Little Girl Gone (6 page)

T
HE
room was too quiet. It should have been filled with cries, coos, and little wet gurgles from the most beautiful baby ever conceived. Now it felt hollow and empty. As if a death had taken place.

Susan Darden scrunched her knees up closer to her chest. She was sitting on the floor, crouched deep in the corner of her daughter's nursery, wishing she could pull herself together so tightly that she'd just pop out of existence. Because the harsh reality of Elizabeth Ann being gone was simply too painful to bear. She wanted to die.

And Susan felt cold, cold as ice. She'd draped a white wool baby afghan over her knees to ward off some of the chill, but she still shivered almost uncontrollably, the tips of her fingers turning white. She knew that deep down inside herself, in the barely rational part of her being that was only just hanging on, her chill had nothing to do with room temperature. She was cold on the inside, deep within her heart.

As Susan let loose a low keening sound that she was only vaguely aware of, she realized that she'd somehow managed to acquire everything she'd ever wanted—a house, money, designer clothes, a nice car. And yet she had nothing. She
was
nothing without Elizabeth Ann.

Gazing dully at her fingers, at what had been a seventy-five-dollar gel manicure, she saw that her nails and cuticles were chewed and ragged.

Had she done that? She must have. She barely remembered.

No matter. She reached down and touched the fringe of the afghan, and began to shred it, methodically tugging and unraveling each thread. She worked patiently, thoughtfully, trying hard to make her mind go completely blank. To stop the pain. Except for a small pile of shredded fuzz that was building up beside her, the room was immaculate. She'd insisted on it. The room had to be absolutely perfect for when Elizabeth Ann came home.

Because she would return home. Susan had prayed for it. Whispering desperate prayers, her own self-composed mantras, over and over again.

“Susan?” Richard called out. His voice was muffled. He was down the hall, looking for her in their bedroom.

Susan's fingers stopped working, but she didn't answer him. She wouldn't answer him.

Sitting on the floor, gently pressed against her left hip, was her phone. It was her lifeline to the police. And she was expecting a call anytime now. Maybe any minute. She would answer calmly, and the police, with joy barely masked in their voices, would tell her that Elizabeth Ann was safe. That she'd been found.

Then Susan would drive to the police station and, once her baby was put back in her arms, would never let her out of her sight again. She would fulfill her destiny of being the perfect, nurturing, loving mother. There would be Mommy and Me classes, Montessori school, Disney movies, and princess birthday parties with real live purple ponies. She had it all planned out. There was no way this was not going to happen.

“Susan, where are you?” Richard called again. He sounded shaken and angry, and had been storming around the house, doling out threats she knew he couldn't make good on.

A fresh wave of despair swept over Susan like a swift, incoming tide. She was vaguely aware of more tears and her own mutterings.

“Sweetheart?” Richard stepped into the nursery and saw her huddled in the corner. “Sweetheart, what are you doing down there? Who are you talking to?”

Susan buried her face in her hands. She didn't want to talk to Richard right now. She only wanted to think about the bright future. Music lessons and family vacations and little pink dresses with ruffles.

Just the other night she had read a book to Elizabeth Ann—
Oh, the Places You'll
Go!
by Dr. Seuss.

Of course, she had no idea of the places Elizabeth Ann would go. Or where she was right now. She choked hard, tasting pain and bitterness, feeling that her heart was about to shatter.

And then the phone rang . . .

W
EST
River Road was a winding, tree-lined boulevard that snaked along the Saint Paul side of the Mississippi River. The University of Minnesota stood at its northernmost point, the Ford Bridge and Lock and Dam No. 1 at its southern tip. Strung out like elegant pieces in a Monopoly game were large mansions, a slew of contemporary-looking homes, and one exclusive high-rise condo.

A perennial favorite of bikers, hikers, and dog walkers, River Road and its accompanying pathway veered precipitously close to the edge of the four-hundred-foot-tall sandstone bluffs that hunkered above the turgid, half-frozen Mississippi River.

Hidden Falls, usually a trickle of spring water that oozed from a cut in a limestone deposit, was located in a steep gorge that sliced directly down to the river. It was frozen now, iced over completely. Across from the falls, on mocha-colored bluffs crusted with snow, stood historic Fort Snelling.

When Afton arrived on the scene, an ambulance, a half dozen police cruisers with light bars flashing, and a Newswatch 7 truck were already convened. A cluster of bright vapor lights, running off a sputtering generator, lit the chill night. Exhaust fumes from the multitude of vehicles created a noxious cloud that hovered above the frozen ground and wafted
through the crowd of onlookers, creating a near-psychedelic atmosphere of strobes and haze.

High above, a jetliner arced its way toward the airport just off to the southeast. The deafening engine noise overwhelmed the shouted orders from law enforcement superiors as the Tactical Rescue Squad busied themselves with more ropes and cables in case they had to lower a second team over the steep cliff.

