Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “What the hell--”

  “We see the news. Read the papers. We figure you got something on the family in Montana and are hauling us in here to CYA on the domestic.”

  “Dead wrong.”

  Jones and Pace let a cold moment pass.

  “Convince us,” Pace said.

  “We have nothing,” Turgeon said. “We are looking everywhere. I need your help with anything you remember about the call that I can throw to Montana. That is it, kids.”

  “You building a case against the parents?” Jones asked.

  “No, I am working one. Eliminating possibilities.”

  “That call was from last week. I barely remember it.” Pace folded his massive arms.

  Turgeon slid the thin file to them.

  “Refresh your memory and get out your notebooks, because I know you brought them. Can you hurry it along, please?”

  After a few minutes, Pace began shaking his head, sticking his bottom lip out. “It’s all there. Nothing more.”

  “It is not ‘all there’. You guys were booked out on scene for thirty minutes. Get out your notes.”

  Pace summarized it, flipping through his notebook.

  A neighbor, some angry old coot, called in shouting and suspected assaults to the address. Claims he saw Doug raise a baseball bat to somebody in the house. The unit responded. No signs of violence and they were welcomed in without resistance. First, they put Paige alone in her room, out of harm’s way. Other than crying, she seemed fine. Then Pace took Doug aside and Jones took Emily. Each parent was rational; no weapons present but there was a bat in the garage. No drugs or alcohol. No assaults. A loud disagreement over the wife’s mood and refusal to discuss her feelings with her husband. Shouting and a smashed plate. The daughter confirmed it. No bat used. No charges. No report. No big deal.

  “It was a non-event,” Pace said, closing his notebook.

  “OK, that’s the straight-up solid police-work version,” Turgeon said. “Do you remember any little thing from that call, something that bothers you, or that you can’t put your finger on?”

  Pace shook his head.

  “Jones?”

  She was reflecting, studying her notes.

  “Who talked to the daughter?” Turgeon said.

  “I did,” Jones said.

  “Well, something in there strike you?”

  “It was nothing really, but I remember the kid telling me how scared she got when her parents had an argument.”

  “She say they argued often?”

  “No, not often.”

  “But something about it scared her? Scared how?”

  “Like they were going to get a divorce because of her mother’s problems,” Jones said. “I dismissed it at the time, the girl was sobbing at the sight of police officers in their home. It was not the kind of home we go to. It was an emotional time, so I did not think then that the divorce talk was anything out of the ordinary.”

  “But...?”

  Jones and Pace exchanged a look. Whatever they were going to give up had to be significant; the reason they went to their rep.

  “The girl said her dad got mad at her mom because she would not tell him more about her problems.”

  “What were her problems?”

  “She said her mother heard voices.”

  “Voices?”

  “Something to do with people who died a long time ago.”

  “That’s it?”

  “They died in Montana and her parents had to go back there if things were going to get better.”

  Turgeon did not ask another question. She was too busy writing.

  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 thi
s 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.

  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.