Cold Fear (19 page)

THIRTY

In his Deer Lodge
motel room next to
the Four Bs Restaurant on Sam Beck Road, David Cohen flipped through the
nightstand Bible while contemplating the lonely diesel whine and rush of air
brakes of rigs negotiating Interstate 90, a quarter mile away.

An hour earlier, the clerk of the United States Supreme
Court had alerted him to standby for a response to Isaiah Hood’s petition to
the appeal of his death sentence. Not a hint of the decision in the call.

Cohen accepted the insurmountable odds of a favorable
decision, but he could not restrain his human nature to search for hope.

His room phone jangled. It was the clerk in Washington, D.C., confirming Cohen’s fax number. The response was coming now. His eyes
went around the room, to the TV muted on CNN, the two double beds, one unmade,
the other buried under legal briefs, files, records, newspapers. Then to his
portable fax, connected to his cellular phone, which trilled and blinked
dutifully as his machine came alive, clicking into receiving mode.

Paper curled out of the machine. Cohen read it before
the transmission was completed.

The decision came like a blow forcing Cohen to sit on
the cluttered bed, clutching the pages.
It’s over. I’ve lost him.

There was no reason given for denying the appeal. They
never give one. Cohen shut his eyes.
The ashes will be distributed in the Livingston
Range.
He then opened his eyes to the room’s closet, seeing his dark suit
hanging there, the one he would wear to witness Hood’s execution, evoking the
Grim Reaper as another solitary rig growled into the mountains. He stared
blankly at the news pictures. He would have to tell Isaiah it was over. He was
going to die. He was sorry, so sorry. And when it was over, he would fly back
to Chicago and struggle to put it all behind him. He would go to a ball game.
Friends would console him over beers at bars and parties. Others would change
the subject. He’d take a trip, maybe Bermuda, in a Pilate-like attempt to
cleanse the blood from his hands.

Soon he would have to stare into a man’s eyes and tell
him he had failed to save his life. He would watch him die and then carry his
ashes in his rented car to the Rocky Mountains.

His motel phone rang. He knew who it was.

“David, it’s Lane. I just got it. We tried everything.
We knew going into this how hard it would--”

“Lane. Please understand, I don’t feel like talking
right now.”

Cohen hung up, then swatted his files across the room.
They scattered as he thrust his face into his hands. He sat in silence,
listening to the trucks for a few minutes. Come on now, get a grip. He
collected himself and his papers.

Much of the spilled file was that of the sole witness,
the thirteen-year-old girl whose testimony sealed Hood’s death warrant. There
were pictures of her in a yellowing portion of the folder that Cohen had almost
forgotten. Black-and-white images. Almost like police mugs. Maybe taken by Goliath
County Sheriff’s Office when she was first questioned. Cohen was not sure of
the source. Pretty kid. Looked familiar.

Cohen lowered the photograph, just as his attention was
pulled to the muted TV and the report of the search for Paige Baker. A still
color photograph of the lost girl flashed as the report played excerpts from
her mother’s news conference. Cohen’s concentration pinballed at the speed of
light to her face, her daughter’s picture, the picture in his hand.

His jaw dropped.

He scrambled, rummaging through the newspapers for the
lost girl stories, studying the news photos there, comparing them to those in
Hood’s files.

It’s her. How could I have missed this? Emily Baker
is the witness. It was her testimony that convicted Hood.

Cohen snapped through the files. The names were
different. The firm had hired private investigators to track her down. But they
were unsuccessful. Her mother had taken her from Montana years ago. They could
not locate her. The investigators reported no record of her death, convictions
or military service. She may have changed her name, her date of birth, her
Social Security Number, or lied on records about eye and hair color. All the
usual identifiers. But why would she or her mother go to such lengths?

In the early part of the case, Isaiah had said little in
his own defense. Cohen flipped through the old records. Now he maintained his
innocence in the death of five-year-old Rachel Ross.

Emily Baker’s eyes stared at Cohen from the
Missoulian
splayed on the bed and from the old black-and-white court photo of her taken at
the time of Rachel’s death. He pored over her statement and the transcripts of
her testimony.

Three people were on that ledge in the backcountry that
day twenty-two years ago.

Isaiah Hood was back water trash, the product of pitiful
circumstances. He had less standing and sympathy in the community than a stray
dog. No one was interested in the truth of the tragedy. Guilt suited Hood like
his worn clothes. His court-appointed attorney barely performed his fiduciary
duty. He never really challenged the testimony of the county attorney’s sole
witness, a thirteen-year-old child.

Cohen shuddered. Throughout his handling of the case, he
had secretly doubted his client’s innocence, choosing to believe Hood’s
conviction was based on elements that violated his constitutional rights. They
were enough to mire his case in year after year of appeals, in what was the
judicial equivalent of false hope for a dead man.

But now, staring at the old pictures and those in the
news stories, knowing that Emily Baker’s ten-year-old daughter was missing in
the same region and under similar circumstances as the case with her sister all
those years ago, with the clock ticking down, Cohen feared--for the first
time--the state of Montana was about to execute an innocent man.

His motel phone rang again, reminding him that the
attorney general’s office would be calling after receiving its copy of the U.S.
Supreme Court decision.

“David, John Jackson in Helena,” said the AG’s senior
counsel.

“You got it.”

“As you know, the case can now go to the Board of
Pardons and Parole for executive clemency.”

“It’s done, John. I’ve set the mechanism in motion.”

