The Last Family by John Ramsey Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

my chin in years. Then we had to walk through the haunted forest unarmed. That old coot’s some guard dog,” Joe said.
    “My uncle Aaron. I got some coffee on. Might as well warm up for the trip back out. And hope Aaronhasn’t got an offer on your pistol. Said you were carrying a forty-five. That impressed him.”
    The cabin was larger than it looked from the outside, but the door was barely tall enough to allow Joe to pass without having his scalp nicked. It was built of square logs and hand-hewn beams with large windows in the kitchen and the den that framed the breathtaking view. The furniture was covered with Indian-style wool blankets. The walls presented dozens of Indian artifacts and antique weapons from the 1800s: bowie knives, skinning knives, a few Henry and Winchester rifles, twin Colt Peacemakers. There was a bow and a quiver of arrows with feathers that looked ready to disintegrate. The bedrooms were in a loft over the kitchen and the bathroom. The den’s ceiling was vaulted, and one wall was covered by a bookcase, filled to bursting.
    There were three coffee cups on the kitchen table, which Paul began to fill with black coffee from a fire-blackened coffeepot that looked as if it belonged on a Great Plains campfire.
    “How’d you know we were coming?”
    “Radio.”
    “How do you pass the time?” Thorne asked, sitting at the table.
    “Read. I write a few articles on bear behavior, elk hunting, and fly fishing.”
    “I didn’t know you were a hunter,” Thorne said.
    “I’m not a trout fisherman either. But I get exposed to a lot of sportsmen, and they talk a lot. I listen and write a lot down.” Paul treated them to a ruined smile. The muscles moved slowly, testifying that it was a foreign maneuver. “Novel in progress … for three years.”
    “About the agency?” Thorne smiled.
    “No, about a boy growing up in the mountains of Montana. Ought to try it sometime. Great for the soul. I write awhile and tear it up and write it again.”
    For a few minutes they made small conversation. Then Paul asked Joe McLean about his family.
    “Dead,” he replied. “All three.”
    “Jesus, Joe. I didn’t know.”
    “My wife, Jessie, died of a heart attack almost four years back.… Least I thought heart attack then. My son Robert died the following spring wiring a two-twenty line. A month later my daughter Julie bled to death in her kitchen. Looked like she cut her ankle open with a jar she’d dropped. Looked to be a freak accident. Just sat there and died. It didn’t make sense. Robert was a master electrician and Julie was a psychiatric nurse, trained for emergencies. I never believed they were accidents, but try and convince the cops of that unless there’s a trail a four-year-old could follow. The FBI boys looked real hard but found nothing.”
    “Christ,” Paul said, shaking his head slowly.
    “Thorne’s, too,” Joe said.
    “What?” Paul looked at Thorne Greer.
    “Ellen and my boy Scott were killed when their car went into a canal in Deerfield Beach two years back. Drowned. Someone spotted a tire protruding from the canal next day,” Thorne said.
    Paul stared at the two men in turn. The color was a few seconds returning to his face. “God, I don’t know what to say. It’s terrible.”
    “Gets worse,” Joe said. “Last week.”
    Thorne said, “Doris, George, and Eleanor Lee. Eleanor burned up four months ago. Other day George went off a cliff, and Doris was overdosed. Same day, same guy. Disguised professionally.”
    Paul felt a hot flash sweep over him. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How could”—he counted the passing faces in his head—“eight people die like that? Eight out of the one group. The odds of that happening are insane. Didn’t anybody notice?”
    “The agency should have caught it sooner, but we’re all spread out since the Miami days, Paul. Thorne retired to Los Angeles doing bodyguard work. I’m with Justice as a field investigator,” Joe said.