Little Girl Gone by Gerry Schmitt

away, her shrieks piercing the air.
    Ronnie stared at it impassively. His mind was beginning to drift,blocking out the squalling noise. He wondered idly what the baby would look like stuffed?
    Probably, he decided . . . just like one of Mom’s stupid dolls.
    *   *   *
    FIVE minutes later, Ronnie was out the door and on his way. Shake had pleaded with him to take her along. His mother had yammered after him like some goddamned little ankle biter dog. But Ronnie was on a mission.
    When he pulled his car up in front of Judge’s, he was happy to see there were still a couple of newspapers left in the green metal box that sat out front. He dropped in four quarters, grabbed a paper, and went inside, his guts prickling in anticipation.
    Ronnie shoved two dollars across the bar and ordered a Leinenkugel draft beer. Then, as all around him music thumped and beer bottles rattled, he pulled out the news section of the Sunday paper. He was starting to feel a little anxious now, hoping he’d be able to find what he was looking for.
    The story was right there on page one, just below the fold. The headline said, I NFANT K IDNAPPED FROM K E NWOOD H OME . He read the story slowly, his lips moving along as he read. When he got to the fourth paragraph, he smiled to himself. Ashley. The hot little babysitter chick’s name was Ashley. And the story said that she’d been taken to a hospital, some place called HCMC.
    Setting down the paper, Ronnie took a long sip of beer. He liked that her name was Ashley. It sounded classy and reminded him of a character on one of those teen reality shows. He dug his hand into a bowl of popcorn that sat on the bar. Popped a handful into his mouth, chewed, and hawked the hulls out onto the floor. Hadn’t he and Ashley shared a moment together last night? Hadn’t she stared into his eyes and given him a glimmer of encouragement? Sure, she had. Like most girls, she’d wanted it pretty bad.
Needed
it. He could tell.
    Ronnie took another sip of beer and the liquid slid down his throat, cool and malty. “Ashley,” he murmured. “Ashley baby.”

7
    I ’M sorry you had to cut your climbing trip short,” Lish said. Not ten seconds earlier, Afton had pushed open the back door of her home and tromped into the kitchen. Lish, Alisha Larkin, was stirring a pot of bubbling spaghetti sauce, steaming up their little kitchen in a nice, homey way. Afton had called her sister earlier in the day and told her about the change in plans. Told her she was back in town and would probably be home for supper.
    â€œMommy, Mommy!” Two eager voices blended into one as Poppy and Tess, Afton’s two daughters, came careening around a corner to greet her. Poppy was six and serious, dressed in an oversized Sponge Bob sweatshirt. Tess was ten going on fifteen, already into lip gloss and celebrity gossip, lobbying for her very own cell phone.
    â€œI’m glad you came home, Mommy,” Poppy said. She pattered across the kitchen floor and favored Afton with an enormous bear hug. “Even if it was because of that kidnapping.”
    Afton’s and Lish’s eyes met and Lish gave a little shrug that said,
Who knows?
    â€œHow did you hear about the kidnapping, honey?” Afton asked. She made no secret of the fact that she was employed by the Minneapolis Police Department, but had always tried to spare the girls from any grisly detailsof the cases she worked. It was better, she’d decided, to focus on the positive role she played.
    â€œIt was on the five o’clock news,” Poppy told her. “The lady was crying. A lot,” she added with emphasis.
    â€œIs the baby dead?” Tess asked. She sounded blasé but looked a little scared.
    â€œNo, of course not,” Afton said. “The police and the FBI are working very hard to find her and bring her home.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Tess said. She edged over to the