“Monastic,” Afton said. There was a small closet but it was minus a door. A dozen articles of clothing dangled from wire hangers.
“Not much to see,” Showles said. “He lives a fairly quiet existence. Which is why I’m surprised you . . .”
Afton moved swiftly toward a series of pictures pinned to the wall and tapped one with a finger. “Is Mr. Sponger religious?”
Showles thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Not particularly. We have prayer circle, but . . .”
“Whatcha got?” Max asked.
“These pictures,” Afton said. She was slowly recalling the one art history class she’d taken at the University of Minnesota. “They’re bits and snips from Renaissance paintings. In fact, they look as if they were probably cut from an art book.”
Max stared at the pictures and frowned. “Angels. Huh.”
“They’re actually cherubs,” Afton said. “Painted by Raphael.” She was starting to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Max sucked in air through his front teeth as he studied the pictures a second time. “They’re babies, really. Little blond babies.” He shifted his gaze to Showles. “Where’d you say Sponger liked to hang out?”
“It’s cold, so he might be at the library . . . a few blocks over.”
“Walker Library,” Afton snapped. “Let’s go.”
* * *
WALKER Library wasn’t the most popular spot this Tuesday afternoon. They pulled into one of a dozen empty parking spots, next to a bicycle outfitted with studded tires and chained to an iced-up drain spout.
Their footsteps were loud and determined as they crunched across a layer of rock salt that the library’s maintenance staff had probably laid down to melt the ice.
“SWAT is still backing us up?” Afton asked. Her nervousness had turned to fear. Tom Showles’s mention of Sponger’s psychotic breaks didn’t sit well with her.
“I told ’em to stay back,” Max said as they muscled their way into the newly spiffed-up library. “Unless I make the call. Then they’ll come running.” Two men and a frizzy-haired woman were huddled at the front desk sorting books. They barely afforded them a glance as they breezed past.
Afton figured this was good. Get in, find their man, and get out. Let the chips fall where they may. And if they had to bring in the SWAT guys, so be it.
“You circle right, I’ll go left,” Max said. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Afton slipped off to the right, edging between the outside wall and the first set of tall, metal bookshelves. She decided she’d do a methodical search, up one aisle, then down another. She stepped along briskly, got to the end, turned a corner, and glanced at a small sign. She was in nonfiction, in a section that went from Relationships to Zoroastrianism.
Not surprisingly, nobody was browsing books in this particular aisle. No problem. This was a sprawling library and she still had lots of aisles to cover. She ghosted along, covering two, then three more aisles. No sign of Sponger. Turning a corner, she emerged into a common area. One man in a suit sat with his back to her, doing a hunt-and-peck number on his laptop computer. A young mother paged through a magazine while her toddler slept in a stroller. Another young woman, a student perhaps, read a Joan Didion novel, making occasional notes.
Sponger wasn’t here.
Okay, just keep going.
Afton was in fiction now, moving along, a few book titles that she’d always wanted to read catching her eye. She turned the corner and . . . boom.
Sitting on the floor, bent over a large book, was a man in a ratty gray parka, brown stocking cap, and dirty Sorel boots. He was frowning and muttering to himself. Was this Sponger? Had to be—he looked an awful lot like the guy from the photo. She just hoped he’d remembered to swallow his little pink pills this morning.
Afton backed out of the aisle slowly and went off in search of Max. She found him lurking in the Business Section.
“Sponger’s here,” she told him. “Maybe ten rows over. In fiction.”
Max’s eyebrows rose in twin arcs. “Show me.”
They dodged around shelves and tiptoed down a row of books just one aisle over from where Sponger was sitting. Afton pulled a book off a shelf and Max peered through the empty space. He nodded when he caught sight of Sponger’s face. He recognized him, too.
“Wait here,” Max whispered. He walked to the far wall, paused for a moment, and then dove around toward Sponger.
Sponger saw him coming and exploded like he’d been fired from a cannon. He leapt to his feet, squirted away from Max, and almost ran smack dab into Afton, who had headed around the other way.
