Screaming at Paige. Shouting at my daughter with the bloody ax in my hand. The terror in her eyes...

"If you cannot afford to hire an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish one."

For God's sake, I'm just a teacher, a husband, a father. Days before, we were like any other American family, struggling through an airport, embarking on a vacation.

"Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?'

No I do not understand any of this. Lord, help me...help Paige....

"Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?"

Doug looked into Zander's eyes.

"I want a lawyer before I take the test."

FORTY-TWO.

The phone rang in David Cohen's Deer Lodge motel room at 5:14 a.m.

"I'd like to speak to David Cohen, the lawyer for Isaiah Hood?"

"That's me. Who's this?"

"Nick Sorder, Capitol News Radio in Helena. I'm calling for your reaction to the development in the case. Governor Nye's office issued a statement this morning. Actually, late last night, from the time on our fax."

A statement? He knew nothing about this.

"Tell me what it says."

"Summarizing quickly, it says with respect to the U.S. Supreme Court's denial of Hood's petition for appeal and the Board of Pardons not recommending executive clemency, the governor will not grant your request for a delay. The AG's office adds that the sentence will be carried out tomorrow as scheduled."

Oh, godamn it.

"Your reaction, sir?"

John Jackson in his dinner jacket, winking his warning about the governor squeezing his balls so hard they'll hear the scream in Chicago.

"Your reaction, sir?"

"I'm very disappointed. But I have no further comment until I speak with my client."

Cohen hung up and hurled the phone to the floor.

I will take your concerns under advisement and make my decision known to you tomorrow. His black suit waiting. Ashes to be scattered. He did not do it. Whatever happened out there, it was not murder. Emily Baker, or whatever her name is, knows the truth. She knows the goddamned truth. Somehow, it has to be squeezed out of her.

Cohen sat at the edge of his bed in his boxers and Chicago Bulls T-shirt, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, tears stinging his tired eyes. His stomach quaked.

Think clearly. It is not over. Cohen attempted to console himself with a hot shower, then flipped on the TV news and pulled on jeans and a fresh shirt. He downed some hot coffee, bit into a muffin he picked up the night before at a truck stop on the return drive from Helena.

"The long-awaited execution of Isaiah Hood, who murdered a five-year-old Buckhorn Creek girl twenty-two years ago, will go ahead as scheduled tomorrow. In a statement released this morning from Helena, the governor said he will not intervene...."

Local news mocked him as he worked, sifting through his files.

"...the search for Paige Baker enters another day in Glacier National..."

A blue file, a pink file. Case law, that wasn't it. The green file. Nope. Here, the yellow file. It contained e-mails, faxes, business cards and scribbled contact numbers from reporters with the most recent requests to interview Isaiah Hood. He went through the file. Cohen had rejected all requests. Hood had never, ever, been interviewed. Now most news attention had been drawn to the lost girl story. Here it was. Cohen had a priority list of cell numbers for about half a dozen big outlets. All print because it was easier and quicker to get a print reporter inside the prison. Most of the people on the list had called recently saying they were in Montana on the lost girl story in Glacier.

The New York Times, Denver Bureau, Dianna. K. Strauss. Cohen dialed the number. Busy signal. But a strange one. Maybe a bad connection? He tried the Washington Post. Phillip Braddock. It just rang and rang, unanswered. Cohen dialed the Los Angeles Times. Francis Lord. Out of service range. Damn. USA Today. Lawrence Dow. Voice mail. Damn. Cohen wanted to talk to somebody now. Right now. The San Francisco Star. Tom Reed. He'd heard of him. A hotshot on some big story in California. Saw him on CNN talking about it. Emily Baker was from San Francisco. This could work. Cohen punched Reed's cell phone number. Come on. The clock was ticking. Ticking. The number rang.

Not long after the morning sun lit the eastern sky, Tom Reed was waving good-bye to Chester Murdon, standing with his Lab, Sonny, on the porch of his house. They made a perfect picture against the crisp dawn and the glorious snowcapped mountains.

Thank you, Chester, Reed thought, patting the files that Murdon had given him. They were vibrating on the passenger seat. Reed was speeding into Wisdom, intending to get to the FBI in Glacier without wasting a second. Thanks to Murdon, he had a new angle. Tomorrow, the man who murdered Emily Baker's sister twenty-two years ago in Glacier National Park would be executed while searchers try to locate Baker's daughter, Paige, in the same region. It was an incredible story. A haunting tale. He had surpassed everyone; even the Montana press had missed Emily's connection to Hood. And if the police knew, they certainly were mute on it. Maybe there was more to it?

It was coming up on the hour, Reed switched on the radio news, bracing for any break in the search. He'd have to alert the desk and Molly, he thought as the dramatic radio jingle led into the news from an AM station in Bozeman.

