Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(17)

“The Tactical Squad is already down there,” Max said. They both leaned forward and gazed down into the deep chasm, though it was so dark, there was nothing to see.

“Any word yet on whether it might be the Darden baby?” Afton asked. She stared at the array of ropes that led over the lip of a rocky cliff, wishing she had police clearance to rappel down and help in any way she could. She figured she was just as experienced with ice climbing as any of the team. And she was a certified Outward Bound instructor to boot.

“No word yet,” Max said. “We’re still waiting.” He dug the toe of his boot in the snow. “Problem is . . . it’s so damn cold.”

Afton knew it was an oblique reference to the baby’s chance of survival, which wasn’t good. “I wish I could . . .” Afton was itching to scramble down there, but she knew Thacker would burst a blood vessel if he found out she’d clipped in and rappelled down the hill.

She also prayed that whoever had stolen Elizabeth Ann had simply thrown up their hands, scared off by the tremendous hue and cry set up by the FBI, police, Amber Alert, and frenzied media. Often, that’s how child abduction cases were resolved. The abductor was just too terrified by the tsunami of angry police and citizens chasing after his sorry ass or on the lookout for his car. Once word was broadcast, abductors often hit the panic button and abandoned the captive child.

“Any word yet?” a smooth, female voice asked. Portia Bourgoyne, a features reporter for Channel 7, had edged her way into the fray. She was a cool-looking blonde with slightly almond eyes and a pale complexion. Despite the freezing temperature, she wore a very haute couture fringed tweed suit with a *cat bow tied at the neck, and an impossibly short skirt that showed off her long legs. Afton wondered how Portia had managed to maneuver the slick slope in four-inch-high stilettos.

“They’re coming up!” yelled one of the Fire and Rescue Squad members who was manning the ropes on top. An excited buzz rose up as everyone shuffled closer to the dangerous precipice.

A bright light suddenly flashed on, illuminating the entire area, and Afton realized it was Portia’s gaffer, holding up a column of lights while her cameraman crouched in position and adjusted the focus on his lens.

Then a grim-looking man in a black neoprene suit clambered up over the edge, and a firefighter, who’d also been manning the ropes, said, “Damn.”

Dear Lord, please don’t let this child be dead, Afton prayed.

There was a cry and a high squeal and then, as the second climber scrambled up, someone from the rescue squad said in a disappointed voice, “It’s a dog.”

There was a cacophony of groans and the crowd took a collective step backward.

“A dog?” Max snorted. “I crawled out of a warm Barcalounger for a damn dog?” He wasn’t angry at the dog; he was frustrated with the situation.

The second climber from the Tactical Squad who’d rappelled down into the gorge was up on top now, the head of a small dark dog peering out from between the folds of his jacket. Disappointment was palpable on the man’s face.

Portia Bourgoyne dropped the carefully arranged look of concern on her face and ran a painted red index finger across the front of her throat, indicating for her cameraman to cut. “Nothing here,” she said, sounding infinitely bored. “Just a stupid dog.” Then Portia was hurrying up the slope to the street, where her nice warm TV van was parked.

“Abandoned,” said an ambulance driver who was standing at Afton’s elbow. “People do that all the time. Just toss out animals to freeze to death when they don’t want them.”

Afton moved through the crowd, toward the two rescuers. “What are you going to do with him?” she asked the man who still held the big-eared puppy in his arms. The dog uttered another squeak then squirmed around as if trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. For a little dog that had been tossed down a rocky hillside, he was certainly giving lots of attitude.

The rescuer shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably drop him off at the nearest animal shelter.”

“Here,” Afton said, reaching her arms out. “Give him to me.”

Max’s big shoulder nudged hers as she gently accepted the dog. “You want to take the dog? I thought you once told me your husband was allergic to dogs.”

“He is,” Afton said as one of the paramedics slipped her a blanket. “But we’re divorced now, remember?”

“Still gonna cut down on the number of visits to the kiddies,” Max said, staring at the dog. “Jeez, look at the ears on that thing. Like a freakin’ bat. What kind of mutt is that anyway?”

“Not a mutt at all,” Afton said. “This happens to be a French bulldog.” She’d seen one at a dog show once and been impressed by the big personality that was packed into such a small-statured animal.

“Ah,” Max said. “Then you’re probably going to name him Marcel or Jacques.”

“Something like that,” Afton said, thinking a small dog with this much attitude should rightly be called Bonaparte. “Anyway, the girls will love him. They’ve been asking for a dog.” Cuddling the little dog close to her chest, Afton was suddenly aware of a commotion at the top of the hill. She and Max turned at the same time to glance up there and see just what the hell was going on.

“Shit,” Max grunted. “It’s the parents. They showed up.”