Six Seconds (13 page)

30

Blue Rose Creek, California

Maggie pushed the green button and the dispenser spit out a parking ticket.

The barrier arm lifted and she parked at Mercy General Memorial Hospital. This was where Madame Fatima’s friend had told her to come for information on Logan.

As Maggie walked to the hospital doors, she looked at the clouds swirling overhead, recalling that a storm warning had been issued.

She’d forgotten her umbrella.
She didn’t care.
In the wake of all she’d been through these past few

days, getting wet was not a concern. She wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t eating. Bit by bit she seemed to be slipping from reality into a dream that took her from disappoint ment to disappointment along an ever-darkening road.

But she was not defeated.
One goal, one crystalline purpose, kept her going. She would never give up searching for her son and

her husband.

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Rick Mofina

As Maggie approached reception, the woman at the desk eyed her coldly.
“I’m here to visit Fatima Soleil.”
“Spell it, please.”
Maggie did and the woman’s keyboard clicked.
“Your name?”
“Maggie Conlin.”
“Family or friend?”
“Friend. I was called here by her friend Helga Kimmel.”
The keyboard clicked and the woman found Maggie’s name listed.
“I’m going to need a photo ID.”
“Is my driver’s license okay?”
The woman nodded then traded Maggie’s license for a visitor’s badge and her signature on the visitor’s log attached to a clipboard.
“She’s on the ninth floor. When you get off the elevator, go right, to the nurses’ station.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me her condition?”
“Ask the nurses on the ninth floor.”
As the elevator ascended, Maggie tried to keep her hope in check.
In her heart she believed Fatima had detected some thing during her session. Maggie had, too. She swore she could feel Logan nearby. Now, she tried not to guess at the information Fatima had for her.
Did it matter?
Maggie would pursue any possibility.
The chime sounded for the ninth floor.
The air was heavy with antiseptic smells. Down the hall a short, thickset woman in faded jeans and an over size flowered shirt was talking to a nurse. It was Helga.

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“Excuse us, Nancy,” Helga said to the nurse. “I need to talk with Maggie.”
“Hi,” Maggie said.
“Come this way, there’s a lounge around the corner.”
The bright-colored walls could not mask the gloom that resided here in the brownish-gray vinyl couches and the outdated copies of long-forgotten magazines.
Helga sat down, rubbed her bloodshot eyes and exhaled.
“They do not expect Madame to live through the night.”
“Oh, my God.” Maggie touched Helga’s knee. “I’m so sorry.”
Helga nodded.
“The cancer is eating her up. She has no time left. She’s not in pain. She’s heavily sedated and is in and out of consciousness.”
Maggie took quick stock. No other people were in the lounge or down the hall.
“Has she no family?”
“I am her only family,” Helga said. “Madame told me to summon you. She wants to give you information.”
“Did she say what it is?”
“It can only be about the session concerning your son. Are you ready to see her?”
Maggie nodded and Helga led her to a private room.
“I’m going to leave you alone with her until you are done. The nurses are monitoring her from their station. You will have privacy. Do not be alarmed that she passes in and out of consciousness. She knows if people are in the room.”
Maggie slowly pushed the door and entered.
The room was dimly lit and fragrant from the floral

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Rick Mofina

arrangements. The gentle hum of the equipment moni toring Fatima’s breathing, blood pressure and heart rate was calming.

Maggie was not prepared for what she saw next. She actually took a step back to fetch the nurse be lieving that Fatima had vanished as evidenced by the empty crumpled sheets of her hospital bed. It took a second to register that Fatima
was there—
under the sheets—her body so ravaged as to be nothing more than a living skeleton.
An oxygen tube ran under her nose. An IV dripped morphine. She was unconscious.
Death’s work was nearly complete.
Maggie sat in the cushioned chair next to her bed.
Fatima turned her bare head to Maggie and opened her eyes to acknowledge her presence.
“I’ve come as you have requested.”
Fatima blinked then resubmerged into unconscious ness.
Maggie sat with her for an hour. She stood to leave the room for a short break and almost screamed.
Fatima’s ice-cold fingers had seized Maggie’s wrist.
Maggie didn’t move.
Fatima’s grip was strong. Her eyes opened but re vealed only white orbs. She moaned and her skeletal jaw began to work.
“I lied to you, Maggie. I did see something.”
The pressure of Fatima’s grip increased.
“Do you wish to know?”
“Yes.”
“It is not good. Do you wish to know?”

