Chapter 2

Thursday, October 30, 1997

Sergeant Alvarez was at his desk finishing up a file on a gang shooting. The case was closed; the shooter had been killed in a retaliatory hit by a rival gang. That meant a new case, but it wasn't his. Gang violence was on the upswing in the county. Alvarez was surprised to see Captain Parsons walk into the office. Parsons was the head of the Specialized Investigations Division, and was supposed to be in Los Angeles for a quarterly meeting of all the area homicide units.

He pointed at Alvarez and barked, "Lieutenant's office now! Where's Miller?"

"She's in court on an old vice case of hers," Alvarez replied hurrying to catch up with the captain. Miller had distinguished herself in the vice unit before being promoted to homicide.

"Something wrong?" he asked as Parsons closed the office door behind him.

"You know anything about that home invasion and murder down in Fontana yesterday?" The captain asked.

Surprised, Alvarez replied, "I remember seeing it on the sheet. The locals have it. Have they asked for our help?"

Parsons shook his head, "Your Van Pelt suspect, Craig Carson, is back from Mexico. There was a nanny cam in the Fontana house. There are some very clear shots of Carson torturing the victim before he killed her. He was identified by fingerprints early this morning."

Sergeant Alvarez was sorting through the details of the Van Pelt case in his mind, trying to make a connection to the city of Fontana, but kept drawing a blank.

"Do they have a motive?" he asked.

"The locals didn't, but for some reason they called LA County Homicide first. LA called me. The victim was a county employee, a San Bernardino County Children and Family Services employee."

"You think he's after the kid?" said the stunned Alvarez.

"Forty minutes ago, as I was on my way here, somebody shot and killed a Family Services supervisor. Shot her right in the parking lot of their Rancho Cucamonga office. Witness descriptions are pretty clear. It was Craig Carson, and he stole the work files from the supervisor's car."

"We've got to get our people on the foster family. Move them into protective custody," Alvarez was clenching his fists he was so anxious do something.

"I've already got a patrol car en route," the captain assured him. "We're lucky only in that the Rancho Cucamonga office had nothing to do with the Van Pelt boy's placement. Once Carson figures that out, he could strike anywhere."

"We should have Tom Nettle from patrol go sit with the family. He's got a connection with the boy," the sergeant suggested.

"That's a good idea John. You make the call. The undersheriff will have issued an order by now calling up all reserve deputies. We're going to need a uniformed presence at every Family Services' office in the county. I called Los Angeles back and advised them to consider doing the same. I don't think we can predict what happens next."

"Has the press sniffed this out yet?" asked Alvarez.

"They will," replied the captain. "Family Services of Rancho Cucamonga is trying to recreate the client lists that the deceased supervisor would have had with her. We have to believe that those families are in immediate danger."

The two men stood quietly for a minute considering what needed to be done. What Craig Carson thought he could accomplish was beyond them. Killing the Van Pelt boy couldn't stop the murder charges already filed against him. Conviction would not depend on any witness testimony. If the original Van Pelt murders were senseless then these additional murders were incomprehensible.

The moment passed.

"I'll head over and pick Detective Miller up from the court house. Where do you want us?" Sergeant Alvarez asked the captain.

"Briefing room. I want you to brief a joint task force that I'll have setup by the time you get back."

Foster Care

Phil and Janet Eastman had been a foster family for six years. They did it, not for a check, but because they truly believed in the foster care mission. Typically, a child would be placed with the Eastmans for only a few weeks, and no longer than three months. These children would leave the Eastmans for more permanent placement, or go back to their families if whatever situation that sent them into care had been resolved. Because they had completed specialized training, hard to place children facing challenging health care issues, or those exhibiting extreme behavioral problems, were often placed with the Eastmans.

