Cold Fear (16 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

By mid-morning,
a Montana forestry
helicopter touched down on the makeshift helipad of the command post at the
Bakers’ campsite deep inside Grizzly Tooth Trail.

Emily Baker and Agent Tracy Bowman were met by Incident
Commander Brady Brook. There was no encouraging news.

“Nothing so far, ma’am.” He shook his head sadly. The
other rangers attempted to look off, or get busy in a respectful attempt at
giving Emily privacy to absorb the negative update.

Emily nodded, wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue,
then returned to her lonely vigil at the camp’s edge overlooking the forest.

The search planes and radio chatter somehow comforted
her, like the din of a choir practicing in a church.

“Emily, please. Have some of this.”

Bowman had brought her a tin cup of chicken noodle soup.

“It’s mostly broth. Please, you need something.”

She reached up with both hands to accept its warmth.

“Thank you, Tracy.”

Emily sipped some of the broth. It was good. She gazed
at the view.

Bowman sat next to her with a cup for herself.

“Tell me about your husband, Tracy. Please?”

Bowman remembered Zander’s advice to befriend Emily.
“All right,” she said, conjuring up Carl’s handsome, kind face. “He was a
loner. Grew up near Butte. Joined the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Served in
Desert Storm. Never talked much about it, except to say Kuwait
was like Montana without the grass and the mountains. After that, he started
his own towing business. We met in a god-awful snowstorm outside of Missoula when I was working as a highway patrol officer before I was accepted into the FBI
Academy. Just talked and joked the night away. He had a good heart. I fell in
love with him that night. We were married about a year later, had Mark a year
after that. Carl had dreams of expanding his business statewide. He just loved
driving around out here looking for people to help. He had a big-sky soul. He
belonged to Montana, and Montana belonged to him.”

Emily’s face was sympathetic. “Tell me about your son.”

“Just like his dad. I see Carl’s eyes, hear his voice in
Mark. He’s good-hearted like his father. They were good together. Buddies.”

“That must give you some comfort.”

“Mmm, it does.”

“You ever think about what would happen if you lost him?
I mean--having lost Carl--you--I’m sorry.” Emily sniffed. “It’s none of my
business.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s OK. Yes, I think about it. Mark’s
got a congenital lung condition. It makes breathing difficult for him at times.
It’s not terminal but he’ll always have it.

“I guess you know how life is so fragile, so
very…temporary.”

“Yup.”

“Do you think I will ever see my daughter again?”

Bowman scanned the forests and ranges of mountains that
stretched to an eternity. “I don’t know.”

“Thanks for the honest answer.”

Bowman reminded herself she was an FBI agent assisting
in an investigation. Zander’s words echoed with the choppers over the valley.

All she may need is a little nudge. You decide when
to push.

“How was it for you growing up here, Emily?”

“Heavenly. We had a place my grandfather built near
Buckhorn Creek.”

“That’s not far from here.”

“No. It had a rafter roof. I had a horse. Dad worked on
a feedlot. My parents got me my first camera and I started learning about
photography here, studying Dad’s old
Life
magazines.”

“Why did you leave?”

Emily looked to the mountains for the answer.

“Guess what I’m going to do.”

Bowman thought it best to wait her out. A full minute
passed.

“I moved with my mother to San Francisco after my father
was killed.”

“What happened?”

“He fell from his horse while working on our ranch, got
kicked. I saw it happen.”

“Oh my God. I am so sorry.”

“I was fifteen. It happened because he was distracted.
He was upset with me.”

“What on earth for?”

“A rumor was going around town that I lied about
something. Something important.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Did you lie about this important thing?”

“No, I did not. But now, things have gotten so crazy.
It’s like--”

“Guess what I’m going to do.”

“Stop it!” She hurled her cup down the mountain, the tin
tapping and tinking all the way down, underscoring the echo of her “Stop it!
Stop it! Stop it!” Emily thrust her face into her hands and sobbed.

Bowman held her.

“Emily. Please. You have got to talk to me.”

“It’s happening again. It’s happening again. I cannot
let this happen again. Oh God, please! Paige!”

Bowman struggled to hold Emily. Her entire exhausted
body was writhing in torment. Others rushed to her aid as her echoing screams
were soon drowned out by the approaching thunder of an FBI helicopter, forcing
the command post staff to struggle to hold down the flapping maps, as Emily
rocked in Bowman’s arms.

What the hell is this family hiding?

TWENTY-FIVE

In San Francisco,
a few days before
Paige Baker vanished in the Rocky Mountains, Sheila Walton was having trouble
sleeping.

It arose from a call Walton had received from Henrietta
Umara, principal of Beecher Lowe, requesting a meeting. A day or so before
school break, Walton’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Cammi, confided something
that had alarmed Umara

“She told me one of her teachers had”--Umara searched
for the precise word--“
allegedly
struck her.”

“
Hit her?
Who was it? What happened?”

Walton’s body numbed, her ears rang, as she sat there in
Umara’s office, absorbing the words. Not believing them.

“Ms. Walton, has Cammi told you anything of this?”

Walton shook her head, eyes stinging with tears. “Not a
word. I can’t believe she did not come to me. What did she say happened? When?”

Umara passed her a tissue.

“She was vague about it. She provided no details. Did
not even identify the teacher, until this morning. She called me.”

“She called you?”

“It could be a misunderstanding. A misinterpretation.
Or, it could be serious. She alleged to me that something happened a few days
ago. I had to attend a conference in Sacramento. I could not reach you. Cammi
told me the incident took place five days prior to the start of the school
break.”

“What happened?”

“Her words: ‘My teacher slapped me.’”

