Six Seconds

by Rick Mofina

Jake pulled him closer and held his shoulders. “So much it hurts.”

  Logan looked into his father’s face, surprised by what he found. His dad, his real dad was back. Logan heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes. His dad was telling him the truth, that he still loved Mom.

  A lot.

  “I thought you were going to stay mad at her forever.”

  “You know I saw some terrible things in Iraq. Terrible things.”

  Logan knew it was bad there.

  “I don’t talk about it much but I got banged up pretty good. I still get headaches, real whoppers.”

  “I know.”

  “The whole deal shook me up, crossed my wires. I got confused about things. Like that time with your soccer coach.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “Well, there are a couple of things I am clear on. One is I love you and, in spite of what I may have said when we left, I know your mom loves you, too.”

  Logan cried again.

  “She never stopped loving you and she never will.

  She’s a good mother.”

  Logan nodded.

  “Samara’s a good person, too. She risked her life in

  Iraq to help people, including me. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here, son. It’s that simple. I’ve just got a lot of thinking to do these days, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “The pope’s visit is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing, son. You’re going to do a good job. Samara’s going to take lots of pictures. I’ll be there. I’ve got to leave now for a couple of days, but I’ll be back in time. I won’t miss it. After it’s all over we can talk some more.”

  Logan nodded and brushed away his tears.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, too, pal. And so does your mom. Always remember that.”

  It was a little before midnight when Jake pulled out.

  Logan watched from his bedroom window, watched his running lights glow against the immense night sky.

  Logan watched until they vanished.

  Not long after, he heard the familiar soft tapping coming from the living room.

  He left his bed and cracked open his bedroom door. Samara was there, working on her laptop. As he watched her, he spotted her purse.

  Logan had a secret plan.

  He was sure it would work.

  It had to.

  55

  Interstate 15, en route to Las Vegas

  Maggie and Graham left the Los Angeles area for Las Vegas on Interstate 15, each mile taking Graham further out on a limb.

  Edging him closer to insubordination.

  But he’d taken steps to reduce the risk.

  He’d called his boss again but had timed it when he knew he’d be in a meeting, and then left another vague voice mail about a lead in Las Vegas. Then he called Vic Thompson’s voice mail and updated him with general information on Nevada. Then Graham advised Las Vegas Metro, and the FBI, he was coming to town.

  He’d played loosely by the rules.

  But soon he’d either have to give up, or make his own rules because deep down he didn’t care. Deep down he wasn’t ready to let go. There were too many unan swered questions and it was eating him up.

  As the road rushed under them, Graham went back to that day, back to the riverbank, staring at the boy’s body with Liz DeYoung, the medical investigator.

  “Mother Nature’s your suspect,” Liz had said.

  Graham considered her words as he watched L.A.’s urban sprawl melt into the Mojave desert. Maggie had fallen asleep beside him. Her window was open, breezes played with her hair. She wore sunglasses, white Dockers, a lavender T-shirt that complemented her figure.

  A cell phone was strapped to her wrist. A manifes tation of her faith that she’d talk to her son. She’d for warded her home number to her cell. She’d brought her laptop, she’d booked time off work, again. She’d nearly maxed out her credit cards.

  Nearly took her own life.

  Who was this anguished mother?

  Graham knew one true thing about her. She’d put everything on the line just like him. He felt the stirrings of a partnership just as a rig roared by, its air horn sounding a blast that woke her.

  Maggie massaged her temples, then checked her phone for messages.

  They were strangers yet comfortable with each other, letting silence pass in long stretches along with the miles. Maggie asked Graham about the Mounties and he handed her his badge. She ran her fingers over the gold crown, the wreath of maple leaves, the words Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the bison’s head en circled with the scroll bearing the motto.

  “I thought your motto was that you always get your man?”

  “No, it’s there, in French, see: ‘Maintiens le Droit,’ means ‘Maintain the Right.’”

  “Why the buffalo head?”

  “Bison kept the guys alive when they marched west, half-starved in the 1800s, for a buck a day pay.”

  “How come you’re not wearing a red serge and

  Stetson?” She smiled.

  “That’s pretty much ceremonial.”

  “Do they still make you eat buffalo meat?” “No, you can be a vegan Mountie if you like.” “They pay you more than a buck a day?” “Depends what day.”

  Maggie laughed, the first time she’d laughed since

  Jake took Logan from her. She wanted to thank Graham for that; instead she turned to the desert, watching it flow by. Graham asked her how she’d met Jake and she told him about high school. Then she asked Graham if he had a family.

  “My parents are still living. That’s it.”

  “Wife and kids?”

  “No kids. I was married. My wife died.”

  “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  He adjusted his grip on the wheel, looked down the road ahead.

  “I’d prefer not to talk about that, if that’s okay.” “No, sure. Sorry.”

  Graham’s phone rang.

  “Danny, Len Bowman in Banff. You heard we found Tarver?”

  “I heard. Is the autopsy done yet?”

  “No. You’d best get back here, Stotter’s not in a pleasant frame of mind.”

  “I’m working on it. Is that why you called?” “The wardens want the Tarvers’ campsite released.

