He was so strong! And the sickening odor that came off him smelled like a wet animal.
Slowly, Afton stopped struggling until she lay completely still. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, so what was he going to do? The man was breathing hard now, like an overwrought teakettle. Was he excited by their struggle? Was he enjoying himself?
A terrifying thought rose like a bubble in Afton’s brain. Oh no! Was this the same boy who’d strong-armed Ashley the other night! Had he come back to finish things with Ashley? To rape her? Or worse, to kill her?
As Afton felt the man lift up slightly from where he had her pinned, she brought a knee up hard, aiming for his groin. She wasn’t on target, but she wasn’t all that far off either. As her knee connected, the man groaned and partially loosened his grip.
That was all she needed. Elbows and knees pumping like pistons, Afton spun away from him and clambered to her feet. Catlike, the man sprang up after her, blocking her chance for a getaway. With her options dwindling, Afton sprinted toward the bathroom. Just as her feet hit tile and she struggled to pull the door closed behind her, he landed a roundhouse punch and she felt a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. Afton stumbled as he hit her a second time, and this blow sent her reeling across the bathroom and crashing into a second door.
The impact of hitting that second door popped it wide open and catapulted Afton into the adjoining hospital room. She fell against an empty bed and slid awkwardly to the floor. She had two seconds to gather her wits and then he was on her again, this time hooking an arm around her neck. Afton gasped for air as he squeezed her hard, putting tremendous pressure on her airway. Blind panic began to set in. Her arms and legs flailed furiously, hitting an IV stand in the process. The metal pole crashed down on top of them, striking her assailant in the head. As his grip suddenly slackened, Afton scrambled on hands and knees toward a silver medical cart. She grabbed frantically for the boxy metal cart and wrenched it toward her. The medical cart swayed for a few moments, and then slowly tipped up onto two wheels. The drawers flew open, shooting its hodgepodge of contents toward them.
Afton grabbed the first thing she saw—a syringe for drawing blood. She clutched it in her hand and used her thumb to flick off the orange plastic tip, unsheathing the two-inch needle. Growling in anger, Afton spun around as fast as she could and cocked her arm. Like a picador attacking a bull, she lunged forward and rammed the syringe deep into the man’s neck.
The man let loose a bloodcurdling scream and flew backward. He stumbled and landed hard on his butt. One hand flailed and batted frantically at the syringe, which was stuck deeply in the side of his neck.
That was the break Afton needed. She ran for the door, yanked it open, and plunged down the dim hallway toward the nurses’ station. She spun around the tall Formica desk, sending a stack of file folders tumbling to the floor, banging her hip on the corner. She spotted a phone and grabbed it. A nurse, a small, dark-haired woman in a pink smock, who had just emerged from a storage room, gaped at her in surprise. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” she scolded.
“Call hospital security!” Afton cried. Then she punched in 9-1-1. And then she called Max.
* * *
TEN minutes later, Thacker himself showed up, looking both visibly shaken and quivering with outrage. He was accompanied by a scrum of eight uniformed officers, who immediately searched the area and huddled with hospital security. They looked everywhere, up and down the back stairway, ripping open janitor’s closets and storage rooms, but found no one.
Max showed up some twenty minutes later, ashen-faced and practically frothing at the mouth. “He was here?” he cried out when he caught sight of Afton. “You think it was the kidnapper guy?”
“We don’t know it was him,” Thacker said. He sounded calm and controlled, though he’d been furious when he’d first arrived.
“I think it was him,” Afton said. “I mean . . . for Christ’s sake, he was right there in Ashley’s room.”
“Does she know?” Max asked.
“No,” Afton said. “Amazingly, she slept through the entire thing. Even when the nurses moved her bed to a different room so crime scene could get in there, she never woke up once.”
“Sleeping pill,” Max said.
“Where do I get one of those?” Afton asked.
