To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  “There’s Rick now,” someone cried. “That’s the boyfriend. That’s Ricardo Ramirez.”

  Waving frantically for the cameraman to follow, Kirstin went to meet them. I reached down and grabbed Cody’s shoulder, leaning in close. “No more, Cody. We’re not supposed to be saying anything.” Without waiting for his answer, I grabbed his hand and ran toward Dad. We easily passed Kirstin and the cameraman before they reached him.

  I threw myself into Dad’s arms. “Dad! Am I so glad to see you!”

  He gave me a quick hug. “Sorry. We got a call from Clay telling us about this. We’ve been trying to call you to warn you for the last couple of hours and couldn’t get through. We finally called the high school, but by then you’d left.”

  He stepped forward, placing himself between us and the news team. “I’m sorry, Miss Powers, but that will be all for now.”

  Kirstin made a little twirling motion with her finger for the cameraman to keep rolling. Dad saw it, started to react, then changed his mind. He raised both hands. Kirstin stopped, and the crowd surging in behind her stopped too. “I have just been on the phone with the FBI,” he called out. “They have authorized me to make a brief statement.”

  Everyone instantly quieted. The cameraman moved up beside Kirstin.

  “The anonymous source that called KSL-TV gave them information about a situation that happened about mid-June of this year. That was initially reported as a drug bust. In actuality, it was much more serious than that. It involved a home invasion and kidnapping of a local family with an attempt to extort money from them. KSL immediately contacted the FBI and are fully cooperating with their office in Salt Lake on this anonymous tip.”

  From Kirstin’s expression, that was news to her.

  “The anonymous information given is currently being studied, and further information will be forthcoming as it is evaluated. I am authorized to say this much. It was my family, including my father-in-law, who were kidnapped and held for ransom.”

  A cry went up from the crowd, but he went right on, raising his voice to be heard. “With the help of the FBI and other law-enforcement agencies, the perpetrators were captured and are now in prison. Other than the gunshot wound to Rick Ramirez’s leg, no one else was injured.”

  I noticed the cameraman swing around and focus on Rick for a moment before swinging back to Dad.

  “Since this is an ongoing investigation, much of what is known is still restricted information.” He raised his voice as a moan of disappointment swept through the crowd. “However, there will be a joint FBI/UHP press conference tomorrow afternoon at four p.m. at the UHP station in Green River, which is about sixty miles north of here. Our family, along with Rick Ramirez, will be in attendance at that conference. Until then, we have no further comments.”

  CHAPTER 15

  We were still pretty bummed out that evening, especially after watching me and Cody and Dad on the evening news. By this time, we had retreated into a bit of a fortress mentality. Dad finally had put up a sign at the gate of our property which read:

  NO TRESPASSING. MEDIA PEOPLE—THIS MEANS YOU!!!

  Which several interpreted to mean:

  THIS IS THE MCALLISTER HOUSE. WELCOME.

  Out on the highway, at the turnoff into our lane, we ended up with such a traffic jam that we had two deputies from the Wayne County Sheriff’s office and a UHP cruiser dealing with it—something unheard of in Hanksville.

  One TV truck parked itself on the lane outside our gate. Two more set up on the barren hills behind our house. Our phone rang until Dad unplugged it from its socket. My cell phone was chiming every minute or so, alerting me to incoming texts. Most were from my well-meaning but clueless friends, which I erased without answering. Rick called to say they were being bombarded too, though not to the same extent as us. We tried watching television but couldn’t concentrate and finally gave up and sat around the table and just talked.

  “What are we going to do about school tomorrow?” Mom asked Dad.

  “Let’s not go,” Cody piped up.

  “We can’t go,” I cried at the same time. “It’ll be a nightmare.”

  “I agree,” Dad said. “Besides, we have to be in Green River by four. You wouldn’t make it.”

