Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Ashes
Forty miles west of the city, where the suburbs gave way to flat, black-dirt cornfields and long stretches of two-lane highway, sat an old gravel quarry that had been abandoned since the mid-seventies.
At the end of a long, unmarked lane lined with overgrown red oaks stood a two-story farmhouse built from hand-cut limestone. The windows were small, fitted with reinforced steel shutters painted green to match the ivy, and the chimney was wide enough to throw three cords of oak wood a day without showing a trail of smoke above the trees.
Voss had bought the property under a shell company thirty years ago, right after his mother died. He had never brought a woman here. He had never brought a business partner here.
The suburban pulled into the barn around five in the morning, the heavy wooden doors sliding shut behind them with a low, echoing thud.
The engine died, and for a long moment, the only sound was the heat ticking out of the exhaust pipe and the soft, steady patter of rain against the corrugated tin roof.
In the backseat, the girl was fast asleep, her head leaning against a rolled-up black coat Voss had placed behind her shoulders. Her face looked softer in sleep, the sharp, wary lines around her mouth relaxed, though her little fingers were still clutched tightly into the hem of her faded pink dress.
Marcus climbed out of the driver's seat, his boots crunching on the dry gravel inside the barn. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door, looking at Voss.
"She didn't ask where we were going once," Marcus muttered softly. "Not the whole forty miles. Just stared at the dashboard light."
Voss got out, his joints stiff from the drive. He walked to the back door, opened it gently, and reached inside. He didn't wake her. He reached under her small, light frame—she felt like she was made of pine wood and paper—and lifted her into his arms.
She stirred, her dark eyes opening instantly, wild with that quick, instinctual panic of something that had been hunted. She reached for his coat, her small fingers catching the lapel.
"It’s okay," Voss murmured, his voice lower than Marcus had ever heard it. "You’re out of the city."
She didn't struggle. She let her head fall against his collarbone, her breathing slow and ragged.
They walked across the muddy yard into the limestone house. The air inside smelled of cold stone, dried lavender, and old cedar wood. Voss carried her up the narrow wooden stairs to the small room at the end of the hall—a room with a low sloped ceiling, a single iron bed frame, and a thick down comforter covered in blue cotton.
He laid her down, tucking the comforter up to her chin.
She looked up at him through the dim morning light filtering through the steel shutters.
"My name is Elena," she whispered suddenly.
Voss froze, his hands still resting on the edge of the blanket.
It was the first time she had offered anything without being asked.
"Elena," Voss repeated softly, testing the weight of the name. "I’m Hector."
"Are you going to keep me here?" she asked. Her voice wasn't afraid; it was flat, practical, like a grown woman asking about a lease agreement.
"Until it’s safe," Voss said.
"It’s never safe," she said simply. She turned her head toward the stone wall, closing her eyes. "Marcos has dogs. He has three big ones with red collars. He lets them sleep in the kitchen."
Voss stood up slowly. He looked at her small, pale face against the dark blue pillow for three full seconds before stepping out of the room and closing the door until only a sliver of light remained.
Marcus was downstairs in the kitchen, unbuckling a heavy leather holster from under his arm and setting it on the long pine table. A pot of black coffee was already beginning to rumble on the small propane stove.
"Jimmy called," Marcus said, not looking up. "Cruz’s men visited your lounge twenty minutes ago. They didn't find Brennan. Brennan left through the alley about ten minutes after you did."
"Where did he go?" Voss asked, walking to the narrow window that faced the lane.
"Straight to Cicero," Marcus said. "He’s selling everything he knows. Your name, this place—if he knows about it—and every property you've bought since ninety-eight."
"He doesn't know about this place," Voss said. "Only you do."
"And Jimmy," Marcus pointed out quietly.
Voss didn't answer. He watched the rain dripping off the red oak branches out in the yard.
"Jimmy’s been with me nine years," Voss said softly.
"Jimmy’s sister owes two hundred grand to a bookie in South Chicago," Marcus replied, his voice dead flat. "I checked his accounts an hour ago, Hector. Three thousand dollars hit his account from a ghost bank in Panama at midnight."
Voss slowly closed his eyes.
The silence in the kitchen stretched out until the coffee pot gave a final, hissed burst of steam.
When Voss opened his eyes, the warmth was entirely gone.
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"How long until they get here?" Voss asked.
"If Jimmy gave them the GPS track from the suburban," Marcus said, looking at his watch, "they’re thirty minutes behind us."