Scott Van Pelt had been placed with the Eastmans as a precaution given his recent history. Regular medical checkups showed that Scott was recovering nicely. After the first week with the Eastmans all the bandages on his feet and hands were removed, and the following week the last of his stitches were removed. His fingertips were still very tender. The torn nails had been surgically removed so that healthy nails could grow unimpeded. It would take months for them to grow in.

Scott's chest pained him if he moved too quickly as the muscles and ribs slowly knitted, but Doctor Patel was very pleased with the rapid improvement in lung function. He instructed the Eastmans to begin encouraging the boy to play more actively.

He remained the shyest boy they had ever fostered.

Janet was pulling weeds from the front flower beds with Scott's help when a sheriff's department cruiser pulled abruptly into their driveway. Two deputies erupted from the car, their posture tense and eyes scanning.

"Mrs. Eastman?" called the lead deputy as he approached, hand resting on his holstered weapon.

"Yes," she cautiously replied. Scott had moved behind her and was holding onto her leg.

"Can you take the boy into the house, and is Mr. Eastman here?" he asked. The other deputy was checking the garage.

Phil Eastman having heard the commotion stepped out the front door, "What's going on deputy?"

"Mr. Eastman, we need to get everybody inside and secure all the doors and windows. I'll explain after we're inside," the deputy insisted.

"Well, alright, if you say so. Should I call family services?" he asked stepping back into the house.

"That's probably a good idea," replied the deputy. His partner, armed with a shotgun, was taking position outside the front door.

The kids were parked in front of the cartoon channel in the living room. Scott Van Pelt was flipping through a picture book. The adults huddled in the kitchen. The deputy's explanation had scared them. Phil Eastman was worried about putting his family into protective custody while Janet worried about how it would affect the children.

The deputy's radio crackled, "Tom Nettle is here."

The Eastmans were pleased. Tom Nettle had stopped by at least once a week to check on Scott. For the last visit he had brought his girlfriend who happened to be one of the detectives working on the Van Pelt case.

Tom walked into the kitchen and shook hands with Phil and the deputy. Turning to Janet he explained, "The marshals are about a minute behind me. They've got a big transport van with blacked out windows. They'll take you to a safe house."

"Are we really in danger?" she asked.

Looking at Phil before he answered, "Yes, I'm afraid it's very serious. Start packing a few essentials, enough for a day or two. Be sure to get all the medications that you'll need. The marshal's service will help get you anything else that you need later. How's Scotty taking this?"

Janet shrugged, "Go see for yourself. He was a little scared when the deputies first arrived. Now he doesn't seem bothered at all. The other kids are all treating this like an adventure."

With the Eastmans safely in protective custody the hunt for Craig Carson became a spectacle. Local television breathlessly reported the vaguest rumors about the man they dubbed the 'Valley Monster.' Sightings were reported from as far away as Seattle. Five days later Craig Carson attempted to force his way into a records room at Regional Memorial. An alert security guard chased Carson out of the hospital. No one was injured. Carson disappeared again, and his family disavowed their fallen heir. Craig Carson's name went up on state and federal top ten must capture lists.

Agents from U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration learned of a rumor coming out of the Mexican cartels. A two-hundred thousand dollar contract had been placed on the life of Scott Van Pelt. In the 'old days' no one would take a contract on a child. The drug war in Mexico had changed that. Nothing seemed off limits.

On December 10th a state judge was murdered in his chambers. There was no direct evidence of Craig Carson's involvement, but law enforcement was not taking any more chances. All records pertaining to Scott Van Pelt were placed under seal, and security was increased at all state buildings.

In the midst of the massive man hunt for Craig Carson, a phone call was placed and an extraordinary decision was made.

The Marshal

The United States Deputy Marshal subtly adjusted her jacket. No matter how lightweight they made bullet resistant vests she was still stuck inside of the damned thing for eight to ten hours a day. Her male colleagues had no idea how uncomfortable and sweaty her sports bra got after a long day. She kept a trim figure which made her breasts look bigger than they were. Her face was serious, or so her last boyfriend had told her. Her hair was kept short and easy to manage like her nails. No fuss, no muss.

