Cold Fear Page 6

  Oh Christ. Paige, I am so sorry.

  Doug ran his hand over his face. His heart feeling as if was about to shatter into a million pieces. He could hear the distant thumping of an approaching helicopter. Then he smelled fresh coffee and noticed a cup was being offered to him. By Pike Thornton.

  “Thanks.” Doug took a needed sip.

  Thornton studied him from the brim of his cup.

  “This chopper could be the FBI.”

  Doug’s eyes met Thornton’s and he did not like the way the old ranger was assessing him. So poker-faced.

  “Doug, if there’s anything you want to talk about, anything that’s been troubling your mind--” the chopper grew louder--“now would be a good time to do it.”

  NINE

  U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn squinted through his good eye and shouted across the plain at the outlaw Ned Pepper and his gang.

  “I aim to kill you in one minute, Ned. Or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker’s convenience. Which’ll it be?”

  Pepper surveyed the odds of three against one, smiling. “I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man!” Pepper shouted back.

  Special Agent Tracy Bowman pointed her remote at the TV, freezing the videotape. She turned to Mark, her nine-year-old son, slouched beside her on the couch, his hand resting in a nearly empty bowl of popcorn.

  John Wayne’s True Grit was their favorite movie; Rooster’s standoff with Ned Pepper’s gang their favorite part, the next line, their favorite line. It was a ritual with Mark’s dad to stop the movie at this point to say the words together. Since his death a few years ago, Bowman kept the tradition.

  Mark’s bright eyes widened to respond to Pepper’s taunting of Rooster as she chimed with her son:

  “Fill your hands you sonofabitch!”

  Then Rooster said the line, commencing the shoot-out with Pepper’s gang. Bowman smiled. It was another quiet night at home--just the two them, with the lights dimmed, watching the movie in the living room of their modest home on a few acres outside of Lolo, Montana. Seeing the movie light flicker on Mark’s face warmed her heart. She saw so much of Carl in him. How anguished those first months had been for her after Carl’s death. Dreaming of him, reaching for him. Waking alone in their bed. She went through the motions of living without him. As months passed, her clothes gradually got pushed to the empty side of the closet. God, she missed him. Some days at home, she wore his old shirts that she had saved, loving how they still held his cologne, feeling him wrapped around her.

  True Grit was Carl’s movie.

  He had operated a towing business based in Missoula. They were two solitary, shy people who met a lifetime ago it seemed, finding each other at a car wreck north of Milltown when she was a rookie Montana Highway Patrol officer. Got married in a little chapel in the valley south of town, built their own home near the Bitterroot River. Then she had Mark.

  A few years later, when she learned the FBI was looking to hire more agents in Montana, Carl urged her to apply. “You’re as sharp as the rest of them, Trace.” She was accepted. Scored high during training and luckily landed a job at the Bureau’s Missoula office downtown on West Front Street. Sometimes, Carl would meet her for lunch and they’d walk by the river.

  Initially, she worked on government fraud cases, investigating corruption involving federal contracts, then on environmental crimes as part of multi-agency task forces.

  She was among the dozens of agents who played a minor part in some of Montana’s big cases--the arrest of the Unabomber near Lincoln, the Freemen standoff near Jordan. Those high-profile files involved agents from across the United States, and it was in Jordan during the militia operation she overheard two out-of-state female agents chuckling behind her back about her size.

  After Mark’s birth, Bowman had become some thirty pounds heavier than she should be for five feet seven inches. Her weight had been a life-long struggle for her. She pretended she did not hear their remarks, but they hurt. She tried to shake it off; she knew she was fit, strong, a good, dedicated agent.

  But somebody must have said something up the chain of command. For not long after the Freemen case ended peacefully with arrests, she was reminded constantly of fitness requirements and confined to computer work at her desk, assisting with NHQ on Internet crime.

  The Bureau envisioned her post as holding potential to gather criminal intelligence, but that never really happened. Bowman became a vehicle for clerical requests made by other agents in the region needing data from the Internet. She soon tired of it. Many days, when she had little to do, she sat at her desk, chewing carrot and celery sticks, gazing out her office window, longing to be freed from office job to do criminal investigative field work.

  Then came the winter night Carl answered a radio call in a snowstorm. A bus carrying a girls’ basketball team from Wyoming broke down on Interstate 90, west of Garrison. They had trouble getting someone to come out. Carl was on the road returning from business in Drummond. But he never made it home that night. He turned around to help the girls. Not long after he arrived, a freightliner hauling Christmas toys for malls in Spokane jackknifed, crashing into the bus. Carl and one of the girls were killed.

  Bowman’s life changed forever that night. She thought she would never survive but she hung on. For Mark. They helped each other.

  It’s okay if you feel like crying a little today, Mom, he would tell her in the months after it happened.

  They endured.

  After Carl’s death, Bowman’s attempts to escape her desk job seemed futile, but she did not give up. A few years later, she had shed some pounds but was still a little overweight. The hell with it, she thought, she was fit strong and could perform her duties.

