by Meryl Sawyer
"Stupid," Kelly said. "Delaying gave the person who found Logan extra time to get away."
She pondered the situation for a minute, imagining the hordes of visitors who made pilgrimages to the vortexes. Scientists explained the phenomenon as electro-magnetic energy springs. Many people, especially New Age types, believed that by visiting certain rock formations they could absorb the cosmic energy emitted from the earth. Such energy could induce a number of miracles from curing cancer to putting you in touch with the dead.
Kelly had lived in Sedona long enough to know most of the vortex stories were exaggerated, but she'd been so despondent after Daniel's death that she had visited the vortex the Native Americans believed was sacred. They called the huge monolithic rock Changing Woman. Kelly had to admit there was a certain ambiance around the vortex—a sense of inner peace—that could not be explained.
But Daniel Taylor's spirit had not spoken to her. He was lost to her forever. All she had was memories to sustain her until she joined him.
"The boy disappeared around three," Pop said, cutting into her thoughts, "yet it wasn't until nine o'clock when Benson Williams reached Haywood Stanfield in Phoenix at a fund raiser. Woody told him to call the authorities."
"Six hours. That's a long time. By then the trail was cold, right?"
"Yes, it was dark. The Search and Rescue Team spent the night searching the area, finding nothing."
"Weren't there any leads in the case?" Kelly asked, even though she had read and reread the file. She liked the excitement she heard in Pop's voice. It had been missing far too long.
"Sure, Logan was sighted more often than Elvis during the next few months, but none of the tips amounted to a thing. He'd vanished into thin air."
"From a ravine outside a small town in Arizona to the elite Cobra Force in South America. A quantum leap, wouldn't you say?"
Pop regarded her with his most serious expression. "Absolutely. Whatever happened to Logan Stanfield between then and now—that's your story."
"True, but without interviewing him, it'll be impossible unless I have a lot more time to ferret through the records and piece together his past."
"Doesn't his military file give you some place to start?"
"Not really. Logan claims he was never enrolled in school. His mother taught him at home, so I can't do that type of background story." She thought a moment and recalled the psychologist's notation. "In boot camp, the psychologist scribbled 'loner' in caps in his file, then he wrote in 'Haas Factor.' I need to find out more about what it means."
"I've never heard of it." Pop pushed his plate aside, and Kelly noticed he had eaten more than he usually did. "But let me call Bernard Robinson, my old college roommate. Someone who taught psychology at Princeton should know."
While Pop went into the house to call, Kelly struggled to come up with an angle. She could interview the Stanfields to see how they felt about Logan's return, but she was reluctant to let them use her to hype Tyler Stanfield's senate campaign. She decided she had to write the story today. If she waited any longer, word would leak out and someone else would get the credit.
Jasper nuzzled her leg and Kelly smiled down at the gangly puppy with the soft gold fur.
"Here, boy." She slipped Jasper a little egg, wondering how she was going to give up the dog when it came time for formal training. Jasper reminded her of Peaches, the mutt Pop had brought home from the Humane Society just after Kelly had lost her parents and moved here. Peaches became a lonely little girl's best friend. The sweetie would sit under the table and eat the peas Kelly tossed to her when Pop wasn't looking.
"It's going to be tough to let you go," she told Jasper who was now licking her fingers. "But someone will be thrilled to have you be their eyes for them."
"This time you'll come to the graduation," Pop told her as he came out to the patio again. "When you see how thrilled people are to get dogs, you'll understand how I can keep a dog two years, then hand him over to a stranger."
"I'm looking forward to it," she assured him, feeling guilty for never having gone to previous graduations. She'd used her career and her personal life as an excuse, yet Pop had always been there for her. She should have made the time to attend the graduations of the dogs he'd trained.
"Bernie was really helpful." Pop's eyes glinted with excitement, a look she hadn't seen since the heart attack that almost killed him. "The Haas Factor is a term that's rarely used. It came from research done by Dr. Quentin Haas with survivors of concentration camps. Many of them lost their entire family. They often wondered: Why me? Why did I survive?"
"They feel guilty," she blurted out, immediately recognizing the feeling. "You know, I experienced the same reaction. I had planned to go to Venezuela with Daniel, but I changed my mind at the last minute because I was working on a big story. I should have been with him when the plane went down."
"No, honey," Pop said gently, touching her shoulder. "You should not have been on that plane." He remained silent for a moment, then continued, "The Haas Factor isn't really about guilt, although that is one component of it. The risk aspect is more prevalent. Apparently people with the Haas Factor are willing to put themselves at risk over and over and over in a way that indicates compulsive behavior."
"What drives these people to keep taking such risks?"
Her grandfather shrugged. "Bernie says they believe they've lived through the worst life has to offer and are no longer afraid. It can be very positive. Many concentration camp survivors went on to become very successful businessmen. They were willing to roll the dice, taking business risks that paid off."
Kelly stroked Jasper's ears, thinking out loud. "I'll bet there's also an element of danger and excitement that someone tries to recapture. It's probably a subconscious thing, but I'll be surprised if that isn't true."
