Cold Fear (28 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

After his
polygraph test, the FBI
placed Doug under guard in the maple-paneled storage room where he had slept on
a cot the night before. They were so subtle it went unnoticed by the rangers
and officials involved in search operations of the command center. An FBI Agent
sat in a chair outside the door to Doug’s room.

His cell.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Sooner
or later he was going to wake up from this, right?

But Maleena Crow, his appointed lawyer, was real. The
words she was speaking were real, even though Doug was hearing them as if they
were coming from a great distance, through the storm pulsating in his eardrums.

“Clearly, it does not look good, Doug but...” As Crow
went on, the final part of the polygraph exam pounded over and over in Doug’s
brain.

Emily’s sister was dead.

His world, his senses, were reeling. Confused. Exhausted.

If they did not suspect him, did they suspect Emily?

Emily was present with Isaiah Hood when her sister was
killed.
“Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?” What?
Oh, Jesus, help me. What was Crow saying? What?

“They cannot hold you for more than seventy-two hours
without laying a charge. They cannot charge you without solid evidence. They
have none.” Then something about awaiting the results of Larson’s examination
before their next step. “Unless there is something you’re not telling me, Doug?
Is there?”

What?
She was asking him
something.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?

“No....”

Doug is asking Emily... hadn’t
he asked her that so many times? And for so many years? Hadn’t it enraged him
that she refused to tell him about her past? The night before Paige vanished,
Emily’s tears are shining in the firelight. She raises her face, her beautiful
pain-filled face, to the stars, searching for the words “My--my sister…” She
stops, leaving her words in the air.

“Sister?” he says. “You never
told me you have a sister.”

Oh Christ.

Do you believe your wife could
have harmed your daughter?

No. No. No. It can’t be.

Find something real--when we
were happy. The honeymoon. Mexico. The little seaside town. The sun setting.
Kissing the Pacific. Palm fronds hissing. Breezes. Paradise. A perfect time.
She is his dream come true. Together, on the warm private beach, she kisses his
cheek.

“Will you love me always no
matter what, Doug?”

“No matter what.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“For better or worse?”

“For better or worse.”

“No matter what the worst may
be?” She smiled, so beautiful.

“I will love the worst you can
give me.”

She laughs, slipping off her
swimsuit, mounting him there on the beach; afterward leading him into the warm
surf. He would love her no matter what the worst could be....

Even if she killed Paige?

Did he really know everything about Emily? Why ask the
question? He knew the answer. That’s what this trip to the mountains was all
about. That’s what the last few years of hell had been all about.

It was all beginning to fit.

Her behavior.

Their first night in Great Falls at the Holiday Inn. He
saw her slip out of bed, the room’s digital clock displaying 3:04 A.M. Saw her
switch on the TV, mute it, and surf, stopping at local-community cable channel
that showed the teletype-style text of local and state news briefs. Saw her
absorb the item about the execution of Isaiah Hood. Watched her shroud herself
in an extra blanket from the closet, pull her chair to the window, stare at the
twinkling lights of the city and weep.

Doug had paid scant attention to Isaiah Hood. Now he
remembered how Emily reacted in the Holiday Inn restaurant, seeing him reading
the article in the Tribune on their way to Glacier.

“Do not read that. We’re on vacation.”

Rachel Ross was Emily’s sister. She was Natalie Ross,
the witness who testified against Hood. Emily’s aunt knew. Damn. Willa knew.
She had invited them to join them on the RV trip, to get away
during the
time the execution was carried out
. It all fit now--Willa wanting to get
them far away, cutting off his attempts to learn more of Emily’s past.

“Whatever it is she’s sorting out, Doug, she has to tell
you. Only she can tell you.”

A dark realization was dawning on him. His heart was
racing.

In the last article about Hood, he was claiming
innocence. Paige was practically the same age as Emily’s sister. It was Emily
who had insisted they hike to the same region. In his anger, Doug sent Paige
running to Emily. Was Emily the last person to see Paige?

Why had the searchers failed to find any trace of Paige?

Of Kobee?

Nothing.

Hood was claiming innocence.

“Will you love me no matter what the worst may be?”

Doug’s heart was pounding in time with an approaching
helicopter.

He buried his face in his hands.