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197

Maggie’s chin crumpled and she fought to push the word out of her mouth.
“Yes.”
“I am seeing it now. Your son is alive.”
“Where is he?”
“But he is in danger.”
Fatima’s grip was hurting Maggie. She fell to her knees at the side of the bed.
“Where is he?”
“He does not know he is in danger.”
“Please, I’m begging you, where is he?”
“There is a woman. I see a woman. There is fire, ex plosions, destruction. She is carrying something.”
“Who is the woman?”
“The woman is carrying a child.”
“Is it Logan?”
“The child is dead.”
“No! Nooo!”
Fatima released her grip.
Her body convulsed. Her jaw locked open and she was still. The monitor began ponging with alarm.
“Help!” Maggie called. “Somebody!”
A nurse hurried into the room, uncollared her stethoscope. Listened, then pressed a button on the intercom system above the bed. “We’ve got an expired DNR in 921.”
Maggie covered her face with her hands, stepped back into a far corner out of the way. What followed unfolded in snatches.
Helga entered and sobbed.
The nurses consoled her, Maggie consoled her, for how long, she couldn’t be certain. Maggie was not sure how long she stayed with Helga, or how she made it back to reception to retrieve her license. She remem bered it was raining.
She remembered thunder, lightning, her skin prick ling the entire time she walked to her car. She remem bered the words of a dying psychic warning her that Logan was in danger.
“The woman is carrying a child.”

31

Washington, D.C.

The plot to kill the pope played out in grainy photos on the computer monitor of Special Agent Blake Walker of the U.S. Secret Service.

The gun rose from the crowd in St. Peter’s Square. A Browning 9-mm semiautomatic pistol.
In the right hand of Mehmet Ali Agca who fired five

shots at Pope John Paul II.

The first round penetrated the pope’s stomach, the second hit his hand, the third his arm. The fourth and fifth shots wounded spectators.

The Holy Father fell back into the arms of his secre tary.
May 13, 1981.
A day most of the world would not forget, Walker thought. He was lead advance agent with security for the pope’s upcoming U.S. visit. For Walker, a stickler for research, this was the umpteenth time he’d studied papal assassination attempts.
Next.
The Philippines. 1995.
During a papal visit, firefighters in Manila were called to an apartment fire near the Embassy for the Holy See, where the pope was to sleep. Among the ruins they discovered: bomb-making material, the route of the papal tour marked on maps and two sets of priests’ cassocks.
Suspects were tied to the first attack on the World Trade Center.
That one was chilling; so was the next.
During the pope’s recent visit to South America, a violent group of Marxist extremists cut power to the airport as the pope’s plane was making a night landing. Every single light went black on the ground. The pilots couldn’t see. At the last moment they aborted the landing and flew to another site. Later, airport police rushed to investigate an abandoned truck in a forest road near a runway. Inside they found a shoulderlaunched surface-to-air missile that had malfunctioned.
Walker studied the database index.
So many
confirmed
attempts. Now, as time ticked down on the pope’s U.S. visit, intelligence agencies were picking up more chatter and more threads of new potential threats every day. As Walker loosened his tie, there was a knock on his door and his assistant ap peared.
“Fran’s calling again.”
His face tensed at his ex-wife’s name but he stayed focused on his work.
“I can’t take it. Tell her I’ve got back-to-back meet ings.”
“She
demanded
I tell you that it’s about support.”
“Annette, I can’t talk to her now.”

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“Sure thing, boss.”