Pop beamed his approval the way he always had when she said or did something clever. "That's exactly what Bernie said. Members of certain high-risk professions like SWAT teams and pilots may also exhibit the Haas Factor."
"Logan Stanfield is part of the Cobra Force. He's spent years in the line of fire doing anti-terrorist work. What happened that made him love danger?"
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Kelly spent the morning in her office struggling to write the article about Logan Stanfield. The Pentagon provides hometown addresses and the names of next of kin for members of the armed services on active duty. Logan Stanfield or Logan McCord was not listed. They did find a Logan McCord on a Marine Corps enlistment roster.
"He went directly from boot camp to Survival School," the information officer at the Pentagon told her when she called.
"Isn't that unusual? Wouldn't most recruits do a tour of duty before being sent to a special school?"
A beat of silence. "It happens."
His hesitation told her it was rare, but he wasn't going to admit this to a reporter. Another thought occurred to her. "Are the members of the Cobra Force listed in your database?"
Two beats of silence. "No. They're Marines, of course, but they go through SEAL training with the Navy, then they're sent through an anti-terrorist program run by the CIA. The Cobra Force reports directly to the CIA. They're in a top-secret database."
Previous experience told her it would be possible to get info from the CIA, but it would take secret sources. That meant time, something she didn't have if she planned to publish this story in next week's issue of Exposé. She didn't dare wait one more week to run the story in the following issue. By then some other reporter would get wind of the news and scoop her exclusive.
She tried getting background on the Cobra Force itself, but found little information available. An elite group of anti-terrorist experts, it consisted of less than thirty men. Releasing the men's names would have made them easy targets for the terrorists they were tracking, consequently no roster of their names was available.
The Cobra Force had been created to protect American embassies, but the ris
e in terrorism expanded their role. They had alerted 10 Downing shortly before the IRA launched a surface missile at the building. They had warned the Army that its barracks were too close to the guard station in Saudi Arabia. Regrettably, the Army hadn't listened, and many men had died needlessly.
"Start at the beginning," she said out loud, popping a coconut Jelly Belly into her mouth. She kept a small bowl of Jelly Bellies at her desk for stressful moments like this. For her guests, she had the full assortment of flavors, but she ate only white ones—coconut or piña colada. "Back to Logan's childhood."
Logan McCord had listed Mapleton, California as his home address when he'd enlisted. According to the last census, the town boasted all of three thousand and twenty-seven people. It was roughly the same size as Sedona, big enough to have a newspaper and small enough for people to know each other's business.
She called the Mapleton Tribune. The editor-in-chief owned the paper, and he'd been publishing it for over thirty years. He sounded intelligent and friendly, reminding her of Pop. The man was positive that no one by the name of McCord had ever lived in the town.
When Logan had entered the service, he'd given his home address as a post office box on a rural route. An old codger at the post office informed her the box no longer existed. She asked if it had been there in 1983, the year Logan had enlisted.
"Yep," he proudly informed her. "I was delivering mail on that route myself back then."
He remembered the rusty trailer at the end of a weed choked lane. He believed the place was deserted. There was no name on the box, nor did the family receive any mail except junk mail marked "occupant."
"At least it's something to go on," she told herself as she hung up and selected another white Jelly Belly from the bowl she kept on her desk. "Whoever lived there must have had electricity or a telephone—the bare essentials."
Calls to the electric company and Pacific Telephone confirmed no McCords currently used their services in the Mapleton area. It took some persuading, but Kelly was able to convince both companies to check their records for 1983. No McCords were listed, which didn't surprise her. But she was astonished to discover neither company had ever provided services to that address.
By early afternoon, she was forced to call Matt Jensen on his cell phone. She explained she had too little to write even a one-page article.
"Keep on it," Matt said, disappointment evident in his tone. "I have to have it by tomorrow at midnight—at the very latest—if it's going to run in next week's edition."
"I understand," she said and hung up. This called for another Jelly Belly. She picked through the colorful candy and found another white one as she considered her options.
She had the rest of the day, then tomorrow morning she would have no choice but to contact Haywood Stanfield for a statement. Woody was Pop's archenemy. Her grandfather was devoted to preserving the environment and helping poor people get a chance, especially the Native Americans who lived in the area.
Woody favored development, expansion of tourism and programs that benefited the rich without doing much to help those less fortunate. It was a classic political tug-of-war. But Stanfield wasn't all bad. He'd risen in the senate and had served on several important committees, making a lot of intelligent decisions.
If she called, she doubted that she would be allowed to speak to Haywood. The smarmy Benson Williams lived at the estate, acting as the senator's political advisor and carefully monitoring the senator's exposure to the press. Williams would milk this story for all it was worth, spinning it to foster the career of Tyler Stanfield, the senator's son and fuel interest in Haywood's bid for the presidency.
A child's disappearance was every parent's nightmare, a tragedy that wrenched the hearts of people across America. She wanted to tell the real story, not hype the political fortunes of the Stanfields.
Pop poked his head into her office. He had Jasper at his side, wearing an orange vest with black letters: Guide Dog. "How's it going?"
