Cold Fear (10 page)

“…it’s a big park…”

What if someone had been stalking them, had taken Paige?

Is that it? The FBI suspected a crime?

Jesus.

Doug ran his hands over his face, not realizing that
Emily was telling him something as the helicopter’s rotors began slicing the
air. “Doug, I’ll go with Frank and Tracy now.” Then kissing his cheek. Watching
her turn to wave before crouching, boarding the idling chopper. The noise and
wind as it lifted off, disappearing

…vanishing like Paige…

Doug sat down, thrusting his head into his hands.
Overwhelmed, looking into the mountains, he begged them to return his daughter.

THIRTEEN

The phone
jangled. Reed’s 5:15 a.m.
wake-up call. He lifted, then replaced the handset. His body was locked on 4:15
Pacific Time. He nestled into his warm bed. Disoriented. Automatically he
reached for Ann, feeling nothing, forcing his drowsy brain to focus.

In Montana. Lost girl. Story. Deadlines. Coffee.
Food. Work. Let’s go.

Reed’s body felt like lead as he started the room’s
coffeemaker, then went to the bathroom and began rubbing his electric razor
over his face.
Montana
. Come home to Big Sky Country.
He had not
spent time here since the Freemen stand-off in Jordan, during which the FBI
arrested the Unabomber in Lincoln. The warm aroma of fresh coffee soon filled
the motel room. Reed gulped some, then stepped into the shower. The hot water
eased his early-morning pain. Maybe he was getting too old for this. He had
just turned thirty-four. He chuckled at himself as the water soothed him. Sure.
Too old. He was ancient. At times, it seemed like his life was nothing but
airplanes, deadlines, lonely hotels and apologies to his wife.

Toweling off, Reed checked the local time on the
coffeemaker’s digital clock: 5:55 A.M. The motel’s Mountaineer Restaurant began
serving Sunrise Breakfasts at six. He drank more coffee while dressing. He
switched on the local TV stations and the room’s radio to catch any news
updates on the story. For all he knew, the drama could have ended.

The search for Paige Baker was the lead item of the
newscasts. Her face glowed from the TV screen under the graphic, LOST IN
MOUNTAINS. A female reporter was gripping a mike and reporting live from the
command center. There wasn’t much new. The reporter listed agencies involved,
which included the FBI because it was a federal park and the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police and Waterton Park officials who were helping on the Canadian
side. “Over forty hours after Paige Baker became lost in the mountains, the
search continues,” the reporter said. No mention of the San Francisco Police
Department. Maybe Harry Lance was jerking his chain and Sydowski’s not here, he
thought, grabbing his computer then heading to the restaurant.

Reed bought a few newspapers, the
Daily Interlake
,
the
Great Falls Tribune
,
USA Today
, and found a booth. A
dour-looking waitress took his order of a Denver omelet with hash browns, white
toast and milk. A postage-stamp-size photo of Paige Baker stared from an inside
page of
USA Today
. It was accompanied by a summary of the news release.
The story was front-page news in the Montana papers, a larger picture of Paige,
a photo of Rangers with gear boarding a helicopter, a map of Glacier
National Park with a box and arrow near the Canadian border showing where she
was lost. Not much new in the stories. But one thing in the
Interlake
,
the local paper, caught Reed’s attention. It was buried deep in the story: “A
park official said they would check backcountry camping permits for possible
witnesses in the girl’s case.” Witnesses? Why that phrase? Witness to what?
Likely just routine, Reed thought, sipping some coffee, but it made him
curious.

Reed pulled out his laptop computer and switched it on.
While it fired up, he sipped coffee and scanned the
Interlake’s
story
below the fold on Isaiah Hood, the killer on death row whose execution was
coming up. Hood was now claiming innocence and awaiting word on a last-minute
appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. All these years on death row and now he
claims he didn’t do it. Reed shook his head. Many condemned killers do that as
their death date nears.

And some have been proven innocent.

Hood had killed a little girl, Rachel Ross, in Glacier
National Park over twenty years ago. Hood’s appeal said he was convicted on
shaky testimony and circumstantial evidence, arguments lower courts had not
bought. Not really much out of the ordinary here, Reed concluded as his
computer beeped it was ready.

