Saving Jason

by Michael Sears

  I set up an algorithm, plugged it into Excel, and sat back and watched as the spiral grew. I limited it to two figures to save time. I doubted that I would need more to see the patterns I needed. I asked the program to highlight all prime numbers and they all turned bold. Lines appeared. I switched back to Manny’s email and compared.

  1 3 13 31

  19 7 23 47

  5 19 41 71

  The numbers matched. I checked a full page just to be sure. I was right. The numerical names of all the blind accounts that had been purchasing shares in Virgil’s firm had all been taken from the meaningless patterns that exist in Ulam’s Rose.

  And that told me two more things. The man who was behind the takeover of the firm—the great mastermind—was a mathematician. Or had at least studied enough math to be aware of the Rose. And he had the same sense of humor as that asshole of a graduate student. Add to that the more obvious points—that he must know securities laws and how to evade them—and the picture became clearer. I knew someone who fit that image.

  Second, I had a connection—tenuous, and easily coincidental—between the penny stock trades and the takeover. Rose Holdings. Rose Holdings was the name of the real estate company that owned the bison ranch/truck garage.

  Blackmore would sneer. Special Agent Brady would think I had been out in the sun too long. But that fragile bit of information was just what Manny would need to find more evidence of the connections.

  It was a small thing, and I was desperate, but I felt the power shift in my direction. I sent a message to Manny and another to Virgil. Neither would be up at that late hour, but it didn’t matter. The next morning was soon enough.

  I went back out onto the balcony and leaned against the railing. The Big Dipper was right-side up. There was a flicker of light in the corner of my eye and I looked up. There was another. Directly overhead, shooting stars were blossoming from a stellar cornucopia. Flickers became long flashes that started as a comet and ended with a wink. There were hundreds. They came faster and faster.

  My neck ached. I realized that I had been watching for almost an hour. The star show slowed, then stopped. I waited, but there were no more. It was over.

  I felt cold and lonely again, just the way the Kid would feel.

  Somewhere up in the hills a coyote barked. A “Yip. Yip. Yip.” More playful than angry. A second coyote answered. Then they howled to each other. Others joined in. There had been silence during the meteor shower, but now the coyotes were letting loose. It was both scary and majestic. I couldn’t tell how many voices—possibly a handful, maybe more.

  And I thought of the Kid out there alone, cold, and frightened, listening to this chorus, and a cold chill ran up my back. I did not fall asleep for hours.

  57

  I didn’t see the sun come up. My balcony faced west. But I felt the heat rise even before the sun was fully up. It was going to be another hot day.

  My laptop was still open. I checked for messages. Nothing from Virgil and just a short single sentence from Manny. I’m on it.

  The smells of coffee and bacon frying were already wafting up the stairs. I cleaned up and dressed carefully for a day in the desert. Sturdy hiking shoes; light, loose-fitting pants; a long-sleeved shirt; and my Yankees cap. I slathered sunscreen on any body part that had the slightest chance of being touched by sunlight.

  Hal was at the table, eating breakfast with three of the volunteers. Robertson had temporarily moved his maps and was looking at satellite images on his laptop. Other members of the team drifted in and out while I ate. No one talked much.

  I watched over Robertson’s shoulder as he sectioned off areas to be searched. He was using a series of red lines of varying width to mark the borders. One section had a line considerably wider than any of the others.

  “What’s there?” I asked.

  He looked up. “Where?”

  “The thick red line.”

  “This is the rock outcrop I mentioned. A wall. Ten meters tall and one hundred eight meters long. On the far side it slopes off gently, mostly bare rock. Not much cover.”

  “We flew over it yesterday. We caught a thermal off it that threw us up a dozen feet or so.”

  He chuckled. “And then dropped you right back, I bet. It’s a good sight marker. When you’re out there staring at the ground for hours on end, it’s necessary to be able to look up every once in a while and immediately get your bearings. I set up search patterns with these kinds of natural markers. I could give everyone GPS coordinates, but technology tends to develop quirks in extreme environments. The most efficient tools my people take into the field are their eyes and their brains. You ready for your fifteen minutes of fame? Those reporters will be up here soon.”

  I had already experienced more than my share of fame—or infamy. “What would happen if we left now and skipped the big show?”

  “Well, I’d lose credibility with that crowd, and I can’t afford that. They’ve got people who listen to state police radio all day, and when they hear my name, they hit the road. Lost hikers, hunters, children, you name it. It’s all good copy. Sometimes they can even help. The only way I can keep them in-line is to play fair. Otherwise, they’d be up the trail with their high heels, blow-dried hair, cameras, and microphones, getting in our way or getting lost on their own. We promised them a worried father. We have to give it to them.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  “Amen.” He checked his watch. “They should start arriving in another fifteen minutes.”

  “Sounds like they’re early,” Hal said.

  Then I heard it, too. Vehicles coming up the gravel road.

  “Showtime,” I said.

  58

  It wasn’t the press.