The door closed and Walker exhaled. He’d never wanted the divorce.
For a shining moment he remembered sweeter times as a rookie with the NYPD. On the beat and at night school at John Jay. Then the move to D.C. to join the FBI where he met Fran, a paralegal. Then came the births of their daughters, his commendations, second ments to counterterrorism at the CIA, then the Secret Service, Presidential Protective Division, then Intelli gence.
Always on call. Always on the road. Always on edge.
Then Fran started accusing him of loving his job more than her and the girls. Then she’d found a new boyfriend at their church: Miller Higby, a nine-to-five accountant to help her nag for support payments, which Walker had never missed.
Never.
That would be an error.
Walker couldn’t afford errors. Not in his line of work. He’d come close to a career-killer once.
Thanks to an asshole reporter named Ray Tarver.
Walker had met him briefly at an event. Shot the breeze, traded cards. Months later Tarver called cold saying he was going to run a story alleging Russian mobsters had compromised members of the White House security detail. The story was that the mobsters had blackmailed agents over gambling debts. Tarver claimed he had it documented on a classified CIA report; Blake Walker was one of the extorted agents.
Walker nearly lost his mind.
The story could not be true.

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Rick Mofina

But instead of informing his superiors, Walker ac tually started suspecting agents who might have been behind the damning story. It drove him crazy. He started his own secret investigation of his colleagues. At the same time, after days of intense work, Walker persuaded Tarver to share the document, which was key to his story.

Walker had the document analyzed. The experts questioned its authenticity.
Just like the entire story.
Tarver refused to tell Walker how he got his docu ment. Walker couldn’t rule out that maybe Tarver was set up. Or had
fabricated it.
Tarver killed his story. Walker killed his investigation.
Tarver did have sources everywhere. But they played him. Walker figured him for a flake, so infatuated with conspiracies that he couldn’t distinguish between fact and fantasy. Someone would feed him a line and off he’d go. When Walker thought of the harm the case could have inflicted on the detail, his blood bubbled.
But it didn’t stop Tarver.
Tipped to other conspiracies, the guy kept popping up. Exaggerating a grain of truth or trying to parlay rumor or innuendo into fact. Walker kicked himself for his knee-jerk reaction to Tarver’s first story. Kicked himself for ever suspecting his colleagues. It taught him to be very suspect of reporters like Ray Tarver.
Word had traveled fast about what happened to Tarver up in Canada. And it was in the
Post.
His wife, his kids. All of them. A real shame.
It made Walker wonder if the poor bastard had ever landed a true story.

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Walker had to get ready for the next conference call. As he collected his files, his computer beeped with an intel bulletin from the Department of Homeland Security.

Something about a ship with hostile cargo. The threats and risks just kept coming.
Like the one with that priest out in Montana. Father

Andrew Stone. Months in advance he posts online, for the entire world to see, details of the pope’s visit to tiny Cold Butte. It posed a risk as a gift for long-range plotters. Shaking his head, he glanced at his printout of the newsletter. He couldn’t do much about it and sought some relief in the fact that Cold Butte was the smallest venue of the tour.

In the middle of nowhere. We shouldn’t have to worry too much about Montana.
As Walker closed his computer files, he glanced again at the photos of John Paul II from that May in 1981.
Aga’s hit pulled Walker back to his own heartstopping day with the president.
Summer.
Shaker Heights, Ohio. Mall parking lot. The presi dent’s moving along a good crowd, shaking hands. Walker spots the guy. Alone. White, late twenties. Stone cold face and something in his hand. Instinct and training kick in. Walker has him on the ground. The team gets the president in the car and out of there. The gun is real. It is loaded. The kid had been dumped by his girl and thought that killing the president would win her back. “It would show her just how much I loved her.”
The kid was that close.
Just like all the others.

32

Washington, D.C.

The jetliner’s wing dipped to show Graham the Potomac, the Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument before landing at Reagan National.

