House of Steel (10 page)

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not
moving his eyes off Delaney. She stared back, studying a different
James than she had left standing in his underwear seven years ago.
His hair was cut short and his face had filled out. His brown eyes
were still youthful, but displayed a sense of experience and age. A
more masculine and distinguished man had replaced the boyish charm
James once radiated. She felt her face flush as she tried to
suppress the anger and embarrassment she had felt for so many years
well inside her. James Anderson was still gorgeous, still got under
her skin. She thought of her appearance; soaked leather boots, knit
hat covering her mess of waves and a puffy, tear stained face. She
hated herself for letting him affect her like this.

“It’s good to see you, man. It’s been
awhile. What the hell are you doing here?” Mark jumped in to save
the silent Delaney, holding his hand out to give James a
handshake.

“I’m here in Milwaukee scoping out offices.
My firm wants me to relocate here, open a division in the southern
Wisconsin market. I got a call about two hours ago from my
assistant back in California that a potential client, apparently a
significant one, wanted to meet me here. I was about to leave since
he never showed up,” he replied. “Then I saw you, Delaney Jones.”
He repeated her name like he had seen a damn unicorn.

“Moving back to … Wisconsin,” she said,
lingering on the last word.
His assistant back at his firm.
He had finished law school, just like he said he would. Delaney had
written him off, deleting all emails and voicemails he had left her
after the incident in California. But she had just watched a man
get stabbed, threatened by the killer, and now James Anderson was
standing before her. December 19th needed to end and fast.

“Why don’t I leave you two, looks like you
might have some catching up to do,” Mark started, moving toward the
elevators. “Just come up when you’re done, Delaney.”

“No, it’s okay. Mark, just wait,” she said,
never taking her eyes from James. The hairs on her arms rose at the
thought of staying with James, enduring the awkward conversation
when she wasn’t ready. “We’re headed to see our mom and our dad is
waiting for us. I should go. ”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she okay?” James
asked.

“Cancer,” she replied flat, feeling the
emptiness of the disease that was consuming her mother.

“Oh.” His face fell, closing his eyes to the
stinging revelation. Ann had been a second mother to James during
high school, replacing the absent mother from his childhood.
“Delaney – ”

“I know,” she replied, knowing that the
dying mother card wasn’t one she wanted to play, “You’re sorry.
We’re all sorry.”

“I can let you go, but will you call me?” he
asked, his eyes pained by the question.

“Uh, sure,” she replied as her feet moved to
catch up with Mark at the elevator.

“You have my number?” James called to her,
still standing in the entrance.

“Yeah.” She waved to him as the elevator
doors opened, waiting to whisk her away. Mark hit the number three,
a movement engrained in his brain - a number they hadn’t needed to
ask for. Delaney cast her eyes up just before the doors closed,
locking eyes with James still standing, watching her. “Like
branding on cattle, burned in my memory.”

“Not that I need to know your business,
Delaney, but shit happens. You were good friends and those are hard
to come by. Just remember that.”

14

DAY 2: Friday, December 19 – 4:15 p.m.

The statue, raised twenty feet in the air,
floated in the deep shadows of the church in between two large,
stained glass windows. His face dripping with blood, half-hidden as
he looked down, exhibited a calmness V had admired since she was a
child. His hands and feet, bloodied with nails driven through them,
hung from the cross. His side spewed out even more red liquid. He
had endured. God would give her the strength she needed to follow
through. To end what her employer had started.

V had trudged the four blocks to St. Mary’s,
the church she had attended weekly since she was a girl. The
intricate architecture and gold embellishments ran from the floor
to the culminating steeple of the church. Her eyes followed them up
to the large dome where the lavish angels guarded the alter down
below. The angels with their large, gold-tipped wings had always
made her feel safe. Protected. She sat in the first pew, watching
as the votive candles flickered against their glass holders,
casting shadows that danced along the wall. She could hear the
sweet, low chants of Father Hasken’s voice. Her arm hairs rose
beneath the layers of white as chills ran through her body. She
inhaled, smelling the rich aromas of incense lingering in the air.
V closed her eyes to see the vision of Father swinging the gold
chains of the thurible. The white smoke drafted from it slowly as
the earthy smell permeated her nostrils. The metal clinked as he
swung it over the casket back and forth, back and forth, in the
sign of the cross. The body inside the casket needed to be raised
to God to be judged. Her employer’s acts couldn’t be forgiven.

