From San Quentin near San Francisco, to St. Catherine District Prison, a seventeenth-century nightmare near Kingston, Jamaica, to Ellis One, a criminal warehouse rising from the snake-infested swamps northeast of Huntsville, Texas, he had wrestled both emotions when he talked with killers.

Respect--because he was looking into the eyes of a person who knew the date of their death, sometimes within days of their conversation. One guy, a cop killer from Lufkin, Texas, had sent had him a letter postmarked the day of his execution. Reed got it a few days later. It was like a voice from the grave: "Thanks for your interest in my sorry life, Tom." Reed had tacked it up at his newsroom cubicle, not as a trophy but as a personal reminder of something he struggled to understand. He actually liked a few of the killers he interviewed.

But in most cases, he could switch off any lingering fondness with a good riddance or hallelujah because of his revulsion. Because the others were evil, mother-fucking, stone-cold, remorseless, degenerate, defective dangerous attempts at human beings who needed to be dispatched back to the factory.

Reed never lost sight of the pain, the sorrow, the soul-destroying result of their presence on earth. They added nothing of value to this world. Nothing but cemetery headstones.

Isaiah Hood had fallen into that category, a psychotic cold-blooded bottom-feeder who threw a little girl off of a mountain in front of her sister. He deserved death.

Or so Reed thought up until a few minutes ago.

Now his guilt no longer seemed so absolute.

Driving to Montana State Prison, Reed supported Cohen's strong case for reasonable doubt over the circumstances of Rachel Ross's death. The elements swirled. Only two witnesses to the murder of the five-year-old daughter of a respected, church-going, ranch family. Her thirteen-year-old sister and Hood, the mentally disturbed child of an abusive hermit monster.

In her letters, Emily acknowledges "feeling guilty." Her mother takes her on the run, changing their names. Her aunt tells Molly, "She's undergoing counseling for the death of a child."

Why?

Because she's guilty and knows and innocent man will die? Why do Emily and Doug Baker come to the mountains at the time of Hood's execution? Why do they hike to the region of Emily's sister's death? Reed felt a shiver vibrate up his spine.

Better call the desk. En route to the prison, he grabbed his cell phone and punched the direct line of Zeke Canter, metro editor of the San Francisco Star, who picked up on the first ring.

"Canter"

"It's Reed."

"Nice of you to check in, Tom. AP moved a story this morning, quoting sources saying that the FBI is finding evidence and looking hard at Dad. Enlighten me on what you know. Hold on. Violet's here; you're going on speaker."

Reed pulled over. Within a few intense minutes, he informed his editors of what he had. They agreed. No matter how you looked at it, Cohen had presented a compelling case of reasonable doubt. Anticipating a huge story, they had dispatched Molly Wilson and a Star photographer to Montana. Reed resumed driving. He was nearing the turnoff for the prison.

"You wanted me to tell you a story about Isaiah Hood, Violet. Looks like you're getting one."

As the prison loomed before the mountains, Canter came on.

"Tom, we've got some time. I want you to back this up with Cohen's stuff from the count attorney. Fax us a copy, maybe graphics can do something with it. And confront the FBI in Glacier for reaction. Grab Molly in Glacier to help out with anything, like calls to the governor."

Reed pulled into the prison parking lot, where David Cohen was waiting.

Isaiah Hood sat on his bed, staring at his poster of the Rocky Mountains. He had spoken with his lawyer on the phone earlier that morning. He knew about the governor's refusal to intervene, about the old records from the county attorney's office Cohen had just obtained. About the interview with the reporter.

Hood was tired. Tired of paying for sins that were not his. Hell, he was a sin--a living, breathing mistake. And he had paid for that all of his life. Now, that had got to count for something. He had paid his debt. Now I'm owed. It was time to put him back, return him to the place where he was free.

The mountains.

Whatever it took, he would return.

It would happen.

God owed him.

Because one way or another, he was leaving this place tomorrow.

Hood almost smiled.

At the central desk with the console, where the guards on death row watch the security video cameras, one of the guards nudged a colleague.

"Look. Hood's going into one of his trances."

Both men stared at Camera 8, the one trained on the interior of Hood's cell. He was sitting on his cot, arms outstretched toward his poster of the Rockies. Fists clenched as if gripping something unseen. Eyes closed. Frozen.

"Creepy, huh?" said the younger of the two.

The old one nodded, blinking.

"After his interview, we move him into the death cell and he goes on deathwatch. Then that will be the end of it."

"What do you make of him saying he didn't kill that girl?"

"I don't. And you shouldn't either."

The intercom buzzed.

"The lawyer and reporter are here. Move Hood to the visitor's room."

Waiting in the small visitor's room on death row, Cohen and Reed did not speak. They watched the muted TV news. There appeared to be nothing significant in Paige Baker's case, Reed thought, playing absentmindedly with his small tape recorder. They heard the approach of Hood's chains. The door opened to Hood, in his orange jumpsuit, prison sandals and shackles.

"You got twenty minutes," said one of the guards.

"I was told we had an hour," Cohen protested.

