by Rick Mofina
10428 Suncanyon Rise, Blue Rose Creek, California.
Homeowners: Jake amp; Maggie Conlin.
Bingo.
Graham steepled his fingers to think for a moment. Then he went online to check out flights to Los
Angeles.
41
Blue Rose Creek, California
Across the country, Maggie Conlin was losing hope. She felt it slip from her as Fatima Soleil was lowered into the ground of the Whisper Wood Cemetery, buried in a plot that overlooked an orange grove at the county’s edge where a small group had gathered for her funeral. One by one they dropped roses on her oak coffin. After the service Maggie went to the reception in the community hall of Fatima’s mobile-home park. Maggie didn’t know the mourners; most were older women,
Fatima’s neighbors.
But she felt obligated to be there.
Maybe because she’d been with Fatima at the end of her life.
Maybe because she needed to understand Fatima’s last words.
“Your son is alive…but he is in danger.”
Whatever Maggie was seeking, she didn’t find it at the grave site, or among the mobile-home widows wearing overapplied makeup, too much perfume and chewing sadly on egg salad sandwiches.
She couldn’t stay.
Maggie hugged Helga then left.
She drove fast but couldn’t escape her mounting fear, or the darkness that had engulfed her since Jake had taken Logan.
What did Fatima’s death gasp mean?
“There is a woman…fire, explosions, destruc tion…she is carrying a child…the child is dead.” Maybe it meant nothing?
Was it real? Maybe Fatima had hallucinated her vision? She had been sedated. An IV was delivering drugs into her system at the time.
Maggie knew about drugs.
On her passenger seat her open purse revealed the tip of the bottle of sedatives her doctor had prescribed in the weeks after Jake and Logan had vanished. Maggie didn’t take them often but when she did they numbed her pain.
Helped her rest.
Let her be with Logan and Jake in her dreams. A horn blasted. Maggie jumped. She had veered into the next traffic lane. She steered back safely and ex haled. Pay attention, she told herself as she came to the freeway exit for Blue Rose Creek.
She dreaded returning to her empty house, where the only thing awaiting her was despair. She still couldn’t escape her paranoia that something was gaining on her, couldn’t escape the raw, sick feeling that her hope of ever seeing Logan and Jake again had somehow been lost.
Buried with Fatima’s casket.
What if they’re dead?
Stop thinking like that.
She had to go somewhere. To clear her mind. Maggie brushed away her tears as she pulled into a large family restaurant with a gigantic U.S. flag waving in the breeze. She went inside to a table near the win dow, touched the corners of her eyes and searched the freeway traffic.
“Are you okay, dear?” the waitress asked. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“What can I get you?”
“Just tea, please. Whatever you have is fine.” “Coming up.”
Maggie struggled to think of something positive but it was futile. She’d heard nothing from police. The last contact she’d had from the private investigator was an invoice. No word from the courts. Nothing from the lawyer. Nothing from Logan’s school, his doctor. Re porters remained indifferent to her case. Her online searching had led nowhere. Support groups were sym pathetic and had worked hard to help but nothing had surfaced that would lead her to Logan and Jake.
What more could she do?
Her body sagged.
What more could she do? Nothing. She had nothing.
She was alone.
Maggie swallowed, fighting not to lose it right there at her table.
A teacup, saucer and spoon rattled.
“Here you are. Some nice tea. If you want anything else, just wave.”
After the waitress left, Maggie spotted several women at the far end of the restaurant.
Soccer moms from Logan’s team.
They were subtly nodding as scraps of whispered conversations spilled her way.
“…yes, that’s her…Logan’s mom…should go over there…”
No, please. Today of all days. Leave me alone, please.
She couldn’t face them.
She fled to the restroom, thankful it was empty apart from the stranger in the mirror with worry etched in her face. Her ordeal was exacting such a toll she was barely recognizable to herself.
“Maggie?”
Dawn Sullivan had entered. She and her mechanic husband, Mac, had moved to California from Dallas a few years ago and their boy, Arlo, played on Logan’s team. “Hello, Dawn.”
“So it is you.” Dawn joined her in the mirror. “My Lord, it has been ages, hasn’t it?”
“Quite a while, yes.”
“So how you all holding up?”
“To be honest, not so good, today.”
“You just hang in there.”
“Thanks, I’ll do my best.”
“You know, my sister’s divorce from the jerk she married nearly killed her. Custody can get ugly, but she survived and was stronger for it.”
“Jake’s not a jerk. And we aren’t divorcing.” “Sorry. It just seemed so obvious things were headed there after his blowup on the field that day-then him leaving you and all.”
“That’s not right, Dawn.”
“Damn straight it’s not right, what with Jake seeing another woman and all.”
“What?”
Maggie turned to Dawn.
“I’m sorry, but it took some kind of nerve for him to accuse you of-”
“What did you say?”
Dawn turned to assess Maggie from her head to her shoes.
“My Lord, you really didn’t know?” Dawn touched her shoulder. “Sweetheart, we thought you knew.
