Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “The San Francisco Star.”

  The officer directed him to where the rangers had set up the command center. It was busy with people and vehicles coming and going. Reed saw TV-news satellite trucks from Spokane, another from Great Falls. A ranger was explaining something to news crews while handing out sheets of paper. It was an updated press release on the search for Paige Baker and an advisory explaining how federal authorities had designated the airspace over Grizzly Tooth restricted. No TV or still news cameras could fly over the area. It was dangerous to aerial search operations. This angered the networks who were arguing about establishing elevation levels for the press, or at least pool access.

  “We’ll sort it out in the morning. We’ll discuss reviewing the restriction with the park superintendent and the incident commander,” the ranger told the TV people. For that evening, no press could access the area, period. They could drive to the trailhead, which was nearly ninety minutes away by way of Going-to-the-Sun road, then the Icefields Highway. But all information would be coordinated from the community center.

  “Where are the parents?” a TV crew member asked. “Can you bring them here now?”

  “They’re deep in the trail at the command post. At this point, the only way in and out is by chopper, really. We’ll look into the request.”

  Aware his deadline was ticking, Reed needed to find better data. He strolled around the area of small and large buildings. At the rear of one, he found a young ranger talking on his radio. Reed kept a respectful distance until he was finished, then approached him.

  The ranger was in his early twenties, built like a college defensive tackle. A blond brush cut, ruddy tanned face. From what Reed overheard, he was one of the first searchers to the family’s campsite. He had just returned to gather more maps and radios before heading back to resume searching at dawn. Sensing the guy was pumped from the search, Reed took advantage, drawing him into a quick conversation.

  “Sorry, they sent me to wait for somebody over here.”

  “Who are you looking for, I can--”

  Reed cut him off. “They say the parents are having a rough time?”

  “Yeah.” The ranger nodded. “They’re pretty shook up. She ran off yesterday afternoon. Looks like she was chasing her dog. Rained last night, washing away her trail. It’s been well over twenty-four hours. I don’t get it. Why did her parents take her there? That region is for advanced hikers, experienced hikers.”

  “I guess it doesn’t look good.”

  “Not good at all. Elevations are high. The temperature drops drastically. We could get snow. There are bears up that way who feed in that sector. Between you and me, if we don’t find a trace of her soon, some kind of sign, we’re not looking for a lost kid, we’re looking for a dead one.”

  “Who else we got helping?”

  “The FBI’s got jurisdiction. Nobody really knows what they’re doing--” The young ranger stopped himself. “Who did you say you’re with? You’re with SAR, right? I’m a seasonal. Was at Yellowstone last year. I just finished some rescue training on Grizzly Tooth a few weeks back--”

  “Ronnie!” Somebody from inside called the ranger, who pointed a finger down at Reed. “You better not be a reporter, pal.” Then he shouted: “Coming!” Then back to Reed as they parted. “You’re with SAR, right?”

  Reed waved but did not answer.

  Back near the satellite news trucks, one of the rangers was standing in a halo of white light, a small microphone clipped to his shirt, an earphone inserted in his left ear as he talked to a camera, summarizing the search for Paige Baker. He said nothing about what Reed had learned from the young searcher. As the ranger wrapped up, Reed overheard a crew member saying that the feed had gone smoothly to CNN. When the TV interview ended, Reed, along with several arriving reporters, talked to the ranger.

  The story was skyrocketing, Reed thought later, making notes from the on-record interview with the ranger who was on TV, mixing in details from his conversation with the searcher and the press release.

  He tried his cell phone, getting through to the Star’s night desk, coming up on first-edition deadline. Alice Buchanan, a senior copy-editor, took his material. He could hear her keyboard clicking rapidly as he read to her from his notebook.

  “Things look pretty dire for our little San Francisco girl, don’t they, Tom?” Buchanan said when Reed finished.

  “Yeah. Very grave.”

  “Your stuff will likely top Molly’s for front. She’s on the phone and asked me to tell you to check your e-mail in the morning. She has stuff for you. Says it will all be there.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Alice.”

  Reed drove to the Sunshine Motel outside Kalispell, where he had reserved a room. He had a late supper of nachos and a ginger ale at the sports bar while watching the Mariners game on the big-screen TV. He reflected on Ann and how lucky he was to have her and Zach. Wondering, for an intense moment, where things could have gone had he taken Molly up on her offer. He pushed the empty nachos plate aside, pulled out his cell phone, and made a short call home to say good night to Ann and Zach. Then he called the rangers while watching the game.

  “Command center, Wilcox.”

  “Tom Reed, San Francisco Star. Any developments in the search?”

  “None. Things have tapered off for the night. Operations will resume at first light with more personnel.”

  Reed went to his room, settling into his comfortable bed, thinking of what it must be like for a ten-year-old girl lost in the Rockies with nothing but the night, the cold, the dog. Nothing for her hunger to feed on but her fear. Jesus. Reed shuddered under his blankets.

  Only one thing could be worse.

  Daddy’s got a hurt hand.

