Cold Fear (3 page)

THREE

In the frigid
pre-dawn light, Doug
studied his wounded hand.

It was wrapped in a strip he’d torn from the T-shirt
that fell from Paige’s pack when she fled, a favorite from the Gap. It was
pink, now browned with his dried blood. The flag of his guilt.

Shame would not allow him to admit to Emily what he had
done. Chased Paige away, cursing, bleeding. An ax in his hand.

I am so sorry.

The rain had stopped. Patches of cool dawn mist quilted
the forest slopes. Crows echoed in the valleys. Doug got busy restarting the
fire, using wood he had placed in the tent. To warm Paige in case she returned.

While the kindling smoked and crackled to life, Doug
gently nudged Emily, who awoke weeping softly. It was time for him to get help.

“Everything will be OK,” he promised her, preparing his
knapsack. She nodded tearfully, unable to utter words. “She’ll probably show up
a minute after I leave. We’ll get through this together, Em.”

She hugged Doug tightly, as if her entire weight were
pulling her down into an abyss. Tenderly, he pried her arms loose, then left.

Jogging, trotting, pushing himself to resurrect his
Marine Corps training, Doug moved swiftly. He hoped to encounter someone in the
remote region with a cell phone or radio. No luck. The area was isolated. To
get here, they had left their car parked half a day away at their motel near Columbia
Falls outside the west entrance to the park. They took a tour bus drop to the
main gate. From there, they took a park shuttle along Going-to-the-Sun Road,
the spectacular mountain highway that traversed the park. At a northern
junction, they caught another shuttle that took them due north along the new Icefields Highway, a serpentine roadway hugging steep rocky slopes and cliff edges. It was
dotted with hiker drop-off points at trail heads leading into the Devil’s
Grasp.

Doug covered miles of primitive harsh terrain quickly,
praying Paige had survived the night.
If anything happened to her. Don’t
think about that. She is just lost, huddled somewhere with Kobee.

By midafternoon, Doug made it to the backcountry road
and shuttle bus pick-up point. He was spotted by a park shuttle bus frantically
waving. Its diesel roared after the driver picked Doug up, then radioed to the
new Devil’s Grasp ranger station.

Ranger Mac McCormick met Doug outside the small log
cabin station.

“My daughter is lost in the backcountry! We have to get
a search team! She wandered off yesterday afternoon. It rained up there. Please!”

The ranger got Doug into the office where a seasonal
ranger was already talking on the radio about a lost little girl.

Mac was one of Glacier’s brightest rangers. Fresh from
training at the Federal Law Enforcement Academy in Georgia, he was awaiting the
paperwork confirming him as a level 1 law enforcement ranger.

“Yessir, we’re going to get help out there as quick as
we can.”

Helping Doug to a padded chair behind the counter, Mac
mentally noted his haggard, unshaven, frenzied appearance and his wounded left
hand. He likely fell on the trail getting here.

“Sir, we’re going to need some information. Sally,” Mac
instructed the female ranger, “Confirm to Park Dispatch to let the district
ranger know we have a lost person report. Find out what is available right now
from the air tours at West Glacier. Standby to send out a hasty team.”

Mac quickly began completing a lost person
questionnaire, detailing Paige Baker’s case: full name, her parents, health,
physical description, time she was last seen, who talked to her last, what
area, clothing, outdoors experience, fear of animals, the dark, adults, her
personality. All while, he punctuated his questions by assuring Doug that help
was on the way.

Doug told Mac about Kobee, Paige’s beagle.

“Pets are not permitted, how did you--?”

“We know. We sneaked him in for Paige. They’re
inseparable.”

Mac noted Kobee. Then, in keeping with procedure, he had
the seasonal ranger fax the information to the park’s law enforcement rangers,
who would pass it on to other police authorities. Then Mac took Doug to the
station’s huge park map, which covered one of the varnished pine walls. He
tried pinpointing the spot where the Bakers were camping.

It was a star in the universe of Glacier National
Park, which contained over seven hundred miles of trails and elevated climbs
that webbed through one million acres of glaciers, lakes, forests and mountains
some sixty million years old that joined Canada’s Waterton Lakes
National Park forming the International Peace Park.

The Bakers were camping in the Devil’s Grasp section of
northern Montana, deep along the new Grizzly Tooth Trail. Mac knew this was
bad. Grizzly Tooth was the most isolated region of Glacier. It just opened this
season. Few people knew of it. According to backcountry permits, less than a
dozen visitors were in there.

