Little Girl Gone (2 page)

T
HAT'S
the house,” Ronnie said. They were hunkered in their rumbling, rust-spotted Chevy Malibu on Kenwood Parkway, one of the fanciest addresses in Minneapolis. Enormous homes of red brick and yellow sandstone, most of which dated back to the days of the timber and lumber barons, sprawled out around them. Bright lights glowed in lead pane windows and afforded them small peeks at wood-paneled libraries, lush living rooms, and dining rooms lit by crystal chandeliers.

“Shit,” Marjorie said, clearly impressed. “This is big time.” By
big time
, she meant big money. She wasn't easily roused from her normally angry, turgid state, but this kind of wealth was a whole new ballgame. Gave her a little tingle right there in the pit of her stomach.

Compared to these people, the rich assholes who actually lived in these mansions, Marjorie knew that she and Ronnie looked like refugees. Just like those poor, sad people you saw in old black-and-white newsreels clumping down the gangplank from some tramp steamer. People who were at the back of the line, who would always be
kept
at the back of the line.

“You want me to go take a closer look?” Ronnie asked. He was slumped in the passenger side, eating cold French fries and dripping ketchup on his yellow sweatshirt.

“Don't be a dummy,” Marjorie snarled. “We gotta wait.” Her eyes squinted greedily at the twinkling lights that filtered through the panes of glass like some kind of picture-perfect postcard. Marjorie could imagine sterling flatware being laid out just so on pristine white linen. A cook, or a housekeeper at the very least, puttering around a warm kitchen, where pots steamed and bubbled. A sophisticated, elegant couple sitting down at their dining room table. Maybe being served soup from a tureen. Whatever the hell a tureen was.

An hour later, the numbing cold was getting to them. Marjorie shifted uncomfortably, pulled her thumb out of her mitten's thumb spot, and nestled it with the rest of her fingers. Their breath had created a thin skim of ice on the inside of the car windows.

“Maybe they ain't going out,” Ronnie said. He was starting to get bored and his voice had taken on a whiny tone.

“It's Saturday night,” Marjorie said. “Rich people go out Saturday night. That's what they do.”

Periscoping her head up, Marjorie scratched off a small patch of ice with a ragged fingernail and pressed a watchful eye to the cold glass. Upstairs, on the second floor of the Dardens' grand home, a light winked off.

“Say now,” she said to Ronnie.

Ten minutes later, Susan Darden and her husband came waltzing out the front door. Susan was bundled in a sleek black mink coat that was so long, it grazed the sidewalk as she walked. Her long blond hair was pulled snugly into a low chignon, the better to show off the size and sparkle of her diamond earrings. Her husband, tall, and radiating businessman confidence, had his arm circled protectively around Susan's waist. Halfway down the walk, he leaned down and whispered something to her, causing her to throw back her head and laugh. Marjorie imagined she could hear Susan's high, tinkling notes hanging like icicles in the frozen night. Then Mr. and Mrs. Darden climbed into a sleek jet-black Volvo and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Marjorie sat there for a few minutes. She just knew they were off to someplace fancy, an expensive restaurant or a party where people would eat crab
puffs and drink French wine. Then she pulled her thoughts away from the Dardens and turned inward, thinking, mulling over their next move. As she mumbled to herself, neon dollars signs seemed to glow with an urgent, bright intensity right before her eyes. Then a wolfish smile crept across her face and she cranked her head toward Ronnie. “Let's go,” she whispered.

*   *   *

ASHLEY
Copeland stared silently around the empty house. It was blessedly quiet now that the Dardens had finally taken off. Mrs. Darden had yammered on with all sorts of picky instructions, while Mr. Darden just plain gave her the creeps. But he was her mom's boss, so she was careful not to kick him between the legs every time he leered at her.

