Six Seconds

17

Los Angeles, California

Please, God, let it be Logan.

Blurry images of a boy played on the screen before

Maggie.

Let it be him. Please.

A few days after Maggie’s ordeal with Madame

Fatima, a new hope had emerged.

“We believe this is your son,” Ned Rimmer said just as the video froze and static snowed on the images. Rimmer was an LAPD detective-“retired six years now” after a drug dealer’s bullet took his left eye.

Rimmer wore an eye patch, a ponytail and a sour dis position most days. He was still a detective, just not the kind he’d planned on being.

Rimmer and his wife, Sharmay, an emergency dis patcher with a penchant for dangling earrings, belonged to the Guardian Rescue Society, a national group of law enforcement types who volunteered their money, re sources and time, to find children in parental abduction cases who’d slipped through the cracks.

Logan’s file was passed to them months ago when Maggie had first sought help from support groups who’d circulated her plea among their circles. She’d never heard of the society until today when

Sharmay called her at the bookstore, identified herself, then said, “We believe one of our Guardians may have located your son, Logan Conlin.”

Stunned into silence, Maggie gripped the phone. “Hello? Maggie?”

“My God, do you have him? Where is he? Is he okay? I have to see him!”

“We don’t have him yet. We’d prefer to discuss details at our Los Angeles office. Please come as soon as it’s convenient so we can advance the case.” An hour later, after following Sharmay’s directions,

Maggie had parked her car on a street that bordered

Culver City and West L.A.

The society’s L.A. chapter was in a second-story office above the Flying Emerald Dragon takeout restau rant. The aroma of deep-fried chicken and stir-fried veg etables filled it now as Maggie sat before the video monitor.

“Here we go. Fixed it,” Rimmer said. “This footage comes to us from our New York chapter from Wayne

Kraychinski, retired NYPD detective first grade.” As the Rimmers had explained it, Kraychinski checked Logan’s profile with his school sources, as he does with all the cases his chapter takes on.

Kraychinski got a lead in Queens concerning a boy fitting Logan’s age and description. According to the history, the boy had recently moved to the community with his father, a trucker, who fit Jake Conlin’s general profile.

Six Seconds 111

Kraychinski and some of the other Guardians initi ated surveillance.

“We’ve got a series of sequences recorded over a few weeks,” Rimmer said.

The camera shook and a boy about eight to ten years old in a hooded sweatshirt swam into view but not in sharp focus. Maggie couldn’t see his face clearly, or his full body and gait. The boy was among a group walking through a schoolyard to a basketball court.

“Now, this is where they reside.”

The video jumped to a row of tired-looking twostory detached homes shoehorned into a Queens neigh borhood. One house had a rig out front. No trailer. A green Peterbilt. Being married to a trucker, Maggie knew vehicles. Jake drove a Kenworth but he could’ve sold it or traded it for a Peterbilt.

Next, the boy was in a park with other kids on skateboards.

Again, his back was to the camera. He was wearing a ball cap and was sitting on the grass bordering the skating area. Maggie caught her breath as he turned to offer his profile, but a shadow blocked the image before it disappeared.

Maggie covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a groan.

Is it Logan? She couldn’t be certain.

“Now,” Rimmer said, “this next sequence, which is the money sequence, was obtained by Kraychinski’s friend, Ella Bell. She’s a former Customs officer. Ella used a minicamera hidden in her hat to employ a ruse for interaction.”

The camera was shaky as it came upon a group of boys at a park bench in a playground. The audio offered a woman’s voice that carried a touch of Long Island. The speaker was unseen as the camera closed in on the group.

“Excuse me, guys, could you help me? I’m lost and could use some help here.”

A map was unfolded on the bench.

“I’m looking for the Vander Building. Anybody know where that is?”

The boys huddled around the map and faces bobbed in and out of view. The camera pulled close on a boy about ten with a ball cap.

“This is it,” Rimmer said. “Watch.”

“Nice hat,” the woman said. “You like the Yankees?”

“Yeah.”

The cap’s brim cast the boy’s face in shadow.

“You’re not from around here,” the woman said. “Where’re you from?”

“He’s new here from Ohio,” another kid answered. “Yo-hi-yo.”

“That right?”

The boy’s face is clear now, filling the screen as he nods.

“The Vander Building’s that way.” Another boy pointed. The images blurred for Maggie as her heart sank and tears rolled down her face.

“It’s not him.”

