The land was owned by Billy Lyons, a high-school friend of Winter’s. Billy was a lawyer who had missed the opening of the hunt because he was in the middle of a murder trial in Memphis. His other regular hunting buddy, the chief financial officer for a large securities firm, had pressing obligations that had him in London. Sean and Winter had decided to make it a family event and had rented the motor home to add a degree of comfort not afforded by the one-room wood-frame shack the three friends usually shared. The cabin was fine for a group of men, but between the wood-burning stove, mattresses that looked like they’d been salvaged from the side of the road, and the outhouse fifty feet from the back door, it didn’t rise to the level of comfort Sean thought Faith Ann deserved. And Olivia Moment Massey, their child, was at the stage where she walked where she chose to go, wanted to do everything herself, and, when frustrated, was vocal at a disturbing volume. Enough said.
Sean slipped out of bed and dressed in a wool shirt, jeans, and ankle-high muck boots. Closing the bedroom door gently behind her, she looked out into the galley where Rush Massey, her fourteen-year-old stepson, sat at the table dressed warmly for the day ahead. He had his fingertips on the page of an open book, the paper blank but for neatly ordered raised dots of braille. He inclined his head and his bright blue eyes seemed to focus on Sean.
From beneath the table at his master’s feet, Nemo, Rush’s Rhodesian ridgeback seeing-eye dog, lay with his chin on his forepaw. Without raising his head, he wagged his heavy tail at Sean.
“Morning, Sean,” Rush said cheerfully. “You heard that shot?”
“I sure did.”
“I bet you a quarter it was Daddy’s ought-six. I bet Faith Ann couldn’t shoot,” Rush said. “I bet Daddy had to do it.”
“You think that was them shooting?” Sean asked, taking a box of cereal off the counter and filling a bowl. “There are a lot of hunters around here.”
“I know it was.”
“And you think Faith Ann doesn’t have what it takes?”
“She is a girl,” he replied. “No offense. Girls don’t shoot like men and they don’t kill either.”
Sean smiled. If you only knew. “None taken. You want me to cook you some breakfast? Eggs and bacon?”
“I ate some cereal right after they left,” he replied. “I know it was them since the stand is that way and about six hundred yards off.” He pointed over his shoulder.
Sean put her hand on Rush’s head as she passed by him to take a seat across from him.
“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Would love one, dear son,” she answered, pouring milk into her bowl.
Rush rose, opened the cabinet, got a cup, and, using his finger to gauge the level of the rising heated coffee, filled it to an inch from the lip. After replacing the pot, he set the cup on the table before Sean and took his seat across from her. She looked into his eyes, and if she hadn’t known the orbs were painted acrylic, she would have sworn he was studying her.
Rush had lost his eyesight in a plane crash that had taken his mother’s life. Eleanor, a flight instructor, had been giving her young son lessons when a Beech Baron had entered the landing pattern from above and behind the two-seat Cessna and swatted the smaller plane out of the sky. Eleanor had managed to maintain enough control to crash-land with enough forward speed so Rush wasn’t killed. A section of the shattered windshield had sliced just deep enough into his skull to destroy both of his eyes without damaging his brain. Eleanor hadn’t been as lucky. Only her brain stem had been functioning enough to let her body live long enough to be put on a life support until Winter, then a deputy U.S. marshal, had arrived to hold her for a little while before the machine was switched off. Per her wishes, the doctors had managed to harvest most of her organs, and Sean had seen the collection of letters written by grateful recipients.
Eleanor’s heart had gone into an eighteen-year-old girl living in Oregon, who had since married and had delivered one child, whom she had named Eleanor. Eleanor’s liver had been sectioned and saved two recipients, both middle-aged men, and her undamaged kidney had been implanted in the wife of a car salesman who had three towheaded children and, according to the picture she’d included, a Siamese cat that wore a red collarat least on picture day.
Sean finished her cereal and set down the bowl for Nemo, who rose and lapped the milk slowly. She gazed out the window beside her at the opening in the trees where the logging road entered the woods.
Nemo went to the door and stared at it, whining oncehis signal for wanting to be let outdoors for a short walk.
Sean looked out the window again and saw something orange move at the edge of the woods. She smiled when she realized that it was Faith Ann, wearing a Day-Glo vest. The girl was alone, and she was without her backpack or her gun. As Sean watched the approaching child in mounting confusion, she saw the crimson lines on her cheek, like war paint made in what appeared to be blood. Then she saw that Faith Ann was crying.
Sean ran from the motor home.
As Sean approached, Faith Ann tilted her head, met her eyes, and stopped short.
“He’s dead!” the girl yelled.
TOO FAR GONE
A Dell Book / September 2006
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 by John Ramsey Miller
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Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33626-6
v3.0
Too Far Gone Page 40