Little Girl Gone (33 page)

“You bitch,” Marjorie seethed. With bloody blue murder in her eye, she jerked her injured arm up to shoot again.

As though her life depended on it—and it probably did—Afton swung her ice ax in a tight, practiced arc. Whistling like a missile, the deadly tip, honed meat-pick sharp for biting into rock and ice, caught Marjorie in the left temple.

The impact was deep, the result instantaneous. Marjorie yodeled a high-pitched scream, like an animal caught in a trap. Her lips slicked back over her upper teeth and her pupils retreated into tiny pinpricks in a sea of ghastly white. A geyser of blood spurted from her head wound, spattering both Afton and Shake. Marjorie's arm jerked sideways and the gun flew out of her hand, clattering down hard on the linoleum, then bouncing its way down the stairs.

Marjorie, who was still standing upright as bright red blood sprayed like a faucet, made a gurgling, underwater sound that sounded like
glub bluh.
Then she managed one shaky, tottering step backward. In her smooth cotton slippers, both heels slid back over the lip of the top stair and she teetered dangerously on the edge. Her arms flailed wildly as if she somehow sensed the precariousness of her situation. A split second later, her brain fully registered the trauma from the ice ax. Her arms dropped leadenly to her sides and she tipped straight over backward.

Bones cracked and splintered, blood painted a nasty Jackson Pollock as Marjorie tumbled down the narrow stairs. She made one final ass-over-teacup cartwheel and landed in an ungainly lump with one arm twisted behind her back and her leg practically cocked around her neck.

Oh my God
, was Afton's first thought.
What have I done?

“What just happened here?” Shake's frightened, ragged voice cried out
as she shuffled forward to look. She gazed down at Marjorie, and then shrank back from Afton, as if fearing the same horrible fate.

“Everything's fine,” Afton said even as she thought,
No, it's not fine. Nothing's fine. I just killed a woman.

“What did you
do
to her?” Shake quivered. She bent forward and clawed at her nightdress, pulling it into a knot. “Is she dead? Did you
kill
her? My God, what did you do?”

Suddenly, without warning, another voice joined in with Shake's caterwauling. A male voice.

“Ma? Ma?” someone yelled from below. Footsteps pounded and a door banged open.

Someone running up from the basement?
Afton wondered as she hastily wiped a mist of blood from her face.

“Holy shit, what happened?” the voice cried again. “What the hell's going on up here? Shake, did you—” The yelling ceased abruptly.

Afton finally thought to drop her ice ax and pull out the Glock. She gripped the heavy gun tightly, mentally girding herself in case she really had to use it.

“Get back in bed,” Afton ordered Shake, who retreated sullenly to her room. Then she leaned forward and peered down the staircase.

A young man gazed up at her from the bottom of the stairs, pale and blond, unexpectedly youthful looking. His face was a contorted mix of shock and surprise as he regarded Afton. Then, almost as an afterthought, he stared down at his mother's dead body.

“You killed her,” he mumbled in a strangled voice. Then, more forcefully, “You killed Mom.”

Oh shit
, Afton thought.
He's put it together all right. I'm up here and Mom's down there.

On the plus side, she was the one holding the gun.

“Who are you?” Afton demanded. “Are you Ronnie?” Was this the kid she'd tangled with at the hospital? She aimed the gun directly at the midpoint of his body. At the greater kill area.

The boy didn't answer. Instead, he continued to stare at his mother.

Every joint in Marjorie's body was cocked at an unnatural angle, and a thin, white bone protruded from her upper thigh. Her housedress had popped open to reveal a ratty pink slip.

Muttering something under his breath, Ronnie took a step forward and suddenly kicked Marjorie's body with the toe of his boot. “Bitch,” he snarled. “Stupid bitch.” He kicked her again, harder this time, then pulled his mouth into a crooked smile and spit at her.

Stunned, wary at what she was seeing, Afton gripped her Glock tighter. Caught up in the throes of a deep psychological conflict, Ronnie seemed to be processing multiple streams of data. She didn't know if his brain was struggling to mourn his mother or break free from her. And she didn't care. All she wanted to do was to rescue the Darden baby and keep everyone safe.

