Iron House by John Hart Page A

he smiled, were small and white. “We are so pleased that you have come. My name is Andrew Flint. Perhaps your assistant spoke of me? After all the correspondence and phone calls, I feel as if I know her.”
    She took his hand, found it narrow and cool. “Mr. Flint.” Her voice remained neutral, the same used at a thousand fund-raisers, a thousand functions. She’d used the same tone when she’d met the last two governors, the President, a hundred different CEOs. She gave his hand a firm squeeze, then relaxed her fingers and waited for him to realize that he, too, should let go.
    Flint glanced at the empty limousine. “Your husband?”
    She touched a button on her blouse. “The senator is otherwise engaged.”
    “But we had hoped…” Flint forced a smile. “Never mind. You are here, and that, too, is exciting.” He made a nervous gesture, hands spread to take in the snow, the gathering dark. “Shall we go inside?”
    Halfway up the steps, she turned. False dusk had settled in the yard, and what children remained were indistinct in the gloom. The scene depressed her: so many lost children. But today would be different. For two brothers, she thought, today would be the beginning of something grand. “You received our donation?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Vane. Of course.” Flint made another bow and dry-washed his hands. “As you can see, we have ways to use it.” He gestured and she followed his gaze. Stretching into the storm, the abandoned wing of the orphanage looked like a derelict ship, massive and broken on some unforgiving shore. She saw movement behind one of the windows, a slash of white that flickered twice and was gone.
    “Is that wing in use at all?” she asked.
    “God, no. The conditions are deplorable.”
    “I thought I saw someone.”
    He shook his head. “A bird, perhaps. Or a wild cat. Both seem to find their way inside. It’s a very dangerous place. The boys are under strict orders—”
    She stopped on the top step. “I’d like to meet them.”
    Flint’s fingers curled around one another, and he fumbled his words when he spoke. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
    “The gift was five million dollars. That should make many things possible.”
    “Yes. I’m aware, of course. But…” He hesitated further, craning his neck to peer at the building behind him. He hesitated, as if waiting for someone to save him. “The truth is. We can’t seem to find them.”
    “You’ve lost two boys?”
    “Ah ... Just for the moment.”
    “Does this happen often?”
    “No. No. Of course not.”
    “I had hoped to meet them at once.”
    “I’m sure they’ll turn up soon. Boys, you know. Probably off somewhere…”
    “Off somewhere?” Her eyes sharpened on his.
    “You know…”
    A nervous laugh.
    “... playing.”
----
    Michael ran down the deserted hall, eyes cutting left and right, fingers curled into fists. Windows rose above him, tall as doors, but he did not look at the snow outside, his reflection as he ran. Julian had been gone for an hour, and Julian never did that. He stayed in their room on the third floor, stayed on their hall or wherever Michael was near. And when Michael was gone, which happened, Julian stayed with what friends he had. Because Julian wasn’t stupid. He knew he was weak. That weakness led to torment.
    Abusing Julian was one of Hennessey’s favorite games, mainly because he and his friends lacked the courage to mess with Michael directly. They’d tried it once and left with broken fingers and loose teeth. Five on one and Michael cleaned the floor with them, as if it didn’t matter how much he was hit or how much he bled. Michael fought with a noise in the back of his throat, like an animal in a cage. He fought like Tarzan would fight. That’s why the younger boys looked up to him, why the older ones stayed clear, because Michael, in a corner, became so wild and fierce that some of the older boys thought he might actually be insane. But that’s not how it