie. Flint was quiet and determined with a bottle, the kind of drinker who stoked low, warm fires, and knew how to keep them banked. Michael knew drinkers like that, hard men and weak, quiet, hungry souls who wouldn’t quit drinking until they passed out or the booze was gone.
“Kitchen, huh?” Michael half-turned where he sat, the coffee table smooth and warm under him. He pointed at a closed cabinet under the bookshelf. “The way you’ve been staring at that cabinet, I thought maybe you had some closer than that.”
“I haven’t been staring.”
Michael smiled because it was the first lie poorly told. Flint had looked at three things since he sat down: Michael’s face, the forty-five and that cabinet. “How about I take a look?”
Michael stood, and Flint actually lurched in his seat. “Don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Please…” Michael kept an eye on Flint as he opened the cabinet. There was only one thing in it. He pulled out the box and sat back down. Flint’s mouth hung open, a world of pain in his eyes. “Please.”
Michael lifted the lid and saw cash. Lots of it. He shook the box. The bills were loose, and he stirred them with the barrel. All hundreds. Maybe eighty thousand dollars. He put the box by his side. “This is what’s left?”
“All of it. I swear. Please don’t take it.”
“Tell me again about the man who brought it.”
They’d been over this twice. Michael wanted to hear it again.
“It was just a delivery,” Flint said. “A package wrapped in plastic. A young man. I had to sign for it.”
“Not the same man from before?” Flint shook his head, and Michael considered the things he’d learned. A man claiming to be an attorney had approached Flint seven weeks ago. He wore an expensive suit, carried a briefcase and presented a card from a legitimate firm. North of middle-aged, stern and uncompromising, this man spoke of a client whose name he could not reveal. The client had a proposition. He wanted something very simple, the current addresses of four men who had once been boys at Iron House. Chase Johnson. Billy Walker. George Nichols. Ronnie Saints. Andrew Flint had a memory, access to records. The client would pay well.
Michael lifted a handful of bills and let them fall. “How much did he offer?”
“Fifty thousand for each address. I gave him three.”
“Which three?”
Flint closed his eyes and swallowed. “Ronnie Saints. George Nichols. Chase Johnson.”
“Why not Billy Walker?”
“I couldn’t find him, okay. Just those three. Just them. Please. Can you just go, now?”
Michael lifted the box, shifted it. “It’s a lot of money.”
“Take it.”
That got Michael’s attention. He reevaluated. Flint was no longer hostile or despairing; he was borderline frantic. “Take it?” Michael asked.
“Yes.” Flint waved his fingers. “It’s yours.”
Michael waited.
Flint said, “Look, I’ve answered your questions.”
Michael said nothing, and in the silence, Flint glanced down the hall. Since Michael had walked through the door, Flint had not looked down that hall. Not once. Not for any reason.
Then Michael heard it, too: a faint shuffling sound. He came to his feet, gun leveled. And in an astonishing display of speed and coordination, Flint threw himself toward the hall, screaming “No” even as he spread his arms. He faced Michael, pale and drunk and shaking. “Don’t. Please.”
He was trying to block the hallway. His robe gapped open to show the bones of his narrow breastplate, the few white hairs that remained.
“Who’s back there?”
The gun was steady in Michael’s hand. The footsteps solidified behind Flint, strange, halting sounds and the scrape of fabric. “He’s just a boy,” Flint said.
But it was no boy coming down the hall. The man was every bit of six feet tall, with thick legs and broad, heavy hands. He walked in a shuffle, one foot dragging slightly. Michael saw jeans and bare feet and a shock of black hair. He was in partial shadow, blue glow on his face as he passed the television room, eyes down and angled left.
Flint tried to make himself larger. “Please.”
“That’s far enough.” Michael thumbed the hammer.
“Don’t shoot!” Something broke in Flint’s voice. He was on the verge of tears, cheeks an unhealthy pink. “I’m begging you.”
Michael hesitated, and the man behind Flint said, “Hi.” Just like a kid would. He scrubbed at his
