Little Girl Gone

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This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

Copyright © 2016 by Gerry Schmitt.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Schmitt, Gerry, author.

Title: Little girl gone / Gerry Schmitt.

Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Books, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016004359 (print) | LCCN 2016015978 (ebook) | ISBN

9780425281765 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698197473 ()

Subjects: LCSH: Kidnapping—Fiction. | Police—Minnesota—Fiction. | Afton

(Minn.)—Fiction. | Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 L58 2016 (print) | LCC PS3603.H56 (ebook) |

DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016004359

FIRST EDITION
: July 2016

Cover design by Anthony Ramondo.

Cover photo:
Man in forest
© Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

M
ARJORIE
Sorenson turned hard, flat, snake eyes on the young woman in the fox fur parka who strolled toward her in the Skylark Shopping Mall. And instantly pegged her:
rich bitch.

This blond woman who walked so casually, who cast her eyes about the doll show booths with a certain air of entitlement, had long, flaxen hair like you saw in TV ads; a fancy purse with a bunch of initials littered across the fabric; and ripe, round hips that swayed enticingly.

Marjorie, on the other hand, had stringy, dishwater hair; coarse, pockmarked skin; and a stomach that hung down in a limp, bloated pouch. Once, when she was listening to an early morning radio show, she'd heard the DJs howling and making jokes about women who had gunts. Tuba sound effects had accompanied their hoots and nasty comments. Marjorie had stabbed murderously at the radio dial with the paring knife she held in her soapy hand and made it a point never to listen to that station again.

A delighted smile had spread across the blond woman's face now, as Marjorie continued to track her. The woman had just passed an enormous pink-and-white candy-striped banner that proclaimed D
OLL
S
HOW
T
ODAY
, and found herself wandering through a maze of tables and booths that displayed the most intriguing array of dolls. Ballerinas, fairy dolls, Cabbage
Patch, Barbies, Strawberry Shortcake, small porcelain collectibles in diminutive costumes, even antique dolls.

And one perfect little doll in Marjorie's booth that literally took the woman's breath away.

Life-size, with fine blond hair, plump cheeks, and cupid-shaped lips, it had the perfect look, coloring, and complexion of a newborn. And just like a newborn, this doll was nestled in a white wicker basket with a pink floral blanket tucked around her.

Marjorie watched the woman as she continued to gaze at the baby doll with complete and utter fascination. Then she slipped her glasses on and stood up, a genial, practiced smile suddenly softening her coarse features.

“Isn't she beautiful?” Marjorie cooed, her voice struggling to convey a breathy excitement.

“She looks so real, it's positively eerie,” the blond woman marveled. “As if she could wake up at any moment and start cooing.”

Marjorie broadened her smile, revealing crooked teeth and pale pink gums. “Her name is Tiffany Lynn and she's a reborn.”

“So precious,” the woman murmured as Marjorie edged closer. “And you called her . . . what was that?”

“A reborn,” Marjorie said. She reached down and snugged the blanket closer to the doll's tiny round chin.

The blond woman giggled nervously. “That's what I thought you said.”

Marjorie smiled kindly, as though she'd already explained the reborn concept several times today. “I'm Molly Miller,” she said, extending a hand.

“Susan Darden,” the woman said, shaking hands with her. “Nice to meet you.”

Gathering up the doll with all the care you'd accord a real live baby, Marjorie gently passed it to Susan.

“Reborns are a customized form of doll making,” Marjorie said. “Reborn artists start with a commercial doll, often from Berenguer Babies or Secrist Dolls, and then do a complete transformation. For example, this doll was stripped of all factory paint, as well as hair and eyes. Then she was
repainted with ten coats of paint, human hair was micro-inserted, and a tiny electronic device was implanted in her chest to mimic a heartbeat.”

Susan's eyes widened. “She really has been remade.”

“Reborn,” Marjorie said. “Airbrushed both inside and out to capture the subtle coloring of a newborn.” Her index finger indicated the doll's closed eyes. “This little sweetheart's eyelashes are genuine fox hair that was dyed and hand-inserted.”

“I take it you're the artist?” Susan asked.

Marjorie nodded, allowing herself a modest smile.

Susan gazed tenderly at the little doll that lay in her arms and her heart lurched. The doll, Tiffany Lynn the woman had called her, had been weighted in such a way that it possessed the heft and feel of a real baby. Her eyes were closed and her tiny lashes brushed delicately against chubby cheeks. Susan could see that the baby's skin color had been fastidiously done, replicating the slight bluish-pink tint of a newborn.

“A reborn,” Susan said, obviously in awe of the painstaking skill that had gone into creating this doll. “This is amazing craftsmanship. She really does look like she's only two or three days old.”

“Thank you,” Marjorie said. She gestured at the yellow-striped shopping bag from Ciao Baby that dangled from Susan's arm. “I'm guessing you might have a new baby yourself?” She'd noted the woman's slightly swollen breasts and still-rounded tummy, which peeked out from between her coat's lapels. Pegged her instantly as a new mommy.

