Shivering, Afton picked up the remote control and flipped along until she hit Channel 7. It was eleven o’clock and she was curious—and a little fearful—to see what kind of footage the TV station had actually shot down in Cannon Falls. She drew a deep breath, amped up the sound, and watched as the somber face of the Channel 7 news anchor appeared. His blow-dried hair was camera ready, his diction was precise, even his demeanor was appropriately solemn as he said, “Good evening. Tragedy struck in Cannon Falls today when the body of a dead infant was discovered in a hollow log. And only Newswatch 7 was live on the scene to bring you this exclusive footage . . .”
Afton watched, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as the film footage played out just as she remembered it. The fields, the clearing in the woods, the tracks spray-painted blue. And there, in the middle of their little law enforcement huddle, she saw her own pale face staring quizzically up at the camera as everyone around her waved and shouted.
The anchorman blathered on. “. . . calls placed from our newsroom to the Sheriff’s Department in Goodhue County, as well as to our local FBI office, were not returned. A spokesperson for Susan and Richard Darden had no comment. So now we wait with bated breath to find out if this missing baby turns out to be the recently kidnapped Elizabeth Ann Darden—or if this is the body of yet another missing child.”
“Oh my God,” Afton whispered. She couldn’t believe they could be so callous as to speculate on the dead infant’s identity. She wondered if poor Susan Darden was watching this. She hoped not.
15
SUSAN Darden scrunched her knees up to her chin and stared disbelieving at the TV screen. There she was, that dog woman again. Right in the center of the screen, staring up at the helicopter. Lady cop or liaison or whatever she claimed to be—she would never forget that face.
But as the Channel 7 News continued, her horror was suddenly compounded. A baby had been discovered in a desolate woods near Cannon Falls? Out in the cold with animals roaming around? Was it her baby? Was it Elizabeth Ann?
Panic gripped her. Why hadn’t the police called? Should she call them?
But still Susan didn’t throw back her blanket and jump off the couch. Her eyes were riveted on the TV screen as the camera panned from the stupid woman over to two people who were huddled together, obviously trying to shield something. Oh no, it was a body bag! She felt a rip inside her, a flash of pain that felt like she was on fire. Bitter tears welled up and she began to scream. Loud, pained howls, like a wild animal with its leg caught in a trap. She wanted to tear and claw and draw blood. In fact, if that dog woman were here right now, she’d rip out her eyeballs.
Deep within her rational mind, Susan knew she should try to pull herself together, call the police, and find out what had happened. Demand to know what had happened. But still she screamed, a bloodcurdling scream that trailed off into a raspy hiss. As the pain welled up like a balloon that would burst inside her, she grabbed a pink pillow and held it to her mouth.
Make it stop, she told herself. Make it all go away.
“Susan! Susan!”
She heard a familiar voice as she gasped and whimpered into her pillow. She felt as though she was being pulled into a deep morass, a nightmare from which she would never wake up. Now there were hands on her shoulders. Was someone trying to hurt her? She struggled, dropping the pillow, flailing her arms and throwing punches without bothering to open her eyes.
“Susan!” Richard Darden shouted. “Calm down, baby. Calm down.”
It took all her strength to pull back from the brink of despair. Exhausted, unable to move, she brushed a damp tangle of hair off her face and slowly opened her eyes.
Richard was standing over her, his expression a mixture of concern and panic.
“Susan?” he said.
The familiarity of his voice helped pull her out of it.
“The baby,” she whispered. “I just saw it on TV.”
“It’s not her,” Richard said. “It’s not our baby.” He said it slowly, enunciating carefully in his patient, paternal voice. The one he sometimes used when he was trying to cajole her.
She sat up and blinked. “Are you sure? Swear to me that you’re sure.”
“I already talked to the police on the phone.”
“They called? When?”
“An hour ago, maybe a little more. They said it’s definitely not Elizabeth Ann.” He reached out and snapped off the TV, as if to add emphasis to his words.
Susan put a hand to her heart, unsure whether to be grateful that her child had been spared, or even more fearful that Elizabeth Ann was still out there in the hands of . . . a crazy person.
“You’re sure?” she asked again.
“Positive,” Richard said. “I spoke with that agent, Don Jasper, from the FBI. He was most emphatic. It’s definitely not her. The baby they found was older, almost a year old. And it had been in the woods for several months.”
“Oh.” Susan looked around her family room with its matching cream leather sofas, swags of draperies, and antique cribbage table. After the flurry of the past two days, the intrusion of law enforcement officials with their badges and averted glances, the place suddenly looked forlorn and empty. “The FBI, the police. Are they here?”
“No,” Richard said. “I sent the one officer home a couple of hours ago.” He patted her shoulder gently. “You’ve been sleeping.”
She sat up a little more. “I had terrible dreams.”