Read Online The Last Family by John Ramsey Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: John Ramsey Miller
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because in the world Martin inhabited, death was always a choice, a slipup or a few seconds away. Martin was an animal who operated near the top of a complex feeding chain—eat or be eaten. It was a life that depended on knowledge, sharp reflexes, planning, lack of conscience, and flawless intuition. Paul had defeated him and humiliated him. Killing him, the alternative, would have been understandable, even forgivable, in Martin’s mind.
Paul had known that Martin would come for him one day unless he was, as rumor had it, dead. He thought it was possible that the others had been killedfirst and the confession made so Paul would be forced to come out to play. Because the fact was Martin could have killed Paul at any time over the past years. Maybe he planned to kill the Masterson family while Paul watched from the sidelines, helplessly. He would enjoy that. If it was Martin, Paul was no match for him. A team might beat him, if it was the right group.
Paul closed his eyes and imagined Martin as he had known him. In Paul’s mind Martin had grown to mythical proportions. He was ten feet tall, had the instincts of a cougar, and was as strong as something hydraulic. Has a day ever passed that Marty didn’t cross my mind, soil some pleasant thought? Paul was afraid of him—deeply afraid. Maybe that, more than the other reasons, was why he had really hidden himself here. Paul felt as if Martin Fletcher were working the strings and they were leading from his hands to Paul’s life.
Paul looked at the wild beard one last time. He pressed the scissors against the jawline and squeezed. The first cut is the deepest, he thought as a bird’s-nest-sized clump of beard floated down to the basin.
Sunlight was-just beginning to sear the bottom of the sky with a light crimson band. Aaron was dressed and standing in the kitchen brewing coffee in an electric aluminum percolator. Something moved in the window, and as the back door opened he turned and was face-to-face with a beardless Paul Masterson. His nephew’s hair was combed back against his head, and the beard had been replaced with a large handlebar mustache. He opened the kitchen door and Paul stepped inside.
“Paul. Hell, son, I’ve seen happier faces in a proctology ward.”
“Coffee smells good,” Paul offered.
“I reckon you want some of it?” The old man frowned. “Never see you unless you want something. Bet you want the top of the brew?”
“Give me some of that burned syrupy stuff off the bottom, like you usually do.”
“Where’s your pals? Shit-faced I bet. Look like seriouswhiskey drinkers to me. Looks like you had a few yourself.” The old man poured two cups of coffee, replaced the pot on the stove, and sat. “Now, that’s hot.”
“Good, the heat’ll take the top layer off my tongue, cover some of the taste,” Paul said, taking a tentative sip. “Joe McLean does a right good jig with the bottle. Thorne’s a teetotaler. Alcohol doesn’t agree with his personality.”
They were silent for a long time as they sipped, steam rolling up over their cheeks.
“Never fails to amaze me what you can do to perfectly good coffee beans.”
“It’s free, ain’t it? You can get a twenty-five-cent cup of muddy water down the street anytime.”
“Too far to walk.”
“So when you pullin’ out?” The old man cocked his eyes up into Paul’s and frowned.
“Because I cut that beard off? You think I’m leaving because I shaved?”
“Well, ain’t you?”
“Couple of hours.”
“Knew them fellows showing up was bad news. It’s that guy you warned me might come looking for you, ain’t it? He’s up to somethin’?”
Paul took another swallow of coffee and nodded. “Killed eight women and children. The men who were in here—it was their families. Plus Rainey Lee’s two kids and wife, too.”
“Someone thinks you can catch him? Probably right.”
“Fact is I don’t think I can. But I have to try. He’s gonna go for Laura and the
Paul had known that Martin would come for him one day unless he was, as rumor had it, dead. He thought it was possible that the others had been killedfirst and the confession made so Paul would be forced to come out to play. Because the fact was Martin could have killed Paul at any time over the past years. Maybe he planned to kill the Masterson family while Paul watched from the sidelines, helplessly. He would enjoy that. If it was Martin, Paul was no match for him. A team might beat him, if it was the right group.
Paul closed his eyes and imagined Martin as he had known him. In Paul’s mind Martin had grown to mythical proportions. He was ten feet tall, had the instincts of a cougar, and was as strong as something hydraulic. Has a day ever passed that Marty didn’t cross my mind, soil some pleasant thought? Paul was afraid of him—deeply afraid. Maybe that, more than the other reasons, was why he had really hidden himself here. Paul felt as if Martin Fletcher were working the strings and they were leading from his hands to Paul’s life.
Paul looked at the wild beard one last time. He pressed the scissors against the jawline and squeezed. The first cut is the deepest, he thought as a bird’s-nest-sized clump of beard floated down to the basin.
Sunlight was-just beginning to sear the bottom of the sky with a light crimson band. Aaron was dressed and standing in the kitchen brewing coffee in an electric aluminum percolator. Something moved in the window, and as the back door opened he turned and was face-to-face with a beardless Paul Masterson. His nephew’s hair was combed back against his head, and the beard had been replaced with a large handlebar mustache. He opened the kitchen door and Paul stepped inside.
“Paul. Hell, son, I’ve seen happier faces in a proctology ward.”
“Coffee smells good,” Paul offered.
“I reckon you want some of it?” The old man frowned. “Never see you unless you want something. Bet you want the top of the brew?”
“Give me some of that burned syrupy stuff off the bottom, like you usually do.”
“Where’s your pals? Shit-faced I bet. Look like seriouswhiskey drinkers to me. Looks like you had a few yourself.” The old man poured two cups of coffee, replaced the pot on the stove, and sat. “Now, that’s hot.”
“Good, the heat’ll take the top layer off my tongue, cover some of the taste,” Paul said, taking a tentative sip. “Joe McLean does a right good jig with the bottle. Thorne’s a teetotaler. Alcohol doesn’t agree with his personality.”
They were silent for a long time as they sipped, steam rolling up over their cheeks.
“Never fails to amaze me what you can do to perfectly good coffee beans.”
“It’s free, ain’t it? You can get a twenty-five-cent cup of muddy water down the street anytime.”
“Too far to walk.”
“So when you pullin’ out?” The old man cocked his eyes up into Paul’s and frowned.
“Because I cut that beard off? You think I’m leaving because I shaved?”
“Well, ain’t you?”
“Couple of hours.”
“Knew them fellows showing up was bad news. It’s that guy you warned me might come looking for you, ain’t it? He’s up to somethin’?”
Paul took another swallow of coffee and nodded. “Killed eight women and children. The men who were in here—it was their families. Plus Rainey Lee’s two kids and wife, too.”
“Someone thinks you can catch him? Probably right.”
“Fact is I don’t think I can. But I have to try. He’s gonna go for Laura and the
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