"...our top stories this morning...Isaiah Hood will be executed tomorrow as scheduled, Montana's attorney general says. The U.S. Supreme Court rejected Hood's latest appeal and the governor will not delay the sentence. The Montana Board of Pardons and Paroles convened an emergency meeting last night and did not recommend the governor intervene in the case. And, it's day four of the massive search up in Glacier National Park for Paige Baker. The ten-year-old San Francisco girl reportedly wandered from her mother and father while camping in the remote and rugged Grizzly Tooth Trail region of the park. Across the nation, a deadly heat wave in Dallas claimed three lives as temperatures soared--"

Reed's cell phone trilled. He killed the radio and took the call.

"Tom Reed, San Francisco Star."

"This is David Cohen."

Cohen? Cohen? Hood's lawyer.

"Yes, Mr. Cohen. I just heard the latest on your case. Sorry."

"No you're not."

Reed was just exercising professional courtesy.

"I'll come to the point. How fast can you get to Deer Lodge?"

"Why, what's happening there?"

"I'm offering you an interview with Isaiah, right now, today in the prison."

"Exclusive?"

"Exclusive."

The ABS brakes on the rental engaged, bringing Reed to a halt.

FORTY-THREE.

Maleena Crow arrived early at her law office on South Main in downtown Kalispell to await an expected referral call from Philadelphia. She went over a file while sipping herbal tea, stopping to consult 'the partners', the exotic fish gliding in the aquarium that bubbled and hummed in the corner of her red brick storefront office.

At twenty-nine, the University of San Diego grad was living her dream as a criminal attorney, operating her one-lawyer practice in what she told her law school friends were "the mystical Rockies." She recently won back-to-back acquittals for clients in two separate assault cases: a stabbing that was self-defense; a shooting, ruled accidental. Crow smiled at her aquarium. The partners seemed pleased. She was pondering booking a vacation on the luxury train that traveled through the Canadian Rockies between Vancouver and Banff when her call came.

"Maleena? I'm so glad you're there. It's Legal Services. We just took a call from the county attorney's office--"

"Can this wait? I'm expecting a call."

"I am passing this to you. You're to call a Ms. Nora Lam from the U.S. Justice Department. It's urgent."

"Justice? What is this about?"

"Someone in Glacier National Park needs a lawyer right away and I guess you've been designated for the area."

Glacier? Crow was up on the news. She called Lam, connecting with the first ring on her cell phone.

"Nora Lam." Very professional. Authoritative.

"Maleena Crow. Criminal defense attorney in Kalispell.

Lam was to the point, underscoring the severity and confidentiality of Doug Baker's circumstances. Crow agreed to represent him.

She changed to jeans, T-shirt and a blazer, grabbed her Penal Code, brief case, sunglasses. Within a half hour, a Montana Highway Patrol Officer was waving her new silver VW Jetta to park behind the virtual army of TV satellite trucks, scores of news crews and the growing press contingent.

"Press over there, please."

"Uh-uh. I was summoned." Crow held out her card."

"Certainly, ma'am," the officer reached for his radio. "Follow me."

He trotted, leading Crow to a parking spot among the park, forestry and FBI vehicles at the community center. She was whisked inside to the small paneled room where she met Nora Lam, Frank Zander and Lloyd Turner.

"Doug's been Mirandized. He's agreed to be polygraphed to be cleared as a possible suspect in his daughter's disappearance," Zander said.

Crow produced a legal pad, noting everyone's name, their positions and time.

"Is he a suspect? You got a case? You going to charge him?"

Zander listed the domestic call, the school complaint, the argument in the mountains witnessed by a vacationing NYPD detective.

"Circumstantial and hearsay," Crow said. "Continue."

The bloodied T-shirt, the bloodied ax, his wounded hand, the opportunity when Doug and Emily were separated.

Crow absorbed it. "You find the little girl, or any part of her?"

"Not yet."

"This is what you want to polygraph him on?"

Zander nodded. "Right away."

"What about the mother?"

"She's not your client," Zander said. "This is all you get."

"Where is Mr. Baker? I'd like to speak with him."

Zander took Crow to the paneled storage room where Doug Baker was standing at the small window, watching a helicopter disappear.

"Doug Baker?" He turned.

"Maleena Crow. I've been appointed to be your attorney."

"Yes, sit down."

Crow put her briefcase on the small table and sat in one of the chairs.

"You were given your rights and understand them?"

"Yes."

"Why did you ask for a lawyer?"

"I figured it was best, under the circumstances."

"You agreed to be polygraphed?"

"Yes, whatever it takes."

"Doug, you understand that whatever they tell you, the fact is they are trying to build a case against you. They want to charge you."

"I know from the start. I would do the same thing...because I am guilty."

"No. You do not determine that. A court determines that."

"You don't understand."