Saving Jason

by Michael Sears

  By the time the marshals arrived in a five-seater Bell helicopter, I was fighting recurring waves of panic. The pilot set the bird down in the corral and Hal and I went out to meet them.

  Deputy Marshal Geary jumped out, crouching and running, with one hand holding on to his Diamondbacks’ hat. He joined us at the rail fence.

  “I really wish you had waited before calling in the locals. This is going to be a circus in a little while.”

  The response from the police felt like it was happening on a geologic timeline. I wanted to scream at someone, but couldn’t even find someone high enough up the chain of command to make it worthwhile.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But the more people looking, the better. What do we do now?”

  “You come with us. If we see your boy, we look for someplace to set down and you get him. Simple.”

  I hated traveling in helicopters.

  Hal said, “Do you have room for me?”

  Geary shook his head. “You hold the fort. We’ll keep you posted.”

  I climbed over the fence and followed him to the helicopter. Marshal Reyes gave me a squint-eyed nod as a greeting. The pilot handed me a helmet with a built-in mic and showed me how to turn it on.

  “Keep it turned off unless you’ve got something important to say. No chatter. But if you see something, don’t hesitate or waste time being polite. Jump right in.”

  I nodded and strapped myself in.

  The pilot took us up, and in minutes we were moving up and over the hill that Hal and I had covered earlier. The two marshals and I watched the ground. The pilot took occasional glances down, but focused mainly on flying the machine. We crossed over another line of hills into the next valley. The trees were taller there and wider—fuller. They cloaked the ground. I realized that there was a lot of terrain that I was missing. A small child, or even a large man, could have hidden from us down there. If the Kid was lost and wanted to be found, we had a chance. If, on the other hand, he was angry or frightened, he could evade us by simply standing still.

  We rose again and passed over the dry bed of a small stream, an ancient gray house in a clearing, and a rough dirt road that ran to it.

  “We should check the house,” Reyes said. “He’ll be looking for shelter.”

  He was applying logic to my son’s behavior. I had my doubts.

  “I’ll radio base and have the sheriff send out a four-wheel drive,” Geary said.

  I flicked the switch for my mic. “He’s not there,” I said.

  Reyes looked at me. “Why not?”

  Because the house looked both unsafe and dirty and probably had spiders or scorpions. The Kid would rather roast in the sun than take the shade in a structure like that. “Trust me. He wouldn’t go there.”

  Reyes thought about it for all of two seconds. “Have them check it out anyway.”

  So much for trusting a father to know his son.

  The pilot crisscrossed over the land, keeping the helicopter moving slowly westward. I felt the onset of motion sickness. Whenever I looked up, the horizon seemed to be swooping and spinning. If I looked down, I just felt sick.

  We crossed another dried-up riverbed. It was about twenty feet across and looked to have once been two or three feet deep. But it was now covered in young pinyon trees. The river had been dry for years.

  On the far side was a large clearing where bare rock broke through the surface. The helicopter rose unsteadily as we passed over. My stomach did some more acrobatics.

  “Thermals,” the pilot said as he corrected. “I’m going to have to stay up higher.”

  If we stayed up higher, we weren’t going to be able to see anything on the ground at all. The helicopter search was pointless. We were wasting more time.

  I flicked the switch again. “I want to go back.”

  Reyes snapped at me. “What? We’ve just started looking.”

  “We can’t see a damn thing. The Kid could be anywhere down there and we’d never know.”

  A herd of javelinas, spooked by the noise of the helicopter, broke from the cover of a copse of taller trees and stampeded along a game trail. The lead animal veered off the trail into another stand of pinyons and the others followed. They disappeared as though they’d never been.

  “You see that?” I said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, but if your son hears us go over, he’s not going to hide, is he? He’s going to come out and wave and be happy we found him. Am I right?”

  “No,” I said in reflex. My son was not that simple. “Maybe. But he doesn’t think like that. This is a waste of time. You guys do it, if you want, but take me back to the house.”

  Reyes didn’t like it. “When we need to go for fuel, we’ll drop you on the way.” He turned away, dealing with me by ignoring me.

  We rode around for another hour. The view didn’t change. The trees got taller and there were fewer patches of sagebrush. There were more rocky escarpments breaking through the crust of the ground, and when I looked back over my shoulder, I could see that we had risen above the foothills by a thousand feet or more.

  “He never made it this far,” I said. “He’s not fast enough. And the constant climb would have exhausted him. We need to turn back.”

  “We could refuel now,” the pilot said.

  Reyes looked like he had just downed a twelve-ounce glass of humility and it wasn’t sitting well.

  “Drop him back at the house.” He turned and looked at me. I thought he was about to blast me to assert his control over me, my life, my son, the search, the universe, but he stopped himself. “Jesus Kee-riste. You’re mighty green, you know that?”

  I refused to vomit in the confines of a small helicopter cockpit. I took long cleansing breaths and told myself that I would be back on the ground soon.

