But Michael shook his head. “This is for us.”
“Are you happy?” Julian nodded toward Iron House.
“Shhh.” Michael said it gently. “Just watch.”
So they watched as night fell and cool air spilled from the face of the mountain. Michael draped an arm across his brother’s shoulders, and they stood in silence as glass shattered from the heat, as smoke poured out and Iron House burned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The next days were bittersweet for Michael as Julian’s step grew light and Abigail found increasing joy in the sight of this long-troubled man moving with slow but steady grace into a better life. He would never be a strong man, but the destruction of Iron House gave him a confidence she’d never seen. She and Michael discussed it once over drinks on the terrace.
“Maybe it was the death of those boys,” Michael said.
“Or Victorine Gautreaux.”
Michael watched a boat move on the water. It was far away, but he thought he saw Victorine laugh. “She’s good for him, isn’t she?”
Abigail nodded, but her eyes were cloudy. “I keep looking for signs of her mother,” she said. Michael understood. Family was a powerful force—it could shape you, build you up or ruin you—and it was that force that made Michael’s days so unexpectedly difficult to endure. Abigail and Julian shared a connection built over years, and there was so much history there, so much understanding that Michael felt apart. They were mother and son, for better or worse, and it was hard to watch an intimacy he would never share, hard to know the truth and feel such love in secret.
She was his sister, but only in blood.
They were brothers, but so very far apart.
They all tried, of course, but Michael found, as two days grew to five, that he thought often of Otto Kaitlin. Like Abigail and Julian, they’d walked a bridge built on decades of trust and time and mutual sacrifice. And bridges like that were strong; they felt good under one’s feet. So while Michael would always be welcome, while Abigail and Julian worked day and night to make him know that fact, he kept his phone in his pocket at all times. He waited for Elena to call and slept at night dreaming of his own family—a wife and child—the dream that started all this in the first place. Until the day came when he could no longer sit still.
“Where will you go?” Abigail asked.
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“Will we see you again?” Julian’s voice broke when he said it, and every ounce of new confidence melted as he tried very hard not to beg. “We’re just getting started … We’re just…” He looked from Abigail to Michael. “Come on, man. You can’t just leave.”
“It won’t be like it was. We’ll see each other before you know it.”
“Do you promise?”
“I do.”
The boy came out in Julian’s face, all the fear and need. “Do you swear?”
Michael hugged him fiercely. “I swear.”
They said their good-byes at the house, in private, then Jessup drove Michael to airport in Raleigh. They spoke little, but that was okay. “Where do you want me to drop you?” Jessup asked.
“American Airlines.”
“Abigail said you don’t know where you’re going.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.” Jessup followed signs to American Airlines, then pulled to the curb and stopped. Through big glass walls they saw a crush of normal people doing normal things. “Here you go,” he said, but Michael made no move to get out.
“Victorine and Julian may get serious,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“The senator’s dead. I’m leaving.”
“What’s your point?”
Michael turned in his seat. “She may find herself very alone.”
“You mean Abigail.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“She’ll think I’m after her money.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s been twenty-five years…”
“She needs you.”
The line of Jessup’s jaw grew firm. “I’ll always take care of her.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.” Michael opened his door. “You should speak your mind.”
“And you should leave a man to tend his own business.”
Michael stared long enough to see Jessup swallow once, then climbed out and leaned back in to study the older man’s face. He saw strong lines etched by sacrifice and worry; saw want and need and deep, abiding fear. He dug for words of encouragement, but in the end said nothing. Because Jessup was right: a man should tend his own business, especially when it involved the heart. He would find the strength or not; live alone or take her hand. “Thanks for the ride,” Michael said.
“Anytime.”
Michael closed the door and thumped the roof. He went inside—no luggage or ticket—then turned before the crowd could swallow him. He saw Jessup through the glass. Pale and still, he stared a thousand yards into nothing. Michael watched for several minutes, then the man dipped his head once and the car pulled slowly away.
It took Michael another ten minutes to find the man he was looking for. Same clothes, same hat. “Do you remember me?” Michael asked.
“Hey, thousand-dollar man!”
The skycap’s face lit up, teeth big and white. Michael eased a thick wad of cash from his pocket. “How’d you like to make another five?”
