The Last Family (28 page)

Kurt Steiner had grown up in awe of his grandfather, worshiping him as only a small child can. Kurt Rudolph Steiner was a German national who had relocated in Paraguay directly after World War II, and then in Argentina. He had been a colonel in the Waffen SS, charged with special handling of prisoners prior to the collapse of his homeland. His namesake had grown up with the stories of the leadership of Germany and of the conquests and glory that were to be found in soldiering for the right commander. In Martin, Kurt found a commander like the ones the old man had spoken of in worshipful terms. The Aryan sympathies had been drilled into the lad. Pure-blooded knights whose destiny was to rule the earth.

Martin had taught him well and had appreciated the younger man’s intensity and self-discipline. Kurt had learned lessons his grandfather hadn’t taught him, the practical day-to-day methods of survival and the ways of the modern warrior. Under Martin he had been armed and hardened. Since his country had been at war with its rebel elements, he found himself immersed in learning a useful trade. He could watch the most grotesque forms of torture and feel nothing at all for the subject. He could execute his enemies with the same detached professionalism his grandfather had described to him. Life and death were hardly more than applied mathematics. A place where honor was loyalty, and loyalty was a man’s life.

Kurt was in phenomenal physical condition thanks to constant workouts in swimming, running, martial arts, mountain climbing, bicycling, weight lifting, boxing and calisthenics.

Martin had stayed in touch with Kurt over the years. He had enlisted Kurt to be his aide while he trained troops for a cocaine cartel’s war against the Colombian government. Kurt had been charged with teaching groups on his own, using knowledge Martin had given him. It was his training that had allowed him to figure out where a sniper, if one was used, would set up to cover the dock in New Orleans.

Kurt entered the Garden District through the back door, coming down Napoleon Avenue from Tchoupoulas Street, which was the road that ran its curving path alongside the Mississippi River’s loading, docks. Kurt looked at his watch. It was early yet.

Paul had not fired a pistol since a few months before he had been shot, and he wanted to see how rusty he really was. He went down through the doors and into the indoor range located in the basement of Gun City. He was happy that he and Rainey were the only customers there. On the table in front of him were three boxes of forty-five hardball ammo, which he had purchased upstairs. He loaded seven rounds into each of his three clips and put on the earphones. Paul clipped a target on the pulley and ran it back seventeen or eighteen yards. The gun felt alien in his hand as he jacked a shell into the chamber, aimed at the target, and pulled the trigger over and over until the slide locked open. Paul didn’t see any holes in the black of the paper target. Rainey flipped the switch, the motor engaged, and the target came back.

“I missed seven times?”

“Haven’t shot in a while.”

“Six years,” he said, smiling. “I was pretty good once.”

Rainey pulled his Smith & Wesson .40 and aimed down the range at Paul’s target. The explosions were almost intertwined, they were so close together. Then Rainey hit the switch, and the target rolled slowly forward, stopping a yard away. There was a swarm of holes centered on the target’s face.

Paul removed the target and replaced it with a fresh one.

“Not
that
good,” Paul said.

“You used to fire with both eyes open, and you’re primarily right-eyed.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “That’s how I was taught.”

“It’s depth perception. Think of this barrel as your right eye. Use it like that, parallel to the other. Adjust for distance best you can. Just keep going and it’ll come. We
can put a laser aiming device on it the size of a double-A battery.”

“Nope. I better get used to it with what I got.” Paul was silent for a few seconds. “Nothing at all from the kids.” It was a statement of fact.

Rainey was reloading his magazine from a new box of shells he had bought at the retail store upstairs from the range. “I still think Tim Buchanan might remember something.”

“Maybe I should go with you,” Paul said.

“You’re busy,” Rainey said.

“That’s silly,” Paul said. “How long could it take?”

“I’ll deal with it. I don’t think they’ll be able to deny me in person.” Rainey met his eye. “Besides, I hope you won’t take this wrong, but he’s a kid. Don’t you think your battle scars might sort of put him off?”

Paul thought about it and nodded. “Scare the shit outta him, you mean.”