"Twenty minutes because he's got to be processed."

Reed shook Hood's hand, flipped on his tape recorder.

Hood sat down, his chains knocking on the veneer tabletop, looking coldly at Reed, who met his gaze.

"Isaiah, are you innocent of the murder of Rachel Ross?"

Hood looked into Reed's eyes.

"Yes, I am."

"Who killed her?"

"No one."

"What do you mean?"

"It was an accident."

"An accident?"

Hood looked at Cohen, then back at Reed.

"I was out there that day, minding my own business when they came to me. The little girls were playing some game. Chasing birds or butterflies with some little girl camp. They run from the forest and I said, "Be careful." But they laughed at me, saying they're playing some game. Called me names."

"What sort of names?"

"Like I'm trash, and they're not supposed to play with me, I mean, all over town, me and my family was the joke of the county. They were the proper little girls of ranchers, bankers, merchants. I told them to be careful near that ledge. They never stopped playing and the little one slipped to the lower ledge there. Got herself dazed and I jumped down to get her, and her sister's screaming at me to stay away, she's going to help her sister up. But I see the little one's stunned, crawling in the wrong direction towards the ledge. This ain't no part of the game. She goes over the ledge; the big sister's got her by the hand and I reach over to help, but it's too late. She's gone over. She's dangling for a bit. The big sister's got her hand but not good. She falls, almost taking the big sister with her. I pulled her up and the big sister runs off screaming I did it. Whole thing happened in less than a minute."

"Why would she accuse you if it was an accident?"

"Because they hated me. The whole town hated the Hoods. Never, ever thought I would be capable of trying to help. Regarded me as trash."

"Why didn't you explain this to police and the county attorney?"

"I did. They didn't believe me. They kept me awake for nearly two days until I confessed. That's what they wanted. Later, my lawyer says the judge will believe me and toss the confession, but it didn't work out that way."

Reed said nothing.

"Why?" Hood's eyes were shining, pleading.

Reed searched them.

"I'd like to know why she put me here." Hood stared at the walls. "The shrinks tested me. They should test her. She's the one with mental problems."

"I don't understand why you didn't reveal this twenty-two years ago."

"You deaf? I did tell them. They wouldn't believe me. They made me confess. Said it was no accident. Started asking how my mother had died years ago. Would not let me sleep. Had me bawling to the point I didn't know the truth. Where you woulda confessed to anything. Now look at what's happened! And they want to execute me!"

In the time they had left, Reed went over Hood's version with him. Cohen did not interfere. Hood seemed to have an answer or explanation for every aspect.

A guard appeared.

"Sorry, time is up. Mr. Cohen you can stay a bit with your client."

"Tom," Cohen said, extending his hand. "We'll talk in about an hour?"

"Sure." Then to Hood. "Thank you Isaiah."

Hood said nothing, but nodded. Then the guard led Reed from death row through the prison's inner yard toward the main gate. It was one of the older guards, a friendly-faced, silver-haired veteran who probably knew as much about inmates as there was to know. During the short walk between death row and the prison's main gate, the guard and Reed looked to the mountains.

"Mr. Reed, it's not my place, but I'm going to say this anyway."

"Say what?"

"At this stage of the game, that fella you just talked to is liable to tell you just about anything and hope you'll believe it."

Reed knew that. He also knew that folded in his rear pocket was a copy of the report on Emily's confessional letters from the county attorney's office. So it did not matter if what Hood said was true or not.

Reed had a helluva story.

FORTY-SEVEN.

After his polygraph test, the FBI placed Doug under guard in the maple-paneled storage room where he had slept on a cot the night before. They were so subtle it went unnoticed by the rangers and officials involved in search operations of the command center. An FBI Agent sat in a chair outside the door to Doug's room.

His cell.

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. Sooner or later he was going to wake up from this, right?

But Maleena Crow, his appointed lawyer, was real. The words she was speaking were real, even though Doug was hearing them as if they were coming from a great distance, through the storm pulsating in his eardrums.

"Clearly, it does not look good, Doug but..." As Crow went on, the final part of the polygraph exam pounded over and over in Doug's brain.

Emily's sister was dead.

His world, his senses, were reeling. Confused. Exhausted.

If they did not suspect him, did they suspect Emily?

Emily was present with Isaiah Hood when her sister was killed. "Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?" What? Oh, Jesus, help me. What was Crow saying? What?

"They cannot hold you for more than seventy-two hours without laying a charge. They cannot charge you without solid evidence. They have none." Then something about awaiting the results of Larson's examination before their next step. "Unless there is something you're not telling me, Doug? Is there?"

What? She was asking him something.

"Is there something you're not telling me?

"No...."

Doug is asking Emily... hadn't he asked her that so many times? And for so many years? Hadn't it enraged him that she refused to tell him about her past? The night before Paige vanished, Emily's tears are shining in the firelight. She raises her face, her beautiful pain-filled face, to the stars, searching for the words "My--my sister..." She stops, leaving her words in the air.

"Sister?" he says. "You never told me you have a sister."

Oh Christ.

Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?

No. No. No. It can't be.