  Then, right on cue, Dad’s phone rang. He took it off his belt and looked at it. Then he swiped at the screen and looked at the number. “It’s Clay.” He put it up to his ear. “Welcome to McAllisters-Under-Siege. How may I direct your call?”

  We heard Clay’s burst of laughter.

  “Hold on,” Dad said. “Let me put you on speakerphone.” He punched a button, then set the cell on the table in front of us. “Okay,” he said as we got settled, “we’re all here.”

  “Siege is not a bad word for it. I hear you’re surrounded.”

  “On every side,” Mom said.

  “Well, the mayor and the businesses of both Hanksville and Green River thank you. I understand every motel is fully booked and the restaurants have had to set up tables outside.”

  “Awesome!” Cody said.

  Mom pulled a face.

  “Listen. There have been some more developments, which require some adjustments to our schedule. With all that’s happening, Joel Jamison has decided to fly out for the press conference tomorrow. He’s coming in by private jet to Moab. I’m coming down to meet him and then I’ll drive him to Green River. If we provide a diversion so you can get out of Hanksville without anyone following you, any chance you could meet us in Moab? Joel wants to make sure we’re all on the same page before the press conference.”

  Dad looked at Mom, who was already nodding. “We’d love to get out of here,” she said.

  “Good. He’s due in at about eleven.”

  “What about Rick and his dad? Do you want them there?” I asked.

  “Not Charlie. He wants to keep Shauna and the girls out of this as much as possible. But Rick has to come. If you could pick him up, that would be great.”

  “What about school?” Cody piped up.

  “No school for you guys tomorrow,” Clay said.

  “Yes!” Cody cried, smacking the table with his fist.

  I felt a huge wash of relief. I was already picturing media mobs at our bus stop and hordes of gushing students when we got off the bus.

  Clay went on. “About eight o’clock tomorrow morning, there will be a ‘leak’ from our office saying that a team of our agents are headed for Cathedral Valley to make a possible arrest.”

  “Really?” Mom asked. “Isn’t all of the gang in prison already?”

  He chuckled. “You know that, Angelique, and I know that. But the press doesn’t. That should send them scrambling. Tell Rick to be ready. You’ll need to pick him up and leave immediately once they clear out. We’ll meet you in Moab at the Best Western Canyonlands Inn, there on Main Street. Let’s say at about eleven fifteen. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Dad said.

  There was a long silence. “Guys,” Clay finally said, “these next few days are going to be rough. This has already been picked up by the national media. Our office has been flooded with calls.”

  “The national media?” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. This is too hot to ignore. ‘Two teens foil international gang of kidnappers.’” He let out a slow, discouraged breath. “We’re going to have to deal with it. That’s one of the things Joel wants to talk about with you.”

  “Can’t you just make it all go away?” Mom asked, her voice forlorn.

  It was Grandpère who answered. “When you scatter a bucket of feathers into the wind, there isn’t any picking them up after that.”

  Canyonlands Inn, Moab, Utah

  September 14, 2011

  When Clay and Joel Jamison walked into the small conference room where we were waiting, neither of them was smiling. And they both looked very tired. Jamison’
s mood lightened, though, as he shook hands with all of us. When he came to me, I couldn’t resist. “So?” I asked.

  He cocked his head. “So what?”

  “Are you getting comfortable with the idea of Le Gardien?”

  “Ha!” he snorted. “You may have to sleep with a five-hundred-pound sumo wrestler, but you never get quite comfortable with being in bed with him, particularly if it’s a soft mattress. He just kind of rolls right over the top of you.”

  I laughed. “Good analogy,” I said. “Le Gardien, the five-hundred-pound sumo wrestler. I like it.”

  He was immediately all business again. “Let’s sit down. I have a few things to say before we talk about the press conference.”

  We all sat down again as Jamison extracted some papers and a manila envelope from his briefcase. He didn’t sit down, but plunged right in.

