by Rick Mofina
A beautiful child whose face could melt your heart. Reed’s stomach tensed. This was moving fast in the direction of a potentially huge story. “What about Molly?” he said.
“You will be a team. She’ll work every angle from here, but we want you there. Tom, you are from Montana. It’s tailor made for you,” Canter said.
“We guarantee you will not miss the Chicago wedding,” Violet said.
“Let me make one call. Excuse me.”
Back at his desk, Reed punched his wife’s cell phone number. He never knew which store Ann was at. This was going to be sweet. Wilson blinked up at him with a grand smile. “Who’s going to Montana, cowboy?”
Reed scratched his nose with his middle finger for Wilson as Ann answered her phone. Reed explained. She was not pleased.
“Tom, you’re on vacation! We’re visiting family and we have a wedding. We’re both in the wedding party. Usher. Bridesmaid. Remember! And there’s something else. Or did you forget?”
He had forgotten until that very moment, suddenly recalling how Ann had talked about privately requesting the minister to renew their vows because of all they had been through.
“You want to risk missing this?”
“No. Absolutely not,” Reed said. “You go on ahead with Zach and I’ll fly out from Montana, take all my stuff. The Star will have to swallow any costs. They have guaranteed that I’ll be in Chicago for the wedding.”
“Tom, you better not be falling into your old habits.”
Reed sat down, explaining more to Ann about the story of Paige Baker, the girl lost in the wilderness, while simultaneously glancing at the newsroom clock, estimating flight time, driving to Glacier, time zone difference. Filing a story. Finally, Ann said, “I did not sign on to be a single parent, mister.”
“Mister,” that was the word. Anne’s code for I’m pissed off but here’s my loving approval, you jerk.
“Ann, I love you.”
Reed was bent over, struggling to retrieve his emergency travel bag from under his desk. “I am nothing without you, Ann. Hug Zach for me.”
Wilson rolled her eyes.
Reed returned to Canter’s office where the editors discussed what the Star wanted from Reed in Montana and Wilson in San Francisco.
“If the little Baker girl story fizzles,” Violet said “would you consider, stress consider, a full-page feature on the case of Isaiah Hood, the guy scheduled for execution in a few days? He is expected to lose his final appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. You will be there, after all.”
“Violet, please. Just staple the name of a divorce lawyer to that request.”
“Tom, you’re going to be right there, and again, we are going to have you in Chicago in time for the wedding. Promise. And we’re going to make it up to you.”
“But why the Hood case? It’s nothing. No San Francisco connection. Nobody knows or cares about that thing. It barely makes the Montana papers. I don’t even follow it. I think he killed somebody like fifteen, twenty years ago. Bump on the head or something, I don’t know. He’s a small-town loser. Nothing remarkable. He’s sentenced to die. End of story. Why waste the ink? We all know not every execution is covered in this country.”
“Tom”--Violet was legendary for her coverage of executions-- “there is something in every tragedy that we can learn from. It’s the human condition. And given this case is so old and forgotten means the story’s value has just been fermenting. A man is going to be put to death. Tell me why; tell me what happened; tell me a story.”
During his cab ride to San Francisco International, Reed checked his two phones. One was a new compact sat phone; because of the expense, it should only be used if the cell did not work. He reviewed hard copy of the updated wire stories on the lost girl. Not much new. Ten minutes after leaving the Star building, he called Molly on his cell.
“You in Montana, cowboy?” she joked.
“You got anything for me?”
“No. Call me from Salt Lake.”
“Don’t tell anybody what we know about police suspicions just yet. I’m going to try to hook up with Sydowski if I can find him.”
“OK. Watch out for bears.”
When the jet leveled off, Reed opened up his laptop computer and went to all the background stories about Isaiah Hood he’d requested from the news librarian. Reed’s jaw dropped. Expecting at least two dozen, he found three with apologies from the library. “We have little on this case, Tom.”
Hood had killed a kid some twenty years ago. Convicted after a two-day trial. Sentenced to death. Usual years of appeals. Unremarkable for a murder, except for the last sentence in the most recent story. Hood’s last appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court was made on a claim that Hood was not guilty.