Like most of the mountain country, it is subject to
radical weather because of the elevation climbs, some nine thousand feet. Many
areas had loose rock and were active bear- feeding zones. This is where they trained
park staff. But all members were not yet familiar with every part of Grizzly.
Nineteen miles of rugged, inspiring terrain, curling into Canada.

Mac swallowed. Twenty-four hours gone already. This was
bad. Why would this family go in there? It’s such a challenge. Grizzly was not
the place for a ten-year-old city girl with no wilderness experience.
Especially now. It did not help that it had rained steadily in that area last
night. The long-range weather forecast was not good. And with her dog. Pets attracted
bears. Not good. Mac forced himself to maintain his professional calm.

“Better tell Dispatch to alert Waterton on the Canadian
side about a lost girl deep along Grizzly. We’ll send them more details when we
have them.”

Mac got Doug a coffee and a ham sandwich, insisting he
rest during the short time they had.

“Got a chopper coming! ETA twenty minutes,” Sally said,
then answered a call. “Mac, it’s Brady Brook and he’s with Pike Thornton, who
wants to talk to you.” Thornton was the most senior level 1 law enforcement
ranger. Not long after the call, the station began vibrating as a helicopter
approached.

“Doug, we’re flying out now.” Mac raised his voice, “Our
Search and Rescue people urge us to start setting up for a search now.”

The earth dropped slowly under Doug’s feet, adrenaline
coursing through his body as the Bell helicopter ascended from the Devil’s
Grasp ranger station, its blades swooshing.

In seconds, the cabin shrunk and then vanished as the
chopper banked and climbed over an eternity of mountain ranges, forests,
rivers, lakes and glaciers. Doug’s stomach fluttered as they glided over
foothills, dipped into basins. Staring at his blood-scabbed hand, exhaustion
and fear worked on his mind. The marine warrior. Gulf War and Somalia
veteran. The hard-ass high school football coach who enjoyed the challenge of
teaching Hemingway and Faulkner to wired teens.

The luckiest man in the world to be married to a dream
named Emily: eyes the color of deep mountain lakes, with hair the shade of
honey, which she often wore in a soft bun. He loved how strands escaped when
she was engrossed in her photography. Loved how she looked in those white
painter’s pants and cotton tops that she wore. Loved how fast she could slip
out of them.

Emily was a smart, big-hearted woman whose smile put the
sun in his sky. He could still picture her glowing the day Paige was born.
God’s gift to them. Daddy’s little girl. Happy again, popping the champagne
cork in the living room of the small three-storey Edwardian they had snagged
for a bargain in outer Richmond. Adopting Kobee from a neighbor’s litter.
Building a good life together. And it seemed they were so close to putting
Emily’s troubles to rest. Doug took in the snowcapped Rockies, the dark green
ocean of forest blurring below as if it was all passing before him. All
slipping away.

Paige could be anywhere down there.

The helicopter slowed and started rattling. “Hang on!”
the pilot said over the intercom. “Updrafts! From the valleys!”

Rapid deployment from the tail end of a Herc was
smoother.

They hugged a mountainside, arriving at a massive ledge.

“That’s got to be it,” the pilot said. “Here we go.”

As they made their approach, Mac and the others spotted
the tiny blue tents long before Doug. “We’ll try for that flat ridge there,
about five o’clock.” What flat ridge? Doug could not see it. The pilot began
bringing the helicopter down on a clearing about as big as a basketball court.
Suddenly the tents; then Emily came into clear view. Doug’s heart skipped,
scanning the camp, hoping to spot Paige or Kobee.

He found Emily, cutting a solitary figure, turning her
back as the Bell’s rotors flapped her jacket, her hair.

The pilot landed, then lifted off the instant Doug and
the two rangers were safely on the ground. “He’s going back to ferry more
bodies and gear out here,” Mac said, grabbing the large two nylon bags they had
brought.

The chopper disappeared.

Doug crushed Emily in his arms; she answered the
question in his eyes.

“Not a trace. Nothing. Doug. Oh God.”

FOUR

Mac
approached Doug and Emily.

“Every second counts,” he said. “Search and Rescue
people, that’s SAR, are on their way. More are coming. We’ll need more specific
information so that they can start searching effectively.”

Together, they estimated the time Paige vanished, the
area or possible direction.

This is not real.

