by Rick Mofina
The third afternoon the group has a scavenger hunt. When her turn comes, Rachel reaches into a leader’s hat and pulls out a folded slip of paper with instructions to catch two butterflies and place them in the empty glass jelly jar.
“Will you help me, Lee?”
Rachel holds the jar while her big sister takes her hand and they go the meadow nearby.
“Not too far girls,” one of the leaders called after them.
The meadow is abundant with flowers, glacier lilies. Butterflies flit about them, white, pink and yellow. Emily is taking pictures of Rachel, laughing in the sun, chasing butterflies.
“Look, a blue one.”
Rachel trots up the meadow hill to a forest edge.
“Rachel, wait!”
Rachel vanishes into a stand of spruce.
She follows, catching up to her as they come to the cliff, gasping as they halt in their tracks.
He is standing there. Smiling.
The monster.
Emily fought with every fiber of her being to tell Agent Tracy Bowman the things she could never tell anyone, not even Doug.
Paige had disappeared into the same abyss as Rachel. How could this be happening? Emily could not bear it. Could not. Please. She wept.
Arms wrapped around her, holding her together. Someone was saying her name. “Emily, it’s OK to cry.”
Doug? It was not Doug. He was off talking to searchers.
“Emily, it’s OK.” Bowman comforted her. “Tell me what is tormenting you.”
Emily could not stop sobbing. Doug. Could not get the words out.
How do you begin to say my daughter is lost where my sister died, and I am the one responsible? How do you say that and keep yourself alive?
She should tell Doug.
But before she realized it, Emily could no longer contain her pain.
“It’s happening again,” she cried.
“What is happening again, Emily?”
“I was there when she died.”
“When who died?”
“My sister. Now it is happening again.”
THIRTY-TWO
Stay focused, Dolores. Focused. Fidelity Bravery Integrity. I cannot let the team down. Got to find the lost little girl. But right now, FBI Special Agent Dolores Harding had to sit down to catch her breath.
She and Orin Mills had been scouring their assigned patch of Grizzly Tooth ever since daybreak. Coming up on fourteen hours.
“Over here, Mills!”
Twenty yards off, he raised his walking stick, signaling he would join her on the rock ledge in the shade of a stand of pine.
The sun was high. Harding’s calves and thighs ached as she reached for her water bottle, scanning the mountain’s majesty from behind her sunglasses. She was a marathoner, a twenty-nine-year-old hard-driving agent assigned to the OCPD at the Salt Lake City Division. It seemed only yesterday she was surveilling two case targets who were to arrive at Salt Lake City International Airport from Mexico City via LAX. They were no-shows. Could have been bad information. Or they were tipped.
It was two days ago, wasn’t it? She was exhausted out here. For after that job, Harding suddenly found herself partnered in Glacier National Park with Special Agent Orin Mills with White Collar at the Division. Cerebral guys. Harding and Mills were part of the horde of agents dispatched from Utah. Even for some case-hardened agents, it was a gut-wrenching assignment. Harding saw how some of the agents who were fathers were quite pensive about this one, while the young jerks were quietly tabulating availability pay.
Mills was a big, friendly, soft-spoken, fifty-two-year-old Mormon with three grandchildren. Took this emergency assignment personally. Harding, a blue-collar girl who left Pennsylvania’s Rust Belt to study criminology at John Jay in New York, and Mills, a church-goer who was raised in Provo, had scoured Sector 21 three times. Heartache written in Orin’s face as he joined her on the ledge, inhaling the air as it cooled in the sunset.
“Not much time left for looking today, Dolores. Can you imagine the horror this child is enduring?”
Harding regarded the mountains, the glacier valleys, and felt bad for quietly complaining about her body aches and discomfort. She was an adult FBI agent in jeans and a T-shirt, equipped with heavy socks, boots, water, food, a semi-automatic .40-caliber Glock, bear repellant, bug spray, first-aid kit, radio, training, physical conditioning. If a few hours searching a mountain slope had exacted this much from her, what would it do to a lost, frightened child from the city? Harding became angry at the mountains, as if they were an informant refusing to disclose life-and-death information. Come on, give her up. You do not need her. Give her up. This has gone on long enough.
Harding reached for her well-thumbed sector map. Precision-folded and marked.
“We’ve got some time, Orin. Any areas you want to re-visit--darn!”
Harding dropped her water bottle; it tumbled and swished for a few yards. She climbed from the ledge carefully to retrieve it. It had rolled into a small surface fissure. As she reached for it, a metallic glint seized her attention. Harding shone her penlight into the crack, which was about two feet. She removed her sunglasses, eyes adjusting to the light on a small ax.
“Mills! We got something here!” Concentrating, Harding was certain she saw a lace pattern of browned blood on the head reaching to the handle. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. “Mills! It’s not good! Stay where you are and get ERT on the radio. We need them here now!”
The FBI’s Evidence Response Team descended upon the scene. Yellow crime scene tape sealed the area. Radios crackled; helicopters landed nearby or hovered; photographs were taken. Harding was instructed to remain at the scene, to maintain the evidence chain.
Suddenly, she found Frank Zander next to her.
