“Don’t get smart with me, girlie,” Marjorie snapped. “You’re a guest in my house. Your old man disowned you and threw you out on your scrawny ass, remember?”
Shake gave a mirthless laugh. “Only because your precious son knocked me up.” They’d played this blame game before. Always going round and round in an endless loop, never coming to any sort of resolution.
“If it’s even mine,” Ronnie said.
Hurt showed in Shake’s eyes. “It is. You know it is.”
“What the hell did you think was gonna happen?” Marjorie asked. “Prancing around onstage with shiny sequins pasted over your titties, wearing hooker heels and bending over to show your cooch?” She snorted. “Exotic dancer. Hah.”
Shake had been a crowd favorite at Club Paradise. Unhappy men from all over the North Country had come, flashlights in hand, to sit at the bar and shine their wavering beam at Shake’s moneymaker.
“Go see if the baby’s wet,” Marjorie ordered Shake. The kid had been in their house for less than twenty-four hours and already things were in an uproar.
“Babies are always wet,” Shake said, toying with what was left of her unappetizing dinner. “Besides, I gotta get changed if we’re going out.” She threw a hopeful glance at Ronnie. Unfortunately, he could be a real limp dick when it came to standing up to his mother. In fact, if she’d known how much of a momma’s boy he really was, she never would have moved in here in the first place. Shake regretted that she hadn’t just run away. Take a bus to Chicago and figure something out. Now it was too late. Now she was due any day, fat and waddling, unattractive, a prisoner of her unborn child.
“Waaaaaah!” A shrill cry echoed from down the hallway again. The kid was persistent.
“Baby’s still crying,” Marjorie said. Her thin, penciled brows rose in a mild challenge as she worked on staring down Shake.
Ronnie’s hands smacked down flat and hard on the table, jouncing the dishes and silverware, upending his cup of coffee. “Damn it,” he snarled. “I’ll go.”
He stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway, into the living room, where the baby was lying in an old plastic bassinette. He placed a hand on the side of the bassinette and shook it, jostling the baby and causing it to cry that much harder.
“Shut up,” Ronnie whispered.
The upturned pink face was turning almost purple now as the baby wailed away, her shrieks piercing the air.
Ronnie stared at it impassively. His mind was beginning to drift, blocking out the squalling noise. He wondered idly what the baby would look like stuffed?
Probably, he decided . . . just like one of Mom’s stupid dolls.
* * *
FIVE minutes later, Ronnie was out the door and on his way. Shake had pleaded with him to take her along. His mother had yammered after him like some goddamned little ankle biter dog. But Ronnie was on a mission.
When he pulled his car up in front of Judge’s, he was happy to see there were still a couple of newspapers left in the green metal box that sat out front. He dropped in four quarters, grabbed a paper, and went inside, his guts prickling in anticipation.
Ronnie shoved two dollars across the bar and ordered a Leinenkugel draft beer. Then, as all around him music thumped and beer bottles rattled, he pulled out the news section of the Sunday paper. He was starting to feel a little anxious now, hoping he’d be able to find what he was looking for.
The story was right there on page one, just below the fold. The headline said, INFANT KIDNAPPED FROM KENWOOD HOME. He read the story slowly, his lips moving along as he read. When he got to the fourth paragraph, he smiled to himself. Ashley. The hot little babysitter chick’s name was Ashley. And the story said that she’d been taken to a hospital, some place called HCMC.
Setting down the paper, Ronnie took a long sip of beer. He liked that her name was Ashley. It sounded classy and reminded him of a character on one of those teen reality shows. He dug his hand into a bowl of popcorn that sat on the bar. Popped a handful into his mouth, chewed, and hawked the hulls out onto the floor. Hadn’t he and Ashley shared a moment together last night? Hadn’t she stared into his eyes and given him a glimmer of encouragement? Sure, she had. Like most girls, she’d wanted it pretty bad. Needed it. He could tell.
