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 this 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 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."