Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “Why did he do that to me? Did he know?”

  Careful, Agent Bowman, she cautioned herself.

  “We’re just trying to understand what happened.”

  “Uh, do you think there is any chance, um--” Emily stopped, removed her glasses. “Tracy, tell me what your heart feels as a mother. Please tell me if you think there is any hope Paige is still alive out there.”

  Bowman met her eyes. “I would never give up hope. No mother could until--” Bowman looked up as a blue and white helicopter pounded overhead.

  “Until what, Tracy?”

  “Until you knew the truth. The absolute truth.”

  Emily was motionless with her thoughts.

  “I want to talk to Doug,” she said. “Will you help me?”

  Nora Lam of the U.S. Justice Department entered the task force room without knocking, her face taut.

  “Not now, Ms. Lam, please!” Zander said. Sydowski was on the phone.

  “Maleena Crow wants Doug Baker released. You can’t hold him much longer.”

  “Not now!”

  “And Washington called demanding an update.”

  Washington. Zander felt his stomach lurch, thinking of his soon-to-be-ex, and the egocentric, bureaucratic dunghill….

  “Damn it! We’re in the middle of something.”

  “The Hood case is critically linked--”

  “Hood’s case was investigated twenty-two years ago!”

  Sydowski placed his hand over his ear, struggling to hear Inspector Turgeon, who was on a cell phone driving on a San Francisco freeway.

  “What do you have, Linda?”

  “The complaint against Doug Baker by Cammi Walton is bogus.”

  “You have that confirmed?”

  “The kid admitted to making it up after we pressed her. I’ll be faxing my report to Golden Gate and they’ll forward it to your team there. You’re getting it hot off the press.”

  “What happened?”

  “I talked to the history teacher whose classroom is across the hallway from Baker’s. He said teachers, especially male, have a policy to never, ever be alone with a student, especially female teens in a classroom.”

  “Good policy.”

  “Well, the history teacher and two students all gave me statements that they witnessed Baker talking to Ms. Walton at the doorway of his class during the time she claimed he flipped out. It never happened.”

  “All right.”

  “There’s more. We ran Ms. Walton’s name through Juvenile and it turns out she had a shoplifting beef a week or so before her alleged incident with Baker. The store manager was late reporting it.”

  “Why?”

  “Cammi tried to keep it quiet, and almost succeeded, by threatening to say a manager ‘made advances toward her’ and she would be believed because her mother is a police commissioner. The store staff backed off but filed the report later. We just got it.”

  “The little--”

  “We took this to Cammi, who fessed up and gave us a statement.”

  “Did you take it to Mother Walton?”

  “Yes. I feel for the lady. She’s a class act.”

  “What about the domestic call to the Baker house?”

  “I talked to the responding officers and reviewed the call.”

  “Right.”

  “Talked to the neighbor who called in the complaint. Pushed him hard. He couldn’t swear about a bat or any real threats. The best we get, it was just a little shouting. That part is on your plate.”

  “Thanks, Linda.” Sydowski turned to inform Zander.

  Lloyd Turner had just entered the room with Park Superintendent Elsie Temple, clutching a sheet of notepaper.

  “This is less than two minutes old from our communications center,” Temple began. “The Royal Canadian Mounted Police report finding a footprint, very fresh, fitting the shoes worn by Paige Baker, and a plastic bottled-water container purchased at San Francisco International Airport. It’s a significant indication that she’s alive in the northern reach of the park.”

  Temple immediately ordered all search operations concentrated in the border area.

  “The Mounties indicate she was moving back into Montana.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Tory Sky, the sunset blond photographer from Santa Monica with the Malibu tan, was bewitching Levi Kayle, news shooter from the San Francisco Star.

  “Well, I simply tired of celeb-stalking in L.A., so I freelance news images. I sell everywhere through my service on the Internet. I’m here for a German magazine.” Brushing her hair from sunglasses, she touched her ear, pressing her earphone tighter.

  “Something’s up!”

  Tory’s new ultra compact $3,000 digital radio scanner enabled her to listen in on some of the emergency frequencies used by some of the agencies searching for Paige Baker. Kayle’s unit was not as good. Tory’s green eyes were intense as she listened to the urgent transmissions to the rangers on the RCMP’s discovery. She grabbed her cell phone.