Susan nodded as one hand moved absently down to touch her stomach. “I have a baby girl. She'll be three months old tomorrow.”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Marjorie asked. She knew that almost all new mothers carried pictures of their offspring. On their cell phones or in a brag book. Babies always took center stage in a new mother's life, so this photo log was probably the only bright spot once they became lost in a fog of 3:00
A.M.
feedings and a swirl of postpartum emotions.

Susan handed the doll back to Marjorie and pulled an iPhone from her handbag. She thumbed to her favorite picture. “Here she is. Elizabeth Ann.”

“Ahh . . . precious,” Marjorie said. She gazed at the snapshot, her mind clicking into overdrive. “But clearly not a newborn anymore. She's probably already growing and changing and wriggling with independence.”

A shadow flicked across Susan's face. An emotion that Marjorie instantly picked up on. It said:
But what if I could recapture that special moment? What if I could have a doll that always looked as precious and wonderful as my own daughter did when she was just a day or two old? What if I could preserve forever that incredible moment in time?

“Molly,” Susan said, “do you ever do special orders?”

“Oh, sure,” Marjorie replied, working to maintain a casual tone. “Lots of times I do that.”

Susan flipped to another photo of Elizabeth Ann, one where she couldn't have been more than two days old. “Can you work from a photo?”

Marjorie peered at the screen and nodded. “Such a little angel. She's your first?”

Susan nodded.

“You and your husband must be filled with joy.”

“We are,” Susan said, obviously more than a little intrigued by Marjorie's hand-wrought reborns. “Are these babies . . . your reborns as you call them . . . are they expensive?”

“Depends on how lifelike you want to get,” Marjorie said. “With Tiffany Lynn, I used wefts of unprocessed European hair and inserted magnets inside her mouth so she could simulate using a pacifier.”

Susan gazed at the reborn, her face telegraphing the fact that she'd already made up her mind. “I'd love to have one. Of course, I'd have to talk it over with my husband first.”

Marjorie smiled knowingly. Caught up in the flush of new baby excitement, the average husband could be talked into just about any kind of push present. “You think your husband would approve?” she asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Susan said. “Besides . . .” She smiled, almost to herself. “I have ways of convincing him.”

Marjorie nodded. She hadn't known a man, really
known
a man, for almost twenty years. Her ex-husband, may his stultifying soul roast on the
coal-encrusted back burners of hell, had pretty much soured her on the notion of men. Bill Sorenson, or Billy as the ex had preferred to be called by his friends down at Riney's Bar, had been the poster child for dumb-ass behavior. Billy had never seen a 7-Eleven he didn't want to rob, which was probably why Billy had been in and out of jail so often, he'd been on a first-name basis with the booking officers. Probably, they could have just installed a damn revolving door for Billy.

As far as Marjorie was concerned, the only redeeming thing Billy had ever done was pound away at her one besotted night and given her Ronnie. Now, nineteen years later, Ronnie had grown into a fairly decent young man. He kept things ticking around the old farm and, under her watchful supervision, kept his partying to a tolerable level; a few beers at the local strip clubs, maybe a couple of joints on weekends.

And wonder of wonders, the more Ronnie matured, the better looking the kid got. Friendly smile, curly brown hair, good in the height department, and fairly well built. And if a girl didn't ask too damn many snoopy questions, and failed to notice there wasn't substantive gray matter behind those distant blue eyes, then Ronnie was in business.
They
were in business.

Taking great care, Marjorie laid the Tiffany Lynn doll back down in its basket, then reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pad and pencil. “Tell you what,” she said, a thoughtful note creeping into her voice. “Why don't you jot down your name and phone number? Once I get back home and unpacked from this doll show, I'll give you a jingle. It doesn't cost anything for an estimate, right?”

“That would be wonderful,” Susan said as she scribbled out her information. She handed it over to Marjorie, but seemed unwilling to pull her eyes away from Tiffany Lynn.

Marjorie's crooked grin stretched across her face like a leering jack-o'-lantern. She was already thinking ahead. Had to find Ronnie and get the boy moving. After all, there was work to be done.

A few minutes later, Marjorie found Ronnie lounging at the food court. He was sucking down an Orange Julius and trying to make time with the
slutty teenage girl behind the counter. She cast a baleful glance at her son and crooked a finger.

Ronnie saw her watching him, gave a resentful look, and sauntered over. “What?”

Marjorie jerked her chin. “That one. Follow her.” She pointed to the back of Susan's blond head as she drifted toward the exit. “Find out where she lives, then get your ass back here. I'll get this shit packed up.”

Ronnie stared at her for a long moment, his faded blue eyes taking on a crazy gleam.

“Will you
move
it!” Marjorie put some real venom into her voice to finally get Ronnie moving. Then she went back to her doll display and got busy. Wrapping her dolls in tissue paper, she hummed as she worked. She decided that things often had a funny way of working out. She didn't think it was going to happen today. And then, praise the Lord, Susan Darden had come strolling along like an entitled little princess. Almost like she'd been dropped into her lap by the hand of God. And wasn't that something?