Big bosomy marshals with several buttons undone and a sexy bra looked good on television, but out here in the real world she needed to be ready to run. Ever tried chasing down a target with your breasts flailing around? Not comfortable, or professional. Of course this deputy marshal was unlike most of her colleagues.

Anne Morrison had been with the marshals for two years, and before that she had been an agent with the Unites States Secret Service for six years. She was thirty-three years old, and an Air Force veteran who had done a stint as an enlisted security guard right out of high school. Guarding strategic assets in the middle of the country was boring. The items they protected might be exotic, but the biggest dangers came from drunk drivers getting lost on base, or the greatly feared inspector general from higher headquarters. After her discharge she went to college and graduated with a degree in early childhood education.

It only took four months in a classroom dealing with mommy and daddy's little nightmares for her to apply to the Secret Service. Thankfully she had a minor in something academically challenging. That combined with her military background and gender helped her gain entry to the training academy.

She excelled in early assignments with the service, and eventually landed a coveted spot on the Vice-President's detail. Her downfall came when she reported a fellow agent's involvement with a foreign national. Anne filed an internal memo calling attention to the compromising behavior.

Unbeknownst to her the agent was destined for greater things within the service. Management offered her the chance to withdraw the report, but Anne stubbornly refused. She was ostracized and assigned to a desk in an out of the way annex. When she refused to go quietly away she found herself stationed in the northern plains chasing down letter writers. That was how far off the radar Anne had fallen. She was chasing down drunken idiots who couldn't even send their threats via email.

Anne Morrison's rescue came from an unlikely source. He was a kindly looking grey haired man who could have passed for an accountant. They met at a coffee shop in Bismarck, North Dakota, and he asked her only one question, "Would you do it again?"

When she answered in the affirmative he told her that she had passed the job interview. The man told her that the service knew very well what the agent was up to. For the most part it was overlooked. It was the price the service paid for men who operated at such high tempos. Anne thought it was bullshit, but kept her mouth shut.

In the years since she had rarely seen the man, but came to know that he was the most ruthless person she'd ever encountered.

He'd recruited her into a section of the United States Marshals Service that didn't exist. Since it didn't exist it had no name. In her mind she referred to it as the office. They did the dirty work that no other agency would touch. Their specialty was making problems disappear. That could mean an agent who had gone off the reservation, or a congressional staffer who talked too much about things they shouldn't.

Occasionally they'd move somebody off of the grid outside of the Witness Security Program. It might be to pay off a favor between agencies, or involved someone who didn't qualify for the program but that somebody needed kept alive.

It might seem an odd career for a would-be whistleblower. Ann was more circumspect. The agent that she had reported had put her mission in jeopardy. She didn't care if they drank or whored around on their own time. The mission, the job, was paramount.

Her current assignment was low profile. She was surveilling the wife of a US Marshal who headed up a regional sub-office. The wife was having an affair with a local construction magnate who had ties to the mob. Was the marshal compromised? That was the problem of the internal watchdogs, not her. Her problem was that the wife was the third daughter of a powerful U.S. Senator. If they could extract her from the situation without making waves, they'd have another senator in their pocket.

Her cell phone vibrated.

"Morrison," she answered.

"Drop the current assignment. Head for the airport, be prepared to go for coffee," the voice said.

Even on their encrypted phones they avoided certain terms. The code words meant that she was going to do something that wasn't going into the files.

At the airport she boarded a small private jet, pulled up the stairs, and secured the door. Nobody assisted her. When she was done she knocked on the cockpit door three times. The plane's engines wound up and they began to taxi. No crew member would disturb her in the cabin. When they landed she would be transferring planes at an obscure airstrip in the middle of one of several federal reservations. The marshal wouldn't even bother to find out where, it didn't matter. It was all part of the standard shake and bake for such a mission.