He connected his cell phone to his computer and entered
the commands to access the
Star’s
computers in San Francisco. His
breakfast arrived and Reed ate as the phone and computer began a soft symphony
of digital-cyber trilling and beeping before connecting him to the paper. He
brought up the front page of that morning’s edition. His story was below the fold
under the headline S.F. GIRL MISSING IN ROCKIES. The bylines were Tom Reed and
Molly Wilson with a Glacier National Park, Montana, placeline.

Paige Baker’s pretty face, as she snuggled her beagle,
Kobee, stared in color from the front page. The story was a thirty-inch
hard-news piece. It encompassed the unofficial fear held by some rangers that
given the rugged region and conditions, the prospect of the 10-year-old child
not surviving the ordeal was terribly real. Reed forced away sudden images of
Paige Baker freezing in the mountains.

The article turned to page 3, filling the top half with
a wire photo of searchers, shots of Doug and Emily Baker, and a graphic
locating Montana, the park and the area being searched. Doug Baker was a high
school teacher and popular football coach. Emily was a freelance photographer.
Their San Francisco friends were worried. Some wanted to fly to Montana
to volunteer as searchers. Nothing negative in the piece about their family
history. Nothing about police suspicions.

Reed ate a few forkfuls of home
fries and omelet, then opened his e-mail and found Molly’s note. It was
hurried, almost in point form:

TOM:
TALKED WITH TURGEON IN HOMICIDE. OFF THE RECORD SFPD IS DEFINITELY “DOING
ROUTINE CHECKS ON BAKER FAMILY”. HAVE CONFIRMED THAT SYDOWSKI IS IN MONTANA
TO HELP FBI AND RANGERS (THAT ANGLE IS ALL OURS, SO FAR.) EMILY BAKER USED TO
LIVE IN MONTANA, MAYBE THAT IS WHY FAMILY WENT THERE??? EMILY’S AUNT WILLA AND
UNCLE HUCK LIVE IN SF BUT ARE ON RV HOLIDAY IN THE EAST. AUNT KNOWS MORE ABOUT
FAMILY. I HAVE GOT TO REACH THEM SOMEHOW. YOU WORK SYDOWSKI AT YOUR END AND
I’LL WORK THINGS AT MINE. TALK LATER, COWBOY. -- MOLLY. CELL 415-555-7199

Reed finished off his breakfast quickly, convinced that
beneath the surface of this story something very dark was lurking. The rangers
were checking for “possible witnesses in the girl’s case.” He pondered that,
clicking back to the picture of Paige Baker on his computer screen, glimpsing
his cluttered table and the ancient grainy photo in the Montana paper of Rachel
Ross, the little girl murdered years ago in Glacier. The children resembled
each other. Funny how that was, when kids were about the same age. Reed
overheard a reporter a few tables over gesturing to no one and talking louder
on his cell phone. The guy was pretty pissed at being punted to the story from
his news organization’s Chicago Bureau, when it was supposed to be covered by
its Denver Bureau. Reed packed up, paid up, then left, estimating that Paige
Baker had now been lost for forty-two hours.

On his way back to the park, Reed passed two slow-moving
satellite news trucks, one from Salt Lake City, the other from Seattle. Helicopters whomped by overhead before Reed reached the command center, which had
blossomed overnight with more satellite trucks, news vans and cars crammed into
the area near the building.

After finding a parking spot, Reed learned a news
conference was planned for some point in the day. He inventoried the vehicles
and activity--a lot of state and federal cars and trucks, an increasing number
of grim-faced officials coming and going, mixing with the press crowd, which
was loud with cell phone chatter, idling diesels, hydraulic adjusting of
satellite dishes, antennas, newspeople yelling to each other. Amid the bustle, Reed
spotted someone familiar. All alone, leaning against a car, he was looking
through his bifocals at pages on a clipboard. Reed approached him.

“Excuse me, Officer, can you point the way to San Francisco?”

Inspector Walt Sydowski’s eyes widened slightly at
seeing Reed.

“And it started out being a good morning.”

“I am so happy to see you too, Walter. It’s been how
long?”

“Not long enough, Reed. Go away.”

Reed planted himself toe to toe with Sydowski, who
looked around to ensure they were not drawing anyone’s attention.

“Walt, I am not leaving until you help me with the
obvious.”

“Boychik
, have I not
taught you anything? You should be home with your family, counting your
blessings,” Sydowski went back to his clipboard.

“Walter,” Reed dropped his voice. “What is the best
homicide cop with the SFPD doing here?”