  A state police cruiser came into the yard, lights flashing, followed by two black Ford Explorers. They all pulled to a stop and the doors flew open. Marshals Reyes and Geary stepped down from the backseat of the first SUV.

  “Mr. Sauerman, we need to talk,” Reyes said.

  Robertson put up a hand. “You can have your talk, but not right now. There are about two dozen reporters due to come up that road any minute to talk to Mr. Sauerman. It won’t take long.”

  “I’m afraid our news preempts any such action.”

  The yard now seemed full of police. Six more deputy marshals and two state police were out of the vehicles and standing behind Reyes. Geary was still wearing the boat shoes. All the other deputy marshals had cowboy boots, though only Reyes had the silver toe-caps. Maybe it was a tribal method of denoting rank.

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Robertson asked.

  One of the staties answered. “It’s their ball, Roy. I’ve requested a tactical team to back them up. You need to hear what they’ve got to say.”

  “Let’s talk inside. I don’t want the press to show up in the middle of this,” I said.

  Ten big men crammed into the combined living room/dining room. I sat on the couch and felt a sharp edge poke me in the back. I reached behind the pillow and found the Kid’s iPad.

  “Let’s get on with it, boys. I want to get out and find my son today.”

  “I understand,” Marshal Reyes said. “But this is important.”

  He laid it out quickly. The DEA had received some disturbing information from Mexican authorities. An unidentified person had made a series of telephone calls from Las Vegas, New Mexico, to a landline phone in Mexico City early in the week. That phone was on a list of numbers used by members of the Mara. There was no record of the conversation, but there were subsequent calls from Mexico to a cell phone in the States. DEA tracked it to a house in the Tucson suburbs. When they went in to investigate, they found an abandoned home—there were still plenty of those to be found all over the Southwest. The DEA talked to neighbors. Four young Latinos had been living there alone—squatting. They had pirated electricity and
cable from a nearby house and mostly stayed indoors ordering pizza, Chinese, and burritos. They went out sporadically, driving a white double-cab Toyota pickup.

  “Okay, I see why you’re nervous. But I’ve barely been in Las Vegas. The odds of someone recognizing me on one of the three times I’ve been to town are negligible. It’s coincidence. That’s all.”

  “I’m not done,” Reyes said. “There was evidence that the basement of the house had been used to hold at least one prisoner. DEA called FBI who called in an evidence response team. Within twenty-four hours, the ERT matched blood and fecal matter to our client. The dead guy found out in the desert. They contacted us and here we are.”

  “So these Maras are the ones who got to Castillo?” I understood the marshals’ concern for my welfare, but there was something else they hadn’t yet said.

  “The evidence is solid.”

  “And where are they now? The Maras?”

  “We have to accept the possibility that they have taken your son.”

  I was as stunned as anyone in the room. In the silence, we all heard the sound of more vehicles coming up the road.

  Robertson recovered first. “Marshal, I have to tell you, we have evidence that the boy was in these hills as of late yesterday. We’ve narrowed our search down to one valley. I believe we’re going to find him within the next few hours.”

  “You’re not seeing the whole picture. That’s why I’m now in charge.”

  I lost it. It sounded like he was fighting over turf again. “Are you out of your mind? That is the most tenuous bull-pukey nonsense I can imagine. Based on a phone call? You don’t even know if it was just some poor landscaper trying to get a message to his mother.”

  Reyes leaned in close, his face inches from mine. “Are you willing to bet lives on that? Because that’s what you’ll be doing. These sicarios get their kicks from pain and death. They like to leave their victims to bleed out rather than put them down quickly. They take machetes and start by hacking off hands or feet, then arms and legs. Do you have that picture in your head? Good.”

  I didn’t back away. “I’m afraid. I never said I wasn’t. But it was fear and running away from fear that got me and my son into this mess. I’m done with it. So, I decide from now on. And I have decided that I’m going into those hills and bring my son home.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Cars and television vans began rolling into the front yard, sending up clouds of brown dust.

  Robertson said, “That’s the press arriving, Marshal.” He spoke calmly and reasonably, wringing some of the heat out of the argument. “We’re leaving just as soon as we talk to these folks.”

  “These Maras are well armed. If they come up here, it’ll be a bloodbath,” Reyes said. “Your people won’t stand a chance against them.”

  “Marshal,” I interrupted. “If I am no longer in witness protection, then you have no say in what I do or don’t do. So, I respectfully want to take myself out of WITSEC. It’s been a mistake. I won’t let it happen again.”

  The reporters were out in the early-morning sun, piling out of cars and trucks, cameramen behind. The clamor was muted, but wouldn’t be for long.

  Reyes had lost and he knew it, but he had to try one last time. “Mr. Sauerman, I must insist that you rethink your position.”

  “The name is Stafford, okay? Jason Stafford, of New York, New York. Hal? I know I just voided your contract, but I wouldn’t mind having someone to lean on when I talk to the press.”

  “I’m with you,” Hal said.

  “Allow me to do the introductions,” Roy Robertson said.

  “All right, but get it right. The name is Jason Stafford.”

