He knew that something was getting wound tighter and tighter. Sooner or later something was going to happen.
Now, more than ever, Logan needed to call his mom.
As they ascended and descended through mountain passes, he saw Samara’s purse.
It had opened a crack.
Logan saw her cell phone and returned to an idea that he had been forming.
If he was going to act on it, he’d better do it soon.
Time was running out.
49
Blue Rose Creek, California
Daniel Graham was Maggie’s savior.
Standing alone in her kitchen making coffee, she studied his business card then glanced at her kitchen calendar, circled with dates for her psych sessions.
She didn’t think she needed therapy.
All she needed was to find Logan and hold him. Find Jake and talk to him.
Her overdose was an accident. She’d wanted to kill a moment, not herself. Graham had revived her will to fight, to keep her promise to find her family.
As the coffeepot filled, Maggie stole a glimpse of him.
He was on the sofa in her living room. He’d arrived saying he’d talked to Dawn Sullivan’s husband, that he had new information.
Graham checked his watch.
This was a mistake and he knew it, yet something kept him here. The first thing he should’ve done was alert Vic Thompson at the county sheriff’s department, and the FBI, to his Vegas lead. He could still do it and have time to make his flight to Calgary today.
Do it, then. Take care of business, then get the hell home.
So what was stopping him?
He looked toward the kitchen where Maggie was.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee floated into the living room and he resumed looking at the album Maggie showed him. Logan blowing out birthday candles. Good-looking kid. Logan at the wheel of Jake’s rig. The Conlins at Disneyland. The Conlins at the beach. Jake smiling. A happy family man. Maggie glowed. No question, she was pretty in these portraits of family bliss.
Graham had killed his chances for that kind of life.
He closed the album.
“Here you go. Cream and sugar on the side.” Maggie set a tray down. “What did Dawn’s husband tell you?”
Graham explained that it appeared that Jake had sold or traded his rig at Desert Truck Land in Las Vegas.
“Oh, my God!” Maggie said. “That’s the first solid information I’ve had.”
“Now I’ll pass this to the county and the FBI who can work with people in Las Vegas to follow this up.”
“No, wait,” Maggie said, writing in a small notebook. “I want to go there first.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to go to Desert Truck Land in Las Vegas. Now! With you, to follow this up. Together.”
“I can’t. I have to fly back today.”
“Please. This is the only real hope I’ve had. And it’s because of you. Please. We can drive to Las Vegas in three or four hours. Then maybe the people there will tell me more about where Jake went. What if he’s living there? I’m so close to Logan now, I can feel it! Please.”
Graham weighed the idea.
Everything about the Tarver case gnawed at him.
If he talked to Jake Conlin about Ray Tarver’s con spiracy story, he might find answers. Or more questions. But then there were the optics. Taking a civilian along on a case and into another jurisdiction beyond yours was not smart.
Neither was jumping into a raging river.
But Graham did it because he knew it was right.
And if it hadn’t been for the little girl, he wouldn’t be alive today.
He had to keep trusting his gut on this. Something was emerging, he knew it.
The logistics of Maggie’s idea were not difficult.
Graham could change his airline ticket, drop his rental car in Las Vegas, fly from there to Calgary on a later plane, maybe by tonight.
“I have to check out of my hotel, make some calls, then I’ll be back to get you in about an hour. We’ll go in my rental. I’ll fly home from there.”
Tears glistened in Maggie’s eyes. She hugged Gra ham and smiled.
Her first real smile since the day Logan vanished.
50
Pysht, on the Juan De Fuca Strait, Washington
Fog cloaked the north shore of Olympic Peninsula as Kip Drucker eased his SUV along the old trail road to the small cove.
He keyed his radio microphone and gave his dis patcher his location.
“Vanessa, Stan wanted me to follow up that CPB call first thing this morning.”
U.S. Customs and Border Protection had alerted the Clallam County Sheriff’s Department that a small craft may have illegally unloaded contraband from a larger foreign vessel in the Strait, which forms the border with Canada.
The report originated from a Chinese cargo ship. Chinese crew members had noted the larger ship was out of Yemen and was navigating suspiciously. The captain took a few days to mull over the incident before reporting it to U.S. authorities.
The Chinese crew witnessed the smaller craft land ing on U.S. soil some five to seven miles southwest of Clallam Bay, near Pysht. Wind-driven swells and fog had hampered an effective search.
“I’m going to investigate this zone,” Drucker told his dispatcher.
“Ten-four. And, Kip, I’ve stacked your other calls. First one is Chester Green. Wants you to go to his place for more on his stolen boat from the weekend.”
“Ten-four. Seventy-one out.”
Drucker had two years in as a deputy with the patrol division. He and his wife planned to start a family once he made detective. He still had a lot of course work before he could take the exam. His wife wanted to get going on the baby thing.
Pay attention, he told himself as he walked the desolate shoreline.
Drucker’s sergeant had instructed him to look for anything out of the ordinary. Should be easy as nobody lived out here. Nothing around for a mile or so in either direction. Pysht was beautiful. The name came from an old Indian word. Something about the wind, Drucker couldn’t remember.
The fog cast everything in gray and silver-white. It was surreal the way it blotted out the forest and the Olympic Mountains. Water lapped against the beach and gulls shrieked. Drucker contended with the smells of dead fish and seaweed, while welcoming the occa sional trace of spruce and cedar.
He’d gone nearly a mile, and had come to a large piece of driftwood where he’d decided to turn back. That’s