“Doug,” Crow said. “Is there something you’re not
telling me?”

He looked at her. Lost.

“… and the student of yours, Cammi Walton? Why would
they ask you if you struck her? Does that line of questioning make sense to
you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He’d forgotten all about the accusation from Cammi.

FORTY-EIGHT

From the
edge of the command post,
Brady Brook scanned the ridges and ledges through his high-powered binoculars.

Against the mountains, the on-site commander of the
search embodied the calm, consummate professional, confidently sorting out
strategies to locate Paige Baker.

But in Brook’s gut, fear and fury churned.

He pulled his face from the binoculars, rubbed his tired
eyes, then replaced his frameless glasses. Never in all his experience as Incident
Commander had he faced a case like this.

Paige was well into her fourth day of being lost in the
wilderness, well over seventy-two hours. In that time, there had been rain, fog
and near-freezing temperatures. The overnight forecast called for snow. The
region had some of the most dangerous terrain, the most dramatic climbs. Taking
all factors into consideration, she was in the death zone now.

Had they lost her?

As far as he knew, nothing had surfaced. Nothing. Not a
candy wrapper, an item of clothing, equipment, trace of feces, a scent or
trail. Nothing of her dog, either. Brook had always held that his people could
find something. If she was mobile, she was defeating the searchers. Was she
lost to a river, lake, fall, bear? What?

The chief factor now was the FBI.

One of the rangers, who handled the computer work for
the search, had used a sat phone to get on to the Internet this morning. They
captured the news reports that the FBI suspected criminal intent and had not
ruled out Doug and Emily Baker as suspects. Whenever Brook tried to find out
anything, no one would confirm a syllable to him.

Keep searching. That’s the priority. That’s the
order.

But it was also getting around that the FBI was finding
some sort of evidence within the search perimeter and struggling to keep a lid
on their nature of their discoveries, threatening anyone who leaked with
“obstruction of justice” charges.

The FBI would simply take control of a sector, turn
search crews away with no explanation, making a lot of people unhappy. Brook
understood emotions were taut, but urged his people to maintain a professional
attitude and perform their duty. Yet in his gut, it really pissed him off when
the guys like Holloway and Taylor were simply pulled from his roster.

Given that the official search had so far found nothing,
Brook was growing angry his people were being left in the dark. Were they a
futile diversion for what was ostensibly a homicide investigation? The news
report fit with Doug Baker’s absence. And the way the FBI watched Emily.

Damnit. Shouldn’t they give him some sort of indication
how to deploy his people? Searchers sometimes died or got hurt during
operations. Tell him to call it off, if that was the case.

Brook pulled his binoculars to his eyes again, trying to
determine what was happening near that ridge. It was out of sight, but there
seemed to be some FBI activity there. A steady flow of helicopter traffic to
the region. It was a heavily fissured, treacherous area.

Nobody told him anything.

Shaking his head, Brook glanced at Emily Baker.

Will we ever know what the hell happened to your
daughter?

Brook then looked across the campsite toward the
paramedics, playing checkers as they waited. Folded precisely among their gear,
and kept respectfully out of sight, was a body bag.

FORTY-NINE

It was late
afternoon and overcast
when Tom Reed returned to the news media camp at Glacier National Park.

The area was congested. Motor homes, SUVs, news trucks.
Reed was stuck behind a FOX affiliate from Minneapolis. A Montana Highway
Patrol officer flagged him over at one of the checkpoints.

“You’ve got to park down there, sir.” He pointed to an
area a hundred yards from where Reed had parked before, almost out of sight.

“Way down there?”

“Sorry, the press people just keep coming.”

“Why, what’s going on? Something break in the case?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” The officer touched his brim and
tapped Reed’s car. “Move it along, please.”

After parking, Reed worked his way through the chaos. He
had to get to the FBI for reaction to his information on Emily Baker. He still
had a few hours before he had to start writing. It was a wild scene.
Helicopters overhead; networks and big-city TV crews had setup colorful
canopies flying their logos and station letters. Reed overheard a reporter
speaking Japanese into a phone. Next to him, another reporter, on her cell
phone, trying to get information from Doug Baker’s high school, had identified
herself a reporter with the Toronto Star. Then Reed passed two TV technicians
speaking German while nearby a woman with a British accent gripped a
microphone. Holding an earplug in her ear, she talked to a camera. It was an
electronic village of satellite dishes, laptops, cell phones and scores of
conversations.