She read the scant file that was waiting for her. There was a mess in San Bernardino County, California. She was to relocate somebody outside of channels. A state judge, who was up for a federal appointment, had been murdered. Mexican drug cartels were reportedly trying to track down and kill the survivor of a brutal multiple murder scene. The killer himself was also in the hunt. The file suggested that the judge had either gotten in the way, or his killers thought he knew something.

It didn't make much sense, but it wasn't wise to ask too many questions. The service would have done a thorough background check and security assessment on the judge for a future protection detail, but the protection wouldn't go into place until the appointment was official. The drug cartel wasn't anything that the service was concerned with, but the survivor's safety would legitimately fall into their remit if it was a federal case. From the file the case looked like it could go federal, but it hadn't yet.

All of that detail was the cover within the cover. Hiding the truth was a specialty of her office. In fact the survivor was being relocated as a favor to a powerful individual unidentified by the file. She didn't want to know anymore than that. This was an easy assignment. Fly in, get the survivor and then disappear. Compared to some of the sleaze that she normally dealt with, this assignment might actually let her sleep at night.

There was a locked case in the seat next to her. She input her key code and opened the case. Inside was a wallet and credentials' case. She traded identities. The fake credentials were for dealing with local authorities. Any federal personnel that she encountered would be unlikely to check her identity. She had by necessity kept a low profile since leaving the Secret Service, and had drastically changed her look.

The plane landed and came to a stop. She left the file and her old credentials behind. The plane door was easy to open. They were parked next to a similar aircraft. She traded planes and was soon airborne again. It was early evening when the jet landed in California. A standard black SUV with darkly tinted windows waited for her. They made a high speed trip to a safe house operated by the service.

Early Evening, December 10th, 1997

The foster family had gone all out to celebrate Scott's sixth birthday. The party was a complete surprise because Scott Van Pelt couldn't remember his birth date. Special guests arrived in a blacked out van. Doctor Patel was there with several nurses. Scott was happy to see his favorite people from the sheriff's department. A pretty flight nurse gave him a really long hug and called him her miracle boy.

The marshal didn't recognize any of the deputies on guard duty as the SUV pulled up outside the safe house. The vehicle and her method of arrival helped ensure that nobody would question her. The marshal couldn't believe that the safe house was hosting a birthday party. The mission objective turned out to be the birthday boy. He looked even younger than the file suggested. Her antenna twitched when she learned that a couple of the party goers were local homicide detectives.

"Pack a bag for the boy," she instructed the foster care mother.

Marshall Morrison took the opportunity to pump the detectives for intelligence on the situation. The detectives were competent. The people after the kid were serious. The cartel connection meant resources and money. Throw in the randomness of the murder suspect's behavior and you had a volatile situation. She wasn't sure if it required the level of service that her office provided, but the order had come down and she would follow through.

Anne was worried that the boy would be a crier. She noted that the local sheriffs had a strong connection with the boy. They accepted her invitation to ride along with them to the airport. It might help keep him calm. As far as the locals knew, this was a standard operation.

Before leaving the house she dumped out the travel bag that the foster parent had packed and searched it. She tossed out the presents and any identifying items. Her scanner showed that the bag and clothes were clean of tracking devices. She checked the boy for good measure.

She handed the bag to the tall, good looking deputy sheriff and announced, "Let's go."

It was dark when their vehicle parked beside a hanger at the isolated Barstow-Daggett Airport. A non-descript jet was waiting in front for them; it had seats for eight passengers. The marshal climbed aboard the jet and waited for the boy by the door.

Deputy Tom Nettle, Detective Susan Miller, and Detective Sergeant John Alvarez walked with the tired six-year-old toward the plane. Alvarez passed a bag up to the marshal standing inside the plane. He patted Scott's shoulder and told him to behave himself. Susan Miller gave the boy a tearful hug.

