The Last Family (53 page)

Thorne was the last one in the basket. The pilot, the navigator, and Brooks would stay with the
Cheetah
until a vessel could be sent out to tow it back. The helicopter moved over and picked up the ensign who had fled from the Cigarette boat.

“We’re heading in,” the man who operated the basket said.

“My daddy!” Reb yelled. “He’s out there!”

The man’s face reflected what they had all known when they had heard Martin’s voice on the radio. Paul Masterson was certainly dead, his body most likely vaporized along with Rainey Lee, the young policeman, Reid Dietrich, and Martin Fletcher.

“Son,” Thorne said. “Your father is gone.”

“No, Thorne!” Reb screamed, grabbing Thorne’s Mae West and shaking it. “He’s not! I know he’s not.” He looked up into Thorne’s face and the tears streamed down both cheeks. “He’ll die if we go away! He promised!”

Laura tightened her grip on him, but he twisted free. “He promised me he’d save Biscuit! He would never lie to me again. You look for him!”

“I’m sorry,” the man in the orange suit said. “We have to get this man back.” He indicated Woody, who was lying on a cot, conscious now, being given first aid.

“Do it,” Woody said through his pain.

“Look for a few minutes,” Laura said. “Paul’s a hard man to kill.”

They followed the
Shadowfax’s
reverse course for several minutes, the spotlight a white plate floating on the propeller-beaten surface below them.

“He’s not here,” the guardsman at the open door said. Reb was beside him, looking down, Thorne holding the boy back by the shirt gathered in his fist.

As they started the turn for home, Reb screamed and pointed. “Look!”

There was something just outside the spotlight beam, bobbing and waving. When the light moved a few feet to the east, it became Paul Masterson floating on his back with Reb’s birdcage propped on his chest.

“Well, I’ll be fried,” the man in the orange suit said to himself.

62

T
HORNE
G
REER FOUND
P
AUL IN HIS HOSPITAL ROOM SURROUNDED
by flowers. Paul’s left shoulder was wrapped in plaster, and his arm was immobilized so the collarbone could heal. Thorne was carrying a long white floral box.

Sherry Lander, seated in the room’s sole chair, was reading a magazine.

“Agent Greer,” Sherry said. “How are you feeling?”

Paul opened his eye and smiled. “Thorne, come in,” he said. “Excuse me if I don’t get up.” He had a bandage covering the right eye and the damaged brow. The plastic plate had absorbed the deadly blow, but the covering skin had been split wide-open and had taken ten stitches to close. He also had a plaster cast covering the shattered collarbone from Kurt’s bullet.

“Anything on Rainey?”

Thorne shook his head. “Nothing large enough to identify off the bat. Just pieces they’ll have to tissue-type
and Martin’s right index and middle finger attached to a bit of hand almost to the wrist. Divers found something that will interest you.” He put the floral box on the bed beside Paul, who opened it and pushed aside the tissue paper. Inside was what remained of Aaron’s cane gun. The ebony that had covered the barrel and the ivory handle were gone. The chamber and trigger were there, but the barrel had been bent twenty degrees by the force of the blast.

“Uncle Aaron’ll have my ass.”

“The breech and handle are fine. I think you can get a smith to make it good as new.” Thorne looked out the window and took a deep breath. “Joe’s on his way from Miami. Looks like Stephanie is going to get a promotion for hanging with Eve. President called Sean’s father personally.”

Sherry stood and put the magazine on a table. “I’m going for a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll get some brought up,” Paul said.

“No,” she said, “I need the walk.” She kissed his cheek as she passed.

The men watched her out the door. “Nice girl,” Thorne said.

“Think as long as I’m here, I should get something done with my face? I mean, the plastic’s cracked and they’ll have to replace it anyway.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Thorne said. “I’m leaving for the Coast this afternoon.” He looked out the window. “T.C. is working up a press release to plug the successful operation, the deaths of two of the world’s most dangerous men and the
Cheetah’s
successful role. We won’t be mentioned, naturally. Except for our dead who died valiantly.”

Paul gripped his shoulder because the movement hurt him.

“Bastard’ll get the director’s title for sure now,” Thorne said sadly.

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Paul said. “T.C. has a lot to answer for.”

“T.C.’s a political animal, Paul. He won’t get
splashed. Any evidence vanished with Martin and Reid … Spivey, I mean. Had Spivey lived, he would have gone silently into the night.”