  “They may have found her!”

  Tory’s thumb expertly pushed her cell’s speed-dial button.

  “At the northern edge. I might be able to get you in. Come on,” she said into her phone. “Be there, be there.”

  Kayle was intrigued. With the exception of ranger-controlled chopper flights for pool shots of the search, the press was barred from any part of the search region. It was virtually inaccessible. Tory had her connection.

  “Rawley? Tory. Yes, I heard it. Can you?--You can!--How many? West Glacier ASAP? Five spots, right. Five hundred. On our way. Do not dare leave without us! Yes, I will be there.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Get your friends, Kayle we’re airborne. Dieter! Where is that guy?”

  The search for Paige Baker had swollen into a major air operation largely dependent upon helicopters. In all more than a dozen federal, state, national guard, and private contractors were involved in searching, moving people and equipment, or ferrying supplies. One of the contractors was Rawley Nash, a burned-out 1970s relic who listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival through his supercharged eight-track tape system. Nash had it amplified so he could hear his speakers inside his bird, the Widowmaker. Nash was an out-of-state mercenary, a gypsy cab with rotors who flew by his own rules, operating a big old reconditioned Huey.

  He had just been assigned to deliver a K-9 team from Idaho to join the refocused search near Boundary Creek at Grizzly’s northern edge. The rendezvous was at West Glacier, where he had met Tory Sky earlier. They worked out a standing deal. If the critical moment came, Nash would duck the rules and fly her in to get her pictures for $1,000--with the understanding that depending on the heat he drew, it may be a one-way trip. The bonus was that if Tory could find at least three other press types to pay five hundred each for their ride, hers was free. “Could she dig it?”

  At least that was the version Kayle was explaining to Molly Wilson and Tom Reed. Kayle was at the wheel of his rented Sunbird, racing behind Tory Sky’s Taurus. She was ahead of them with Dieter, the quiet man from Hamburg, stringing out of L.A. for Der Speigel, the big German magazine.

  “We have to go,” Kayle said to Reed. “Nothing is going to happen at the command center. It’s a press internment camp.”

  “Kayle, what if we get dropped and don’t get out? How are you going to get us back? Have you looked at the map--we’ll be as good as in Canada.”

  “We’ll just talk this guy into picking us up. We’ve got our sat phone and computers. We can file from there. Just chill, Reed.”

  “Didn’t Tory say her pilot was flying in a K-9 guy?” Wilson said.

  “That’s right,” Kayle said. “We’ll follow the tracker. Chances are he’ll lead us to the kid, or at least the action in there. Besides, he’ll have a radio to call for our ride.” Reed, everyone is likely attempting to get in now. If she’s alive we have to get the picture and story!”

  Reed calculated the time. The Star’s desk in San Francisco h
ad not yet decided if he or Wilson was covering Hood’s execution tonight. Either way, they would want Kayle there for whatever part they could grab.

  “We have to get to Deer Lodge tonight for Hood,” Reed said.

  “We’ll have time,” Kayle said.

  Reed remembered being dispatched to Montana with Kayle for the Unabomber arrest and how Kayle loved pushing things to deadline. Like most news people, he thrived under pressure.

  At West Glacier, Rawley Nash, carrying a tattered leather briefcase, came to them, swiftly laying down his rules as his machine was being fueled amid helicopters lifting off and landing at the helispots. Reed pegged him as being in his early fifties. A good-looking man with two day’s growth, a shark’s smile and eyebrows arching over his aviators that told you not to tangle with him because his charm alone would defeat you.

  Nash removed his sunglasses. “Five hundred each.” His twinkle suggested Tory would show her appreciation later. And the way his eyes walked all over Molly Wilson. “Well, well now …” Glancing backward over his shoulder, he produced an old credit card imprint machine on the hood of Kayle’s Sunbird. “All major cards accepted. Let’s go, kiddies. Flash that company plastic.”

  Transactions done, Nash instructed them to walk one hundred yards or so to a clearing behind a stand of pine. “That’s ‘Gate Nine,’” he chuckled. “Going to leapfrog over there and pick you up. Now.”