  51

  I felt better as soon as we started back. The pilot flew in a long curve away from the mountains, no longer searching with the nauseating crisscross pattern, and avoiding the more obvious places where thermals might catch us and toss the helicopter up in the air like a child’s balloon. In a few minutes, we were passing over the edge of Las Vegas and the foot of the road that led up to the house. A deputy sheriff stood beside his car, blocking the road. He watched us soar overhead with a thoroughly dissatisfied look on his face.

  The house was surrounded by pickup trucks, some with horse trailers attached. We flew over and the pilot began to set us down in the corral. A man in civilian clothes tried waving us off, but scooted out of the way when he saw that we were coming in anyway.

  “Who’s that crazy son of a bitch?” Geary said. No one bothered to answer.

  The moment the skids hit the ground, I popped the latch, jumped to the ground, and ran for the fence. Terra firma never felt so good.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Reyes was right behind me, yelling over the noise of the engine and the still-moving rotors.

  The civilian yelled right back. “You got to get that thing outta here. We’ve got to unload our horses.”

  “Who are all these people?” Reyes said. He yelled back at the pilot. “Shut her down.”

  “We’re the SAR volunteers. Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy in charge.”

  “I don’t think so,” the man said.

  Another civilian-attired man approached across the yard, flanked by two state policemen in black uniforms. The man in the center was grinning; the staties were not.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” the man said. “Which one of you is the parent?”

  “That’s me,” I said. I almost introduced myself as Jason Stafford. “John Sauerman.”

  I guessed the man to be in his early fifties. His hair had been brown, now going to gray, cut short in an efficient buzz. Though he held himself far too relaxed to be ex-police or -military, he exuded the air
of command. He was wearing a checked short-sleeved shirt, well-worn jeans, and hiking boots. I liked him immediately. He was going to find my son.

  “Roy Robertson,” he said, extending a hand. “I head up S and R for the state. Who’s this gentleman?”

  Reyes flashed his badge. “U.S. Marshal Reyes. We’ll be running this operation.”

  “Did I misunderstand? Is this a hostage situation? I thought we were looking for a missing child.”

  “I’m going to want all communication with the press to go through me. You must understand that our presence here reflects the sensitivity of the situation. Mr. Sauerman is under our protection. Therefore, as senior marshal, I will direct the search. You and your people will take orders from me or my associate, Deputy Marshal Geary.”

  “Are you in pursuit of a fugitive, Marshal?”

  Reyes grimaced. “We’re looking for a seven-year-old boy,” he said, enjoying giving the guy a dose of scorn.

  “Then you are invited to participate in my search. If you would like to work with our press liaison, I will arrange that. Is that helicopter yours?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Then please have your pilot take it somewhere else. Anywhere else. My people need a place to keep their spare mounts.”

  “This is federal, Mr. Robertson. You’ll take your orders from me. That helicopter may be our most valuable asset in finding the child.”

  Robertson looked at me. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Sauerman. Just give me one more minute to sort this out.” He took out his phone and speed-dialed a number. “Hey, Cindy. It’s me. Is she in?” He waited a few seconds until a second voice came on. “Thanks for taking my call, ma’am. We’ve been called out on a missing child over in San Miguel County and there are U.S. Marshals present. We are having a conversation about jurisdiction. Would you be willing to speak with them?” He listened for a moment and then handed the phone to Reyes. “The governor would like a word, Marshal Reyes.”

  Reyes took the phone as though he thought it might bite him on the ear. He listened for a few seconds, then said, “I understand.” He disconnected and handed it back. “You’re still going to need me, and my chopper.”

  “Marshal, you ask anyone here, I’m an easy man to work with. But they’ll also tell you that I lack patience. It’s one of my greatest failings. And I do not like to repeat myself. Now, will you please get that machine out of here?”

  Reyes wheeled around and stomped back to the helicopter. Robertson took my arm and guided me toward the house. “Mr. Sauerman, please tell me anything and everything you can about your son. I understand that he has ASD. How severe are his limitations? Is he verbal?”

  I started talking.

  52

  One last question. I realize that you may be limited in how much you can tell me—or want to tell me—but the presence of U.S. Marshals here raises some concerns. We have worked with the feds many times before and we respect each others’ drives and abilities. But I need you to give me your trust and be as open with me as you possibly can.”

  “I’ll do my best.” We were sitting across from each other at the dining room table, a rough-hewn, thick-plank affair that had been painted with a clear plastic finish to a depth of about a quarter of an inch. We each had a cup of steaming black coffee. Robertson had ordered everyone else outside.

  “You see, Mr. Sauerman, I can’t put my people at risk. They are volunteers. They will brave rough terrain, heatstroke, snakebite, and even being stalked by mountain lions, but if there is any reason they might be harmed by a member of the human species, I cannot put them out there.”

  I did trust him. I couldn’t say why exactly. Maybe it was his solid self-confidence, or maybe it was simply relief that a calm and capable man was taking charge of the search for my son. Or it may have been desperation.

  “I believe that my autistic son has gone ‘walkabout.’ Children with ASD do that.”

  “I know that,” he said. “We call it elopement.”

  “Or wandering. No one knows exactly why they do it.”