Everyone knows.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Some of Mac’s trucker buddies saw Jake at a bar with a woman a long time back, then again a couple months before he left you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your husband was stepping out on you, that’s what it means.”
“No, there’s got to be a mistake. Where did they see him?”
“No mistake. Those guys knew Jake. I think it was
Bakersfield first.”
“What?”
“Then it could’ve been a truck stop outside of Las Vegas. Or both in Bakersfield. No matter. They defi nitely saw your husband with another woman.” “Dawn, tell me exactly what you know?” “They said they saw Jake with a woman and they were together.”
“No, no. That can’t be. Jake had problems after Iraq, but nothing like that.”
“Honey, he’s a trucker. And some men live other lives on the road.”
Maggie felt the earth shifting under her feet, felt the room spin.
“No, this can’t be right. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”
“Lord if I know. Mac’s friends said she was darkhaired. Pretty. Does it matter? The point is, we all heard about what happened to you and now it’s going round that you’re talking to psychics. Good Lord.” “Dawn, please.”
“Now, Maggie, listen to me. I’m telling you, woman to woman, you have to let this crap with Jake go. It’s gone on way too long.”
“You don’t understand a single thing about me.” “Sugar, I understand way more than you think. See, before I met Mac, I went down the same road you’re on, only my asshole was named- Oh, forget it. Most men are born assholes. They should all have it for a first name.”
“Dawn, stop. Please.”
Maggie seized her purse to leave. Dawn held her arm gently.
“You’ve got to take charge, girl. Talk to a lawyer, go for custody of your boy, start proceedings.”
“Let go of me, I’ve heard enough.”
“I am trying to help you with the benef
it of my ex perience.”
Maggie’s fingers clenched her purse. She invaded
Dawn’s space and dropped her voice. “Let go of me or I’ll break your fucking arm.”
Dawn’s jaw dropped as Maggie shook her off. Maggie stormed out of the restaurant then left three feet of burning rubber as she exited the parking lot. She drove home in a swimming fog, her ears pounding with rage and fear.
Another woman.
In her heart she couldn’t believe Jake would cheat on her. In spite of everything after Iraq she had never even considered the possibility.
Had he really taken Logan and left her for another woman?
It couldn’t be true.
Why didn’t anyone tell her? Why didn’t the private investigator know? Why didn’t police know? Why didn’t the support groups looking into her case know? Why didn’t SHE know?
Maggie’s self-recrimination intensified as she un locked her house. Her knees were buckling. She slammed the door shut, her back thudding against it, her dress bunching up behind her as she slid to the floor. Defeated.
Her fears encircled her, edged toward her, snarling, growling, another woman, a casket descending, a dying psychic’s visions of a woman carrying a dead child, and a video of the wrong boy.
A great banshee wail erupted from Maggie as she surrendered to the darkness, remaining as still as death on the floor with her back to the door.
Until night came for her.
She didn’t know how many hours had passed by the time she finally got to her feet. Something was in her hand. She gripped it hard as she floated from room to room, images swirling in a tear-streaked fog. In Logan’s room she ran her fingers along his small desk, the books lining his bookshelves, his scale models of racing cars, warships, the posters of his heroes, and
Jake smiling by his rig in Iraq. She opened his closet to T-shirts, khakis and jeans, touching a Dodgers jersey to her face, inhaling Logan’s scent.
I love you so much.
She went to the master bedroom and stood in it, feeling herself floating in the cool darkness before she went to their closet. She touched one of Jake’s flannel plaid shirts to her cheek. She could sense his cologne, feel him.
Hear him.
She reached to the top shelf. She knew it well, knew where everything was because she’d put most of it there. She searched the odds and ends, old files, old books, old purses and photos before locking on to the thing she needed.
Tears slid down her face as she went to the kitchen for a candle and bottle of wine, her arms cradling ev erything as she moved to the couch in the gloom of the unlit house.
She lit the candle and inserted a DVD into the player. Maggie steeled herself for the remembrance of hap pier times as images of her wedding to Jake played before her, images of buying the house, painting the walls and each other. Memories of being aglow with pregnancy, her belly swollen. Logan’s birth, his first birthday, his first steps, family vacations to the beach, Disneyland. Jake with a new rig, Jake with Logan on his shoulders. Her own last birthday, a cake glimmering with candles. Logan and Jake serenading her with “Happy Birthday.” “I love you, Mom.”
Maggie froze the frame and knelt before the screen, traced her fingers over Logan’s face.
Where are you? I want to be with you. We can be together again. Where are you?
Something rattled in her hand.
Her sedatives. Over three-dozen powerful pills. She stared at the bottle. She wanted to end her pain.
She wanted her life back.
Logan.
Book Four:
The Perfect Weapon
42
Blue Rose Creek, California
The hydraulic flaps of Graham’s jet groaned as Southern California’s suburbs streamed below as far as he could see.
The landing gear grumbled down and locked for a smooth landing.