Paul’s second clip was better. Three hits, one in the center of the head. Rainey clapped him on the shoulder. Next clip, there were seven hits in the target’s center mass border. Paul stopped when he still had a half box of ammo left. “I still got it,” he said, laughing. For the first time in a long time he thought things might be breaking in his direction, after all.

He turned around to say something else to Rainey, but he was gone. Paul was alone in the range. Rainey had left his box of shells on the counter. Paul folded the targets and pressed them into the trash can behind his station. Then he picked up his and Rainey’s shells before he went upstairs.

29

E
VE
F
LETCHER FLUNG OPEN THE FRONT DOOR AS SOON AS THE MAIL
carrier lifted the squeaky lid on her mailbox.

“Gimme that,” she said, snatching the envelopes from his hand and slamming the door in his face.

The postman stepped down from the porch shaking his head. It was the first time he had laid eyes on her in a year, and then it had been the same deal. She had sprung the door open as if she had been there coiled and ready with her hand on the knob, pouncing when he opened the mailbox. Last year she had done it three days running, and then nothing until today. Totally wacky shit, he decided as he stepped onto the next porch. He would be ready for her tomorrow. “I’ll just toss her shit up on the porch and walk off,” he said out loud. “I don’t have to take this mess from anybody.”

Two blocks away agent Larry Burrows had been sitting at the console, where he had watched an overhead view
of Eve standing at the door waiting for her mail. “Missing
General Hospital?
She’s waiting for the mail with that anxious face we love so much.”

He had watched as she had paced the hallway for half an hour before the postman showed. Agent Burrows looked around at the four faces illuminated by the monitors. It was close inside the trailer, but from here on out, except for double-checking the post office at night, they would not leave except to follow Eve to her son. After she closed the door, she scurried back to the den and sat in her chair while she thumbed through the letters. When she got to the condominium brochure, she dropped the others into her lap and looked at the envelope. She held it with her left hand while she fumbled around on the tray for her glasses with the right. She put the glasses on and examined the envelope carefully. She seemed to inspect the flap before opening the brochure and thumbing through it from front to back. Then she removed her glasses and tossed the brochure into the trash box on the floor.

“I wonder what it means?” Joe said. “What’s the message? It has to be an all-clear signal. There’s nothing there.”

“Maybe it had something on it that only her glasses picked up,” Sierra said.

“I doubt it,” Joe said. He looked at the brochure photocopies and the copy of the outside of the envelope. The envelope said:

OCCUPANT
321 TUCKER COURT
CHARLOTTE, NC 28209

Joe looked at the return. “Motherlode Condominiums, on Madigan Street in Denver.
Motherlode
. Jesus, the man is amazing.”

Larry snickered.

Eve’s heart soared as she made her way to the den with the bundle of junk mail. Mr. Puzzle trailed behind her,
following her form, scent, or through some other instinct, his tiny nails ticking the steps against the wood floor. When the animal arrived at the base of the chair and barked to be picked up, he was ignored. Eve had more important things on her mind than a yappy dog.

She had lifted the message from the brochure in an instant, as a billboard with a single word might be absorbed. She smiled at the thought that the instructions were invisible to anyone except two people on the entire planet. She was pleased with how clever her Martin was. First off, the brochure’s arrival meant that her Martin was safe. It also told her where to go and how. It was a puzzle based on things they had discussed years before and she had memorized. Eve and Martin had always shared a love of games. When Martin was a child, they had started with Candyland and gone on to Sorry, Monopoly, checkers, backgammon, and finally chess.

She remembered the instructions. Where to go and where to get the key to the locker that would hold the new instructions. Instructions that would insure she would escape her tail and meet him in safety. By creasing the rear corner of the pamphlet he had signaled her to switch to the other identity at the airport in Dallas.

