Cold Fear

by Rick Mofina

  “They want to call us in. Want to relieve us. But let’s give it another couple hours. Then we’ll go home, pack up everybody, head off on vacation.”

  Sultan yelped. He was a very affectionate, hardworking two-year-old who lived with the Garner family on their ranch in the foothills west of Red Deer, Alberta. Garner’s wife and their children adored him.

  “Sound good. You miss the kids?”

  Sultan panted.

  “Me too.”

  Garner took in the panoramic view of the Rocky Mountains from just a few hundred yards north of the Canadian border in Waterton Lakes National Park. It met Glacier National Park, forming the International Peace Park system. He was reluctant to leave this case unfinished, but the order had come in from K-Division. Garner and Sultan would be relieved by a fresh K-9 team from Calgary subdivision.

  Waves of sadness rolled over the thirty-five year-old Mountie as he sat on a rock, surveying the glacier-carved valleys, the alpine forests and lakes.

  Garner always got this way whenever he was pulled from a search before it was concluded. He and Sultan had been working this one since they got the call to assist four days ago. They had gridded the entire border area, where Grizzly Tooth Trail wound into Canada, so many times he’d lost count. Goat ledges, cliffs, dense forests, rivers, valleys, off-trail, searching some of the most dangerous, rugged remote terrain on the continent. The fact no one had found anything, not even a sign of her beagle, Kobee, frustrated him.

  Garner felt he had earned the right to at least know what had happened to that little girl, especially now that the story was taking some nasty turns. The FBI suspected the parents; his orders were to keep searching. Now what were they supposed to be searching for? A corpse? Had the massive search for a lost child suddenly become a homicide? Was he standing amid an enormous crime scene? Garner did not want to walk away from this without seeing it through to the end.

  “You awake, Greg?” his radio said to him.

  It was Corporal Denise Mayo of the RCMP. He heard a bark in the background from her Malanois, Prince. A real show-off pup.

  “No, I am dreaming this conversation.”

  “They’re going to chopper us to you now. Stay put. We’re just getting the tank topped off. Shouldn’t be long.”

  Garner wanted to try something before he left. He studied his laminated map and his notes. He was a veteran of some three hundred searches. Canadian high courts had recognized him as an expert witness when he gave testimony in major criminal prosecutions. His record was exemplary.

  But that meant nothing to tourists, he laughed to himself.

  Before he was flown into his search zone, he encountered the RCMP mystique while sitting with Sultan, resting at his feet, at an outdoor café in Waterton. Garner was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, sunglasses, knapsack and sidearm at his side.

  “My, are you a police officer?” asked a woman in her seventies after stepping from a bus with Arizona plates.

  “Yes ma’am. I’m an RCMP officer.”

  “A Mountie?” She smiled. “You’re not dressed like one.”

  Garner chuckled and showed her his badge with the bison head.

  “We don’t wear the red serge and Stetson everywhere.”

  “‘But you always get your man,’ that’s your motto, right?”

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am. Actually, it’s ‘Maintain the Right.’”

  He agreed to let her take his picture, happy to set the record straight, but not telling her that for him pride and tradition meant you never, ever gave up on a case. That was not only his motto, it was an emotion that burned inside, flaring as he studied his map, ready to make his last sweep the best one.

  The Baker family campsite was a few miles south. It was remote but conceivable the girl, if she was mobile, could have traveled into the Canadian side. Expect the unexpected. Everything is a factor: weather, state of mind, potential injury, confrontation with animals.

  Garner reasoned that if she was moving, he would go back to the sector he had not searched for the longest time, in case she had since moved into it. If she were still alive, that is.

  “Let’s go, pal. We’re not pulling out of here yet.”

  Garner and Sultan paralleled Boundary Creek in the shadow of Campbell Mountain. Garner was happy Waterton officials had closed off the sectors he was searching. It was a little lonely but more effective. Since it was bear country, Garner commenced making noise, singing Del Shannon’s “Runaway.” It was a favorite of his growing up as a farm kid near Lethbridge. He tried not to think of the tragic cases he had worked on, not now on the eve of his three-week vacation. He was renting a camper and driving across Canada to Niagara Falls. He was grateful he and his wife had time to take the kids to the Calgary Stampede this year.