In the terminal, Graham noticed a pregnant woman, hesitated and thought of Nora. The woman was hold ing a little girl’s hand. As they walked by him at the luggage carousels, he was pulled back to images of that night.

Then back to the river.
And Emily Tarver.
Holding her as she took her dying breaths.
Don’t hurt my daddy.
What happened to the Tarvers?
Were they murdered? Or was he crazy to think so? That’s why he was here. To find answers. Or was it to hide from ghosts?
He’d lost Nora. He couldn’t save Emily Tarver. Admit it, his boss was right. That’s what this was all

about.

Redemption for his failures.

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No. He was trying to clear a case and had to focus on it.
Graham tightened his grip on his bag, looked for his ride and left his doubts at the terminal.
Sergeant Luc Cleroux, the RCMP’s liaison officer at the embassy, enjoying the chance to speak French with Graham, had set things up for him.
To assist Graham, the FBI provided Chuck “two weeks to go before retirement” Carson, who picked him up at Reagan.
“Between us, you don’t want me to babysit you on this, what is it, an insurance thing?” Carson said as they headed downtown.
Graham considered Carson’s suggestion.
As a foreign cop in the U.S., Graham did not carry his gun and had limited powers of arrest. He was in Wash ington on various business matters, including confirming background on the Tarvers as it related to their Canadian travel insurance policy. If he betrayed the fact he was there to rule out homicide, he’d be on the next plane home. That was Stotter’s direct order and his promise.
“I think I can take care of myself.”
“Good. Here’s my card. Keep me posted and call me if you need anything.”
Graham’s hotel was a few blocks from the White House and The Mall. Graham checked in, showered, then followed up on inquiries. First call: Cleroux at the Canadian Embassy.
“Yeah, I got nothing from my Interpol contacts,” Cleroux said in French. “Anyway, I’ve passed your other requests to Reg Novak, a good guy with MPD. He’s expecting your call.”
When Graham reached Novak, the D.C. detective invited him to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters on Indiana Avenue. The Henry J. Daly Building was named to honor the homicide detective shot by an intruder in 1994.
Novak, a craggy-faced veteran, signed Graham in with the usual firm handshake and “Have a good flight?” small talk.
After Graham cleared the electronic security, Novak led him to his office and put a cup of coffee for him on his desk. Novak groaned as he settled in his chair and flipped through his tattered notebook.
“Read about them in the
Post.
Just terrible what happened up there. Here we go. I ran those checks you’d wanted.”
Graham’s pen was poised over his notebook.
“And I got zilch. Sorry. Wish I could help you with more but Raymond Tarver is not in our system. The same for Anita. No complaint history at their house, either. They live in the district side of Takoma Park.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a thing. I did some asking around for you and what I
can
tell you is that Ray was a reporter, but he wrote more about national politics, international scan dals and whatnot.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“He was a real character, looked for big doomsday conspiracy stuff. Then he sorta faded, or something.” Novak shrugged before sipping from his Washington Capitals mug. “You might want to check with the feds, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland and the like. I heard Ray traveled in those circles.”
“I have an appointment later.”
“Good they could squeeze you in. Most of those allstars should be busy with the pope’s visit. I know some of our guys are helping. Not me personally, thank God. Got enough on my plate. But checking those watch lists can be a headache. These things tend to excite every nut job in the country.” He closed his book. “Think the Flames have a shot this year?”
“As good as the Caps.”
“So you still haven’t found Tarver’s body, have you?”
“No. Sometimes we never find them in mountain deaths.”
“I gotta ask you.” Novak’s gaze fixed on Graham’s, letting a detective-to-detective understanding pass be tween them. “It’s your case and all, but you didn’t really come all this way to look into insurance crap, did you?”
“I did. Among other things.”
“
Among other things.
Care for some advice from a jaded old flatfoot?”
“Go ahead.”
“The primary activities in this town are ass covering and finger pointing.”
“It’s a government town.”
“It is. And from what I understand, Ray Tarver pissed off a few government people in security circles.”
“What’re you telling me?”
“Truth is often a fugitive in D.C. and searching for it can be damaging to your career. Be careful, my friend.”

