Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  “Ashley was released from the hospital . . . when?” Max asked. “Yesterday?”

  “That’s right,” Monica sniffled.

  “Has she opened up to you about the night of the kidnapping? Confided in you?”

  “Not at all. I think she just wants to forget the whole thing.”

  “Do you think she’s remembered any more about the guy who strong-armed her?”

  Monica shrugged. “She just told me that he was really strong. Said he reminded her of a wrestler.”

  “How so?” Afton asked. That was the exact impression that she’d gotten from the hospital attack.

  “You mean like a pro wrestler?” Max said.

  “No, more like a high school wrestler,” Monica said. “Those kids with all the crazy, flailing arms and legs who try to pin their opponent. For the win, I guess.”

  “We know this has all been very frightening for Ashley,” Afton said.

  “She told me she’s been traumatized,” Monica said. She wrinkled her nose and made a face. “And that she felt repulsed.”

  “Repulsed,” Afton repeated.

  Monica lowered her voice slightly. “She said the man smelled horrible.”

  Max’s brow wrinkled. “Was there anything about that in the report?”

  Afton shook her head. “Not that I recall. Ashley never mentioned any sort of smell to us either.”

  Monica waved a hand. “It was just something she mentioned to me in passing. A fleeting impression she had. It probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Mrs. Copeland,” Afton said. “It’s all important. Every tiny little detail is important.”

  “What did Ashley think the boy smelled like?” Max asked. “Like . . . garlic breath or something? Bad BO?”

  “No,” Monica said. “She said she thought he smelled like a dead animal.”

  32

  SHAKE shuffled into the kitchen in her stocking feet, opened the refrigerator, and stared with glassy eyes at their meager larder. All evening long she’d been having contractions. The pain would come in waves, first tight and twisting, and then bursting inside her as if someone had thrown an electrical switch in Hell. After a few minutes of agony, they would retreat to a dull ache. Like a bad, rotting toothache, only way deep down inside her.

  Her hands shook as she reached out and grabbed a carton of milk. She hadn’t eaten a thing all day and now she was feeling nauseous. Maybe some milk would help. Or maybe, she thought, having this stupid baby would help.

  She opened the carton and tipped it back, guzzling greedily from it. Wasn’t milk supposed to be nutritious for mothers-to-be? Sure it was. She thought it was.

  Taking a step back, she felt something cool and wet trickle down her legs. She looked down at her chest stupidly, thinking she’d dribbled milk all over herself. But there was nothing on her T-shirt. Then what?

  Shake finally noticed it. Not milk, but a clear liquid. Puddled on the gray linoleum floor right between her legs. Her eyes widened in surprise. This was what happened when you started to have a baby? Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  “Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Somebody help me!”

  Shake’s piteous cries brought Marjorie pounding in from the living room. “What the hell are you—” She slid to a stop. Saw Shake standing there, looking down between her feet, with a terrified look on her face and said, “About time.”

  “What’s happening?” Shake cried.

  “Water broke,” Marjorie said. She took the milk carton out of Shake’s hands and shoved it back inside the refrigerator. “Ronnie!” Now it was her turn to scream. “Get in here and clean up this mess. Your girlfriend is about to have a baby.”

  “It’s . . . uh . . . You mean now?” Shake babbled. “It’s started . . . now?” She was trembling so hard she didn’t seem to be able to hold her thoughts together.

  “Yes, now,” Marjorie said. “When did you think it was going to happen? Next week? Next year?”

  “Help me, please!” Shake implored. She stretched a hand out to the woman she feared the most. “We have to go . . . hospital.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “You’re going to a private birthing center over in Pepin County. It’s all been arranged.”

  Shake sank to her knees. “Hospital?” she pleaded in a small voice.

  “This is cheaper.”

  “Please,” Shake whimpered. “Don’t let it hurt.”

  Marjorie gazed at her, and for the first time, a look of pity came across her face. “Oh, girlie, it’s gonna hurt. Having a baby always hurts.”