SEVEN
Emily could not stop shivering.
Night had come. The second without Paige.
Since Paige’s disappearance, Emily had not slept or eaten.
“You must be freezing, ma’am.” A young ranger tried to drape a sleeping bag on Emily. She shrugged it off.
“My daughter has no blanket. I will go through this with her.”
Doug was working with the searchers at the map table lit by lanterns. Their radios muted. Emily stood alone in the darkness at the edge of the camp, the distant lights of the searchers’ campsites dotting the black valleys and mountainsides, blinking eerily as if a starlit sky had fallen to earth.
Paige.
Her child was out there; the clock was ticking away on her life. Every second, every minute, every hour, buying another piece of it. Oh, Paige, forgive me. It was all her fault. Her fault. Like before.
“Guess what I’m going to do.”
Emily’s monster was brushing against her, reaching for her, trying to pull her into the darkness. No. Please. No. It had taken hold. She struggled, hearing her counselor’s voice. When you feel it coming up on you, reach for the good things, Emily. The good things are your lifelines. They are real. They are unconditional. The good things will save you. Reach for them and hold on. She reached into a good memory….
Push, Emily! The hospital. The nurses. Doug squeezing her hand. The doctor urging her. A couple of deep breaths, Emily. Push for me. This is so hard. Here we go. Almost there. The sounds of the baby’s first cry. Emily’s heart swelling with joy. Congratulations, Mom and Dad, you have a daughter. Her scrimped little face, her bright eyes. The love washing over her. Doug kissing her. I love you. Holding their new baby. Tender, warm heart. Love. The pain subsiding. Have you chosen a name? Paige. We’ll call her Paige. Emily would never let go. Paige was her new life. Doug was her new life. Her new life was complete now.
Emily’s chain to the monster of her past was broken with Paige’s birth. Or so Emily thought. But as the years rolled by and Paige got older, the monster beckoned her to return to Montana for a final confrontation. It must be done, her counselor said, or you will never find peace, never resolve your conscience. Go to Montana. Put things to rest.
Emily had forgotten how much she loved it here. How her girlhood on her family’s small ranch near the slopes of the Rockies had been like a storybook. Her great-grandfather had built the house with its classic rafter roof in the 1930s. Her mother taught her to cook and sew. She took her to church in town on Sundays: “Emily, you must never forget that believing in yourself is as important as believing in God. Above all, never underestimate the healing qualities of forgiveness.”
Her dad taught her how to camp in the backcountry and how to drive a stick-shift pickup. He conveyed the value of honesty and the wisdom of never approaching a high-spirited horse when you’re in a bad mood, “’cause they can smell it on you.” Emily remembered how the pine and cedar filled the house when he sat by the fire on winter nights looking at his dog-eared collection of Life magazines. How excited he was helping her learn to use her first camera, telling her that history was something to cherish, especially with a camera. “It’s the only way you can hang on to the people in your life.”
That’s how it was
for her, near Buckhorn Creek, where stars were near enough to be jewelry, where the mountains were so close she swore she could hear music as the wind danced through them. Emily embraced the belief that a place can be as important to a person’s life as the people in it.
Emily studied the purple sky over the mountains, longing to hear their music again. She was struggling to tell Doug what had happened here. She needed him to know. He was her Sergeant Rock, her Gibraltar, trying so hard to be patient with her.
His life had been a lonely one and he didn’t mind talking about it.
“What’s to tell, Em? Grew up an only child in Houston. Dad was better at gambling and drinking then he was as father and a mechanic. Walked out when I was thirteen. Left Mom with a kid, a mortgage and a shattered heart. She got over it by marrying a truck driver. We moved to Buffalo. I hated the snow. Left home before my seventeenth birthday, wandered the world alone, searching for someone like you.”