Sydowski looked up to the peaks, blinking, remembering
what happened the last time Reed tried this dance with him.

“I got nothing to say to you, Reed.”

“There’s more going on here than a search for a child
lost in the woods, right, Walt?”

A low, distant thunder rumbled. A helicopter, one
returning from the command post, was approaching.

“I have to go, Reed.”

FOURTEEN

The cutlery
on the table rattled as
a helicopter passed over the crowded Eagle’s Nest Restaurant, a log cabin in
central Glacier National Park. It was filled with the aroma of bacon and the
murmur of customers hunched over coffee, talking about the activity out there.

“What do you think is going on, Dad?” Twelve-year-old
Joey Ropa looked out the window.

“Guys at the counter said it was a search for somebody
lost in the backcountry,” Joey’s mother, Lori, said.

Her husband Bobby’s attention was outside in the parking
lot, on the arrival of two park ranger trucks and a Montana Highway Patrol four-by-four.
Their waitress arrived, taking their orders, chatting.

“So are you guys from Brooklyn? I love your accents.”

“You know what’s going on outside?” Bobby said.

“A mountain rescue, or something. I’ll get a newspaper
for you.”

After collecting the menus, she left.

“Why you pumping her, Bobby? We’re on vacation.” Lori
pulled postcards from her bag, spreading them out.

Bobby steepled his fingers, mulling something eating at
him from the other day when they were coming out of Grizzly Tooth. Something unsettling.
Ah, maybe it was nothing. Forget about it. Why get in a knot over it? He looked
around the restaurant--a great place, log cabin motif. Cedar floors and tables.
Rustic. The fragrance of the forest, the frying bacon. He loved it.

This trip was a celebration of sorts for his promotion
and Lori getting a raise as a manager with the Port Authority. They were
thinking of moving to Glen Ridge, or buying a cabin. He should be thinking in
that direction, not on something from the other day on their trail. He said
little when the food came. He watched the parking lot, the increasing activity
with the rangers.

“What is it, Bobby?” Lori knew. “What is your quandary?”

“I should have said something.”

“About what?”

“The other day.”

“What? The other day? A few details would help here.”

“With that family the other day on Grizzly Tooth.”

“Would you drop that? You are not working.”

“Something was not right with them.”

Another helicopter passed overhead.

“I should have said something.”

“Bobby, this is crazy. You’re upset because you missed a
chance to what, fight with the guy? Tell him off?”

“No, Lori, it’s not like that at all.”

“What then?”

“Look around. The helicopters. The search.” He left
their table and approached a ranger at the cash register.

“Excuse me,” Bobby said. “I understand there’s a
search.”

“Yes, sir.” The young ranger was all friendly. “A little
ten-year-old girl wandered away from her campsite and is lost.”

“What trail?”

“Grizzly Tooth. Real deep in there near the border.”

“That so. We were there two days ago. When was this
reported?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Seems that dad double-timed it out
of there to alert us. Sir, you have to excuse me. We’ve got a lot on the go.”

Bobby returned to his table.

“What happened, Dad? Is it that girl we saw the other
day?”

Bobby looked at his son. Tenderly. “Could be, Joe.”

Another helicopter, or maybe the same one, pounded
overhead.

“Dad?” Joey said. “Can’t you do something? You’re a
cop.”

Bobby had just made detective first grade with the NYPD.
The guys in his detective squad respected Bobby Ropa for his superior eye for
detail. Or so they said, following a shift and several beers at Popeye’s Bar on
Flatbush Avenue. Now, he sat here, hands covering his face. Eyes blinking.
Thinking. Had he dropped the ball on something? He knew why he was so
unsettled. It was not that they happened on a family having a blowout in
public. You see that in stores, restaurants, supermarkets--stress spots--but
that it was here, in such a serene setting.

And that it was so disturbingly intense.

“Maybe you will feel better if you talked to somebody.”

“Here you go,” the waitress set that day’s
Daily
Interlake
near Bobby’s plate. “This is the cook’s copy. More coffee?”

Paige Baker’s pretty face stared at Bobby. When he
finished reading the article, he looked for the Montana Highway Patrol vehicle
in the parking lot.

It was gone.

“Bobby, what is it?” Lori asked.

“Hurry up and finish,” he said. “I’ve got to find out
who is in charge of this case.” Then he flagged the waitress. “Excuse me, miss,
is there a phone and park directory I could use?”