This was Ashley's second babysitting gig this week, and she was desperate for cash. Winter Prom was right around the corner, and her dipshit boyfriend still hadn't saved enough money to spring for the kind of limousine and hotel room she'd always dreamed of. Then there was the matter of her dress. She intended to absolutely
crush
it in a hot pink strapless number that would put all the cool girls to shame.

At least this gig seemed like a no-brainer. The Dardens' baby was asleep upstairs and, according to Mrs. Darden, would probably remain asleep. So it would be a relaxing night of watching cable TV and doing some FaceTime on her iPad with her friends, Trish and Bella. It could be the easiest forty bucks she'd ever earned—as long as the privileged little brat stayed asleep.

Ashley walked through the dining room, trailing one hand on a high-gloss table. The furnace rumbled beneath parquet floors, and a few flakes of snow had started to
tick-tick
against the windows. She'd never been in a house this big before. What was really obscene was that only two people lived here. Well, actually three, but the baby didn't really count.

Flopping down on a bouncy leather sofa, Ashley pulled out her iPad and logged in as GoldyLox131. She tried to FaceTime several of her friends but no one answered. Bummer. She pursed her lips, blew out a glut of air, and looked around, already feeling bored.

But she wouldn't be for long. In the familiar children's story, Goldilocks
has a very harrowing encounter with a group of marauding bears. For GoldyLox131, two wolves already lurked outside the front door.

*   *   *

THE
kidnapping of Baby Darden was your basic piece of cake. Ronnie walked up to the front door, a battered Pizza Hut box balanced in his left hand, and rang the doorbell. Marjorie hung back in the shadows, watchful and listening. A few seconds later, a chime rang out deep inside the enormous house.
Bing, bang, bong.
Just like church.

Not thirty seconds later the babysitter opened the front door. Ronnie's first impression was of a skinny blond teenager with a tentative smile and a thin band of blue braces stretched across her upper teeth. Puzzlement flickered in her eyes when she spotted the pizza box. Then she gave a disdainful snort and said, “Nobody here ordered—”

Ronnie didn't waste a single precious moment. He straight-armed the girl in the face with his right arm, shattering her nose on impact, and sending her sprawling backward onto the Oriental carpet.

Terrified, screeching like a scalded cat, blood flowing copiously from her busted nose, the babysitter struggled to right herself.
“Eee . . . pyuh!”
she babbled as her feet paddled helplessly on the rug, unable to gain traction.

Ronnie was on top of her like a rabid pit bull. “Shut up!” he snarled as Marjorie slipped in behind him and kicked the door shut in one fluid motion.

“Stuff them socks in her mouth,” Marjorie ordered. “Then blindfold her and snare your rope around her neck.”

“I know what to do,” Ronnie cried. He was caught up in the moment now, feeling totally enraptured. His blood was pulsing hotter, his synapses were firing more crisply than ever before. Struggling with this little piece of quiff was really turning his crank.

Scared out of her mind, Ashley begged and pleaded with him as she blew gluts of snot and bubbles of blood out of her shattered nose.

Ronnie grinned at her and hooked a thumb into the waistband of her jeans. He felt the button pop, the zipper start to go down. A narrow piece of hot pink silk, the girl's thong, stretched across her flat belly.

“Jesus Christ,” Marjorie said. She was a little surprised by the violence of his attack. “Don't kill her. And don't do . . . that.”

Illuminated under a French chandelier, Ronnie ground his teeth together in frustration and stuffed a dirty tube sock into the girl's mouth. He slapped on a hunk of silvery duct tape, then wound a hunk of rope around the girl's neck, stretched it tight, and looped it around her ankles. Hog-tied her nice and neat like a goat, just like he'd seen a 4-H guy do at the Pepin County Fair last summer.
Good
, he thought to himself.
This feels so good and the bitch deserves it
. He glanced around to see where Marjorie was
. If only there was time to really have fun.