“You’re Harding? You made the find?”
Even dreamier up close.
“Yes, I found it. Just dumb-ass luck.”
“Good work.”
It was a camping ax. A one-and-a-half pound Titan Striker with a drop-forged steel head and a sixteen-inch curved handle with a rubberized cushion grip. It was placed in a plastic evidence bag and flown from the area on Harding’s lap under the last vestiges of daylight.
It fit the description of Doug Baker’s ax given earlier by the New York detective, thought Zander. They could check the serial number for distribution points, run credit cards. He was standing off by himself at the scene, staring at the Rockies. A blood-stained T-shirt, a bloodied hatchet, a public argument, a domestic dispute at home, a mother undergoing counseling. The pieces were falling into place. A noose was being fashioned. Zander’s jaw clenched.
It was time to talk to Doug Baker again.
Time to learn the truth.
THIRTY-THREE
Concern flowed through the phone line from John Jackson, the chief lawyer for Montana’s attorney general in Helena.
“David, are you all right?”
Since David Cohen had taken on Isaiah Hood’s case three years ago, the two lawyers had developed a strong professional kinship.
“John, there’s been a development.”
“A development? What sort of development?”
Standing alone in his disheveled motel room in Deer Lodge, Cohen sniffed and ran a shaking hand through his hair.
“A grave, urgent development.”
“David the Governor will not intervene. The sentence will be--”
“John, I believe he is innocent.”
Jackson knew losing a death sentence appeal was a punishing blow for death penalty lawyers to absorb. Jackson had lawyer friends in Florida and Texas. Few people know of the horror they often endure. One committed suicide. Jackson gave the eulogy.
“I absolutely believe that the state will be executing an innocent man.”
Cohen’s eyes burned into the TV news.
“David, the Supreme Court has rejected you. There is no basis of law--”
“To hell with the law.”
“David, have you
been drinking?”
“No. John. Just hold off on your press release and give me some time--”
“I can’t I--”
“John, I swear, if you go ahead with this, Montana will never recover. You will have your place in history for having sealed its fate as the judicial pariah of the nation. I swear--”
“David, I know this is a difficult time--”
Cohen sniffed and checked his watch.
“Listen. Hear me out. All I am asking, John, is for two hours to talk to my client. Then let me talk to the governor. I guarantee he will want to hear this before you kill Hood.”
“I don’t know….”
“Just hold off on anything for that long. Christ, John we’re still two days away. Please just hold off. No press releases yet. Not a word.”
Jackson sighed. Cohen heard his chair squeak.
“John, please. You have a man’s life in your hands.”
Jackson’s concern was for Cohen, not for Hood, the child killer. No one in the entire state was concerned for him, except the candle-holding protesters, but they were not abundant in Montana. Still, Jackson could not see what harm two hours would do. The state had all the power. He could stall the release for that long without much difficulty. Most people were distracted by the search for the little girl in Glacier. Seemed to have eclipsed Hood’s case.
“I will see what I can do. You’ve got two hours.”
Now with the sun setting, everything became clearer to Cohen as he sped his Neon along Lake Conley Road to the prison, going through the security ritual, the razor wire, the clanging doors, icy stares from the guards, to see Hood on death row.
Hood’s reaction to the TV news reports on the search now made sense.
He had a seizure. He recovered shortly after, but his nervous system short-circuited, sending him into a trance when he saw her.
He knew right then it was her.
Cohen was admitted to death row and was taken into the visitor’s room. The TV there was switched off.
“Could you please turn that on, to one of the twenty-four news channels and leave the sound on low so we can hear it?”
“You want to watch TV?” the guard said.
“Yes.”
“Suit yourself.”
Above the TV’s sound, he heard Hood’s chains approaching. Suddenly Cohen was drowning in anguish and doubt. What the hell was he doing? He could not pull this off. This is unethical. He had to face the truth. He lost.
“…the ashes will be distributed…”
The door handle turned. Oh God. Cohen swallowed.
Hood stood before him, shackled in his orange prison coveralls. He sat down, his eyes shooting up to the TV, then to Cohen.
“Supreme Court turned me down, right, David?”
Cohen peered into Hood’s eyes, believing for the first time he was seeing into the soul of an innocent man. He could not find the words to tell him he was going to be lawfully executed.
“I--I am so sorry, Isaiah.”
Hood flattened his hands on the table.
“Well, I guess that’s all she wrote, huh?” Hood attempted a smile. Then Hood stood, shuffled over, extended his handcuffed hands to shake Cohen’s, his chains chinking.
“David, you did your best. You’re a fine man. Thank you.”
Hood returned to his seat.
Cohen sniffed. “Um, we still have an option.”
“You don’t mean the Board? There’s no chance there.”
“No.” Cohen sniffed again, unsnapping the locks of his briefcase to produce some files. “Your claim of innocence.”
Hood unleashed a chilling con stare, his voice was damn near cold-blooded. “This some sort of fucking joke?”
“No joke.” Cohen opened the file to the photograph of the girl whose testimony secured his death sentence. “Who is that in the old picture?”
Hood stared at it. All those years ago. He did not think he ever saw that particular picture of the older one.