“Hey!” Afton cried as Sponger skittered past her, wild-eyed and screeching, his arms flapping like an angry bird. She flailed out, trying to grab hold of him, but her fingertips only brushed the tail end of his coat.
“Noooo!” Sponger screamed as he raced through the common area. Chairs flew, stacks of magazines toppled, a row of CDs went down like dominoes. Sponger grabbed a metal chair, tossed it back at them.
Afton leapt over the fallen chair, but heard a crashing sound and then Max swearing behind her. He hadn’t cleared it.
“Call SWAT!” Afton cried. She pounded out the front door after Sponger and skidded to a stop. Her eyes darted up and down the street, trying to figure out which direction he might have run. Finally, she caught sight of him.
Sponger had dodged his way across Hennepin Avenue through fairly heavy traffic and was on the far sidewalk running north.
“Police! Stop!” Afton shouted, but Sponger ignored her. Scared but determined, she dove into traffic, was almost bullied back by a big black SUV with an aggressive driver and a honking horn, but managed to skitter across the street anyway. Sponger might have had a running start, but Afton had something to prove. If this was the guy who attacked her last night, she was out for revenge. Gonna run this asshole down, she told herself, kick him in the balls, grab him by the throat, and not let go no matter what.
Pushing herself, Afton sprinted after him. Up ahead of her, Sponger might have looked awkward and gawky, but he was setting a blistering pace. No problem. She was prepared to chase him forever. All the way into downtown Minneapolis if need be. Or until the guys in the black van showed up to take him down.
Which was why Afton was completely shocked when Sponger suddenly squirted off to his right and fled down a narrow, barely plowed alley that looked like a cul-de-sac.
Afton pumped harder, raggedly sucking cold air into her lungs, her legs driving like pistons as she followed him.
Sponger stumbled, turned to look back over his shoulder, and saw her coming. That’s when things went a little crazy. He zigzagged toward a pile of snow, seemed to hesitate for one frozen moment, and then tumbled forward and disappeared completely.
What?
Ten seconds later, Afton pulled up short and stared down a steep, snow-covered embankment. There he was, running below her on a trail. Like a fox who’d gone to ground, Sponger had slithered his way down into the deep trench that was known as the Midtown Greenway. Dug over one hundred years ago as a railroad corridor, it was now a paved road for bicycle and pedestrian traffic. But this time of day, in the dead of winter with the sun making an early descent, the roadway was deserted, icy, and cold. It yawned into the distance for miles, snaking under dozens of old bridges and offering myriad places to hide.
Still, Sponger didn’t have that much of a lead on her. Afton hurled herself over the side in what she hoped would be a controlled descent down the fifty-foot-high embankment. Feet set wide apart, she kicked up twin rooster tails of snow that blew back into her face and mouth. Slipping and sliding her way down the hill, she mentally prepared herself for a hard landing. As she hit bottom, she slewed to one side, rolled once, then recovered and bounced to her feet. Within seconds, she took off down the trail after
Sponger.
“Sponger!” Afton shouted. She was cold and wet and angry as hell. She also knew this was a terrible place to be stuck. Even though she was running through the heart of the city, the hostile landscape felt more like something out of a nuclear winter. Enormous dark trees rose up on each side of her, their bare branches rattling in the wind like old bones. There were huge piles of snow-covered rubble everywhere, and the sheer depth of the trench deadened all sound.
Sponger heard her call out. He half turned, flapped his arms, and promptly fell down.
Afton renewed her efforts. “Stop!” she cried. “Minneapolis Police!”
Sponger struggled to his feet and headed directly for one of the old bridges that arched over the trail. When he disappeared into the shadows, Afton slowed her pace. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Max’s number.
“Where are you?” His voice was urgent, angry.
“Down on that Midtown Greenway trail,” she told him. “Sponger just went under the Fremont Street bridge.” She fought to catch her breath. “I’ve been chasing him.”
