Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  Telephone?

  She frowned, momentarily confused. And then it dawned on her that she was hearing the phone ring through the baby monitor. The monitor was switched on, able to broadcast back and forth from four different rooms in the house.

  But who’s calling at this time of night? Maybe the police?

  Her jitters returning in a rush, Susan leaned forward and cocked an ear at the baby monitor. And heard Richard say, “Now’s not a good time.”

  Not a good time for what?

  Then, “No, I’m not angry at you, Jilly. Of course not.”

  Jilly? Jilly Hudson, our former nanny?

  Susan decided that Jilly must have been seen the latest news report and called to offer support. Still . . . it seemed awfully late. She cranked up the volume control, but all she could hear was Richard saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Not very interesting. Then again, neither was Jilly.

  She was about to turn away when she heard Richard’s soft laughter.

  What? How can he be laughing at a time like this?

  Then came the damning words.

  “No, of course she doesn’t know,” Richard said. “Haven’t we always been discreet?” There were a few moments of silence and then Richard said, “Definitely not tomorrow, I’m totally jammed as you can imagine. But maybe I can pry myself away for an hour or two on Wednesday.” Jilly obviously responded to his suggestion because he chuckled again.

  Susan felt the sudden pounding of blood in her ears. Her mouth had gone bone dry, and there was the faint taste of bile at the back of her throat.

  Richard and Jilly? Oh my God!

  Susan stared icily at one of the painted dancing bunnies on the nursery room wall. And for the first time in two days, she felt a cold and rational intensity steal its way through her. She clenched her jaw in a bitter smile. She was suddenly dry-eyed as the cobwebs began to clear.

  Now Susan knew exactly what she was going to do.

  Tiptoeing silently down the hallway to their bedroom, she found her Gucci bag and pulled out her cell phone.

  Before Richard’s last laugh died on his lips, Susan was dialing the police.

  16

  CRAP! Why won’t this stupid thing stay on? Why won’t this stinkin’ tape hold? Why didn’t we get some decent diapers?”

  It was late at night and Shake was feeling tired, angry, and completely overwhelmed as she fussed with the baby and muttered to herself. All day long her stomach had been painfully bloated and the skin above her ankles puffy and swollen like donuts. There was a new sensation, too, a gnawing, stabbing pain deep within her gut that hadn’t been there before. The pain made it impossible for her to concentrate or even eat and she had a sickening feeling that her baby might be arriving sometime soon.

  And here she was, up late at night, getting zero to no rest, trying to change yet another diaper on a kid she didn’t even know.

  This wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d always thought babies were mostly pink wiggles and soft coos, adorable little bundles of joy. But this screaming, squalling, demanding, red-faced thing was way more than she’d ever bargained for. Even the diapers were a disappointment. The ones she’d wanted in the grocery store had cute little pictures of puppies and baby ducks on the labels. This crappy brand had nothing—just a series of legal disclaimers and the word NEWBORN on a stupid white box.

  Marjorie had told her that babies were easy—“Shit, sleep, and eat. It’s not rocket science,” she had said.

  But to Shake, it seemed a lot more complicated. In fact, everything in her life had gotten pretty dang twisted up lately. And here she was, alone, pregnant, and in pain, confined to a dilapidated house way out in the middle of nowhere.

  The worst part of her current living arrangement was that Marjorie was constantly monitoring her every move. She padded around the house in her robe and stupid, backless slippers, watching out the corner of her eye, always judging and finding subtle ways to humiliate her.

  It was no secret that the old bitch scared Shake. But what could she do about it? She had nowhere to go. Her dad wouldn’t take her back, and she hadn’t been in touch with her friends for months. Even Ronnie seemed cowed by his crazy mother, so he was spending more and more time downstairs. Every night after dinner, he’d disappear into the basement to work on one of his precious taxidermy projects. And when he wasn’t down there stitching up an animal carcass and picking out the perfect glass eyeballs, he was out procuring new animals.

  Dear Lord, when would she and Ronnie ever escape? They needed their own place, far away from Marjorie’s taunts and evil glances.