  Reed tried to imagine the terror Paige Baker would have felt in the final seconds, knowing what her father was going to do…Reed drew on images of his son, Zach, the horror in his boy’s little eyes when he exploded on him during the dark days, his drinking days. Back when he had lost himself in an investigative series on the murder of a two-year-old girl who was abducted and whose body was found in a garbage bag in Golden Gate Park…Christ.

  The picture of Paige Baker smiling in the mountains. Would it haunt him like the others he had written about? Was she alive? What the hell happened out there? Maybe Sydowski would tell him. He had to find him.

  TWELVE

  The pilot of the idling FBI helicopter at West Glacier signaled to Zander and Bowman that it was clear to board.

  They emptied the remainder of their coffees on the ground, tossed their paper cups in the trash, and trotted to the pad, crouching against the noise and pulsating air currents that whip-snapped their jackets. They buckled in with Zander next to the pilot. He lifted off without wasting a second as morning broke.

  It had now been some thirty-eight hours since Paige Baker vanished in the backcountry.

  “The command post’s at Grizzly Tooth,” the pilot said. “Should have you there in twenty-five minutes. A lot of updrafts with that range. Ride could get rough.”

  Zander nodded.

  Behind those classic FBI aviator sunglasses, with the early light in his face, Zander cut an attractive but icy all-American profile, Bowman thought as they swept over the Rockies. He was stone-cold, all business.

  It was evident when she picked him up here a few hours ago at Kalispell and they made their way to her Blazer and the motel. He was wearing a sport coat, no tie. About six one, 180, with a solid, firm build. Deep-set blue eyes, square-jawed, dark hair. No smile. The instant she saw him she felt self-conscious about the way she had bitched at him over the phone. Zander stared into the night, checking the luminescent face of his watch, saying nothing as they came to the motel. Bowman saw three TV-news satellite trucks parked and felt the magnitude, the immensity of this case building. Was she ready for this? She wanted to call Mark. It was too late. She took a few deep breaths and forced herself to calm down and relax.

  She thought of Paige out there in the
night.

  Alone. Lost. Dead?

  That morning, during their predawn drive from the motel to the chopper, Zander told Bowman of their objectives, talking almost in point form. Confident. Authoritative. Cold. He knew what he was doing.

  “Everything is confidential. This is the FBI’s file and I am the case agent. Publicly, we are assisting the National Park Service in a missing person’s case. Operationally, we are conducting an investigation on the assumption foul play is involved. Only the primary investigators will know this, those from NPS and the Inspector from SFPD. It is a small JTF. Our job is to eliminate foul play here, or establish the foundation for prosecuting a case. We are not here to make friends with Mom and Dad. With a situation like this, you only get one shot. It is critical you start the process as quickly as possible. This is going to require careful work, knowing when and how to push and when to back off. Got it?”

  “So what do you expect from me?”

  “To do as I tell you.”

  “The parents are going to get suspicious right off.”

  “Drive home the point that we are here assisting, ruling out all possible scenarios, for the sake of their daughter. Insist they keep all discussion confidential, for the sake of their daughter.”

  Some twenty-two minutes after lifting off, the command post came into view as they made their approach to the ridge. Zander locked on to the small tents belonging to the Bakers and the dozen or so people on the ridge steadying themselves against the force of the descending helicopter. Pike Thornton, law enforcement ranger, and Brady Brook, the district ranger who was the Incident Commander, greeted Zander and Bowman, taking them aside privately, waiting for the helicopter’s rotors to stop so they could speak. Everyone knew not to waste time after it was stressed the rangers were in charge of the search and rescue and the FBI was in charge of everything else.

  “Search is going full bore,” Brook said. “We got two hasty teams out there within an hour or so of the father’s report. They put in about six hours yesterday, covered a lot of territory.”

  “Find anything? Clothing, candy wrappers, human excrement. Anything?” Zander said.

  Brook shook his head. “We’re increasing the search. Got more people coming in as soon as possible. We’re setting up a command center at park headquarters for you. Your Salt Lake people are coordinating your help in the operation. We’re restricting all of Grizzly Tooth, keeping the press there at the center. This is snowballing, since the alert went out over the news wires. The networks are already demanding briefings and access.”

  Zander nodded. “We’ll sort that out, but I expect your chief will designate a press person,” he said. “I am sure you are informing park staff the FBI is merely assisting in the search of a missing child in a federal park and they should not under any circumstances discuss anything with the press.”

  “Absolutely,” Brook said.

  “More of our people will be arriving within a few hours with equipment. Everyone will be, or should be, directed to the center.” Zander checked to ensure they were out of earshot from the rest of the team on the ridge, including the parents. Satisfied they were separated by nearly forty yards, he said, “Pike, we’ve read the information you provided. What’s your read on the parents?”

  “I do not think they’ve told us the whole story. Dad’s evasive. Got that nasty wound on his left hand. Something just isn’t sitting right.”

  “What about the moth…,” Bowman began, but Zander raised his hand as if she were a child speaking out of turn. He halted her question, then hijacked it.

  “What’s your read on the mother, Pike?”

  “Well, it’s hard to put your finger on it. But it just does not add up with her, either. She said she was nowhere near this camp when her daughter disappeared. Had gone off down the wooded trail to the ridge about a hundred yards to sit alone and take in the view. That could very well be the case.”

