Afton gazed across an expanse of field toward a dense-looking stand of woods. It was going to be cold out there. She pulled up her collar, snugged her stocking cap down over her ears, and climbed out. The cold bit into her hard and she regretted that she wasn’t dressed properly for this kind of work. Her boots were more fashion than function. Fine for a day at the office, but not nearly warm enough to walk a half mile in what was probably knee-deep snow. If only she had snow boots and a pair of goggles. And truth be told, an ice ax wouldn’t be bad either. Max at least had his parka and a pair of Sorels.
As Afton hurried around the car, one leg slid out from under her and she nearly plunged into a steep drainage ditch. Knee-deep in snow and struggling, she muscled herself up, then hobbled around to the other side of the car, where hasty introductions were made. The two hunters sat quietly in their pickup truck, looking worried behind steamed-up windows, clearly not eager to get out and mingle with the newly arrived contingent of law enforcement.
Then Sheriff Burney pointed toward a distant tree line and Afton fell in line as he led Max, Deputy Gail, and Martha the coroner toward the woods. Nobody spoke a word as they followed a trail of footsteps across a snow-covered field, where bits of pale yellow corn stubble poked through.
When they were halfway there, another deputy emerged from a copse of trees and waved a hand at them. He shouted something, but the words were indistinct and lost to Afton, who was walking at the back of the pack.
Sheriff Burney turned around and hollered over the wind, “Deputy Seifert says the FBI and their crime scene team called. They just hit town and should be here in ten minutes.”
They continued walking while, all around them, snowdrifts grew and receded, formed at the whim of the ever-insistent wind.
Afton was used to the cold. She’d grown up in Minnesota, where cold was always a factor. In her early twenties she’d been an Outward Bound instructor, even leading some winter campouts in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. She was a skier, a neophyte snowboarder, and thrived on the challenge of ice climbing. Even with all those years of outdoor acclimatization, her feet began to feel numb in the subzero cold. Then the unwelcome sensation settled in her face. Each broken snowflake that struck her forehead and cheeks was a tiny pinprick of pain. She put her gloved hand over her mouth and nose to shield herself and kept slogging. Ice beads began to form on the tips of her eyelashes from each foggy breath.
But the trees were drawing closer and closer. They were almost there.
Five steps into the forest, into a grove of sheltering oaks and cottonwoods, and it felt as though Boreas, the Norse god of the north wind, had suddenly decided to hold his breath. The wind died to a whisper; the cold seemed to ease off a touch. Huge black crows scolded from the treetops as Deputy Seifert pointed out a trail of blue spray-painted footsteps.
“Stay in the blue prints,” Seifert warned everyone.
Afton stepped out of line and saw a second set of prints leading deeper into the woods. “The other prints are from the hunters?” she asked.
“Yes,” Burney said. “We marked our trail, but tried to keep everything else as uncontaminated as possible.”
“Smart,” Max said.
They trudged along another twenty feet into a small clearing. Just as Sheriff Burney had told them, there was an old log. It was large and smooth and silvered, as if it had fallen a long time ago and had lain there ever since. Bare trees overhead formed twisted patterns in the dying sun.
“Okay now,” Burney said. “It’s over here.”
Afton tiptoed carefully through the blue prints. Moving toward the scene was almost like playing a monochrome game of Twister.
Right foot blue. Left foot blue.
Afton crept up next to the log, where a fragment of pale green blanket stuck out. The sight of that blanket, frozen stiff and smudged with grime, made her heart pound faster.
Who could do this? she wondered. Then the answer swam up to her. A monster.
All five of them stood in a semicircle and gazed at the fallen log, which had done its job in sheltering the tiny little body, probably keeping it safe from woodland predators. The sheriff pulled out a heavy-duty Maglite and aimed the beam at the open end of the log.
“Go ahead,” Martha said. “I already took a look.”
Max took a step forward and bent down on one knee. He peered in for a good couple of minutes, then shook his head and stood up.
Afton was next.
13
AFTON sank down on both knees into the soft snow and put her face as close to the end of the log as possible. The shadows formed a light and dark chiaroscuro, playing faint tricks on her, but she could definitely make out the body of an infant swaddled tightly in a blanket. Anger and shock flared within her, and her initial reaction was to beat a hasty retreat. Fighting to push down that impulse, she forced herself to absorb every detail of the scene. There was the dirty, frayed blanket that appeared to be woven from cheap polyester. And though she couldn’t see much of the infant, she noted a few hairs. Dark hairs. Wasn’t the Darden baby supposed to be towheaded? She thought so.