The living room was a slaughterhouse. Even with the door standing wide, the dank, copper reek was unmistakable. Michael stepped carefully, emotionally disengaged as he cataloged faces of men he’d known for most of his life. They were soldiers and earners, hard men who’d died hard.
He found Elena’s passport on a battered desk in a room under the eaves; slipped it into a pocket. He found another body there, too, and the hardware case Jimmy preferred. There were half a dozen handguns in padded foam. Knives. Wire. An ice pick. The weapons would be clean and untraceable, but taking one felt wrong, somehow. Not
Michael left the weapons untouched. Downstairs, he checked the other rooms for anything that could connect Elena to this place. He tried to see the scene from a cop’s eyes, and shook his head at the thought. He should dispose of the bodies, burn the buildings. Because there was another truth about murder this complete: the cops would never let it go. They would dig and worry and scrape; they would track down every angle, every possible lead. And who knew where that might take them? Every one of these bodies could be traced back to Otto Kaitlin. That would tie them to the killings in New York: the dead soldiers at Otto’s house, the civilians in the street. How many bodies? Michael tried to count, lost track because he had no idea how many civilians had actually died. And there was a chance, however slim, that it could all lead back to him. He could not allow that. Not now. Not when he was this close.
He considered logistics, timing, the things he would need. He nodded to himself, convinced. Three hours, he thought, maybe four. He would take Elena to the airport, then come back here to dispose of the bodies and burn it all. It made sense. He was satisfied.
Then he found the file.
It was a simple manila folder, four inches thick and bound up with rubber bands. It rested at an angle on a bedside table in a back bedroom. This was Stevan’s room, Michael realized. Fine suits hung in the closet; Italian shoes and pocket squares made of silk. Michael sat on the bed, opened the file.
And everything shifted.
He didn’t see all the pieces, but certain things made sense: why Stevan was here and what he’d planned, why he’d threatened Julian in the first place. Michael flipped through photographs and affidavits and financial records. Some of this material he’d seen a long time ago. But this file was more complete, more damaging; its presence here changed things. There were implications to its presence. Possibilities.
Michael closed the file and slipped on the rubber bands. Between the porch and the car he decided that nothing would burn, not the house and not the bodies. The cops wanted to play? He’d play. The media wanted a story? Fine.
The file changed everything.
Back at the car he climbed in, slammed the door and sat for long seconds. Elena gave him a strange look, but his mind was still on the implications of what he’d found. He saw a path to walk, and was looking for dangers.
“You all right?”
“What? Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Did something happen? You look rattled.”
“Rattled? No. Just thinking.”
“About?”
He considered telling her, but this was not her problem. It affected him and Julian. He’d get her on a plane, then deal with it. “Nothing, baby.” He jammed the file in the crack next to the driver’s seat and smiled as he pulled Elena’s passport from his pocket. “Now, don’t lose it this time.”
“Are you making fun of me?” She took the passport.
“Just lightening the mood.”
She looked at the house and the barn, the mist that hung in the trees. “You’re kidding, right?”
He winked, then took the gun from her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
He found the interstate as the sun rose and mist burned, as Elena swallowed more pills and tunneled deeper into the blanket. “Lightening the mood,” she said once, and laughed a little. After that, it was an odd drive, and difficult. She was close, yet far. He was losing her, but knew deep down that she should go, at least for a while. Things were getting complicated. After a while, she said, “How much further?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe forty.”
She nodded loosely, and he knew the pills were taking her down. He lifted his phone from the center console. “Do you want to call about flights?”
“I called while you were in the barn. There’s one this afternoon.”
He pictured her in the fog, gun in one hand and a phone in the other. The image was clear, and hurt because it came so easily. “Did you call your father?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”
That was hard for Michael, because the scene had played out in his head so many times: flying to Spain to meet Elena’s father. Doing it right and proper. Asking for her hand in marriage so that their family would be built on tradition and truth. Now, she would go home pregnant, alone, and the chance would never come again. “Of course,” he said; and it was one more lie between them, one more bitter nail in the wall of his heart.
The senator called as they hit the outskirts of Raleigh. “Michael. Hi. It’s Senator Vane. Am I calling too early?”
“Not at all, Senator.” Michael glanced at the file beside his leg, and felt anger rise like a welt. “What can I do for you?”
“Abigail says you’re back in town. I want you to join us for brunch. I thought maybe we could talk about Julian. Things are getting complicated, and we three, I believe, are the boy’s best hope. We can put our heads together, plan our best course of action. Are you free around eleven?”
Michael looked at the road, and could see for miles. He thought of the file, and could see even farther. “I can’t join you today, Senator.”
“Oh.”
Genuine surprise sounded in his voice, and Michael smiled. The senator was like Stevan had been. Both spoiled. Both used to getting their way. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“If you’re certain you can’t make it today…” He left it hanging.
“Tomorrow, Senator. I’ll call when I’m back in town.”
“Oh, you’re traveling?”
“I’ll call tomorrow. Thanks for the invitation.”
Michael disconnected, then dialed Abigail, who answered on the second ring. “It’s Michael.”
“Are you okay? What’s wrong? How’s Elena?”
“She’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Sorry. I’m jumpy today. I didn’t sleep at all. Randall kept asking how I got hurt. He wouldn’t let it drop. Jessup got involved. It was a mess. Then there’s the mind, the tricks it plays. Images, you know.”
Michael did. Death had that power.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you have plans for brunch today?”
“What? No.” She was confused. “Brunch?”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”
“Are you at the motel?”
