“Cops are coming,” she said, but that was a lie. The weight of her arm had squeezed the shoebox out of shape so the lid gapped. Michael saw bands of cash in the box. Lots of it. She was nowhere near the phone.
“You planning to stick somebody with that knife?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
She wore pink, terry cloth shorts, a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Michael leaned back, checked the kitchen. There’d be a bedroom somewhere, maybe two. “I’m not planning to hurt anyone, okay? But if I get surprised, it could happen. So, tell me. Do you have children? Anyone that might decide to walk in unannounced?”
“No children. No surprises.”
“You sure of that?” He kept his voice low, and let her see him drop the hammer on the gun.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I trust you. You trust me. That’ll make this go much smoother.” He tucked the gun under his belt. She watched it all the way down; the knife in her hand didn’t move. “Are you Ronnie’s wife?”
“You know Ronnie?” She lifted the knife higher, but Michael could tell it was getting heavy.
“Are you his girlfriend?”
Her arm bent at the elbow. “Fiancée,” she said.
“I’m not here for your money.”
She looked down, surprised to see that the money was visible. She fumbled the box into her lap, jammed the lid closed. “Do you work for Flint?” She sniffed wetly.
“Andrew Flint who ran the orphanage at Iron Mountain?” She nodded, and Michael tried to get his head around that. He’d not heard Flint’s name in over twenty years, and to come across it in Ronnie Saints’s house was surreal. Michael had never imagined anyone from Iron House keeping in touch. It was not that kind of place. “Why do you ask about Andrew Flint?”
“Ronnie said if Flint showed up, I should run. That was four days ago. When I saw your fancy car, I figured you were with Flint.”
“Do you know where Ronnie is?” Michael asked.
“Not run off on me, is all I know for sure. Not with this still here.” She shook the box.
“May I see that?”
Michael nodded at the box of money, and her arm tightened on it. “He’ll kill me.”
“I won’t take it if you tell me what I need to know.” Her eyes flicked to the gun. “I promise.”
She blinked away sudden tears, and the fight went out of her, knife coming all the way down. “I told him this was too good to be true.” She put the knife on a coffee table, then put the box next to it. She picked up a pack of cigarettes, sparked one with a cheap lighter. Michael put the knife on top of the television and moved a chair from the far corner.
“What’s your name?”
She blew smoke, rolled her eyes up and left. “Crystal.”
Michael lifted the lid from the box. The bills inside were crisp, still in bands of ten thousand each. He began to lift them out, lining them up on the table.
Fifteen bands.
“That’s a lot of money,” he said.
“He’s going to kill me.” She stared at the cash, both arms crossed beneath small breasts. Michael saw a pattern of scars on one arm, a dozen perfect circles puckered white. She saw him looking and covered the scars with one hand. Michael caught her eyes and she looked down. He knew cigarette burns when he saw them.
“How long have you been with Ronnie?”
“Since I was in high school.” She flicked ash in a white saucer. “He had a job and told me I was special. He was good like that. A man, you know.”
Michael riffled the bills. They were nonsequential and, as far as he could tell, real. At the bottom of the box was a scrap of paper. He picked it up. “Ronnie’s handwriting?”
“He writes pretty for a man.”
The paper held five names written one below the other. “Where’s the money from?” Michael asked.
She looked away.
“Crystal…”
“It was delivered last week.” Her lips left lipstick on the filter. “All official and sealed up, brought first thing in the morning by a fancy man in a shiny car, all yes-ma’am’s and no-sir’s. Ronnie had to sign for it and everything.”
“What’s it for?”
“Ronnie says it’s not my place to know. Just ’cause we’re getting married…” Her voice broke. She stubbed out her cigarette, and covered her eyes. “Please don’t take it. I just want a baby and a paid-for house. Please, mister. Ronnie’ll do terrible things if he comes home and finds that money gone.”
“I’m a killer, not a thief.” He gave her a second to process that. He wanted her scared enough to tell him what he wanted to know. Wanted her honest with him. “You understand me, Crystal?” He waited until she looked up and met his gaze. “You understand what I’m saying?”
