Cold Fear (21 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

The sun was
dropping as Tom Reed
pushed the accelerator to the mat. The rental was gliding south on Interstate
93. He was gambling with time.

It was a calculated risk.

Chester Murdon in Wisdom was convinced of something
familiar about Emily Baker. He was quite certain he could find something in his
collection of personal archives that would help Reed. He promised to wait up for
him, no matter the hour, if he decided to come. A professional courtesy from
one newsman to another.

Before leaving the command center, Reed filed a news
story encompassing the press conference given by Doug and Emily. He
incorporated theories and probabilities and the fact “FBI sources had not ruled
out the possibility of criminal intent.” It was a standard line. Police seldom
rule out anything until they have an investigation under control.

“The desk will advance your lead, Tom,” Wilson
said from the
San Francisco Star
newsroom over Reed’s cell phone as his
rental approached eighty miles an hour. “I’ll work in my stuff. So you think we
should hold back on the psychological counseling? It is very strong.”

“I know it is risky, Molly, but Chester is confident he
can help us with more information. We can fill in the blanks about the family.
Then put it all together. Let’s just hold it.”

“Tom, I don’t know. The
Chronicle
could get it. I
mean, I am sure I am the only one who reached the aunt, but somebody could nail
it from other sources. It is very risky.”

Reed entered a river valley. Traffic was light. All the
RVs and campers were in for the night.

“I trust what you have, Molly, but I just want to get
more--”

“Tom, you’re breaking up. Repeat that.”

“I said I trust what you have. I just want to get the
whole story. Look, we’ll have virtually another twenty-four hours to work on
this. And what if they find the kid safe and sound and we put the shrink story
out and then learn it had nothing to do with the kid?”

Wilson
knew Reed had point, and
that he had become more cautious in the wake of his son’s abduction ordeal. It
taught him some hard lessons about pushing so hard on a story that you fall
into it.

“OK, Tom. It will be our little secret to develop
tomorrow, unless someone kicks our asses on it.”

Reed passed key ranger, FBI and other vital cell phone
numbers to Wilson. If the story broke wide open in his absence from Glacier
National Park, Wilson would have to cover it from San Francisco. They were so
close to final deadline now, the window of risk was minimal.

Reed estimated he could be in Wisdom in just over three
hours. For the latter portion of the 220-mile trip, Interstate 93 paralleled
the Bitterroot River. It was spectacular scenery that rolled by the Columbia
Cascade region and he regretted much of it was enveloped in darkness. Recently,
hundreds of thousands of acres in the area were burned by forest fires, some
near Wisdom, close to Murdon’s ranch.

Reed sailed through the Bitterroot Valley and Lost
Trail Pass, passing Big Hole National Battlefield. Depending on your view of
history, it was either the place where the U.S. Army upheld the law in 1877
over the Nez Perce Indians who did not want to be forcibly squeezed onto a
reservation, or it was the scene of a genocidal massacre of men, women and
children by American forces. Reed shook his head. Any way you cut it, there
were a lot of ghosts out there.

Some from his own life.

His dream of being a reporter was nurtured here in Big
Sky Country. He grew up in Great Falls where his father was a pressman at the
Great
Falls Tribune
. He used to bring home a newspaper for Reed every day. Just
before he turned twelve, Reed got his own paper route. From that point on, it
seemed his life became a blur: high school, summer reporting at the
Billings
Gazette
, graduation from J-School at the University of Missouri,
a job at AP in San Francisco, getting married to Ann, his job at the
San
Francisco Star
, having Zach. But during most of those years, Reed seldom
visited or called home, disappointing his father who used to save his articles
in a yellowing, dog-eared scrapbook, especially proud of his son’s wire stories
that ran in the
New York Times
.

Reed reached for his cell phone. He had to think, then
pressed his parents’ number in Great Falls. It rang. He had no time to visit
but at least he should tell them he was in the state. It rang six times. The
machine clicked on. His father’s voice.

“You’ve reached…”

Reed hung up without leaving a message. He rubbed his
tired eyes. Remembering his mother during their last conversation saying
something about their plan to go to Arizona to visit her sister. He called San Francisco and talked with Ann and Zach until his connection was lost.

Wisdom was a few miles east of Big Hole. One or two
folksy restaurants, a general store, little else. Chester’s place was on ten
acres of painted horse country, just a few miles north. Reed shook his head at
the tragic irony of it all. Murdon, who cherished history, living on ten acres,
and all those Nez Perce Indians dying because Washington had stolen their land
and tried to imprison them on a reservation.

Reed yawned. He was exhausted.

Murdon never married. Lived in a pretty ranch house with
an old golden Lab he called Sonny. A sprawling place. Murdon had two separate
rooms for his records, which he loved to share.

They greeted Reed at the porch after he eased his rental
up to the house.

Sonny yelped.

“Settle down, Sonny.”

“Chester, you look good. It’s been a long, long time.”

“Good to see you, Tom. Can I get you something, a snack,
a beer?”