  Sultan led him toward a rugged boggy area.

  With the snow moistening the ground, it might yield something. There was shelter under some ledges. Nothing but nothing.

  Sultan froze.

  “What is it?”

  Sultan barked, hackles rising.

  One of the ledges actually hid an opening, the mouth of a cave. Garner sang louder as they inched forward. It was large enough to be a bear den or wolf lair. It stank the way grizzlies stink.

  “Hello in there?”

  No response.

  He unsnapped the strap for his holstered Smith & Wesson. Sultan’s growl echoed into the cave as they neared its opening. Garner scanned their immediate area to ensure an escape route. He gently rolled a grapefruit-sized rock into the hole, hearing it knocking around inside. He rolled in another, while singing. Nothing.

  “You want to check it out, buddy?”

  Sultan panted and barked, dutifully bounding into the darkness, his panting and whimpering echoing. Within seconds he emerged with something in his mouth.

  Garner’s heart raced.

  “What the heck is that?”

  It was a plastic container for bottled water.

  Sultan held it carefully in his jaws by the threaded lip, allowing Garner to take it. The cap was missing.

  Garner moved quickly, putting it in a clear plastic evidence bag, making a quick note of the time and location, putting it in his knapsack, then producing his flashlight, crawling into the cave. His eyes adjusted to the light as his beam swept the cave several times and he called. Other than the horrible smell, nothing there.

  Garner moved from the area to a spot less vulnerable and studied the bottle. The label said it was bottled in Northern California. There was some sort of small merchant’s sticker, kind of damaged. It took Garner a moment to determine he was reading, SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

  “Geez.” He rushed back to Sultan, whose snout was to the ground. they scoured the softer, muddied sections, until Sultan barked.

  “Bingo!” Garner dropped to his knees at the beautiful sight.

  A sneaker print, fresh. Very fresh.

  “Steady. Good work.”

  He estimated it was a child’s size. He found another footprint, a partial, then another. He checked his location with his compass, his map and landmarks. From the direction the person was traveling into the United States, the border was less than one hundred yards away.

  Garner reached for his radio,

  What concerned him was the condition of the plastic bottle. A jagged gash ran across its middle, as if it had been savagely mauled. Garner knew Sultan did not do that. He’d call in; then they’d try tracking.

  “Go ahead, Greg, what have you got?”

  “Alert everybody. She’s been here. Recently.”

  “Give us your location.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  Paige’s hunger was unbearable. Her empty stomach constantly contracted, cramped, ached for food. Waves of dizziness passed over her.

  Can’t go on much longer.

  She had eaten her granola bars long ago.

  How many days has it been?

  Don’t know. Just lie down and die.

  Her throbbing, s
wollen feet, pillows of pain. Cuts, blisters, scrapes raw and stinging. She longed to bathe. Her filthy hair itching; her skin chafing; her parched throat burning.

  Could she drink her tears?

  She still had her water bottle which had been punctured during her near-death encounter with the bear at the crevasse.

  Oh God.

  Paige quaked at the memory.

  Kobee had saved her. Brave little puppy.

  The bear had swatted her as if she were a stuffed toy, sending her tumbling to the mouth of the crevasse. As she struggled to keep from plunging into the fissure’s narrow black opening, a claw tore into her backpack, entangling the bear long enough for her to slip from the straps while Kobee snapped at the bear.

  It happened so fast.

  The angry monster, snarling and growling at Kobee, contended with the backpack affixed to its paw, allowing Paige time to clamber down a cliff ledge too narrow for the bear to follow, hiding there out of reach, praying Kobee could flee to safety.

  Paige clung to the cold rock in the night until she believed the bear had left the area.

  After more than two hours, she climbed out.

