Once Upon a Grind (7 page)

A
S
the electric buggy rumbled away, I waved good-bye to the kids. When the vehicle was out of sight, Matt turned to me.

“Mission accomplished,” he declared. “Let's go home.”

“Some Prince you are. You go. I'm staying to look for Penny.”

Even in this gloom I could see the frustration on Matt's face.

“Don't tell me,” I said. “I already know. It's like finding a needle in a haystack—”

“A needle with four legs and a will of its own.”

“We have to try. I told Molly I'd do my best.”

But it wasn't only that; I was spurred by the thought of what could happen to a little lost dog in a city where human beings sometimes vanished without a trace.

Matt noted my resolve and rolled his eyes to the starry sky. “Gee, I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday evening in Manhattan. Can you?”

“You're a prince.”

Matt snorted.

“Just let me call Mike and we'll go.”

“Where?”

“Back through the Arch and into the Ramble. That's where Penny ran off.”

Matt nodded and crossed to the middle of the bridge to give me privacy. He didn't have to. Quinn didn't pick up. I left a voice mail message, letting him know his kids were okay.

He was likely in the air by now, which meant our weekend plans in DC were ruined. But his kids were safe, and I thanked their guardian angels for our lucky outcome.

“Let's go, Clare, it's getting late . . .”

Leading with the Maglite, Matt guided us back through that giant stone keyhole and into the woods.

*   *   *

“H
ERE,
Penny, Penny. Penny!” I called. “Come on, girl . . . Come to Mama . . . Here, Penny, Penny, Penny!”

This went on for some time until the yelling and the hiking became too much, and I paused to take a breath.

“Thank you,” Matt said. “I was getting a migraine.”

“Don't you ever get tired of whining?”

“I can't whine on the job,” he replied. “Obsessing about a bad hotel room or a busted Rover in some underdeveloped country is flat-out indulgent. I mean, I'm living like royalty compared to the hunger, disease, poverty, and lawlessness I see on my coffee-sourcing trips. For me, whining has become a first-world luxury I only enjoy at home in New York, surrounded by the people I love—”

“Shhh!” I cut in, not that I minded Matt's complaint about complaining, but I thought I'd heard—

Bark!

“Did you hear that? Here, Penny, Penny!” I shouted. “Come to Mama!”

Bark, bark, bark!

Before Matt could react, I snatched the flashlight and leaped into a bush.

“Clare? Are you nuts? Stick to the path!”

“You stick to the path! Try to circle around and meet me on the other side.”

I lost Matt's reply in my headlong juggernaut through the brush.

I hopped fallen trees and rocks, and crashed through low-hanging branches, their fingers shredding my babushka. I pulled it off completely and nearly screamed when the creepy silk of cobwebs tickled my face. Frantically shaking them off, I kept moving, toward the sound of Penny's bark.

“Come here this instant!” I commanded, using my “stern manager” voice.

In reply, I heard a whimper and saw that Penny and I were separated by a tangle of shrubbery too dense to break through and too high to clamber over. As I sought a way around the foliage, I was stopped by an ominous growl.

“Penny, is that you?” I whispered.

Suddenly Matt's crack about wild dogs seemed believable.

This is silly
, I told myself.
It's only Penny.

That's when a snarling ball of fur burst through the shrubs and knocked me backward!

My head hit something hard and the purple sky was suddenly bursting with meteors and flashing with comets. I raised my arms to fend off tearing claws, dreading the sharp fangs that were about to close around my throat.

Instead I felt a wet, warm tongue on my cheek, accompanied by lots of heavy breathing.

“Bad dog,” I moaned, wincing when I touched my head.

The little collie sprawled on the ground beside me, wagging her tail and whining in canine gratitude. Penny was still trailing her leash, and I wrapped the strap around my wrist.

“Let's see you slip away now!”

The knock on the head made me weak, and when I sat up, a wave of nausea hit me. Next came a blast of chill air that cut right through my peasant costume.

I'd been cold for the past hour, but I'd hid it from Matt, fearing he'd drag me back to the coffee truck. Now I could no longer control my shivers, and my teeth started chattering.

“Let's g-g-go home, girl.”