  59

  Hal stood to my left, slightly in front. Robertson was on my right with the state lieutenant to his side. The deputy marshals flanked us on both sides. I may have quit the program, but they weren’t quite ready to walk away. Reyes and Geary, however, remained in the house.

  “I’m going to save you all some research time. My name is Jason Stafford. I’m from New York. Until a few minutes ago, I was protected by the WITSEC program as a potential witness in federal court.”

  They were all screaming questions long before I finished speaking. I ignored them all and continued.

  “Yesterday morning, my seven-year-old son went missing. We believe that he’s up in the hills. I’m going looking for him as soon as we are finished here. You’ll understand if I leave suddenly. I’d like to get started.”

  I began to pick out particular voices and their questions in the melee. I answered as best I could.

  “No, I will not comment on a federal investigation. I’m here to talk about finding my son.”

  “Yes, it’s true. My son has ASD. He is verbal and intelligent, but his likes and dislikes, fears and strengths, are all varying and unpredictable.”

  “No, I don’t believe he has been taken by any person or persons. There does seem to be a rumor to that effect going around.”

  “I believe he’s gone walkabout. It happens to forty percent of kids on the spectrum. He is probably disoriented, lost, hungry, and thirsty, and I’d like to go find him as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, I believe he is alive, but I think that is a dumbass question. I will believe that until I see good reason to change my mind.”

  “Ask Mr. Robertson, he’s the expert.”

  Robertson took over and the crowd quieted down. They knew him and proffered him a modicum of respect. He answered their questions tersely, but gave them a few good lines of copy, too.

  “Mr. Stafford! Mr. Stafford!”

  The woman didn’t need to yell, everyone else had calmed down.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How does it feel to have your child lost in the high desert? What are you feeling right now?”

  “Impatience. I’m very worried for my son and want to get started.”

  “You don’t appear to be distraught. Are you always so controlled?”

  She had already written her story.

  “Yes, I am.” I turned to Robertson. “Can we go now?”

  At the back of the crowd a deputy sheriff who had been sitting in his car at the head of the driveway put on the lights and siren and peeled out onto the road. Heads whipped around to watch him leave. The rest of us stood in various stages of amazement or confusion.

  A second sheriff’s car came hurtling down the road from up in the hills. Lights, no siren. Two reporters turned and ran for their cars. The rest of them looked like they thought it might be a good idea.

  The state police lieutenant strode over to his car and conferred with his driver. A moment later he burst into action, running around the car and jumping into the shotgun seat. The car fishtailed twice leaving the driveway.

  The reporters all turned and ran for their vehicles.

  The marshals were standing around like bachelors at a bridal shower. They knew they’d rather be somewhere else, but weren’t sure where.

  Reyes burst out the front door. “Mount up. I want no radio chatter.”

  Robertson stepped in front of him. “You mind telling us what’s going on?”

  “I just got it from the FBI. Those four Maras? They stopped for gas just up the road from Ribera. A deputy saw the truck and radioed it in. They’re now holed up in the store. There’s a tactical team coming up from Albuquerque, and CIRG has a SWAT team on standby.”

  “I suppose they were on their way here?” I said.

  “That’s a working hypothesis,” Reyes said.

  “And now they’re not.”

  “You’re cocky, Stafford, and I don’t like that. In my business, overconfidence is the number-one killer. If those punks were on their way here, it was because someone gave you up, and that someone is still out there.”

  I didn’t have an answer. He waited to se
e if his words had made any mark. They had, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

  I let his words in and examined them for the first time. There were plenty of weak links in the chain of events—too many alternative explanations for a series of coincidences to be considered evidence of a possible attack on me or the Kid. But if by some remote possibility, the few facts did add up to a real threat, the consequences would be ghastly.

  The call from Las Vegas to Mexico City was key. If someone had recognized me and made such a call, who was it? The odds of it being a random stranger were impossible to calculate. At any rate, much too low to consider. That left only the people who knew where I was—the marshals and bodyguards, Skeli, and Larry. The last two were out of the running. Much as I hated to admit it, the marshals also had to be excluded. They had too much to lose. That left Hal and Willie.

  An image came to mind of Hal sitting on the hillside in his makeshift blind, watching the road below, and talking on his cell phone. Another arose, this one of Hal questioning me about my past history with the Mijos and Castillo on the drive from Tucson.

  Willie had been there, too, and with his frequent trips to town, he had ample opportunity to make the call in question. And the Kid didn’t like him, had never trusted him. The Kid was afraid of almost everyone outside of a very small group. But my mind kept coming back to our conversation soon after Willie first arrived. “He’s bad.”

  60

  Robertson was on the phone, checking on his order for a pair of ATVs to get us all up to the LKP camp—I would have been useless on horseback. They would be arriving momentarily. Hal filled backpacks with bottled water. He looked different to me already. His solitary, stoic nature now seemed mendacious and sinister. I plunked myself down on the couch and tried to look like I wasn’t going mad with a psychic mix of paranoia and impatience. I landed on the Kid’s iPad. Again.