Doug could always make her smile. Like when they first met and she told him her name. “Emily. Now that makes me think of a bouquet of mountain flowers.” And here he was, this gorgeous hunk of manhood with his firm, lean body, broad shoulders, his chiseled rugged smile, the USMC warrior who was privately reading Paddle-to-the-Sea. How could she not love this man? When she showed him her favorite photos--not the weddings, portraits, freelance news, postcards and calendar work, which paid the bills, but her artsy slice-of-life pictures--Doug actually got it. Understood the story she was trying to tell in a single moment stolen from time. They connected….
Ah, Doug and Paige.
She was Daddy’s girl. He was so good to her, using just the right mixture of tenderness and Marine Corps discipline. Paige was bright and perceptive, like her dad. At times, Emily realized Paige and Doug had a bond so strong, it was as if he had given birth to her.
As Paige got older, it became clear to Emily her monster would not rest. She thought it was dead, that she had constructed a new life, become a new person. But the monster was only sleeping. As Paige got older, it had awakened and began coiling around Emily, tightening itself, pulling her back.
“Guess what I’m going to do.”
Suddenly, an icy wind slithered from a glacier valley, gripping her in a flurry of images. Dragging her back.
Emily was thirteen. The day it happened, the county sheriff brought her home in that big Ford. Emily could not step far from the car. Her knees would not stiffen. She was drowning in fear. Her ears still ringing. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. This was not real. It was not…Oh God. Her mother on the porch, her face, her eyes. A couple of deputies had arrived earlier to break the news. Her father coming to the sheriff’s car, his tear-stained eyes searching it in vain. The sheriff removing his hat out of respect. “I’m so sorry, Winston. So godamn sorry,” he says, and her father, suddenly aged, looking so weak, moaning an awful animal squeaking-groan as if something buried deep inside of him was breaking with such agony that it forced him to his knees, his large fists pounding the earth. Her mother collapsed on the porch, one of the deputies catching her. Her mother’s screams rolling from the home into the mountains.
That night, women and men from the church came to their house to be with them, talking softly. Her father staring at the floor. Defeated. Mrs. Nelson, the organ player, rubbing his shoulders, whispering psalms. Her mother had gone to her room to lie down. The reverend and his wife were with her, talking, comforting her. The reverend’s wife, stroking her mother’s hair, soothing her. In the kitchen, some of the men sat at the table, talking in low tones about what the hell happened. How could it happen? The house filled as word got around town. Emily in shock, walking from room to room. Embraced by a grieving adult, pulled tight to clothes smelling of perfume, cigarettes, alcohol and despair.
Oh, child. Poor Emily. You will get through this. God will protect. Be strong. Be strong for your mother and father. Her mother and father? What about her? She was there. She was part of it.
“Guess what I’m going to do.”
It was her fault.
Emily running alone from the woods back to girls’ camp. Heart pounding so loud, pulse ringing in her ears. The voices of the camp counselors were faint and distant, faces awash in concern.
“Lee, where’s your sister? What happened to Rachel, Lee?”
Emily standing there. Just standing there, her mouth not moving. Eyes seeing nothing. The club camp going silent except for the counselors asking over and over about Rachel, her little sister.
It was all her fault.
“Guess what I’m going to do.”
“No. Don’t, please! No.”
The monster was out there doing what monsters do.
Her sister screaming.
“No, don’t. Oh, please!” Emily pleaded. “You can’t have her!”
Rachel screaming. “Lee, help me.” Squealing horribly. “Save me!”
“No, you can’t have her! Stop!”
“Emily, shh-shh…Emily…”
Emily screaming at the darkness, her voice echoing from the sleeping peaks down into the valleys.
“…you can’t have her…oh God, it is all my fault….”
Emily collapsing to the ground in tears. Rangers rushing to her. Pike Thornton watching in the lantern light as Doug took her into his arms.
“It’s all right, Emily. We’ll find Paige. We’ll get through this.”
His strong arms solid around her. Safe. The good things.
But the monster was right there. Breathing on her with the cold night winds from the mountains. She could not stop shivering
“What happened to your sister?”
It’s all my fault.
“Guess what I’m going to do.”
