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:
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.
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!”