A podium had been erected, suggesting news conferences.
That was new. What was going on? Had he been scooped? No way. Nobody could have
his angle on Emily, Reed assured himself, catching a glimpse of her file photo
as he passed a network TV monitor. The case was going to explode when the
San
Francisco Star
rolled out his story. He needed to find the FBI Agent
heading the investigation. He was nearing the tape restricting press access to
the command center when he heard a familiar clinking sound, then: “Tom!”

It was Molly Wilson.

Hurrying to him. Brilliant smile under her Oakleys.
Auburn hair pulled into a tight, feathery tail. Navy T-shirt. Cargo pants.
Bracelets. Looking very fine.

Next to her, his tanned face showing a fashionable three
day’s growth, was Levi Kayle. Eyes hidden behind his Romeos, he towered over
six feet in his hiking boots, faded, torn jeans, a Springsteen T-shirt from an
LA concert and a news photographer’s vest. A $30,000 state-of-the-art Nikon
digital camera hung from his neck. Kayle rested his forearms on it. He was one
of the best shooters in the country.

Wilson
took Reed’s arm, pulling
him aside urgently.

“We have to talk. Zeke called me and told me what you’ve
got. It sounds like dynamite, Tom.” Wilson looked in all directions, finding
some measure of privacy for them between two parked Cherokees. “Let me see it.”

Wilson
began reading the county
attorney’s old report on the letters Emily had written as a child shortly after
her sister’s murder.

“I am guilty of her death….”

Wilson
put a hand to her mouth.
“This is good. Kayle, Kayle. Copy these. Can you shoot them and send them to San Francisco?”

“Hey, ask nice, Wilson. I don’t work for you.”

“Please, Levi. Pretty please, you big sweet lug.”

“Sure.” Kayle grinned as he took the pages, stepped into
better light, adjusted his lenses, then set pebbles on the page corners to hold
them down as Wilson checked her watch and began updating Reed.

“This is compelling. Do you think they’ll go ahead and
execute Hood after we come out with this?”

“Impossible to know. It’s cutting things close. I just know
it’s a fantastic story. What did the desk say?”

“They want one big take ASAP putting our stuff together.
They’re going to publish your document as part of a package. You know, big
exclusive, execution cliff-hanger, missing child, murder mystery.”

Reed nodded. Sounded like a novel. But it was true.

“A newser starts”--Wilson checked her watch--“in a few
minutes. We figure it’s reaction to the AP story that they’re questioning the
dad.”

“Pick up anything else?”

“Yes. When we got here this morning, we got lucky. I
bumped into a guy one of my girlfriends used to date, Vince Delona with the
New
York Daily News
. We’re talking and this strange-looking little man in a
suit walks by us and says, ‘Hi Vince’.”

“Who was he?”

“Reese Larson, the FBI’s top polygraph examiner. He’s
based in New York. Vince profiled him a few years back after the World
Trade Center bombing. Kayle got pictures. Nobody but Vince and I know he went
in to conduct polygraph tests.”

“That means they’re building a case against the dad and
likely the mother. Or possibly clearing the dad to focus on the mother.”

Wilson
nodded. “And I talked to
some guys with the search. They’re pissed because the FBI is telling them
squat. There’s supposedly no trace of the kid, and if she were out there, she’s
either dead now, or will be by morning. It’s going to snow out there tonight.”

Kayle was finished with Reed’s documents. “Pretty
damning stuff there, Reed. You going to the news conference?”

“I am,” Wilson said. “After it’s over, we’ll meet here,
sort out how we’ll put our story together. Okay, Tom?’

While the press pack went to the conference, Reed went
down the road to the police tape near the command center. He needed the FBI
Agent in charge of the investigation to react to what he had.

A young agent, his ID hanging on a chain around his
neck, came to life to meet Reed, eyeing his plastic press credentials clipped
to his waist. His face was not friendly.

“Press conference is that way.”

“I know that,” Reed smiled.
Agent Evan Crossfield
.
That’s all he needed. “Tom Reed with the
San Francisco Star
. I am making
a formal request to speak with the agent heading the investigation. The
Star
is going to publish some critical information we’ve obtained. The FBI might
want to know about it before we publish.”