“There’s no proof,” Paul agreed. “But I won’t forget. And neither should you.”

“I’ve had all the reality I can stand for a while. I’m out of here for La La Land this afternoon. My boss is going on location in France, and I’m planning to go along for R and R. Next time something like this comes up … don’t call me.”

“Call
you!”
He laughed and winced from the pain. “You can’t find this sort of excitement watching your celebrities sign autographs.”

“Money’s better, and I don’t need to be shot again to feel alive. My idea of excitement is gonna be tight swim-suits on the Riviera. I’ll leave the blood-and-guts excitement to guys like you.”

“I’m so good at it,” Paul said, smiling.

“Hey, you did all right … for an old man.”

Paul nodded.

“Well, so long,” Thorne said, squeezing Paul’s right knee. “As long as you’re going under the knife, why not have an extra lift to get those little wrinkles around the eyes out? Hollywood is always looking for rugged, handsome types. I know some people.”

Paul laughed. “Get outta here.”

Thorne paused at the door, seemed to remember something, patted his pocket, then took a minicassette player out and tossed it onto Paul’s bed. “By the way, I wanted you to hear something. Keep the Sony. I stole it from the DEA.”

After Thorne had cleared the door, Paul picked up the tape recorder and switched on the tape. It was recorded via laser beam aimed at a window. There was static for a second, then his son’s small voice talking to God about his love for his father.

Paul didn’t want to cry, because the movement made his shoulder throb.

•   •   •

Sherry saw Laura and the children as she was coming out of the cafeteria and knew at once who they were. Reb had the lion’s share of Paul’s features. Riding up in the elevator with them, she found herself staring at the boy. He noticed and smiled, at her.

“Hello,” he said. “We were in the lake bombs.”

“You must be Reb,” she said.

“Yeah, how’d you know that—newspaper?”

“No. I’ve been working with your father in Nashville. I’m Sherry Lander. I was Rainey Lee’s secretary.”

Laura smiled at her, and when their eyes met, Laura knew exactly who Sherry was. “When did you get in?” she asked.

“Early this morning,” Sherry replied. “I’m glad you all are okay. It must have been really terrible. I’ve been reading the coverage. Good Lord!”

Laura looked down for a minute as the memory of Reid and the fact of his death slammed home. “Yes,” she said. “Terrible.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Reb said. “Not really. But did you know there are sharks in Lake Pontchartrain? They come up the river. Could have eaten us all. We were lucky.”

Erin rolled her eyes.

“How’s Paul this morning?” Laura asked. Her eyes were kind and playful, and Sherry was relieved that she wasn’t going to have to play the secretary.

“Fine. Thorne was there when I left.”

Sherry stopped at the arch to the waiting nook, where a man was watching a game show. “I’ll see you later, maybe,” Sherry said.

“Don’t be silly, join us,” Laura said. Sherry shrugged and looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. Uncertain.

“Go ahead, kids. It’s room five-twelve,” Laura said. “Down the hall and to the left.” The children went down the hall and turned the corner.

Laura spoke to Sherry. “Come on. Let’s go see the old man.”

Sherry hesitated. “You need to have a visit without me in there. I’m leaving in a little while, anyway.”

“Don’t be silly.” Laura put her hand on Sherry’s arm and gripped it lightly. “I’d feel better if you would. I have nothing at all to say to Paul that I didn’t say last night. He’s told me about you. Not by name. Said there’s been someone in his life. I’m glad.”

“But I thought that maybe you and Paul … I mean, he’s better, and what he feels for me isn’t anything like the way he loves you.”

“He told you that?”

“He’s been in love with you since he first set eyes on you. Besides, I can’t possibly love him enough to fill in for his family. I just want to see him happy. He won’t be happy until he has you guys back.”

“He said that?” Laura smiled.

Sherry shrugged. “I’m a kid. I’ll find someone else—I don’t think I could be saddled to someone so set in his ways. But there won’t ever be anyone but you for him, and that’s a fact.”

The women hugged briefly, and the tension, if there was any, was gone for good.

“I’m glad, Sherry. I’m really glad he has someone like you in his life.”

Laura touched Sherry’s shoulder for a second, smiled, and the two women walked down the hall side by side.