Ronnie stood in place for a few moments, swaying slightly as if in a trance, still working the scene through his brain. Then, looking pale and stricken, he dropped to his knees. Afton assumed he was going to touch his fingertips against Marjorie's neck to feel for a pulse, for any sign of life. Instead, the boy thrust a hand under her body and felt around.

Oh no.

In one lightning-fast move, Ronnie swept up Marjorie's gun, wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip, and was suddenly back on his feet again.

Dear Lord, he's got her gun.

Ronnie bounced the gun in his hand, as if testing the heft and feel of it, then stared up at Afton. One watery blue eye fluttered, his lip curled in distaste. Finally he said, “You're the bitch who stuck me with the needle.”

“You're under arrest,” Afton snapped out. She had to stay calm and get on top of this kid. If she didn't, she knew she could die. “Set down your weapon and place both hands on top of your head.”

“Sure thing,” Ronnie said. His arm came up in one fast, fluid motion and he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Plaster exploded above Afton's head as she flew backward, flattening herself against the wall.

“What the hell was that?” Shake screamed. She suddenly appeared in the doorway again, eyes wild, face contorted with fear.

“Get back inside,” Afton warned.

Bang!

Another bullet zinged past them. Ronnie wasn't a great shot, but he knew how to crack them off just the same.

“Ronnie,” Afton called out. “Put down the gun. Do you want to kill Shake? Do you want your own baby to get hit by a stray bullet?” Her body thrummed with fear. She wasn't trained for this sort of situation! She desperately needed help!

“Shut up,” Ronnie screamed at her. “Just shut the hell up.”

“The police are on their way,” Afton shouted back at him. “They'll be here any minute.”

“Ronnie!” Shake called out in an agonizing warble. “You gotta come get me. We have to get the hell out of here.”

“Stop it,” Afton hissed at Shake. “Don't you get it? That boy is
shooting
at us. He's in the middle of a breakdown.”

“Ronnie wouldn't hurt us,” Shake whined.

Ronnie fired another shot and Shake hastily backpedaled into her bedroom.

Afton drew a deep breath. Ronnie's uncontrollable violence, her realization that she was the only one who could keep the two babies safe, suddenly jolted her mind into a new place she'd never been before. A place that acknowledged her fear, but was also weirdly cold and rational. She knew she had to make her stand. She knew that, if pushed to the limit, she would have to kill him.

Afton counted to three and slowly eased herself around the corner, gun at the ready, finger on the trigger.

But Ronnie had disappeared.

A
FTON
gripped the Glock as she stood like a sentinel at the top of the stairs. Shake's baby had begun to cry, making mewling little kitten sounds. The baby down the hall was screaming its head off. And Ronnie had pulled a disappearing act. She didn't know if he would try to surprise her by charging up the stairs like a crazed animal, or if he'd retreated to the basement to take stock of things.

All of Afton's instincts screamed at her to defend this part of the house. And that was exactly what she planned to do.

Two minutes passed and then five minutes. The babies seemed to let up a little with their crying. Thank goodness. Then a door slammed downstairs.

Both hands gripping the Glock, Afton fairly quivered on the balls of her feet. Every nerve felt like it was being stretched to the point of breaking.

A shuffling sound echoed from down below, soft and faint, almost like rats scuttling across floorboards.

What the hell?

As if an unseen puppeteer was at work, Marjorie's body began to move. It slid slowly at first, then gradually picked up speed. Afton had only a narrow view as the torso and legs dragged past, leaving in their wake an
ugly slick of brownish-red blood. Seconds later, Marjorie's bare feet disappeared, with only a single dirty cotton slipper left behind.

Afton tried to think. Ronnie had come back to collect his mother's body. But where was he taking her? Was this some sort of deviant behavior or was he trying to make a getaway? Or was this a trick to lure her downstairs, to stage an ambush?

Of course it was. It had to be.

“Ronnie?” she called out. “Just give it up.”

No answer.

“Ronnie?”

That was when the lights winked out.

“Damn,” Afton whispered to herself as darkness settled around her like an ominous cloud.

“Ronnie?” Afton called again. But there was still no answer.

The door to Shake's bedroom creaked open.

“The lights went off,” Shake said.

“Yes,” Afton whispered. “Do you know where the fuse box is?”

“Maybe . . . in the kitchen?”

