Page 91 of Little Girls Sleeping
The sheriff took one last look around and saw nothing that would indicate anything unusual. “No,” he said.
There was a squeak from a door on the other side of the kitchen, which caught his attention. Thinking it was a pantry door, he went to close it, but felt a cool breeze blowing through the crack. He pulled it open and saw that it led to the basement.
He hesitated. Then he flipped the light switch and started down the steps.
Forty-Eight
Katie jerked violently before opening her eyes again, as if abruptly waking from a bad dream only to find out that it was a real-life nightmare. She had passed out for only a few minutes and now found herself in the same predicament.
Trapped.
The wordsYOU WILL NEVER FIND MEresonated through her mind with a chilling realization as she finally understood that they referred not to the killer, but to Katie herself.
“No!” she screamed.
But her breath caught in her throat, and her scream emerged as a desperate strained whisper.
Her survival skills kicked into high gear, and she kept moving her hands and feet around the box trying to find something—anything—that would help her escape. Her heart rate reached a dangerous level, making it impossible to think clearly or breathe in a normal manner.
“No!” she whispered again. More tears fell down the sides of her face, leaving droplets near her ears.
She couldn’t get her thoughts in a cohesive order to figure out what she should do. She’d had extensive training in combat, shooting, self-defense, dog training, and how to handle a felon, but nothing had prepared her for being ambushed and trapped inside a coffin.
Defeat crept into her mind and heart, a doomed feeling that she had never experienced before trying to take over her thoughts.
“Damn you!” she yelled. “You’re not going to win!”
The jarring bumps began to increase in intensity until the motion became almost unbearable. Her fingers, feet, and shins were numb, emitting a buzzing feeling accompanied by pain.
She realized she needed to figure out how long she had been in the vehicle. She assumed it was a type of truck or SUV, but she needed to be ready if there was going to be an opportunity to surprise the kidnapper.
She gritted her teeth, stopped her silly tears, and focused hard on what had happened back at the house. There was a gap in her memory. Absently she touched her chest; it was sore beneath her fingertips. The hazy memory began to come into focus before slipping away again.
Frustrated, she muttered, “You’re… not… going… to… win…”
She began to count the seconds and memorize every stop and turn of the vehicle. As she counted, her pulse calmed and leveled off.
One… two… three…
You’re never going to win… I won’t let you.
Forty-Nine
The old wooden stairs creaked as Sheriff Scott descended to the bottom. He walked deeper into the basement and looked around.
There were some shelves holding canning jars filled with vegetables and fruits, most likely from the garden. It would be a great place to store them because the basement kept things cool, though it felt colder, damper here than the sheriff had expected. The place had that musty earth odor that was difficult to avoid.
He was turning to leave when he noticed something shiny in the corner where the sun pierced through a small window high in the wall. Moving toward the large Mason jar, he noticed a single key inside. It was the kind of key that opened padlocks—shiny and well used.
He picked it up and looked around. There was nothing indicating what the key was used for. He looked at the walls and spotted a small gouge at around shoulder height. Slowly he inserted the key. It fit. When he turned it, a locking mechanism clicked and released the door.
He instinctively pushed it inward. It was pitch dark and difficult to ascertain if this was a closet or another room. He fumbled around inside until he found a light switch.
A low motorized noise engaged and set off a well-tuned reaction.
One…
Two…