  “First, a couple of things of interest. We learned just yesterday that our prisoners finally have legal counsel. A high-powered law firm from New York has stepped up to represent them. We’re not sure why it has taken them nearly three months to do so, but we’re grateful that it did take that long. It’s allowed us to move forward with our investigation without a lot of publicity. So while the press leak is a disappointment, it probably would have come out soon anyway.”

  He frowned. “Second, there is talk that the law firm plans to file motions for several of the prisoners to be extradited back to their home countries for prosecution for other crimes.”

  “You mean they’d let them free?” Mom cried.

  “That’s what they hope, but it will never happen. Our case here takes precedence.”

  I saw Mom visibly relax.

  “Okay, now as to our anonymous caller. We’re not sure he’s European. He speaks with a perfect American accent. Probably from the East, maybe Boston. We’re running it through our voice recognition database to see if we can find a match, but so far nothing. Beyond that, we don’t have much, and I predict it will be a dead end. Whoever made the call used some highly sophisticated equipment to make it untraceable, but we think it came from somewhere in Europe. Whoever these people are, they are very savvy and very, very sophisticated.”

  None of us said anything. We just sat there, looking glum.

  “What we haven’t told you is that in addition to the anonymous call, an envelope was delivered to the station last night about eight o’clock.” He picked up the envelope and hefted it. “Fortunately, we have prevailed upon KSL to keep it under wraps until the press conference this afternoon. But it’s not good. It outlines the story of the kidnapping. In more detail than was given in the phone call. I mean considerably more detail.”

  “Like what?” Dad asked.

  “Like what happened in Cathedral Valley—what time it was, who was there, the setup, and how Danni foiled El Cobra’s trap. And like—”

  “Wait,” I exclaimed. “Did they say anything about the pouch stuff, like the pistol turning hot or the doll it made?”

  “Or what about the gold bars?” Dad asked.

  “No, none of that, thank heavens,” Joel answered. “Which puzzles us, actually. If they know so much, why not mention the pouch? Why say only that the boat swamped?” He rubbed at his forehead like he had a headache. “Once the press conference is over, I don’t think we can hold the media back from releasing most of what they have. I’m sorry. I’m afraid the spotlight on you guys is going to remain pretty intense for a while.”

  Mom was drawing patterns on the tabletop with her finger and didn’t look up when she spoke. “Then doesn’t it have to be coming from El Cobra? Or Eileen? They were the only ones who knew about the boat.”

  Clay answered. “No. This source has information that none of the prisoners could have known.”

  “Like what?” I exclaimed.

  “Like Cody’s hay fort in the barn. El Cobra never found you there, so he knew nothing about that. Or that you got away on an ATV, then went to Rick’s house and hid it by the river. Those are details none of the gang would know.”

  Grandpère cleared his throat. “And no mention of the pouch at all?”

  “Not a word. Not even a hint.” Joel rubbed at his eyes.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Rick said. “If they know everything else, why not tell the press about the pouch?”

  “None of it makes sense,” Joel said gloomily. “And I don’t like things that don’t make sense.”

  By three o’clock, when we arrived from Moab, Green River was crawling with media people. Cars, SUVs, and vans with their satellite dishes and antennae lined both sides of Main Street for a block in each direction. Men and women milled outside of the small UHP building. There were cameras, microphones, and wires snaking across the ground everywhere. The newspaper people watched with an air of faint superiority.

  Clay had warned us that we might have national news coverage, which we did. ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox News, CNN—all of them were there. But what was a surprise was the “local” television and radio stations that were also there—“local” including not just the stations from Salt Lake City, but one from Phoenix, two from Las Vegas, two from Denver, and one from Los Angeles. I have to admit, it was pretty darn intimidating.

  Inside, in addition to Clay and Joel and Shayla, we had the Superintendent of the Utah Highway Patrol, four other FBI agents, and the county sheriffs of Wayne County—our home county—and three other surrounding counties. With our family and UHP support staff, we were packed in like pickles in a bottle. But it was pretty organized. I guess that’s because they were all law-enforcement officers, and being organized is what they do.