Ronnie took another sip of beer and the liquid slid down his throat, cool and malty. “Ashley,” he murmured. “Ashley baby.”
7
I’M sorry you had to cut your climbing trip short,” Lish said. Not ten seconds earlier, Afton had pushed open the back door of her home and tromped into the kitchen. Lish, Alisha Larkin, was stirring a pot of bubbling spaghetti sauce, steaming up their little kitchen in a nice, homey way. Afton had called her sister earlier in the day and told her about the change in plans. Told her she was back in town and would probably be home for supper.
“Mommy, Mommy!” Two eager voices blended into one as Poppy and Tess, Afton’s two daughters, came careening around a corner to greet her. Poppy was six and serious, dressed in an oversized Sponge Bob sweatshirt. Tess was ten going on fifteen, already into lip gloss and celebrity gossip, lobbying for her very own cell phone.
“I’m glad you came home, Mommy,” Poppy said. She pattered across the kitchen floor and favored Afton with an enormous bear hug. “Even if it was because of that kidnapping.”
Afton’s and Lish’s eyes met and Lish gave a little shrug that said, Who knows?
“How did you hear about the kidnapping, honey?” Afton asked. She made no secret of the fact that she was employed by the Minneapolis Police Department, but had always tried to spare the girls from any grisly details of the cases she worked. It was better, she’d decided, to focus on the positive role she played.
“It was on the five o’clock news,” Poppy told her. “The lady was crying. A lot,” she added with emphasis.
“Is the baby dead?” Tess asked. She sounded blasé but looked a little scared.
“No, of course not,” Afton said. “The police and the FBI are working very hard to find her and bring her home.”
“That’s good,” Tess said. She edged over to the counter, where Lish was busy grating a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and smiled at her impishly through masses of tangled blond hair. “Want me to set the table?”
“More than anything,” Lish said.
“Mommy,” Poppy said as Tess stood on tiptoe to gather plates and glasses from the cupboard. “How come you changed your name? How come you have a different name than Daddy?” It was sweet that she still referred to Mickey as her daddy, even though they’d only been together as a family for little more than a year.
“It’s all about identity, honey,” Afton said. “When you’re a little older, you’ll understand.”
But Poppy wasn’t about to drop the subject. “What if I want to change my name someday?”
“Honey,” Afton said, bending down. “Do you want to change your name?”
A grin split Poppy’s mischievous face. “I want to be Rapunzel!” she declared.
“Poppy Rapunzel,” Afton said, gathering her daughter up in her arms. “It has a nice ring to it. Presidential even.”
* * *
BY eight o’clock the kids’ eyes were growing heavy as they sprawled on the sectional sofa eating popcorn and watching a DVD of Finding Nemo. Lish was upstairs, trying out Clairol’s Ravenous Red hair color and singing along to an old Van Halen album. Afton was planted firmly in front of her computer.
She’d been curious about what Thacker had told them about Richard Darden, the missing baby’s father. Wanted to see if there was anything in the business section of the newspaper that might shed some light on the lawsuit against him. She didn’t think it possible that a reputable company would get so outraged about pilfered business secrets and that they’d retaliate by kidnapping a man’s child. Then again, you never knew. In more than a few countries, kidnapping was commonplace.<
br />
Afton found two archived articles on the Tribune website. One was a short sidebar detailing Richard’s move to Synthotech. The second was a lengthier article in which the Tribune business reporter, B. L. Aiken, interviewed Bruce Cutler, the CEO of Novamed, Richard Darden’s former company, as well as Richard Darden himself, and Gordon Conseco, the CEO of Synthotech, Richard’s new place of employment.
Cutler had only harsh words about Richard’s defection; Conseco had only praise for his new employee.
But Conseco can’t be that happy, Afton decided, especially if Richard Darden was bringing questions of impropriety down on their heads.
