Page 1 of Little Girls Sleeping
Prologue
The oversized tires obliterated the rural roadway before the large truck came to an abrupt stop. The driver stalled the engine. Dust rose in a curious flowering cloud, swirling in front of the vehicle’s hood and creeping toward the back of the camper shell. When the surrounding vicinity finally cleared, a dense forest landscape emerged.
The truck overlooked the sheer cliff and rugged scenery that had become a permanent roadblock. The usual silence of the deserted region was interrupted by the incessant and rhythmic sound of a cooling engine.
Tick… Tick… Tick…
The vehicle remained parked. No one moved inside the cab or got out. The truck stayed immobile as if an unlikely statue in the vast wilderness—a distinct contrast between nature and manufactured steel.
The truck sat at the ideal vantage spot, which was both mesmerizing and terrifying for any spectator; but still the occupant chose to wait. The intense high beams pierced ahead into the picturesque hills, leaving a hazy view of the area above the massed trees.
When the driver’s door finally opened, a man stepped out, his steel-toed leather work boots hitting the dirt. They were well-worn, reflecting the many miles he had walked and the many hours he had labored. Swiftly the door shut as the man, medium build and wearing only a plain dark T-shirt, walked to the back of the truck and, with a loud bang, released the lift gate. He moved with purpose and with a calm assertiveness, as if he had performed this particular task many times before. His weathered hands, calloused from years of working with heavy tools and machinery without the protection of leather gloves, had a certain agility and speed.
He grasped two well-used shovels, a large arching pick, and a bulky utility garbage bag. As he tossed the bag onto the ground, the top burst open and several medium-sized teddy bears spilled out. Their smiling faces accentuated the brightly colored ribbons tied around their necks, contrasting with the muted shades of their surroundings.
The man pushed the floppy bag aside with the toe of his boot. He worked in quiet solitude, no humming, no whistling, and no talk.
He flipped on the flashlight fixed to his baseball cap. Straight ahead and slightly arced, the large beam illuminated his path while he strode steadily toward a particular wooded area.
The surrounding thickets and trees remained still without any wind to rustle the leaves. The only audible sound was the man’s quick footsteps—never with any hesitation. He walked with the gait of a young man, despite his stature of someone older.
He hesitated as if he had forgotten something, standing motionless with his arms down at his sides and his head hung forward as he shone the bright light at the ground and the tops of his boots. He still held firmly to the tools. He mumbled a few inaudible sentences of a memorized prayer, which sounded more like a warning than a passage from the Bible, then he raised his head and continued to walk into the dense forest.
Dropping his tools, he carefully pushed a pine branch aside and secured it with a worn piece of rope that had been left for the purpose. An opening was exposed—a tunnel barely large enough for a man to enter.
He grabbed his digging tools once again and proceeded. The flashlight on the front of his cap brightened the passageway as it veered to the right. He followed, only ducking his head twice before the path opened to an area with several boulders sticking out of the cliff. Clusters of unusual rock shapes, some sharp, some rounded, made the terrain appear more like a movie set or backdrop.
A narrow dirt path of crude, sloping man-made steps dropped fifteen feet to a landing jutting out from the rock formation. A small yellow flag was stuck into the earth, marking a spot. A slight evening breeze picked up, causing the flag to flutter.
The man balanced the shovels and pick against the hillside and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath attached to his belt. Pressing the bone handle tight against his palm, he drew the blade through the packed dirt to mark a rectangular pattern on the ground.
He stared intently at the soil, then retrieved the pick, gripping it tight, and swung it hard against the dry, heavily compacted earth. It dented the surface, spewing chips of dirt in every direction. A few small rocks buried in the soil since the beginning of time hampered his progress, but after several more arced swings, the ground began to crumble, exposing the fresh earth.
The heavy pick was exchanged for one of the shovels. Soon there was a small pile of California soil, comprised of sand, silt, clay, and small rock. The repeated movements of dig, scoop, and deposit continued for more than forty-five minutes at a brisk pace. The hard work of manual labor didn’t deter him. It only made him more determined to create a work of genius—his ultimate masterpiece.
At last he stepped back and admired his handiwork, perspiring heavily through his shirt from the effort. Exhilaration filled his body, keeping his muscles flexed and his heart pumping hard. He leaned against the shovel, a smile forming on his lips as he waited for his pulse to return to normal, and marveled at the unmistakable outline of a freshly dug grave.
One
Four years later
The enemy waits for the perfect moment to attack, when you least expect it.
An unknown force seems to decide whether it’s time to die or time to move on—yet by the grace of God, I continue to survive.
The rattling overhead compartments and sudden roller-coaster drop in altitude shook Katie Scott awake. She sat straight up in her seat, absently wiping the slight perspiration from her forehead and upper lip. Her stiff muscles and sore back from sleeping in the same position for a couple of hours made her exhale loudly. She stretched her arms above her head, relieving some of the tension in her neck and shoulders.
With sleepy eyes, she glanced to her left and saw a dark-haired young man sitting next to her who looked as if he would vomit at any moment. His terrified fixed stare, ashen complexion, dry lips, and white fingers gripping the armrests were obvious characteristics of a fearful flyer.
Katie thought she might give him some gentle advice on how safe commercial flights were, especially compared to the flights she had experienced during the past two years, three months, twelve days, and nine hours in the army. In fact, all her military transportations had been dangerous, whether on foot or riding in military vehicles. Whereas it was highly unlikely that the young man would die on this particular flight—it was not his time, at least not today.
Taking a deep breath and settling back again, she decided to keep her comments to herself. She closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept in a real bed with fluffy pillows in months and looked forward to going home to enjoy all the things most people took for granted. Her mind wandered to the loaded double cheeseburger with French fries, onion rings, and a double dark chocolate milkshake that was going to be one of her first meals.
But as much as she looked forward to going home, there was the dreaded question looming. What was she going to do now?
The airplane rattled and thumped with a little more intensity, but Katie remained comfortable and relaxed. It felt to her almost like a gentle movement designed to lull her to sleep. Still, murmurs from concerned passengers filtered through the cabin. She opened her eyes and casually scanned the people around her. A baby cried and fidgeted in its mother’s arms. Two women sat up straight in their seats as if they were preparing for a crash landing. Flight attendants made sure everyone was comfortable, something they did a million times during their careers.
The seat-belt light appeared in bright letters to keep everyone secured in their seats until further notice. Katie adjusted her body and inched closer to the window in case her fellow passenger decided to puke up his last meal. She stared at the scattered clouds in the mid-morning sky as the early sun permeated the horizon. It never grew boring to watch the beginnings of a new day. Katie liked to think of each one as a blank script and a way to begin again; to make things right—or just better.