  “We are operating under the assumption that this is what we are dealing with here.”

  “Or he may be pissed off at me. I gave him a hard time this morning.”

  He smiled. “I’ve got four boys.”

  I continued. “As to your question, I know of no reason why or how my son and I would be in danger here. We came to this place to avoid that kind of danger. I have to believe that we have been successful.”

  He stared at me so long that I felt an urge to confess even more. I wanted to tell him about Aimee’s death, my wife’s murder, the drug cartel that might still be after me more than a year after I had helped send some of them to prison—including the now-dead banker. I wanted to explain that, although I had made a mistake and spent time in prison, I was not that man anymore. I didn’t say any of that.

  “Find my son, Mr. Robertson. Please.”

  53

  A topographic map covered the table. Robertson and I had been joined by three of his team leaders.

  “We’ll start with a search through the various buildings here on the property. Mitch, I want you to start on that immediately. Then check on other houses on this road. Look into everything. Barns, woodsheds, even dog houses. Often, autistic children will head for shelter. He could be hiding here on the property, for all we know. Mr. Sauerman, would your son have any specific phobias in that regard?”

  “Dirt. Anything dirty, moldy, or covered in spiderwebs will creep him out. If it even looks like that, he’ll stay away.”

  “So we can leave out the dog houses,” Mitch said.

  “Actually, he likes dogs. All animals, really. He has no fear of mammals.”

  “Is he a runner?” the other man said.

  “He’s a sprinter. He can duck and weave, and he can move quickly when he’s scared, but he can’t do distance. He has no control that way, he just gives it his all until he drops.”

  “That’s good info, but I want to know if he has a history of elopement. Has he done this before?”

  I remembered a chase through our old neighborhood when two FBI agents surprised us. The Kid had moved like lightning. “Yes and no. He runs when he’s scared, but he doesn’t just wander off and disappear. This is a brand-new symptom.” New symptoms of his autism seemed to arrive on a seasonal cycle. I was never prepared. The episode in Central Park and his brief disappearance in Tucson began to take on a different hue. “The best I can say is that he’s never done anything exactly like this before. Not this extreme or for this long.”

  “Betty, you have the local knowledge. Talk to your people. I want to know about abandoned houses or outbuildings. Also caves. I very much doubt he’s made it up into the Sangre de Cristos yet, but we’ll want the information at hand.”

  “We passed over an old house in the helicopter,” I said.

  Betty nodded. “About five miles west? The Haines place.” She tapped the map.

  “It’s exactly the kind of structure he would avoid,” I said.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  “I’ve got to ask. We didn’t see much when we were up in that helicopter, but isn’t there some way we can use it? It seems you could cover a lot of ground in a short period of time.”

  Robertson smiled indulgently. “My people are looking for sign. Dropped items. A scuff mark from a sneaker in a dry wash. A gum wrapper. A dried-up puddle where he stopped to take a piss. Even a loose thread. You don’t see any of that from the air. We’ll put people on horseback to get to a search location, but once there, it’s all about eyes on the ground.”

  “What about technology? Those thermal whatevers?”

  “Thermal imaging?” He shook his head. “The average human at rest in a neutral environment shows an image of about ninety-eight and a quarter degrees Fahrenheit. Would you like to take a guess at the ground temperature
up in those hills right now?”

  “Weather said it was going up to ninety-four today.”

  “Weather temp is taken at between four and six feet off the ground. Ground is going to be an easy ten degrees warmer.”

  “So a person wouldn’t even show.”

  “A grown man or a group might show up as faint shadows, and if they were moving, you might be able to pick them out with military-grade equipment. But a small child? Nothing. Hiding or standing still? Not a blip.”

  “What about dogs, then? He’s not afraid of them, and I’ve got plenty of his things to get a scent.”

  “Similar problem. It’s the heat, Mr. Sauerman. Scent is carried on oils. Perspiration. Amounts so finite we can’t even test for most of them. But a dog can smell them. The problem out here is that once the sun goes to work on those oils, the odor rises off the ground and gets dispersed. On a still day, the dogs just get confused, because the scent seems to be everywhere. If there’s even a breath of wind, they won’t find anything at all.”

  There was a hot breeze coming up off the plains.

  “How familiar is your boy with the area?” Betty asked. “Would he know how to get to Storrie Lake, for instance?”

  “We’ve only been here a few days. I wouldn’t know how to get there.”

  “People with ASD often head for water,” Robertson said. He pointed to the map. “What about these creeks?”

  “They’re both out of probability range,” Betty told him. “And they’ll be very low this time of year.”

  “Where do you get all this?” I asked. They were a lot more educated on folks with autism than the average law enforcement professional.

  “SAR is about two things, Mr. Sauerman. Statistics and eyes on the ground. Lost-person behavior is the statistics. There’s an international database covering rural, wilderness, and urban settings for people in various age groups, or with specific disabilities. It’s updated regularly and as comprehensive as they can make it. One thing I can tell you is that recovery of autistic children has a very high probability of success within the first twenty-four hours. We plan on finding your son.”