Saving Jason (23 page)

R
obertson knocked twice and put his head in the door.

“I’ve arranged for a press conference tomorrow morning at seven. Up here. They’ve all promised to hold back until then.”

My laptop was open on the bed next to me, but I was having a hard time concentrating.

“And I go looking for him right after,” I said.

“And I’ll be going with you. Try and get some sleep.” He spoke in a quiet, kind voice.

“Thanks.”

Sleep wasn’t on my agenda. Daybreak was seven hours away.

I had to expect that my picture would be all over the world the next morning. The story of an autistic child lost in the high mountain desert would be the number-one human interest story of the day. The distraught father speaking to the media for the first time would be irresistible.

I would be recognized. Outed on national news. How long would it take for the press to realize that John Sauerman, resident of Las Vegas, New Mexico, was actually Jason Stafford, the ex-felon who had graced the front page of New York’s other favorite tabloid?

Better they hear it directly from me. The torrent was coming; it made sense to meet it head-on.

There was another knock at the door.

“Come in.”

It was Hal. “You okay? I’ll be in the next room.”

“I’m fine. Thanks. Willie?”

“Still out with the team. They’ve put up a forward camp at the LKP. He’ll sleep there.”

LKP. Last known place. Twelve hours in and we had all adopted the jargon.

“See you in the morning. I’ll probably be up for a while.”

“You want company?”

“Thanks. No.”

“Good night, then.”

I tried lying down and closing my eyes. As soon as I let my mind relax, the images of horror swept in, screaming for attention. My son, cold, terrified, dehydrated, in pain, stalked by animals that flew, walked, or slithered.

I got up and went out onto the balcony. It was the night of a new moon. The stars looked close enough to touch. I took a chair, put my feet up on the railing, and tried to think of anything but my son.

People who grow up in cities learn about constellations from books. I’d been to the planetarium in Manhattan exactly three times in my life. The only constellation I could identify with any degree of confidence was the Big Dipper. There were times when I couldn’t find it. A friend in college had explained that it was upside down and, therefore, looked different to me. I believed him because he had no reason to lie, and if he was playing a prank, it would have been the only one he ever attempted. Sometimes I could find it, sometimes not.

But at least the Big Dipper looked like a cup at the end of a long curved handle. A dipper. Other constellations looked nothing like their names. Man’s desperate attempt to create order out of chaos.
Impose
order. And it
was
an imposition. Wasn’t the display—which must resemble what the ancients saw every night—magnificent without having to be chopped into recognizable pieces? Did early navigators determine that a particular grouping resembled the Babylonian god of war? Wasn’t it more likely that some shaman called it that as
part of some religious quackery designed to keep the peasants in fear of their universe?

The universe is filled with mysteries enough. Why does man create mysteries where none exist? It merely highlights their ignorance. I had never been a student of astrology and was resigned to the idea that I never would become one.

Mathematics was filled with such supposed mysteries that, upon deeper investigation, were revealed to be mere coincidence or wordplay. Some, like Russell’s paradox, or Euler’s Königsberg bridges puzzle, were instrumental in opening up other fields. Others, like the seventeen camels, the rope around the Earth, or Ulam’s Rose, revealed less about the workings of the universe than they did about the limits of mathematics as a form of communication.

Ulam’s Rose. I sat up. Ulam’s Spiral. I ran back into the bedroom and grabbed my laptop.

It took me less than a minute to find Manny’s messages. They went back for a few months. Of course, he wasn’t Manny then. Who had he been masquerading as back in April? The writer. Evan Hunter. I Googled him quickly and found the answer. Salvatore Albert Lombino.

I did a search for messages from Lombino. The one I wanted was the very first. The buyers of the shares of Becker Financial. The coded names of the buyers. Lists of numbers. Prime numbers.

Ulam’s Spiral has drawn more than one young mathematician into its spiderweb of meaningless confluence. If in some distant future or alternate universe, the mystery of the spiral is solved, it will have more to do with our understanding of the workings of our subconscious than any new mathematical theorem. Chaos exists. Some events are truly random. The fact that we see patterns speaks to how we perceive reality—how the brain works—rather than to any intrinsic grand design.

Ulam was a twentieth-century mathematician who, during a sleep-inducing lecture at a conference he attended, began doodling a spiral shape composed of numbers in order, highlighting all the prime numbers:

He noticed that prime numbers tended to align on diagonals as the spiral increased in size. Then he saw that there were longitudinal and latitudinal lines. Later, when he was able to see computer-generated results, the lines became even more apparent. Eventually, a spiral was created that used numbers of several digits. When the resulting picture was reduced in size to an image that could be seen all at once, in its entirety, by the human eye, it looked like a rose. Ulam’s Rose. The scientific mind looks for cause and effect. If lines exist, there must be an algorithm that can predict them. But in the case of Ulam’s Rose, there is none. It’s like seeing shapes in clouds.

During my junior year at Cornell, a cruel teaching assistant had assigned the problem to our class on a Thursday. My study group spent a long sleepless weekend modeling the spiral and running test after test for repeatable patterns. When we dragged our defeated selves back into class on Tuesday, the laughing grad ass told us, “You are all so arrogant as to think that every problem can be solved. You must develop humility to be great mathematicians.” I hated the jerk.

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.

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.

I
t 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.”