Eve was well aware that the intricately planned precautions were necessary. Martin’s enemies had unlimited resources. Martin had said, “It’s okay to be paranoid when there is good reason.” Since he had escaped prison, she had lived her life assuming they were watching, as well as listening to, her every move. Martin had explained how they could use technology, secret beams and the like, to spy on people. Martin was an expert in that. The Fletchers were surrounded by the enemy and had been since Martin had worked against the international drug conspirators in Vietnam and later with the DEA. But the conspiracy had corrupted the DEA, and they had framed Martin. The dark cabal was made up of Jews mainly, but other international businessmen as well. Once Martin was eliminated, they would have a free reign. Luckily, she had taught Martin all about the Jews early on.

Eve hadn’t actually seen any enemy agents lurking outside her house, but Martin had told her that they would follow her to him, and she believed him. In fact, she had been aware that she was being followed on several occasions. He was a noble soldier for his country, having even gone to prison as part of his plan to fight crime. He had been aided in his escape by other agents. And he had changed his face and identity to continue the fight. She knew that corrupted elements of the DEA, FBI, and CIA would find him and kill him if she made mistakes.

Eve dropped the brochure into the trash box along with the other mail from the day’s delivery. The yearly visits with him were the only thing she had to look forward to, except for her stories and Mr. Puzzle’s company, which grew less rewarding every day. The animal was seventeen and couldn’t last much longer, what with one part of him failing, seemed like, every week or two. She sat gazing at the screen where two actors embraced even though they were married to other people. Normally scenes of adulterous behavior would get Eve’s blood up, but today she wasn’t thinking about people’s shameless behavior.

She lifted Mr. Puzzle to her lap, stroked his head, and contemplated the trip. She would leave Mr. Puzzle with the veterinarian, who would take care of him. “He’s a sweet nummins,” she murmured. She wouldn’t be coming back, ever. She wondered what would happen to her things, but it was a fleeting curiosity. She would be with Martin on a beach in South America, where they would live in peace. They had discussed it every year during their visit. It would be paradise. Eve and Martin. Son and mother.

Eve reached onto the TV tray, found a small tin, pulled it open by hooking the ring on the top. As the five agents looked on, Eve dug a wet Vienna sausage from the can by using a knitting needle and then held it like a carrot while the little dog greedily nibbled sharp furrows into the end.

30

T
HE TWIN-MASTED, WOODEN-HULLED SAILBOAT MOTORED ACROSS
the harbor, between the rock-encrusted sloping walls of the channel. Once past the Coast Guard station, the
Shadowfax
sailed out onto Lake Pontchartrain, a gently rolling liquid prairie. To the south the lights of New Orleans burned yellow against the night sky. The moon was almost full and illuminated the sails of a few other boats against the dark sweep of lake. The wind was steady and from the east. Reid Dietrich unfurled the mainsails by moving levers on the cockpit’s console as he held course by maintaining a left-hand grip on the large polished-mahogany wheel.

“Shadowfax
is an odd name,” Thorne Greer said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s named for a character in a book,” Laura said. “The wizard’s horse in a fantasy novel, I think.”

“She came already named,” Reid added. “I might
have named her
Reb’s Nightmare
—which she is. But a wizard’s horse is appropriate, since sailing has a mystical, magical side. Look at the lights of the city, feel the breeze in your hair. Drink in the fresh air. Sailing her at night is as close to heaven as you can get with your clothes on.”

“Boats scare Reb. Always have. He’s like his father, he prefers solid ground beneath him,” Laura said.

“Beautiful night,” Thorne said. He turned away and yawned into his hand. “Peaceful.”

“We’re lucky we got the boat back while it was still warm enough to sail her in shirtsleeves,” Laura said. “Reid travels so much we don’t get out on it very often.”

“All that travel sounds exotic.”

“Not as exotic as hanging around with celebrities,” Reid said. “I live in motel rooms and on airplanes. But it’s the business I chose, and where doctors have money to spend, competition is fierce.” Thorne checked the tautness of a line. “Maybe that’s what keeps the romance fresh,” Reid said. “The absences.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I wish you weren’t leaving again until this is over.”

“She’s safe with you at the gate, isn’t she? I mean, you’re still listening to every creaking bedspring?” Reid asked mockingly.