"Terrible. It appears the McCords took great care to make certain no one discovered their secret. I can't find anything on the family."
"Have you tried locating the Marine psychologist who wrote the boot camp report on Logan?"
"That's next on my list."
"We're going to the bank, then the post office," Pop told her as she reached for the telephone, and he turned to leave.
"Tell Uma to expect me for dinner," she called after him. This time, luck was with her. Dr. Max Sobell was still with the Marines, stationed at Camp Pendleton. She called there, but he was in a meeting and would have to call her back.
"I might as well select the photographs to submit with the article," Kelly said under her breath.
She spread the various photographs the paper had run of little Logan. The choice was easy. She selected the shot of Haywood Stanfield holding the beautiful child with a smiling Ginger at his side. The perfect American family.
It gave Kelly an idea. She carefully tore the photograph, ripping the child out of his father's arms. A FAMILY TORN APART WHEN THEIR CHILD VANISHES.
She propped up the only picture she had of the man Logan Stanfield had become against her computer terminal, studying his sullen expression.
What had happened during those missing years?
"Awesome, like, totally awesome." Cindi Mertz, the receptionist/classified advertising person barged into Kelly's office as she usually did without knocking. The girl was bright, just out of college, but her vocabulary seemed to be limited to "coo-wull" and "aaah-some."
"A friend of yours is here to see you, and he's, like, awe-some."
"Send him in," Kelly responded, knowing Cindi considered anything in pants "awesome." It was probably someone Kelly had known in high school. Old friends had a way of dropping in when they needed her to run special articles for the Little League or wanted her to give them a discount on an advertisement.
She glanced at her desk clock and saw that it was almost five. Never stand between the door and Cindi Mertz when the clock struck five. The two part-time reporters had already left. Kelly should leave soon, too, since she'd promised to join Pop for dinner, but she didn't want to miss Dr. Sobell's call.
"Hello," Kelly said as a tall, powerfully built man walked into her office.
He responded with a nod and a slow, easy smile that was slightly off-kilter, canting intriguingly to one side. But this minor defect only added to its engaging appeal.
He seemed very familiar, but she didn't remember his name.
She knew this man, she decided, as he slung a large military-style backpack off his massive shoulders and casually dropped it on the floor. She kept her eyes on his face, but used her reporter's training to note other details.
His jeans were years old, his Reeboks brand new. His periwinkle blue polo shirt had to be XXL. The University of Arizona baseball cap with WILDCATS in bold letters partially hid what appeared to be chestnut brown hair. Mirrored aviator-style sunglasses reflected her own distorted image back at her, concealing the upper portion of his face and making it impossible for her to see the color of his eyes. She noticed he had a tan, which indicated he spent time outdoors.
The longer she looked at him, the more convinced she became that she knew the man, but she couldn't quite place him. She hoped he would say something, so she wouldn't embarrass herself by asking his name. The moment lengthened as she continued gazing at him, and she was just about to admit she couldn't recall his name when the phone on her desk rang.
She motioned for him to sit at one of the two chairs opposite her desk as she picked up the telephone, praying this was Dr. Sobell. It was the psychologist, but as he identified himself, she looked at the stranger opposite her desk. The man pulled the chair to the side, angling it just slightly, and it occurred to her that he might overhear this conversation and repeat it.
"I'm editor-in-chief at the Sedona Sun," she told Dr. Sobell, carefully choosing her words. She picked up a pencil, pretending to be ready to take notes, but kep
t her eye on the stranger, annoyed with herself because she couldn't place him. "I'm doing an article about rare psychological conditions."
"How may I help?" he asked, but he didn't sound really interested, and she imagined a career Marine psychologist settled into his job, evaluating new recruits, a dead-end career.
"I'm counting on you having a good memory," she said, conscious of the stranger watching every move she made. It made her wish she'd taken more time brushing her hair or had bothered with mascara.
"I'm a Life Master in bridge," the doctor said.
She immediately knew he had an excellent memory. "I'm referring to a psychological profile you did on a recruit in 1983. Do you remember where you were stationed then?"
"Sure. That was my first year in the corps. I remember it well. All that year we selected special recruits for survival school."
Perfect, she thought. This man would remember Logan, and now she knew why he had gone to survival school without doing a normal tour of duty. She phrased her next question carefully. Logan wasn't a common name. If she used it the man across from her might recognize it.
The stranger helped himself to a purple Jelly Belly, placing it between his crooked forefinger and thumb. He fired the Jelly Belly backward and it zinged through his barely parted teeth. A perfect shot.
"Do you remember a recruit named McCord?" she asked, distracted by the man opposite her. Despite his casualness, his body was tensile, reminding her of a cocked gun. "You recommended him for the survival school."
"No," the doctor shot back. "I don't remember him. It was a long time ago."
"Really?" she couldn't help sounding incredulous. "You recommended McCord for survival school."
"Like I said. It was a long time ago."
Obviously, the man had been warned not to discuss Logan with reporters. "You wrote Haas Factor on his file. Does that help?"
"No, not at all. I'm doing sexual harassment counseling now. I don't remember much about Haas Factor indicators."