“Damn straight it’s not right, what with Jake seeing another woman and all.”
“What?”
Maggie turned to Dawn.
“I’m sorry, but it took some kind of nerve for him to accuse you of-”
“What did you say?”
Dawn turned to assess Maggie from her head to her shoes.
“My Lord, you really didn’t know?” Dawn touched her shoulder. “Sweetheart, we thought you knew.
Everyone knows.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Some of Mac’s trucker buddies saw Jake at a bar with a woman a long time back, then again a couple months before he left you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your husband was stepping out on you, that’s what it means.”
“No, there’s got to be a mistake. Where did they see him?”
“No mistake. Those guys knew Jake. I think it was
Bakersfield first.”
“What?”
“Then it could’ve been a truck stop outside of Las
Vegas. Or both in Bakersfield. No matter. They defi nitely saw your husband with another woman.” “Dawn, tell me exactly what you know?” “They said they saw Jake with a woman and they were together.”
“No, no. That can’t be. Jake had problems after Iraq, but nothing like that.”
“Honey, he’s a trucker. And some men live other lives on the road.”
Maggie felt the earth shifting under her feet, felt the room spin.
“No, this can’t be right. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”
“Lord if I know. Mac’s friends said she was darkhaired. Pretty. Does it matter? The point is, we all heard about what happened to you and now it’s going round that you’re talking to psychics. Good Lord.” “Dawn, please.”
“Now, Maggie, listen to me. I’m telling you, woman to woman, you have to let this crap with Jake go. It’s gone on way too long.”
“You don’t understand a single thing about me.” “Sugar, I understand way more than you think. See, before I met Mac, I went down the same road you’re on, only my asshole was named- Oh, forget it. Most men are born assholes. They should all have it for a first name.”
“Dawn, stop. Please.”
Maggie seized her purse to leave. Dawn held her arm gently.
“You’ve got to take charge, girl. Talk to a lawyer, go for custody of your boy, start proceedings.”
“Let go of me, I’ve heard enough.”
“I am trying to help you with the benefit of my ex perience.”
Maggie’s fingers clenched her purse. She invaded
Dawn’s space and dropped her voice. “Let go of me or
I’ll break your fucking arm.”
Dawn’s jaw dropped as Maggie shook her off. Maggie stormed out of the restaurant then left three feet of burning rubber as she exited the parking lot. She drove home in a swimming fog, her ears pounding with rage and fear.
Another woman.
In her heart she couldn’t believe Jake would cheat on her. In spite of everything after Iraq she had never even considered the possibility.
Had he really taken Logan and left her for another woman?
It couldn’t be true.
Why didn’t anyone tell her? Why didn’t the private investigator know? Why didn’t police know? Why didn’t the support groups looking into her case know? Why didn’t SHE know?
Maggie’s self-recrimination intensified as she un locked her house. Her knees were buckling. She slammed the door shut, her back thudding against it, her dress bunching up behind her as she slid to the floor. Defeated.
Her fears encircled her, edged toward her, snarling, growling, another woman, a casket descending, a dying psychic’s visions of a woman carrying a dead child, and a video of the wrong boy.
A great banshee wail erupted from Maggie as she surrendered to the darkness, remaining as still as death on the floor with her back to the door.
Until night came for her.
She didn’t know how many hours had passed by the time she finally got to her feet. Something was in her hand. She gripped it hard as she floated from room to room, images swirling in a tear-streaked fog. In Logan’s room she ran her fingers along his small desk, the books lining his bookshelves, his scale models of racing cars, warships, the posters of his heroes, and
Jake smiling by his rig in Iraq. She opened his closet to
T-shirts, khakis and jeans, touching a Dodgers jersey to her face, inhaling Logan’s scent.
I love you so much.
She went to the master bedroom and stood in it, feeling herself floating in the cool darkness before she went to their closet. She touched one of Jake’s flannel plaid shirts to her cheek. She could sense his cologne, feel him.
Hear him.
She reached to the top shelf. She knew it well, knew where everything was because she’d put most of it there. She searched the odds and ends, old files, old books, old purses and photos before locking on to the thing she needed.
Tears slid down her face as she went to the kitchen for a candle and bottle of wine, her arms cradling ev erything as she moved to the couch in the gloom of the unlit house.
She lit the candle and inserted a DVD into the player. Maggie steeled herself for the remembrance of hap pier times as images of her wedding to Jake played before her, images of buying the house, painting the walls and each other. Memories of being aglow with pregnancy, her belly swollen. Logan’s birth, his first birthday, his first steps, family vacations to the beach, Disneyland. Jake with a new rig, Jake with Logan on his shoulders. Her own last birthday, a cake glimmering with candles. Logan and Jake serenading her with “Happy Birthday.” “I love you, Mom.”
Maggie froze the frame and knelt before the screen, traced her fingers over Logan’s face.
Where are you? I want to be with you. We can be together again. Where are you?
Something rattled in her hand.
Her sedatives. Over three-dozen powerful pills. She stared at the bottle. She wanted to end her pain.
She wanted her life back.
Logan.
Book Four:
The Perfect Weapon
42
Blue Rose Creek, California
The hydraulic flaps of Graham’s jet groaned as Southern California’s suburbs streamed below as far as he could see.
The landing gear grumbled down and locked for a smooth landing.
As the plane rolled to the terminal, Graham resumed questioning his decision to fly here. He now had a Cali fornia link to Blue Rose Creek, which was the final entry in the notebook he’d found in Tarver’s tent in the Rockies. Something was emerging. But what? He could be dead wrong about all of it.
What if Blue Rose Creek was nothing but useless data from an oddball reporter who chased wacky con spiracies and probably died accidentally with his family in the mountains?
What if it was nothing more than that?
What if it wasn’t?
Where’s Tarver’s laptop? Who was that stranger with him?
Don’t hurt my daddy.
There had to be something to this. Graham rubbed his eyes and the back of his neck as he waited at the luggage carousel. After grabbing his bag he climbed into the car rental shuttle. If he was going to clear this case, he needed to talk to the Conlins.
As the shuttle wheeled from LAX, he checked his cell phone for messages.
Before leaving Washington, he’d made a number of calls. The first was to his boss in Calgary, where he left a brief message about a good lead that could break the case. “I have to leave Washington. I’ll keep you posted.”
Then he called the cell phone of Secret Service Agent Walker and left a message. Graham hoped to clarify matters and seek any help on the California lead. Walker hadn’t responded.
Graham had also called ahead to the county sheriff’s office and gave a youthful-sounding deputy named Tillman his regimental number and a summary of his business, including the Conlins’ address, which Till man checked.
“Oh, you should talk to Detective Vic Thompson.”
“Why? Is there an investigation?”
“I don’t know all the details. A custody thing, or something, Vic’s out right now. I’ll put you through to his voice mail.”