“How are you feeling?” Ronnie asked.
“Hurts,” Shake said. She knew what Ronnie really meant. How are you feeling down there? “But I can still get to the bathroom okay. Probably could walk around if I really had to. I know I could make it down to the car.”
“Good. I’m gonna put together a few things downstairs. You still got that purple duffel bag?”
“In the closet,” Shake said. It was still half full from when she’d tried to run away before.
Shake’s new, improved Ronnie gave a half smile. “Start thinking about what you want to bring with you. Tonight I’ll help you pack.”
44
SCALING the cliff was definitely not a piece of cake. With the relentless wind buffeting her and tiny snow crystals stinging her eyes and face like needles, Afton felt uneasy and clumsy. Still, she was moving from one rock to another with what she hoped was a degree of authority. Moving steadily upward, always gaining ground, digging in with her crampons, using her ice ax to find purchase.
Halfway up, the easy lower half, she snugged one end of her rope around an outcropping of rocks. She calculated the distance upward, and looped the other end around her waist in a sort of self-belay. Now if she fell, she might be able to arrest her fall if she could react fast enough. A small comfort, but not insignificant in the scheme of things.
The top half of the cliff was much more difficult. The angle she’d taken had led to a daunting wall of limestone that left her feeling exposed. Afton crab-stepped to her left, hoping to find a few decent handholds and toeholds. She was wearing thin climbing gloves and her fingers were starting to stiffen up in the cold. She forced herself to stop moving, laid her cheek against the frozen wall, and jammed her right hand inside her coat. She waited two minutes while her hand thawed out, and then did the other hand.
There. Much better.
Afton started climbing again, slowly and methodically, finding a lip of rock here, a nose of rock there. As she muscled herself upward, her entire body began to warm and she began to feel in sync with the climb.
Twenty feet from the top, the juts of rock flattened out even more. Now she was free climbing, searching for fingerholds instead of handholds.
But there have to be some good holds, right?
Not necessarily.
Gotta be a couple. Somewhere.
Afton flattened herself against the sheer rock face and peered up, half closing one eye. There they were . . . a few cracks and juts of rock. She knew that a successful ascent depended on strength, control, and finesse. She just prayed she had enough energy left to muster all three of these elements.
Twenty feet above her, now fifteen feet above her, she could see a cornice, a dangerous overhang of snow. That would be the tricky part, the part where she’d depend solely on her upper body strength and the sharpness of her ice ax.
She felt almost mechanical now. Climb, thrust, climb. Keep the rhythm going. She stretched an arm high above her head, swung her ice ax hard, and hoped for the best . . .
Whack!
The steel claw bit in securely.
* * *
TWENTY-FIVE minutes after beginning her climb, Afton hoisted herself up and over the lip of the cliff. She lay there in the snow, panting, trying to collect her wits, willing her chilled, overtaxed muscles to stop shaking. It had been touch and go near the top. And touch and go was never good, especially when you were free climbing all by your lonesome in the middle of a raging blizzard.
She lifted her head tiredly and stared straight ahead. Saw the faint outline of an old farmhouse shimmering like a mirage through sifting snow.
Okay, Afton told herself, here comes the real test. This is where the game turns deadly serious.
Crouching low to the ground, Afton plunged toward the house, battling her way through thigh-high snow. When she was ten feet from the farmhouse, she stopped and gave it a quick perusal. The place looked weary and desolate. And not just because of the blizzard that raged around it. If a house could have a presence, this one reeked of desperation and unhappiness. As she moved toward the front porch, Afton tried to imagine this place in summer. Would there be wild roses twining up the columns? Monarch butterflies sipping nectar in the fields? She thought not.
When Afton still didn’t see any movement inside, she covered the rest of the distance fast and clambered up onto the front porch. Slowly, carefully, she peered through a frosted window.
She saw a kitchen. Pots and pans sitting on the stove, a refrigerator, lights blazing overhead. But nobody there.
But wait. Something was there. She tilted her head sideways and saw a playpen. A baby’s mesh-sided playpen had been set up right next to the stove.
Afton sidled away from the window until she was facing the front door. She drew a deep breath, and then touched a hand to the doorknob and turned it slowly. When the door swung open, she stepped tentatively over the sill, nerves fizzing like mad, but grateful for the wall of warmth that suddenly enveloped her.
Now what? Find the baby. But do it fast.
Moving quietly through the kitchen, Afton glanced into the playpen as she went past it. A flash of pink caught her eye, causing her to hesitate. There, puddled in the bottom, was a pink blanket.
Afton bent down and gathered it up. The blanket felt soft to the touch. Exquisitely soft. She fumbled with the piece of fabric, turning it over until she found a label. One hundred percent cashmere. The Darden baby had been wrapped in a pink cashmere blanket.
Was the Darden baby being hidden away in this farmhouse? Or had some lucky person who lived here hit the jackpot at their baby shower?
Afton folded the blanket and tucked it under her arm along with her ice ax. Then she stepped out into a hallway. Way down at the far end of the house, probably in another room—the living room?—a television set blared loudly. It was an afternoon soap opera from the sound of the dialogue. Some woman with a high, chirpy voice haranguing a guy named Jeff. Calling him a lousy two-timer.
