Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(101)

“How are you feeling?” Ronnie asked.

“Hurts,” Shake said. She knew what Ronnie really meant. How are you feeling down there? “But I can still get to the bathroom okay. Probably could walk around if I really had to. I know I could make it down to the car.”

“Good. I’m gonna put together a few things downstairs. You still got that purple duffel bag?”

“In the closet,” Shake said. It was still half full from when she’d tried to run away before.

Shake’s new, improved Ronnie gave a half smile. “Start thinking about what you want to bring with you. Tonight I’ll help you pack.”





44


SCALING the cliff was definitely not a piece of cake. With the relentless wind buffeting her and tiny snow crystals stinging her eyes and face like needles, Afton felt uneasy and clumsy. Still, she was moving from one rock to another with what she hoped was a degree of authority. Moving steadily upward, always gaining ground, digging in with her crampons, using her ice ax to find purchase.

Halfway up, the easy lower half, she snugged one end of her rope around an outcropping of rocks. She calculated the distance upward, and looped the other end around her waist in a sort of self-belay. Now if she fell, she might be able to arrest her fall if she could react fast enough. A small comfort, but not insignificant in the scheme of things.

The top half of the cliff was much more difficult. The angle she’d taken had led to a daunting wall of limestone that left her feeling exposed. Afton crab-stepped to her left, hoping to find a few decent handholds and toeholds. She was wearing thin climbing gloves and her fingers were starting to stiffen up in the cold. She forced herself to stop moving, laid her cheek against the frozen wall, and jammed her right hand inside her coat. She waited two minutes while her hand thawed out, and then did the other hand.

There. Much better.

Afton started climbing again, slowly and methodically, finding a lip of rock here, a nose of rock there. As she muscled herself upward, her entire body began to warm and she began to feel in sync with the climb.

Twenty feet from the top, the juts of rock flattened out even more. Now she was free climbing, searching for fingerholds instead of handholds.

But there have to be some good holds, right?

Not necessarily.

Gotta be a couple. Somewhere.

Afton flattened herself against the sheer rock face and peered up, half closing one eye. There they were . . . a few cracks and juts of rock. She knew that a successful ascent depended on strength, control, and finesse. She just prayed she had enough energy left to muster all three of these elements.

Twenty feet above her, now fifteen feet above her, she could see a cornice, a dangerous overhang of snow. That would be the tricky part, the part where she’d depend solely on her upper body strength and the sharpness of her ice ax.

She felt almost mechanical now. Climb, thrust, climb. Keep the rhythm going. She stretched an arm high above her head, swung her ice ax hard, and hoped for the best . . .

Whack!

The steel claw bit in securely.


*

TWENTY-FIVE minutes after beginning her climb, Afton hoisted herself up and over the lip of the cliff. She lay there in the snow, panting, trying to collect her wits, willing her chilled, overtaxed muscles to stop shaking. It had been touch and go near the top. And touch and go was never good, especially when you were free climbing all by your lonesome in the middle of a raging blizzard.

She lifted her head tiredly and stared straight ahead. Saw the faint outline of an old farmhouse shimmering like a mirage through sifting snow.

Okay, Afton told herself, here comes the real test. This is where the game turns deadly serious.

Crouching low to the ground, Afton plunged toward the house, battling her way through thigh-high snow. When she was ten feet from the farmhouse, she stopped and gave it a quick perusal. The place looked weary and desolate. And not just because of the blizzard that raged around it. If a house could have a presence, this one reeked of desperation and unhappiness. As she moved toward the front porch, Afton tried to imagine this place in summer. Would there be wild roses twining up the columns? Monarch butterflies sipping nectar in the fields? She thought not.

When Afton still didn’t see any movement inside, she covered the rest of the distance fast and clambered up onto the front porch. Slowly, carefully, she peered through a frosted window.

She saw a kitchen. Pots and pans sitting on the stove, a refrigerator, lights blazing overhead. But nobody there.

But wait. Something was there. She tilted her head sideways and saw a playpen. A baby’s mesh-sided playpen had been set up right next to the stove.

Afton sidled away from the window until she was facing the front door. She drew a deep breath, and then touched a hand to the doorknob and turned it slowly. When the door swung open, she stepped tentatively over the sill, nerves fizzing like mad, but grateful for the wall of warmth that suddenly enveloped her.

Now what? Find the baby. But do it fast.

Moving quietly through the kitchen, Afton glanced into the playpen as she went past it. A flash of pink caught her eye, causing her to hesitate. There, puddled in the bottom, was a pink blanket.

Afton bent down and gathered it up. The blanket felt soft to the touch. Exquisitely soft. She fumbled with the piece of fabric, turning it over until she found a label. One hundred percent cashmere. The Darden baby had been wrapped in a pink cashmere blanket.