“Slapped her?” Walton blinked back tears. “Who is this
teacher? Have they been suspended? I want to know more.”

“I will deal with the teacher first.”

“You mean before I press charges?”

“Ms. Walton, I know this is difficult, but we’re moving
a little fast here.”

“You don’t want me to press charges?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Nothing like that yet.”

“Well, what then? You call me down here and --”

“Please, I’d like you to try to learn more from Cammi
about what is alleged to have happened. So far I only have her allegation.”

Walton’s gaze went beyond Umara to the office walls, the
U.S. flag, the framed certificates, a photo of her with the first lady, and
the plaques of the school’s achievements. She now understood why Cammi had
seemed so withdrawn, so sad recently.

Why didn’t you tell Mom first?

“What do we do now, Ms. Umara?”

“Proceed cautiously. I’ll speak to the teacher. He does
not know yet. No one else knows yet. This is extremely confidential. As I said,
Cammi was vague. I am hoping you will be able to clarify what she believes took
place. Although school is recessed, I have the safety of other students to
consider. Please get back to me as soon as possible.

“I will. Thank you.”

After walking Walton to her car, Umara returned to her
office and the personnel file folder on her desk. She flipped through it again
and sighed. Doug Baker’s reputation, his accomplishments were exemplary.
Stellar.

What is it, Doug. Drinking? Drugs? Stress at home?
You need some time off? If we could have talked first. I hope you check your
machine at home for messages. Doug, I have to go by the book. No protection.
She looked at his school I.D. photograph. Into his eyes.
It
can’t be. I thought I knew you. But if it is true. Cammi Walton!
The
daughter of Sheila Walton, the junior partner in Pitman Rosser and Cook,
specializing in criminal trials. Sheila Walton, the San Francisco police
commissioner, pegged by some as the next mayor or U.S. Senator.

For several days at their uphill home straddling the
Richmond District and Presidio Heights, Walton struggled to get Cammi to
discuss the incident.

“It was Doug Baker, my English teacher. I don’t know why
he hates me. He got mad at me and just slapped me. I don’t want to talk about
it anymore.”

“Besides Ms. Umara and me, have you told anyone else?”

“No.”

“No friends? Not even Lilly or Beth? Be straight.”

“Nobody.”

Cammi distanced herself from her mother at the far end
of the sofa. Her knees pulled together under her chin as she gripped the remote
and flipped between muted music-video channels. Tears rolled down her
daughter’s cheeks. Walton felt helpless.

She had met this guy once at some school function. They
talked about football and city politics. Good-looking and virile. Beautiful
wife. Daughter.

None of this made sense.

“Cammi, tell me exactly what happened. Everything.”

Tears continued welling in her daughters eyes.

“It was after class. I went up to ask him a question
about Lord of the Flies and he pushed me against the wall. He got so angry with
me. I was so scared. He called me stupid for not understanding the book, He
said people who have problems should talk about them, not keep them to
themselves. Then he slapped me, telling me not to be so stupid.”

Walton was stunned.

It did not make sense. The image of that man hurting her
child appeared in her mind like a scene from a nightmare. Such a violation.
Walton reached for the phone to call this guy right now.
Stop. No, not yet
.
It just did not make sense.

Could this be more complicated? Could it be fallout from
her divorce with Greg? From three years ago? Lord, would she have to tell him?
She anticipated his reaction from his cell phone in Santa Monica:
“Why
aren’t you taking care of her, Sheila? What is more important to you than
Cammi?”

The bastard was getting married next month. Cammi seemed
to be handling it well.

Maybe Walton could resolve it without calling Greg. But
Cammi had been on a path of defiance for the past year--over clothes, friends,
curfew, phone time, make-up, the unicorn tattoo she threatened to get on her
ankle. Her grades had slipped drastically.

Walton looked in on her one night, while she slept,
marveling at how her child was changing before her eyes. From diapers to body
piercing. Her baby was gone. A confused, headstrong young woman in a
fourteen-year-old’s body had replaced her. She stroked her hair and kissed her
forehead.

She called Umara at home to tell her she needed a little
more time to try to get her daughter to talk about the incident.

A few mornings later, Walton reached the peak of her
crisis. As usual, Lupe, Walton’s housekeeper, placed that morning’s
San
Francisco Star
next to the ceramic coffeepot on the table, in the nook,
overlooking the huge shade trees of the backyard.

The article and pictures on the search for Doug Baker’s
daughter, Paige, awaited her.
What is this?
Walton devoured it before
touching her coffee.

“Cammi!”

They went over the article several times with Cammi
repeating, “Oh my God! That poor little girl!” Walton’s fears increased looking
at Paige Baker’s picture in the newspaper, then at Cammi. She looked hard at
the picture of Doug Baker.

Walton sent Lupe out to buy all the newspapers. She and
Cammi read every story on the case while flipping through the TV news. Cammi
sat before the set, a hand covering her mouth. Watching the helicopters, the
tense faces of the reporters in Glacier National Park, Walton struggled to
think clearly. Her instincts as a criminal-trial lawyer, a seasoned police
commissioner, a guilt-ridden single mother, all churned in her stomach as she
watched her daughter’s reaction to the story. Cammi turned to her, eyes filled
with worry. “Mom, what do you think happened?”

Walton searched the TV news for her answer,
concentrating the same way she did when she studied confidential police
reports.

“I may want you to talk to somebody, honey.”

“Talk to somebody?”

“Let me make a few calls first.”

Walton went to her study and sat at her desk. She
shuddered, placing her face in her hands to collect herself. A moment later,
her hands were shaking as she dialed the first number. The cellular phone for
the chief of the SFPD.