As Afton hurried around the car, one leg slid out from under her and she nearly plunged into a steep drainage ditch. Knee-deep in snow and struggling, she muscled herself up, then hobbled around to the other side of the car, where hasty introductions were made. The two hunters sat quietly in their pickup truck, looking worried behind steamed-up windows, clearly not eager to get out and mingle with the newly arrived contingent of law enforcement.
Then Sheriff Burney pointed toward a distant tree line and Afton fell in line as he led Max, Deputy Gail, and Martha the coroner toward the woods. Nobody spoke a word as they followed a trail of footsteps across a snow-covered field, where bits of pale yellow corn stubble poked through.
When they were halfway there, another deputy emerged from a copse of trees and waved a hand at them. He shouted something, but the words were indistinct and lost to Afton, who was walking at the back of the pack.
Sheriff Burney turned around and hollered over the wind, “Deputy Seifert says the FBI and their crime scene team called. They just hit town and should be here in ten minutes.”
They continued walking while, all around them, snowdrifts grew and receded, formed at the whim of the ever-insistent wind.
Afton was used to the cold. She’d grown up in Minnesota, where cold was always a factor. In her early twenties she’d been an Outward Bound instructor, even leading some winter campouts in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. She was a skier, a neophyte snowboarder, and thrived on the challenge of ice climbing. Even with all those years of outdoor acclimatization, her feet began to feel numb in the subzero cold. Then the unwelcome sensation settled in her face. Each broken snowflake that struck her forehead and cheeks was a tiny pinprick of pain. She put her gloved hand over her mouth and nose to shield herself and kept slogging. Ice beads began to form on the tips of her eyelashes from each foggy breath.
But the trees were drawing closer and closer. They were almost there.
Five steps into the forest, into a grove of sheltering oaks and cottonwoods, and it felt as though Boreas, the Norse god of the north wind, had suddenly decided to hold his breath. The wind died to a whisper; the cold seemed to ease off a touch. Huge black crows scolded from the treetops as Deputy Seifert pointed out a trail of blue spray-painted footsteps.
“Stay in the blue prints,” Seifert warned everyone.
Afton stepped out of line and saw a second set of prints leading deeper into the woods. “The other prints are from the hunters?” she asked.
“Yes,” Burney said. “We marked our trail, but tried to keep everything else as uncontaminated as possible.”
“Smart,” Max said.
They trudged along another twenty feet into a small clearing. Just as Sheriff Burney had told them, there was an old log. It was large and smooth and silvered, as if it had fallen a long time ago and had lain there ever since. Bare trees overhead formed twisted patterns in the dying sun.
“Okay now,” Burney said. “It’s over here.”
Afton tiptoed carefully through the blue prints. Moving toward the scene was almost like playing a monochrome game of Twister.
Right foot blue. Left foot blue.
Afton crept up next to the log, where a fragment of pale green blanket stuck out. The sight of that blanket, frozen stiff and smudged with grime, made her heart pound faster.
Who could do this? she wondered. Then the answer swam up to her. A monster.
All five of them stood in a semicircle and gazed at the fallen log, which had done its job in sheltering the tiny little body, probably keeping it safe from woodland predators. The sheriff pulled out a heavy-duty Maglite and aimed the beam at the open end of the log.
“Go ahead,” Martha said. “I already took a look.”
Max took a step forward and bent down on one knee. He peered in for a good couple of minutes, then shook his head and stood up.
Afton was next.
13
AFTON sank down on both knees into the soft snow and put her face as close to the end of the log as possible. The shadows formed a light and dark chiaroscuro, playing faint tricks on her, but she could definitely make out the body of an infant swaddled tightly in a blanket. Anger and shock flared within her, and her initial reaction was to beat a hasty retreat. Fighting to push down that impulse, she forced herself to absorb every detail of the scene. There was the dirty, frayed blanket that appeared to be woven from cheap polyester. And though she couldn’t see much of the infant, she noted a few hairs. Dark hairs. Wasn’t the Darden baby supposed to be towheaded? She thought so.
Finally, Afton stood up and brushed snow off her knees. She turned to Martha and asked, “From what you could make out, could you get any sort of fix on the baby’s age?”
Martha shifted from one foot to the other as wind moaned through the treetops. She was a little chubby and older that the rest of them, like someone’s slightly hip grandmother. She’d dressed well for the cold, too—red snowsuit, thick fur gloves, and boots. A few strands of gray hair poked out of her stocking cap.
“I can’t tell from just looking at this baby,” Martha replied. “I’d need X-rays of the skull to tell how far along the anterior and posterior fontanelles have solidified. We can also tell age by how advanced its cranial sutures are.”
“But it’s not a newborn,” Afton said.
“No.”
“And it could be older than three months.”
“It probably is.”
Sheriff Burney cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t be calling that poor baby an it.”
Martha held up a finger. She wasn’t finished. “What I can do is give you a guesstimate of how long that baby’s been out here.”
“How long?” Max asked, stepping in closer.
“More likely months rather than days,” Martha said.
“So it’s not the Darden baby,” Afton said.