  Shake taped the diaper as best she could, gathered up the crying baby, and cuddled her to her chest. “Why won’t you stop crying?” she whispered. “I’ve changed you. I’ve fed you. Please stop . . .”

  “How did you ever think you’d manage one of those on your own?” came Marjorie’s taunting voice.

  Shake glanced around. Marjorie was hunkered in the doorway, staring at her. Her eyes glittered and she was smoking one of her Kool cigarettes.

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” Shake said. “It’s bad for her.”

  Marjorie exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Like you give a shit,” she said, and walked away.

  Shake carried the baby into the living room and sat down in a rickety rocking chair. She shifted her bulk and adjusted the baby in her arms, trying to cradle its head as best she could. The baby had actually stopped crying and was watching her now. She wondered if maybe her own baby would be born this week. She hoped so, because she’d been making plans.

  Once she was out of the hospital, once she had her former dancer’s body back, she would convince Ronnie to clear the hell out of this place. She knew he was a poor excuse for a boyfriend, but if she could get him away from Marjorie, maybe things would be okay. Okay being a relative term since she would pretty much settle for an apartment with hot running water, no roaches, and a landlord that wasn’t a grab-ass.

  Bending over the little baby, Shake began to sing softly. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” The baby closed its eyes. “And if that mockingbird don’t sing . . .”

  “It’s a good thing you know how to shake your fat ass,” Marjorie chuckled. “Because Christina Aguilera you ain’t.”

  Marjorie was back. All crooked teeth and wild eyes, watching her carefully.

  The baby started crying again.

  “Looks like your caterwauling woke her up,” Marjorie said.

  “I’m trying my best,” Shake whimpered. “She was almost asleep before you came in.”

  “So you’re saying it’s my fault?” Marjorie said. Her laugh was like a chain saw. “You know all about babies now. Did you get so smart reading those books by Dr. Spock? You know he’s not the guy on Star Trek, right?”

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone,” Shake hissed.

  Marjorie lifted her head and jabbed her chin at Shake’s stomach. “Because I’m waitin’ for your baby to come out.”

  “What if I decide to keep it,” Shake said, challenging her. Holding an actual baby had got her to thinking, had awoken a tiny flicker of maternal instinct that she didn’t know she had.

  Marjorie was unfazed. “Too late, cupcake. You already signed the papers for the adoption to go through.”

  “Maybe I could still arrange for a private adoption,” Shake said. “Make sure my baby goes to a nice young couple that I approve of.”

  “Honey,” Marjorie said. “You ain’t never gonna get that chance.” She reached out for the baby. “Give her to me. I’m gonna take her upstairs.”

  Shake handed the baby over to Marjorie. Part of her was glad to be rid of the fussy baby, and another part of her wondered if she was doing the right thing in giving her own child away. Her eyes misted over, and tears rolled down her face.

  “That’s rig
ht,” Marjorie said. “Cry about it.”

  Marjorie’s taunting voice followed Shake as she ran down the hallway and thundered down the creaking wooden steps to the basement.

  As dirty and dilapidated as the upstairs was, the basement was even worse. Flagstone walls had crumbled in some spots, leaving craggy, damp fragments in small piles (like dead animals?) on the earthen floor. Just coming down here set Shake’s teeth on edge.

  How can Ronnie stand to spend so much time down here?

  But she knew the answer. This was where he worked on his beloved taxidermy animals. Right here in what looked like Freddy Krueger’s boiler room. Ronnie’s macabre hobby only made the place scarier; the smell of formaldehyde, borax, and death was nearly suffocating.

  Shake moved quietly across the floor. Ronnie’s workbench was set up just to the right of the stairs. His back was turned to her as he worked on sewing up the underside of a large black bird.

  “Ronnie?” He’d come storming into the farmhouse a half hour ago. She thought he’d been out drinking, but his eyes were rimmed with red and his face was tight and angry, looking like he was about to pop a blood vessel. Had he been in a fight? She could only guess.

