by Rick Mofina
“Hahllow.”
“Hey, Dad, so you’re awake?” Sydowski said in Polish.
“Yeah, sure. Watching a movie.”
Sydowski smiled. “So how are you doing?”
“No problems. You going to be in the mountains a long time?”
“Hard to say, Dad.”
“The TV says you think the father killed his little girl. The bastard, why would he do something like that? It’s crazy.”
“We don’t know anything for certain, Dad. You know how it is.”
“I know how it was for you with that last case with the baby girl and the kidnapped kids. I think you want to retire, maybe have something new in your life. But you’re afraid.”
“Who knows? Listen, Dad, I was thinking when I’m done here, how about we drive down the coastal highway to Los Angeles.”
“What for?”
“We could see the Dodgers, there’s a doubleheader coming up. We could have some fun, do something you always wanted to do.”
“Like what?”
“Go to Hollywood. Get a map of the stars’ homes and check them out. See Brando’s house?”
“He’s a great actor. The best. Played a good Polack in that Streetcar. Kowalski. ‘Stellllaaaa.’ Heh-heh. He’s put on weight though. Hey, and maybe I can give you a haircut and shave like the last time?”
Sydwoski winced at the memory.
“Listen, Pop, we’ll think about everything. I got to go.”
“You better call your girlfriend, Louise.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“She’s worried about you.”
“How do you know?”
“She called me asking how you were doing. So call her.”
A warm feeling flowed through Sydowski. In the six years since his wife’s death, when was the last time a woman cared about him? Maybe she was his girlfriend, he thought brushing his teeth, inspecting his old face in the mirror. What did she see in him? She was so smart, so comfortable to be with. She made him feel so good. You’re like a lovesick pup, you dumb flatfoot. He picked up the phone and put it down. Christ, he was acting like a teenager. Go ahead. Call. Before he knew it her number in San Jose was ringing. He was suddenly guilty. Betraying Basha’s memory. Hang up. It’s better to be alone--
“Hello?”
“Louise? Uhm. I know it’s late. I’m sorry if I woke you, it’s Walt Sydowski.”
“You didn’t wake me, Walter.” Her voice was like medicine. He could hear her smile. He nestled the phone closer. “I just had an evening swim in the pool.”
“Oh.” He tried envisioning her figure in a swimsuit. “Look, I won’t keep you. Uhmm, it’s just, well, my father said you called.”
“I did. I was concerned about how you were doing. It is such a huge story. Tragic. On the radio, TV, the papers. Nonstop, so many twists and turns. It has got to be so stressful.”
“Yes, well, it has its complications.”
“Are you holding up okay, Walter?”
“I’m fine. How are you budgies doing?”
“They are singing up a storm. But now you didn’t call just to ask about my birds?”
“Well, no. How are you doing?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Walter, are you going to ask me for a date or not?”
He was at a loss. Positively impressed and stunned.
“Uh, sure. How about dinner when I get back?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Okay. I’ll call you.”
“Sound’s wonderful. Now, good luck on your case.”
“Thanks, Louise. For everything.”
For several minutes afterward, Sydowski sat on his bed, in his boxers and T-shirt, listening to the wind howling outside, struggling to think of nothing. Then he switched off the room’s lights and was overcome with a thousand thoughts and worries. His father, his new relationship, Tom Reed and his relentless pursuits, the real possibility that an innocent man was going to be executed in a few hours.
Sleep. He ordered himself. Sleep.
Drowsiness was coming for Sydowski but it was coming with visions of ten-year-old Paige Baker’s corpse, stiff and frozen in the mountain night at the bottom of the crevasse, so deep, so eternal that none of the flakes swirling amid the celestial peaks of the Rocky Mountains would ever reach her.
FIFTY-TWO
The Blueberry Hill Lodge was an independently owned first-rate motel located a few miles south of Glacier National Park’s west gate, not far from Columbia Falls. Its spacious lobby had hardwood floors, oversized leather sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows framing mountain views, log walls and a massive stone fireplace, where a dying blaze crackled.
In the dimmed tranquility of the late hour, a solitary guest sat near the soft light of a lamp, her hands working on the needlepoint scene of a hummingbird hovering at a glacier lily. Embroidery was the only way FBI Special Agent Tracy Bowman could keep her hands from trembling since coming away from the task force briefing an hour ago.
Well, you wanted field work, girl.
She could not stop thinking of Paige Baker, Emily, Doug. Isaiah Hood.
If Hood is innocent? Dear God.
Bowman had held Emily in her arms just a few hours ago. Was she comforting a murderer? Had she been manipulated by a calculating, cold-blooded woman who killed her little sister?
And now her own daughter?
Bowman thought of Mark, ached to hold him. She ached for Carl. Ached for him in every way. She should sleep. Stop this. I’ve been an FBI special agent for over seven years now. Respectable on the GS pay scale. She’d done well at Quantico and Hogan’s Alley. She’d had a duty to carry out. So much is riding on this case. For Mark. Just concentrate on the job.