Graham returned to his hotel with time to eat a club sandwich before heading to the United States Secret Service headquarters on H Street.

A number of days before his meeting he’d faxed his date of birth, passport number and RCMP regimental number, as security required.

“Special Agent Blake Walker,” Graham told the woman at reception when she’d asked who he was there to see.
She typed on her keyboard, spoke softly into her headset, then said, “Corporal Graham, Agent Walker apologizes. He has conflicting meetings and would like to reschedule, if you agree?”
“I’d prefer that we did this now, I’d only need about twenty minutes.”
“Stand by, sir.”
She spoke into the headset, listened, then nodded.
“Agent Walker will try to give you time now. Someone will be down to get you.” She exchanged Graham’s driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. “Please wear this at all times and return it to me when you leave.”
A man barely out of his teens, who was about six foot seven and wearing a loose-fitting dark suit, white shirt, tie and ID badge that said T. Simms, came for him. Graham figured him for an intern. Simms smiled at Graham in the elevator as the car ascended several floors before it stopped.
They stepped into a carpeted corridor dividing highwalled cubicles from closed offices. Tension was evi dent in the sober faces of people working at terminals and talking on phones in muted tones.
Graham’s escort delivered him to Walker’s office then left.
The door was open.
Walker was in mid-phone conversation, standing at his desk, kneading the back of his neck. He seemed to fill the room as he waved Graham in, held up two fingers, mouthing two minutes, then indicated the guest chair.
A good-size office window offered a slice of down town Washington. On the far wall, Walker was every where in framed photographs with several presidents, even the new one. And there was Walker with the CIA director, the FBI director, the UN secretary. There he was again with colleagues standing before Bucking ham Palace, in Red Square, in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican and other capitals.
Two young girls grinned from the gold-framed pho tograph beside his monitor.
Walker finished his call.
“Sorry for that. Blake Walker.”
Graham shook his hand.
“Dan Graham.”
“I was dealing with my ex. You married?”
His personal question came without warning.
“No. I was. But, no, not anymore.”
“Good. Stay single. Enjoy life the way God had origi nally intended. Paradise before Eve came along.” Walker smiled, pointed to the mug on his desk. “Coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay, let’s get to it. You’re here on the deaths of Ray Tarver’s family.”
“Yes. Just checking background, regarding the insur ance and trying to clear it.”
“No, no. Stop right there. First, why come to me?” Walker said. “How did my name come up in this?”
Graham passed a sheet of paper to Walker, who glanced at his watch before reading the document.
“I photocopied this from Tarver’s notebook,” Gra ham said. “It’s from a series of cryptic notations. This was one of his last entries. A handwritten note that says,
See S.A. Blake Walker at SS on H again.
”
Walker took a deep breath then cursed under it.
“What is it?” Graham asked.
“This was not in the summary you’d sent me in your meeting request. Matter of fact, your summary was a tad short on details. Let me get my head around this. You still insist on me believing that you’re here solely to snoop around on Tarver for insurance purposes?”
“Checking his background, so I can clear it. Tying up loose ends for the file, yes.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“Pardon me?”
Walker threw Graham’s paper down on his desk.
“What the hell’s going on with you guys up there?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“What happened to the Tarver family is tragic. Sure, Ray Tarver was a bit of a wild-card reporter, but the family’s drowning was not suspicious.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Everyone knows it. Don’t you guys talk to each other up there?”
“You’ve lost me. Who’s everyone?”
“You’re familiar with your Canadian Security Intel ligence Service?”
Graham’s pulse quickened at Walker’s condescension.
“Of course.”
“I’m sure you’re aware that our security agencies talk to your security agencies.”
Walker continued but Graham didn’t like where he was going.
“Four American citizens from the district die on foreign soil, one of them being a former D.C. wire service reporter known to write about U.S. geopolitics and security issues. It’s a given we’d make a routine check into anything remotely untoward.You with me so far, buddy?”