Afton found a few more articles, but they were just routine business press releases. A new product, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Bored now, she clicked over to her Facebook page and scanned a few posts from her friends. Ah, there were her neighbors, Deana and Bud, looking happy and sunburned on Waikiki Beach. It was difficult sometimes, to look at pictures of perfect couples. Even though it was a relief to be divorced, she sometimes felt like a screwup. Her first husband, the kids’ father, had been a disaster. Then she’d met Mickey and struggled to make that marriage work. But it had quickly become obvious they weren’t destined to be together. When collection agencies started calling, when the zone manager from GMAC came knocking on her door, she knew it was over. Slammed shut. There wasn’t anything that Dr. Phil or Dear Abby could have done. Like Humpty Dumpty, their marriage had slipped off the wall, cracked wide open, and couldn’t be put back together again.
Afton lifted her fingers from the keyboard, ready to shut it off. Then, on a whim, she Googled the word reborn. And watched in amazement as hit after hit spun out.
Curious now, feeling a tingle of apprehension, she perused the website for Marcy May’s Reborns. Then Sarah Jane’s Beautiful Babies. And then Kimberly’s Kuddle Kids. All these sites featured the extremely realistic-looking reborns that seemed to be growing in popularity with a cultlike following of doll lovers. All the dolls pictured either looked like newborns, or were a few months older. None went up to the age of a toddler.
Clicking on one of the reborn message boards, Afton read through a glut of messages. And found some of them strangely disturbing.
[email protected]
I just bought a beautiful reborn but have been unable to bond with her. Would love to trade for baby boy Berenguer.
[email protected]
Have an OOAK made by Emily K. Human hair, side-sleeping pose, simply breathtaking! Will e-mail photos.
[email protected]
Greetings all. I have 3 foreign fashion dolls for sale, but would seriously consider trading for reborn—preemie preferred.
The phone rang just as Afton was printing out a list of sites that were advertising reborns. She snatched the receiver up, fully expecting it to be Mickey, the ex, wanting to chat with the girls. Mickey was a real champ at waiting until it was too late in the evening to have more than a superficial, hey-kidlins-how-ya-doin’ type of conversation.
But it wasn’t Mickey at all. It was Max Montgomery.
“I hate to interrupt,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath, “but we just got a flash from Saint Paul Metro.”
“What?” Afton asked, her antennae suddenly up and buzzing like crazy.
“A couple of guys were jogging along West River Road, down by Hidden Falls,” Max said. “And they thought they heard a baby crying.”
“Dear Lord,” Afton said. “I’m on my way.”
8
THE room was too quiet. It should have been filled with cries, coos, and little wet gurgles from the most beautiful baby ever conceived. Now it felt hollow and empty. As if a death had taken place.
Susan Darden scrunched her knees up closer to her chest. She was sitting on the floor, crouched deep in the corner of her daughter’s nursery, wishing she could pull herself together so tightly that she’d just pop out of existence. Because the harsh reality of Elizabeth Ann being gone was simply too painful to bear. She wanted to die.
And Susan felt cold, cold as ice. She’d draped a white wool baby afghan over her knees to ward off some of the chill, but she still shivered almost uncontrollably, the tips of her fingers turning white. She knew that deep down inside herself, in the barely rational part of her being that was only just hanging on, her chill had nothing to do with room temperature. She was cold on the inside, deep within her heart.
As Susan let loose a low keening sound that she was only vaguely aware of, she realized that she’d somehow managed to acquire everything she’d ever wanted—a house, money, designer clothes, a nice car. And yet she had nothing. She was nothing without Elizabeth Ann.
Gazing dully at her fingers, at what had been a seventy-five-dollar gel manicure, she saw that her nails and cuticles were chewed and ragged.
Had she done that? She must have. She barely remembered.
No matter. She reached down and touched the fringe of the afghan, and began to shred it, methodically tugging and unraveling each thread. She worked patiently, thoughtfully, trying hard to make her mind go completely blank. To stop the pain. Except for a small pile of shredded fuzz that was building up beside her, the room was immaculate. She’d insisted on it. The room had to be absolutely perfect for when Elizabeth Ann came home.