“Tracy,” a large warm hand touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Frank Zander came from behind.
“Oh!” She smiled. “Just a little wound up and saddened, thinking of Paige Baker.”
“I understand.”
Zander had obviously showered, changed into fresh clothes, and had a clipboard and records with him. She detected some cologne. Looked good.
“That a hobby?” He nodded to the needlepoint.
“Helps me relax. This case has been tough.”
“It’s one of the most difficult files I’ve ever had.”
“It’s so intense. So much. So fast. I guess I didn’t expect it to take so much out of me.”
“They all take something from you.”
“You got kids?”
“No. I’m not married, I’m sep--Well, I’m getting a divorce.”
“I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I think of this case and Paige Baker, wondering if she’s dead out there. Then I think of Mark. He’s nine, and I think of Doug and Emily Baker. We look into their eyes. We talk to them. What’s the truth here? I fully appreciate that it’s our job to find out fast, but it just eats at you.”
“I know,” Zander glanced round to ensure they were alone, keeping his voice low. “Perform our duty in silence. That is what you do.”
“I’m sorry. I should get to bed and not lay this on you.”
“Tracy, it’s okay to talk about it. I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“It eats at me, too. Always has. If it’s any comfort, I think you’re a good investigator.”
She nodded appreciatively, staring at her needlepoint.
“You’re incredibly intuitive and come at things from different angles. Tell me your story. You’re in Missoula.”
“Yes. Mostly computer work, government fraud. Pretty low key. I applied for extra course work at Quantico and rotation to a big-city division. I’m up for a job in Los Angeles…if I don’t screw up here.”
“You won’t screw up, Tracy.”
“You sound so sure.”
“Trust me.”
She liked being with him. It had been so long since she had talked, really talked to a man.
“So, Frank. What’s your story?”
When he finished, she said, “It’s getting very late, we should turn in.”
Zander walked Bowman to her room. She thanked him at her door, was about to say good night when his eyes held hers.
“Tracy, I--”
She saw desperation in his face. In the short time they talked, they both realized they were two painfully lonely people at the crossroads of their lives. Each had something the other wanted, needed, yearned for. Yet each was so afraid. A strange feeling came over her.
Would he be good with Mark?
What was happening? It was like meeting someone wonderful at a funeral. There is time, Bowman thought. If it is meant to be, there is time.
“The morning is almost here, Frank,” she said. “We’ve got to see this thing through to the end.”
He nodded and walked off, checking his watch. He was going to his room to review the videotaped interviews of Doug and Emily Baker. In a few hours he expected to be laying charges in the death of their ten-year-old daughter, Paige.
FIFTY-THREE
Emily was alone, listening to the night wind whipping her tent at the command post. Depriving her of sleep, of rational thought, fraying her soul.
She was slipping from sanity into a yawning abyss.
Paige’s face. Rachel’s eyes. Falling.
God. Please.
Darkness into darkness. The accusing wind.
Where’s Rachel? Where’s your sister?
Where’s Doug? He’s been gone so long. The FBI took him. Zander took him. Leaving her alone with strangers. The agents, who never smiled, were watching her, and it was so cold. Lord, help me. I am begging you. End this, please. If Paige is not alive, I cannot bear to face it again.
My Sun Ray. Her eyes. Her hand brushing mine, slipping from mine.
The wind would not stop.
Remembering her obsession after it happened. After Rachel died, her need to comprehend, to understand, to know...what a human being experiences in the seconds they are falling to their death.
She had to know.
Emily actually studied it.
Terminal velocity. Vestibular sensory input. Horror in her eyes. The overload of messages through the neurological system. The automatic impulse to defy reality by “grabbing at air” in order to save one’s self. Fear in her face. Hands reaching. Suspended in space as the earth rushes to hammer your life into heaven. Knowing death was upon her. The “agonal phase,” the instant before death when all that is physical in a being ends. Did she suffer? Emily had spent her life searching to know if her sister could have been comforted by some spiritual phenomenon.
Rachel was only five years old.
Did she suffer? She had to know.
The wind would not tell her.
Where’s your daughter, Emily? Where’s your husband?
Doug had been alone with Paige. Had been the last to see her.
Emily, I sent her to be with you. I thought she was with you. She followed you with Kobee, I swear, not more than five minutes after you left. I thought all this time she was with you.
His hurt hand. Her T-shirt was wrapped around it. Chopping wood. They had argued so intensely. He was incensed with her for not talking to him about her family history.
No.
Stop thinking like that. She was drunk with exhaustion. Struggling.
She was slipping. Falling.
Paige, come back, please.
FIFTY-FOUR
Is Paige still alive?
She has to be.
Doug had to hope beyond hope. Not give in to doubt, the traitor. Paige had to know he had not abandoned her.
Bitter winds shook the command center, clattering the window of his room. He lay on a soft, dry cot, under the warmth of a woolen blanket. A huge bowl of vegetable soup and butter biscuits sitting cold, untouched a few feet from him, tempting him, mocking him. He broke down and wept.