  Her hope for a change came recently after she took more training at the Academy. Bowman had an analytical mind that took her to the top percentile when she completed specialized courses at Quantico in the Violent Crimes and Major Offenders Program. It covered everything from fugitives to sexual exploitation of children, kidnappings to assaults against the president. Bowman was hopeful her course work would make her a candidate for assignment to Violent Crimes, which had current openings in the Los Angeles, Chicago and Dallas divisions.

  Just before Carl’s death, Mark was diagnosed with a rare lung ailment. Those three cities had medical centers specializing in ground-breaking research on Mark’s condition. It would give Bowman peace of mind to be close to one of them.

  Medication helped Mark’s lungs function properly, allowing him to live the normal life of a nine-year-old. He loved school, computers and dinosaurs. They had visited key sites in Montana, Colorado and Alberta. Mark designed his own dinosaur Web site and posted it on the Internet, which Bowman monitored. You never know what’s lurking out there.

  She was expecting to hear word on her applications for the out-of-town jobs any day now. She was originally from Miles City and feeling bittersweet about the possibility of leaving Montana. The insurance claims had long been settled. She had sold Carl’s business. They had a little money to start a new life. She and Mark both needed a fresh page, she thought, reaching into the popcorn bowl, watching Duke in all his glory, reins in his teeth, guns blazing. Bowman’s telephone rang. She grabbed it.

  “Tracy, Roger Cole in Billings.”

  She sat up. Cole was the resident agent for Montana. “We’ve got a situation and you’re going to be involved. In fact, your name came up from Washington for this.”

  Her mind raced. What could it be?

  “It’s a major investigative case out of Glacier National Park. A California girl missing in the wilderness. Ten years old. But there may be much more to it. A lot of political buttons have been pushed. There will be a multi-agency task force. We’ll be working with the National Park Rangers, County; San Francisco PD is sending a body. We have the lead. Everything is being marshaled out of Salt Lake. Bowman, your file shows that before you were an agent and with Montana Highway Patrol, you were a seasonal ranger at Glacier, c
orrect?”

  “Yes, but sir, I don’t quite understand. I am the Internet GFP person out here.”

  “No, as of now, you’ve tentatively got the job at the Los Angeles Division. But I am sorry Bowman, I have to hold my congratulations.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “Look, I’m not very good at complicated political bull so I am going to tell you something so far off the record that they will take my testicles if they knew. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Quantico was very impressed with your recent course results and so was Los Angeles. The supervisor at Quantico said you were, I’m reading notes here, ‘blessed with incredible instinct and a natural talent for dissection.’ You wowed them in the classroom. What I am saying is you have got the post in California; but unbeknownst to you, NHQ wants to see how you perform on this one. They picked you for this assignment because you are at the top the curve. Our offices in Kalispell and Browning are down right now. Vacation, illness and assignments. At the moment you are the closest available FBI agent to the scene. Now, do you understand?”

  “I do not believe this. I mean, I want Los Angeles for Mark, but I just can’t--and I am not supposed to know this?”

  “Know what?”

  “Right.”

  “Welcome to politics and policing. Bowman, this case is likely to attract attention. It is going to be investigated thoroughly from the outset. The brass does not want to risk having a legendary embarrassment, not only for us, but for several other agencies. The clock is ticking on this one.”

  John Wayne was pinned under his horse. She watched him reaching for his gun as Ned Pepper neared to finish him off.

  “But, sir, a little girl lost in the woods? With all due respect, aren’t we overreacting? I’m sure the rangers can handle this.”

  “I am sure you remember the Yellowstone case not too long ago.”

  “Right.”

  “No one wants a replay of that fiasco. The rangers at Glacier alerted us. There is suspicion that this could be a parental homicide. There are extenuating circumstances.”

  “What sort of circumstances?”

  “More details and bodies are coming in. You will be updated.”

  Kim Darby had fallen into a pit and was eye to eye with an angry rattlesnake.

  “Bowman, you will be partnered with Agent Frank Zander from Violent Crimes at NHQ.”

  “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “I have to warn you. Zander has a reputation for building a case against anybody on anything fast. His work has been critical to some of the big wins in organized crime, terrorism, kidnappings and serials.”

  “Is that the warning about him?”

  “He’s a lone wolf, not a team player. A first-class prick void of personality. His wife recently left him.”

  Bowman tensed, muttering to herself, “Because of the prick part, or the personality part?”

  “Anything else I should know about him?”

  “He is already in the air. He’ll run the show with Salt Lake and the rangers. You will work with him. Pack for the mountains. Have you been to Glacier recently?”

  Bowman swallowed. “A couple of years ago.” She and Carl used to go there with Mark.

  “Zander’s flying in to Kalispell. You pick him up there, drive to West Glacier, grab some shut-eye. A chopper will be standing by to deliver you to the command site at daybreak. We expect the small joint task force to be assembled, formalize the game plan and then begin immediately. Understand? We’re pulling people from Great Falls, Helena, Billings, Coeur d’Alene, an army will come up from Seattle and Salt Lake. Lloyd Turner will supervise. We have to move fast; so much is at stake for everyone involved.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good luck, Tracy.”

  Bowman hung up and put her face in her hands.

