"...two hundred forty..."

"Doug told us things."

Emily sniffed.

Tracy Bowman passed her a tissue. She didn't know what to think, couldn't believe what was happening. Was Zander a genius, or a monster?

Was Emily the monster?

"... three hundred feet...three hundred ten...hold it! Got something--"

The images floated on the TV screen. It was impossible to determine what it was. Then, yes, it was a backpack. A small backpack. The task force members knew it from the photos of the Baker family.

It was Paige Baker's backpack.

"Everybody got that? A backpack?" The camera operator's voice crackled over the radio.

Emily moaned, raising her palms slowly from the table, replacing them silently as if in unbearable pain, as if begging for an end to it.

"Please," she whispered. "Oh, please.

The camera descended.

"Emily, how do you think Doug hurt his hand?"

She did not answer Zander.

"We understand he can be a violent man some times."

"...three hundred seventy..."

"What happened twenty-two years ago with your sister? What really happened?"

Her monster, Isaiah Hood, was laughing.

"Why did your mother change your name? It seemed like you were running from something. Show her the old report from the attorney general, Tracy."

Bowman slid an FBI file folder to Emily, opening it for her. But Emily did not need to read it. She knew about the letters she had written all those years ago.

"...four hundred feet..."

Paige. Rachel. Oh, why?

"...four hundred twenty-wait. Christ! You see that? Jesus--"

The task force room tensed. The three-second delay passed and something shining fluttered on the monitor.

A pair of eyes.

Dead. Soulless. Reflecting the light. Not quite in focus. Strange-looking.

"Dear God," Bowman said.

And a row of white teeth near the eyes. Slammed tight against the rock. But the transmission was unclear. A blizzard of static hissed. The image vanished.

"What the hell happened?" Zander said.

"Stand by. We've got satellite trouble."

Emily's breathing quaked. Her skin and scalp prickled with horror.

Please, God. Not again.

Her soul was screaming.

SIXTY-FIVE.

In his newly restored office in the neoclassical capitol building, which dominated Helena's skyline, Montana's Governor Nye was grappling with a crisis.

His stomach tensed as he witnessed the early morning news reports of Isaiah Hood's eleventh-hour claim for clemency.

It churned watching Hood's Chicago lawyer, David Cohen, tell the country live on every network that Montana was going to murder his client.

That cocksure SOB had pushed him into a corner and he didn't like it.

Every news organization in the nation wanted the governor to state his reaction and intentions.

He sat at his desk, studying the framed photograph of his wife and their daughter.

Two quick knocks on his door were followed by his attorney general and John Jackson, his chief counsel. The governor had been talking and meeting with them since 6:00 A.M. when the Washington Post called him on his personal cell phone. How the Post reporter got the number was a mystery to him. He had declined to comment until he had reviewed the latest events.

The AG and Jackson seated themselves. The governor gritted his teeth, then exhaled. "I am not backing down here."

The two men exchanged quick glances. The governor had given the wrong answer.

"Sir, there are many considerations," the attorney general began.

"Cohen went public with his claims; as I see it, that's it."

"You have to take into account the Glacier situation," the attorney general said. At least what we know of it. Not a trace of the little girl has surfaced. Investigators have mounting evidence of criminal intent."

"My feeling at this point is that we cannot link the two cases," the governor said. "What if Doug Baker killed his daughter? Or someone else? That has nothing to do with Hood's case. Tragic for Emily Baker. But Montana convicted Hood fairly. The letters after the fact were in the possession of the county attorney who felt no compunction to reopen the case."

"Of course he didn't. It would have been political suicide. An admission of failure, to point at the little sister and free the person whose blood the community wanted for the death of this child. It is understandable the county attorney would have downplayed or diminished the role of the letters. Would you like to follow that course, in light of what is now happening in Glacier?"

The governor sighed, sitting back in his chair, looking at his daughter's face.

"You seem to be singing a different tune from the other day," the governor observed.

"I just think this is a dreadful case and we should not push too fast in any direction that is not reversible."

"Be indecisive? Soft on crime?"

"Be responsible, respectful and responsive to facts at hand."

The governor turned to Jackson. "What is going on in Glacier, John? The last we had was the ax, the T-shirt, Dad on the polygraph."

"I'm awaiting word from our people on the task force. Indications are some new evidence has surfaced."

"Something indicating she is alive?"

"Not sure. I expect to hear soon."

"What was the reaction from David Cohen's boss in Chicago? They going to rein him in? Not that it matters now--the damage is already done."

"No is the short answer. They're proud of him."

"I don't like this. Not one damn bit."

The intercom buzzed.

"The U.S. Attorney General's Office in Washington, Governor."

It was a short conversation with the Governor politely but forcefully let the attorney general know how "Montana is going to do the right thing here. After we examine all the facts, separating reality from rhetoric. I am sorry--what was that? Right. No, we did not know that. We are awaiting word from Glacier. An update? Yes. They are certain it's her? I see--"

As the call ended, John Jackson's cell phone rang. It was word from Glacier that they are ninety-nine per cent certain they had found the corpse of Paige Baker at the bottom of a crevasse nearly two miles from her parents' campsite.

The governor was nodding, his finger caressing the frame of his daughter's picture. He ran his hand over his face, stood, walked to his window, looked out to the mountains.

"They suspect the parents," the governor said. "The case is virtually sealed against them."

He asked the attorney general if he could still invoke executive clemency for Hood after first refusing it.

"Yes, the statutes allow for it when new evidence surfaces," the attorney general had answered. "You can intervene and grant thirty days of relief for Hood's case to be investigated in light of events. If he has a case, he can make a new appeal to the Board, or he can go right to court with it."

The governor nodded at his advisers.

"I'll do it. I'll call the director of DOC. I suppose I have to sign something, then fax it to Deer Lodge. Better alert Pardons and Parole, too."

"I can arrange all that, Governor," Jackson said.

"Thanks. And call Cohen. He's probably going to be on with Larry King tonight. We better schedule a news conference, say in three or four hours here. Let the pack at Glacier get here."

The attorney general checked his watch.

"Wait, Governor. You've got well over fourteen hours yet."

"Yes?"

"Why not wait a few more hours? See what happens. We can keep everything in this room for the time being. See if someone plays a card. If charges are formally laid and the FBI announces it, then you are not seen as too eager but reacting accordingly. A few hours one way or the other are not going to matter much."

Governor Nye considered the suggestion and agreed.

"We'll give it a few hours."

SIXTY-SIX.

"Yes, it's one of his seizures. A massive one. His vital signs are deteriorating." The anxious senior nurse was talking to the warden from the death watch guard's phone as he stared at Isaiah Hood.

"Can he be treated on-site?" the warden asked.

"Not a chance."

"Give me odds."

"Ninety-five per cent likelihood he'll be dead within two hours if he's not airlifted now to Montana General Mercy."

"Is he secured?"

"Yes, but he's convulsing again. I have to go."

The warden immediately called DOC Director. Hood was high profile and it was imperative he alert the director so they could weigh the ramifications of transporting him.

"I'm sorry sir, the director's in a meeting,"

"Interrupt it now--"

"But--"

"Now!"

The director came on the line, annoyed until he caught the urgency of the situation.