by Rick Mofina
Jake after Iraq; Fatima’s terrifying visions; the reporter and his family; Samara; the strangers; the crash; Logan’s call.
Something horrible was taking shape.
Something terrible was coming.
Maggie kept moving but it was getting harder. The air above her shook as another low-flying heli copter thundered by.
Her progress became mired.
The road to the school was cleared of traffic, bordered on both sides with police barriers to hold back crowds in lines four or five people deep and growing. Those farthest back strained for a view of the route. The pope would pass by only a few feet away. Electric anticipation was written on the faces of chil dren, teenagers, men and women. Some older people prayed with closed eyes and rosaries entwined in fingers, their faces serene.
A smiling woman with a silver cross around her neck, and a large security tag identifying her as a nun, was moving along the police side of the barricades dis tributing programs to the crowd.
One was placed in Maggie’s hand. She studied the events, times, names, pictures, and was drawn to the group photo of the children’s choir that would sing for the pope inside the school.
The boy second from the right in the second row. Logan.
Listed as Logan Russell.
Maggie stared in disbelief. Tears brimming, she called out.
“Excuse me!” She waved her program frantically, asking others to help her get the nun’s attention. “Sister!
Excuse me! Please, I have an emergency!”
Word was passed along and in seconds the nun returned, leaned toward Maggie as people shifted in place, allowing the two women to talk.
“Yes, how may I help?”
Finding Logan was Maggie’s only thought, eclips ing Graham’s instruction to locate Blake Walker, com pelling her to lie her way closer to her son.
“My nephew’s in the choir.” Maggie tapped her finger to the program. “I’ve just arrived. I can’t reach his parents on their phone. Do you know where the children are right now?”
The nun looked down the road to the school, about half a block away.
“See the school parking lot?”
Maggie followed her attention and saw the lot, along with more barricades, scores of police vehicles, officers, police dogs, metal detectors, news trucks and cameras.
“They’re bringing them to the lot on a school bus with their parents.” She glanced at her watch. “Any minute now. They’ll go through the checkpoint, see? Then into the school. But I don’t think you’ll make it through the crowd in time. Ma’am?”
Maggie was not there.
She’d disappeared into the crowd.
As Maggie headed off, Graham spotted a county sheriff’s SUV parked nearby and asked the deputy behind the wheel for directions.
“The fastest way to Crystal Road?” The deputy looked harried. “Hang tough a sec.” He finished a call, racked his mike, turned away from the traffic and crowds to a vast empty sea of short grass in the opposite direction of the event.
“That’s Pioneer Field. Your vehicle should clear it. Go across it, south, that way-” he pointed “-and you’ll come up at a road and an old falling down home stead. Go left there for about a mile, then left again at the T-stop. That’s Crystal. The place you want is six or eight miles out. Should be no traffic there.”
A low-hanging dust trail followed Graham’s car along the soft, wind-dried grass, the gently rolling terrain. He came to the homestead, went left to the T-stop, then left again at a wooden signpost, blistered by sun and rain that said, Crystal Creek Road.
Graham accelerated, raising a billowing cloud as he roared down the empty stretch, punctuated every quarter mile by lonely postboxes, with names like Smith, Clark or Peterson painted on them, or displayed in crafted arches over gateposts that led to small houses, or faraway ranches.
Gravel popcorned against his undercarriage as he drove two miles, then three, then four. Five. No postbox with Russell, or Conlin. He studied each home he passed for a rig or trailer.
No luck.
On the horizon far behind him he saw the helicop ters orbiting the papal site.
The odometer told him he’d gone seven miles, then eight.
Was he wasting time?
What if Maggie needed him at the school? Chances were slim his phone would work out here. Hands sweating on the wheel, he rounded a bend and a valley spread below him. Graham descended into it, sped by a stand of cottonwoods at a stream, then crossed a railtie bridge.
He climbed out of the valley to a bluff that over looked it and the town and thought, one more mile and he’d turn around.
That’s when he saw it in the distance.
A bright red rig, parked under the broad branches of a cottonwood tree, next to a small bungalow, the site rising like an island amid the windswept land.
The mailbox crowning the post leaning at the entrance bore a name printed on paper in marker, sunfaded and covered with clear plastic, fastened by duct tape that was surrendering its hold.
The long grass lane reached some one hundred yards to the house, assuring anyone inside a clear view of anyone approaching. Graham expected that with a world event taking place a few miles away, no one would be home.
But he couldn’t be certain unless he checked.
He continued down the lane with every measure of cop wisdom screaming that he was going about this all wrong.
74
Aboard the papal helicopter, over Montana
As the papal squadron of helicopters pounded east over the Great Plains, Walker’s stomach roiled with dread.
In the wake of the latest situation reports, he feared he’d missed a key piece of data, something that could link the fragments of intelligence that were causing mounting concern in the White House.
Was a threat emerging?
As the world rushed beneath him in a patchwork of cattle ranches, wheat and barley fields, Walker racked his brain.