63

T
HACKERY
C
ARLISLE
R
OBERTSON, LOOKING EVERY INCH THE CONQUERING
hero, stood at the podium, illuminated by a phalanx of television lights. A wall of cameras, both film and still, gathered footage for the world. T.C. was introduced by the attorney general and spoke in artfully constructed sentences that had been written by his assistants and approved, word by word, by his yes men. The operation had been called Dropkick for the press’s consumption. (“The public loves a classic military-code name,” T.C. had said.) Newspapers, magazines, and television news had played and replayed the death, destruction, and drama in New Orleans. Martin Fletcher and Kurt Steiner had been tagged narco-terrorists. Since the Oklahoma City bombing, the word “terrorist” had guaranteed attention. The biggest news had been the list of the DEA’s top-secret devices that had been used to bring him down and would be used in the future against others of
his kind. There were also hints of other advances too sensitive to name.

Paul Masterson’s name was absent from the text.

T.C. began by congratulating everyone (too numerous to mention) who had been involved. But even though he named a few people, it was clear he was taking full credit.

A veteran network newsman, a tall, narrow-shouldered man with acne scars and hair like a black tortilla glued to his head, raised his hand and stood when T.C. pointed to him. “Sam?”

“Mr. Director, are we to believe that all of this, including the bombs that killed”—he looked at his paper—“let’s see … twenty-two people—civilians in New Orleans, members of the New Orleans police, DEA personnel, the United States Coast Guard, twelve dead civilians in Dallas—that all this was the work of just two men? The same two men, Mr. Martin Fletcher and Mr. Kurt Steiner, responsible for up to some thirty other homicides over the past six years? And any number of other crimes, including drug trafficking, bombings, and contract killings, and—well, the list is staggering.”

“That’s correct, Sam. We’re not sure of the exact number in all related cases, but I’d guess that estimate is low, if anything. Martin Fletcher was the most dangerous terrorist we”—he looked at the attorney general, who stood smiling uneasily with her assistants on one side of the riser, and nodded at her—“at the Justice Department have ever taken out of action. And let me say that every effort was made to take Martin Fletcher alive.”

Robertson smiled. He felt the hero—hell, he was a hero. He had managed to capture most of the credit for taking a nightmare terrorist out. Inviting the attorney general to join him was an ass-kissing exercise, since she had not been in on the loop. The operation had been expensive in lives, but the public loved the drama of it. He was certain that no one could keep him out of the director’s chair now. Maybe there would be an even bigger payoff. He had been thinking that he could actually be
President, or at least attorney general, in the not too distant future.

“Mr. Robertson,” Sam went on, “I have had certain information brought to my attention that you also hired a man by the name of George Spivey, known to sources in the CIA as a cleaner, or hit man, to help in the capture of these two admittedly dangerous men. He was killed aboard the
Shadowfax
, a boat owned by the DEA.”

T.C. wondered how much Sam knew. He couldn’t risk stonewalling. “True. I can’t discuss this sensitive …”
The boat’s ownership traced back to us?

“Isn’t it true that he was put in place in New Orleans over a year ago and you paid him with DEA funds?”

“Mr. George Spivey was a military-trained professional and a patriotic American. These men he was after were”—he smiled—“terrorists. I have done nothing illegal, Sam. Sometimes it takes tough, not altogether palatable men to catch the sort of monsters who are threats to our national security, our citizens. I hired him as soon as I had identified these men, and paid his expenses. He was the best available to us.”

T.C. noticed the attorney general was fidgeting.

For the first time since the floor was opened for questions, no other hands were up in the room. All eyes were riveted on the veteran newsman and the acting director. The pros smelled blood.

The attorney general was physically moving away from Robertson—distancing herself. She seemed to spot someone in the wings, raised her hand, and then walked off the riser, followed down the hall by her assistants.

“Sir?”

T.C. tugged at his collar and smiled nervously. “Sam, maybe we should let someone else ask—”

“One more question, sir. Can you explain why, when you knew these two men were killing the family members of former agents of the DEA, you neither alerted them, specifically Special Agent in Charge Rainey Lee or the recently reactivated Special Agent in Charge Paul Masterson, nor any members of their families, that they were targets of these two maniacs who you yourself have
described as the most dangerous men on the face of the earth? Maniacs who,
after
you had identified them, still killed the entire family of Rainey Lee and a Cub Scout leader and mother of three. Didn’t you, in effect, sentence a large number of innocent people to death by your actions?”