  “Ronnie?” Shake tried again. “I really need to talk to you.”

  Ronnie lifted his head and looked at Shake, as if he had suddenly woken up from a dream and was surprised to find her standing there. “Shake,” was all he said.

  Shake knew Ronnie wasn’t good at focusing his attention, that his mind had all the staying power of a steel ball inside a pinball machine. But when he was working on his critters, a nuclear bomb could explode outside the back door and he wouldn’t notice.

  “We gotta talk,” Shake said.

  “What?” Ronnie asked. He reached for a scalpel that was hung on a brown pegboard, along with his collection of razors, knives, and large sewing needles.

  “Your mother’s on my ass again.”

  Ronnie unfurled a length of nylon fishing line, cut it neatly with the scalpel, and then threaded the line through a large needle. “So what? She’s always been a little bug-shit.”

  “She scares me,” Shake said. “I don’t trust her.”

  Ronnie didn’t reply. His mind was still . . . elsewhere.

  “I think the smart thing for us to do would be to get out of here.” Shake bit her lip. “Like . . . now.”

  “Why would we do that?” Ronnie asked. He was listening to her, but Shake could tell he wasn’t really comprehending her words.

  “Because we don’t have any kind of life here. What if we just . . . took off and drove south? Got out of this brutal, cold weather. Tried to start a life someplace else.”

  Ronnie swiveled in his chair and frowned at Shake. “You want to just up and leave? What about the baby?”

  “I’ll deal with the baby.”

  Ronnie shook his head. “She’ll deal with the baby. That’s what she does.”

  Shake narrowed her eyes. She’d picked up just a whiff of something that felt oddly tainted. What was it? A lie? Danger lurking somewhere? “Is there something going on?” she asked. “Something you’re not telling me?”

  Ronnie turned back to his workbench and resumed stitching his bird. “No.”

  “That kid upstairs? You never really did explain that.”

  “Cousin,” Ronnie said. One eye fluttered, almost out of control, as he jerked the thread tight.

  “There’s something else we need to talk about,” Shake said. She hesitated. “Everything inside me has started to hurt.” She cupped a hand protectively beneath her belly. “Really bad.”

  “That’s because you’re pregnant.” Ronnie picked up a long knife, hefted it with a smile, and then set it back down. “Because you’re going to deliver your baby in a week or so.”

  “I think it might be something else,” Shake said. “Ever since I got up this morning, there’s been a new kind of pain. Sharp . . . stabbing.” She considered this. “What if something’s really wrong?”

  “You’re fine,” he mumbled.

  “But what if I’m not fine?” Shake said. “Like what if the baby is upside down or something?” Her voice was shaky now, her mind racing as she considered the awful possibilities. “Ronnie, I think maybe I should go see a doctor.” She wanted to kick herself for being so callous about her pregnancy. No checkups, no prenatal vitamins, just smoking and drinking and eating crappy fast food. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her?

  “You’ve got Mom.”

  Shake’s lip curled. “She ain’t no doctor.”

  Ronnie took another stitch and pulled it tight. “But she’s had plenty of experience. She’s helped a bunch of girls from that Amish community down near Lockport.”

  “You mean, like, she’s some kind of midwife?” Somehow Shake couldn’t picture Marjorie whispering gentle encouragement to a terrified woman who was in the throes of hard labor.

  Ronnie swiveled in his chair again, tried for a smile, and then reached out and circled his arms around Shake’s waist. “C’mere, you.” He pulled her tight, praying that she’d stop her endless yammering.

  Grateful for his attention, Shake sank against his chest.

  Ronnie eyed her with a smirk. “Maybe you just need to . . . you know.”

  Shake pulled away from him. “Ronnie, no. I can’t have sex now.”

  His face hardened. “You never want to have sex.”

  “Is that why you go out at night?” Shake asked. “To be with other women? To have sex with them?” Her heart felt like lead. “Is that where you were tonight?”

  “No, of course not.” Ronnie reached out and his hands made soothing little circles on her back. “You think I’d cheat on my girl? No way.” As he stroked her, his eyes darted back to his dead bird and his mind was a million miles away.

