Finally, she set her book aside and decided there were just too many things on her mind. The kidnapping, finding the Cannon Falls baby, Muriel Pink’s murder, the kidnapping. She felt both enervated and keyed up at the same time. Her head was working overtime, spinning various theories about the Darden baby, Muriel Pink’s killer, and everything else. But nothing felt right. Nothing seemed to gel.
Afton stared at the TV, where flickering, dancing images captivated her girls, but couldn’t seem to hold her own interest. Maybe if she made a phone call downtown? To see if anything had happened?
Afton slipped into her small office, Bonaparte padding after her, and called downtown. Asked Don Farley, the night Homicide guy, if there had been any word yet from the Darden kidnappers. He told her no—he’d just checked with the comm center a few minutes ago and they hadn’t heard a damn thing.
“Where’s Richard Darden?” she asked. “Is he still hanging out there?”
“He was wandering around here for a while,” Farley said. “All wired up, ready to go, but nothing happened. No phone call. Now he’s back at his hotel.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She reached down and scratched Bonaparte between his ears.
Damn.
Back in the living room, Afton flopped into a chair and tried to focus on what Poppy and Tess were watching. It appeared to be yet another movie about insect-looking aliens that had invaded Earth, only to be repelled by a small cadre of brave young teenagers. Afton wondered why the aliens had even bothered coming here? There were so many problems. Global warming, a disappearing rain forest, air pollution, wars, energy shortages, missing babies . . .
As the kids hooted and hollered like mad, Afton pulled herself up straight in her chair.
“Are you kids cheering for the aliens?” she asked suddenly.
Poppy raised a tiny fist above her head. “Yes. We love the little green guys.”
“Turn that thing off. It’s time for bed.”
*
TEN o’clock at night. Afton lay sprawled on her bed in the dark. She ruminated over the fact that she was thirty-four years old, had never drunk a cosmopolitan, never worn a Wonderbra, and never vacationed at Club Med.
She knew she had a decision to make. She could back the hell out of this investigation right now and go back to being a community liaison officer. She could do her job diligently and with dignity. She could leave the horrors of the past week behind, take her kids to Disneyland over Easter vacation, and maybe even get around to pursuing her frivolous “want list.”
Or she could keep bulldogging her way through the investigation, help find that missing baby, and nail the son-of-a-bitch kidnapper’s ass to the wall.
It wasn’t a difficult decision.
34
SHAKE lay trapped in the worst kind of hell she could ever imagine. Her belly felt like it was about to burst open, her lungs were unable to suck in enough air, and the pain between her legs was unimaginable. All she could do was lie on the narrow, padded table, drenched in sweat, helpless as a beached whale, praying for the baby to finally come.
Eight hours of labor had taken its toll and Ronnie hadn’t been a damn bit of help. He’d crept in occasionally to stare at her with abject fear in his eyes, always looking like he was about to lose his lunch. Or his breakfast, or his Hostess Ho Hos, or whatever he’d last snarfed down. Marjorie hovered nearby, looking inquisitive but relatively unconcerned.
The midwife came rustling over to check on Shake again. She was a big-boned farm lady with a mop of curly brown hair and oversized hands. Shake understood that she was the certified nurse-midwife. That she owned this birthing center somewhere out in the country. She supposed the small cottage with its rough-hewn walls, rocking chairs, and handmade quilts tacked on the wall was supposed to inspire warmth and serenity. But for her, it just meant unrelenting agony.
“Painkillers,” Shake gasped through clenched teeth and cracked lips. “I need something for the pain.”
The midwife’s disapproving face loomed between Shake’s spread-eagled legs. “You’re nine centimeters dilated,” she said. “You’re on a Pitocin drip. Try to relax; try to breathe.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you take the classes? Don’t you remember the drill?”
Shake threw her head back against the pillow and groaned in desperation. Her world was one red blur of pain right now. She wished she could reach down and rip the baby from her womb and just hand it over to the adoption people.
“Ronnie,” she whispered.
Floorboards creaked as Ronnie crept closer. “How you doin’, Shake?”
“Hurt,” she croaked. “Feel sick.”
Ronnie was in the room with her, but Shake could feel him pulling away emotionally, felt his almost-resentment at being made to witness this birthing experience. At the same moment she realized he was never going to take care of her, was never going to take her away from the farmhouse. And wasn’t that a big freakin’ surprise? She almost chuckled maniacally to herself. He was a guy who still lived at home with his wacko mother and whose sole ambition in life was to own a new Ford Ranger Quad Cab. What did she expect, really?