“As expected. But as I’ve told you, nothing has surfaced
to give the governor reason to intervene. You and Ms. Porter must brace
yourself for the inevitable likelihood that your client’s sentence will be
carried out at the date and time indicated on his warrant. We’ll send you paper
on that. I have your fax. We’re issuing a press statement immediately. I am
sorry, David.”

“Hold on there, John,” Cohen’s voice was wavering, his
eyes going to the TV screen and Emily Baker’s face.

Could she have killed her sister and now her daughter?
They
cannot execute Hood.
Somehow he had to stop it.

THIRTY-ONE

She is
holding her little sister
Rachel’s hand. It is smaller, softer with the trust and vulnerability of a
younger child, feeling like it belongs in hers forever.

All is right in their world. They are walking down
the lane from their house near Buckhorn Creek to wait for their dad’s pickup.
Sitting in the summer grass, Rachel looks up to her, blinking in the sunlight.

“I love you, Lee.”

“I love you, too, Sun Ray.”

Sun Ray. That’s what Emily called her. She loved how
Rachel had trouble pronouncing her name. She loved everything about Rachel.
Little blue eyes twinkling from an angel’s face, snow-white teeth, a sprinkling
of freckles, tawny hair, which Rachel let her braid on long winter nights. They
shared stories and dolls. They cried when their mother read them
Charlotte’s
Web
.

Emily would never forget those terrifying summer storms,
pounding the mountains with thunderclaps rattling the house; lightning
illuminating the sky as if the Rockies were collapsing. On those nights,
Emily’s bedroom door would crack open. Rachel would be standing there in the
doorway holding her teddy, the lightning streaking her face.

“I’m scared, Lee.”

She would lift her blanket, inviting her into her bed.
Put her arm around her protectively, inhale the sweet scent of her little
sister’s hair, feel her warmth as she snuggled against her. Together, they were
safe.

“I don’t feel scared anymore.”

The storm would subside and the whispering rain would
lull them to sleep. How Emily would listen to it, wishing they could stay that
way. Freeze time. Then the monster came.

“Guess what I’m going to do.”

She is in the church now. The scent of candles, the
polished wood of the pews, the oak floors, the fragrant flowers. Rachel’s white
casket is open. She is walking toward it. Her sister is lying inside, looking
smaller. She is wearing a cotton dress with lace trim, her church dress their
mother has made. Hands clasped and fingers entwined. Her teddy is tucked under
her arm. The sleeves cover the bruises.

“Back of her head was split. Much of the damage was
internal.” The sheriff’s deputies and some local men were behind the church,
passing a small bottle, and talking.

Rachel’s face is clear. Her eyes closed. Lee reaches
in and takes her hand. It is cold. So cold. My Sun Ray.

“I don’t feel scared anymore.”

Rachel’s death had fractured Emily’s family. Her father
never smiled. Every ounce of happiness had left him. Her mother would sit alone
for hours in Rachel’s room, not allowing anything to be touched. In their
grief, her parents were melting away from her when Emily needed them.

The words were never spoken, but in their anguish they
held her responsible for her sister’s death. They branded her with blame,
searing it into her soul.

It was her fault.

She was there.

It is the annual summer camping trip with the
Buckhorn Creek Girls Club. Four days and nights in the backcountry of Glacier
National Park. Mothers and fathers are dropping girls off at the Town Hall.
Lee and Rachel’s folks giving them hugs and kisses.

“Remember to watch over your little sister.”

“I will.”

Hauling their sleeping bags and packs from the car,
waving good-byes from the bus. Her parents waving, smiling for the last time.

The group hikes deep into the park. The mountains,
the fragrant trees and clear water streams sparkling in the sun. This must be
the way to heaven, Lee thinks. Everything about the trip is perfect. Rachel
loves it. They pick flowers, make crafts, sing songs by the campfire, toast
marshmallows, tell ghost stories, count stars. It is perfect.

The third afternoon the group has a scavenger hunt.
When her turn comes, Rachel reaches into a leader’s hat and pulls out a folded
slip of paper with instructions to catch two butterflies and place them in the
empty glass jelly jar.

“Will you help me, Lee?”

Rachel holds the jar while her big sister takes her
hand and they go the meadow nearby.

“Not too far girls,” one of the leaders called after
them.

The meadow is abundant with flowers, glacier lilies.
Butterflies flit about them, white, pink and yellow. Emily is taking pictures
of Rachel, laughing in the sun, chasing butterflies.

“Look, a blue one.”

Rachel trots up the meadow hill to a forest edge.

“Rachel, wait!”

Rachel vanishes into a stand of spruce.

She follows, catching up to her as they come to the
cliff, gasping as they halt in their tracks.

He is standing there. Smiling.

The monster.

Emily fought with every fiber of her being to tell Agent
Tracy Bowman the things she could never tell anyone, not even Doug.

Paige had disappeared into the same abyss as Rachel. How
could this be happening? Emily could not bear it. Could not.
Please.
She
wept.

Arms wrapped around her, holding her together. Someone
was saying her name. “Emily, it’s OK to cry.”

Doug?
It was not Doug. He
was off talking to searchers.

“Emily, it’s OK.” Bowman comforted her. “Tell me what is
tormenting you.”

Emily could not stop sobbing. Doug. Could not get the
words out.

How do you begin to say
my daughter is lost where my
sister died, and I am the one responsible?
How do you say that and keep
yourself alive?

She should tell Doug.

But before she realized it, Emily could no longer
contain her pain.

“It’s happening again,” she cried.

“What is happening again, Emily?”

“I was there when she died.”

“When who died?”

“My sister. Now it is happening again.”