  “But …,” Zander said.

  Thornton exchanged a glance with Brook.

  “A few hours ago in the middle of the night, the mother had a bit of an emotional outburst, screaming into the mountains. That would be in keeping with her daughter being lost. But the few words we could make out were disturbing.”

  “What were they?” Zander said.

  Thornton took out his notebook and quoted Emily, “You can’t have her…Oh God, it is all my fault.”

  For a moment, the four of them grappled with the significance. Bowman felt a chill but repeated the words to herself and considered the circumstances. Zander remained poker-faced.

  “The father also said they had encountered another family on the trail yesterday. A mom, a dad, and a boy about ten. He said they seemed strange to him.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Didn’t specify.”

  “You looking for any witnesses, people in this area at the time?”

  “We’re going through permits,” Thornton said. “Can’t hike in here overnight without one, which requires a name and address, vehicle plate, contact person. It’s routine in case a hiker gets lost or hurt.”

  Zander nodded.

  “What about Dad’s history?” Thornton asked him. “You get much there?”

  “We’ve got something but it requires more work. We’ll need the SFPD to help us there. Their guy, what’s his name, Sydowski? He arrive?”

  “Got in last night and will meet you at the command center,” Brook said.

  “Good.” Zander answered. “Time for us to say hello to Mom and Dad. Bowman and I will go alone, if you don’t mind.”

  Zander and Bowman could not see Emily as they approached the tent area, where Doug waited to meet them, catching the FBI seal on Zander’s jacket.

  Zander extended his hand. “Doug Baker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank Zander. FBI.” Zander ignored Bowman. She introduced herself.

  Doug regarded both. He was tired, unshaven, tense.

  “The rangers said you were coming but we don’t understand. Our daughter is lost out there. She could be hurt. How does the FBI help us with that? We need more searchers, more people looking for Paige. Not police. And why the FBI?”

  “Doug,” Zander said, “more searchers are on their way. A huge search and rescue operation is being coordinated. This area will soon be saturated with people determined to find your daughter.”

  “We need them here now. We can’t waste any more time.” Baker rubbed his reddened eyes. “She’s just a little girl out there.” Zander looked at Doug’s injured left hand. “So why is the FBI here?”

  “Federal parks are our jurisdiction. We get involved in all serious matters, especially those involving children. Your daughter’s case is very serious. It is important. We’re calling in a lot of people from a lot of agencies to make sure we do everything right.”

  “Like what?”

  “Making sure we have not missed any possibilities.”

  “She just wandered off, likely chasing Kobee, her dog. What other possibilities could there be?”

  “That’s where we need your help, Doug.”

  Zander was smooth Bowman thought, seeing how a gentle, assuring conversation was evolving into something more.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see anything or anybody that strikes you as strange or odd during your time here, or on the way?”

  “I don’t see how that has got anything to do this. I’m telling you she just wandered off.”

  “Doug, please. Was there anything?”

  Baker thought about it. “Just that other family we met. Might have been our first day in. We were tired and stopped for lunch and they just came upon us, spying on us. Just staring. I mentioned that to the rangers. But we left in separate directions. You’re writing this down? You think that might be important?”

  “Could be. We have to be thorough.”

  “You don’t think that somehow they--that someone--?”

  “Doug, it is our job to eliminate all other s
cenarios here as quickly as possible. The search is a priority and it will be exhaustive, but we will also examine everything else.”

  The nylon of one of the family’s blue tents swished and Emily emerged in jeans and a flannel shirt. Her hair was mussed and her eyes reddened. She was exhausted, stressed. Approaching Doug and the agents, she lost her balance and slipped. Bowman caught her. “Easy there,” Bowman said.

  Doug introduced Emily to the agents, explaining their presence as his wife struggled to grasp it. Shaking her head, a hand covering her mouth, she stood, with eyes glistening, as Zander asked her about anything or anybody that struck her as strange in the time before they entered the park and the time leading up to her daughter’s disappearance.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Zander studied her, watching her reaction, reading her body language in relation to her husband’s as he explained how Paige’s photograph and details have been circulated widely to news and police agencies.

  “You think that maybe she didn’t just get lost?” Emily said. “You think someone in the park may have abducted her? Oh God!” Doug comforted her.

  “Emily, we have nothing to suggest that,” Zander said. “We just don’t want to overlook anything. It is a big park. And we need your help to make sure we don’t miss anything. Please understand that we will use every resource to ensure Paige is returned safely to you. I trust you would expect nothing less. But your help is critical.”

  Emily nodded and sniffed. “What can we do to help you?”

  “We’d like to fly you with us to the ranger command center. To talk to you some more in a comfortable place. As I said, we’ve got a team of people there from different agencies. Everybody’s got a different job but we just need a little time for more information from you to be as effective as quickly as possible. It is easier than bringing everybody out here.”

  “But what if Paige comes back, or they find her while we’re gone? She’ll need us.” Emily said. “We should be here.”

  “That’s right,” Zander said. “One of you should be here. So we’ll take you in separately.”