Marjorie took a few moments to scope out the downstairs, just in case there was a live-in housekeeper or a prowling dog. When she decided they were safe, safe enough anyway, she charged up the curving staircase. Expensive silk carpet whispered underfoot as she wondered what it must be like to live in a fancy house like this. A house with real oil paintings and custom leather furniture, and where you had actual carpeting instead of dirty, crappy linoleum. She gnashed her teeth, seething with unrequited envy as she climbed up to the second-floor landing. She hesitated for a moment, her hand stretching out to rest on an elaborately carved newel post, and glanced toward what she figured was the front of the house. Master bedroom located there? Probably, she decided. Which meant the nursery would be right next door.

Marjorie padded down the dim hallway, pushed open a door, and peered inside. And there, lying in a frilly white crib surrounded by a plush zoo of polar bears and penguins, was the baby. Elizabeth Ann. Just like some kind of grand prize in a box of Cracker Jack.

Peering over the railing of the crib, Marjorie whispered, “Hi, baby.”

The baby stirred and gurgled softly.

“Perfect,” Marjorie said, reaching down to gather up the child. “You're a perfect little angel, aren't you?”

W
INTER
always looked more pristine outside the city. And the small village of Taylor's Falls, as well as the surrounding three hundred acres of state parkland and bluffs, sparkled like a glazed sugar confection after last night's snowfall.

With basaltic cliffs that towered almost nine hundred feet over the winding Saint Croix River, the entire area was a climber's paradise, offering frozen waterfalls, steep rock faces, and glacier-formed sinkholes. But ice climbing is both challenging and dangerous, especially with a diamond coating of fickle new ice and snow.

Arcing her right arm back, Afton Tangler swung her Petzl ice ax into the ice-coated cliff. She grimaced as the sharp metal bit in and her shoulder absorbed the harsh impact.
Here we go
, she told herself.
Let's
carpe
this friggin'
diem
and show this big boy who's boss!

Spits of cold ice chips stung her face as Afton repeated the motion with her left arm, drove in her toes, and found purchase with her crampons. Beginning her ascent up the cliff known as the Dihedral, she fell into the familiar ice climber's pattern. Thwack, kick, pull herself up. Thwack, kick, do it again.

Recent snows and temperature drops had brought early season ice to the
bluffs at Taylor's Falls. It was good ice this morning, hard and resilient, shiny as glass, and Afton was the first one to take a crack at it. Lean and compact, just a shade past thirty, Afton had the piercing blue eyes of a Siberian husky and blondish hair that sprang into an artichoke-like assemblage if she wielded her blow dryer too enthusiastically. Right now, none of that mattered. She was just praying that she was tough enough to handle this cliff.

“On belay,” called Hazel, one of her team members from down below. Three hours earlier, their Women on the Ropes climbing club had driven up from the Twin Cities, picked out a likely climbing spot, and affixed a web of climbing and safety ropes. Now Hazel meted out some of that rope as Afton made her ascent.

Moving methodically but cautiously, Afton climbed to just around the midpoint without encountering any major obstacles. The only issue so far was the sharp wind. It froze her cheeks and stung her eyes, making them water.

Damn
, she thought, ducking her chin farther down inside her anorak.
It's cold. Maybe having first crack at this hill isn't so great after all.

Afton climbed on autopilot for another ten feet, then paused beneath a craggy overhang, what climbers called an ice mushroom. She studied it, chewed her lip, and tried to muster her bravado.

Okay
, she told herself.
Blow by this baby and it's a quick ten-foot scramble to the top. Like they say in Nike-land, just do it.

But the ice was thinner up here, with patches of loose rock like cat litter. If she could find a decent toehold, Afton was confident she could muscle her way over this monster.

Afton took a deep breath, scanning the route.
Something's here
, she told herself resolutely.
Has to be.
She had to trust her instincts and believe in her route. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, tried to slow her heart rate. Instantly, she felt calmer; now she could do it. Opening her eyes, she searched the route again. Then a plan materialized.

