Cold Fear (17 page)

TWENTY-SIX

Time
was Brady Brook’s enemy.

Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, it was
defeating him.

Despite all that Brook, the searchers and the dog teams
had tried, they could not locate a trace of Paige Baker or her beagle.

The hope of using a helicopter equipped with an infrared
heat-sensing camera was abandoned because the region was too perilous to fly
night searches. Paige had been in the wilderness for more than fifty hours. If
they did not find her within the next two days, three at the most, it was not
good. Dread grew for the awful moment he would have to look into the faces of
Emily and Doug Baker to tell them their daughter was gone forever.

Or would he face something worse?

Brook glanced from the map table at the Bakers, huddled
at the edge of the site, looking so small against the mountains, hanging on to
each other under the eyes of the FBI agents.

Was he in the presence of a pair of cold-blooded
murderers?

It hinged on what his people turned up. He went back to
concentrating on the search, quietly talking on the radio, studying maps and
the terrain data on the laptop computers.

He went over everything. Areas of probability according
to Paige’s weight, height, speed of travel, weather conditions, her clothing,
her food supply, her experience. Outlining new sectors, searching others again.
He had the very best people out there who knew every ledge and loose rock zone.
They had out-of-state SAR people, volunteers from surrounding counties and the
Blackfeet Indian Reservation, all experienced in the backcountry, searching outer
sections; the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Waterton Park wardens were
scouring the Canadian side that borders Grizzly Tooth Trail. Several
helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft helped from the sky.

Yet, so much was working against them. The first night
it rained, washing out a scent for the dogs. She was in bear territory. And
having her dog was like ringing the dinner bell. Why had they not discovered a
single shred of this kid? It was disturbing. The park superintendent, the
planning and operation chiefs, all agreed when they flew out earlier for an
on-site status briefing. It was puzzling. By this point, they usually found
something, a footprint, a candy wrapper.
Something.

Brook was a God-fearing, churchgoing father of two
daughters aged seven and nine. It was as if he was searching for one of his own
children. He never counted on it taking such a private emotional toll. As
district ranger at Glacier for six years, he had been Incident Commander in
scores of major searches. He knew each one had its own circumstances. In this
one, Paige could be hiding. She could be surviving. She could have fallen.
Injured. Slipped into a crevasse. Slipped into a river, drowned, her body
carried downstream. She could have been taken by a bear. Abducted by a stranger.
He glanced at the Bakers.
Or worse.

He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his face,
remembering the Bakers’ first reaction when certain questions about Paige’s
demeanor were raised. They were so obviously evasive, guarded, not forthcoming.

He also remembered the sobering section of the SAR Plan
that advised in major cases to consider criminal intent no matter how remote
the possibility. Brook’s radio on the map table received a static-filled
transmission. A distant one broken up badly, until the signal bounced off of a
repeater in a passing helicopter and came through clearly.

Ranger Tim Holloway was one of the Park’s best SAR
people. He was in outstanding physical condition. He could move his lean, firm
surfer’s body over the roughest territory faster than anyone else in the park.
“Only an eagle could cover more ground faster than Holloway,” other rangers
joked.

Last year, when he turned twenty-five, Holloway climbed
Mount Everest with friends from England and New Zealand. He reached the summit.
It had been a dream since he was a kid growing up in Santa Ana, California. So Holloway was Brook’s natural choice to backtrack on Grizzly Tooth to scour
the treacherous shoulders of the trail.

But Holloway had found zero since he started, and it was
upsetting him. Determined to find the missing girl, he pushed himself, moving
swiftly, scanning thoroughly every inch of the trail’s shoulder. If there was
anything to be found, he would find it. He had passed along a hair-raisingly
narrow ledge about twenty yards beneath the trail, a mile or so south of the
campsite, when he saw it. Holloway grunted as he made his way to a stand of
spruce, on a steep incline below the trail.

“Bingo, dude.”

A small pink T-shirt entangled in the branches. It
looked so out of place, creepy, like a primitive offering. Did a griz do that?
Holloway swallowed. It looked blood-stained. Holloway reached for his radio.

Within a half hour, the FBI had its evidence people at
the scene, sealing the area, photographing it from the ground, from the trail
above, even from the helicopter pounding overhead and the airplane from a
higher altitude. They were also videotaping the entire procedure.

“Like I keep telling you, nobody has touched it since I
found it,” Holloway told the FBI people.

They put on blue coveralls, pulled on surgical gloves,
sifted the area, took more pictures and then up-close video before plucking the
shirt from the tree. One produced a kit with test strips, dipped in a small
bottle of distilled water and touched it against the stain. It turned dark
green confirming the stain was blood. The T-shirt was placed in a bag and
sealed; more pictures were taken.