“It’s not her,” Martha said.
Sheriff Burney grimaced. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Maybe bad for you,” Afton said. “This is your problem now.”
Max shrugged. “We’ve still got the FBI’s crime scene guys coming to take a look.” He turned toward Martha. “If it doesn’t put your nose out of joint, they could probably take the baby back to Minneapolis, get some lab tests going, do a DNA analysis. Maybe even put their guys on the hunt for the parents.”
“Or the killer,” Afton said.
“That’s fine with me,” Martha said. “We’ve got a contract with the ME in Minneapolis anyway. I’m not really trained in forensics; my specialty is pediatrics.”
“Minneapolis PD and the FBI have better equipment and more manpower than we have down here,” Burney said. “So I definitely think that’s the best thing to do, considering the circumstances.”
It was full-on dark now as Afton stared into the woods. A strange thought capered through her brain—trolls stealing babies.
Now where did that come from?
Maybe she’d read about it in one of Poppy’s storybooks. No trolls here, though, she thought to herself. Just a stone-cold killer.
“Here they come,” Sheriff Burney said. He looked past their group at a pair of white-clad techs and a man in civilian garb who were pushing their way toward them. “They made good time.” When they got closer, he called out, “You made good time.”
Afton immediately recognized the man walking in the lead. It was Don Jasper from the FBI’s Chicago office. She’d met him yesterday afternoon in a fleeting introduction outside Thacker’s office. Today he was wearing a nice-looking shearling jacket and a navy stocking cap that said FBI in yellow letters.
The two techs deposited their cases and immediately began securing the perimeter and setting up lights. Once the crime scene resembled an outdoor photo shoot, they readied their cameras and began shooting stills as well as video. One of the techs pulled M
artha aside and began discussing protocol for the removal of the body.
“Hey, fella,” Jasper said to Max as they shook hands. Then he turned to Afton and stuck out a hand. “Don Jasper. FBI.” He was tall and lanky with steel gray hair and warm brown eyes the color of precious amber. They seemed to twinkle when he spoke.
“Afton Tangler,” she said. “We met yesterday. Briefly.”
“Oh sure. And you are . . .”
“Minneapolis Police Department liaison.” Afton decided the man was not unattractive. On a scale of one to ten, he was a . . . well, he was definitely up there.
“A liaison on a crime scene when there are no victim’s family present?” Jasper said. “They must think highly of you.”
“It’s more happenstance,” Afton explained. “I was out with Max when he got called down here.”
Jasper cocked his head at her. “So you’re working on the missing Darden baby case, too.”
Afton nodded. “We were just interviewing the execs at Novamed, Richard Darden’s previous employer.”
“Learn anything?”
“Nothing beyond the usual boilerplate bullshit,” Afton said.
“Ah,” Jasper said. “I see you have the proper amount of irreverence and disdain for civilian corporate culture. You’ll fit right in with us.”
“Trying to,” Afton said. Hoping to. She took a step back as Max and Sheriff Burney joined the conversation.
“Did you talk to the two hunters still quarantined back in their truck?” Max asked Jasper.
“There’s an agent interviewing them right now,” Jasper said. “But I don’t think . . .”
“What?” Afton asked.
“I don’t think anything will come of it,” Jasper said.
“They’re just a couple of regular old hunters,” Sheriff Burney said. “Stumbled upon a bad thing and made the right call.” He glanced toward the log. “Oh boy.”
The four of them watched silently as Martha and one of the crime scene techs gently slid the baby out of the log and placed it inside a black vinyl body bag. The bag was then placed upon a child-sized stretcher.
Sheriff Burney slid his hat off his head. “I feel like we should say a prayer or . . .” He stopped and glanced up as the sounds of helicopter rotors split the air.
“What the hell?” Max cried. Now he was looking up, too. “Did our ride just take off?”
The roar was absolutely deafening as a helicopter suddenly appeared over their heads. It hovered above them, swaying slightly, creating a tremendous updraft that turned snow, ice, and bits of leaves into a swirling maelstrom.
Afton gazed up as a bright beam of light suddenly flashed on, encompassing all of them in its glowing circle. Then she saw the red letters that spelled out CHOPPER 7. The unwelcome intruder was Channel 7 News.
“Go away!” Sheriff Burney yelled as the technicians scrambled frantically to try and salvage what was becoming a messed-up crime scene. “Get the hell outa here!” But his words were drowned out by the frantic beating of the rotors.
High overhead, Afton could see a man with a camera poke his head out the side of the helicopter and begin filming the scene below. Now their entire group was trying to wave the news chopper away, but it held firm. The cameraman continued to film as the coroner and one of the crime scene techs leaned over the stretcher to hopefully protect the baby’s body from the swirling wind.
Afton looked around at the angry faces, the shiny black body bag, and the helicopter hovering overhead like some kind of dark angel. And thought, What a terrible ending to a terrible day.
