“As far as Miss Burke is concerned, DNA testing is complete and the tests confirm that Miss Burke is not — I repeat — not, the daughter of Andrea Logan, the wife of Senator Lloyd Logan. Also, Miss Burke is not the daughter of the other person alleged to be her father, Sean O’Brien. From this point, all pending criminal charges against Miss Burke have been dropped and she is free to go. Before District Attorney Henry Carlsberg speaks from his perspective, I’ll take a few minutes for questions.”
A CNN reporter asked, “If Andrea Logan and Sean O’Brien aren’t Courtney Burke’s biological parents, can you tell us who is and where they are now?”
Sheriff Nolan said, “It is my understanding that her parents are deceased. She was raised by her grandmother, who recently passed away as well.”
A Fox News reporter asked, “Has this information been revealed to the Logan campaign?”
Sheriff Nolan nodded. “A brief summary was sent to them just prior to the start of this news conference.”
A CBS news reporter said, “Murder by hypnosis, or mind control, sounds like something covert intelligence agencies might try. Can you tell us for certain that the person who confessed to the killings, Mr. Nolan, was really killing by a post-hypnotic order, or is this part of an insanity plea?”
The district attorney stepped forward, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Nolan told us that he was recruited, brainwashed — if you will at Mr. Flanagan’s Virginia compound, and then sent in to murder the men. And as Sheriff Nolan said, Mr. Flanagan admitted to being complicit in theses killings.”
A throng of hands went up in the air, reporters talking over each other, shouting questions to the officials behind the podium.
I stood up and shut off the television, turned to Courtney and smiled. “It’s behind you now.”
She feigned a smile and said, “For the last couple of nights I’ve been having nightmares about what happened. I still see Dillon’s face, the smirk, as he was about to shoot me in the head. I can feel the cold and darkness of that coffin he buried me in, and smell black mud and sawdust. Maybe I’ll always be like that poor man Dillon hypnotized … maybe I’ll have PTS too.”
I shook my head in disagreement. “Maybe not. Maybe you’ll move on with your life and have more good times than bad, more laughter than tears. Maybe have a family of your own one day. You have strength, Courtney … more than you realize right now. You’ll never completely forget all the things Dillon did to you, but never … never let them define or dictate who you are or who you will become. If you let the ghost of his evil continue to eat at your heart like a cancer, your spirit dies, and Dillon wins. The way you defeat him the rest of your life is to forgive yourself. None of this, from the time you were a young girl through today, was ever your fault. He was mentally ill — a sick man who was patently evil. Those people prey on the virtuous, the good. You were a victim, and you were searching for a way to bring closure for you and for your grandmother.”
“And somehow I found you in all of this. With seven billion people in the world, somehow I found you. What are the odds? I don’t believe it just happened. I believe I was somehow guided here. And now you are the only family I have left.” She grinned, dimples popping. “So you’d better not go anywhere.”
“How about if we both go for ice cream? When was the last time you had ice cream?”
She smiled, wrinkling her brow and nose. “I can’t remember. It’s been a long time.”
“I know a place that makes it by hand. What do you say we go there?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Let me make a quick phone call and we’re on our way.”
“Okay, I’ll hang with Max outside ‘till you’re ready.”
She called Max, both bolting outside, running down to the dock.
I called Kim Davis and said, “I’m spending a little more time with Courtney. She’s healing, best she can considering what happened to her.”
“Take the time you both need. From what you told me, she went through hell on earth … and so did you. I’m just so grateful that you both survived, that you’re here. You’re all the family she has left. Be there for her, and I’ll be here for you if you need me, Sean.”
I said nothing for a moment. “Thank you, Kim.”
“Bye …” I heard her exhale deeply and she disconnected.
I stood on the screen porch, watching Max and Courtney sitting together on the bench seat at the end of the dock. She was chatting with Max like she was her new best friend. Courtney pointed as a great blue heron sailed over the surface of the river. I glanced down at the framed picture of my wife, Sherri, wishing she could have known Courtney. Sherri would have been such a good influence — such a great role model for Courtney. It was what Courtney needed.
What did I need? I had no idea anymore. My entire life — my identity, had been changed, and changed for the rest of my life. But right now I watched my niece heal, watched her rebuild and restore.
And that was enough.
102
Courtney stayed with Max and me at the river cabin for a week. We grilled fish on the dock, watched baby alligators crawl from their nests, eyes the shade of a lemon peel, and plop into the river for the first time. I took her out in the thirteen-foot Boston Whaler and in the canoe. We explored the St Johns and all its mystery and majesty. We tagged along with a whiskered elderly fisherman in a johnboat as he worked his trotline, catching and releasing freshwater stingrays, keeping the yellow-bellied catfish.
He told her about how the tides from the Atlantic have an effect on the river and its wildlife, how crabs were found thriving two-hundred miles inland from the mouth of the river. He told her about the unique history of the river — about the Indians who used to live along its banks until the Spanish arrived. Courtney asked questions and hung on to every word the old man uttered.
I took her to an oxbow in the river where a pair of eagles had built a nest the size of a small car in a large cypress tree next to the water. We sat in the canoe, Courtney in the bow, Max in the middle, and me in the stern, watching the eagles catch and bring fish to their young. We drifted up the tea-colored water of the quiet creeks that feed the river, creeks that smelled of honeysuckles and were tunneled with arching tree branches, white and yellow butterflies erupting from the leaves and wildflowers with the flurry of a snow-globe.
She stood in the boat, next to Max, letting the butterflies hover between her outstretched arms, touching the pewter beards of Spanish moss hanging as far as the eye could see. I watched her laugh as Max barked at a fat raccoon sitting back on its hind legs and using its front paws to pry open a mollusk. It was good to hear her laugh, to watch her spirit rebuild, to nurture her the best I could. I knew that somewhere out there I had a daughter, a young woman who was about Courtney’s age. I hoped my daughter was well and content with her life. But right now I had my niece. I had Courtney.
And she had me.
She turned back to me, a wide smile on her face, and said, “This is a cool place. It’s like nowhere I’ve ever been, maybe this is God’s little river. I can imagine a dinosaur around the bend.”
“We can’t go too far around the bend. It gets shallow.”
She smiled. “Well, Uncle Sean, I have a feeling you could get us out if we got stuck.”