Afton would try for a small lip, maybe fifteen inches out from her right hip. It was high; it would be a stretch. She exhaled slowly, drove in her ax, swung her right leg up, and caught the toehold.

There you are. Gotcha, you bastard.

She clung to the wall, in an unnatural, contorted position, feeling a modicum of triumph. Now it was only a matter of jacking her other leg up. But as she hung there, trying to shift a little more weight onto her right foot, her shoulder muscles began to burn and her right hand had the stirrings of a cramp.

Shit.

“You okay?” Forty feet below, Hazel peered up at her, aware Afton was hanging in a fairly miserable position. The rest of the team was clustered below, watching, patiently waiting their turns.

“Terrific,” Afton yelled down. She gritted her teeth, trying to decide what to do. Her apprehension had distracted her, causing her to make a couple of tactical errors. Worst of all, her arms were blown and she felt like a stupid fruit bat hanging against this ice wall.

Push through the pain
, she told herself. They were words that were fast becoming her everyday mantra. A messy divorce had turned her into a single mom again, and her job as community liaison officer for the Minneapolis Police Department meant she had to deal with people in the messy, tragic aftermath of their worst day ever.

If I were on a completely vertical frozen waterfall instead of this fifty-five-degree slope, I'd probably have fallen
, she berated herself.

So what the hell was she doing here? A soccer mom trying to act like an eighteen-year-old kid at the X Games? She should be lazing around home with the kids watching
The Real Housewives
and snarfing a bag of Chips Ahoy. Or better yet . . .

“Hey!” one of the women called up to her, and then gave a slow-motion wave. “You got a phone call. Somebody named Thacker.”

Saved by the bell, Afton decided. As community liaison officer for the Minneapolis Police Department, she was part victim's advocate, part social worker. The MPD sometimes phoned her on weekends to help with a case or finesse a referral. Or maybe her boss was just anxious again. In his job as deputy chief, Gerald Thacker was anxious a lot.

“I'm coming down,” Afton called, and everyone stepped back to give
her room. She flipped herself around, snapped a SpiderJack descender onto the rope, and prepared for a fast descent. This was the easy part, the fun part. Exercising a
glissade.
Which, of course, was really just a fancy French term for scooting down the hill on the seat of your pants.

Once Afton reached the bottom of the cliff, she peeled off her gloves and grabbed the phone.

“It's your boss,” one of the women said in a hoarse whisper. “Sounds important.”

“Hey,” Afton said into the phone as she rotated her left shoulder to unkink a knot. “What's up?”

Gerald Thacker's voice crackled in her ear. “We need you back here. Pronto.”

“Are you kidding?” She and the other women had driven up here to sample fine wines and local cheeses, do a little ice climbing, and enjoy a good gabfest in their rented chalet. Not necessarily in that order. A mini vacation away from the demands of bosses, kids, husbands, and household humdrum.

“Listen,” Thacker said. “There's been an abduction. A bad one.”

Afton sucked in air. Bad had to mean a child. “A child?” she asked, and the women around her fell silent.

“A baby,” Thacker said.

“Dear Lord. How old?”

“Three months yesterday,” Thacker told her.

“Taken from . . .”

“Her home in Kenwood,” Thacker said. “Last night. Stolen right out of her crib.”

“Oh, jeez,” Afton said. She immediately thought of her own two daughters, Poppy and Tess.

“There's a shit storm going on down here at city hall,” Thacker said. “And your presence is required. So what I want to know is . . . how soon can you be here?”

Afton squinted at her watch, an old Cartier that seemed to perpetually
run five minutes slow. “Hour and a half if I really crank it.” Six months ago, she'd gotten a Lincoln Navigator as part of her divorce settlement. It was a big honkin' SUV that could do ninety without breaking a sweat.

“Good,” responded Thacker. “Do it.”

He was about to hang up when Afton said, “How are the parents holding up?”

There was a pause, and then Thacker said, “They're not.”