She stared, white-faced and still. Something in his eyes convinced her, because when she nodded the rest of her body was as frozen as a deer in headlights. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, I’ll ask you again. What’s the money for?”
“All I know is he said there’d be more, another delivery, just like that one. Soon as he got back. That’s it and that’s all.”
“What about Andrew Flint?”
“I just know the name, and what Ronnie said. That I should run if the man ever showed up. I should take the money and go to a place we know. I should wait for Ronnie there.”
“Do you know where Ronnie went?”
“Back east somewhere. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”
Michael considered the bands of cash, the scrap of paper in his hand. He held it up for her to see. “Do these names mean anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
Michael began stacking the money back inside the box. He smelled ink and paper and Crystal’s fear. He put the top on the box, and saw that she had her hands out.
“Mister?”
He put one hand on the box, looked at the names.
Billy Walker
Chase Johnson
George Nichols
They were names from the past, Hennessey’s crew from Iron House. Michael saw them like twenty-three years ago was yesterday. Big kids, and mean.
Predators.
Dogs.
Michael looked down at the names written in a dead man’s hand, and in looking he felt it all come tearing back, a current so dark and strong it hurt.
“Mister?” She must have seen the change in him, because her voice came smaller. “Mister…”
He looked again at Ronnie Saints’s list of names. The three boys were listed first, one above the other, and then a line beneath. Under the line were two other names.
“Who is Salina Slaughter?” He watched carefully, but saw no artifice as Crystal shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
He held up the paper so she could see it. “Ronnie didn’t say?”
“No, sir. I saw the list, same as you, but he was in no mind to talk about it. Ronnie’s particular like that. I’m not allowed to question.”
“But you see things.” Michael pushed. “You pay attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else did you notice?” Michael drew the box of money a little closer.
“Nothing.”
“Phone calls?” Her eyes stayed on the box. “People?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to any of the men on this list? George Nichols? Billy Walker? Chase Johnson?”
“Chase Johnson. They’re friends, still.”
“Where does Chase Johnson live?”
“Charlotte, I think.”
“What does he do in Charlotte?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve only met him once.”
“Has Ronnie called you since he left?”
She shook her head. “He says cell phones give you brain cancer.”
“Who is Salina Slaughter?” Michael lifted the box, put it in his lap. “Tell me that and you can keep the money.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, a kind of wild panic at the thought of losing the money. “I just want a baby and a paid-for house.”
“Salina…”
“I ain’t done nothing wrong…”
“... Slaughter.”
“She called here once, that’s all I know. Right before he left. That’s it and that’s all.”
Michael stood, box of money in his left hand. He believed her. “Do you know where I can find Andrew Flint?” She rolled into herself, nose red and wet, head shaking. Michael looked down for a moment, then placed the box of money on the coffee table. “Buy a house,” he said. “Have a baby if you want. But I wouldn’t count on Ronnie Saints.”
“What do you mean?”
He thought of Ronnie Saints, dead in the lake. His gaze lingered on the circle of puckered white scars. “You can do better.”
There is an awareness born of fear: Elena knew this, now. She saw every mark on the walls, felt the softness of worn denim, the stiff collar of a shirt that hung to her knees. She smelled her skin, and the staleness of the house. Her heart was more than a distant thump.
At the door, she heard voices and a television. Drawing back, she considered the room for the fifteenth time. She wanted a way out. A weapon. She checked the closet, but it was still empty. No hangers or clothing. Even the rod had been removed. In the room itself, there was only the bed and the chair. She checked the bed frame. It was heavy iron.
Maybe one of the legs ...
She spent ten minutes trying to turn a single bolt with her fingertips, then went back to her corner and sat. She felt heat on her skin when the sun dipped low. The waiting was killing her. The uncertainty.
Damn it ...
Angry now, she got to her feet and crept back to the door. The television sounds were clearer: a news channel, something about New York and bloodshed and violence. Someone said, “Fuck this.” And then glass broke. Arguments. Shouts. Several men raised their voices, then a gunshot so loud that silence, when it came, was total and complete. Emotions were hot in the small, airless house. She felt it like electricity in the air. After a minute, a key scraped in the lock. The door opened and there was Jimmy. “Feeling better?”
