Little Girl Gone (28 page)

“And if those new directions send him farther back . . .”

“The farther back you go,” Max said, “the more deserted it gets. Just a tangle of trees and underbrush. And if the kidnapper tries to lure Darden inside one of those caves, all bets are off 'cause it's dangerous as hell. There are drop-offs inside, noxious gasses.”

“What are we gonna do?” Afton asked. She remembered that some high school kids had died in those caves a few years ago. They'd crawled in to drink beer and smoke pot, but ended up breathing deadly carbon monoxide.

Max worried his upper teeth against his lower lip. “I can't imagine what the SWAT team will do.”

“Can we get over there somehow? I mean us, you and I?”

“We can't risk it. There's only that one narrow road in, past Harriet Island Park. If the kidnapper is watching, and I'm sure he is, we'll be spotted in a second.”

Afton was almost frantic. “There has to be someplace we can go.”

Max considered this for a few seconds. “There might be a spot up top. Way up on the river bluff.”

A
S
Afton and Max careened across the Lafayette Bridge, the lights of Holman Field, where they'd jumped onto a helicopter just five days ago, shimmered dimly off to their left. At this late hour, traffic was almost nonexistent in this industrial part of the city where large, low warehouses stretched for blocks and sodium vapor lights lent an unnatural yellow glow.

All the while they listened to Darden's mutterings and the squeal on Max's police radio.

They could hear Don Jasper screaming at the SWAT guys to pull on their white coveralls and get into position fast.

But would they be fast enough, Afton wondered, even as sharpshooters were being dispatched?

Cruising down Plato Boulevard, Max made a couple of turns, and then headed up Ohio Street, barely slowing as he blew through a stop sign. It was a narrow, twisty street that climbed upward at a steep angle. It took them directly up the east bluff that loomed over downtown Saint Paul and the Mississippi River.

“Isn't there a park up here somewhere?” Afton asked as they popped out on top. “A place where we can see what's going on?”

“I think . . . this way,” Max said, turning right.

He churned along unplowed streets, and then pulled to the curb at Cherokee Avenue, where they both jumped out. Wind and snow buffeted them as they ran through knee-deep snow to a small overlook on the edge of the bluff.

Downtown Saint Paul was spread out before them. At any other time the view would be spectacular, a twinkling wonderland of tall buildings interspersed with historic churches, ancient breweries, pocket-sized parks, turreted old sandstone buildings, and redbrick warehouses. But with the snow drifting down, the atmosphere was softened and fuzzed, as if a filter had been thrown across the entire city. Definition was hazy; lights were dimmed. On the opposite bluff they could barely make out the humped row of landmark mansions.

Looking straight down, they still weren't able to see the caves or the path that ran alongside them. The angle was too steep, and there was just too much forest and tangled brush.

“Nothing to see,” Afton said, disappointed. She was hoping to get a glimpse of the main cave. Every time she'd seen the place, it had looked otherworldly. An enormous flat sandstone face set into a gigantic hill and fronted by a castle-like brick facade. Several rounded wooden doors, the kind a cadre of trolls might use, formed an entrance. Legend held that the caves had once been a speakeasy that entertained the likes of John Dillinger and Ma Barker. The natural refrigeration properties had also made it ideal for beer storage back when Saint Paul breweries had pumped out gallons and gallons of the amber suds. In the eighties someone had turned the cave's carved-out, rounded interior into a nightclub. Now it was some sort of event center.

Afton cradled the communications gear inside her parka and jacked up the dial up so they could hear what Darden was saying.

“Okay,” Darden said. “I'm here outside the Wabasha Street Caves. There are a few cars in the parking lot and I can hear music playing inside.” He sounded lonely and scared. “I just got out of my car and now I'm looking around for that pop can.”

Darden's voice came to them fuzzy and laced with static. He sounded like a distant radio signal that faded in and out.

“This is awful,” Afton said. She was actually feeling sorry for the man. He not only sounded terrified, but could be walking into an ambush. Yet he was willing to do whatever it took to rescue his daughter. His actions were definitely heroic.

“He's still hanging in there,” Max said. “Doing the best he can.”

Darden's voice crackled again. “There's a Mountain Dew can sitting here. Kind of propped up on a pile of snow. I'm going to take a look inside.” The signal faded out for a moment and then he was back. “I think this is it. Yes, there's a note inside. I'm going to pull it out and read it verbatim.” He cleared his throat. “It says: Drive toward Harriet Island and take the road south to Bauer's Recycling Plant. Leave the car and follow the hiking trail that leads past the old caves.”