The agent was unfazed, scowling at Reed.

“Our press people are over there at the conference. Run
along.”

Run along?

“Listen, your press people are not investigating the
case. If you could please alert the agent in charge that I have very critical
information.”

“Sorry, just go over there with the rest of them.”

“Don’t be sorry”--Reed handed the agent his
card--“because when our story comes out tomorrow, it will contain the line that
‘the FBI refused to comment’ on our information. The people above you will
search for the agent who took it upon himself to make the decision not to alert
the investigators. This information could seriously embarrass the Bureau. When
they call me, and they will, asking who the heck was it ‘that refused,’ I’ll
have to tell them it was you, Agent Evan Crossfield, who never even bothered to
look at what I had to show the FBI. So I would not be sorry now, if I were you,
Agent Evan Crossfield. Save it for tomorrow when our story hits the wires and
certain people in the Hoover Building start speaking your name. You’ll be very
sorry then.”

Reed smiled, turned, walked off. Five yards. Ten yards.
He could hear Agent Evan Crossfield thinking. Fifteen--

“Hey, just a minute, wiseass!”

Within three minutes, Special Agent Frank Zander emerged
from the command center, looking very irritated, holding Reed’s card in his
hand. Zander went to the tape, lifted it, took Reed out of view to the shade of
a tall spruce.

“You Reed?’

“That’s me.”

“Sydowski says you are an asshole who stumbles on to
things.”

“Is that on my card?” Reed answered with a shrug. “Who
might you be?”

“Frank Zander, on the investigative side of the search
for Paige Baker.”

“So you going to charge the parents?”

“Don’t waste my time. What do you have that’s so
important?”

Reed gave Zander the old report. He read it. Reed could
not tell from his poker face if it was news to him. Zander passed it back.

“That it, Reed?”

“Does this change the direction of your investigation?”

“No comment.”

“Do you suspect anything beyond the report of a lost
girl?”

“No comment.”

“Do you deny polygraphing Doug Baker?”

“This is not twenty questions, Reed. You are wasting my
time.”

Zander escorted him outside the perimeter.

“Zander, that’s Z-A-N-D-E-R?”

Zander walked off, leaving Reed at the tape.

“Happy now?” Agent Crossfield grinned. “Asshole.”

Zander was good. Reed got nothing from him. Zip. Not
even a “where did you get this?”

The press conference offered little new information to a
nation gripped by the drama of ten-year-old Paige Baker facing her fourth night
lost in the rugged Rocky Mountains near the Canadian border.

As night descended on the press village, the TV lights
created intense halos. The temperature dropped, snowflakes swirled as TV
reporters in hooded jackets talked solemnly about the ratio of survivability,
quoting experts about ‘the death zone’ and reports that the FBI had not ruled
out anything. This included a possible criminal act, such as abduction, an
Internet connection or accidental death.

Inside Reed’s rented car, the only sound above the
idling motor and the heater’s humming fan was the clicking of laptop keyboards
as Reed and Wilson worked against the Star’s early deadline. Their story was
going to push the case to an unbearable level. Wilson glanced over Reed’s
shoulder at the article he was drafting:

THE
SAN FRANCISCO STAR

WEST
GLACIER, Mont.--Tonight the state of Montana will execute Isaiah Hood, who
claims to be innocent of murdering the five-year-old sister of Emily Baker 22
years ago in Glacier National Park.

Hood’s
attorney revealed what he said is proof Baker played a role in her sister’s
death.

It
comes amid a massive search by park rangers, FBI agents, and volunteers for
Baker’s 10-year-old daughter, Paige, who vanished with her beagle, Kobee, five
days ago in a remote region known as the Devil’s Grasp.

It
is the same elevated corner of the park where Emily Baker’s little sister,
Rachel Ross, was thrown to her death by Hood while on an outing with a local
youth club two decades ago.

Baker
witnessed the tragedy and revealed aspects of it in private letters to a
childhood friend shortly after giving testimony that led to Hood’s death
sentence….

The
FBI conducted a polygraph test on the missing girl’s father, Doug Baker, a
popular San Francisco high school football coach and English teacher, and are
expected to subject Emily Baker to one...