Little Girl Gone (25 page)

S
HAKE
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 any 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.

A
FTON
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 E
LIZABETH
A
NN
D
ARDEN
,
N
UMBER
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.

Staring up at her from the first page was the information on Muriel Pink. She'd been the first person they'd interviewed, way back last Sunday when the case was still fresh.

Waves of guilt coursed through Afton. She should have known then that Muriel Pink might be in danger. And now . . . now the old girl was dead.

Afton circled Muriel's name with a red pen and swabbed the entire paragraph with orange highlighter. She didn't want to forget that name ever. It was a bitter lesson learned the hard way.

A dozen or so missing person reports, some recently faxed and some still warm from the copier, lay to the left of the file. These were the reports that, per Don Jasper's request, had been dribbling in all week long from law enforcement agencies all over the Midwest. There were a few new reports, too, ones that she had been tasked with going over.

It was sad, she thought, as she read through these new reports, that all these people—and some children, too—had simply vanished without a trace. There were families that were desperate for any word, for any information or closure, yet they'd probably never find it.

Midway through the stack of new reports, she found a missing person report on another baby. This baby was from Des Moines, Iowa, stolen from a day care center. Her name was Tiffany Lynn Matthews.

Afton worked her upper teeth against her lower lip.
How awful
, she thought. Stolen right out of a day care center. If your kids weren't safe at day care, where were they safe?

She set the report aside and concentrated on the next one.

Wait a minute. Something pinged deep inside her brain. Day care center? Something about that felt familiar.

Afton went back and read the report on the missing Des Moines baby.
Hmm. Day care center. And there was a day care center in question here. In Edina. But the FBI had already checked out that day care center, so that couldn't be what was bothering her.

With a faint ping still ringing in her brain, Afton scanned the report again.

Wait a minute . . .

She dug back through the notes Max had jotted down when he'd first interviewed Susan Darden. She tore through them, feeling there was something there, something that might . . .

She found it on the third page of a misspelled report that Max had typed himself and stuck in the file. “Tiffany Lynn” was the name of the reborn doll that the doll lady had proudly shown to Susan Darden.

Tiffany Lynn.

A missing child, a reborn doll. Both with the same name. What were the odds?

Afton grabbed the police report along with Max's notes and skittered down the hallway.

“Max!”

She found him sitting in the conference room, papers spread out around him, talking quietly to Don Jasper. They both looked up when she appeared in the doorway.

“What's up?” Max said. “Where's the fire?”

“Hey there,” Jasper said, giving her one of his devastating smiles.

“Tiffany Lynn,” Afton said, a little breathless. “We just received an old police report on a missing Tiffany Lynn Matthews from Des Moines, Iowa.” She held up the report. “And Tiffany Lynn is the name of the doll that Susan Darden was so captivated by at the Skylark Mall doll show.” She held up Max's notes. “It was in your notes.”

“Lemme see that,” Max said.

Afton handed over the paperwork.

“Sit down,” Jasper said. “Don't just stand there lurking. You make me nervous.”

“Son of a bitch,” Max muttered as he read through the papers. “She's right.” He slid everything over to Jasper, who did a quick read.

“My guys are going to plotz when I tell them about this,” Jasper said. “This is a very good catch.”

“So you think we should let Des Moines know about this?” Afton asked.

Jasper stood up. “I'll put somebody on it right now.” He breezed out of the room.

“Oh,” Afton said. “And here I thought I was already on it.”

“You were,” Max said. “It just got kicked upstairs. Happens all the time.”

“I guess I'll have to get used to that.”

“Or you'll learn how to keep a lead to yourself until you've taken it to the next logical step.”

“Is that what I should have done?”

“Naw, you did the right thing.” Max grinned at her. “Now get back to it. You done good.”

Afton went back to her cubicle and sat down heavily. She wanted to march down to Don Jasper's temporary office and demand to be let in on the Des Moines case. But she knew that wasn't the smart thing to do; it wasn't the political thing to do.

“If it isn't Inspector Clouseau,” came a man's teasing voice from behind her. “Taken in any stray dogs lately?”

Afton spun around in her chair. Richard Darden was standing there, a slightly condescending look on his face. “Any word?” she asked him.

Darden shook his head. “Not yet.” He took a step toward her. “Still busy playing detective?”

Afton gave a delicate snort.

“I understand you're all hearts and flowers with my wife now,” Darden said. “Charming woman, wouldn't you say? Now that's she's threatened to eviscerate my bank account.”

“It really doesn't matter what I think.”

Darden pressed closer to her. “You don't like me very much, do you?”

“Mr. Darden, I don't give a rat's ass about you or your friends in high places. All I care about is finding your daughter.”

“What's going on?” Max asked. He was suddenly standing directly behind Darden.

“Just having a friendly chat,” Darden said.

“Not so friendly,” Afton said.

Darden cocked his head and held out his hands in a plaintive gesture. “Oh, excuse me. Community Liaison Officer Tangler wants to treat me as if I'm a suspect in the disappearance of my own daughter. If that's the case, why don't you guys slap a pair of handcuffs on me right now.”