Emily was numb to reality. It was not happening. She was
not standing here with strangers on a ledge in the Rocky Mountains talking
about the disappearance of Paige. Her only baby. Gone. Swallowed.

Her monster was out there.

The other ranger tested his radio saying how elevation,
proximity of other radios, and weather made communication here erratic. Mac
scanned the forests with huge binoculars.

“There’s an old mining trail through the valleys and
basins that was abandoned in the 1800s,” he said. “We’ve got some searchers on
horseback coming from the Blackfeet Reservation. They know this area well.”

A cool wind rushed over them bringing a
thump-thump-thump
.
The helicopter had returned with three more park rangers and more gear. Then
departed. More grim-faced people said their names, changing into jumpsuits,
setting up big tents, tables, a canopy, generators, lanterns, stoves. A
practiced ritual.

A different helicopter arrived. More people. Two
official-looking men in that group. The first, well-built, about six foot two,
solid. Silver hair. Looked to be in his fifties. Leathery tanned skin.
Poker-faced.

“Pike Thornton,” he introduced himself, his voice deep
and strong. “Law enforcement officer with National Park Service.” Soft blue
eyes, just like Emily’s dad. “Folks, we’ve alerted the FBI. They’re on their
way--”

“FBI?” Doug said.

“We both have jurisdiction over a national park, but
this is an official missing person’s case involving a child. We take it very seriously.
So we alerted them. They’ll be helping.”

Doug understood.

“Brady Brook.” The second man, slightly younger and
wearing blue overalls, introduced himself as the district ranger who was the
Incident Commander. “I’ll be in charge of the SAR operation here in the field
to find Paige.” He removed his hat, revealing short-cropped brown hair. Neat
and clean-shaven, he wore frameless glasses and the serious air of a
soft-spoken, capable man. “I’ve been with the park for six years. In that time,
we’ve done about forty major searches for lost people. Located them in every
case.”

“And in how many cases were they alive?” Doug asked.

Thornton and Brook exchanged glances.

“Most every one,” Brook said.

“Except accidents,” Thornton said. “Falls and such.”

Emily’s hands went to her mouth. Doug put his arm around
her.

“Each case has its own circumstances,” Brook looked
Emily and Doug in the eye. “Locating Paige is the park’s priority. It’s been
over twenty-four hours. We’ll need very specific information fast. Let’s get
started, please.”

Brook took them to the table where a woman was typing on
a laptop computer. Helicopters continued arriving with more people as Brook and
the woman took information from Doug and Emily. Shouting over the noise, they
entered Paige’s vital statistics, her medical, physical, mental condition.

“Did she have any items with her?”

“She had Kobee, her dog, a beagle,” Emily said.

The woman’s eyes went to Brook, who looked at Mac.

Brook pursed his lips refraining from telling the Bakers
that a dog can attract bears, enrage them, lead them right to the owner. Emily
and Doug had known the risk but ignored it. Brook caught their self-reproach.

“The dog can be an asset,” he said. “It can keep her
warm, force her to think of it, keep her spirits up. Be a psychological
blanket.”

“Really?” Emily sniffed.

“It’s been the case in other wilderness searches for
children,” Brook said.

They inventoried Paige’s tent. Thornton looked around on
his own. It was deduced that Paige had a sweatshirt, T-shirts, hat, water or
juice boxes, fruit, granola bars, candy and a penknife.

The searchers asked if Paige had any wilderness, or
survival experience. What was the family situation before she got lost? Doug
and Emily exchanged glances.

“She was not having fun, Doug said. “This was, is, her
first time backpacking. She misses the city and the comforts of home.”

Thornton
ventured a theory. “Any
chance she was angry and went off in a preteen tantrum?”

Doug looked at the ground. Emily looked at the horizon;
the sun was nearing it. Another helicopter was approaching, its increasing
thump
pressing for an answer. “Yes,” Doug said, “there’s a chance of that.”

Using Paige’s vital stats--four-feet-seven inches tall,
seventy pounds--they estimated her step, measured it against the terrain and
time, to determine a search perimeter, sectors, boundaries; then they
dispatched teams, equipped with radios, water, food, warm clothing and gear.

“They will search in shifts until dark, when it becomes
too dangerous. They’ll camp, resume searching at daybreak,” Brook said. “More
volunteers, dog teams, fixed-wing aircraft, all are on the way. We’ll search
until we find her, using every resource we can.”

Emily thanked Brook. Doug took him off to talk alone
with him.