Good. Hopefully, all that noise would cover the sounds of her footsteps.
There was a narrow doorway directly to Afton’s left. Slowly, carefully, she pushed the door open with the tips of her fingers and peered in. Her first impression was that of a Greek chorus of dead-eyed babies. But as she continued to stare in, she knew they were dolls, dozens of dolls, all posed on shelves. There were dolls with luxurious flaxen hair, dolls dressed in tiny little onesies, and dolls with arms and legs so pink and plump you almost wanted to reach out and pinch them. At the same time, the sheer number of them was eerie. One doll, okay. Four dozen of the strange little things, definitely disturbing.
Afton pulled the door closed and moved on to the narrow staircase that loomed just to her left. Were there bedrooms upstairs? Probably. And if there were bedrooms, there just might be a crib with a baby tucked into it.
Very slowly, very deliberately, Afton began to climb the stairs. The staircase was narrow—she could almost touch the walls with both elbows—and the treads were shallow. It was as if the house had been constructed in a much earlier era for smaller, more utilitarian people.
Afton hesitated when she reached the top of the stairs and looked around. There was a bedroom off to her right, the door standing wide open. She could see two more doors down the dim hallway ahead.
Was there a surprise behind door number one?
Afton chose the bedroom to her right. Tiptoed up to the doorway and poked her head in.
There was a girl sleeping in the bed, her face gone slack as she snored softly. From the looks of her, she was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years old. But what made Afton catch her breath was the baby nestled in a homemade wooden crib right next to the girl’s bed.
Stepping into the room, Afton’s fingers twitched. She was ready to snatch up this baby and run like hell. She reached down, anxious, nervous, and caught herself just in time. Because
, dear Lord, this was a newborn baby, not a three-month-old baby.
Was she in the wrong place? Her mind was suddenly in turmoil. She couldn’t be. She couldn’t have erred this badly. And there was the telltale pink cashmere blanket . . .
The girl under the covers stirred slightly. Then her eyes came open and she stared blankly up at Afton. Slowly, her mind seemed to process the fact that there was a woman standing by her bedside, dressed in snow gear and holding an ice ax. Her face convulsed with fear.
“Who are you?” Shake asked in a tremulous voice as she struggled to sit up. “What are you doing here?”
Afton said the first thing that popped into her head.
“I’m here for the baby.”
Shake shrank back in terror. Then she seemed to muster her courage and flung an arm out as if to protect the baby sleeping beside her. “Please,” she said, “I’m begging you, don’t take my baby. I know I signed all the papers and everything, but I changed my mind. I really did.” She hiccupped hard as tears welled in her eyes. “I made a terrible mistake.”
“This is your baby?” Afton asked. She wasn’t quite sure what this poor girl was babbling about.
Shake bobbled her head. “Me and Ronnie’s, yes.”
Afton peered into the homemade crib again, as if to make sure of what she was seeing. “This baby’s a newborn.”
“Please,” Shake begged. “I only just had her last night. But I love her.”
“You just gave birth to her? Here? Last night?”
Shake suddenly looked confused. “No, I think it might have been two nights ago.” She pressed both hands against her face and peered through her fingers. “I don’t know, you’re scaring me. You’re getting me all confused.”
Afton knew she didn’t have much time. “What’s your name?”
“Shake. My real name is Sharice but everybody calls me Shake.”
“How many people live here, Shake?”
“Um . . . three of us. Well, five if you count the babies.”
Afton felt a kind of pop deep inside her brain. “There’s another baby?”
Shake seemed to choke down her fear then. “Who are you?”
“I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department.”
Now Shake was more flustered than fearful. “Oh shit, I knew there was something bad going on. You’re here because of Marjorie, aren’t you? She’s crazy, you know. She brought that kid home and—” Shake stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute. You came here to get that baby?”
Afton’s heart leapt. “That baby’s still here?”
Shake nodded. “Yeah, sure she is. Well, I think she is. I’ve been sleeping and—”
“Where is she?” Afton knew she’d been at this too long. She was pressing her luck. “Where have they been keeping her?”
Shake curled a finger and pointed. “The room next to this one.”
“You said the woman who brought her home was Marjorie. Marjorie who?”
“Sorenson?” Shake said in a small voice.
“And this is the same woman who creates and sells reborn dolls?”
Shake nodded. “Yeah.”
“And she has a son.”
“Ronnie,” Shake said. “My boyfriend.” She hiccupped. “My baby’s father.”
The pizza guy, Afton thought. She had to grab the Darden baby and get the hell out of here. Could she manage it? Holy shit, it felt like she was trapped in a den of rattlesnakes.
“Wait here,” Afton said to Shake.
Shake pulled up the bedspread tight to her chin. “Where would I go?”
Afton tiptoed out into the hallway and paused. The TV was still blasting away downstairs, and so far nobody seemed to have heard her. Shake hadn’t raised an alert. That was good. Maybe she could grab the Darden baby and get away without anyone being the wiser. Send help back for Shake and her baby.
That was the plan anyway.