“Keep an eye out,” Max said. “But do not try to apprehend him. SWAT’s on its way.”
“Hope so,” Afton murmured as she clicked off. She continued to walk slowly toward the bridge, shivering a little now. Her shot of adrenaline had worn off and the jitters had taken over. She stopped just short of the bridge and peered in, hoping to catch sight of him.
Damn, she couldn’t see Sponger lurking anywhere in the shadows. She crept under the bridge, where it was dark and the cold seemed even more brutal. Had he found a hidey-hole up among the stones and network of wrought iron? Or had he clambered all the way to the top of the embankment and found a sneaky way out of this old corridor?
Afton was debating what to do when she heard a low hiss, like an angry alligator. She spun around just in time to see Sponger pop out from behind a jagged hunk of stone.
“What do you want, girl?” Sponger snarled.
There was murder in his eye, and a hunting knife clutched in his right hand.
Afton felt her guts tighten. She backed away from him. “Take it easy. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Sponger turned the blade sideways and said, “I hurt you.”
Afton turned on her heels and ran. Without hesitation, she scrambled up the steep stone abutment that reinforced the old bridge. The stones were slippery and icy, but she moved carefully, knowing any misstep could cost her.
Hurry, hurry! Her brain beat out an urgent mantra as she heard him panting and scuttling noisily behind her.
When Afton was at the very top of the abutment, tucked way under the span of the bridge, she twisted around. Sponger was some twenty feet below her, doing his best to climb after her, but picking his way tentatively. Like some kind of crazy-ass pirate, he held his knife in his mouth as he clung to stones with his bare hands, pulling himself up, struggling and grunting to find basic toeholds.
Overhead, traffic rumbled on the bridge. Down here there was nobody around.
And Afton had no weapon.
Fear welled up inside her as she searched for something . . . anything to defend herself with. Her eyes caught sight of a narrow piece of rusted metal just above her. It was a bent piece of the bridge’s framework that stuck out about three feet.
Could she grab it in time? Could she even work it free?
Afton sidestepped her way across the narrow stone platform and grasped hold of the metal bar. One end was still loosely riveted to the struts of the old bridge. She jerked at the metal bar and pulled hard. Nothing doing. She glanced down and saw that Sponger was getting closer. She didn’t have much time. She could ditch out of here, try to slide down, and then make a run for it. Or she could stay here and make her stand.
Grasping the metal bar with both hands, she wiggled and seesawed it back and forth. It remained attached with only one loose weld. If she could just pop it free . . .
Sponger moved closer, growling, scrabbling upward, as Afton worked frantically. She had one eye on the metal bar that was bending much freer in her hands now. But Sponger had stuck a tentative foot on the cement shelf and was moving toward her, crab-stepping like a demonic circus performer in some high-wire act.
Metal flakes flew into her eyes as Afton gave the hunk of rusted metal one last tug. And it suddenly came loose!
Like Buster Posey swinging at a fastball, Afton whipped the metal bar at Sponger’s head. And connected hard. Hit him dead center in the forehead.
Thwock!
There was the sickening sound of ripping flesh, a light spray of blood, and then Sponger let loose a high-pitched scream as the knife flew out of his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped to his knees, managed a clumsy half twist, and then lost it completely. His fingernails fought for purchase, but it was too late. He went sliding down the bridge embankment on his belly, his chin bumping every rocky protrusion along the way. Thin, reedy cries shattered the silence. His knife clinked and clattered its way down the ragged stones alongside him. Then Sponger hit bottom and cartwheeled to a stop.
That’s when the cavalry finally showed up. The SWAT team was suddenly there in full force, garbed in black, wearing protective armor. They scrambled all over Sponger. They hoisted him up, shook him like a rag doll, and then forced him to his knees. One officer wrenched his hands behind his back, another bent over and picked up the knife.
“You okay up there?” one of the SWAT guys called to Afton.
She was crouched on her heels, trying to still her quaking heart and quiet her breathing. Yeah, she thought she was okay. But talk about your on-the-job training.