Graham held his tongue as Walker went on.
“We’ve been advised that the deaths have been clas sified as accidental and the case is cleared. I don’t think we’ve got much to discuss.”
“Really?”
Walker put his files down. His dark eyes drilled into Graham.
“Over the years Ray Tarver would come to me,” Walker said. “He went to a lot of people in the intelli gence community. He’d call, he’d want to meet in some dive. He’d claim he had sources who’d fed him intel on grand conspiracies.
“He’d say, I think this is going to happen or that will take place. But when it came to providing a shred of cor roboration he had nothing. I would then attempt to confirm his so-called leads, which turned out to be ‘jackass theories.’
“In Washington, there’s no shortage of people like Ray Tarver. People who take a slender thread of hearsay and twist it into a full-blown conspiracy. You understand what I’m saying?”
Graham said nothing.
“Now, I am sorry for what happened to the family. It’s a tragedy. But in life, Ray Tarver lived in a fantasy world with other conspiracy nuts. The fact you’re here, convinced you’re onto something because of some note, is not only sad but a further waste of my time.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s part of my job to investi gate crackpots like Ray Tarver, so why don’t you leave it to the experts and head back home. In case you missed it, the pope’s arriving soon, and I’m kind of preoccu pied. Now, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do up there. Okay?”
Walker looked at his watch, then other files.
Maybe it was jet lag, or his grief, his self-doubt, or the fact Walker’s arrogance pissed him off, but Graham decided he’d swallowed enough.
“Agent Walker.
Special Agent
Walker, I don’t know where you’re getting your information about my case being cleared, but to use your term, it’s bullshit.”
Walker’s jaw pulsed.
“That a fact?”
“It is a fact,” Graham said. “It’s true, the deaths of Anita Tarver and her two children are believed to have been accidental. The fact is, and it is a fact, their deaths remain unclassified. How you, sir, are able to conclude the cause of Ray Tarver’s death as accidental right here in this very office, when we’ve yet to locate his body, is miraculous. I applaud your supernatural skill.” Graham nodded to Walker’s wall of glory. “Must be why you’re special and all these important people want to shake your hand.
“You must be aware then that Ray Tarver’s laptop appears to be the only item missing from his family’s inventory. And you must also be aware that in the hours before his family’s deaths were discovered, Tarver was seen in a local restaurant showing data on a laptop to an unidentified stranger.
“Now what amazes me, is the fact that it is about twenty-four, twenty-five hundred miles from the chair where your special ass is parked and the Faust River where I held Emily Tarver as she took her last breaths, where I felt her heart beating against mine. Yet you, sir, have all the answers. All of them. But what disturbs me, about this uncleared, unclassified case concerning the deaths of three U.S. citizens, possibly four, is that your name is among the last entries Ray Tarver made in his notebook. That would make you a person of interest, wouldn’t it?”
Walker’s eyes burned into Graham’s in a mounting standoff that was interrupted by Walker’s phone. He hit a button, activating the speaker.
“Blake, they’re waiting for you on the call with Seattle and Vatican security. Are you joining them in the big room or do you want the call code?”
Graham left.
“Tell them I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Graham was at the elevator when Walker caught up to him.
“Dan.” Walker ensured they were alone and lowered his voice. “I was a jerk back there. The stress of the papal visit, and we’ve got to advance a presidential visit to Canada next month, and my ex. You took the brunt of it. I was out of line. You know how things can get to you.”
Graham knew.
He considered Walker’s hand, then shook it.
“Dan, I’ll do what I can to help you, but I’m really jammed, and I’m late. What do you need?”
Graham considered the offer. “There’s one thing.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m not sure what this means. It’s one of the last entries in Tarver’s notebook.”
Walker looked at it. “Blue Rose Creek.” He shook his head. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Off the top, it means nothing. I’ll check it out—give me your contact numbers. I’ll get back to you.”