  33

  IN what felt like a serendipitous blip in the weather—in other words, a slightly milder temperature and no additional snow for the time being—Afton decided to take Tess and Poppy sledding.

  So after all the chili con carne had been spooned up, the cornbread devoured, and the kitchen cleaned, they set out this Thursday evening pulling a sled and a flying saucer.

  Powderhorn Park was just four blocks away and an easy walk. And Afton, Tess, and Poppy weren’t the only ones out on this wintry night either. Snow blowers roared to life all around them as neighbors emerged from hibernation to clear their sidewalks and driveways. Impromptu snow forts sprang up amid all the piles. Some enterprising and highly territorial residents even cleared on-street parking spaces and then staked out their boundaries using yellow highway department cones.

  “Let’s go right to the big hill,” Tess begged. “After all, we’re not little kids anymore.”

  “It’s okay with me,” Afton told them. “But it’s a lot more hill for you guys to climb. It’s a lot steeper.”

  “We can do it,” Poppy said with confidence.

  “Okay, just be careful.” Afton watched as the two of them scrambled up a slope where the snow had already been packed hard by sleds, toboggans, flying saucers, and inner tubes. The kids reached the crest, then turned and waved at her. Afton waved back, grinning at her little munchkins. Then Tess flopped down on her sled and Poppy squatted on her flying saucer and they both flew down the hill.

  The kids went back up the hill again and again. As the evening wore on, they were joined by dozens more kids, so there was a constant din of squeals and shouts as sled trains were formed and impromptu races took place.

  Good for them, Afton thought. Her kids were having a ball. It was about time they got outside and breathed some fresh air. She was, she decided, a true Minnesota mom. She subscribed to the notion that winter should be embraced and that kids should be encouraged to get out there and enjoy winter sports. And even though sliding wasn’t technically a winter sport, it would certainly help build their confidence for the skiing or snowboarding lessons that were yet to come.

  “Look at me!” a child’s voice shrilled, and Afton couldn’t help grinning as a small boy shot past her on his sled. Then she turned her attention back to the top of the hill, where two dozen kids danced around, silhouetted in a bright patch of moonlight.

  “Tess, Poppy,” Afton called out. “One more time and then we’ve got to go home, okay?” She searched the hill, looking for an acknowledging wave, but didn’t see a thing. In fact, she didn’t see her kids anywhere.

  No, that can’t be. They were right there.

  “Tess, Poppy,” she called out again, this time a little more urgently.

  Still nothing.

  Where did they go?

  Afton glanced at the crowd of kids and parents who were at the bottom of the hill, but didn’t see them anywhere.

  Her heart lurched inside her chest. This is how it happens, she suddenly thought. This fast. You look away for one miserable second and your kids are gone.

  Afton was pounding up the sledding hill now, digging hard into the churned-up snow, slipping a little because of the stupid rubber soles on her stupid leather boots.

  Hurry up. Faster.

&n
bsp; She dodged a little girl in a pink-flowered parka who was balanced atop a yellow plastic runner, and sprinted the final twenty feet to the very top of the hill, her breath feeling ragged and labored.

  “Tess! Poppy!” Afton was shouting now, the other kids looking at her with either bored or puzzled expressions. She was clearly a worrywart parent who’d shown up to spoil their fun.

  Afton was panting heavily, spinning around as if in a daze, looking for her kids.

  They’re here, they have to be here.

  And they were.

  She found them just over the crest of the hill. Daredevil Tess had decided to slide down the other side. The dangerous, steep side that ended abruptly in a church parking lot. Poppy was hunkered in the snow, a few feet down, watching her.

  “What are you doing?” Afton screamed at them. “What were you thinking? I couldn’t see you guys.”

  Tess looked thoroughly chagrined. “Sorry, Mom, but we were—”

  “I was so worried.”

  Afton’s heart was still hammering inside her chest as she grasped their little mittened hands and dragged them back home.