* * *
FINALLY, thankfully, when all the talking was done, when all the gentle reprimands had been doled out, Afton went home. Max had insisted on following her in his car and offered to park a cruiser at the curb to keep watch for the night.
Afton had declined his offer. She just wanted this day to be over and done with. Now she was at home, snuggled in her own bed under a pile of warm blankets. Poppy and Tess were asleep in their rooms; Bonaparte snored loudly from where he was curled up at the end of her bed. The TV was on, but it was just flickering images, something to occupy her wonked-out brain.
Afton was mentally reviewing her day, which had seemed to unfold like some kind of weird time warp. Chastisement followed by the trip to Novamed, followed by a nail-biter helo ride, followed by the discovery of the dead infant, and then the attack at the hospital.
Had it been one of the kidnappers that she’d tangled with tonight? Had the boy come back for Ashley Copeland? To do what? See her again? Kill her?
Afton had read the transcript of Ashley’s interview with the FBI. And the girl really hadn’t told them anything of value about her attacker.
Hell, she had been face-to-face with a crazy person who was probably the very same guy and she didn’t have much of a takeaway. Barely a description, really more an impression.
They would have to talk to Ashley tomorrow. Push the girl a little harder, try to ascertain if the girl knew more than she’d let on.
Afton fumbled with her pillow, struggling to get comfortable. She was having trouble trying to erase the image of the poor baby who’d been stuffed inside the log. Was that baby lying on a cold metal laboratory table right now? She knew the answer was yes. Max had even told Don Jasper that he planned to attend the preliminary autopsy tomorrow morning. The notion didn’t thrill Afton, but she supposed it was part of the case. And if she wanted to stay on this case, then an autopsy was part of the package deal.
Shivering, Afton picked up the remote control and flipped along until she hit Channel 7. It was eleven o’clock and she was curious—and a little fearful—to see what kind of footage the TV station had actually shot down in Cannon Falls. She drew a deep breath, amped up the sound, and watched as the somber face of the Channel 7 news anchor appeared. His blow-dried hair was camera ready, his diction was precise, even his demeanor was appropriately solemn as he said, “Good evening. Tragedy struck in Cannon Falls today when the body of a dead infant was discovered in a hollow log. And only Newswatch 7 was live on the scene to bring you this exclusive footage . . .”
Afton watched, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as the film footage played out just as she remembered it. The fields, the clearing in the woods, the tracks spray-painted blue. And there, in the middle of their little law enforcement huddle, she saw her own pale face staring quizzically up at the camera as everyone around her waved and shouted.
The anchorman blathered on. “. . . calls placed from our newsroom to the Sheriff’s Department in Goodhue County, as well as to our local FBI office, were not returned. A spokesperson for Susan and Richard Darden had no comment. So now we wait with bated breath to find out if this missing baby turns out to be the recently kidnapped Elizabeth Ann Darden—or if this is the body of yet another missing child.”
“Oh my God,” Afton whispered. She couldn’t believe they could be so callous as to speculate on the dead infant’s identity. She wondered if poor Susan Darden was watching this. She hoped not.
15
SUSAN Darden scrunched her knees up to her chin and stared disbelieving at the TV screen. There she was, that dog woman again. Right
in the center of the screen, staring up at the helicopter. Lady cop or liaison or whatever she claimed to be—she would never forget that face.
But as the Channel 7 News continued, her horror was suddenly compounded. A baby had been discovered in a desolate woods near Cannon Falls? Out in the cold with animals roaming around? Was it her baby? Was it Elizabeth Ann?
Panic gripped her. Why hadn’t the police called? Should she call them?
But still Susan didn’t throw back her blanket and jump off the couch. Her eyes were riveted on the TV screen as the camera panned from the stupid woman over to two people who were huddled together, obviously trying to shield something. Oh no, it was a body bag! She felt a rip inside her, a flash of pain that felt like she was on fire. Bitter tears welled up and she began to scream. Loud, pained howls, like a wild animal with its leg caught in a trap. She wanted to tear and claw and draw blood. In fact, if that dog woman were here right now, she’d rip out her eyeballs.
