“Wait, could I get a complaint history on the address?”
“Sure, I’ll get back to you, Corporal Graham.”
That was some five hours ago and not a word from Thompson or Tillman.
After getting into his rented car, Graham called again and left messages with Thompson and Tillman. Noth
Six Seconds 271 ing. Screw it. Graham decided to proceed. He’d come this far and didn’t have time to wait around. He con sulted his map, selected the best freeway to Blue Rose Creek and navigated through L.A.’s traffic.
Sure, he was going way out on a limb.
He hadn’t heard back from his boss in Alberta; maybe his vague message had bought him some time. Graham had not requested permission to follow infor mation to California. Why give them the chance to say no? Besides, he didn’t recall any travel restrictions being placed on him. A weak defense but he needed to see this case through and the clock was ticking on him.
About an hour later he came to the exit for Blue Rose Creek and made his way through the serpentine streets of the Conlins’ neighborhood. It appeared to be a middle-class suburb of well-kept homes with trim lawns and palm trees.
Graham hadn’t called ahead.
He didn’t want to give the Conlins advance notice that he was coming. He found that he got a better read off people when he surprised them.
The Conlins lived at 10428 Suncanyon Rise in a stucco bungalow set back from the street. It had two palms, neat shrubs and a red tile roof. A small Ford was parked in the carport. Next to it, a vacant parking pad, large enough to accommodate an RV. Nice-looking place, Graham thought. He drove by, down the street and well out of sight before he parked and got out of his car.
In the distance he heard children’s laughter and the splash of a pool as he walked to the house. Breezes carried birdsong and something sweet-smelling as he approached the front door and rang the bell. The house was silent.
A pair of swallows blurred by.
Graham glanced at the newspaper sticking out of the mailbox, at the snippet of headline about the pope’s U.S. visit, which was underway.
Neglected paper and no sound coming from the house.
Not good.
A sign that no one was home.
He knocked hard on the door.
Nothing.
Graham stepped to the side of the door, shaded his eyes from the glare and peered through the window but saw nothing.
Clank.
What the-? Metal against metal. Came from the side of the house. Graham set off to investigate, walking along the paved driveway and under the carport, spot ting the iron gate to the back. It was unfastened and clanging against the latch.
The house was emitting a soft low hum.
What was that?
Beyond the gateway Graham saw a small backyard and the walk to the rear door.
“Hello!”
Nothing. No dog. Nothing.
He called again, giving it a long moment before going to the back door. He rang the bell and called out again.
“Hello!”
Nothing.
Again, he pressed his face to a window, cupped his hands near his eyes and looked into the house.
Six Seconds 273
He saw the hardwood floor of the kitchen, had a partial view of chairs, a table, a dishwasher, countertop. Something was droning. Farther along he saw a hall way, a living room, then he glimpsed a hand.
A hand?
On the floor. Attached to an arm that reached into the hallway.
Someone was on the floor. Someone unconscious.
“Hello!”
Should he kick the door? He had limited jurisdiction. He reached for his cell phone, pressed the Conlins’ number, banging on the glass while it rang. He could hear it ringing in the house and hung up when a recorded message answered.
Graham went to the door and knocked hard, then tried the handle.
It opened.
Odd.
Graham considered his next move, then stepped inside.
“Hello!”
Bracing for a possible intruder, he made his way to the person on the floor, scanning hidden areas, wishing he had his gun.
It was clear.
A woman in her early thirties was on the floor. Un conscious.
Graham knelt down and checked for a pulse. Noth ing. He had trouble hearing over the deep hum. It was the television. He pressed his ear to her chest again. This time he was certain.
She was breathing.
A prescription bottle was on the floor next to her. Empty.
Graham grabbed her phone, called 911.
43
Blue Rose Creek, California
The paramedics took Maggie to Inland Center Hos pital, where the emergency staff worked on her.
Afterward they put her in a private room with a large window and through her tears she counted the clouds sailing by. Her stomach and throat hurt from the gastric lavage but her deepest pain was her ache for Logan. To say she was sorry. For in desperation, she had done what she had vowed never to do.
Abandoned her search.
She had not intended to kill herself, according to the psychiatrist who’d left her room a little while ago after assessing her. Maggie had reacted to a deluge of “stress ors”: the abduction of her son by her husband, pro phetic visions, a funeral, painful gossip.
“Accidental overdose,” the psychiatrist called it.
Maggie wiped her eyes and took stock of her hospital wristband, the IV tube in her arm.
Her life.
How had it come to this? She and Jake used to be so happy.
Crazy in love, he called it.
Dancing in the gym under the crystal ball. “Hey, Jude.”
Tears in Jake’s eyes on their wedding day. His chest swelling with pride when Logan was born. Crazy in love.
Iraq had damaged him.
What really happened over there? He came home a changed man. Did he find someone else? Was it true? Why was this happening?
She wanted her life back.
For better or for worse, because it was the only life she had.
She would fight for it.
She would go home and pick up the pieces. She’d demand more information from Dawn Sullivan’s hus band and somehow she would find Jake, find Logan.
Find the truth.
And somehow she would live with it.
Maggie lost count of the clouds and reached for her hospital cup.
It was empty.
“May I have some more water please? And more tissues?”
The young woman sitting with her set aside her textbook.
“How are you doing, Maggie? Still a wee bit sore, I bet?”
Her name tag said, Hayley, Student Social Worker.
“Yes. Thank you.” She accepted the cup and tissues. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You sure can.”
“How did I get here? I don’t have any friends or relatives.”
“You mean who found you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very lucky. A police officer just happened to come to your house. When he found you on the floor, he called 911 and gave you CPR. Our emerg people said that if it wasn’t for him-well-he’s the one who saved you. See, God sent your guardian angel into the game.”
“What officer just ‘happened’ to come by my house?”
“The Mountie from Canada.”
“A Mountie?”
“I think his name is Graham.”
“Where is he now?”
“Uhm.” Hayley bit her bottom lip, looked to the door and flushed from the sudden fear that she may have revealed more than she should have.
“I want to talk to him. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“I’m not sure if the doctor wanted me to say.”
“Hayley, where is he?”
“He’s been here all this time. Waiting to make sure you’re all right.”
“Find him. Bring him in. I want to see him.”
“I’d better find the doctor first. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to have any visitors before they discharge you. I think-”
“Hayley. Find the Mountie and bring him in here. I need to talk to him now.”