Afton's feet crunched across the snow. Giant yellow snowplows had chopped and spit the most recent snowfall into hard little chips, then the bitter wind had swept it onto the boulevard and turned it into hardpack. Weeks of exhaust fumes spewed from passing cars had painted it a dirty gray. Now it was snirt, Minnesota's dreary combination of snow and dirt.

So cold
, Afton thought as she pushed her way through the crowd of police officers, FBI agents, Fire and Rescue people, and neighborhood folks who'd donned their North Face parkas to come out and watch the spectacle. They whispered and wondered among themselves. If it was the Darden baby, how long had it been down there? And what shape was the poor thing in? Faces were grim and stretched tight, knowing the baby might have suffered terrible frostbite after only a few minutes of exposure.

Afton spotted Max, bundled up in a dark green parka, standing right at the edge of the steep, wooded cliff. She jogged down to meet him.

“The Tactical Squad is already down there,” Max said. They both leaned forward and gazed down into the deep chasm, though it was so dark, there was nothing to see.

“Any word yet on whether it might be the Darden baby?” Afton asked. She stared at the array of ropes that led over the lip of a rocky cliff, wishing she had police clearance to rappel down and help in any way she could. She figured she was just as experienced with ice climbing as any of the team. And she was a certified Outward Bound instructor to boot.

“No word yet,” Max said. “We're still waiting.” He dug the toe of his boot in the snow. “Problem is . . . it's so damn cold.”

Afton knew it was an oblique reference to the baby's chance of survival, which wasn't good. “I wish I could . . .” Afton was itching to scramble down
there, but she knew Thacker would burst a blood vessel if he found out she'd clipped in and rappelled down the hill.

She also prayed that whoever had stolen Elizabeth Ann had simply thrown up their hands, scared off by the tremendous hue and cry set up by the FBI, police, Amber Alert, and frenzied media. Often, that's how child abduction cases were resolved. The abductor was just too terrified by the tsunami of angry police and citizens chasing after his sorry ass or on the lookout for his car. Once word was broadcast, abductors often hit the panic button and abandoned the captive child.

“Any word yet?” a smooth, female voice asked. Portia Bourgoyne, a features reporter for Channel 7, had edged her way into the fray. She was a cool-looking blonde with slightly almond eyes and a pale complexion. Despite the freezing temperature, she wore a very haute couture fringed tweed suit with a pussycat bow tied at the neck, and an impossibly short skirt that showed off her long legs. Afton wondered how Portia had managed to maneuver the slick slope in four-inch-high stilettos.

“They're coming up!” yelled one of the Fire and Rescue Squad members who was manning the ropes on top. An excited buzz rose up as everyone shuffled closer to the dangerous precipice.

A bright light suddenly flashed on, illuminating the entire area, and Afton realized it was Portia's gaffer, holding up a column of lights while her cameraman crouched in position and adjusted the focus on his lens.

Then a grim-looking man in a black neoprene suit clambered up over the edge, and a firefighter, who'd also been manning the ropes, said, “Damn.”

Dear Lord, please don't let this child be dead
, Afton prayed.

There was a cry and a high squeal and then, as the second climber scrambled up, someone from the rescue squad said in a disappointed voice, “It's a dog.”

There was a cacophony of groans and the crowd took a collective step backward.

“A dog?” Max snorted. “I crawled out of a warm Barcalounger for a damn dog?” He wasn't angry at the dog; he was frustrated with the situation.

The second climber from the Tactical Squad who'd rappelled down
into the gorge was up on top now, the head of a small dark dog peering out from between the folds of his jacket. Disappointment was palpable on the man's face.

Portia Bourgoyne dropped the carefully arranged look of concern on her face and ran a painted red index finger across the front of her throat, indicating for her cameraman to cut. “Nothing here,” she said, sounding infinitely bored. “Just a stupid dog.” Then Portia was hurrying up the slope to the street, where her nice warm TV van was parked.

“Abandoned,” said an ambulance driver who was standing at Afton's elbow. “People do that all the time. Just toss out animals to freeze to death when they don't want them.”

Afton moved through the crowd, toward the two rescuers. “What are you going to do with him?” she asked the man who still held the big-eared puppy in his arms. The dog uttered another squeak then squirmed around as if trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. For a little dog that had been tossed down a rocky hillside, he was certainly giving lots of attitude.

The rescuer shrugged. “I don't know. Probably drop him off at the nearest animal shelter.”

“Here,” Afton said, reaching her arms out. “Give him to me.”

Max's big shoulder nudged hers as she gently accepted the dog. “You want to take the dog? I thought you once told me your husband was allergic to dogs.”

“He is,” Afton said as one of the paramedics slipped her a blanket. “But we're divorced now, remember?”