* * *
BUT it wasn’t over yet. There was the technical matter of a debriefing at police headquarters. Don Jasper and Harvey Bagin, also with the FBI, huddled with Max and Afton in Deputy Chief Thacker’s office. It was an “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours” type of meeting. The FBI guys had a laundry list of completed tasks and an even longer to-do list. Then it was Max’s turn to sketch out the meeting at Novamed and their findings in Cannon Falls. He did it quickly and efficiently, as if he’d already written the report in his head.
“This Cannon Falls baby isn’t related to the Darden baby kidnapping, is it?” Thacker asked.
“Doubtful,” Max said.
“Okay then,” Thacker said. “Write it all up and give it to me in triplicate.” He looked across his desk at Jasper. “Better make that quadruplicate. We have a lot of different agencies working on this.”
* * *
THANK goodness you can type,” Max said. He and Afton were squashed into his cubicle, finishing up the last of their report. He yawned, did a slow neck roll, and said, “Long day.”
“You look like you’re badly in need of a decent night’s sleep,” Afton said.
“I’m okay.” Max pulled a jingle of keys from his pants pocket. “I’ll be home in . . .” He stopped, frowned, and said, “Damn.”
Afton looked up from the computer. “What’s wrong?”
“I was gonna stop over at HCMC. Talk to that kid.”
“Ashley Copeland. The babysitter.”
“Yeah, but it’s probably too late now,” Max said. “They probably gave her a sleeping tablet or something.”
“I drive right by that hospital,” Afton said. “I could pop in.”
Max looked mildly interested. “Yeah?” Then he shook his head. “It’s probably a bad idea. If Thacker got wind . . .”
“You don’t trust me? To interview her, I mean.”
“She’s already been interviewed. I was just gonna make a casual inquiry.”
“Because you’re wondering if she might have remembered something else,” Afton said. “Something new.”
“That’d be about it.”
“I can handle that.”
Max continued to stare at her.
“Really,” she said.
Max considered this for a few moments and then nodded. “After the kind of day we just had, I suppose you can.”
14
AFTON eased her Navigator up to a meter on the street outside Hennepin County Medical Center. The glowing clock on the courthouse tower two blocks away said nine o’clock. Late to be visiting someone. Then again, she knew that hospitals were much more lenient about visiting hours these days. And she did carry a police ID.
Inside, the gift shop had just closed, its wooly sheep, plump teddy bears, and tethered balloons keeping their silent vigil in the dark. Afton rode an elevator up to the fifth floor and crept down the hallway looking for Room 522, Ashley’s room. The overhead lights had been dimmed and the floor was quiet but not yet deserted. Nurses floated past on rubber-soled shoes, a patient shuffled along pushing an IV pole down the hall. As Afton passed a few open doors, she heard snatches of quiet conversation, the hum and hiss of machines, and the rattle of privacy curtains being pulled.
Room 522 was at the very end of the hall. Afton stopped outside the door and listened. Nothing. No TV, no talking. Maybe Ashley Copeland was asleep already? Maybe, just as Max had figured, she’d been given a pill to carry her away to dreamland.
Well, she’d come this far. Besides, she knew that Ashley was just a few years older than Tess. Which meant the girl could be huddled under the covers, playing possum and texting like mad.
Afton pushed open the door and stepped into the room. A dim nightlight was on somewhere, but a flimsy privacy curtain had been pulled across one half of the room, blocking her view. Behind the curtain a shadow quivered.
“Ashley?” Afton said. “Are you still awake, honey?”
She put a hand out and slowly pushed the curtain aside.
“My name is Afton Tangler. I’m with the . . .” Afton’s eyes suddenly registered the dark apparition that loomed up on the other side of the sleeping girl’s bed.
“Ashley?” she choked out again. But she knew it wasn’t Ashley. Whoever this
dark, menacing person was, they were suddenly lunging directly at her!
Spinning as fast as she could, Afton raced for the door and pulled it open maybe half an inch.
Quick as a snapping turtle’s bite, a hand shot out and smashed the door closed.
Too late! Her escape was cut off!
Afton twisted her body around to face her attacker, determined to make a stand and defend herself. She jabbed toward the darkness that was his face, intent on poking a finger into his eye. But the man—whose face was completely obliterated by a wool ski mask—heaved himself hard against her and flattened her against the door.
Afton opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly clapped a hand across her mouth. She squirmed as she felt his pelvis bump up against her. His closeness, his almost indecent intimacy, made her skin crawl. Terrified, forcing her frenzied brain to recall her self-defense training, Afton fought like a wild woman. She wiggled and bit and struggled until she managed to rip her right arm free of his clutches. Mustering all her strength, she drove a fist up, hard, directly under the man’s chin.
He let out a woof, drew back an arm, and swatted her with an open hand, as if she were a bug. Afton’s head flew back and cracked hard against the door. Before she could regain her bearings, his fist slammed into her jaw.
Afton literally saw stars. Miniature constellations that spun sickeningly inside her head. She sagged into him and when he took a half step back, she gathered what strength she had left to jerk her chin downward and head-butt him in the chest. Two seconds later she was tossed to the floor. Pain flared in her lower back as the man crawled on top of her, trying to capture her arms and legs, as if they were contestants in a high school wrestling match.
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