One of the agents with a small suitcase told Holloway to
sit down.

“Take off your boots and give them to me. Need an
impression of them.”

“Sure thing.” Holloway began unlacing them. “You know, a
bear or animal could have put the shirt up there.”

“Also looks like it could have been tossed up there from
the trail. Like someone was trying to get rid of it in a hurry.”

Holloway turned to gauge the height and angle. FBI dude
could have a solid theory there.

The T-shirt was choppered to the command center. Inside
the FBI’s large white evidence van, the T-shirt was subjected to a special
reagent test; its stained fibers were examined under a microscope. Conclusion:
the blood was human. Urgent calls and arrangements were made to fly the T-shirt
immediately to the crime lab used by King County in Seattle, to undergo further
analysis.

In keeping with the chain of evidence procedure, an
agent who helped recover the shirt was rushed to Kalispell Airport.
The FBI and the Justice Department delayed departure of a Seattle-bound
Northwest DC-9 in time for the agent to board it. The shirt was in his
briefcase.

In the task force office of the command center, Agent
Frank Zander and the other investigators watched the video recording of the
scene where the shirt was discovered. They studied the images in silence. The
T-shirt looked so small when one of the evidence team members displayed it for
the camera. It was horribly stained with blood. Zander stared at it coldly.

After the video ended, agents at the table transferred
the digital still color photographs of the shirt into their computer with the
enlarged monitor. They selected an image of the shirt unfurled to its full
size, emblazoned with the browned blood. They froze the image, split the
screen, clicked on the mouse until the faces of Doug, Emily and Paige Baker and
Kobee appeared. They were the pictures Emily had taken at the outset of their
trip to Glacier.

Smiling. Happy. Breathtaking scenery. All-American
bliss.

The agents stopped on one photo of Doug and Paige. His
arm around her; both were grinning. Paige was wearing a pink T-shirt. The
agents sized the two photos, unifying their scale. Paige, happy and bright in
her pink shirt; next to it, the shirt found in the trees. Bloodied.

Zander looked into Doug’s eyes. Into Paige’s eyes.

In most child homicides, a parent or guardian was the
perpetrator. The “nearest and dearest” rule. Zander knew that. In crimes of
passion, frenzied rage, involving the use of knives or bladed instruments, it
was common for the attacker to cut or injure himself. Zander knew that. What he
did not know--his eyes boring into those of Paige, Doug and Emily--was the
truth about this family. Something happened and he was going to find out.

“I think I’d like to get Doug and Emily Baker back in
here and put them on the box.

Lloyd Turner, FBI Special Agent in Charge of Salt
Lake City Division, nodded. “It’s already on its way, Frank.”

The tapping of a pen on yellow legal pad distracted
Zander and the others to Nora Lam, legal counsel from the U.S. Justice
Department.

“You’re intending to polygraph the parents, which you
know cannot be used as evidence.”

“I am aware of that,” Zander said.

“You are walking a fine legal line here. Depending on
how you proceed and when, or if, you Mirandize these parents, you could cross
it. You understand what is at stake?”

Zander turned back to the picture of Paige Baker.

Remembering the fragrance of magnolias and peaches, the
red mud of a country road to rural Georgia and the graves of the two little
boys, one of whom he failed to save.

“I understand what is at stake. Believe me. I
understand.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Molly Wilson’s
bracelets tinkled as
she typed at her computer terminal in the
San Francisco
Star
newsroom.

She had been on the story for several hours today and
had nothing fresh on the Bakers despite all of her legwork in their
neighborhood. Huck and Willa Meyers, Emily’s relatives, were definitely on the
road. Seniors don’t sit at home in their rockers anymore.

But Wilson was counting on a lead she got from a
neighbor girl who baby-sat for Doug and Emily: the Meyer’s home address in Lake
Merced. Wilson drove down there, did some door-knocking and found out that
Huck and Willa were members of the Wander the World RV club. At her terminal,
she called up the club’s Web site. It had messenger service linked to all
affiliated RV parks. She fired off an urgent one, then worked on her story.

Wilson
had a few interviews to
deal with, some reader phone-in reaction to the story. Psychics wanted to help.
Church groups were going to pray. The usual. Nothing grabbed her. Some of the
students and football players from Beecher Lowe, the school where Doug Baker taught,
were planning to fly to Montana to help with the search. That wasn’t bad.
Tugged at the heart. They could go with that and--

She caught the BREAKING NEWS caption of CNBC off one of
the large newsroom TVs. The Bakers were live with a news conference at Glacier
National Park in Montana. Wilson snatched her Sony cassette recorder and her
notebook. She trotted to the set, increasing the volume. Other newsroom staff
had collected around it.