I rolled onto my hands and knees—and spied an eerie glow through the branches. I blinked to make sure they weren't concussion fireworks and realized the Maglite had been knocked from my hand into the brush.

As I reached for it, I saw the brilliant beam illuminating a figure. A young woman's body was sprawled on the ground.

Oh, no . . .

I crawled backward, the shock adrenaline rush rattling my already aching head.

Penny strained against her leash to get to the motionless form.

“Penny, sit,” I commanded, pulling her back. Reluctantly the dog complied.

Now I was the one hurrying to get to the girl. Gently, I touched her skin. The alabaster flesh felt cold as winter stone, and I flashed on a life-sized porcelain doll, cast into the wilderness. But this wasn't a doll.

Holding my breath, I held two fingers on the underside of the girl's slender wrist. There it was! The flutter of a pulse—

She's alive!

The wind had piled leaves around her face and body. I brushed them aside to reveal long golden hair and a pink Sparklewear gown. The hope in my heart from the proof of life instantly plummeted to a dark, tangled place.

It can't be . . .

With frantic fingers I freed the Maglite from the brush and lit the young woman's face. This was no stranger. This was Leila's mother's helper, Molly's much-beloved “Annie,” and Matt's missing partner, the Pink Princess.

Now I knew what had kept Penny in the woods. The little dog had found her friend and was trying to guard her from harm.

Like Penny, I had found Anya.

But was I too late to save her?

W
ITH
all speed, I dialed 911 and explained the situation.

Other than a faint pulse, there were no signs of life. Anya's eyes were closed, her hair matted with leaves, and her complexion whiter than egg shells. I shook her motionless form, called her name over and over, but she never reacted.

“What's your location?” asked the emergency dispatcher.

In frustration, I struggled to answer: “Up the hill from the Oak Bridge, near the curvy trail by the big rock, but not on the path, in the bushes near a tall tree . . .”

How are they going to find us?
I silently wailed. That's when I heard the heavy pounding of horse's hooves and whirled in the direction of the sound.

Either my head injury was far worse than I suspected, or a mounted knight in shining armor, plumed helmet, and flowing cape was heading right for me.

With a steamy snort, the galloping horse skidded to a stiff-legged halt. Penny barked once as the knight slid effortlessly off the saddle and dropped to the soft loam. Before the man in armor approached, he lifted his visor and raised a gauntleted hand.

“Ms. Cosi? Don't be afraid. I'm Officer Troy Dalecki—” The horseman flashed a badge on a cord. “I ran into Prince Charming on the trail back there. He sent me to—Oh, jeez . . .”

Dalecki noticed the Pink Princess. Slipping off his heavy armored gloves, he moved past me and dropped to one knee.

“What happened?”

I shook my head. “I just found her. She's alive, but . . .”

Dalecki used his own flashlight to check the girl for injury. He found nothing, even when he gently turned her on her side. Finally he opened an eyelid and checked her pupils.

“I think she's drugged.”

He made sure Anya's air passage was clear and there was no danger of suffocation, then he covered her with a blanket he drew from a saddlebag.

While Penny happily bumped noses with the twitching mare, Dalecki spoke into a radio strapped to his breastplate. He rattled off codes and a GPS position, and then demanded paramedics, ASAP.

When he was done, Officer Dalecki shined the light on my face.

“Oh, jeez, your lips are blue. I think you're going into shock.”

“Naw, I'm f-f-f-fine,” I said, teeth still chattering.

Dalecki whipped the flame red cape off his shoulders and wrapped it around me. He tucked a generous amount of material close to my throat and made sure my arms were covered.

“Warmer now?” he asked.

Suppressing another shiver, I nodded, but Dalecki was no longer focused on me. He was staring again at the Pink Princess, his expression wracked.

“She's so beautiful,” he murmured. “What could have happened to her?”

Meanwhile, from somewhere along the trail I heard Matt's call.

“Here, Clare, Clare, Clare . . . Come to Papa!”

F
IFTEEN
minutes later, four paramedics were hauling Anya's stretcher through the woods to an ambulance waiting on one of Central Park's well-lit traffic lanes.

