Iron House

468 Pages·2011·1.54 MB·English

by  John Hart

For
Pete Wolverton
and
Matthew Shear
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A time came in the writing of this book where I almost walked away
from it. It was just one of those things, a prolonged moment of doubt
and discouragement. Nothing was working as I hoped; the pages
fought me. I might have done it, too—let it fall, started something else
—if not for my editor, Pete Wolverton, and my publisher, Matthew
Shear, who read the first big piece of the manuscript, saw the
potential, and assured me that I could pull it off. Their confidence saw
me through a few long months, and I would like to thank them first
and above all. Matthew, Pete … this book would never have happened
without you. Thanks for the faith, and for keeping my feet on the trail.
I would also like to thank the other members of my editorial team,
Anne Bensson and Katie Gilligan. Your keen insights made the book
better every time you looked at it. Thanks for that! And thanks again
to you, Pete. Every trip south is worth it.
For the fire being built under Iron House, my publishers deserve
tremendous appreciation. Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Tom
Dunne … I know you oversee a lot of books, but I always felt your
eye on this one. Few great things happen without you firmly behind a
novel, and I thank you for having faith in what I do.
In the marketing of this book, Matt Baldacci, as always, does a
fabulous job, as does his team, Nancy Trypuc, Kim Ludlam, and
Laura Clark. My publicists, Stephen Lee and Dori Weintraub, are
spectacular. Thank you both for all you’ve done. I truly appreciate it.
Thanks as well to Kenneth J. Silver, the production editor, Cathy
Turiano, the production manager, and Jonathan Bennett, who did the
interior design. You guys make a beautiful book, and I do love a
beautiful book! I would also like to thank my copy editor, Steven A.
Roman, who tries very hard to keep me from embarrassing myself.
Any errors in the book are mine, not his. I also need to thank the many
people in the Art Department who worked diligently to create the
right jacket. Never an easy job. As always, I’d like to give an
especially loud shout-out to the hardworking sales force at St.
Martin’s Press and Griffin Books. Mickey Choate deserves my
gratitude, as does Esther Newberg. You are both wonderful, wonderful
agents.
I also need to thank my great friend Neal Sansovich, whose pure
heart and perpetual optimism lifted me from some dark troughs when
the days got especially long. Your friendship means a lot to me, Neal.
Thanks for deep talks and good soil.
Foreign publishers all over the world have worked hard to make this
book a success, but my team in the U.K. deserves special thanks. So,
to Roland Philipps, Kate Parkin, and Tim Hely Hutchinson, I offer
special thanks, as I do to everyone else at John Murray Publishers,
who have gone out of their way to make me feel like part of the
Murray family.
I come at last to the most important people of all. Only the family of
working writers understands the unique challenge of living with a
novelist. The process takes a while; we tend to get distracted and work
strange hours. It’s not always pretty, and no one deserves a deeper
bow of appreciation than my wife, Katie and my girls, Saylor and
Sophie. I’d be nothing without you.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Also by John Hart
Copyright
Trees thrashed in the storm, their trunks hard and black and rough
as stone, their limbs bent beneath the weight of snow. It was dark out,
night. Between the trunks, a boy ran and fell and ran again. Snow
melted against the heat of his body, soaked his clothing then froze
solid. His world was black and white, except where it was red.
On his hands and under his nails.
Frozen to the blade of a knife no child should own.
For one instant the clouds tore, then darkness came complete and
an iron trunk bloodied the boy’s nose as he struck a tree and fell
again. He pulled himself up and ran through snow that piled to his
knees, his waist. Branches caught his hair, tore skin. Light speared out
far behind, and the sound of pursuit welled like breath in the forest’s
throat.
Long howls on the bitter wind …
Dogs beyond the ridge …
CHAPTER ONE
Michael woke reaching for the gun he no longer kept by the bed. His
fingers slid over bare wood, and he sat, instantly awake, his skin slick
with sweat and the memory of ice. There was no movement in the
apartment, no sounds beyond those of the city. The woman beside him
rustled in the warm tangle of their sheets, and her hand found the hard
curve of his shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Weak light filtered through the curtains, the open window, and he
kept his body turned so she could not see the boy that lingered in his
eyes, the stain of hurt so deep she had yet to find it. “Bad dream,
baby.” His fingers found the swell of her hip. “Go back to sleep.”
“You sure?” The pillow muffled her voice.
“Of course.”
“I love you,” she said, and was gone.
Michael watched her fade, and then put his feet on the floor. He
touched old scars left by frostbite, the dead places on his palms and at
the tips of three fingers. He rubbed his hands together, and then tilted
them in the light. The palms were broad, the fingers long and tapered.
A pianist’s fingers, Elena often said.
Thick and scarred. He would shake his head.
The hands of an artist …
She liked to say things like that, the talk of an optimist and dreamer.
Michael flexed his fingers, and heard the sound of her words in his
head, the lilt of her accent, and for that instant he felt ashamed. Many
things had come through the use of his hands, but creation was not
one of them. He stood and rolled his shoulders as New York solidified
around him: Elena’s apartment, the smell of recent rain on hot