“You’ve done your calculations.” Doug’s voice wavered.
“Tell me now. How much time before it’s critical, given what you know?”

“Doug, each case is--”

“Don’t bullshit me now. I am her father. I am an
ex-marine, I know about ratios of survivability. Now give it to me.”

Brook looked at him. Man to man. Father to father.

“Three to five days.”

Three to five days
. His
little girl could be dead in three to five days and they had already lost
twenty-four hours.

“Doug, we’ve got lots of experienced people helping.
Lots of hope.” Brook put his hand on his shoulder then excused himself.

Doug watched a helicopter conducting aerial searches. In
minutes, the group of some forty people, which had gathered within an hour on
the ridge, had virtually vanished into the forests. Brook requested Emily and
Doug stay put with the base team at Incident Command.

Incident Command--that is what their family campsite had
become. Their trip was a federal incident involving the FBI.

Doug was overwhelmed, exhausted. He wanted to go off to
sit alone when Thornton approached him and Emily, producing a small notebook.

“Folks, I hate to trouble you. I’ve got to take down a
few more particulars for the first report. I am sorry.” Thornton recorded
addresses and office numbers; then he asked for a picture of Paige.

“A picture?” Emily said.

“Yes, a recent one, to put out everywhere--at the park
gates, police agencies. The press.”

“We took some on this trip, but I--I don’t understand,
she’s out there--”

“Well, ma’am we have to be prepared for all scenarios.” Thornton let that sit. Doug got it. So did Emily when Thornton asked his next question.

“Did you happen to see many strangers, or anything odd
out here or on the way?”

They had not.

“Well, I am sorry. We won’t get into this now but the
FBI might.” Thornton grew concerned. “You want to get that hand looked at,
Doug?”

Doug glanced at the bloodied gash on his left palm.
“Looks worse than it is actually.”

“Really? Looks bad. What happened?”

“Hurt it chopping wood. It’s just a small cut.”

Thornton
’s eyes went from the
wound to Doug, measuring him for a few seconds. “With an ax?” he said.

Doug nodded.

“Well, you might want to get it taken care of.”

“It’s fine.”

Thornton
left it, then reminded
Emily of the need for a picture.

“I’ll get my camera,” Emily sniffed. “It’s digital, is
that OK?”

“Even better. Brook’s people can transmit it to
headquarters. We’ll have it out far and wide in no time.”

Emily went for her camera, leaving Doug with Thornton, who from the moment he had set foot on the ridge had studied Doug and Emily.
Listening. Watching. Absorbing everything through soft blue eyes that seldom
missed a thing.

Like that nasty wound on Doug’s left hand.

Doug would be asked about that when the FBI got its
people here. Thornton had been updating them on the radio-phone link to their
field office in Billings, which in turn alerted the FBI’s division office in Salt
Lake City.

In keeping with procedure, Thornton had been assuming
criminal intent from the instant he received Mac’s report and the notation
about Doug Baker’s hand.

Checks through the National Crime Information Center,
the FBI-operated crime computer, showed Doug served three days in Cook County
Jail several years ago for a dustup in a Chicago bar. Beat up two guys pretty
bad. Suggested a violent history.

Doug’s recent history was more serious. The San
Francisco Police Department’s local computers showed that a few days before the
Bakers left for Montana, a neighbor called 911 to report a violent domestic
argument at the Baker home. The caller complained of Doug shouting, threatening
to assault Emily.

A unit responded. No injuries. No charges. Emily said it
was just a misunderstanding. A loud discussion.

Then there was the recent edict from the National Park
Service Washington Office after the Yellowstone case. Just over a month ago, a
father hiked out of a remote trail to report that his five-year-old daughter
was lost. A search was launched. Turned out in the confusion no one checked out
the dad. He had a laceration on his neck and a criminal history of abusing his
ex-wife over custody of the child. A week later, when the girl’s body was
found, an autopsy determined she had been stabbed to death. By this time, the
father had vanished and was thought to be in South America. That led Washington to demand immediate assumption of criminal intent in major missing persons
reports in national parks with a multi-agency response. This one fell into that
category, and the FBI and SFPD were already on it.

Being an old mountain cop, Thornton had a few concerns.
Like how Doug hurt that hand. Said he did it chopping wood. Funny, Thornton had already poked around some. No sign of an ax. Something was going on here.
Something Doug and Emily had not told them.

Well, not yet anyway, he thought, tucking his notebook
in his pocket.