  In the darkness, she found a small rock enclosure and squeezed into it. She tried not to cry out, not scream, not to think of Kobee, but only to stop shivering long enough to sleep on the cold, hard limestone. She concentrated on dreaming of her mother, her father, her warm, soft bed, her San Francisco home, her friends.

  Dawn came with sunshine and Kobee nuzzling next to her.

  “You’re safe! I love you, puppy. My hero,” Paige whispered, pulling his smelly little body tight to hers, luxuriating in its warmth, fighting off thoughts of bananas, oranges, restaurants, a trip to the supermarket.

  She wept with her face pressed into her beagle.

  Got to keep moving. Get out to the open. Find water, food, help. Something.

  Carefully, Paige eased out of her tight shelter, gripping her water bottle at the proper angle to ensure the few remaining ounces did not leak out of holes made by the bear.

  She went to the crevasse which had almost claimed her.

  My death spot.

  Her backpack was lost.

  She wrapped Kobee’s leash around her hand, the way she did when they went to Golden Gate Park, then found a branch for a walking stick.

  No sign of the bear. Thank you, God.

  They headed for the low country.

  In a few hours, they came to a small river. Maybe she could find berries or something. Paige set her bottle aside, knelt at the bank, washed her face and hands, feeling a little energized by the ice-cold mountain-fed water. She cupped her hands, letting Kobee drink from them. Then she drank a little herself, feeling the cold liquid fill her stomach. She gasped with pleasure, wiping the back of her wet hands across her lips.

  Maybe she could find a shelter here.

  She scouted around when she heard splashing.

  A fish was caught in a small, shallow pool. Kobee barked. Paige went to it, not knowing what kind it was, but her stomach quivered.

  Food.

  It was about as long as a large submarine sandwich.

  Its tail swished water as if objecting to being stared at.

  Unconsciously, Paige began licking her lips.

  Her stomach was roaring.

  What do I do?

  Stab it with a stick, like those island fishermen did on the education channel. Paige swallowed and looked around. She found a pointy, hand-size stick. She stood over the vulnerable creature.

  Kobee yelped impatiently.

  “It’s not going to be like the fillets and fries at Skipper of the Sea.”

  Paige stood there, staring at the fish.

  She could not cook it. She did not know how to clean it. What was she going to do?

  Paige licked her lips.

  She had eaten sushi with teriyaki sauce, rice and cold shrimp. Mom and Dad liked it. She aimed the stick; saw the fish, its little mouth opening, and closing, its fins waving in the pool, awaiting death.

  Kobee suddenly lunged at it, gripping it in his jaws as it writhed and slipped free. Flopping on a stone, it wriggled back into the river, escaping.

  Paige stood there, still gripping her spear, feeling more hungry than she ever felt in her life.

  She sat by the river and wept.

  Through the blur of her tears, she saw the grizzly approaching. She was mesmerized by its majestic blond-chocolate fur, its powerful menacing hump, its upturned snout that released a snarl.

  This time, she was too tired to fight.

  She sat there frozen, sobbing; her arms hurt as Kobee tugged at the leash to flee.

  “Oh God, somebody save me, please.”

  SEVENTY

  Helicopter pilot Shane Ballard knew how the air could get rough whenever Mercy Force flew near the Bitterroot Mountains.

  Today was no exception.

  The twin-engine air ambulance began shuddering.

  Deer Lodge vanished in a shaky blur behind them; soon the ride was smoother.

  “That’s better,” Ballard’s tin like pressurized voice sighed as an alert came from Missoula tower, requesting their ETA.

  “Eighteen minutes,” Ballard said. Funny, procedure is for me to call in. I already did that upon liftoff. Why are they calling me?

  “Standby for a patch-through from Montana General Mercy.”

  Now they really had Ballard curious. He searched for an answer atop the mountains, painted with gorgeous, big blue sky between the peaks. Breathtaking but no answer.

  “Montana General to Mercy Force?”

  “Mercy Force copy.”

