John Ramsey Miller - The Last Family

Praise for John Ramsey Millers
terrifying debut thriller
The Last Family

The best suspense novel Ive read in years!
Jack Olsen

Martin Fletcher is one of the most unspeakably evil characters in recent fiction. A compelling read.
Booklist

The author writes with a tough authority and knows how to generate suspense.
Kirkus Reviews

Suspenseful. Keeps readers guessing with unexpected twists.
Publishers Weekly

This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

THE LAST FAMILY
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published August 1996
Bantam paperback edition / August 1997

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1996 by John Ramsey Miller.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-25852
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-78526-8

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words Bantam Books and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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This novel is dedicated
to my wife of twenty years,
Susan Dedmon,
whose love is the rock my life stands on.
And to my sons,
Christian, Rush, and Adam
for their blind faith
and the joy they have brought me.

There are people who I wanted to thank personally, who deserve to be mentioned. Few readers will recognize the names listed below but if you enjoy this book at all youll forgive me for thanking them. I owe them and others, no less significant but too numerous to mention.

My mother, Gene Ramsey Miller, Ph.D., 19241979, who died too young and unfortunately, and who taught me to bear disappointment and pain with grace, to trust my heart and to always follow my dreams. To my father, Rev. R. Glenn Miller of Oxford, Mississippi, whom I counted on for advice, understanding, and a sense of humor. My wonderful stepmother, JoAnn, who has always kept after me to write and rescued my earliest efforts from an attic cleaning.

To Andrew Morello, 19751992, of North Miami Beach, the son of our dear friends Joseph and Andrea, who taught me how truly devastating the death of a child at the hands of another can be. Andrews death was a specific impetus toward creating the desire to write this book so I could share that through fictional characters.

My mother-in-law, Pearl Dedmon, who dreamed my first novel was in her hands.

My most trusted reader and champion, authoress Shirley Yarnell of Cabin John, Maryland, who saw something in my work and guided me.

My agent and dear friend, Kristin Lindstrom, of The Lindstrom Literary Group in Arlington, Virginia, who weathered 130 rejections with steadfast devotion.

My thoroughly remarkable and patient editor, Beverly Lewis, who saw something she wanted to work with and who put so much effort in guiding me to make this book what it is.

To Katie Hall, who passed this book to Beverly Lewis with a strong recommendation.

To all of the people at Bantam Books who have worked so hard to make sure this book had a chance to find an audience.

I thank my patient technical advisers, Dr. Steven Haynes, the nationally respected forensic pathologist in Rankin County, Mississippi; Cecil Chip Devilbiss of Nashville, my surveillance and security systems adviser; Jerry Cunningham, my Lake Pontchartrain and nautical adviser; Brooks Harris of the Nashville P.D., who has been my model for police officers who strive for excellence in fighting crime; Tom Austin, fellow writer and chief of police in Santaquin, Utah; and last but not least, U.S. Marshal David Crews of Oxford, Mississippi. God forbid, any technical mistakes are mine alone.

To Gene Weingarten, now with The Washington Post, Tom Shroder and Bill Rose, editors with Tropic Magazine at The Miami Herald. They gave me my first assignments and encouraged me to go to fiction.

Special thanks to my dearest friends and mentors Pup and Lee McCarty of Marigold, Mississippi, who showed me where the rest of the world was. My brother Rush G. Miller, Jr., and his wife, Johnnye, my dear friends Kerry Hamilton of Los Angeles, Nathan Hoffman of New Orleans, Mike Horton of Miami Beach, William Greiner of New Orleans and Jay and Lisa McSorley of Charlotte and the Netherlands.

And I want to thank the supportive friends and family members whom I have been blessed with. I so hope their faith and encouragement is rewarded by the following pages.

John Ramsey Miller

A SOLITARY HAWK SHIFTED ITS WINGS AGAINST INVISIBLE CURRENTS and traced lazy circles in a blue ocean of sky. The shoulders of the mountain, like the soft contours of a sleeping woman, blazed bright yellow-green where fingers of sunlight caressed the features. Fog still hung in the cradles of valley. On the ribbon of trail that lay among the trees like a forgotten piece of twine, there was movement that caught the birds attention. Flashes of yellow, blue, and flesh-white skittered to and fro in a space where the ground was open to the sky. Children.

The Cub Scouts who had run up the trail were headed for a rock that was roughly the size and attitude of a forty-foot sailing ship, a granite vessel that had lost its mast and was in the process of slipping beneath the waves. They had instructions to stay in a group at Schooner Rock and await the leaders, who followed with the stragglers. The immense slab of rock angled from the ground to a point twelve feet above the traila perfect ambush point. As the scouts erupted up the path toward the rock, they slowed at the sight of a man who stood leaning against the rocks wall with his arms crossed. He was watching them and smiled as they approached. The man was wearing a khaki uniform and mirrored sunglasses. He had red hair and a matching mustache. The boys crowded around him.

Morning, Boy Scouts, he said.

Were Cub Scouts, a small boy answered. You a ranger?

I sure am, the man said, smiling. Ranger Ron. You boys having fun in my woods?

Yes, they responded certainly.

You boys know the difference between a white oak and a red oak?

Silence.

He held out two large leaves. See, one has pointy edges and the other has rounded ones. This one, the pointed one, looks like a fire if you hold it by the stem. Fire is red, thats how you remember. White-oak leaf has soft, curved sides like a soft-serve ice-cream cone, and thats white.

The closest boy took the leaves, and the others looked over his shoulder waiting their turns.

I want all of you to go back down the trail and find me one of each. Then bring them back and youll get woodsman merit badges.

The boys were excited by the prospect and all turned to run.