Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

“The fastest way to Crystal Road?” The deputy looked harried. “Hang tough a sec.” He finished a call, racked his mike, turned away from the traffic and crowds to a vast empty sea of short grass in the opposite direction of the event.

“That’s Pioneer Field. Your vehicle should clear it. Go across it, south, that way-” he pointed “-and you’ll come up at a road and an old falling down home stead. Go left there for about a mile, then left again at the T-stop. That’s Crystal. The place you want is six or eight miles out. Should be no traffic there.”

A low-hanging dust trail followed Graham’s car along the soft, wind-dried grass, the gently rolling terrain. He came to the homestead, went left to the T-stop, then left again at a wooden signpost, blistered by sun and rain that said, Crystal Creek Road.

Graham accelerated, raising a billowing cloud as he roared down the empty stretch, punctuated every quarter mile by lonely postboxes, with names like Smith, Clark or Peterson painted on them, or displayed in crafted arches over gateposts that led to small houses, or faraway ranches.

Gravel popcorned against his undercarriage as he drove two miles, then three, then four. Five. No postbox with Russell, or Conlin. He studied each home he passed for a rig or trailer.

No luck.

On the horizon far behind him he saw the helicop ters orbiting the papal site.

The odometer told him he’d gone seven miles, then eight.

Was he wasting time?

What if Maggie needed him at the school? Chances were slim his phone would work out here. Hands sweating on the wheel, he rounded a bend and a valley spread below him. Graham descended into it, sped by a stand of cottonwoods at a stream, then crossed a railtie bridge.

He climbed out of the valley to a bluff that over looked it and the town and thought, one more mile and he’d turn around.

That’s when he saw it in the distance.

A bright red rig, parked under the broad branches of a cottonwood tree, next to a small bungalow, the site rising like an island amid the windswept land.

The mailbox crowning the post leaning at the entrance bore a name printed on paper in marker, sunfaded and covered with clear plastic, fastened by duct tape that was surrendering its hold.

The long grass lane reached some one hundred yards to the house, assuring anyone inside a clear view of anyone approaching. Graham expected that with a world event taking place a few miles away, no one would be home.

But he couldn’t be certain unless he checked.

He continued down the lane with every measure of cop wisdom screaming that he was going about this all wrong.

Aboard the papal helicopter, over Montana

As the papal squadron of helicopters pounded east over the Great Plains, Walker’s stomach roiled with dread.

In the wake of the latest situation reports, he feared he’d missed a key piece of data, something that could link the fragments of intelligence that were causing mounting concern in the White House.

Was a threat emerging?

As the world rushed beneath him in a patchwork of cattle ranches, wheat and barley fields, Walker racked his brain.

But it was futile.

The answer he sought was lost out there in the neverending grassland.

As they neared Cold Butte, he glanced at the pope and his advisors looking down from their windows.

Mile after mile, traffic was gridlocked.

Walker caught a glimpse of smoke billowing from a fire and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. Looked like a serious wreck due west of the town, maybe twenty miles.

Walker checked his BlackBerry. Montana Highway Patrol had just sent a preliminary report. Two fatalities. No IDs confirmed. Vehicle a rental. Investigation con tinues. MHP also reported a noninjury collision be tween a charter bus and RV. Walker had holstered his BlackBerry when it vibrated with a new message, a supplemental to the double fatal, addressed only to Walker.

The MHP note came with urgency, saying RCMP Corporal Graham needed to speak with Walker.

Graham?

Walker took a second to recall their meeting in his office.

The note said Graham needed to talk about his case.

That would be the Ray Tarver matter, Walker re membered. He’d had the Intelligence Division look into it, albeit grudgingly. They’d found nothing to support Tarver’s grand conspiracy.

Walker had given Graham a hard time in D.C., so he’d give him a call. Give him one minute of his time.

Walker reached for his phone and dialed Graham’s cell-phone number but couldn’t get through.

He’d try again later.

Cold Butte, Montana

Graham drove toward the house not knowing what he would face.

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.