Six Seconds

63

Montana

Time was going to be tight for Jake.

Around midnight, he was rolling northeast out of Helena bound for Great Falls to take a load of groceries to Shelby. At Shelby, he’d haul lumber back to Lewistown.

He’d be heavy both ways. He made good time with the jobs in Butte and Missoula. He’d make money.

And, if he was lucky with traffic, even allowing for buildup for the pope’s visit, he’d be back in time to catch some sleep before Logan’s big event.

Logan.

Jake ran his hand over his face.

He tightened his grip on the wheel because some thing powerful was pulling at him. He saw it, a few hours ago, in the moment he rolled away from the house.

He saw it in Logan’s tiny silhouette in the window as he watched him pull away.

In that moment, Jake saw the truth.

In that moment, Jake realized that for the past five or six months since they left Blue Rose Creek he had been a fool. He’d made the biggest mistake of his life. So what was he going to do about it?

Jake was about ten miles south of Great Falls when his cell phone rang.

“Hey, it’s Crocker at dispatch. Great Falls, Shelby and Lewistown been scrubbed.”

“No way. All three?”

“Yup. Sorry, amigo, it happens.”

“Man, I was counting my money.”

“Head home. You’ll be paid for the trips you did up to this point. I’ve got you for Atlanta this Sunday. That’s a lock.”

Frustrated, Jake wheeled east through Great Falls to head to Cold Butte and his predicament.

The facts were inescapable now.

The horror of what he’d seen in Iraq had turned him into a monster. Take that day in the supermarket, which led to the embarrassment on the soccer field. Consumed with paranoia, he’d been convinced Maggie had cheated with Ullman.

But he was dead wrong.

It had never happened.

He was the one who’d cheated with Samara. And he was the one who’d ruined everything by running off with her, taking Logan with him and lying to him.

How could he have done that?

Tear the boy from his life and tell him that his mother no longer loved him.

It was unforgivable.

Overcome with shame, Jake steadied his grip on the wheel as the truth continued hammering at him.

Samara had saved his life.

She was a good person who’d suffered her own trag

Six Seconds 373 edies. She was good to him and Logan but she was distant, aloof, as if she were still in mourning. Jake didn’t belong with Samara.

He belonged with Maggie.

His wife. The only woman he’d ever loved. Dancing with her in the gym.

“Hey, Jude.”

Iraq had taken something from all of them.

Jake gazed up at the stars, wondering if it was too late to go back to Blue Rose Creek and Maggie.

Traffic had slowed ahead at a security checkpoint.

Checkpoint.

Jake fought off a flashback.

He knew about the advisory to drivers concerning all big rigs heading into Lone Tree County. Standard pro cedure around VIP events. He was going to be hung up for an inspection.

No problem, he was empty.

Some forty minutes after the inspectors cleared him, the Montana Highway Patrol waved Jake through.

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

Six Seconds 375 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.