  So, seeing that we’ve found him, do I have your verbal? We’ve been sitting on this thing for a long time, Dan.” Mother Nature’s your suspect.

  At that instant Graham was struck with an idea-an overlooked aspect finally revealed itself.

  “Wait! Len. Did Arnie process it with you?”

  “For blood splatter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think he looked in the tent, the SUV, scoped them and stuff.”

  “Tell him to do the whole area leading to the river.”

  “What? You want him to scope the woods?”

  “Remind him about the Icelandic study about outdoor application. Arnie will know. He’s the one who told me about it. After he processes the area, call me.”

  “I’ll do it, but it’s your head in the chopper when Stotter gets word. Because as far as he’s concerned this one’s been cleared.”

  “Tell him, it’s all me. That should make things easy for you and Arnie.”

  After the call, Graham lost his thoughts in the traffic. Maggie suspected that he had been discussing the Tarver case but didn’t ask him about it. Nor did she ask him when they pulled into a service center for gas and burgers.

  Later, when they’d returned to the freeway, they didn’t notice the car following them. A blue Impala with tinted windows and a front bumper that was scraped on the driver’s side.

  The same Impala that had followed Maggie a few nights ago.

  This time one of the two men in the car had affixed a small transmitter to Graham’s rental. The signal was strong on the laptop computer they were using to monitor Maggie and Graham’s movements.

  56

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Two dogs surfaced
from the skeleton of a rusted rig. Big animals with spike collars linked to long chains that dragged over the dirt yard and dog shit as they cau tiously advanced toward their owner.

  Karl Dixon.

  The dogs inched forward, ears down, growling, coats stitched with permanent scars. Half-starved and mean.

  Just the way Dixon needed ’em. The ones not mean enough were buried by the grease pit in the back. Dixon shifted the fat cigar in his mouth, set down the bowl of raw pig meat. In his other hand, he gripped a steel rod encased in barbed wire dotted with tufts of hair and flesh.

  As the hungry dogs moved nervously to the food,

  Dixon bit down on his cigar, exposing brown teeth, then raised the rod over his head.

  The dogs flinched and yelped.

  Satisfied, Dixon held off striking them.

  “Not today, boys. You still have a job.”

  He chuckled, tossed the rod, removed his cigar, spit and took stock of his kingdom.

  Desert Truck Land.

  Some sixty tractors and trailers encircled by a tenfoot chain-link fence topped with coiled razor wire. His dealership sat on an old auction yard where the train tracks severed West Hacienda, west of Las Vegas Boule vard and I-15.

  Dixon loved having power over everything in his world. His dogs, his ex-wives and his crooked deals. Walking back to his office, he tallied up last week’s sales to buyers from Montreal, Portland and Tulsa. They’d brought in some one hundred and fifty thousand, thanks to some creativity with the paperwork, the odometers and whatnot.

  Leave gambling for the rollers.

  Dixon never lost on a deal. And he never would. That’s how he ran his show.

  He was careful. No complications.

  He’d only gone a few steps before he stopped.

  “Now what’s this?” he asked no one.

  He squinted to the far end of the yard and the office, a no-frills wooden-framed rectangle with a noisy air conditioner atop a foundation of cinder blocks. A man and woman in a sedan went inside and had started talking to Wanda, the ex-showgirl who was Dixon’s secretary and girlfriend.

  Dixon was a long way off but saw them all through the large window that opened to the yard. His skill at reading situations arose from his days as a polygraph examiner for the military.

  Back in those days he’d lied about results in ex change for ten thousand dollars.

  As Dixon neared the office, he got a bad feeling about these strangers. The way they were showing records to Wanda, their body language.

  They weren’t truck people.

  They looked like cops.

  And Wanda was not the brightest light on the Strip.

  Dixon picked up his pace.

  The woman at the small, worn counter offered a sincere smile.

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  She seemed happy to have visitors, but Graham was not optimistic.

  Before he and Maggie had arrived they’d gotten rooms at a clean, reasonable motel off the Strip next to a wedding chapel. Graham made calls, then visited Las Vegas Metropolitan Police where he met Sergeant Lou Casta, with LVMP’s multiagency vehicle theft task force.

  After confirming Graham’s credentials and his Tarver tragedy slash insurance story, Casta said his detail had Desert Truck Land down for some com plaints, alleged odometer tampering. “Nothing strong enough to support a charge.” The local command and the humane society had DTL on file for ill treatment of dogs. Nevada Highway Patrol had a couple of records complaints, and the FBI was looking into an interstate complaint on some rigs purchased at DTL.

  “Other than that, you’re clear,” Casta said.

  Now, at Desert Truck Land’s counter, Maggie Conlin took the initiative and Graham figured a mother’s nonthreatening appeal might work with the friendly recep tionist, so he let her go.

  “Hi. Well, I’m hoping you can help me find my son.”

  “Your son?”

  “Logan Conlin. My name’s Maggie Conlin, I’m from Blue Rose Creek, near Los Angeles.”

  Maggie pulled a file folder from her bag, opened to pictures and documents.

  “Oh, what a good-looking boy,” Wanda said. “How old is he?”