EIGHT
Emily slipped into a fitful sleep in Doug’s arms as the eastern horizon awoke with predawn light. The rangers had draped blankets over them as they sat on the ridge silhouetted against the peaks.
Portrait of an anguished vigil.
How long had Paige been out there now? Two nights. Nearly forty-eight hours. It had rained. The rangers said the temps had ranged from the seventies to the mid-forties at night. Emily was certain Paige had a sweater. She also had Kobee and some food. Most importantly, her wits. Could their daughter save her own life? Stay put, Paige. Doug whispered advice. Do not travel; build a shelter. Stay put. Stay warm and dry. She had Kobee. They were bringing in dogs. They should be able to pick up Kobee. But there were bears out there.
Oh Jesus.
Doug rubbed a hand across his whiskers. How could he just let her go off? He should have known better. He was a teacher. He just lost control. Lost it. Over this trip. Over Emily. Over everything. He wanted it to end. He just lost control. His hand hurt, throbbed. He had the ax. He just…how did it come to this? How? Despite Emily’s troubles, they had been happy. She owned his heart. She was so right for him. He always thought so, ever since he first set eyes on her.
He was a sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps, among the first forces about to be deployed from Pendleton to trouble in the Eastern Hemisphere. Emily was a photographer, stringing for Newsweek, sent down from San Francisco to join the news hordes profiling “a day in the life” of his unit. Doug did not even notice her when she first arrived. Just another member of the press to be baby-sat, to be briefed on the mission, to be introduced to the members and afforded access. Even to personal quarters. Doug punctuated every part of the tour with his gruffest, hard-ass “Any questions?” Translated, it meant if you voiced one, you were going to be made to look stupid. So none were asked, until halfway through the day.
“I have one, Sergeant?” Emily said.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Why would a guts-and-glory warrior like yourself have a copy of Paddle-to-the-Sea in his locker?”
Doug was at a loss and Emily’s camera caught it. After snapping the picture, she lowered her camera, revealing the most engaging, charming smile he had ever seen. He knew then that this woman had captured his heart.
&
nbsp; The next evening, she agreed to go for a walk with him along the beach. While looking out at the Pacific, he told Emily he was preparing to leave the Corps and finish his college degree in English Literature so he could teach. The picture book Paddle-to-the-Sea was on the study list of one of his correspondence courses, along with classics like Crime and Punishment and Homer’s The Odyssey. As luck would have it, he told her, he was accepted at Golden State in San Francisco.
“Well, I’ll have to show you my studio.” Emily grinned, bouncing her eyebrows. “Look me up when you get there, soldier.”
He did.
They were married a few years later. They had chemistry, but Emily always had an opaque air about her, a sadness that she would not talk about. She would close herself off. Doug could handle that. Theirs was a good life. He got a teaching job at a high school. Her photography work was steady. They had Paige, beautiful and with an eye for details, like her mother. They had a good life. Emily only began withdrawing recently.
Doug watched the morning sun paint the Rockies.
He had figured Emily’s problems were related to her childhood here and the deaths of her parents. She would not, or could not, open up to him. She guarded her past, and despite his delicate probing, Doug was unsuccessful in learning more about that dark period of her life. At least she was getting counseling. It seemed to be working. Doug was counting on this trip to help resolve things. They were in this together.
If only the thing tormenting Emily were something alive, he would kill it for her. But how do you kill ghosts? He was powerless. It ate him up. Once they arrived, Emily infuriated him with her unwillingness or inability to tell him exactly what was the source of her anguish. They had come here to resolve things and still she held back. Until the other night. Dropping the mother of all loads on him: She has a sister. Then she clammed up. Instead of understanding, supporting her first major step to talk to him, he began an argument the next day. Emily walked off, headed up the trail to be alone to contemplate. It pissed him off further. So what did he do? Grabbed his ax, chopped wood like a madman, and took it out on Paige. He was furious with Emily. All Paige wanted to do was talk to him, but he screamed in her face until he wounded himself, then terrified her and chased her into the woods. Chased her with an ax in my hand! Ordering her away until she vanished into the Rocky Mountains. How could I be so stupid? So cruel?