  * * *

  AFTON made a conscientious effort to try to relax once she was back in the warmth and comfort of their own little dwelling. Nothing had happened; the kids were okay. She’d had a Nervous Nellie brain fart; that was all. Still, she felt pent up and restless. Every time she got up to do something, Bonaparte jumped up to follow her, like a friendly ambassador. She settled into an easy chair and tried to read the new John Sandford thriller, but like an old-fashioned stuck record, her mind kept skipping over and over the same sentence.

  Finally, she set her book aside and decided there were just too many things on her mind. The kidnapping, finding the Cannon Falls baby, Muriel Pink’s murder, the kidnapping. She felt both enervated and keyed up at the same time. Her head was working overtime, spinning various theories about the Darden baby, Muriel Pink’s killer, and everything else. But nothing felt right. Nothing seemed to gel.

  Afton stared at the TV, where flickering, dancing images captivated her girls, but couldn’t seem to hold her own interest. Maybe if she made a phone call downtown? To see if anything had happened?

  Afton slipped into her small office, Bonaparte padding after her, and called downtown. Asked Don Farley, the night Homicide guy, if there had been any word yet from the Darden kidnappers. He told her no—he’d just checked with the comm center a few minutes ago and they hadn’t heard a damn thing.

  “Where’s Richard Darden?” she asked. “Is he still hanging out there?”

  “He was wandering around here for a while,” Farley said. “All wired up, ready to go, but nothing happened. No phone call. Now he’s back at his hotel.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” She reached down and scratched Bonaparte between his ears.

  Damn.

  Back in the living room, Afton flopped into a chair and tried to focus on what Poppy and Tess were watching. It appeared to be yet another movie about insect-looking aliens that had invaded Earth, only to be repelled by a small cadre of brave young teenagers. Afton wondered why the aliens had even bothered coming here? There were so many problems. Global warming, a disappearing rain forest, air pollution, wars, energy shortages, missing babies . . .

  As the kids hooted and hollered like mad, Afton pulled herself up straight in her chair.

  “Are you kids cheering for the aliens?” she asked suddenly.

  Poppy raised a tiny fist above her head. “Yes. We love the little green guys.”

  “Turn that thing off. It’s time for bed.”

  * * *

  TEN o’clock at night. Afton lay sprawled on her bed in the dark. She ruminated over the fact that she was thirty-four years old, had never drunk a cosmopolitan, never worn a Wonderbra, and never vacationed at Club Med.

  She knew she had a decision to make. She could back the hell out of this investigation right now and go back to being a community liaison officer. She could do her job diligently and with dignity. She could leave the horrors of the past week behind, take her kids to Disneyland over Easter vacation, and maybe even get around to pursuing her frivolous “want list.”

  Or she could keep bulldogging her way through the investigation, help find that missing baby, and nail the son-of-a-bitch kidnapper’s ass to the wall.

  It wasn’t a difficult decision.

  34

  SHAKE lay trapped in the worst kind of hell she could ever imagine. Her belly felt like it was about to burst open, her lungs were unable to suck in enough air, and the pain between her legs was unimaginable. All she could do was lie on the narrow, padded table, drenched in sweat, helpless as a beached whale, praying for the baby to finally come.

  Eight hours of labor had taken its toll and Ronnie hadn’t been a damn bit of help. He’d crept in occasionally to stare at her with abject fear in his eyes, always looking like he was about to lose his lunch. Or his breakfast, or his Hostess Ho Hos, or whatever he’d last snarfed down. Marjorie hovered nearby, looking inquisitive but relatively unconcerned.

  The midwife came rustling over to check on Shake again. She was a big-boned farm lady with a mop of curly brown hair and oversized hands. Shake understood that she was the certified nurse-midwife. That she owned this birthing center somewhere out in the country. She supposed the small cottage with its rough-hewn walls, rocking chairs, and handmade quilts tacked on the wall was supposed to inspire warmth and serenity. But for her, it just meant unrelenting agony.

  “Painkillers,” Shake gasped through clenched teeth and cracked lips. “I need something for the pain.”