When Shake opened her door, it offered a faint spill of light from her bedroom window. Afton could see that it was almost dark outside. Pretty soon, she wouldn't be able to see her own hand in front of her face. And in a big old spooky house like this, where she was the unknowing interloper, total darkness would put her at a terrible disadvantage.

Shake's eyes were drawn to the Glock in Afton's hand. “Are you gonna kill Ronnie?” she asked.

“Only if he tries to kill me.”

“He wouldn't do that.”

“He already did. Now be quiet and go back to bed.”

Afton remained at the top of the stairs, never lowering her guard. She might not be able to see Ronnie coming, but she'd be able to hear him. And then she would shoot and shoot and shoot until she took him down. Yes, that was the plan. Because she figured she only had to hold out for another hour at best. That's when Max, God bless his soul, would come
charging in with a cadre of state troopers and whoever else he could round up. The cavalry
would
come to the rescue.

It was only when Afton smelled the first whiff of smoke that her attention wavered and a tickle of panic started to seep in.

“Ronnie?” she called out when she was really thinking,
Holy shit. Is that smoke?

Yes, Afton was pretty sure it was smoke. She fought down a rising tide of fear, but there was no way around it. Ronnie must have started a fire somewhere in the house.

But where? That was the big question, wasn't it?

Shake crept back out to the landing. “What the hell?” she whispered. “Is something burning?”

Afton ran back to the second bedroom and snatched up the Darden baby, along with all her bedding. She carried the fussing, fidgeting baby into Shake's room and handed her over. “You keep the two babies in here with you. Then I want you to close the door after me and wedge as many blankets as you can along the bottom of the door. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shake said. She put a hand on top of her head as if this was all too much for her.

Afton eyed a battered wooden dresser that held a music box and a clutter of makeup. “Can you slide that dresser over a couple of feet and shove it up against the door? Barricade yourself in?”

Shake bent forward as if in pain. “I guess.”

“Do that,” Afton said. “And don't come out for anything.”

Shake's eyes were twin saucers of fear. “Where are you gonna be?”

The left side of Afton's mouth quivered in a nervous tick. “I'm going downstairs.”

*   *   *

SLOWLY,
carefully, Afton edged her way down the narrow stairs. She kept her hip pressed firmly against the wall and her finger squarely on the trigger. If Ronnie meant to smoke them out, to burn down the house around them, then she would have to stop him. She would put herself on the offensive and hunt him down like the despicable monster he was.

For Afton, the worm had turned. The predator was now prey and she was coming after him. That is, if only she could keep her wits about her.

The smoke was much thicker once she reached the first floor. Afton dropped into a low crouch, pulled the neck of her sweater up over her mouth and nose, and slipped out of her boots.

Stay cool
, she told herself.
Stay frosty.
She eased forward quietly, making her way in a kind of half crawl, half slide. She was headed for the kitchen, the source of all the smoke.

As she passed Marjorie's workroom, the door was partially open and she could see a few dolls staring out at her through wisps of smoke. No Ronnie in there, though. No fire either.

Okay. Keep moving.

Afton pushed forward, forcing herself to take shallow sips of air as she peered through the thick haze. The acrid smoke burned her eyes and sent tears streaming down her cheeks. Her heart pounded like a snare drum inside her chest. She was terrified that a single cough or sneeze might give away her position.

Visibility was reduced to almost nothing the closer she got to the kitchen. But the smoke was clearly coming from some sort of fire that Ronnie had started there.

Great gluts of smoke billowed toward her, like ugly, toxic clouds. The scent of charred garbage floated in the air. Afton prayed that this same smoke wasn't swirling upstairs via old air ducts or vents and that Shake and the babies weren't being forced to breathe these noxious fumes.

Afton had scuttled through the kitchen doorway and advanced a good six or seven feet when her right knee whacked hard against something.

Ouch. What was that? Table? Chair?

She couldn't see a damn thing in the swirl of smoke and she was feeling both light-headed and short of breath. She inched forward, trying to swallow back her anxiety and panic, and hit her knee again.

Damn, what
was
that? Part of the stove?

She reached out tentatively, fearing she would burn her fingers. Instead, the back of her hand knocked against something.

