Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(58)

*

BY nine o’clock that night, Marjorie had devised what she figured was a pretty smart plan. It was dangerous, even daring. But executed properly, would surely put an end to all their worries. They’d be safe again. And Marjorie, just like a little brown spider who’d administered its lethal bite, would be able to scuttle back into her snuggle hole again. Because she wanted to, needed to, be safe.

Ronnie was standing in the kitchen, refrigerator door wide open and drinking milk directly from the carton, when Marjorie said, “We’re going out. Just get your car and don’t ask any questions.”

Ronnie wiped his mouth. “Can’t,” he said. “My battery’s fried. I tried putting a charger on it but it wouldn’t hold worth shit. Probably gonna have to go to Fleet Farm and buy a new one.”

“Can you take the battery out of my car for now?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ronnie said.

“Do it.”

Marjorie knew that Ronnie’s car, a two-door lowrider from the late eighties, was the perfect crime car. Painted a dull brownish burgundy, it had been stripped of any make or model insignia, and a bystander would be hard-pressed to give an exact description of it. Besides, the car was registered in Ronnie’s name. If things really went off the rails tonight, if Ronnie got caught red-handed and hauled down to the police station, it might give her the break she needed to get away. She still had five grand in cash stashed in a lockbox in Eau Claire. After that . . . well, she’d just have to improvise.

Five minutes later, Ronnie came stomping back inside. “Done,” he told her.

“What’s done?” Shake asked. She’d heard doors opening and closing and had crept in to investigate.

“None of your beeswax,” Marjorie said. That’s all she needed was Shake nosing around. She didn’t trust the girl as far as she could throw her.

“Ronnie?” Shake said. But Ronnie was focused only on Marjorie.

“How bad’s the weather?” Marjorie asked. She’d already looked up Muriel Pink’s address in an old phone book.

“It’s sleeting like a bastard out there,” Ronnie said. “Really coming down.”

“What are you two up to?” Shake asked. She clutched at a ratty pink cardigan that barely stretched across her belly. “Where are you guys going?”

“Just some business,” Marjorie said. “I have to run over to the Family Resource Center.”

“At this time of night?” Something didn’t feel right to Shake. But she was dog tired and her ankles were sore and swollen again. All she could think about was crawling back into the lounger and settling into a restless sleep.

“We won’t be gone long,” Ronnie assured her. “You take it easy. Get some rest.”

“I guess,” Shake said. She stared at them again, then waddled out of the room.

Marjorie turned anxious eyes on Ronnie. “Do you still have your night vision goggles?”

“Yeah, sure I do.” Ronnie had bought a set of Sightmark Ghost Hunter night vision glasses that were his pride and joy. He’d earned the money to pay for them by doing taxidermy jobs for local hunters. Sometimes he even hit the jackpot and got to work on something really great, like the bobcat he’d done for the guy over in Red Wing. A great big cat the man had shot when he was hunting out in Wyoming.

“And you need to bring your hunting knives, too.”

Ronnie stared at his mother for a full fifteen seconds before comprehension finally dawned. “Oh shit,” he said. “You wanna do that old lady, don’t you?” He was suddenly both aroused as well as struck with an almost paralyzing case of nerves. Was this what he wanted to do? Was this all he was good for?

“We can’t do nothing about that Cannon Falls baby,” Marjorie said. “That’s a done deal.” She was pulling on her coat, fumbling with her mittens. “But we can sure as hell do something about Muriel Pink.”


*

THE drive through the countryside was dicey at best. Sleet pelted down, icing the windows and turning the blacktopped county roads into a skating rink.

“This is really getting bad,” Ronnie said. He snuck a sidelong glance at Marjorie. “You think we should turn around?”

Marjorie just stared straight ahead. Her mind was made up; there was no turning back.

They crawled along County Road BB, finally came out on Carmichael Road, and then, four miles farther, hit the Interstate. Finally, they slid down the hill, the Saint Croix River a wide swath of darkness below them, and turned off into Hudson. As they cruised through the downtown area, they didn’t see a soul out walking. Just lights burning in a couple of bars.

“They really roll up the sidewalks in this town, don’t they?” Marjorie said. “That’s good.” She peered out, silently mouthing the names of the street signs. “Turn here. Locust Street.” They drove up a slight hill, past the police station, and then hung a left on Third.

They cruised past the Octagon House at Myrtle and Third and then turned right on Oak. A couple more turns and Ronnie slowed the car as they glided past Muriel Pink’s house on Flint Street.

“That’s it?” he asked. The house was dark, save for a dim light that glowed somewhere. Maybe in the kitchen.

“Keep going,” Marjorie said. “Go on past her house a little ways.”