The vision burned in her mind as she
reopened her eyes to the dark, empty church. She doubted that
anyone else would be attending the 5:00 mass, but she knew Father
Hasken would be here, with or without his parishioners. He would
perform the ritual regardless, but she would leave before he
started; she knew she wouldn’t be able to face him. Not after what
she was about to do.

It had started three months ago, when she
had followed Holston. She had tracked him two hours north, near his
cottage, to a small town called Amberg. What she had seen there was
unfathomable, even for him. She had crept up to the run-down barn
that he had entered alone, just minutes before, peeking in through
the cracked glass of a shattered window. Inside the barn had stood
a group of ten girls in their early adolescence to mid-twenties.
Barely clothed, they had huddled together whispering and crying in
muffled sounds like wounded animals. An older woman, her long
blonde mess of hair scattered to the middle of her back, stood on
the edge of the pack. The woman had turned, looking toward the
window V peered through, before turning her attention back to the
huddle of girls. Holston had walked around them, examining them,
before turning to speak with a man who had walked forward from the
shadows of the dark barn. They had exchanged words she couldn’t
make out before Holston had reached into his jacket, revealing a
thick, white envelope. The man with the burly red beard and
overalls had taken the envelope in his hand, checking the contents,
before shaking her employer’s hand and then laughing, slapping the
butt of one of the girls before disappearing once again into the
darkness. Another gray sedan had pulled up moments later as her
employer led the girls out of the building. She had sunk into the
ground, realizing that he had just bought the girls. Holston Parker
was a human trafficker.

15

DAY 2: Friday, December 19 – 5:15 p.m.

The elevator halted at the third floor with a
ding, opening to the in-patient care unit of the academic medical
hospital. As Delaney finished writing both of their names in
registration, the tall frame of Michael Jones walked through the
double doors dressed in his signature plaid, button-down shirt. He
outstretched his arms at the sight of his children. She looked up
at her father’s eyes that smiled through the dark, heavy bags under
his usually bright, translucent eyes now dulled with lack of sleep.
His once dark brown hair was replaced with hundreds of gray hairs
that speckled his strands. The gray hair was spreading, threatening
to take over the once rich, thick hair she had remembered. Age was
creeping up on Michael Jones.

“What happened to you, Delaney? It looks
like you saw a ghost,” Michael asked as he embraced her and moved
to give Mark a quick man pat on his back. The time hadn’t come that
would warrant a full embrace for the two grown men. Ann’s
encroaching death seemed surreal.

“Relatively speaking,” Mark started.

“We saw James Anderson in the lobby,”
Delaney finished, placing her hand on her father’s arm before
shooting Mark a sideways glance, warning him. “But that’s
unimportant. How is she?”

“They are taking good care of her. Her body
is real weak from the treatment, and she’s not eating. But they are
pushing fluids, and she’s resting now.” He put his hand over his
temple, rubbing the wrinkles that had begun to settle into his
forehead. Aging was a bitch.

“Let’s sit down and let her rest for a bit,”
Mark replied, pointing over to a group of chairs in the corner, set
against windows overlooking the city.

“No, we better head back to the room. Mom
knows that you were coming. She would kill me if I let you sit in
the waiting room,” Michael said. “Ben’s on his way with Meghan.
They should be here within the half hour. And, for the record, the
wedding is on, and Mom plans on being there.” He pointed to each of
them before turning to lead them back through the double doors and
into the hallway. The path was dotted throughout by nurses at
various work stations, moving in and out of rooms as if
orchestrated, calling to each other for updates and help.

