Iron House by John Hart Page B

was. There was nothing but time at Iron House. Time to burn. Time to kill. The place was hell, and his brother wore a target on his back. What other choice did Michael have?
    “Julian!”
    He called his brother’s name and it echoed in the frozen space. Michael had come back from kitchen duty and a kid on the hall told him Julian was gone, culled out of the group, then dragged to the empty wing. He said Hennessey was laughing when he pried boards off the sealed door and kicked Julian hard to get him running. There were five of them, the kid said. They gave him a two-minute head start, and then went after him.
    That was an hour ago.
    So, Michael ran. He called his brother’s name, and when the sound came back alone, he called again.
    Cold words.
    Smoke on his lips.
----
    Flint showed Abigail to a small bedroom on the second floor. “This is our only facility for visitors,” he apologized. “You can freshen up. Rest. The boys will turn up soon.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Flint.”
    He started to turn, then paused. “May I ask a question?”
    “If you must.”
    “Why these boys?”
    “You ask because of their age?”
    “And because one is so sickly.” Flint’s eyes were kind but puzzled. “It’s highly unusual.”
    “And you wonder if I have some special interest.”
    “My curiosity is only natural.”
    Abigail stepped to the window and gazed at the snow. “They’re ten and nine, yes? Foundlings?”
    “Discovered in a creek bed, just across the line in Tennessee, not that far from here, really. Forty miles as the crow flies, twice that with the roads up here. It was late November, very cold, and two hunters heard crying at the backside of a dead-end hollow. The creek was two feet wide, but fast. Julian was partly submerged and both were half frozen. It’s a miracle either survived, but especially Julian. He’s a weak child—puny, as my grandmother might have said. The hunters carried them out tucked in their shirts. I believe they’d have died otherwise. A few more minutes. Less kind strangers.”
    “How old were they at the time?”
    “We’re not sure, exactly. Julian was newborn, a matter of weeks, probably. Michael was older. The doctor put his age at roughly ten months, though he could have been younger. Julian was definitely premature. We’re assuming the same mother, so—”
    “Premature?”
    “By a month at least.”
    “A month.” Abigail felt her vision blur, and enough time passed for Flint to become uncomfortable.
    “Mrs. Vane?”
    “I was raised in an orphanage, Mr. Flint. It was a small place, poorer even than this. Cold and hard and unforgiving.” She turned from the window, and one palm tilted to catch the institutional light. “You can imagine that I have certain sympathies…”
    “Yes, yes. Of course.”
    “I was adopted at age ten, and my nine-year-old sister was not.” She showed Flint her eyes, and there was no weakness left in them. “She was sickly, too, like Julian, and left behind because of that. I went home with a loving family and four months later my sister contracted pneumonia. She died alone in that horrible place.”
    “I see.”
    “Do you?”
    “Well, I should like to think—”
    “I married well, Mr. Flint, and find myself in a position to prevent a similar tragedy. I’ve been searching for children just like these boys. Older. Unwanted. It won’t bring my sister back, but I hope to find some small measure of relief. A new life for the boys, and maybe for myself. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
    “I meant no undue intrusion.”
    “I want to meet them, Mr. Flint.”
    “Of course.”
    “Please find them.”
----
    Julian had hiding places for when things got bad. An abandoned well house in the woods, the crawl space under the chapel. He’d once found a crack in the granite where the river spilled to the lower field. The descent in was a headfirst scrape through a narrow slit, but three feet down, the cave opened up and he could stretch out, the