There was an immediate, metallic thud. And just like that, the smoke seemed to lessen. What had she done?

Afton scrambled to her feet, realizing she'd managed to cut off the source of the smoke. Something awful had been burning furiously inside the oven and she had unwittingly but mercifully banged the oven door shut.

Struggling forward another step, Afton tried to remember exactly where the kitchen door was located. She desperately needed to find fresh air or she was afraid she'd lose consciousness. Air first, and then track down Ronnie.

The room was still filled with dark smoke as she ran her fingertips lightly along the edge of the stove. To her left, something soft brushed up against her—curtains maybe?—as she lurched along. She managed another ten feet, holding her breath, blinking furiously. Still gripping the Glock, she batted blindly and smacked into one of the glass panes in the door.

Lucky, lucky, lucky
, she thought as she fumbled lower. Turning the doorknob, she slammed her foot against the door in her best kung fu kick.

The door flew open and Afton somersaulted outside, lurching across the front porch, landing on her hands and knees in the soft snow.
Plop.
She tilted her head back and sucked greedily at the clean, icy air, thankful she'd finally made it out in one piece. Even though wind and snow lashed all around her, her head was beginning to clear and her brain fog had started to lift. Eyes that felt like burning coals just moments ago were slowly beginning to see more clearly. She blinked, trying to orient herself. Gazed about, almost surprised at the tremendous mountains of snow that had built up, and saw . . . Ronnie.

He was ten feet ahead of her, dressed head to toe in a black snowmobile suit and shiny black helmet. He was hunched over, working furiously to strap his Pac boots into a pair of homemade wooden snowshoes. Afton peered through the swirl of blinding snow and was able to make out the snowshoes' leather laces and heavy coats of varnish. A pair of metal ski poles were stuck in the snow next to him.

Ronnie was trying to escape.

Afton hefted the gun and pointed it at him. “Ronnie!” she shouted.

With the howling wind and the heavy helmet on his head, Ronnie couldn't hear her.

Afton scooped up a handful of snow, mashed it into a hard snowball, and rocketed it at him.

Ronnie straightened up like he'd been poked with a hot wire. He spun around in a blind panic, almost losing his balance. When he saw Afton kneeling there, pointing a gun at him, his eyes hardened like twin nickels and spit flew out his mouth. He fumbled a hand toward a pocket in his nylon suit.

“Don't!” Afton cried out.

Ronnie pulled out his gun and fired anyway. Except the only thing that happened was a dull click. He was out of bullets.

Bellowing like an enraged bull, Ronnie fumbled for one of his ski poles. He pointed the sharp end directly at Afton's face and charged.

Afton shot him in the leg. A no-hesitation shot that drove the slug directly into his upper left thigh, shattering his femur instantly.

Ronnie screamed like a stuck pig, a sharp, high-pitched scream that rose like steel wheels skidding against metal. The ski pole flew from his hand as he leapt a foot into the air, kinked his entire body around, and then collapsed in the snow. His ungainly landing on his wounded leg made him scream again, and he struggled to roll over and right himself. He couldn't do it. Crumpled like a squashed bug, he howled wildly as damaged nerves and tendons telegraphed excruciating pain to his brain. He threw his arms above his head and thrashed around, his arms batting the snow as if he was desperately trying to make a snow angel.

Afton was on top of Ronnie in a flash. She pressed the Glock firmly against his forehead and grabbed his gun. It was a piece of shit, an old Rossi revolver, but she wasn't taking any chances.

“You shot me!” Ronnie frothed at the mouth and he'd bit his lip so blood streamed down his chin. “I'm gonna kill you,” he shrilled. “I'll skin you alive. I'll slit open your belly open and—”

“That's enough, Ronnie,” Afton said tiredly. “Just shut the hell up.”

She walked back to the house. With the door standing wide open and the wind howling, most of the smoke had cleared from the kitchen.

Which, Afton decided, wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Because she finally found the missing Marjorie.

Hanging upside down, her feet tied neatly to a heavy metal light fixture, Marjorie dangled above the battered kitchen table. With her toes pointed toward the ceiling and her housecoat fluttering in the breeze, she looked like an upside-down ballerina twirling a macabre dance of death.

In the oven, Afton found the melted, smoking remains of several dolls.