But it was futile.
The answer he sought was lost out there in the neverending grassland.
As they neared Cold Butte, he glanced at the pope and his advisors looking down from their windows.
Mile after mile, traffic was gridlocked.
Walker caught a glimpse of smoke billowing from a fire and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. Looked like a serious wreck due west of the town, maybe twenty miles.
Walker checked his BlackBerry. Montana Highway Patrol had just sent a preliminary report. Two fatalities. No IDs confirmed. Vehicle a rental. Investigation con tinues. MHP also reported a noninjury collision be tween a charter bus and RV. Walker had holstered his BlackBerry when it vibrated with a new message, a supplemental to the double fatal, addressed only to Walker.
The MHP note came with urgency, saying RCMP Corporal Graham needed to speak with Walker.
Graham?
Walker took a second to recall their meeting in his office.
The note said Graham needed to talk about his case.
That would be the Ray Tarver matter, Walker re membered. He’d had the Intelligence Division look into it, albeit grudgingly. They’d found nothing to support Tarver’s grand conspiracy.
Walker had given Graham a hard time in D.C., so he’d give him a call. Give him one minute of his time.
Walker reached for his phone and dialed Graham’s cell-phone number but couldn’t get through.
He’d try again later.
75
Cold Butte, Montana
Graham drove toward the house not knowing what he would face.
Given that the Tarvers had been murdered, that he and Maggie could’ve been killed in the suspicious car crash, every instinct told him to hold off.
He had no backup, no complaint history on the resi dence, no weapon, no radio, no jurisdiction and no choice but to keep going.
Besides, he really didn’t care much about his own safety.
As his car came to a stop, he scanned the area for dogs, listening for the tellta
le jingle of a collar or chain as he got out.
“Hello!”
Nothing. He whistled. Still no sign of a dog.
The grass under his feet was worn to an earthen path to the house, a yellow double-wide with bone-white trim. It had flower boxes under the windows. The redchecked gingham curtains did not stir when he came to the side door and knocked.
No response. Nothing but the wind combing the grasslands.
He knocked again, listening for sounds of move ment. Pressing his ear to the door. This time he heard a soft hum coming from inside.
The drone of a conversation.
He continued knocking with no response. It puzzled him because he could hear people inside talking.
“Hello!”
He walked around the outside of the house to the rear, coming to a small deck and patio doors. They were open to what Graham figured was a living room, judging from the view the curtains allowed each time a breeze flut tered.
He heard people talking in the house.
Graham cupped his face against the screen and called inside.
No response.
The prairie winds pushed the faint tapping of the distant helicopters across the plain while he peered into the house. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. Looking directly through the imme diate room, down a hallway, he saw a door.
It was partly open.
Enough to frame an arm draped from a bed.
“Hello! I’m Corporal Graham of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am checking on the welfare of Logan Conlin, or Logan Russell. Jake, Burt? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?”
The arm didn’t move.
Someone sleeping? Passed out? Hurt?
A new sound.
Somewhere in the house a telephone began ringing. It rang six times then stopped. The person in the bed didn’t move.
Under the circumstances, Graham believed he faced a life-and-death situation and drove his foot through the screen and entered. Knowing he could be taken for an intruder, he identified himself as he proceeded, his senses heightened.
The first room he entered was a living room with no one present.
Adjoining it was the kitchen.
Graham scanned everything quickly; the kitchen table was clear, clean. So was the counter. He glimpsed letters, bills, all addressed to Burt Russell. Graham passed the empty living room, a desk, a laptop, the TV-the source of the voices. Live news coverage of the papal visit. Before moving on to the occupied bedroom, he made a very fast sweep of the other rooms, calling out as he progressed.
The bathroom was empty.
The nearest bedroom was vacant except for card board boxes and a mattress against the wall.
The next bedroom was vacant but gave him pause.
Clothes scattered everywhere, small jeans, a T-shirt; next to the bed, a framed photo of Jake and Logan Conlin in front of a rig with the Rockies behind them. Jake was bald with a beard-aka Burt Russell.
As Graham moved to the occupied bedroom, the TV droned with a woman’s voice. Graham was focused on the bedroom and did not comprehend the faint mono logue that began:
“…I am Samara. I am not a jihadist…”
76
Lone Tree County Fairgrounds, Montana
Cold Butte came into view as the papal helicopter de scended on the small town.
Below, traffic had swallowed the community. Walker and the others marvelled at the site for the outdoor Mass behind the school in the Buffalo Breaks.
A one-hundred-foot cross had been erected over the stage supporting the altar. The venue was in a valley offering a natural bowl. Walker had advanced the site several times when it was empty, checking vantage points and rises.
Now, over one hundred thousand people were gath ered, awaiting the pope. His stomach lifted as the heli copter swooped and banked for landing at the Lone Tree County Fairgrounds.
After touching down in the rodeo park, the pope and Vatican officials were greeted by an assembly of local dignitaries. Afterward, papal security officials gathered behind closed doors in the main pavilion building.