“Are you sure?” Rimmer asked. “Because sometimes the abducting parent will change the hairstyle and color.”

“That boy is not my son!”

“Stop the video, Ned.” Sharmay began rubbing Maggie’s shoulders. “You’re going to be okay, honey.”

“I’m sorry I yelled. That’s not Logan. I’m sorry. Please thank everybody for me. I’m sorry.” Maggie col lected her bag and headed to the door.

“We’ll keep looking,” Sharmay called to her back. “You’re going to see him again, I just know it.”

Night was falling.

Maggie was losing a battle with her emotions as she hurried to her car.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she let her hopes get so high?

She pulled her keys from her bag and fumbled them. They chimed against the pavement. As she retrieved them, she glanced to the end of the street.

Although it didn’t fully register, Maggie glimpsed a man near the end of the block who’d been sitting in his car reading a newspaper.

As Maggie got behind the wheel of her car, he put the paper aside, sat upright then turned his ignition. When she left her parking space, the man behind her pulled out of his.

He stayed several car lengths back in a blue Impala with tinted windows. His lower front bumper was scraped on the driver’s side.

Maggie had noticed him as she checked her rearview mirror, but didn’t give it much thought as she headed for the freeway. She had other things to contend with.

Traffic was heavy.

The radio news reported that a wreck was choking flow on the San Bernardino Freeway, so she took the 60, her pulse still racing over what had happened with the Guardians. It hammered home the reality that she may never see Logan again.

No. Please. No. She wouldn’t survive. Jake, where are you? Please tell me.

Maggie brushed away her tears and focused on the slow-moving streams of red taillights and Sharmay’s parting words, replaying like a prayer.

“You’re going to see him again, I just know it.”

Maggie needed to believe that.

She had to.

By the time she reached her exit some ninety minutes later, her anguish had evolved into exhaustion. As she made her way through Blue Rose Creek, she saw that her tank was nearly dry. She turned into the big twentyfour-hour Chevron that she liked.

It was clean and well lit.

Safe for a woman alone at night.

After filling up and swiping her card at the pump, Maggie stopped dead.

That’s weird.

A blue Impala with tinted windows and a bumper damaged on the driver’s side was in a far corner of the station’s large lot.

Was that the same car she’d seen behind her in Culver City?

Couldn’t be. She was being silly. Or tired. Or both. Chalk it up to a bad day, she told herself after she started her car and pulled out of the station.

A moment later, as she waited at an intersection for the light to change, she thought about taking a hot bath to soothe her nerves when she got home. Then in her side mirror, she noticed that a blue Impala had eased into her lane, two cars back from her.

What the heck?

The light turned green and Maggie quickly changed her turn signal indicator and turned right instead of left, keeping her eye on her mirror.

The Impala turned right.

She was being followed!

Stop it, she told herself. You’re not being followed.

It’s probably nothing. Probably a coincidence. To prove it, she turned left at the very next street.

She checked her mirror.

The Impala turned left.

Gooseflesh rose on Maggie’s arms as scenarios played in her mind. She pushed on the accelerator. She didn’t know this neighborhood and took the next right, glimpsing the Impala behind her, turning right.

Maggie pressed the pedal down farther and began searching the dark houses along the quiet streets, help less, not knowing what to do, eyes locked on her mirror.

As she came to a stretch where the street coiled, Maggie turned quickly into an empty driveway and her car disappeared into a darkened, empty carport.

She killed her motor, her lights and took her foot off the brake.

She slid down in her seat and peeked from her car to the street, watching the Impala roar by, its taillights dis appearing into the night.

Maggie sat up and rested her head on her headrest. She gulped air and took several deep breaths as she sat motionless, wondering what the hell had happened.

Had she been followed? Should she tell police? She imagined how that would go.

Ah, yes, the crazy lady again. How can we help you? 116 Rick Mofina

What was it? Carjackers? Teenagers? The imaginings of a distressed woman?

Maggie concentrated on her watch. It calmed her. After fifteen minutes passed, she started her car and drove to her house.

No sign of the Impala.

She sighed.

As she unlocked her door and entered her home, she was numb.

Sleep.

Forget the bath.

Go to sleep.

But she noticed the red light was blinking on her an swering machine.

One message.

She pressed Play.

The tape beeped as it cued the message. Maggie rec ognized that voice.

“This is Helga, Madame Fatima’s friend. Madame has instructed me to tell you that she has information about your son. Information you should have.” Book Two: Blood Revenge