Murdon had a ruddy face, a brush cut and a neatly
trimmed goatee. He was wearing dark jeans, a denim shirt with pens peeking from
his breast pocket. He looked and moved pretty good for a man his age. He led
Reed into his spacious house, to the ranch-style dining table covered with
boxes, binders, files and envelopes spilling papers of all descriptions. He had
already put in several hours of work on Reed’s request.

“Much of this material is from my book. Now I’ve got the
Montana Standard
and the
Missoulian
stories on the ongoing search
for Paige Baker.”

Reed was impressed.

“Your information was that Emily Baker was from Montana
and undergoing counseling relating to the death of a child. Possibly in Montana.”

“Right, Chester. I want to know if anything was written
on that death. I know virtually nothing about it. I was hoping you might find
something.”

Murdon slipped on his glasses and stooped over the
papers on the table. He had used Emily Baker’s age and had begun searching
death cases statewide. “Well, Tom, I am sorry I found nothing with her name….”

Reed’s heart sank. Maybe Wilson was right, they should
have gone with what they had.

“But as I told you on the phone, I could not help
thinking that the poor mother, this Emily Baker looked so familiar to me. And
the answer was staring right at me from the newspapers reporting on this death
row fellow, Isaiah Hood.”

“What?”

“Well, it is her sister that Hood murdered twenty-two
years ago. It’s in my book and staring from the papers.”

Reed grabbed the
Missoulian
and scanned the story
on Hood. Again, his heart sank. The old guy must be senile.

“But, Chester, the names do not even match. The sister
who died was Rachel Ross. We got Emily’s maiden name. It’s not even the same.”

Murdon smiled.

“Of course not, Tom. She changed her name years ago
after she left Montana.”

“You got paper on that?”

“Sort of.” Murdon passed Reed an old file folder with a
letter he had written to Montana’s archivist while researching his book. “See,
I asked for their help to contact the sister for my book. Interesting response,
don’t you think?”

Reed read the one-page letter. It acknowledged records
were damaged in a storage fire well over a decade ago, but that in reassembling
the files in the homicide of Rachel Ross, there was an indication there were
subsequent deaths in her family and members had moved out of state: “While this
office is not offering confirmation, it did make inquiries on your behalf and
as a result came to the understanding that the subject of your request
underwent a name change making contact extremely difficult.”

“Now, Tom,”-- Murdon produced a magnifying glass for
Reed--“examine today’s newspaper pictures of Paige Baker, the missing child,
and her mother and the old file of Rachel Ross, the child Hood murdered.”

Reed studied them. Yes, there was a mother-daughter
resemblance between Emily and Paige, and a striking resemblance to Rachel, the
dead girl. He recalled seeing a similarity between the girls at breakfast.

“Tom”-- Murdon’s finger tapped the photos--“Emily Baker
is the sister of Rachel Ross, I am convinced of it.”

Reed continued studying the pictures, assessing
everything--Hood’s claim of innocence, Emily Baker’s counseling for the death
of a child, her daughter, Paige, now missing in the same area where Rachel Ross
was murdered. Doug’s injured hand. Police suspicions.
They must know.

Hood was going to be executed within forty-eight hours.

“Christ, Chester.”

The old newsman nodded. He knew what Reed was thinking.

“Does not look good for the Bakers, does it, Tom?”

THIRTY-FIVE

Amid
the helicopters constantly
landing and lifting off, the roaring Hercules C-130 rescue planes scraping the
sky, the urgent non-stop radio chatter, the scores of arriving searchers, Doug
Baker was alone at the command post.

No one could reach him.

He was at the edge of the campsite, watching the shadows
blanket the vast alpine forest as the sun dropped behind the jagged peaks.
Isolated and imprisoned by exhaustion and guilt, he had nothing to hold on to, except
memories.

One day several years ago, Emily had gone to Sacramento for a weekend job. Paige was just about three at the time. It was a beautiful,
clear Sunday morning and he took Paige to the beach. They had each other to
themselves all day. Paige played in the sand, searching for shells as the
Pacific surged and rolled. Gulls cried in the salt air. He remembered squatting
as Paige ran to him, full speed out of the sun, trotting, cheeks bouncing, eyes
bright, into his open arms, crushing his neck.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Would he ever be able to hold her again?

Doug studied his wounded hand and the mountains.

Forgive me, Paige.

Emily. He should be comforting Emily.

His attempts to have a private moment with her had been
futile. All day long, since returning to the campsite from talking with the FBI
at the command center, they had been separated. A couple of young FBI agents
were near Doug.
“To help you through this ordeal, sir.”
And Emily had
been inseparable from Bowman, the friendly female agent.

Doug never had the chance to be alone with Emily, other
than to hug and console her in the presence of others. He did not know what the
FBI told her during her talk with them that morning, whether they had learned
anything in their investigation about any strangers or
that other family
.
The father gave Doug a bad feeling. The icy way he stared at him. But no one
told them anything. They would show him maps of the sectors searched or being
searched. But no one knew anything about the investigative aspects.
“We are
not aware, or informed, of any new developments, sir.”
Still, Doug sensed
something was bubbling beneath the dark glasses and poker faces the agents wore
in his presence.