He wore different clothes that smelled of gunpowder; carried her purse and a handgun. Behind him, men stood in disarray. Some looked angry, others frightened. In their midst, the television sat dead and still, a perfect hole in the center of its screen. Jimmy stood as if none of that mattered.
“This is bullshit, Jimmy.”
The words came from a man down the hall. Big, thick-boned. Angry. Jimmy’s arm came up, and although his eyes were still on Elena, the gun sights settled squarely on the man who had spoken.
“Will you hold this?” Jimmy handed her the pocketbook, then walked back down the hall, men parting. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
The barrel settled an inch from the man’s face. His heavy arms lifted a few inches from his waist. “I didn’t say anything, Jimmy.”
“Are you quite certain?”
The big man nodded. Jimmy lowered the gun, and turned his back in a show of obvious contempt. In a casual manner, he put one foot against the television and rocked it onto its side, the screen shattering completely as it struck the floor. Then he gathered up a handful of newspapers and stopped in the center of the room. “I don’t want to hear any more complaining.” He glared around the room. “We leave when I say.”
No one met his gaze. Feet shuffled, and someone said, “Sure, Jimmy.”
A few others nodded.
Most did not.
He walked back to Elena’s room, took the purse and closed the door. “I would like to leave, now,” she said.
“I know you would. I’m sorry. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
He tossed newspapers on the bed, and Elena saw a flash of headlines. Street warfare. Explosions. Gangsters. She saw photos of dead bodies, cops in assault gear. Jimmy saw her looking and said, “People are fighting over the old man’s scraps. A vacuum rushing to be filled.” He paused, eyes flat as he hooked a thumb toward the living room. “They think we should be in the city instead of here.”
“You don’t think so?”
“The scraps are meaningless. Most of Otto Kaitlin’s wealth is legitimate, now, and has been for years. Advertising. Modeling agencies. Car dealerships. He actually owned two beauty pageants when he died. Priceless. Can you believe it? Beauty pageants. Otto Kaitlin.”
“Why don’t you just tell them that?”
“Because they’re children.”
He sat on the bed, opened her purse and began removing the contents. He placed each item on the bed, a long line of things side by side. A hairbrush and makeup. Passport. Wallet. Keys. Gum. A few loose receipts. “You can tell so much about a woman by what she carries in her purse. Although, in your case, it’s more about what you don’t carry.” He rummaged more deeply in the purse. “No cigarettes or pill bottles. No booze. No mace. No contraception. No address book. No photographs.” He straightened the items, touching each. “Such a minimalist.”
He removed her cell phone. “But this…” He flipped it open, scrolled through the phone log. “Not many calls the past week. A few women, looks like. Michael, mostly. The restaurant.” He pursed his lips in what Elena knew immediately to be false surprise. “You have texts from Michael.” He flashed the phone in her direction. “Want to see?”
Elena did not rise to the bait.
Jimmy shrugged, then scrolled through the texts. “Call me. Where are you? I’m sorry. Blah blah. Very domestic.”
“What do you want?”
“You have four new messages from Michael. I’d like to hear them.” He waited. “To do that, I need the password.”
“Why do you care?”
“I just do.”
He smiled, but she saw the same insanity from before. Whatever his obsession with Michael, whether fear or pride or something deeper, it was complete. She gave him the password, and his mouth opened as he dialed voice mail. “Ah.” He held up a hand, and whispered, “There you are…”
His voice fell off.
His eyes drifted shut as he listened.
When Michael got back to the car, Abigail looked shaken. “I’ve been online.” She held up her BlackBerry. “Every major outlet has the story.”
“Anything solid?”
“Police presence at the estate. A body found. Some of the bigger outlets are running bits about Christina’s death eighteen years ago. One has a chopper over the estate. You can see boats on the lake, police cars at the boathouse.”
“Has anyone mentioned Julian?”
“Only that he was a suspect last time. But they’re showing his picture. They’re leaving the implication out there.”