Tom Nettle knelt down to look Scott in the eye. "You're going to have a great adventure in your new home, and you get to ride on a really cool airplane. If you ever need anything you can give me a call. Okay?"

Scott stuck out his hand and shook Tom's, "Thank you for finding me."

Aboard the jet the marshal knocked on the cockpit door and they were quickly airborne. The kid was curious, but quiet. So far so good, Anne thought to herself.

Take off had been pretty exciting, but Scott was having trouble getting comfortable in the seat. The female marshal leaned over and asked him if he wanted a coloring book. He shook his head no.

The last two months had been an interesting experience. The foster family, Phil and Janet Eastman, had been very kind. They didn't smother him as he fumbled around trying to regain his sense of balance during the first week out of the hospital. Minor things irritated him, and he tended to get angry for no reason. They were always very patient with him. The Eastmans were supposed to, "Let him work his frustrations out," he overheard a doctor tell them.

The one big puzzle he couldn't solve was his memory. He could remember the accident which is what everybody else called being stabbed by a monster and then buried in a hole. Nobody wanted to talk about that, or his weird dreams about the lights. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't remember anything from before. He knew his parents' names, and what they looked like, but not anything about where they lived. It frustrated him because he knew that there were answers somewhere in his head.

He learned a hard lesson about what he could and couldn't tell people. When he was still in the hospital he'd gotten sympathetic visits from candy stripers. They were older girls who volunteered to work in the hospital. He liked the attention as long as he didn't have to talk much. Teenage girls, he learned, liked to talk a lot. They would read to him or play board games. In the last week of his stay he'd gotten angry after two detectives kept asking him questions that he just couldn't answer. It wasn't Sergeant John or Tom's friend, Susan. He liked them a lot. The pushy detectives were from Los Angeles. After they left, a candy striper named Samantha stopped by and made the innocent mistake of asking about his accident. She ran from the room crying when he told her what had really happened. He felt terrible about it, but she never came back.

Aboard the airplane, he closed his eyes as he thought about the Eastmans. He would miss them he decided, but not their other foster kids. They made him uncomfortable. One of the boys was always picking his nose. He wouldn't stop. The only girl the Eastmans were fostering had a ratty doll that she took everywhere. It had a hole in its side that the girl used for hiding food. Mrs. Eastman was a real good cook, and the kids got plenty to eat. It made him sad to think about why the girl had learned to do that.

Even when the family had to move because the monster was looking for him, the Eastmans hadn't blamed him. Nobody came right out and said why they were hiding, but he'd managed to overhear a few whispered conversations. The armed marshals were all very serious, but polite. The kids treated it like an adventure, and it was until his birthday surprise.

Scott hoped he would get to see Tom and Susan again, and even John the sergeant who told him funny jokes when nobody else was around.

The marshal woke him up and told him they were getting ready to land.

The marshal was relieved when they landed at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. The military base was a great layover offering both physical and operational security. They were just another anonymous government airplane doing who knows what. Any airman who got too nosey would be threatened with a post in the Aleutians.

The next morning they ate breakfast in their room, and then went to the airfield where a new plane waited for them. Once they were airborne the marshal checked the file that waited for her. They were heading to Texas. The relocation would be in the western part of the state. She'd never heard of Fort Stockton, but it looked good on paper. There were two schools of thought on witness relocation; stick a person in the endless neighborhoods of a big metropolitan area where it was easy to get lost, or place them out in the boonies where they'd be hard to track down.

Fort Stockton qualified for the later. There were very few parts of the country that got more isolated, and still counted as civilized. A United States Attorney that the unit had co-opted was covering the paperwork and had greased her way with the locals.

When they landed in Texas, the plane was met by a fellow operative who handed her a new briefcase. The wind blowing around the plane was cold and cut right through her jacket. She loaded the boy into a sedan and headed into town.