As the plane rolled to the terminal, Graham resumed questioning his decision to fly here. He now had a Cali fornia link to Blue Rose Creek, which was the final entry in the notebook he’d found in Tarver’s tent in the Rockies. Something was emerging. But what? He could be dead wrong about all of it.
What if Blue Rose Creek was nothing but useless data from an oddball reporter who chased wacky con spiracies and probably died accidentally with his family in the mountains?
What if it was nothing more than that?
What if it wasn’t?
Where’s Tarver’s laptop? Who was that stranger with him?
Don’t hurt my daddy.
There had to be something to this. Graham rubbed his eyes and the back of his neck as he waited at the luggage carousel. After grabbing his bag he climbed into the car rental shuttle. If he was going to clear this case, he needed to talk to the Conlins.
As the shuttle wheeled from LAX, he checked his cell phone for messages.
Before leaving Washington, he’d made a number of calls. The first was to his boss in Calgary, where he left a brief message about a good lead that could break the case. “I have to leave Washington. I’ll keep you posted.”
Then he called the cell phone of Secret Service Agent Walker and left a message. Graham hoped to clarify matters and seek any help on the California lead. Walker hadn’t responded.
Graham had also called ahead to the county sheriff’s office and gave a youthful-sounding deputy named Tillman his regimental number and a summary of his business, including the Conlins’ address, which Till man checked.
“Oh, you should talk to Detective Vic Thompson.”
“Why? Is there an investigation?”
“I don’t know all the details. A custody thing, or something, Vic’s out right now. I’ll put you through to his voice mail.”
“Wait, could I get a complaint history on the address?”
“Sure, I’ll get back to you, Corporal Graham.”
That was some five hours ago and not a word from Thompson or Tillman.
After getting into his rented car, Graham called again and left messages with Thompson and Tillman. Noth
Six Seconds 271 ing. Screw it. Graham decided to proceed. He’d come this far and didn’t have time to wait around. He con sulted his map, selected the best freeway to Blue Rose Creek and navigated through L.A.’s traffic.
Sure, he was going way out on a limb.
He hadn’t heard back from his boss in Alberta; maybe his vague message had bought him some time. Graham had not requested permission to follow infor mation to California. Why give them the chance to say no? Besides, he didn’t recall any travel restrictions being placed on him. A weak defense but he needed to see this case through and the clock was ticking on him.
About an hour later he came to the exit for Blue Rose Creek and made his way through the serpentine streets of the Conlins’ neighborhood. It appeared to be a middle-class suburb of well-kept homes with trim lawns and palm trees.
Graham hadn’t called ahead.
He didn’t want to give the Conlins advance notice that he was coming. He found that he got a better read off people when he surprised them.
The Conlins lived at 10428 Suncanyon Rise in a stucco bungalow set back from the street. It had two palms, neat shrubs and a red tile roof. A small Ford was parked in the carport. Next to it, a vacant parking pad, large enough to accommodate an RV. Nice-looking place, Graham thought. He drove by, down the street and well out of sight before he parked and got out of his car.
In the distance he heard children’s laughter and the splash of a pool as he walked to the house. Breezes carried birdsong and something sweet-smelling as he approached the front door and rang the bell. The house was silent.
A pair of swallows blurred by.
Graham glanced at the newspaper sticking out of the mailbox, at the snippet of headline about the pope’s U.S. visit, which was underway.
Neglected paper and no sound coming from the house.
Not good.
A sign that no one was home.
He knocked hard on the door.
&n
bsp; Nothing.
Graham stepped to the side of the door, shaded his eyes from the glare and peered through the window but saw nothing.
Clank.
What the-? Metal against metal. Came from the side of the house. Graham set off to investigate, walking along the paved driveway and under the carport, spot ting the iron gate to the back. It was unfastened and clanging against the latch.
The house was emitting a soft low hum.
What was that?
Beyond the gateway Graham saw a small backyard and the walk to the rear door.
“Hello!”
Nothing. No dog. Nothing.
He called again, giving it a long moment before going to the back door. He rang the bell and called out again.
“Hello!”
Nothing.
Again, he pressed his face to a window, cupped his hands near his eyes and looked into the house.
He saw the hardwood floor of the kitchen, had a partial view of chairs, a table, a dishwasher, countertop. Something was droning. Farther along he saw a hall way, a living room, then he glimpsed a hand.
A hand?
On the floor. Attached to an arm that reached into the hallway.
Someone was on the floor. Someone unconscious.
“Hello!”
Should he kick the door? He had limited jurisdiction. He reached for his cell phone, pressed the Conlins’ number, banging on the glass while it rang. He could hear it ringing in the house and hung up when a recorded message answered.
Graham went to the door and knocked hard, then tried the handle.
It opened.
Odd.
Graham considered his next move, then stepped inside.
“Hello!”
Bracing for a possible intruder, he made his way to the person on the floor, scanning hidden areas, wishing he had his gun.
It was clear.
A woman in her early thirties was on the floor. Un conscious.
Graham knelt down and checked for a pulse. Noth ing. He had trouble hearing over the deep hum. It was the television. He pressed his ear to her chest again. This time he was certain.