Because she would return home. Susan had prayed for it. Whispering desperate prayers, her own self-composed mantras, over and over again.
“Susan?” Richard called out. His voice was muffled. He was down the hall, looking for her in their bedroom.
Susan’s fingers stopped working, but she didn’t answer him. She wouldn’t answer him.
Sitting on the floor, gently pressed against her left hip, was her phone. It was her lifeline to the police. And she was expecting a call anytime now. Maybe any minute. She would answer calmly, and the police, with joy barely masked in their voices, would tell her that Elizabeth Ann was safe. That she’d been found.
Then Susan would drive to the police station and, once her baby was put back in her arms, would never let her out of her sight again. She would fulfill her destiny of being the perfect, nurturing, loving mother. There would be Mommy and Me classes, Montessori school, Disney movies, and princess birthday parties with real live purple ponies. She had it all planned out. There was no way this was not going to happen.
“Susan, where are you?” Richard called again. He sounded shaken and angry, and had been storming around the house, doling out threats she knew he couldn’t make good on.
A fresh wave of despair swept over Susan like a swift, incoming tide. She was vaguely aware of more tears and her own mutterings.
“Sweetheart?” Richard stepped into the nursery and saw her huddled in the corner. “Sweetheart, what are you doing down there? Who are you talking to?”
Susan buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to talk to Richard right now. She only wanted to think about the bright future. Music lessons and family vacations and little pink dresses with ruffles.
Just the other night she had read a book to Elizabeth Ann—Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.
Of course, she had no idea of the places Elizabeth Ann would go. Or where she was right now. She choked hard, tasting pain and bitterness, feeling that her heart was about to shatter.
And then the phone rang . . .
9
WEST River Road was a winding, tree-lined boulevard that snaked along the Saint Paul side of the Mississippi River. The University of Minnesota stood at its northernmost point, the Ford Bridge and Lock and Dam No. 1 at its southern tip. Strung out like elegant pieces in a Monopoly game were large mansions, a slew of contemporary-looking homes, and one exclusive high-rise condo.
A perennial favorite of bikers, hikers, and dog walkers, River Road and its accompanying pathway veered precipitously close to the edge of the four-hundred-foot-tall sandstone bluffs that hunkered above
the turgid, half-frozen Mississippi River.
Hidden Falls, usually a trickle of spring water that oozed from a cut in a limestone deposit, was located in a steep gorge that sliced directly down to the river. It was frozen now, iced over completely. Across from the falls, on mocha-colored bluffs crusted with snow, stood historic Fort Snelling.
When Afton arrived on the scene, an ambulance, a half dozen police cruisers with light bars flashing, and a Newswatch 7 truck were already convened. A cluster of bright vapor lights, running off a sputtering generator, lit the chill night. Exhaust fumes from the multitude of vehicles created a noxious cloud that hovered above the frozen ground and wafted through the crowd of onlookers, creating a near-psychedelic atmosphere of strobes and haze.
High above, a jetliner arced its way toward the airport just off to the southeast. The deafening engine noise overwhelmed the shouted orders from law enforcement superiors as the Tactical Rescue Squad busied themselves with more ropes and cables in case they had to lower a second team over the steep cliff.
Afton’s feet crunched across the snow. Giant yellow snowplows had chopped and spit the most recent snowfall into hard little chips, then the bitter wind had swept it onto the boulevard and turned it into hardpack. Weeks of exhaust fumes spewed from passing cars had painted it a dirty gray. Now it was snirt, Minnesota’s dreary combination of snow and dirt.
So cold, Afton thought as she pushed her way through the crowd of police officers, FBI agents, Fire and Rescue people, and neighborhood folks who’d donned their North Face parkas to come out and watch the spectacle. They whispered and wondered among themselves. If it was the Darden baby, how long had it been down there? And what shape was the poor thing in? Faces were grim and stretched tight, knowing the baby might have suffered terrible frostbite after only a few minutes of exposure.
Little Girl Gone Page 5