by Rick Mofina
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 hijacked 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. Preli
minary 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.”
The governor’s intercom buzzed again.
“It’s CNN, sir.”
“Not now. Tell them we’ll make a statement later.”
The intercom buzzed once more.
“No press, please,” the governor said.
“It’s the White House, sir.”
The Attorney General was on his cell phone. Jackson turned the TV volume down.
“Put it through.”
“Governor?” A man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s the Oval Office. Please stand by for the president.”
The governor pursed his lips, knowing full well what this was all about.
“Governor,” the famous voice was deeper over the phone. “Our hearts go out to everyone involved in the events in Montana.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The governor rubbed his eyes, knowing the chief’s iron-clad stance on the death penalty was legendary when he was governor of his state. Never blinked. Even under extreme political and international pressure.
“How are Cynthia and Ellen, Grayson?”
The president had the names right. Probably had executive staff pull up his Montana bio, he thought, touching the pictures of his wife and daughter.
“Fine. Thank you. We’re appreciative no lives were lost and for your call, sir. Thank you.”
“Now listen, if you need any more federal help to see this thing through--I mean this is a federal park and federal jurisdiction, except for the prison. But if I can provide you with any resources, do not hesitate to call me.”
The governor swallowed. He knew the subtext of the call.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Our thoughts and prayers are with you for a peaceful resolution.”
“Yes, I really should be--”
The president cut him off, dropping his tone to a gut-tightening degree.
“You really should be reconsidering your national aspirations, Governor. You were supposed to be strapping this guy to a gurney, not giving him goddamned helicopter rides over the Rockies.”
The line went dead in the governor’s ear.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Doug Baker’s tears stained the print-out pages as he read the Internet copy of the San Francisco Star article his lawyer gave him that morning.
“It’s important you see what the rest of the country sees, Doug.” She left him in the small room of the command center where the FBI was holding him.
He read the story over and over:
“Baker was responsible for her sister’s death. It comes as the FBI searches in vain for Baker’s 10-year-old daughter, Paige’”
Then from the count attorney’s report, “She begged me to save her…. I will never forget her eyes staring into mine as she fell. God, please forgive me.”
The horror hammered at Doug’s heart, but he refused to succumb to it, composing himself, seeking strength from the mountains where Paige was. He ached to be out there searching for her.
He tossed the pages aside.
Concentrate. Concentrate on what you know.
Emily was psychologically chained to her tortured childhood. If she was present when her little sister was murdered by Isaiah Hood, naturally she would feel guilty. That is how he saw it.
But could you ever truly know what is in a person’s heart?
Did he know Emily? Really know her? She kept so much hidden from him. What if she was sick? What if she was guilty?
Doug scanned the mountains, rubbing his eyes. What should he believe? Believe this. He did not kill his daughter. He was guilty of some terrible behavior, but he did not kill his daughter. And he did not believe Emily killed her.
“You sure about that?”
“Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?”
Emily would give her life for Paige.
No.
They were guilty of being victims of horrible circumstances. Look at the awful wound on his hand. Tossing his ax as if hiding it. Arguing in front of that family. A New York detective, Crow had told him. Losing it in front of a New York cop the day before his daughter disappears and then he shows up with an ax-murderer’s gash on his hand. Doug did not blame the FBI for their suspicions.
But everyone’s thinking on this was dead wrong.
He heard more helicopters outside, the activity intensifying. He yearned to take part in the search. What was happening now? No one told him anything. No one updated him.
What if Paige is dead?
A gentle knock. The door opened. Agent Tracy Bowman and Maleena Crow with Emily. His eyes brightened.
“You’ll have just a few moments with your wife,” Bowman said.
“Then what? What is happening?”
“Just a few minutes. I’m sorry that’s all I can tell you.”
Crow touched his shoulder. “Doug, I am working on getting you released.” Nodding to the Bakers, leaving with Bowman, closing the door.
Emily stood before him, looking broken; her hands were clenched in fists touching her lips, eyes brimming with tears.
“Doug, they think I--you--we, oh God…”
He took her in into his arms. Doug drew strength from holding her. “I know everything. Maleena gave me the article.”
“I did not hurt anyone, Doug.”
“I believe you. I did not harm her, Em.”
She nodded and swallowed. “I know.”
“You listen to me. We are going to get through this. She is not dead. We have to believe that.”
“Doug, the police, they said so many horrible things. They take the truth and mix it up and then they showed me part of the search when we thought it was her b-b-body--”
“What was it? Did they find her?”
Emily shook her head. “An animal in a crevasse. So awful. It has been horrible. Then they said a student has accused you of some sort of violent act with her. They said your wound, your ax, her T-shirt--Oh God--
“I know. Emily. I know about that stuff. The student business is not true. A kid with problems at home. The ax, the blood and T-shirt. We know all of it. But I never hurt anyone. I can’t blame the FBI. That is why I took the polygraph, to prove I have nothing to hide. We have to believe Paige is alive. Whatever we are going through, it is far worse for her out there. If we give up hope, it’s over. She has to feel we are pulling for her against all the odds.”
Emily nodded.
“Em, she has Kobee. She’s a smart girl. I’ve been going over it. I think she had food and water in her pack--”
“She doesn’t have her pack anymore, Doug.”
“What?”
“They found it. In the crevasse, where there are bears. But they did not find her--Oh--I--God--”
A knock sounded.
It was Maleena Crow, breathless. “There’s been a break.”
“Oh Lord, what?”
“Just inside the Canadian border, the Mounties found a footprint matching her sneaker. It is very fresh. They also found an empty water bottle from San Francisco Airport.”
“I bought her bottled water there before we boarded!” Emily said.
Doug looked hard at Maleena. “You’re sure of this?”
“Elsie Temple, the park’s superintendent, just told me.”
Doug felt as if a mountain of pain had shifted.
“It’s a sign that she’s alive,” he said.
“It’s something for sure.” Crow nodded. “I’m working on them to return you to the mountain command post. That’s where the focus will be now.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Cool breezes glided up the sloping forests, carrying the fragrance of western red cedar, larch and hemlock to Isaiah Hood, who surveyed the Rockies from his God’s-eye view.
Like a reawakening mountain spirit, Hood inhaled deeply, drawing power from an ancient force, activating his acute senses of hearing, vision, smell and animal-like intuition.