Illuminated under a French chandelier, Ronnie ground his teeth together in frustration and stuffed a dirty tube sock into the girl’s mouth. He slapped on a hunk of silvery duct tape, then wound a hunk of rope around the girl’s neck, stretched it tight, and looped it around her ankles. Hog-tied her nice and neat like a goat, just like he’d seen a 4-H guy do at the Pepin County Fair last summer. Good, he thought to himself. This feels so good and the bitch deserves it. He glanced around to see where Marjorie was. If only there was time to really have fun.
Marjorie took a few moments to scope out the downstairs, just in case there was a live-in housekeeper or a prowling dog. When she decided they were safe, safe enough anyway, she charged up the curving staircase. Expensive silk carpet whispered underfoot as she wondered what it must be like to live in a fancy house like this. A house with real oil paintings and custom leather furniture, and where you had actual carpeting instead of dirty, crappy linoleum. She gnashed her teeth, seething with unrequited envy as she climbed up to the second-floor landing. She hesitated for a moment, her hand stretching out to rest on an elaborately carved newel post, and glanced toward what she figured was the front of the house. Master bedroom located there? Probably, she decided. Which meant the nursery would be right next door.
Marjorie padded down the dim hallway, pushed open a door, and peered inside. And there, lying in a frilly white crib surrounded by a plush zoo of polar bears and penguins, was the baby. Elizabeth Ann. Just like some kind of grand prize in a box of Cracker Jack.
Peering over the railing of the crib, Marjorie whispered, “Hi, baby.”
The baby stirred and gurgled softly.
“Perfect,” Marjorie said, reaching down to gather up the child. “You’re a perfect little angel, aren’t you?”
3
WINTER always looked more pristine outside the city. And the small village of Taylor’s Falls, as well as the surrounding three hundred acres of state parkland and bluffs, sparkled like a glazed sugar confection after last night’s snowfall.
With basaltic cliffs that towered almost nine hundred feet over the winding Saint Croix River, the entire area was a climber’s paradise, offering frozen waterfalls, steep rock faces, and glacier-formed sinkholes. But ice climbing is both challenging and dangerous, especially with a diamond coating of fickle new ice and snow.
Arcing her right arm back, Afton Tangler swung her Petzl ice ax into the ice-coated cliff. She grimaced as the sharp metal bit in and her shoulder absorbed the harsh impact. Here we go, she told herself. Let’s carpe this friggin’ diem and show this big boy who’s boss!
Spits of cold ice chips stung her face as Afton repeated the motion with her left arm, drove in her toes, and found purchase with her crampons. Beginning her ascent up the cliff known as the Dihedral, she fell into the familiar ice climber’s pattern. Thwack, kick, pull herself up. Thwack, kick, do it again.
Recent snows and temperature drops had brought early season ice to the bluffs at Taylor’s Falls. It was good ice this morning, hard and resilient, shiny as glass, and Afton was the first one to take a crack at it. Lean and compact, just a shade past thirty, Afton had the piercing blue eyes of a Siberian husky and blondish hair that sprang into an artichoke-like assemblage if she wielded her blow dryer too enthusiastically. Right now, none of that mattered. She was just praying that she was tough enough to handle this cliff.
“On belay,” called Hazel, one of her team members from down below. Three hours earlier, their Women on the Ropes climbing club had driven up from the Twin Cities, picked out a likely climbing spot, and affixed a web of climbing and safety ropes. Now Hazel meted out some of that rope as Afton made her ascent.
Moving methodically but cautiously, Afton climbed to just around the midpoint without encountering any major obstacles. The only issue so far was the sharp wind. It froze her cheeks and stung her eyes, making them water.
Damn, she thought, ducking her chin farther down inside her anorak. It’s cold. Maybe having first crack at this hill isn’t so great after all.
Afton climbed on autopilot for another ten feet, then paused beneath a craggy overhang, what climbers called an ice mushroom. She studied it, chewed her lip, and tried to muster her bravado.
Okay, she told herself. Blow by this baby and it’s a quick ten-foot scramble to the top. Like they say in Nike-land, just do it.
But the ice was thinner up here, with patches of loose rock like cat litter. If she could find a decent toehold, Afton was confident she could muscle her way over this monster.
Afton took a deep breath, scanning the route. Something’s here, she told herself resolutely. Has to be. She had to trust her instincts and believe in her route. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, tried to slow her heart rate. Instantly, she felt calmer; now she could do it. Opening her eyes, she searched the route again. Then a plan materialized.
Afton would try for a small lip, maybe fifteen inches out from her right hip. It was high; it would be a stretch. She exhaled slowly, drove in her ax, swung her right leg up, and caught the toehold.