“…We will not go home without her….”
Reed better have
this.
Wilson was taking notes. Studying Doug and Emily, curious about the
secret police work she knew was going on behind the scenes. “…It’s serious. We
are well aware this is a life and death situation for our daughter, but we are
praying….” Doug was a good-looking guy. Emily was beautiful. Paige was a pretty
child. If the FBI determined anything criminal, the story would rock the
country…. “Yes, we’re aware of that possibility also and we understand they are
examining every potential aspect, but primarily the thinking is Paige wandered
from us and became lost ….”

Primarily.

Now that’s the pivotal word. Someone shouted Wilson’s name.

“Molly, phone call!”

“Take a message.”

Emily weeping. In pain. “…She is all we have in this
world….”

“It’s Huck Meyers in Canada. You said it was urgent.”

“Hold him!”

Wilson
raced back to her desk,
bracelets clinking. She connected her recorder to the phone and took the call.

“Hello. This is Huck Meyers. We received an urgent
message to call Molly Wilson at the
San Francisco Star
?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Wilson was relieved her red recording
light was blinking. She cleared a fresh page in her notebook and began.

“You know Emily Baker, Mr. Meyers?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Emily Baker? You know her?”

“Well, yes. She’s my niece. Willa’s sister’s girl. How
can we help you? I got Willa right here. You said it was urgent. Is anything
wrong?”

He had a kind, soft voice that was filled with trust.
But Wilson was a skilled miner of information.

“Well I am not exactly sure, sir. We’re trying to learn
more.” Wilson spoke fast to deflect Huck’s defenses and ingratiate herself.
“You know, Emily did some work for the
Star
?”

“Oh yes. She’s a photographer. Very good.”

“Well, I am trying to learn a little more about her, her
family history.”

“Well, did you call her? They live in the Richmond. They’re in the phone book.”

“They are out of town. I thought you knew they were out
of town.”

“No. We left California several weeks ago, been out of
touch….”

Huck was bewildered and hesitant. Wilson could not allow
long silences.
They obviously do not know about Paige.

“I am just trying to learn a little more about her
family history. She did some work for us and I understand she grew up in Montana.
My colleague is from there. Is that where she learned photography? Maybe I
could talk to Willa?”

“Is everything all right?” Huck asked.

Wilson
threw him a fast
question. “Does Willa know how long Emily lived in Montana?”

“Just a moment please.”

The phone was muffled. Wilson strained to listen,
picking up “Something for the newspaper…they’re out of town.” Then Willa came
on.

“Hello, this is Willa Meyers.”

Wilson
apologized and
immediately spun some quick lines, engaging Willa, drawing her into the
innocuous beginnings of a conversation.

“Yes, she is a very good photographer, did some work for
Newsweek and People, too,” Willa boasted. “That’s how she met Doug.”

“At
People
?”

“
Newsweek.
He was a marine at Camp
Pendleton. She did a story on his outfit or something. They fell in love. He’s
such a nice man.”

Wilson
nudged Willa along,
practically portraying the
Star
as an extension of Emily’s family
because of some freelance work she did about the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Tell me about her time in Montana, her life there.”

“This is for the paper?”

“Yes, we’re writing something about her in relation to some
other news events and need to learn about her background. Tell me about her
childhood in Montana and how she became such a good photographer.”

Wilson
could hear Willa
thinking.

“Just a little biographical stuff,” Wilson said. “Then I
have to get going myself.”

Willa Meyers began telling Wilson about Emily’s
childhood, about how her father taught her about photography, and then about
his death. Willa said his death devastated her mother, Willa’s sister, forcing
her to take Emily and leave their Montana home and come to San Francisco.
Emily’s mom could not cope and began drinking. She left Emily with her, then
died.

“Such tragedy, but she came through OK?” Wilson said.

Willa hesitated.

“There were also some other things related to her time
in Montana but it was so long ago. Emily was a child.”

“What sort of things?” Wilson was losing her in the
silence. “I’m sorry Willa, I don’t understand. What sort of things?”

“It had something to do with the death of a child years
ago. Very sad. She was getting counseling. I shouldn’t be--”

Death of a child.

Wilson
’s pulse and breath
stopped.

“What do you mean? What were the circumstances?”

Silence. Wilson could hear some talking in the
background at Willa’s end.

“Willa, what do you mean? A crib death? Willa?” Wilson said. “Did this happen years ago in Montana?”

A long silence passed.

“Yes, it happened in Montana. But…I think I’ve told you
enough.”

The line went dead in Wilson’s ear.

She clicked off her tape recorder.