“That's a dead end,” Max said.

“Holy shit,” Afton said. “I wish we could . . .” She cocked her head toward Max and suddenly looked past him. Through fat, heavy flakes she saw the faint outline of the High Bridge silhouetted behind him. She grabbed Max's sleeve and spun him around. “The High Bridge. We've got to get up there,” she cried. “Maybe we can see what's going on.”

“Maybe,” Max said. They were scrambling back through the snow toward his car. “We'll give it a shot.”

Cherokee Avenue led directly to the High Bridge. On Max's say-so, they left the car and walked out onto the bridge. It looked slippery and icy, and no cars were venturing across it. A panorama of city, river, and woods spread out below them. Since they were obscured by darkness and falling snow, it was doubtful that anyone would look up and be able to spot them.

“Do you see Darden down there?” Max asked. “Anything?”

“Not yet,” Afton said. “But I'll tell you something. This kidnapper is a guy who knows Saint Paul. I mean, he either lives here or he grew up here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You take your average Minneapolis person. They hardly ever venture across the river into Saint Paul. You know why? Because they don't think it's worth it. Everything they're ever going to want is right there on the Minneapolis side.”

“That's a pretty harsh assessment, don't you think?”

“But it's the truth. I'm telling you, this guy, the guy who set this up is from Saint Paul.”

“But where is he?” Max asked. “And where's Darden?”

Afton scanned the distance. “I don't know. Wait . . . there's a pair of headlights bumping toward us. I think that might be Darden. Looks like he's about a half mile away.”

Max squinted down. “Ah, he's pulling into that recycling place. Gotta be him.”

Afton lay down on the bridge and peered out through the struts of the metal railing. She pulled the communication device out of her parka and listened. After two seconds Max crouched down to join her.

“The snow is almost knee-deep,” Darden was saying. “And I'm not seeing any tracks at all, so I'm guessing nobody's been back this way for a while.”

“He sounds scared,” Afton said.

Max lifted a hand and brushed snow from his face, leaving wet streaks. “He should be scared.”

“I don't know if this is a double cross or not,” Darden continued in hushed tones. “Or if somebody is going to come in from the opposite direction.”

Max studied the bluffs below. “Someone would have to skim down that cliff if they were approaching him from the opposite direction.”

“Could be done,” Afton said.

Max gazed at her for a moment. “Could you do it?”

“Maybe.” She looked over and studied the bluff. “Probably.”

*   *   *

ALL
right,” Darden said. “I'm still struggling through the snow. There's that enormous cliff to my left, and the frozen Mississippi River is just off to my right.”

The microphone was working well now, and Afton and Max could hear the crunching of snow along with Darden's ragged breathing.

“He's getting tired,” Afton said. She could just barely see him, a tiny dot moving far below, trying to wade through a narrow, open patch of snow, following what was an obliterated trail.

“I don't see anything moving out here,” Darden said. “Of course, it's darker than shit. Jeez, I hope those SWAT guys are in place. This is getting weirder by the moment.”

“This feels like an ambush,” Afton said to Max.

“Can't see anybody else, though,” Max said.

Darden continued to give his play-by-play. “I see a . . . I think it's a wooden shack up ahead. Anyway, it's all ramshackle and falling down. Maybe that's supposed to be the spot where we make the exchange?”

“Careful, careful,” Afton murmured. When she craned her neck, she could see the faint outline of the shack, too, and wondered if the kidnapper lurked inside? Was Elizabeth Ann waiting in there, too, in the terrible bone-chilling cold?

“As soon as I make the exchange,” Darden said, “I'm going to fall flat on the ground and stay down. Then you guys take your shots, okay?”

“Jesus,” Afton breathed.

Darden moved closer to the shack. His raspy voice reflected his inner tension as he shook and shuddered in the freezing cold.

“Damn it, I still don't see anybody,” Darden said. He paused. “Wait a minute, I think I hear something.” He sounded both stressed and puzzled. “It sounds like something mechanical. Like an outboard motor or a chain saw.”

Afton and Max heard it, too. An annoying buzzing sound, like some kind of giant, mechanized insect.

“What is that?” Max wondered.

Afton knew what it was, but before she could voice an explanation, a snowmobile jounced and roared along the riverbank far below them.

“Shit!” Max cried.

They watched as Darden caught sight of the snowmobile and stumbled. Then he flung his arms out wide and dropped to his knees.