  The midwife’s disapproving face loomed between Shake’s spread-eagled legs. “You’re nine centimeters dilated,” she said. “You’re on a Pitocin drip. Try to relax; try to breathe.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you take the classes? Don’t you remember the drill?”

  Shake threw her head back against the pillow and groaned in desperation. Her world was one red blur of pain right now. She wished she could reach down and rip the baby from her womb and just hand it over to the adoption people.

  “Ronnie,” she whispered.

  Floorboards creaked as Ronnie crept closer. “How you doin’, Shake?”

  “Hurt,” she croaked. “Feel sick.”

  Ronnie was in the room with her, but Shake could feel him pulling away emotionally, felt his almost-resentment at being made to witness this birthing experience. At the same moment she realized he was never going to take care of her, was never going to take her away from the farmhouse. And wasn’t that a big freakin’ surprise? She almost chuckled maniacally to herself. He was a guy who still lived at home with his wacko mother and whose sole ambition in life was to own a new Ford Ranger Quad Cab. What did she expect, really?

  The midwife was checking her again. She felt practiced fingers slip halfway inside her.

  “It’s coming,” the midwife said. She put a hand on Shake’s knee and squeezed. “When I say push, you bear down with everything you’ve got.”

  “Push? Now?” Shake was instantly filled with panic. She wasn’t ready for this. Her heart was fluttering like a wounded dove inside her chest and all she wanted to do was run away. But there was this thing happening, right between her legs. Pain and blood, and oh dear God, what was happening to her? She was sick with fear and anxiety, and wondered in a bleary haze how things had even gotten to this point of no return.

  “Are you ready?” came the insistent voice of the midwife. “Okay, now. Now push!”

  Shake pushed and groaned and pushed some more. She sobbed, bit her lower lip until she tasted blood, and pleaded for the midwife to do a C-section, to cut this damn baby out of her.

  Another long hour passed of pushing and pleading and screaming. And Marjorie hovering nearby, like some malevolent fairy lurking in the woods.

  Finally, when Shake couldn’t bear the pain a
ny longer, when it felt like there was a burning ring of fire that the baby could never pass through, she let loose a bloodcurdling scream. She was dying. She was being split open and nobody cared.

  “One more push,” the midwife cajoled. She was panting like a steam engine herself from all the exertion. “Come on, you can do it!”

  There was a rush of wet warmth and what felt like faint relief from the searing pain.

  “It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, a touch of pride in her voice.

  Shake heard its tiny cry.

  “Baby,” she moaned, and descended into a pit of darkness.

  35

  AFTON stared at her computer screen. Her cubicle was beginning to feel more like home than home did. Mornings seemed to be starting earlier and earlier. At least this Friday morning had. All the hours she’d logged this week made Afton worry about her girls. It wasn’t often that she had to spend this much time away from them. At least she’d taken Tess and Poppy sledding last night. That had been exactly what they all needed. Until she’d let her imagination run a little bonkers anyway.

  All the noise in the office, along with the usual cop horseplay, made it difficult to concentrate, so Afton fished her headphones out of her desk drawer and plugged into her phone. Sometimes a little background music was precisely what she needed to focus.

  Okay. Now . . .

  Sitting atop her desk was a single case file. The name ELIZABETH ANN DARDEN, NUMBER MP2134-16, had been affixed to the folder via an adhesive label. Every day the file’s girth had grown as more notes, photos, dissertations, reports, faxes, subpoenas, and timelines were added. She’d just added the information about animal hairs and Monica Copeland’s remarks about the kidnapper smelling like a dead animal.

  Now the file was filled to near busting. They’d found no resolution yet, but Afton knew that somewhere inside was the germ of an answer. Information that would ultimately lead them to the Darden baby.

  Afton’s own notes, the ones she’d taken for Max, were scrawled on a large yellow legal pad. Scribbled across twenty or so sheets were names, phone numbers, addresses, and Max’s candid as well as random thoughts.