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…”
76
Lone Tree County Fairgrounds, Montana
Cold Butte came into view as the papal helicopter de scended on the small town.
Below, traffic had swallowed the community. Walker and the others marvelled at the site for the outdoor Mass behind the school in the Buffalo Breaks.
A one-hundred-foot cross had been erected over the stage supporting the altar. The venue was in a valley offering a natural bowl. Walker had advanced the site several times when it was empty, checking vantage points and rises.
Now, over one hundred thousand people were gath ered, awaiting the pope. His stomach lifted as the heli copter swooped and banked for landing at the Lone Tree County Fairgrounds.
After touching down in the rodeo park, the pope and Vatican officials were greeted by an assembly of local dignitaries. Afterward, papal security officials gathered behind closed doors in the main pavilion building.
Walker expected that they would first go through a very quick, final rundown of the pope’s agenda for the visit, assignments and areas of joint and specific respon sibility.
That didn’t happen.
Colby was on his cell phone. He’d been receiving a steady stream of calls from Washington, the gravity of the latest developments weighing on his face as he waved Walker over to join him in a tight group of Vatican and security officials.
The heat of their ongoing debate was intense.
Monsignor Paulo Guerelli, one of the most impor tant members of the pope’s inner sanctum, was shak ing his head.
“What Washington is suggesting is impossible based on the facts, Agent Colby.”
“I am conveying White House concerns, Monsignor. Please understand that in light of the intelligence reports, it is regrettably but strongly advised the Vatican consider canceling today’s events.”
“Is there a clear threat that will result in harm to those around the Holy Father?”
“No, we cannot say that with absolute certainty.”
“Have you found physical evidence or confirmation of some sort?”
“No, Monsignor, nothing conclusive yet, but urgent analysis is ongoing, arising from a number of disturb ing incidents that have the White House concerned.”
“Has the White House no confidence in its Secret Service?”
Colby let that one go. He was in the middle of a po litical firefight.
“Yes,” Guerelli said, “these incidents. You’re refer ring to the strange substances in Washington and here
Six Seconds 433 in Montana. And, the alleged plan for a strike extracted from Issa al-Issa.”
“Correct.”
“Have any of these incidents been linked?”
“No, not yet, but it’s felt the risk is extreme.”
Guerelli took a few seconds for consideration.
“Agent Colby, every time the Holy Father meets the public he faces risk,” Guerelli said. “In Seattle, we had two incidents that appeared deadly but ultimately had no impact on the Holy Father’s mission.”
“Yes.”
“The Holy Father has traveled the world and faced many threats. For some two thousand years the papacy has faced wars, attacks, assassination. It is not a weak institution that is easily frightened.”
Colby ran his hand over his face.
“But, Monsignor.”
“Your job is to protect the pope. Your team is doing it well. We request that you keep doing it in order for the Holy Father to complete his ecumenical work. Tell the White House we will now proceed. We’re running behind and the Holy Father is eager to meet the children of the choir.”
Guerelli and the other Vatican officials left to join the pope in a private room where he was reviewing his speech to honor Sister Beatrice.
“I don’t like this.” Lloyd Taylor, a senior agent, shook his head. “Think back to Dallas and how Kennedy refused the bubble on the car. Can we get a vest on him?”
Colby shook his head.
“We tried. He refuses it.”
“To cancel now,” Taylor said, “would not only dent the morale of the Secret Service, but it would embar rass the nation.”
Colby nodded.
“It’s beyond us. This administration is terrified. It would rather send the pope back to Rome pissed off than send him back in a coffin.”
Colby called a quick last-minute briefing of all the senior security people. They went through the pope’s itinerary and everyone’s responsibility.