“That’s the sister of the dead girl. The one who testified.”
“Uh-huh.” Cohen turned, indicating the TV. “And who did you see up there earlier in the report of the missing child? It will come up again.”
Hood looked at Cohen unsure if he was nuts…or his salvation.
“It was her. Same one, only older and now her kid is lost in the mountains.”
“That’s right but nobody knows it’s her, Isaiah. Her name is different. She changed it. Which is curious.”
“So what. David, I know almost as much about the law as you. So her daughter is missing. So what?”
“Look at it this way. Admittedly we presented nothing new in your Supreme Court petition, which was an attempt to create reasonable doubt, which I believe should have been a factor.”
“Your point?
“You told me you did not kill Rachel Ross. Her death was not murder and her sister is the only living person who knows the truth.”
“That is right.”
Cohen cleared his throat, swallowed anxiously, then dropped his voice.
“Suppose it got out through the news in a story as big as the search story itself that your claim of innocence is directly linked to the disappearance of Paige Baker, daughter of the only witness in your case?”
Hood stared long and hard at his young Chicago lawyer.
THIRTY-FOUR
The sun was dropping as Tom Reed pushed the accelerator to the mat. The rental was gliding south on Interstate 93. He was gambling with time.
It was a calculated risk.
Chester Murdon in Wisdom was convinced of something familiar about Emily Baker. He was quite certain he could find something in his collection of personal archives that would help Reed. He promised to wait up for him, no matter the hour, if he decided to come. A professional courtesy from one newsman to another.
Before leaving the command center, Reed filed a news story encompassing the press conference given by Doug and Emily. He incorporated theories and probabilities and the fact “FBI sources had not ruled out the possibility of criminal intent.” It was a standard line. Police seldom rule out anything until they have an investigation under control.
“The desk will advance your lead, Tom,” Wilson said from the San Francisco Star newsroom over Reed’s cell phone as his rental approached eighty miles an hour. “I’ll work in my stuff. So you think we should hold back on the psychological counseling? It is very strong.”
“I know it is risky, Molly, but Chester is confident he can help us with more information. We can fill in the blanks about the family. Then put it all together. Let’s just hold it.”
“Tom, I don’t know. The Chronicle could get it. I mean, I am sure I am the only one who reached the aunt, but somebody could nail it from other sources. It is very risky.”
Reed entered a river valley. Traffic was light. All the RVs and campers were in for the night.
“I trust what you have, Molly, but I just want to get more--”
“Tom, you’re breaking up. Repeat that.”
“I said I trust what you have. I just want to get the whole story. Look, we’ll have virtually another twenty-four hours to work on this. And what if they find the kid safe and sound and we put the shrink story out and then learn it had nothing to do with the kid?”
Wilson knew Reed had point, and that he had become more cautious in the wake of his son’s abduction ordeal. It taught him some hard lessons about pushing so hard on a story that you fall into it.
“OK, Tom. It will be our little secret to develop tomorrow, unless someone kicks our asses on it.”
Reed passed key ranger, FBI and other vital cell phone numbers to Wilson. If the story broke wide open in his absence from Glacier National Park, Wilson would have to cover it from San Francisco. They were so close to final deadline now, the window of risk was minimal.
Reed estimated he could be in Wisdom in just over three hours. For the latter portion of the 220-mile trip, Interstate 93 paralleled the Bitterroot Riv
er. It was spectacular scenery that rolled by the Columbia Cascade region and he regretted much of it was enveloped in darkness. Recently, hundreds of thousands of acres in the area were burned by forest fires, some near Wisdom, close to Murdon’s ranch.
Reed sailed through the Bitterroot Valley and Lost Trail Pass, passing Big Hole National Battlefield. Depending on your view of history, it was either the place where the U.S. Army upheld the law in 1877 over the Nez Perce Indians who did not want to be forcibly squeezed onto a reservation, or it was the scene of a genocidal massacre of men, women and children by American forces. Reed shook his head. Any way you cut it, there were a lot of ghosts out there.
Some from his own life.
His dream of being a reporter was nurtured here in Big Sky Country. He grew up in Great Falls where his father was a pressman at the Great Falls Tribune. He used to bring home a newspaper for Reed every day. Just before he turned twelve, Reed got his own paper route. From that point on, it seemed his life became a blur: high school, summer reporting at the Billings Gazette, graduation from J-School at the University of Missouri, a job at AP in San Francisco, getting married to Ann, his job at the San Francisco Star, having Zach. But during most of those years, Reed seldom visited or called home, disappointing his father who used to save his articles in a yellowing, dog-eared scrapbook, especially proud of his son’s wire stories that ran in the New York Times.
Reed reached for his cell phone. He had to think, then pressed his parents’ number in Great Falls. It rang. He had no time to visit but at least he should tell them he was in the state. It rang six times. The machine clicked on. His father’s voice.
“You’ve reached…”
Reed hung up without leaving a message. He rubbed his tired eyes. Remembering his mother during their last conversation saying something about their plan to go to Arizona to visit her sister. He called San Francisco and talked with Ann and Zach until his connection was lost.