“Thousand?”
“Thousand,” Michael said, and started peeling off bills.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
FIVE MONTHS LATER
Michael sat in a crowded café in the heart of Barcelona. His table was by the window, and he looked up often to watch people pass. A pretty girl brought him more coffee, and smiled as he tried new Catalan words and got them wrong. She corrected him, then flashed a bright smile and laughed as she moved on to another table.
Michael made a note in the margins of a thick, battered book. This was his regular place, and though everyone knew his name, that was about all they knew. He was a quiet American who kept to himself and tipped well. He lived on a narrow, cobbled street around the corner, in an apartment with a red door. He was always polite, but some of the waitresses found him sad, and worried at the cause. More than one had tried to take him home at the end of a long night, but he always gave the same answer.
Estic esperant a algú.
I’m waiting for someone.
And that’s how Michael saw it, as a wait. He told himself the same thing every day.
She will call.
Yet, five months had passed. The skycap could tell Michael only that Elena had caught the flight to Madrid; after that, he had no idea. Not much for five thousand dollars, but Michael considered it a bargain just to know. So, he’d flown to Madrid, and from there to Barcelona, which was the beating heart of Catalonia. He didn’t expect to find her here—the city had millions of residents—but that was okay, too. He just wanted to be close.
To be near.
So, he found an apartment on a narrow, crooked street. He ate local food and studied Catalan because that was the language Elena’s father spoke, and because his child would one day speak that language. What surprised Michael was how much he enjoyed learning it. How much he enjoyed life in a strange country. How much he enjoyed life. It was only at night that he doubted, and the hours before dawn were often long with worry and regret. But the sun always rose, and each day began with the same thought.
She will call.
Michael sipped his coffee and touched the window with a finger. It was cold outside, winter. He took a last sip and paid his bill. As he stepped outside, he thought of all the villages high in the Pyrenees and wondered which was hers.
He rounded onto his street and ducked his head as cold wind hit. It whistled over cobblestones and through shutters, keened so high that Michael didn’t hear his phone ringing until he was through the door and inside. For a second he was confused, but only for that second. He ripped his coat open and dug inside for the phone. It ra
ng a third time before he got a hand on it. He pulled it out, didn’t recognize the number. “Hello, hello.”
He heard static and background noise. Voices. Metal on metal. “Michael?”
“Elena. Baby.”
Static scratched, and her voice faded. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry…”
“Elena, what? I can barely hear you.”
“The baby’s coming.”
She faded. “Elena!”
“… don’t know what to say. I thought I had time, but the baby’s coming early. I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry. I wanted you to be here. I was going to call. Oh. God…”
She made a loud, terrible noise and Michael heard voices in Catalan. Intercom sounds. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”
It took long seconds, and Michael recognized hospital noises. She was on a gurney, he thought. Stern voices that had to be doctors.
“What hospital? What town?”
“Ahhh…”
“Baby. What hospital?”
She told him between heavy breaths—a hospital, a town. For an instant, the static faded and he heard her perfectly. “It’s coming. It’s coming.”
Then someone took the phone and hung it up.
Michael tried to call back, but the phone was dead. He stared at the wall for long seconds, utterly frozen for the first time in his life. She’d called; the baby was coming. His mind was locked tight. But then the paralysis broke. He tore through the apartment until he found a map and his keys. “What else do I need? Think! Think!”
But, he needed nothing else. Wallet. Keys. Map.
He squeezed into the tiny car in the tiny garage; his hands shook as he opened the map and found the road that would take him to Elena. He started the car, pulled out onto crowded, icy streets and fought his way to the open roads that ran fast and true to the north. He pushed it until the little car shook.
The baby is coming, he thought.
The baby is coming.
But that was not entirely true. Elena labored for three and a half hours.
He made it with eight minutes to spare.
ALSO BY JOHN HART
The King of Lies
Down River
The Last Child
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
IRON HOUSE. Copyright © 2011 by John Hart. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hart, John, 1965–
Iron house / John Hart.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-38034-2
1. Brothers—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Boys—Fiction. 4. Orphanages—Fiction. 5. Murder—Fiction. 6. North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A78575I76 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011006909
First Edition: July 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-9031-8
First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: July 2011
John Hart, Iron House
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