  “Nine. His father, Jake Conlin, my husband, is a trucker. He took Logan with him on a trip and I haven’t seen them since. It’s been almost six months.”

  Maggie touched her hand to her mouth and blinked several times.

  “That’s terrible,” Wanda said. “What happened?”

  “Jake was a contract driver in Iraq and came home a little traumatized. Things got strained at home, you know.”

  “I know. My sister’s son, Kyle, was over there with the marines. Still has nightmares.”

  “I’m trying to find Logan and Jake. It’s possible they passed through Las Vegas and Jake may have sold, or traded, his rig. A Kenworth. Here’s a picture of him with it and here are copies of all the records.”

  Wanda looked and started to nod, each nod getting bigger as she looked again at Logan’s picture, then at Jake and the rig again.

  “This is all familiar. You know, I think we did do business with him. I think we did a trade for an older rig and some cash.” Wanda took one of the pages from the file and turned to the tall steel file cabinet behind her and opened the second drawer.

  At that moment, the office door opened.

  “Hello, folks, Karl Dixon. Owner operator. How can I help you?”

  He quickly eyed Graham and Maggie.

  As Maggie repeated her story, Dixon went behind the counter, placing himself between Wanda and the file cabinet, subtly bumping the door closed.

  “I see, well, can you folks help me with some ID? Wanda must’ve told you we get all kinds of people telling all kinds of stories so they can get some kinda deal.”

  He nodded at Maggie’s California driver’s license, but his head recoiled from Graham’s ID.

  “A Canadian cop?” His feigned warmth dropped a degree. “Now I’m confused. Is there some reason for police from another country to be here?”

  Graham casually explained the Tarver deaths, the insurance matter and the thread of the Conlins and how he and Maggie needed to talk to Jake.

  “Just a matter of getting pointed in the right direc tion.”

  Dixon took a second, then shot out his hand.

  “We’d better help you out. May I have your file?”

  Maggie handed it to him, but he did not turn to the file cabinet. Instead, he sat before a computer keyboard and screen.

  “All of our records are accessed through here, includ ing vehicle databases. I’m sure if there’s something we can find it.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said.

  Dixon was very smooth, Graham thought.

  After ten full minutes of clicking and searching, Dixon shook his head and handed the file back to Maggie.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Conlin, but we’ve got nothing matching your information here. Did you try the depart ment of motor vehicles?”

  “Wait, a sec. I don’t understand.” Maggie looked at Wanda. “You said they looked familiar. That you’d probably traded with my husband.”

  “She was wrong,” Karl said.

  “You didn’t look in the file cabinet,” Maggie said. “Everything’s in the computer. We get a lot of people with a lot of trucks. They tend to look the same.” “No, please. I have to find my son. Look some more. Please.”

  “Maggie,” Graham said. “It was an obvious mis take.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dixon said. “I wish we could help you. Fine-looking boy you got there, don’t you think, Wanda, honey?”

  “He sure is.”

  In the instant Wanda’s eyes met Maggie’s, some thing passed between the two women.

  An ache. A plea. Fear.

  Maggie didn’t understand and collected her file. “You folks have yourselves a nice day.” Dixon showed them his brown teeth in what he meant to be a smile.

  After Graham and Maggie drove off, he turned to

/>   Wanda.

  “You disappoint me. I saw you going to the cabinet.” “Karl, she’s looking for her kid.”

  “She was with a cop!”

  “I didn’t know that at the time.”

  Dixon grumbled something that sounded like

  “dumb bitch” before extracting the keys to his Cadillac from his pants.

  “I have to go to the bank, then I have to go to Frank’s.

  Don’t know how long I’ll be. Think you can find your brain while I’m gone?”

  The whole time Wanda watched him leave she kept turning a small card in her hand. The one Maggie

  Conlin had left from her motel.

  Maggie had penned her cell-phone number on it, too.

  Wanda kept turning it over and over, running her finger along the edge, wishing it were a knife as Karl finally vanished.

  57

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  From their booth in the family restaurant, Maggie bit back on her anger as she watched the sun set on the Las Vegas Strip traffic.

  “I just know they were lying at Truck Land about

  Jake.”

  “Dixon’s got a lot to hide,” Graham said. “So how can you just give up?”

  “Maggie, I explained all of this before we left Los

  Angeles.”

  “No, tell me. After coming this far, getting this close, how can you quit.”

  Graham set his coffee down, glanced at their plane tickets for the morning. Hers for California. His for

  Calgary.

  “I am not quitting. I am out of my jurisdiction. Since we left Dixon’s place my boss has called me twice ordering me home. I’m not sure I still have a job.” “Make him understand how our cases are linked.” “It’s complicated. Listen, no one’s stepping back from your lead on Jake. I told you, I spent an hour with Casta at Las Vegas Metro, then I spoke to the FBI and I reached Vic Thompson. They can press for warrants to seize all of Dixon’s records. It’s only the beginning with him.”

  “That could take weeks. It’s not a priority for them.

  Besides, I bet Dixon’s good at hiding things.” Graham didn’t respond.

  Frustration and fatigue had settled upon them like a losing streak. They left the restaurant and drove to their motel. Maggie watched the colossal hotels down the