If Paige was alive, she was fighting for her life.
He had no appetite.
Oh, Paige, can you ever forgive me?
If you’re dead…
Doug stared as his wounded hand.
She had only wanted to talk and I chased her away with an ax in my hand. “Get the hell away from me and go find your damned mother!”
Emily.
Emily had a sister. Her sister was dead. Emily was present with Isaiah Hood when her sister was killed. Do I actually believe my own wife could have harmed my daughter?
The night they arrived in Montana.
He recalled again watching Emily slip out of bed at the Holiday Inn watching the TV item about Hood’s execution. He remembered glimpsing her as she rummaged through her purse, retrieving something. She sat by the window, staring at the retrieved item, then into the night, weeping softly.
In the morning when Emily showered, he scoured her bag and found it. Old snapshots. She had sat up studying old pictures. Girls. A group of girls playing in the mountains. Smiling, laughing. Childhood friends, he thought.
One of the girls looked familiar.
It became clear to him now.
The face in the newspaper. The little girl Isaiah Hood had murdered. Emily’s sister.
Rachel.
Oh Christ. It’s true. The FBI is not lying. He had not wanted to think about it. It was starting to fit together. This was the ghost of her past.
What do the police know that he didn’t?
His skin prickled.
They were digging hard into their lives. Revealing nothing.
“Do you know Cammi Walton?”
Yes. Most teachers knew Cammi was having terrible problems with her parents’ divorce.
“Did you strike her?”
Had she made a wild accusation about him? It’s possible. Her life was in turmoil. She’d had outbursts. He had done nothing wrong.
His lawyer telling him, “The fact is they are trying to build a case against you. They want to charge you.”
Doug had to find out the truth about his family.
About his wife.
They know. The FBI knows something.
The wind swirled.
“Will you love me always no matter what, Doug?”
Paige.
Not a trace of her. Not a trace.
Doug searched the darkness for answers.
FIFTY-FIVE
Tom Reed called his wife, in Chicago, on the chance she would be up so he could say good night to her and their son, Zach.
“He’s sleeping like a log. Went to a Cubs game tonight with his uncle. Do you want me to wake him?”
Ann had just returned from her sister’s bridal shower.
It was late. Reed was alone in his darkened room at the Sunshine Motel. Missing his family as the night winds blew down from the Rockies near Kalispell. His TV muted on All the President’s Men.
“No. Let him sleep. Say, he’s been doing pretty good, hasn’t he?”
“Yes he’s doing quite well since…the thing.”
The thing.
That was Ann’s name for Zach’s abduction and near murder in the case of a madman who held three San Francisco children hostage several months ago. Reed had been reporting on it when “the thing” reached into their lives and nearly destroyed his family.
“Tom, you never answered my question. What do you think happened to that little girl in the mountains?”
He had told her about obtaining Emily Baker’s confession-like letters, interviewing Hood, the looming execution, the FBI polygraphing Doug Baker, how everything was mounting with increasing intensity.
“It’s difficult to know what happened. Isaiah Hood could be innocent. The Bakers--Emily Baker, because of her troubled past--could be guilty of something. You and I know firsthand that scenario is r
ealistic. But she could be the victim of circumstance. Who knows?”
“Hmmm.” Ann digested what her husband said. “Well, the entire search story is playing big here. Front of the Tribune and the Sun-Times. Local TV have people on the scene.”
“It’s the story of the moment.”
“I’d love it if you were here right now, Tom.”
“Would you?”
“Mmmm. To help me undress and rub my back.”
“Well, I’d love it if you were here in the Sunshine Motel with me.”
“Hey, are you sure you’re going to make it to Chicago for the wedding?”
“Yes. Molly Wilson’s here. I’ve checked flight times and--”
“Molly’s there? Why?”
“The Star wanted more bodies on the story; it’s building. Besides, I can throw to her when it’s time for me to go.”
“Well, you just better make it for the wedding in Chicago, or you’re fired.”
“Fired. From what?”
“Your job as my personal masseur.”
“Don’t rub me the wrong way, lady.”
He loved the way she giggled.
“Good night, idiot. I love you,” she said.
Reed switched off the TV and fell into a fitful sleep, wondering if Isaiah Hood, a man he had met a few hours ago, was innocent of the crime he was going to be executed for a few hours from now.
In the darkness, Reed saw Hood’s eyes. Pleading.
“I’d like to know why she put me here.”
Emily Baker sobbing before the cameras for her lost daughter.
“She is all we have in this world.”
Her letters to her friend over her little sister’s murder twenty-two years ago.
“I am guilty of her death. I will never forget her eyes staring into mine as she fell. God, please forgive me.”
FIFTY-SIX
Four guards, bearing chains and somber faces, came to Isaiah Hood’s cell, standing before him like his pallbearers.
The most senior guard, the one with the kind eyes, touched his shoulder and said softly, “It’s time, Isaiah. We have to move you now.”