Max pointed a finger at Darden. “You,” he said, “are wanted in Don Jasper's office.” He switched his gazed to Afton. “And you're coming with me. Grab your coat and let's go.”

“Where are we going?” Afton asked as she followed after Max. Once again, she felt like she was being called to the school principal's office. But no, they were headed for the elevators.

“Lunch,” Max said. “I figured I'd better get you out of there before you tore that guy a new . . . well . . .”

“Brooks Brothers suit?”

“Whatever.”

The elevator arrived and Max pushed
L
for the lobby.

“You're not mad at me?” Afton asked.

“
Moi?
If Darden rode me as hard as he's been riding you, I'd toss a saddle on my back and call myself Trigger.”

*   *   *

AFTON
and Max ended up at Richie's, a small diner on Fifth Street, a few blocks from their building. Richie's owner, Richie Novotny, was a former Marine supply sergeant who ran his diner like he was still running things in the Corps. The interior was painted a grim barracks green and the dining area sported bare bones metal tables and chairs. Placards on the wall listed the rules and regulations that Richie's customers were expected to follow: N
O
S
PITTING
.
N
O
S
WEARING
.
N
O
F
IGHT
ING
.

“What kind of place did you bring me to?” Afton asked. “No fighting?
Does that mean a fight could actually break out here? And the place
is
a trifle short on ambience.” Truth be told, it was way short on ambience, bordering on institutional.

“This place is a classic,” Max said. “And Richie's not so bad once you get to know him.”

Afton wasn't so sure she wanted to get to know Richie. She'd just spotted another sign that said, N
O
P
EACE
S
IGNS
OR
O
THER
H
IPPY
D
IPPY
C
RAP
.

“The food's real good here,” Max said, handing her a menu. “Even though the menu is limited.”

Afton scanned the menu. It offered a basic burger, a cheeseburger, a meatloaf sandwich, pot roast and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and something called chipped beef.

“Chipped beef?” she asked.

Max waved a hand. “It's a . . . kind of a Marine tradition from way back when.”

“Uh-huh.” At the bottom of the menu, she saw the words J
ARHEADS
E
AT
F
REE
—
N
O
E
XCEPTIONS
. All right, maybe Richie was an okay guy after all.

A waiter in a white T-shirt, white slacks, and a long white apron took their order, and then hustled off toward the clattery kitchen. Richie himself, a behemoth of a man with a barrel chest and a buzz cut, never seemed to budge from his chosen spot behind the cash register.

Max waited until they were both halfway through their macaroni and cheese before he said, “Has this been tough? I mean, being away from your kids so much?”

“It has been this week.”

“I hate to tell you, but this is pretty much the life.”

“I'm beginning to see that.”

“It's not for everybody.”

“But it works for you,” Afton said.

“My kids are a little older than yours,” Max said. “Jake will be graduating high school this year and Tyler is fourteen.”

“And they're both hockey fanatics.”

“Yup. That's why I'm broke and can't afford a fancy new car,” he joked. “Our priority is new skates every year, as well as a half dozen new hockey sticks and breezers. I guess that's the price we pay for living here. It seems like everybody's kids are into hockey. What about your girls?”

“No hockey, thankfully,” Afton said. “Tess enjoys acting in school plays and playing violin. Poppy is certain she's going to be the next Taylor Swift. So she sings in front of the mirror all the time. She'll probably be pretty good if she keeps it up.”

Max paused. “Hell of a thing being a parent and working on a case with a missing baby. I don't think I could handle it if one of my boys went missing.”

“Not sure I'd be any different,” Afton said. She recalled her moment of panic last night.

“That was good work noticing the name of that missing Iowa baby, by the way.”

“I was just the first one to go through the new faxes.”

“No,” Max said. “Detectives first grade and FBI agents with more experience and formal training might have missed that. I think you could make a good detective. I think Thacker might be on board for that, too.”

“Not sure if I've got the right training,” Afton admitted.

“You've been taking the criminal justice courses?”

“That's right.”

“And you've got what? A degree in sociology or something?”

“Yup, I finally buckled down and focused on a degree after I got tired of hearing my parents complain about how I was wasting my life as an Outward Bound instructor.”

“Jeez,” Max said. “You were one of those? Does that mean you can start a fire using a compass or lash together a canoe out of pinecones?”

“No, but I can use my watch as a compass and start a fire using a bow drill or flint. I worked up in the BWCA for a couple of years. I love it up there. So gorgeous and peaceful.”

“Is that where you started climbing?” Max asked. He waggled his head back and forth. “One of the guys mentioned you were a rock climber.”

“I started my life on the rocks after going through a program offered
by the Minnesota State Parks. There was a class on rock climbing and rappelling up at Tettegouche State Park. That's where I first caught the bug. Now I do most of my climbing at Taylor's Falls, but once a year I try to get back up north.” She grinned. “Of course, my dream trip would be El Capitan in Yosemite.”

“Big dreams,” Max said.

“And of course, the rock climbing led to ice climbing, which means you can enjoy the sport all year round.”

“Yeah, but frozen waterfalls? I mean . . . that's pure crazy.”