  Within minutes, the group was boarding Nash’s Widowmaker, He instructed them to put on intercom headsets, close and lock the doors, and buckle up. He came on the air.

  A woman in her twenties with a leashed German shepherd was in the rear, her face a question mark. “What’s going on here?” Her dog barked at Dieter.

  “Nice dog,” Dieter’s accent was heavy. “Don’t bite, nice dog.”

  “Kids, meet Hilda Sim and her pup, Lux, with Idaho SAR. Sim, these are some people critical to the operation. Ask no questions. No beverages will be served on this mission. Please check your belts and get ready to rock and roll.” Nash gave the old Huey some throttle and slammed in an eight-track which began blaring “Up Around the Bend.”’

  Wilson felt her stomach flutter as the airship climbed rapidly, then roared. All the while, Creedence Clearwater Revival blared through Nash’s sound system. Nash grinned as if he were king of the Rocky Mountains.

  Reed thought they were making good time, but then a faster, sleeker chopper shot passed in the same direction at two o’clock. A blue-and-white blur that disappeared. Jesus. They must have found something. Reed felt his adrenaline stirring, glad Kayle and Wilson talked him into the trip. The story was definitely out here.

  After several minutes, Nash eased up, slowing down.

  “We’re a few miles from the coordinates. I want to check on the activity down there, uh, for a safe drop.” Nash nodded. Reed knew right off that he did not want anyone official to know he was operating black-market press tours.

  Kayle and Tory were checking their cameras.

  Kayle was first to spot a threadlike pole of black smoke ahead. Instinctively, he began shooting.

  Can’t be a signal fire, Nash thought. Nothing on the radio. What the hell? As they neared the scene, it came over him full force.

  Chopper crash!

  “Goddamn! We’re landing!” Nash reached for his radio and called in the incident and location. “We’re going to check for survivors!”

  As they descended, Tory and Kayle, faces locked in professional concentration, took news photos without saying word. Nash continued calling for help until he was acknowledged. He made out the downed craft’s call numbers, relaying them. It was Mercy Force, the Missoula air ambulance that had rocketed by them earlier.

  Missoula Tower acknowledged Mercy Force was off course and indicated trouble, relaying to Nash that it should have five souls aboard. He put down a safe distance from the wreckage. Grabbing an ax, fire extinguisher and medical kit, he led his group to the rescue. Kayle and Tory took pictures along the way.

  Nash and Dieter hauled the pilot out quickly. He was alive, moaning, bleeding. “Why does he have bare feet?” Kayle wondered.

  Sim leashed Lux, who was barking wildly. No one could believe the scene inside--two women and a Montana State Prison officer, shackled in the back, unconscious, bleeding from the head and hands.

  “What the hell happened here?” Kayle shot pictures.

  “We’re going to help you. You’re alive. Help is coming,” Nash told the victims. “Dieter, douse the fire,” he ordered. “I’ve got bolt cutters in my machine.” Nash returned. His cutters did their work on the cuffs, freeing the guard and women. All four victims were pulled to safety. Sim worked on their cuts.

  “They’re going to make it,” she said.

  Lux was still barking.

  “Quiet down, boy!” Sim ordered.

  “I do not like this,” Nash said. “Supposed to be five people. We’ve got four. Three of them were in chains. Christ.” He had heard earlier radio chatter about a medical standby and a flight to Deer Lodge. Montana State Prison is in Deer Lodge. Chains. Medical. Five people, only four. It was becoming clear. Nash hurried into the wreckage, knowing he glimpsed something a second ago. He tossed debris. Yes. Here. Orange! A prison-issue pair of coveralls. He held them up.

  Kayle and Tory took pictures.

  “The fifth passenger is a convict who escaped,” Nash said, scanning the area.

  Dieter followed Nash’s gaze through his rimless glasses.

  “This is the area where the Mountie thinks the little California girl is alive, and this prison escaper is now here, after the helicopter crashes.”

  Wilson swallowed at the realization, watching Nash head to his helicopter to report and update.

  Kayle studied Sim and Lux. “Bet your dog could pick up his trail.”

  “Yes, he could.”

