Six Seconds

75

Cold Butte, Montana

Graham drove toward the house not knowing what he would face.

Given that the Tarvers had been murdered, that he and Maggie could’ve been killed in the suspicious car crash, every instinct told him to hold off.

He had no backup, no complaint history on the resi dence, no weapon, no radio, no jurisdiction and no choice but to keep going.

Besides, he really didn’t care much about his own safety.

As his car came to a stop, he scanned the area for dogs, listening for the telltale jingle of a collar or chain as he got out.

“Hello!”

Nothing. He whistled. Still no sign of a dog.

The grass under his feet was worn to an earthen path to the house, a yellow double-wide with bone-white trim. It had flower boxes under the windows. The redchecked gingham curtains did not stir when he came to the side door and knocked.

No response. Nothing but the wind combing the grasslands.

He knocked again, listening for sounds of move ment. Pressing his ear to the door. This time he heard a soft hum coming from inside.

The drone of a conversation.

He continued knocking with no response. It puzzled him because he could hear people inside talking.

“Hello!”

He walked around the outside of the house to the rear, coming to a small deck and patio doors. They were open to what Graham figured was a living room, judging from the view the curtains allowed each time a breeze flut tered.

He heard people talking in the house.

Graham cupped his face against the screen and called inside.

No response.

The prairie winds pushed the faint tapping of the distant helicopters across the plain while he peered into the house. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. Looking directly through the imme diate room, down a hallway, he saw a door.

It was partly open.

Enough to frame an arm draped from a bed.

“Hello! I’m Corporal Graham of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am checking on the welfare of Logan Conlin, or Logan Russell. Jake, Burt? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?”

The arm didn’t move.

Someone sleeping? Passed out? Hurt?

A new sound.

Somewhere in the house a telephone began ringing. It rang six times then stopped. The person in the bed didn’t move.

Under the circumstances, Graham believed he faced a life-and-death situation and drove his foot through the screen and entered. Knowing he could be taken for an intruder, he identified himself as he proceeded, his senses heightened.

The first room he entered was a living room with no one present.

Adjoining it was the kitchen.

Graham scanned everything quickly; the kitchen table was clear, clean. So was the counter. He glimpsed letters, bills, all addressed to Burt Russell. Graham passed the empty living room, a desk, a laptop, the TV-the source of the voices. Live news coverage of the papal visit. Before moving on to the occupied bedroom, he made a very fast sweep of the other rooms, calling out as he progressed.

The bathroom was empty.

The nearest bedroom was vacant except for card board boxes and a mattress against the wall.

The next bedroom was vacant but gave him pause.

Clothes scattered everywhere, small jeans, a T-shirt; next to the bed, a framed photo of Jake and Logan Conlin in front of a rig with the Rockies behind them. Jake was bald with a beard-aka Burt Russell.

As Graham moved to the occupied bedroom, the TV droned with a woman’s voice. Graham was focused on the bedroom and did not comprehend the faint mono logue that began:

“…I am Samara. I am not a jihadist…”