  “Oh, Ronnie,” Shake sighed. She wished with all her heart that she could believe him.

  17

  NOW she has to stay on the case,” Max said.

  Thacker countered. “She’s not a trained investigator.”

  They were sitting in Thacker’s office this Tuesday morning. Max was pleading his case for keeping Afton on the job, while Thacker scratched his head, looking dubious.

  “Doesn’t matter if she hasn’t come up through proper channels,” Max said. “She’s got all the right instincts. Last night proved it.”

  “Hey,” Afton said. “Do I get to say something here?”

  “No,” Thacker said. He leaned back in his chair, grabbed a yellow pencil, and twiddled it like a drummer would.

  “Just let Afton stick with me for a couple more days,” Max said. “Until we talk to the babysitter and huddle with this Binger guy who got fired by Darden.”

  “Farmer can handle that,” Thacker said.

  “Okay, then just until Dillon gets back,” Max pushed.

  “Which might not be anytime soon,” Thacker said. He blew out a glut of air. “On top of full-blown food poisoning, he’s flirting with pneumonia. He’s tossing down antibiotics like they’re Pop Rocks.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Max asked.

  “Maybe send flowers?” Afton asked. She was only half joking.

  Thacker glowered at her. “Are you really okay?”

  “Yeah. Hell, yes,” Afton said. She wasn’t really, she was sore beyond belief, but she wasn’t about to tell either of them that.

  “No ill effects?”

  Afton forced a cheery smile. “None.”

  “Okay, well . . . okay,” Thacker said. “Afton can stay. But only because we’re so damn shorthanded. Between this kidnapping situation, the Bloomington Avenue double homicide, and that pharmaceutical heist, we’re all chasing our tails like a pack of wild monkeys.”

  Afton had been holding her breath. Now she let it out slowly. She’d just noticed a little woo
den sign on Thacker’s desk that said, WHEN YOU CHASE TWO RABBITS, BOTH GET AWAY. She wondered if that was a Thackerism or an ancient Chinese proverb?

  “Anyway,” Thacker said, hunching forward, “as long as Afton’s going to hang around, I need to bring you both up to speed. There’s been a new twist in the Darden case . . .”

  Max and Afton exchanged glances. “What?” Max asked.

  “Susan Darden called the Homicide desk last night just after eleven o’clock,” Thacker said. “She was in a full-blown panic. Seems that Richard hasn’t exactly been a good and faithful husband.”

  Max let loose a low whistle.

  Afton perked up. “What’d he do? Have an affair?”

  “Apparently Mrs. Darden overheard her husband talking on the phone,” Thacker said. “He was whispering sweet nothings to their former nanny.”

  Afton fished for the name and came up with it. “Jilly Hudson?” She knew the FBI had interviewed the former nanny, even though Hudson hadn’t been considered a suspect. Now she wondered if the girl’s status might change. Sure it would. Of course it would.

  “Isn’t she just a kid?” Max asked.

  “She’s twenty-three,” Thacker said. “Old enough to know better.”

  “So is Darden,” Afton put in.

  “Anyway,” Thacker said, “Darden’s apparently been enjoying a full-blown, class A, convenient, extramarital love affair with Miss Hudson for a couple of months. And it started right there in his own little love nest.”

  “Not anymore he’s not,” Max said.

  Thacker continued. “Mrs. Darden was so off-the-chain furious when she found out that she demanded we send over a cruiser. By the time the responding officers arrived, she’d tossed her husband out on his ass. Apparently his shit was lying all over the front yard, too. Suits, shirts, underwear, golf clubs . . . everything scattered in the snow.”

  Max scratched his nose. “Sounds kinda crazy. Like a scene out of an Adam Sandler movie.”

  “Susan kicked him to the curb,” Afton said softly.

  “I guess,” Max said. He patted his jacket for his notebook, didn’t find it, and said, “Don’t we have Richard Darden scheduled to come in for a second round of questioning this morning?”