“It’s busy today,” Mark said as he slowed to
avoid a nurse running across the hallway into the room on his
right. Mark’s idle chatter annoyed Delaney as she noted a crimson
streak down the front of the nurse’s scrubs. The blood pooling
beneath Mr. Rowan’s body had been so quiet, moving in synchronous
beats out from his body. He had left this world in a gruesome
peacefulness.

“Yeah, Mom’s down this hallway. It’s a bit
quieter over here. I think she’ll be able to go home tomorrow.
She’s doing much better than she was early this morning. Whether or
not she makes the wedding is debatable but not according to her,”
Michael whispered the last sentence as he moved swiftly through the
hall, taking the next left to room 547.

Sunshine flooded in from the two large
windows that covered the wall straight across from the door.
Several inches of snow were visible on the ledge against the
window, glistening in the afternoon sun. Ann Jones lie with her
back to the door, facing the vibrant blue winter sky scattered with
fluffs of white clouds. Her thin body stretched the length of the
bed, leading to her bald head that lay on the pillow. A long, wavy
brown wig sprawled out next to her on a table. She refused to go
anywhere without her wig.

“Mark and Delaney are here,” Michael said,
his voice quiet as he walked into the room. She turned her head
excruciatingly slow at the sound of the voice to see her two oldest
children walking into the room. A small smile leaked from the edges
of her lips as she tried to maneuver the rest of her body toward
her guests. The painful movement bore into Delaney’s gut as she
watched the emaciated woman turn toward her. This woman was
completely unfamiliar to her. She couldn’t be Delaney’s mother.

“Oh, no you don’t, lady. Let me help you.”
Michael jumped forward, helping his wife of thirty two years move
to her other side. Delaney watched as the woman’s frail arm emerged
from underneath the covers and wrapped around her father’s strong
neck. Her skin hung loosely from her arm in a pale grayish tone
bordering on translucency. Delaney felt another pang in her
stomach, forcing a smile, as the woman finally finished turning
toward them. Her eyes had hallowed out with lack of sleep and food.
Their brightness had vanished and been replaced with a dull glaze.
The woman had transformed in just a few short weeks.
Death had
crawled into Ann Jones’s bed.

“Oh Delaney, wipe that smile off your face.
I know I look terrible. Where’s my wig?” She moved her hand around
on the table next to her, fumbling until she felt the strands of
synthetic hair along her fingers. She picked up the wig to put it
on.

“Jesus, Mom. Don’t worry about it. You look
great. I always wanted Mr. Clean for a mom anyway,” Mark said,
grabbing the wig from her hands. Ann broke into a gurgle that
eventually subsided, her body swallowing any force of laughter.
Michael ignored the wretched sound and produced a laugh deep from
his gut. Mark followed suit. Delaney exhaled, but her body refused
to yield any sound.

“You’re lucky you’re my favorite oldest son,
otherwise, I might have to get out of this bed and kick your ass,”
she replied pointing her finger accusingly at Mark. Ann had always
joked that Mark was her favorite oldest son; Delaney her favorite
only daughter; and Ben her favorite youngest son. Ann Jones didn’t
have her body, but her mind had yet to fail her.

“How do you feel?” Delaney asked, regretting
the words before she even finished.

“With my fingers,” Ann replied, wiggling her
bony fingers just inches above the blanket.

“I should have known better,” Delaney
replied as she felt the rest of the tension release.
Ann Jones
is still with it.

“By the way, guess who they ran into in the
lobby?” Michael asked, moving to sit on the end of the bed by her
feet. He placed one hand on her foot buried deep in the blanket.
Delaney groaned inwardly as she glared at Mark. She felt like she
was being thrust back into high school, her family plotting to
improve her social life.

“Who?” Ann rasped, moving her head off the
pillow with a slight jerk before she surrendered, laying it back
down.

“Relax, Mom. It was just James Anderson,”
Delaney replied, looking at her father.
If this is how they
react to almost hitting James, how can I tell them about what I
saw? About Mr. Rowan?
The repeated images in her mind of the
knife sinking into his chest made her shudder. Sleeping with Theron
had sent her world into a frenzy. She had been pushed into oncoming
traffic, dodging one horrific scene only to stumble blindly into
the next.