But plans have a way of not working out. Because somewhere between peering into the Darden baby’s crib and ascertaining that this was probably the missing Elizabeth Ann, Afton heard a ruckus going on downstairs.
Damn. Somebody must have heard her moving around up here on the creaky linoleum.
Afton had a split-second decision to make. Grab the baby and try to bull her way past whoever had just started screaming their head off downstairs? Or face them by herself and hope for the best?
She left the baby and dashed out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the screaming had intensified.
“We got big trouble, Ronnie!” came a woman’s shrill voice. “Get up here and bring your knives!”
That was Marjorie. Calling for Ronnie. This is so not good.
Pounding footsteps shook the stairway. Like a bull on a rampage, Marjorie barreled up the narrow stairs, her faded housecoat billowing around her. When she got to the landing and saw Afton standing there, she stopped, a look of utter shock on her face.
Afton stared at the woman with cold, barely contained anger. This was the woman who’d caused everyone so much pain. “Hello, Molly,” she said. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“Who the hell are you?” Marjorie screeched. “Get out. Get out of my house.” Her eyes glowed hard and beady, like a rat’s.
“It’s over,” Afton said. “I know all about the baby. I know all about you.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know you’re going to prison.”
“That ain’t never gonna happen,” Marjorie hissed as her right arm slowly emerged from the folds of her housecoat.
That slight motion kicked Afton’s brain into overdrive. Gun. Old lady’s got a gun, her brain screamed out as she caught the gleam of cold metal.
Afton had a gun, too, of course. Only it was stuck way the hell down in her jacket pocket. Feeling her insides turn to water, she started to fumble for the Glock, and realized she was moving way too slow. Marjorie had just about raised her gun to eye level and had closed one eye, sighting to take aim at her.
“Marjorie!” Shake suddenly screamed, her voice ringing out like the whine of a bandsaw. She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, looking terrified in a faded green nightgown.
Marjorie jumped, startled by Shake’s earsplitting scream. In that split second, Afton hoisted her ice ax high above her head and brought it down hard across Marjorie’s right forearm.
Marjorie let loose a horrific, high-pitched screech as she reflexively pulled the trigger. Afton’s blow had been enough to knock her aim off and her shot went wild, crashing into the door frame, spewing shards of wood.
“You bitch,” Marjorie seethed. With bloody blue murder in her eye, she jerked her injured arm up to shoot again.
As though her life depended on it—and it probably did—Afton swung her ice ax in a tight, practiced arc. Whistling like a missile, the deadly tip, honed meat-pick sharp for biting into rock and ice, caught Marjorie in the left temple.
The impact was deep, the result instantaneous. Marjorie yodeled a high-pitched scream, like an animal caught in a trap. Her lips slicked back over her upper teeth and her pupils retreated into tiny pinpricks in a sea of ghastly white. A geyser of blood spurted from her head wound, spattering both Afton and Shake. Marjorie’s arm jerked sideways and the gun flew out of her hand, clattering down hard on the linoleum, then bouncing its way down the stairs.
Marjorie, who was still standing upright as bright red blood sprayed like a faucet, made a gurgling, underwater sound that sounded like glub bluh. Then she managed one shaky, tottering step backward. In her smooth cotton slippers, both heels slid back over the lip of the top stair and she teetered dangerously on the edge. Her arms flailed wildly as if she somehow sensed the precariousness of her situation. A split second later, her brain fully registered the trauma from the ice ax. Her arms dropped leadenly to her sides and she tipped straight over ba
ckward.
Bones cracked and splintered, blood painted a nasty Jackson Pollock as Marjorie tumbled down the narrow stairs. She made one final ass-over-teacup cartwheel and landed in an ungainly lump with one arm twisted behind her back and her leg practically cocked around her neck.
Oh my God, was Afton’s first thought. What have I done?
“What just happened here?” Shake’s frightened, ragged voice cried out as she shuffled forward to look. She gazed down at Marjorie, and then shrank back from Afton, as if fearing the same horrible fate.
“Everything’s fine,” Afton said even as she thought, No, it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine. I just killed a woman.
“What did you do to her?” Shake quivered. She bent forward and clawed at her nightdress, pulling it into a knot. “Is she dead? Did you kill her? My God, what did you do?”
Suddenly, without warning, another voice joined in with Shake’s caterwauling. A male voice.
“Ma? Ma?” someone yelled from below. Footsteps pounded and a door banged open.
Someone running up from the basement? Afton wondered as she hastily wiped a mist of blood from her face.
“Holy shit, what happened?” the voice cried again. “What the hell’s going on up here? Shake, did you—” The yelling ceased abruptly.
Afton finally thought to drop her ice ax and pull out the Glock. She gripped the heavy gun tightly, mentally girding herself in case she really had to use it.
“Get back in bed,” Afton ordered Shake, who retreated sullenly to her room. Then she leaned forward and peered down the staircase.
A young man gazed up at her from the bottom of the stairs, pale and blond, unexpectedly youthful looking. His face was a contorted mix of shock and surprise as he regarded Afton. Then, almost as an afterthought, he stared down at his mother’s dead body.
Little Girl Gone Page 31