The medics hadn't been able to revive her, though they kept trying. In silence, I watched them work, saying prayers for the girl as they loaded her into the ambulance, slammed the doors, and sped away.

I feared for Anya, and my heart went out to Molly. She loved her “Annie,” and this news would be devastating.

PO Dalecki and his horse, O'Brian, had followed Matt, Penny, and me to the road. By now, the young officer had slipped out of his tunic, armor, and chain mail jerkin to reveal a rumpled gray NYPD sweatshirt and black jeans.

Sans steel helmet, Troy Dalecki displayed a prominent jaw, French brown eyes, and hair cropped so close I couldn't tell you the shade.

Rubbing his cheek where the plumed helmet had left a mark, he sat me down on a park bench beside his tethered horse, opened a notepad, and began writing down my statement.

For every question Dalecki asked me, I had one for him.

He told me was a member of the Mounted Unit. I remembered Mike describing them as an elite, high-profile group, one the NYPD thought of as their “ten-foot-tall cops.” Dalecki was a rookie member, following in his father's footsteps—or hoof-steps, depending on how you looked at it. The “noble knight” costume was part of his moonlighting gig, he said, and the Storybook Kingdom was only part of it.

“I do three shows a week at the Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast . . .”

During our talk, Penny cemented her friendship with Dalecki's mare. The little collie didn't mind that O'Brian outweighed her by a thousand pounds, or that the mare towered over her like a giant fresh off his beanstalk. Penny made such a fuss to get O'Brian's attention the horse shook her mane and whinnied in playful response.

Matt, on the other hand, was chomping at the bit to make new
enemies,
and for once I couldn't fault him.

Every police officer who passed us (about half the Midtown force, it seemed) had a derisive crack or snicker for my ex and his “Prince Charming” getup.

The situation deteriorated when Dalecki was summoned by radio back to the horse trailer. He passed his notes to another cop and rode off, leaving Matt and me to wait for the chief investigating officer without our friendly knight.

Meanwhile, a group of uniforms gathered under a nearby tree to sip Village Blend coffee. Soon Matt, the long-suffering Prince, became the butt of their jokes as well.

“I wish you'd poisoned that coffee,” Matt groused. “I'm having fantasies of mass cop-i-cide.”

“I have two words for you, Matt.
Anger management.
The police are armed. All you've got are tight pants and a plastic sword.”

Matt scowled.

“Forget about them,” I said. “Focus on Anya. When did you see her last?”

“She took off after the giveaway at the Cotton Candy Patch. We were supposed to mingle at the joust for a couple of hours, but Anya said she had something else to do, and she'd meet me at the coffee truck at five sharp.”

Matt punched a tree and shook his fist. “Of course she didn't show. How could she? She was lying half-dead in the woods.”

The intensity of his reaction surprised me, until I considered his position.

At his “coronation” this morning, Samantha Peel had explained that all the Prince Charmings were expected to protect their Princess partners from unwanted attention (and their couture Fen gowns from grubby hands).

Matt had failed to protect his partner—
from what exactly?
That was the question.

“You shouldn't blame yourself,” I told him. “We don't know what happened. But I'll find the truth . . .” (I'd also have to
tell
the truth to poor little Molly, and I wasn't looking forward to it.)

Matt shook his head. “Some prince I turned out to be.”

I hated to admit it, but it was easier dealing with a smug Matt than a disheartened one. For one thing, in this situation,
Smug Matt
would be far better use.

“Cheer up,” I commanded. “Plenty of women think you're a prince.” I tugged his sleeve. “Look over there.”

I directed Matt's attention to the white CSU truck that had parked twenty feet away. A small group had already gone back into the woods to gather evidence. For the past ten minutes, however, these two female techs—a short blonde and a tall brunette—had been sorting the same equipment over and over while they continued to check out Prince Charming and whisper to each other like high school BFFs with a secret crush.

Matt cleared his throat. “I see what you mean.”

“Why don't you pump them for information?”

“Like their phone numbers?”

Mental forehead slap
. “Like what they think happened to Anya. Or if the medics managed to revive her in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital. Or if they've found evidence of foul play.”

Matt caught the brunette's eye and she smiled.

“Good thinking. I'll get right on it.”