Little Girl Gone (11 page)

S
USAN
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 swallow 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.

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.

C
RAP!
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 N
EWBORN
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 right,” 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.