Six Seconds

67

Great Falls, Montana

Graham was concerned when Maggie returned to their booth.

“You look pale,” he said. “What is it?”

“We’re so close.”

Maggie handed him the birthday snapshot. He studied it just as the waitress brought their food. They had nearly finished eating when Graham’s cell phone rang.

“It’s Novak with your info. You got my hockey tickets?”

“Man. I owe you.”

Montana’s DMV records showed Burt Russell’s resi dence as 1023 °Crystal Creek Road, Cold Butte, Montana. Graham unfolded his state map, and drew an X on the spot east of Great Falls, between Petroleum and Garfield counties.

“A two-and-a-half-hour drive, give or take. Let’s check out of the motel and get moving.”

In the parking lot, a stranger was ducking down between their rental and another car, a white sedan. It looked like the man had been tinkering with Graham’s car.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” Graham squinted in the morning sun.

The man stood. His attention bounced from Graham to Maggie and back. He gripped a steel tire iron in his right hand, rotated it slowly. He was Graham’s height, but thinner. Clean-shaven with short dark hair, dark eyes and an angular face that bordered on menacing, until he smiled.

“No. Thank you. I’m almost finished. Flat tire.” His accent suggested he was British, or European. As Maggie and Graham got in, Graham noticed the man’s open trunk had four plastic fuel cans. Odd, he thought.

As they pulled away, Graham turned to Maggie.

“Write this down.” He recited the stranger’s Montana plate, make, color of his car and a description of the man, time and location.

“Why?”

“A cop habit.”

“Good thing. I think I saw that guy on our plane. Small world, huh?”

Graham saw her nervous smile but did not return it.

“Too small, maybe.”

There were no messages at the motel, which puzzled Graham. Nothing from Arnie, or Stotter even. Before leaving, Graham went online and extended his wireless access service for his laptop. Maggie used the motel computer to print off all she could on Cold Butte in Lone Tree County. After paying for their rooms, they asked the manager for directions out of Great Falls.

“Cold Butte? You going to see the pope like every body else?”

Maggie shot Graham a look. Neither of them had gotten around to reading details of the papal visit to Montana.

“I thought he was visiting Great Falls?” Graham said.

“Lands here, then goes to bless a shrine out near Cold Butte. Good luck getting out there. I expect traffic will be bad and security’s tight as a rusted nut.”

Unspoken tension mounted in the car as they crossed the 10th Avenue Bridge over the Missouri River and headed east out of the city. Traffic flowed well on U.S. Highway 87. Maggie studied the Tribune ’s reports on the papal visit.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Graham? Because I’m getting scared.”

“We only learned of Jake’s link to Montana about twenty-four hours ago.”

“You lied to me. Tarver was chasing a story about a plot, or attack, wasn’t he?”

“I did not lie to you, I can’t discuss every aspect of a case.”

“I have a right to know. Jake drove in Iraq. Some thing happened to him there. Now he’s living in Cold Butte, where the pope’s going to be. I know that big rigs, tankers, trailers, can be used as weapons. If someone wanted to hijack, or trick him, he’s- Please, no, my God, he’s got Logan with him! ”

“Maggie! Stop imagining the worst and listen to me.”

“I know my husband’s unstab-not been himself- since he returned.”

“Maggie, stop this.”

“Can you discuss this aspect of your case. ” She held up the birthday snapshot. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Listen, Maggie, Ray Tarver dealt with theories based on fragments of truth. He never had all the facts and he was always wrong. Some people believe he may have fabricated things.”

“Then why are you here?”

She’d stopped him cold.

“You lied. This isn’t about insurance, ” she said. “You think Tarver was murdered, don’t you?”

Graham turned to the sky and the plains.

“All I know is that we both need to see this through.”

About twenty minutes east of Lewistown, traffic slowed to a crawl. Maggie consulted her pages for the school number in Cold Butte. It was large and served the tricounty area. It was a good bet Logan would be enrolled there. According to the Tribune, the school was involved in the pope’s visit.

The paper had published an agenda for the event. Maggie called the school.

Static hissed on the line as it rang four times before it was answered. Maggie spoke quickly, pleading for help to locate Logan. The annoyed school assistant on the phone had trouble comprehending her above the din of people talking, shouting and public announcements. The line crackled, the connection was tenuous.

“I said he might be listed as Logan Russell. Here’s his birthdate.”

“I’m sorry, I can hardly hear you.”

“Please, if I could just talk to a teacher and explain.

Six Seconds 393

I may lose you, take my number, please. Can you find a teacher, please?”

“Sorry, it’s impossible to help you today because of the pope. Maybe tomorr-”

“No, wait!”

The line died. Tears stung Maggie’s eyes as the traffic ground to a stop.

“Try again,” Graham said.

Before she could, her cell phone rang. The school calling back?

“Maggie Conlin,” she said.

“Mom?”

Maggie’s face went white.

“Logan! Is that you!?”

“I miss you, Mom.” The line was breaking, his voice was far away, so weak, so distant, clawing at her heart. “Mom, Dad said he misses you, too.”

“Oh, Logan, I love you! I love Daddy! He’s just confused.”

“Mom, I want to come home, I-” Their connection buzzed.

“Where you are? I’m coming as fast as I can! Honey, just tell me!”

The line sizzled. The call was lost.

Maggie groaned to the sky.