  Everyone exchanged glances, passing around the question no one wanted to raise.

  Who was willing to chase after an escaped convict?

  SEVENTY-THREE

  The Governor’s intercom buzzed in his Capitol Building office in Helena.

  “The Department of Corrections director, sir. Says it’s urgent on the Hood case.”

  “Put him on hold, please.” The governor’s cell phone was trilling as the attorney general and John Jackson swept into the room.

  “Gentlemen? Do we have more from the Mounties? Did we find her?”

  Faces grim, they ignored him, switching on the large TV. A live network news channel.

  BREAKING NEWS was the caption under a map of Glacier National Park, Montana. A graphic showing a lightning bolt near the Canadian border and the words HELICOPTER CRASH as the newsreader described details.

  “Crash? Just a minute,” the governor said to his cell phone call. “Turn it up.”

  “We think Isaiah Hood was on that chopper.” The attorney general was pressing numbers on his cell phone.

  “What?”

  “…if you’re just joining us, we have a confirmed report that an air ambulance, a Mercy Force flight from Missoula General Mercy Hospital, has crashed in the Rocky Mountains in the northern extremity of Glacier National Park. Five people were aboard. Four are believed to have survived and are in stable condition. The fifth person is missing….”

  “Missing?”

  “It’s Isaiah Hood, sir,” the attorney general said. “He’s escaped.”

  The governor’s intercom buzzed again.

  “The director of DOC calling back, sir.”

  The governor punched the line: “Tell me what happened.”

  “It was a traumatic medical emergency. We were bound by the regs to transfer him to Missoula.”

  “But you had security aboard?”

  “One rookie officer. He was the lightest. It was a last-minute situation because of weight restrictions.”

  “But how…tell me just how the hell did this--?”

  “Missoula Tower picked up a transmission from the pilot that Hood had hij
acked the flight. Directing it northbound through the park--”

  “But how? What was this medical injury of his? He’s high profile. I should have been told. Why wasn’t--?”

  “One of his seizures. We think he feigned illness.”

  “Oh, you think that, do you?”

  The governor hung up. “John, how bad are the survivors? Update me.”

  “A pilot, a guard and two emergency nurses. Preliminary reports indicate all are alive. In process of being transported to Mercy General. Families alerted.”

  “Get me on the line to them.”

  “U.S. Marshals, State Police FBI, Transportation are first in line.”

  “Relatives then,” Governor Nye ran his hands over his face, thinking. “Where the hell is Hood? Have they started looking? Do they need the National Guard? We’ve got to pick him up before he finds Paige….Jesus, right in the same region…why was he directing them? John, turn that up again, please.”

  “All right,” the newswoman at her desk said to the camera, “stand by. We’re going live to Van Heston, our reporter covering the story in Glacier National Park….”

  “…Tawni, let me preface--hold it--” Static. A man in his early thirties was talking to the camera. His voice urgent, dramatic. “OK, Tawni, let me preface by saying this is unconfirmed. I repeat unconfirmed, but what we’re hearing are two astounding developments. First, the Mercy Force helicopter that crashed is, according to sources, or was, transferring a patient from Montana State Prison to a local hospital. The patient--this is unconfirmed--was Isaiah Hood, the inmate scheduled for execution at midnight tonight. Also unconfirmed is that he hijacked the flight, directed it toward Canada before it crashed within a few short miles of the Canadian border….”

  The governor’s stomach was lurching.

  “…again, Tawni, it is all unconfirmed. There is speculation he was bound for Canada, which has no death penalty and a somewhat involved extradition process…”

  “Van, you said there were two developments?”

  “Yes, coming to the second. Prior to the crash, the FBI was said to be ‘aggressively’ questioning the parents of Paige Baker. They have fallen under suspicion because of doubts about Hood’s guilt in the murder of Emily Baker’s five-year-old sister, in the park twenty-two years ago. Sources tell us that the FBI was taking a hard line with her parents to answer for their daughter’s whereabouts. We know that Doug Baker, Emily’s father, has an attorney. The Bakers, we are told, were undergoing further questioning by the FBI when word came that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police found a recent footprint, consistent with the footwear worn by Paige Baker, a few yards inside the Canadian side of the park.”