Deep within her rational mind, Susan knew she should try to pull herself together, call the police, and find out what had happened. Demand to know what had happened. But still she screamed, a bloodcurdling scream that trailed off into a raspy hiss. As the pain welled up like a balloon that would burst inside her, she grabbed a pink pillow and held it to her mouth.
Make it stop, she told herself. Make it all go away.
“Susan! Susan!”
She heard a familiar voice as she gasped and whimpered into her pillow. She felt as though she was being pulled into a deep morass, a nightmare from which she would never wake up. Now there were hands on her shoulders. Was someone trying to hurt her? She struggled, dropping the pillow, flailing her arms and throwing punches without bothering to open her eyes.
“Susan!” Richard Darden shouted. “Calm down, baby. Calm down.”
It took all her strength to pull back from the brink of despair. Exhausted, unable to move, she brushed a damp tangle of hair off her face and slowly opened her eyes.
Richard was standing over her, his expression a mixture of concern and panic.
“Susan?” he said.
The familiarity of his voice helped pull her out of it.
“The baby,” she whispered. “I just saw it on TV.”
“It’s not her,” Richard said. “It’s not our baby.” He said it slowly, enunciating carefully in his patient, paternal voice. The one he sometimes used when he was trying to cajole her.
She sat up and blinked. “Are you sure? Swear to me that you’re sure.”
“I already talked to the police on the phone.”
“They called? When?”
“An hour ago, maybe a little more. They said it’s definitely not Elizabeth Ann.” He reached out and snapped off the TV, as if to add emphasis to his words.
Susan put a hand to her heart, unsure whether to be grateful that her child had been spared, or even more fearful that Elizabeth Ann was still out there in the hands of . . . a crazy person.
“You’re sure?” she asked again.
“Positive,” Richard said. “I spoke with that agent, Don Jasper, from the FBI. He was most emphatic. It’s definitely not her. The baby they found was older, almost a year old. And it had been in the woods for several months.”
“Oh.” Susan looked around her family room with its matching cream leather sofas, swags of draperies, and antique cribbage table. After the flurry of the past two days, the intrusion of law enforcement officials with their badges and averted glances, the place suddenly looked forlorn and empty. “The FBI, the police. Are they here?”
“No,” Richard said. “I sent the one officer home a couple of hours ago.” He patted her shoulder gently. “You’ve been sleeping.”
She sat up a little more. “I had terrible dreams.”
“I can understand that you’re having trouble . . . coping. But, sweetheart, you’ve got to start making an effort.”
“I am. Really I am.” Susan fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose. “How are you holding up?”
“Terrible,” Richard said. But Susan thought there was something in his voice. He didn’t sound terrible.
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
Richard lifted both hands as if in supplication. “Nothing. Hoping. Praying, I guess.” He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Maybe you should take one of your pills. Go upstairs and crawl into bed, try to get some more rest. Just . . . zonk out.” He managed a smile. “Doesn’t that sound better than lying around down here?”
She wanted to scream at Richard and tell him that getting Elizabeth Ann back was what sounded better to her. Instead, she said, “I suppose.” After all, he was just trying to be helpful. She sighed. Men were never emotionally supportive in a crisis. Of course, she wasn’t exactly a model of female courage either.
“Want some help?” Richard offered a hand.
She stood up and gave a shaky smile. “No, I can manage.”
“Atta girl.”
Susan wobbled down the hallway and into the kitchen. She needed a sip of juice or water to soothe the rawness in her throat. But a fresh onslaught of grief came flooding over her when she opened the refrigerator. Lined up on the middle shelf were four bottles of baby formula. Just sitting there. Waiting for her baby to return.
Susan slammed the door. She couldn’t even recall mixing them. She must have simply been acting on autopilot, fixing a bottle every few hours.
