The Last Family (54 page)

“Sam …” T.C.’s face suddenly looked like bleached bone. “I … I … I resent that insinuation! You have no proof for this allegation and I resent the implications.”

His assistant, a young attorney with a glued-on smile, covered the microphone with his hand, and he and T.C. had a few words.

“Sir,” T.C. said, “on the advice of counsel, and considering the question of national security, I must respectfully refuse to answer that question.”

“On
what
grounds?” Sam asked incredulously.

“On the grounds that … on the … because,” he stuttered, and wiped at his brow. Then he said, “Gentle … ladies and men, this press conference is over.”

The room exploded; flashes illuminated the dais, a hundred voices were raised in an attempt to get another question answered, and print reporters went running from the room to capture a telephone as T.C. Robertson bolted.

64

T
HE EARLY-MORNING SKY WAS FILLED WITH SOFT, BILLOWING
clouds. An eagle, her wing tips splayed like fingers, flew effortlessly just above the stream’s surface where the cold water was rushing over the smooth rocks. Above the cabin, patches of snow clung to the sides of the mountains, seemingly anchored by the quill-like trees.

Paul stood on the grassy slope in the blue shadow of the mountain with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. His unlaced boots were planted as he stood watching a great bird at hunt over the rushing water. On the right side of his head there were delicate rose-colored lines etched where the stitches had been removed. The black leather patch had been retired when Paul’s damaged skull plate had been corrected. The socket had been perfected and fitted with a glass eye, which, except for an inability to track, was a perfect match with the left.

Paul turned toward the porch where Reb sat on the
railing with his back against the upright support, spooling green line onto the fly-fishing reel. Wolf sat and watched him anxiously. Reb, his young face illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, turned and beamed at his father.

“There’s your eagle on her morning run, Reb,” Paul yelled, and he pointed at the bird as it dived, flared for a split second over the stream where the water roiled white against the rock, and plucked a trout from the water. Wolf barked and watched cock-headed as the majestic bird soared off over the trees with the gleaming curve of gray locked in her talons.

Reb waved that he’d seen it. Paul waved back. He could see motion through the kitchen window as Laura busied herself with breakfast and Erin watched. Laura had joined them the day before for the final two days of their children’s visit. Paul hoped the kids would spend more time in Montana and grow to love it as he did. Laura, too.

To say her paintings had been a hit in Germany was an understatement. The German critics had embraced her, the show had sold out, and she was anxious to start another series. In fact, it seemed the most important thing in her life, aside from the children. Whatever hope he had held that they might pick up where they had left off before his accident six years earlier had been put on hold. He was welcome to visit New Orleans as much as he liked, but whether or not he and Laura would share the master bedroom was up in the air. That move, if it ever came to pass, would take time.

In the shadow of danger, during the days waiting for Martin to move, and in the glow after it was all over, both had seemed to believe that they could start up again. But with the sense of crisis gone there had been a shift. Now she had had several months to reflect, to think about her life. They had talked it over in the hospital as he was going through the surgeries and the recovery. Before, he had been her protector. Now she didn’t need him in that role. Truth was she didn’t know where he would fit in within the parameters of her life. She realized that she didn’t truly know him anymore. Laura was independent,
certain. Defining a relationship would take time, he decided. If there was to be a relationship, a commitment for a future as a family, their connection had to be built on new ground. After six years alone he had learned to be patient.

Unlike Laura, he wasn’t sure what he wanted next. He did know he couldn’t stay hidden on the mountain as he had before. He was ready to live again.

Paul took a deep breath, tossed the last drops of coffee into the air, and walked back up the slope toward home with the cup rocking gently from his trigger finger.

About the Author

J
OHN
R
AMSEY
M
ILLER’S
career has included stints as a visual artist, advertising copy writer, and journalist. A native son of Mississippi, he now lives in North Carolina with his wife and sons and writes full-time.