“Still gonna cut down on the number of visits to the kiddies,” Max said, staring at the dog. “Jeez, look at the ears on that thing. Like a freakin' bat. What kind of mutt is that anyway?”

“Not a mutt at all,” Afton said. “This happens to be a French bulldog.” She'd seen one at a dog show once and been impressed by the big personality that was packed into such a small-statured animal.

“Ah,” Max said. “Then you're probably going to name him Marcel or Jacques.”

“Something like that,” Afton said, thinking a small dog with this much
attitude should rightly be called Bonaparte. “Anyway, the girls will love him. They've been asking for a dog.” Cuddling the little dog close to her chest, Afton was suddenly aware of a commotion at the top of the hill. She and Max turned at the same time to glance up there and see just what the hell was going on.

“Shit,” Max grunted. “It's the parents. They showed up.”

“Oh no!” Afton gasped as Susan Darden's face suddenly appeared, a pale oval, looking scared and strained amid the too-bright lights.

“Is it my baby?” Susan pleaded. Her voice was high and tremulous. “Dear God, will someone please tell me what's going on?”

“They found Elizabeth Ann?” a frantic Richard Darden asked. They were standing on the sidewalk at the top of the hill, clinging desperately to each other.

“Somebody's got to set those poor people straight,” Afton said.

“I'll do it,” Max said. “You've got your hands full with the dog.”

Max nodded and hastily scrambled up the slope, desperate to head them off. But Portia Bourgoyne, who was already up top with her camera crew, knew a heart-wrenching sound bite when she saw one and immediately sprang into action. Bright TV lights flashed on again as Portia stuck her microphone in the Dardens' startled faces before they knew what was happening.

“My baby, my baby!” Susan shrilled. “Is she here?” She was in the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

“We're standing on a rocky precipice overlooking the Mississippi River in Saint Paul,” Portia Bourgoyne began. “Waiting to see if the plaintive cries coming from below this steep embankment could possibly belong to Elizabeth Ann, the three-month-old baby girl who was snatched from the Kenwood home of Susan and Richard Darden as she slept in her crib last night.”

“Oh shit,” Afton said as disgust rose up inside her. “Portia's running a con on the Dardens,” she said to one of the paramedics. “She knows damn well that we hauled up a dog.”

Max was already up top now, trying to break up Portia's phony, highly staged interview. Afton heard a babble of angry, high-pitched voices, heard Portia scream something about first amendment rights. Then the gaffer, the
kid who was wearing a battery pack around his waist and muscling a rack of heavy TV lights, was shoved out of the way and the lights flickered off.

“It's not her,” Max tried to explain to them in a soothing voice. “It's a mistake, there's no need for you to be here. Please, go home. We'll call you as soon as we know something.”

Susan Darden's face collapsed. “This is all your fault!” she screamed at her husband. “It was your idea to drive over here!”

Richard Darden looked stunned. “I thought for sure it was Elizabeth Ann,” he said. “I wanted to be here, to be able to put her back in your arms where she belongs!”

“Please,” Max said, trying to interject himself in their conversation. “Everybody just calm down.”

But Susan Darden continued to rail against her husband. “You told me it was her! You
promised
me.”

“This is bad,” Afton muttered. “We need to have these people working with us, not against each other.” She scurried up the hillside as fast as she could, still carrying the dog wrapped in a blanket.

“Oh my God!” Susan Darden cried when she caught sight of Afton. “Is that her? Did you find her? Is that my Elizabeth Ann?” Hope flooded Susan's face as she rushed up to Afton and clawed frantically at the blankets before Afton was able to stop her. Then the little dog's head popped out and he gave a sharp yip.

Susan Darden reacted as if she'd been slugged. Her jaw went slack, her eyes flooded with pain, and she staggered backward. Flailing and stumbling, she nearly fell down. But when Max shot out a hand to steady her, she frantically batted him away.

“A dog?” Susan cried. “A filthy mutt?” Her face had become a mask of horror and rage. “How cruel can you be? Is this some kind of sick joke, taunting me like this?”

Afton knew the situation had suddenly turned bad. She'd had no intention of upsetting Mrs. Darden. She couldn't believe someone would have even told the Dardens to come here. But now it had turned into an absolute fiasco, and there didn't seem to be any way to back out delicately. Unless she . . .

Richard Darden suddenly stepped in front of his wife to accost a stunned Afton. He thrust his arms out, punched her hard on both shoulders, and shoved her backward.

“Get away from us,” Darden said, his voice a mixture of cold rage and despair. “Do you see how much you've upset my wife?” He licked his lips and then came at her again. “This will be the end of your career. I'll see to that. No matter how long it takes, I'll make sure you pay for this ridiculous stunt.”

Susan Darden darted in to land a final punch. “We don't need your kind of help,” she cried. “In fact, we don't ever want to
see
you again!”