It was after 3:00 a.m. when he got to Cold Butte, got down Crystal Road, then turned into their lane. He took care to crawl to a near-silent stop next to the house, without waking Logan and Samara.
Hungry, Jake helped himself to a slice of apple pie. As he ate, his problem gnawed at him until he was interrupted by a soft ping in the living room.
Samara’s laptop was on.
That never happened. She never left her computer open like that. Guess she didn’t expect him home. The screen bathed the room in soft blue.
Jake had an idea.
374 Rick Mofina
After he’d finished his pie, he went to their bedroom and checked on Samara. She was asleep. In the room’s dim light he saw the outline of her tailored suit hanging on the closet door.
Jake went to Logan’s room.
The little guy was sawing logs.
A small Bible and rosary that he wanted the pope to bless waited on his nightstand. Logan’s new suit was on the doorknob in anticipation of the visit.
Then it hit Jake full force. It really sunk in.
His son was going to sing for the pope!
Jake swelled with pride and he blinked several times then closed Logan’s door.
Jake turned to the living room.
He’d reached a decision and pulled out his wallet, thumbing through a collection of IDs and business cards, until he found a worn one for:
Stobel and Chadwick
It was Maggie’s card; it had her business e-mail, and her home e-mail was penned on the back. He sat before Samara’s laptop and logged in to his Internet e-mail account. Waiting for the connection, he no ticed her screen saver. Big photos of Samara’s hus band and son stared at Jake, until the screen filled with his e-mail site.
Maggie, Jake started, I don’t know where to begin. I don’t dare expect you to ever forgive me for what I’ve done. All I can hope for is that maybe you’ll understand. First, I’m going to bring Logan home to you…
For the next half hour, the sound of a tapping key board broke the silence as Jake emptied his heart into his letter. When he finished, he read it over. Satisfied, he pressed Send.
The account’s completion bar showed the e-mail going through, until it reached ninety-nine percent, then the machine suddenly shut down.
Some kind of glitch?
Jake considered what he might do, when the machine restarted itself. A symphony of bleating and whirring as images blurred by.
What the heck? What kind of computer was this? It was unlike anything he’d seen. A lot of Arabic, then something just plain weird.
A video popped up, accompanied by a series of timers, some Arabic writing next to it. Then a series of pop- ups, ongoing chat in Arabic. The computer was doing strange things.
A video started.
Jake froze.
Samara was in it.
“What the hell?”
She was wearing a white hijab, sitting with clasped hands before her on a plain wooden table. A framed photograph of her son and husband came into view.
“I am Samara. I am not a jihadist.”
Jake’s jaw dropped. Ice shot up his spine. His gut convulsed with the collision of disbelief and knowing.
As the video played, the pieces locked together.
Jake knew.
Iraq.
The papal visit.
All her time on this computer, her long-distance calls and private conversations.
“And it is for these crimes that I deliver my widowmother’s wrath. For these crimes you will taste death in your country…”
This was Samara’s suicide video.
She was security cleared as medical staff for the visit. She would get close to the pope.
God, what have I done! I’ve got to get Logan out of here! Call the FBI! We have to stop-
A flash, movement of light; a shadow blurred on the screen and Jake felt a soft punch to his throat.
What?
It hurt.
He couldn’t swallow.
He pressed his hands to his throat and something warm and wet cascaded through his fingers. The computer and the room began to spin. Jake’s hands were coated with blood. He turned, fell to the floor.
He saw Samara standing over him.
She held a large serrated knife and watched in silence as Jake’s life slipped away.
Calmly she slid her arms under his, locked them in front and dragged him into their bedroom. Straining, she lifted his corpse onto his side of their bed and covered him with sheets.
Taking pains not to wake Logan, she got cold water, dish soap, a plastic pail and washed away the blood.
She glanced at the faces of Muhammad and Ahmed on her computer before shutting it off.
Nothing would stop her from keeping her vow.
It was down to hours now.
64
Faust’s Fork. Near Banff, Alberta, Canada
Campsite #131.
The Tarver family site.
Still cordoned by yellow tape.
Stepping from his truck to stretch, Royal Canadian
Mounted Police Corporal Arnie Danton took in the scent of pine forests, the view of the majestic Nine Bear Range and the rushing Faust River before he began his preparations.
He used the remaining daylight to set up, going to the back of his truck, pulling out his lamps, his cover alls, his gloves, and arranging his solutions, his cameras.
Then he sat on the tailgate and ate his dinner, a sub sandwich, potato chips with a bottle of water and a peanut butter cookie, chewing contentedly as he waited for night.
He needed the darkness.
Sitting alone with the rush of the river for company, he thought of Graham. He felt sorry for the guy and for what had happened to his wife. That’s why Danton was here on his own time doing him a favor. A lot of guys had been doing Graham favors lately.
Night came quickly in the mountains.
Danton crumpled his food wrappings, placed them neatly in his recycle bag, then set out to determine if blood was spilled anywhere in or around the Tarvers’ campsite by applying luminol.
A fifteen-year veteran who’d trained at the RCMP Academy, several universities, and crime labs in Ger many, Sweden, Japan and the U.S., Danton was rec ognized by courts in Canada and the U.S. as an expert in analyzing bloodstain patterns at crime scenes. He had a keen interest in the process of chemical lumines cence.
The process detected the presence of blood that is otherwise invisible to the naked eye by applying a solution of water, sodium perborate, sodium carbonate and luminol to a given area. Once the solution contacts blood, even