For a baby that isn’t even here.
Susan stared at the refrigerator for a long ten seconds, then pulled it open again and grabbed a bottle of mineral water. She unscrewed the top and pitched it aside—she didn’t care where—and carried the bottle back to talk to Richard.
He folded the newspaper down as she came into the room. “Feeling a little better?”
She made a broad gesture. “We have, what . . . five thousand square feet of house? Four bathrooms? A sewing room even though I’ve never managed to sew a stitch? A pool table even though you’ve never shot a round of eight ball? Guest rooms even though we’ve never seen an overnight guest? What’s it all for?”
Richard stared at her, pain flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean, what’s it all for?” He was suddenly on his feet, ready to confront her. “I don’t remember you having a problem when we picked out this house. You loved the Kenwood address, said it would impress all of your friends. And you were perfectly enthralled with hiring decorators and wall mural painters, and scouring art galleries for the perfect paintings and antiques. You even ordered monogrammed guest towels, for Christ’s sake. Seems to me you were completely on board at the time. Am I right about that?”
Susan nodded slowly. “Yes, I was. I’ll admit that, I wanted the dream lifestyle, the perfect home. But now our bubble has been completely burst. I mean, what good is all this if we don’t have Elizabeth Ann?”
“Susan, I hear you,” Richard pleaded. “And my heart aches just as much as yours does. But what do you want me to do? Go outside and drive around? Look for her like she’s some kind of lost puppy?”
“I just want . . .” Susan flapped an arm and said, “I don’t know what I want.” Then her face tightened and she said, “No, I do know. I want our baby back.”
“And so do I,” Richard said, firmness in his voice. “And I believe, deep down in my heart, that we will get her back. I have to believe that. It’s the only thing that keeps me moving forward, the only thing that keeps me from going absolutely freaking insane.”
“Richard,” Susan said. She touched a hand to his cheek and stepped in close. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a shrew, a crazy lady. We have to stick together, we have to get through this together.”
Richard put both arms around her and pulled here close. “Then let’s forget these last ten minutes ever happened, okay?” He kissed her gently on the nose. “Just go upstairs, take your bottle of water with you, and sw
allow one of your pills. Hop into bed and try to get some rest. God knows you need it.”
“What are you going to do?” Susan asked, yawning. She really did feel completely exhausted.
“I’m going to wait right here. Keep watch. Keep the home fires burning.”
“Bless you,” Susan said. She turned and trudged over to the staircase. As she climbed each step, she felt like she were moving through molasses. She could even see faint traces of black powder—latent powder, they’d called it—the stuff police used to obtain fingerprints. To gather evidence.
Susan let out a low groan at the bitter reminder. Because the other horrible thing that crouched at the back of her mind like some kind of evil praying mantis was the fact that her home had been invaded. A crazy person had violated the sanctity of their home. They’d stolen in under cover of night, gone into Elizabeth Ann’s nursery, and snatched her from her beautiful little crib.
Unable to resist, Susan tiptoed down the hallway and pushed open the door. She stepped into Elizabeth Ann’s room, fighting back tears now, and collapsed on the familiar pile of pillows and plush animals.
What had she been thinking? A two-thousand-dollar crib? Hand-painted bunnies capering across the walls? A fancy, high-tech baby monitor so she could sing Elizabeth Ann to sleep from practically any room in the house?
They should have put their money into better locks, an armed response security service, and a really nasty German shepherd. Screw the nanny cam. A lot of good that had done.
Twenty minutes went by with Susan lost in thought and deep regret. Then she pulled herself up and crept over to the crib. Reaching in, she picked up a plump black-and-white penguin. It had bright beady eyes and a little yellow felt beak, and it had been Elizabeth Ann’s favorite stuffed animal. As Susan cradled the fuzzy toy against herself, half humming a nursery rhyme, she heard a faint ringing sound.
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