“Don't hurt me, don't hurt me!” Darden screamed. “I've got your money, the full two million dollars. Please just give me back my daughter!”

Afton watched in horror at the tableau that was unfolding below them. The snowmobile buzzed around him in a wide circle and then stopped.

Darden hurled the duffel bag of money toward the snowmobile driver.

“Here's your money!” Darden cried. “Take it.”

The driver, wearing a black helmet, bubble facemask, and snowmobile suit, leaned sideways on his sputtering machine and swung one leg over. Then, in one quick motion, as if fearing a trap, he tossed down a small bundle and snatched up the bag of money.

Darden scrambled forward on his knees toward the bundle. “Elizabeth Ann!”

The snowmobiler jumped back onto his machine. The engine roared loudly as he kicked it into gear. Then, tossing up an enormous crest of powdered snow, he sped off in the same direction from which he'd come.

That's when it all went ka-pow crazy.

Darden scooped up the bundle, cradled it against his body, and suddenly screamed. “It's not her!” His voice rose up in a pitiful wail. “It's just a rolled-up blanket!”

“Dear Lord,” Afton cried.

At the same instant, a volley of shots exploded from beneath the bridge. Thacker's sharpshooters were firing at the snowmobiler, the shots seeming to come from inside one of the caves as well as from a tangle of brush down near the riverbank.

Afton saw the snowmobiler swerve wildly, trying to take evasive action and escape the bullets that were intended to bring him down. As loud pops continued to ring out, the snowmobiler changed course and went screaming down the steep riverbank. Seconds later, he skittered out onto the flat, dull gray ice of the Mississippi River.

“He's on the river,” Max shouted.

The snowmobiler was really pouring it on. Zigzagging back and forth, pushing his snowmobile's engine to the max.

He'd almost made it to the middle of the frozen river and Afton was starting to wonder what his escape strategy would be. Head down the river in the direction from which he'd come? Run straight across and ditch the machine on the opposite bank? Make a run for it and try to get swallowed up by the city? If she could keep the snowmobiler in her sights, she knew
it would be a tremendous help to all the law enforcement personnel that had to be converging on the area right now.

All of a sudden there was another crack—a sound not quite as loud as a rifle shot but even more ominous.

“The ice,” Afton said, pointing. “The river's not completely frozen over in the middle. Look there, it's breaking up.”

“Must be a fast current,” Max said. “So only a thin skim of ice was able to form.”

Afton and Max watched as the snowmobiler throttled back. The ice was obviously unstable and he was struggling to find a safer route.

An enormous hunk of ice broke loose and suddenly jutted up like a slippery on-ramp. Jagged and dangerous looking, the piece of ice looked like an enormous broken windowpane.

The snowmobiler, far from being an expert with his sled, wobbled slightly as he tried to change direction yet again.

The slowing down was what did it, of course. A snowmobile running at top speed can practically skip across open water. But a hint of hesitation and it suddenly becomes a heavy piece of machinery, subject to the whims and principles of thin ice and basic gravity.

Two more enormous jagged cracks yawned open. Then an entire network of cracks, almost like a spider's web, spun out from around the snowmobile. The snowmobiler gunned his sled left in a last-ditch effort to save himself.

But it was too late.

From up above, from their bird's-eye perch on the High Bridge, Afton and Max watched in horror as the ice parted and a gaping black hole appeared. The snowmobile's skids teetered for one long moment on a snaggle-toothed shard of floating ice, and then it plunged into the dark water.

The snowmobiler sank to his waist in the freezing water. Clearly having abandoned his sled and the duffel bag filled with ransom money, he struggled and paddled desperately amid a froth of bubbles. As hypothermia quickly set in, his arm motions slowed to a pathetic pace and he sank to his neck. Now only his round snowmobile helmet appeared to float on the
surface like a dark bubble. He hovered there for another thirty seconds and then, with nary a sound or cry, disappeared completely.

*   *   *

BY
the time Afton and Max raced back to their car and careened down the bluff, the scene had evolved into chaos. Thacker and Jasper were in the epicenter, shouting at a dozen officers, screaming into their radios.

“Now.
Now!
” Thacker cried. “Send a helo down the river to see if they can spot any sort of vehicle with a trailer. Our guy had to park and unload his snowmobile somewhere in the area.” His eyes flicked across Afton and Max. “And get hold of the cops in Lilydale and Mendota. Shake 'em out of bed if you have to. I want a full-court press on this. Saint Paul PD is jumping in, too.”