Walker expected that they would first go through a very quick, final rundown of the pope’s agenda for the visit, assignments and areas of joint and specific respon sibility.
That didn’t happen.
Colby was on his cell phone. He’d been receiving a steady stream of calls from Washington, the gravity of the latest developments weighing on his face as he waved Walker over to join him in a tight group of Vatican and security officials.
The heat of their ongoing debate was intense.
Monsignor Paulo Guerelli, one of the most impor tant members of the pope’s inner sanctum, was shak ing his head.
“What Washington is suggesting is impossible based on the facts, Agent Colby.”
“I am conveying White House concerns, Monsignor. Please understand that in light of the intelligence reports, it is regrettably but strongly advised the Vatican consider canceling today’s events.”
“Is there a clear threat that will result in harm to those around the Holy Father?”
“No, we cannot say that with absolute certainty.”
“Have you found physical evidence or confirmation of some sort?”
“No, Monsignor, nothing conclusive yet, but urgent analysis is ongoing, arising from a number of disturb ing incidents that have the White House concerned.”
“Has the White House no confidence in its Secret Service?”
Colby let that one go. He was in the middle of a po litical firefight.
“Yes,” Guerelli said, “these incidents. You’re refer ring to the strange substances in Washington and here in Montana. And, the alleged plan for a strike extracted from Issa al-Issa.”
“Correct.”
“Have any of these incidents been linked?”
“No, not yet, but it’s felt the risk is extreme.”
Guerelli took a few seconds for consideration.
“Agent Colby, every time the Holy Father meets the public he faces risk,” Guerelli said. “In Seattle, we had two incidents that appeared deadly but ultimately had no impact on the Holy Father’s mission.”
“Yes.”
“The Holy Father has traveled the world and faced many threats. For some two thousand years the papacy has faced wars, attacks, assassination. It is not a weak institution that is easily frightened.”
Colby ran his hand over his face.
“But, Monsignor.”
“Your job is to protect the pope. Your team is doing it well. We request that you keep doing it in order for the Holy Father to complete his ecumenical work. Tell the White House we will now proceed. We’re running behind and the Holy Father is eager to meet the children of the choir.”
Guerelli and the other Vatican officials left to join the pope in a private room where he was reviewing his speech to honor Sister Beatrice.
“I don’t like this.” Lloyd Taylor, a senior agent, shook his head. “Think back to Dallas and how Kennedy refused the bubble on the car. Can we get a vest on him?”
Colby shook his head.
“We tried. He refuses it.”
“To cancel now,” Taylor said, “would not only dent the morale of the Secret Service, but it would embar rass the nation.”
Colby nodded.
“It’s beyond us. This administration is terrified. It would rather send the pope back to Rome pissed off than send him back in a coffin.”
Colby called a quick last-minute briefing of all the senior security people. They went through the pope’s itinerary and everyone’s responsibility.
Then they secured him into the popemobile and mar shalled the security vehicles.
Amid several streams of radio cross talk by the Secret Service, FBI, Lone Tree County sheriff’s dep uties and Montana Highway Patrol, the motorcade left the fairgrounds.
Walker was in the second SUV behind the com mand vehicle.
As the parade moved through streets lined with cheering
crowds, his heart started beating faster.
77
Cold Butte, Montana
Struggling to get to the school, Maggie crunched a foot here, banged a shoulder there as she pinballed forward, refusing to be halted.
She was very near to Logan. She could feel it. Nothing could stop her.
A helicopter thudded by at low level going east to west. Then another. The excitement mounted. Maggie contin ued moving through the crowd, listening to fragments of reports spilling from radios tuned to live news coverage.
“…we’re expecting the papal helicopter to land mo mentarily at the Lone Tree County Fairgrounds outside of town…the popemobile motorcade will take a threemile route from the fairgrounds through the town of Cold Butte to the school…after he visits the school the pontiff will go directly behind it to the sweeping valley known as the Buffalo Breaks where he’ll celebrate Mass for a crowd estimated at seventy-five thousand, no, an update, that’s one hundred thousand… among the ac tivities inside the school a children’s choir will perform three songs for the pope…”
Maggie navigated her way to the edge of the school’s boundary and as she looked through the crowd toward the parking lot she saw a flash of yellow.
A school bus fully loaded with parents and children had arrived at the barricaded checkpoint. Police and soldiers armed with M16s and wearing combat gear slowly guided it into the parking lot for inspection.
Two teams of sniffer dogs probed the bus while soldiers used extended mirrors to scrutinize the under carriage, and under the hood. Their serious work con trasted with the ecstatic young faces in the bus windows exchanging joy and returning waves to the happy crowd.
The bus was some twenty yards away across the street from Maggie.
She thrust closer to the barricade, ignoring protests of people who had claimed their spots at sunrise.
She didn’t care.
She pushed her concentration full bore from window to window to window.
She gasped.
Maggie screamed Logan’s name before the cognitive process was done.
He was on the bus!