  “You are on alert for a possible trauma transfer from Glacier. Can you copy coordinates?”

  “Mercy Force copy.”

  Ballard took down the location. It was a northernmost region of Grizzly Tooth Trail, which could mean something was up in the Baker case. Ballard had to ask.

  “They find her?”

  “May have, that’s why we’re alerted.”

  “What about the on-site unit?”

  “Called to a horseback riding accident.”

  “Mercy Force copy and out.”

  Ballard switched on the intercom informing McCarry, Wordell and the officer. “They think maybe Paige Baker’s alive at the northern edge. They just gave me the coordinates. We’ve been activated to standby to bring her in.”

  Hood’s eye’s flickered.

  He could hear Ballard’s loud, enthusiastic report leaking through McCarry’s helmet headset as she removed his oxygen mask to adjust it.

  “Oh my word!” McCarry did not believe her eyes. “You’ll never guess who our customer is.”

  Ballard tried to look over his shoulder. No use, he could not see.

  “It’s Isaiah Hood.” Wordell was looking over her friend’s shoulder.

  “No way!” Ballard was incredulous.

  McCarry glanced at the young guard, who nodded. Suddenly, she wished the second larger guard was also aboard. She swallowed, replacing Hood’s oxygen, ensuring his flow was satisfactory and his signs were stable, blinking with a modicum of relief at the shiny metal cuff linking his wrist to the stretcher. The young guard had never seen the Rockies from a chopper before. Fascinated, he gazed out the window as McCarry checked Hood.

  “Well, he’s stable and he’s out cold.”

  McCarry was wrong.

  Hood slowly worked his free hand under the sheet and inserted his pinky finger forcefully into his navel, drilling and twisting it toward the hardened lump.

  Some years ago, during one of the appeals of his conviction, Hood was jailed in the cells at the Goliath County Courthouse. Security was laughable there. As usual, Hood’s senses were heightened for opportunity.

  On that day, as it turned out, one the guards was retiring. Near the end of the guard’s shift, in the moments before Hood was to be returned to his death row cell at Deer Lodge, the old-timer’s utility belt gave way, falling just outside Hood’s holdin
g cell. Everything spilled from it.

  “Don’t you move, son!” the old fart wheezed, quickly collecting everything. Making it worse, the guard’s glasses slipped from his head too.

  “Damn fine way to retire,” the guard bitched.

  “You missed this, sir.”

  Hood showed his brown-toothed smile, handing the guard his notebook.

  “Well, thank you now.”

  The old coot never figured that a more important item also fell into Hood’s cell.

  His handcuff key.

  It felt like a ticket to heaven, for it matched the key issued by the Montana Department of Corrections to its officers. Since it was in the days before high-tech scanners, Hood swallowed it, retrieving it later in his cell, washing it thoroughly. He concealed it within a small chip in the steel hinge mechanism of the door to his cell for several years.

  Two nights before he was to be moved to the death cell, Hood fetched the key. After lights out, he endured the painful process of working it through his navel into the bullet track of his old wound until it brushed up against the bullet fragment. To its loop, he had affixed reinforced thread taken from a pair of dark socks, letting it mingle with his body hair surrounding his navel.

  Now, as Mercy Force thundered toward Missoula, Hood worked swiftly, looping the threat around his thumb, easing the key out with his pinkie, feeling the flow of warm blood and puss come with it. Success was painful. He gritted his teeth, feeling as if he had just extracted a truck from his stomach.

  The young officer was staring out the window, which pleased Hood, who eyed his cuffed wrist and visualized his motions. Then in an instant when McCarry turned away, he unlocked the cuff. She did not hear the gentle click over the aircraft noise. He left the cuff open, but with his hand in place, and began to convulse. In one herculean effort, he rolled the stretcher to its side onto the floor.

  “Oh my God!” McCarry’s first thought was that Hood was having a seizure. She and the young guard watched in horror as he stood, holding the cuff, the stretcher strapped to his back, knocking over equipment as he began ripping open the straps with his free hands.