  What had just happened?

  Her mind was swirling. She had been given the new job she needed for Mark’s health, for her peace of mind. But it was conditional she not drop the ball here on an NHQ file that was a potential career ender. And she was to work with a man who comes with his own warning label. She had wanted to be sprung from her office prison, had wanted Violent Crimes, hadn’t she?

  Bowman peeked through her fingers to see Kim Darby bidding farewell to Roster, whose horse reared as he removed his hat and waved good-bye.

  “Well, come see a fat old man some time,” Rooster said before his horse jumped a fence and galloped in the snow toward the mountains.

  Mark had fallen asleep.

  Bowman called her friend Roberta Cara, who had taken Mark in for several weeks when she went to Quantico. Roberta lived with her lawyer husband, J.T., and their seven children in a large ranch house south of Missoula. J.T. had handled Carl’s will and business affairs.

  “No problem, Tracy. I’ll send a couple of the girls over to spend the night with him, then bring him here in the morning.”

  Gently, she woke Mark and told him that Roberta’s daughters were coming to take care of him because she had an emergency assignment and she would be gone for a few days.

  “Don’t forget to call me, Mom, like when you went to Washington?” Mark threw his arms around her.

  “Every day. I promise, Marshal.” That was her nickname for him.

  Smiling, Mark drifted back to sleep. She carried him to his bedroom, wrote him an I love you and I will miss you note, then began packing. First for him, then for herself, finishing just as the girls arrived. She briefed them on Mark’s medication and schedule, then wrote it down for Roberta, leaving her cell phone and Salt Lake Division numbers. She lugged her bag to her Chevy Blazer SUV and headed for Interstate 93.

  The drive to Kalispell would take well over an hour. For some strange reason, as she started out, she suddenly thought about Isaiah Hood, the killer who was going to be executed in a few days in Deer Lodge. Why did he come to mind? His case had been in the Missoulian recently. Hood was awaiting his appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court, which was based on the new claim that he was innocent. Why was she suddenly thinking of him? She shrugged it off, concentrating on the case at hand. Was her cell phone plugged in? When she looked to check, it began trilling, startling her for a second before she answered.

  “Bowman.”

  “Who is this? Who have I got?” A gruff male voice.

  “Agent Tracy Bowman, FBI. Who is this please?”

  “Frank Zander. You are the local assigned to this case with me?”

  Sounded to her like he said “yokel,” but the line hissed with static.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Where are you?”

  “En route to Kalispell to meet you at the airport. Where are you?”

  “I’m calling from the plane on an air phone. I stop in Salt Lake for a quick connect to Montana. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Can you get to a secure fax? I have a priority report I want you to have right away.”

  Bowman’s brain raced as she drove. “Yes.”

  “Well, give me the number.” His tone was condescending.

  She recited the fax number.

  “I do not know that number as secure for your region.”

  “It is secure.”

  “Alright, it will be on its way once our conversation ends.”

  “Fine.”

  “Bowman do you know Pike Thornton, a ranger at Glacier?”

  “Not really. I know of him.”

  “Do you know Inspector Sydowski with the SFPD?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about this file, about suspected criminal intent?”

  “I have been briefed.”

  “You’re with--what is it?--Internet liason? GFP?” sounded like he was reading something alien, “I never heard--and this is your first investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you are on this case? Did they call the right person out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that fax number you gave me better
be secure. There will be no breaches of security. Understood?”

  Two minutes and Bowman could not stand Zander. She was nervous and green, but she was not an idiot.

  “Agent Zander, is the plane you are on Bureau or commercial?”

  “Commercial.”

  “You alone on it?”

  “No.”

  “I am alone in a Chevy Blazer on a Montana highway. The only threat to security is road kill. You’re discussing an active case in a public place. Look around at the other passengers pretending not to hear any of the words you just shouted at me. Is that procedure with you big guns in Washington?”

  His line hissed with silence.

  Just shot myself in the foot, Bowman thought, her mind reeling with the names of all the major cases Zander had likely worked and how for the last few months her major investigation was how to get a new mouse for her computer. Suddenly, she was painfully self-conscious of her inexperience, her weight, her self-esteem. That does it. I am toast.

  “The fax is on its way. I will call you within the hour,” Zander said, ending their conversation.

  Bowman immediately punched a number on her phone, glancing at the Chevy’s dash clock. She had twenty minutes before they closed.

  “Turly’s Gas, Don speaking.”

  “Don, it’s Tracy. Sweetie, do me a favor please. Put paper in your fax machine and turn it on. I got something coming in right now. Boring stuff about Mark’s medical condition from an FBI friend whose family is going through the same thing. I’ll be there in five minutes to get it and fill up, too.”

  “Sure Trace, no problem.”

  Bowman scanned the nine-page fax while Don filled her Blazer’s tank and checked her oil. Her stomach knotted. The rangers were right; this one had a very bad aura given what she saw in the notes and the summary of the old SFPD complaint. The father’s wound, the family’s demeanor and evasiveness would warrant serious concern after their daughter vanished. How long has she been missing now? Bowman checked her watch.