“I’m fine,” Afton called out. “I’m coming down.” She dropped into a crouch, lifted her heels, and bumped her way down on her backside.
Then Max was there, angry and apologetic all at once. “I had no idea,” he sputtered. “We should have gone in full force.”
Afton held up a hand. “It’s okay.” Max seemed more upset than she was. Or maybe she was just getting used to having close calls. “Really, I’m just fine.”
Sponger was whimpering and straining to pull himself into a tight little ball.
“Don’t hurt me,” he cried. “I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t hurt nobody.” His eyes rolled pitifully in his head and his chin quivered as if he were about to cry. Blood streamed from his nose, his lips were scuffed and bleeding.
“Then why’d you run away from us?” Max asked.
“Why’d you pull the damn knife?” Afton barked at him. She had to restrain herself from smacking him upside the head. “All we wanted to do was ask you some questions.”
“You’re from the military?” Sponger blubbered. He tried to press his hands against his head. “You’ll put metal clamps on my head to read my thoughts.”
Max snapped his fingers in front of Sponger’s face. “Hey. Dude. Pay attention. We’re Minneapolis Police.”
“What?” Sponger shook his head, still looking mistrustful. “Why?”
“Why?” Max said. “He wants to know why.”
“It’s not him,” Afton said to Max in a low voice.
Max frowned at her. “What?”
“It’s not the guy from last night.”
“You’re sure?”
“That guy was a maniac,” Afton said. “Sponger just seems . . . deficient.”
“Damn.”
Sponger looked miserable. “Don’t hurt me,” he whimpered again.
“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Afton said. She kicked a hunk of ice and sent it flying. “We just want to ask a few questions.”
“We want to know about the doll,” Max said.
“Doll?” Sponger said. He glanced around, blinking like mad, working his mouth soundlessly. He seemed to be hoping that the SWAT team guys would jump in and lend a hand. They didn’t.
“We caugh
t you on a security camera dumping a doll in the trash outside Rush Street Pizza,” Max said.
“The doll?” Sponger’s eyes seemed to focus a little better. “That’s what this is about?”
“Now you’re catching on,” Max said.
“Where’d you get it?” Afton asked.
Sponger ducked his head. “I bought it. I got money.”
“Where?” Max said.
Sponger sniffled, then said, “This guy I know over on Chicago Avenue. I knew him from before, when I lived in a different place.”
“And this guy sells dolls?” Max asked.
“He sells secondhand stuff.”
“You mean stuff that’s hot?” Max asked. “Stolen?”
Sponger’s eyes shifted away from him. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Okay,” Afton said. “You bought the doll because . . .”
“I got a little girl,” Sponger said. His face softened until he looked almost normal. “I haven’t seen her in . . . hell, I don’t know how long. Her mom and I had problems.” He bit his lower lip and then said, “Okay, the problems were mostly me.” He tapped an index finger against the side of his head. “You know?”
“Keep talking,” Afton said.
“Anyway, I bought the doll as a present for my kid . . . her name is Jennifer. Jennie. I got all cleaned up and went over there to see her.”
“Then what happened?” Max asked.
“I get to the door and Holly, that’s my ex-wife, she says I should have called first. She gets all pissed off and says that I can’t see Jennie right now. I told her I brought my little girl a nice present and couldn’t I just see her for a couple of minutes.” He shivered. “But Holly laughed in my face.” Sponger dropped his head and his eyes welled up with tears. “Same old shit, same old Holly. Nothing’s ever good enough.” Fat tears coursed down his cheeks.
Afton sighed deeply. Sponger wasn’t making up his story. This had really happened. She gazed at the western sky, which had darkened into a palette of purple and gray-blue.
“So why’d you pitch the doll?” Max asked.
“What the hell was I supposed to do? I don’t know, I just tossed it away. Pitched it in the Dumpster. Just like my life. Just . . . garbage. It’s all freaking garbage, man.”
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