The kid's damaged, she thought to herself she drove. He hadn't said a word since breakfast, and then it was only to ask for a piece of fruit. Then to prove her wrong he asked why everything was so brown. She didn't know, but told him it was because it was winter. Maybe Texas always looked like this. It reminded her of a drier version of the plains, but it wasn't as frozen. They were in Pecos County. Just like Pecos Bill the marshal told him.

Anne's instructions were to drive to the court house and meet the local sheriff. This portion of the operation was critical. She had to smile and play the dutiful marshal. No need to raise the suspicions of the local authorities.

The marshal parked next to a big white pickup truck. A good looking man wearing a grey cowboy hat got out of the pickup truck, and walked over to the car. The marshal told Scott to wait, and got out to greet the sheriff.

Scott liked the fancy belt that the man was wearing with his black jeans and pressed, bright-white button up shirt. The marshal motioned for him to get out of the car.

Together they walked into the courthouse and went up a flight of stairs. The man knocked on a heavy wooden door. Behind an enormous desk in a fancy office was an older man wearing an unbuttoned suede coat over a t-shirt. He was seated in a big high backed leather chair. Scott was fascinated by a huge set of horns mounted right above the man's head. He could also see some interesting old black and white photos scattered around. A table displaying a brown metallic statue of an Indian on a horse caught his attention. The man in the white shirt took off his cowboy hat.

"Your honor, this is the deputy marshal," the sheriff made the introduction.

This might be a small town stuck in the back of nowhere, but the county judge was sharp and the marshal was cautious.

The judge clasped his hands together and looked at the marshal, "When I got a call at home from the U. S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas suggesting that it would be a good idea for me to call the sheriff and meet a Deputy United States Marshal in my private chambers this morning—and to keep quiet about it—well, you could say that it piqued my curiosity."

In truth, Judge Elijah Upcott was more than a little angry at the U.S. Attorney for not answering his questions about this mysterious meeting, but the added presence of the boy kept him from expressing that anger.

The marshal unlocked her brief case and took out two folders. "Your honor, I apologize for the unusual nature of this meeting. May I show you these?"

"Let's see what this is all about," he said holding out his hand.

The marshal handed him the folders and stepped back.

The judge opened the smaller of the two and started reading. He closed it quickly and examined the boy with a raised eyebrow. Then he picked up the thicker folder and flipped through its contents. It was very quiet in the judge's chambers as he examined the paper work.

The judge looked at him, "Are you Scott?"

The Marshal answered for him, "He is your honor."

The judge began to speak, "The facts, as I understand them are that the boy's parents are deceased and that there are no living relatives? The boy is to be placed with the Broken Creek Boys Ranch. The Pecos County Court, meaning me, is to monitor him on a regular basis. He'll need regular medical checkups. Finally, I'm to seal all of this and the sheriff and I will pretend to forget you and how the boy came to be here?"

The marshal replied, "That's correct your honor."

The judge stood up taking documents from each folder. He walked around to the front of the desk and lined them up. He took out a pen and said, "Walter, you better sign this. I'll sign after you. Marshal you'll sign as witness."

The sheriff took the pen and looked at the first document, "I've never signed something like this."

"Just sign it Walter."

The sheriff signed his name, and then the judge signed his. The marshal provided her cover signature ... The judge read the document one more time, placed it in the first folder and handed it back to the marshal. She took the folder and locked her case.

"Now that we have that business out of the way we need to get this young man taken care of. He should have a middle name for example." The judge looked at the sheriff for ideas.

The sheriff who had noticed the boy surreptitiously examining his cowboy hat said, "How about 'Wayne? It's a classic."

The judge ran the name over a few times in his head, "I like it. Scott Wayne MacIntyre it is. I'll initial the changes. He turns six in January. Is that going to be a problem for Broken Creek, or the school Walter?"

The sheriff thought it over, "No, your honor. He meets the minimum age for the ranch. I suppose they can test him at the school for placement."

"Well young Mr. MacIntyre, are you looking forward to your birthday?" asked the judge.