Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(89)

“Can we get over there somehow? I mean us, you and I?”

“We can’t risk it. There’s only that one narrow road in, past Harriet Island Park. If the kidnapper is watching, and I’m sure he is, we’ll be spotted in a second.”

Afton was almost frantic. “There has to be someplace we can go.”

Max considered this for a few seconds. “There might be a spot up top. Way up on the river bluff.”





38


AS Afton and Max careened across the Lafayette Bridge, the lights of Holman Field, where they’d jumped onto a helicopter just five days ago, shimmered dimly off to their left. At this late hour, traffic was almost nonexistent in this industrial part of the city where large, low warehouses stretched for blocks and sodium vapor lights lent an unnatural yellow glow.

All the while they listened to Darden’s mutterings and the squeal on Max’s police radio.

They could hear Don Jasper screaming at the SWAT guys to pull on their white coveralls and get into position fast.

But would they be fast enough, Afton wondered, even as sharpshooters were being dispatched?

Cruising down Plato Boulevard, Max made a couple of turns, and then headed up Ohio Street, barely slowing as he blew through a stop sign. It was a narrow, twisty street that climbed upward at a steep angle. It took them directly up the east bluff that loomed over downtown Saint Paul and the Mississippi River.

“Isn’t there a park up here somewhere?” Afton asked as they popped out on top. “A place where we can see what’s going on?”

“I think . . . this way,” Max said, turning right.

He churned along unplowed streets, and then pulled to the curb at Cherokee Avenue, where they both jumped out. Wind and snow buffeted them as they ran through knee-deep snow to a small overlook on the edge of the bluff.

Downtown Saint Paul was spread out before them. At any other time the view would be spectacular, a twinkling wonderland of tall buildings interspersed with historic churches, ancient breweries, pocket-sized parks, turreted old sandstone buildings, and redbrick warehouses. But with the snow drifting down, the atmosphere was softened and fuzzed, as if a filter had been thrown across the entire city. Definition was hazy; lights were dimmed. On the opposite bluff they could barely make out the humped row of landmark mansions.

Looking straight down, they still weren’t able to see the caves or the path that ran alongside them. The angle was too steep, and there was just too much forest and tangled brush.

“Nothing to see,” Afton said, disappointed. She was hoping to get a glimpse of the main cave. Every time she’d seen the place, it had looked otherworldly. An enormous flat sandstone face set into a gigantic hill and fronted by a castle-like brick facade. Several rounded wooden doors, the kind a cadre of trolls might use, formed an entrance. Legend held that the caves had once been a speakeasy that entertained the likes of John Dillinger and Ma Barker. The natural refrigeration properties had also made it ideal for beer storage back when Saint Paul breweries had pumped out gallons and gallons of the amber suds. In the eighties someone had turned the cave’s carved-out, rounded interior into a nightclub. Now it was some sort of event center.

Afton cradled the communications gear inside her parka and jacked up the dial up so they could hear what Darden was saying.

“Okay,” Darden said. “I’m here outside the Wabasha Street Caves. There are a few cars in the parking lot and I can hear music playing inside.” He sounded lonely and scared. “I just got out of my car and now I’m looking around for that pop can.”

Darden’s voice came to them fuzzy and laced with static. He sounded like a distant radio signal that faded in and out.

“This is awful,” Afton said. She was actually feeling sorry for the man. He not only sounded terrified, but could be walking into an ambush. Yet he was willing to do whatever it took to rescue his daughter. His actions were definitely heroic.

“He’s still hanging in there,” Max said. “Doing the best he can.”

Darden’s voice crackled again. “There’s a Mountain Dew can sitting here. Kind of propped up on a pile of snow. I’m going to take a look inside.” The signal faded out for a moment and then he was back. “I think this is it. Yes, there’s a note inside. I’m going to pull it out and read it verbatim.” He cleared his throat. “It says: Drive toward Harriet Island and take the road south to Bauer’s Recycling Plant. Leave the car and follow the hiking trail that leads past the old caves.”

“That’s a dead end,” Max said.

“Holy shit,” Afton said. “I wish we could . . .” She cocked her head toward Max and suddenly looked past him. Through fat, heavy flakes she saw the faint outline of the High Bridge silhouetted behind him. She grabbed Max’s sleeve and spun him around. “The High Bridge. We’ve got to get up there,” she cried. “Maybe we can see what’s going on.”

“Maybe,” Max said. They were scrambling back through the snow toward his car. “We’ll give it a shot.”

Cherokee Avenue led directly to the High Bridge. On Max’s say-so, they left the car and walked out onto the bridge. It looked slippery and icy, and no cars were venturing across it. A panorama of city, river, and woods spread out below them. Since they were obscured by darkness and falling snow, it was doubtful that anyone would look up and be able to spot them.