  At four minutes to four, Joel called us to attention. “Okay, folks. It’s time.” He turned to us. “Normally, we don’t have victims of a crime participate in a press conference. Especially when it involves an ongoing investigation. But, after much discussion, we decided that where the media already have so much information about you—and are likely to get much more—we think they’re going to hound you to death anyway, so we’d recommend you join with us.”

  “We understand,” Dad said.

  “Are you going to let them ask us questions?” Mom asked.

  Clay and Joel exchanged looks, then Joel answered. “The media cannot interview you if you refuse to be interviewed. But ...” He sighed. “If you do take questions, we’ll limit the time to about ten minutes. It’s up to you. Totally your choice.”

  We looked at each other. Dad spoke first. “What we have out there is like a shark feeding frenzy. And the best way to stop that is to feed them something.”

  “I don’t want to answer any questions,” Mom said.

  “We can state that up front,” Clay said. “You can have one person be the spokesman for all of you if you wish.” He looked at me. “But it will be Danni and Rick they’re really hoping for.” Cody raised his hand. “And Cody,” Clay added with a smile.

  “Thank you,” he said, clearly miffed. He shot me a dark look. “Danni can be a real glory hog when she sets her mind to it.”

  “Not!” I cried.

  But then Cody laughed, and Joel went on. “Are you up to it, Danni?” he asked. “Like it or not, you’re the one with the target painted on your chest.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I knew he was right. If the information given to KSL was that detailed, they were going to know I took the lead role in all of this. But I did have the pouch with me. That would help. After a few moments, I nodded. “I guess. Yeah, I’ll do it.”

  Joel was pleased. “Good.” He consulted his notes again. As he did so, Rick leaned in. “You can do this, Danni. You are the most amazing girl I’ve ever known.”

  For a moment, I just gawked at him. Then I wanted to throw my arms around him and ... well, I decided I’d better not go there. “And if things get crazy,” I added, “and I start doing something stupid, will you step on my foot, or knock me along
side the head?”

  He laughed. “It will be my pleasure.”

  I saw that Joel was watching us and had heard the interchange. “You’ll be okay, Danni. Clay and I can step in too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay.” He looked at the papers he held. “Here’s how it will work. After Superintendent Callahan reads his statement, I’ll speak for the FBI. We will then open it up for questions. At first, only Superintendent Callahan, myself, Agent Zabriskie, and Officer Blake will answer questions for about twenty minutes. Then we’ll give them just a few minutes to talk to the family.” He looked at Mom. “And I’ll tell them you will not be responding.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, then, let’s do it.” He looked at all of us. “The important thing to remember is to limit yourself to the information we will give in the official statements. They will all be given copies of those statements. But we’re going to stress that this is still an active criminal investigation. The most frequent answer you’re going to hear from me and the Superintendent is, “Sorry, we cannot comment on that at this time.”

  We nodded, but there wasn’t much else to say, and so Joel motioned to one of the agents, who moved to the door. “Here we go,” Joel muttered, “into the jaws of hell.”

  I looked at Rick. “You ready to become a rock star, Ramirez?”

  His look said it all. I’m sure he was wishing that after I had bloodied his nose back in the fourth grade, he had given me a wide berth from that point ever after.

  The moment we came out the door, a wall of sound blasted at us. Camera flashes started popping off so fast that even in the brightness of the afternoon sunlight, they were quite annoying. The men and women behind a line of cameras on tripods jumped to attention and started rolling their equipment. Journalists of all kinds started pushing in for better positions.

  Beyond the inner circle of media people, a large crowd filled the parking lot. I saw a couple of uniformed officers at the back, making sure the spectators didn’t spill out onto Main Street into traffic. I assumed that most of Green River had come to hear this. Then I stopped as I saw several hands waving and people smiling at us. I shaded my eyes and saw that half of Hanksville had come too. The joys of small-town living. We were the only show in town—or in about three counties too, for that matter.