It all made him feel sick to his stomach.

Maybe Emily did not want to be near him? He understood
if she blamed him for this. He was the one who chased Paige away. It was his
fault. This all happened at such a critical point for them, when Emily was
beginning to confront her problems. Revealing to him that she had a sister was
a breakthrough. And how does he handle it? He blew up at her. Emily was doing
it right. It was Doug who had blown it. If they could only get through this,
maybe they could find Emily’s sister and learn how she’d coped with the deaths
of their parents. Become a bigger, stronger family.

Emily was sobbing again. It was tearing him up watching
Bowman comfort his wife. He went to Emily. Bowman waved him off.

“This isn’t a good time, Doug.”

His heart crumbled. His family, his life, his existence,
were disintegrating and there was not a damn thing he could do. Hope was
evaporating. He had to do something. He rubbed his hands over his stubbled
face. Something.
Just go find her. You’re her father. You lost her. You find
her.
But the region held an infinity of possibilities. The search
helicopters disappeared like ticks over the vast glacier valleys. Where would
he start?

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

“Doug, we need your help again,” Agent Frank Zander said
over an idling helicopter.

Tears and desperation pooled in Doug’s eyes.

“You find something?” Doug raised his voice over the
chopper.

“We’re not sure.”

“Well, can you tell me what it is? I mean--”

“Doug, would you come back to the command center with me
so we can talk some more about it? It would be a big help.”

Doug searched Zander’s face for a positive or negative
signal, finding neither.

“Okay. Sure. Anything. Emily too?”

Zander shook his head. “I think she’s fine here right
now with Agent Bowman. We should get going now. It’s getting dark.”

Before Zander joined Doug in the chopper, he waved to
Bowman, pulling her aside for an update. She’d had a full day with the mother.
They turned their backs to the helicopter, their jackets, rippling in whipping
air. The noise assured the security of the information.

“What do you have?” he said into her ear.

“She was somehow present when her sister died here years
ago,” Bowman shouted into Zander’s ear.

“Her sister? Do you know any more details?”

“No. She’s vague. Comes out in pieces because of her
emotional state.”

“This is more than what Doug told us. He said Emily was
receiving counseling related to the deaths of her parents. He said nothing
about her sister. She give you any other details?”

“No.”

“She tell you anything more about Paige’s
disappearance?”

“No, just that she and Doug were arguing, going through
a rough time.”

“Keep pushing it, Bowman.”

During the flight back to the command center, Zander
found himself thinking of Tracy Bowman. How she had obtained key information.
She was very good. He reflected on her switchblade intelligence, the way she
gave him his comeuppance for his arrogant security breach on the phone from the
jet. He knew he’d never admit it to anyone, but she was right. She was a fine
investigator. Seemed like an exceptional person. Looking over the mountains, he
wondered if she was married.

Soon the chopper touched down. Zander returned with Doug
to the command center and the cramped room used by the task force.

Doug took his place at the table, nodding to Pike
Thornton and Walt Sydowski from San Francisco. Each man, including Zander, had
a clipboard and file.

“Coffee, Doug?” Zander offered.

“No. Did you find Paige?”

“No.”

“Kobee?”

“Nothing like that.”

“What have you got? You said you might have found
something.”

“We’re coming to that, Doug. First we’d like to be clear
on a few things. Can you tell us again exactly how you hurt your hand?”

Doug tried to comprehend the question. He was exhausted,
slipping into near intoxication from not sleeping or eating for the last few
days. He was worn out, unshaven, eyes reddened from his anguish.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your hand, Doug. Tell us again how you injured it,
please?”

“I am sure I told you. I was chopping wood.”

“And arguing with Paige?”

Doug swallowed. His face reddened with shame. “Yes.”

“Before we go further, we can’t fly you back until
morning. Too dangerous to fly in the mountains at night.”

Doug was silent.

“We have a room for you here.”

Doug thought for a moment.

“Are you arresting me for something?”

“Why would you think that?”

Doug did not answer. He could not even think of an
answer.

“You are not under arrest,” Zander said. “It is just
that we might be a while. We told Emily.”

“All right. You said you wanted to be clear on
something?”

“What was Paige wearing when you argued?”

“Jeans. T-shirt.”

“Remember the color of her T-shirt?”

“Pink. Maybe.”

Zander slid the picture Emily had taken of the Bakers in
the mountains with Paige in her pink T-shirt. “That the one?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Now, the ax you had at the time. Was it a
one-and-a-half pound Titan Striker with a steel head and a sixteen-inch handle
with a rubber grip?”

“Sounds right.” Doug shrugged.

“Serial number 349975. Purchased four days ago at Big
Ice Country Outfitters in Century, Montana.”

“Sounds right. But I don’t understand?”

“Charged to your credit card?”

“Yes.”

Zander leaned forward, invading Doug’s space.

“Where is it?”

Doug’s pulse stopped.

The eyes of three veteran detectives from three
different agencies who shared sixty years of experience had locked onto Doug’s
eyes in the worst way.