Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Jennifer Chase

  Could it be that simple? Was it possible?

  “What? What do you think?” probed the deputy.

  She explained slowly. “Price was possibly an accomplice, and although he didn’t witness Chelsea being taken, he knew it was going to happen. It’s just a theory—don’t hold me to it.”

  McGaven stepped back as if the idea was plausible. “So you think, based on your…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, because a loud noise rattled the barn with excessive force.

  Katie’s first thought was that it was a thunder storm crashing down on top of the building. She immediately climbed down and ran for the entrance, followed closely by McGaven. But when she got there, she found the doors were secured. Both of them tried to open them, but they still wouldn’t budge.

  McGaven took out his service revolver to shoot the hinges.

  “No,” ordered Katie. “No,” she repeated. She cocked her head to one side and smelled a familiar odor.

  McGaven gave her a quizzical look.

  Katie didn’t waste any time explaining; she grabbed hold of the deputy’s jacket and pulled him with her across the barn.

  Before they had even reached the far side, a loud explosion rocked the ground and deafened them. They both dropped down and covered their heads, waiting for the next assault. For a moment Katie was back on the battlefield. Vivid memories assailed her mind. Smells that she would never forget. Then she snapped back to reality.

  Smoke filtered into the barn, followed by an intense crackling noise.

  McGaven peered up. “What the…?”

  “A bomb.”

  “A what?” he yelled. Clearly his hearing had been temporarily impaired.

  “Nothing too catastrophic; most likely a pipe bomb,” she surmised. “C’mon, we have to get out of here now.”

  Katie stood, wavering slightly, dizzy, head pounding, and began to look for an escape route. The smoke was building, making it difficult to breathe. She coughed several times. “Cover your nose and mouth,” she ordered.

  McGaven did as she instructed, pulling his shirt over the lower part of his face, and they moved back toward the front, where flames were already licking into the barn.

  “There’s only one way out!” Katie yelled, choking and coughing.

  She climbed back up the wooden ladder to the loft with McGaven at her heels and headed to the window area, but she struggled to open the access.

  “Get back!” McGaven yelled. He fired several rounds into the hinges holding the opening closed. At first the shots had no effect, then the hinges buckled before finally giving way. There had been small reinforcement-steel pieces and miscellaneous hardware forged into place.

  Katie glanced down to the main area and saw that the flames were approaching fast—in minutes they would be completely engulfed. Frantically they pried, scraped, and battled to get access through the opening. But she began to feel her vision fade due to her incessant coughing, and her legs and arms weakened like jelly.

  Finally McGaven managed to clear their escape route. As Katie peered through the opening at the drop, her stomach seized up and she closed her eyes. The deputy shook her hard, rattling her teeth. “Stay awake!” he yelled. His strong grip and bulky build made him seem like a Goliath.

  The flames were touching the floor of the loft and inching their way towards them like angry tentacles.

  McGaven shook Katie again. “Look,” he rasped. “There are a couple of bales of hay next to the lumber that haven’t caught fire yet. We can reach them.”

  Katie nodded. She couldn’t speak. Her throat was dry, tightening her vocal cords.

  McGaven held her by her waist and gently moved her toward the extreme edge of the loft before turning her body in the direction of the hay below.

  Katie struggled to keep her eyes open. She wanted to lie down and sleep—push everything out of her mind.

  “Katie!” he yelled. “Feet first, tuck and roll. You can do this—it’s easy for you.”

  She focused intently on the spot where she was going to land. She remembered a time when her squad had to escape a building before a rocket was launched. The sound when it hit the structure was unlike anything she had ever heard in her life.

  She snapped back to the present, hearing McGaven yelling instructions and encouragement in the same breath. Intense heat crept up behind her along with huge puffs of black smoke.

  “Go!” he yelled.

  The free-falling sensation was briefly calming, like being protected under the wing of a bird. The wind smacked Katie’s face and revitalized her just before she hit the stack of hay. Instinctively she tucked and rolled several times before stopping. The impact wasn’t as bad as she’d initially feared.

  Within seconds, her peripheral vision caught the blur of McGaven following her down, but as she watched in horror, he hit the edge of the bale and crashed to the ground, where he lay in a crumpled heap.

  No.

  The battlefield of horrors gripped her soul. The flames and smoke were closing in on them. She crawled toward the unconscious deputy and grabbed hold of his jacket, then slowly dragged him, inch by painful inch, away from the blazing barn.

  When they were a safe distance away, she retrieved her firearm, which was still secured in her holster, and took cover. It occurred to her that whoever had tried to kill them inside the barn was probably somewhere nearby. If they had gone to this much trouble already, it could be assumed that they would finish the job.

  McGaven muttered. Katie looked down at him. He was coming round.

  “C’mon, we need to get to that shed over there,” she instructed. It was the best place under the circumstances to shield them from potential harm and keep watch for the enemy.

  Once they’d moved to the storage shed, Katie’s senses began to return to normal. Despite the fatigue, adrenalin kept her body rigid and alert enough to make conscious decisions.

  The barn continued to burn; flames engulfed the structure, and beams fell like dominoes.

  For the first time, Katie realized that the bomb that had exploded was their car. Questions flooded her mind.

  When was the bomb set?

  Before they’d arrived at the Haven farm? While they were in the barn?

  When?

  She took out her cell phone and dialed. “This is Detective Katherine Scott, badge number 3692. Explosion. Barn on fire. Two officers down at the Haven farm, Rio and Apple Road. Send fire, ambulance, and police. Unknown assailant could still be at location. Repeat, unknown assailant could still be at property.”

  She ended the call.

  McGaven sat next to her, leaning up against the shed wall and surveying the yard outside.

  Katie gently squeezed his arm. “Backup is on its way. We can hold our position until they get here.”

  Thirty-Three

  He stomped his work boots on a dilapidated rubber mat before entering the back door of his house. Smelling of smoke, he hurried inside the sanctuary of his home. Dirt and debris scattered along the wooden floors with his footsteps. He was still angry at what she had made him do. Many people despised her but were afraid to say anything because she had fought in Afghanistan. She was a soldier, a veteran. And now she was a detective in the sheriff’s office.

  Who cares?

  It was the ones who respected her—even liked her—who provoked him to violence, who had him fuming. He would burn down the entire town to get those lost souls to listen to reason or face the consequences.

  After quickly changing his clothes for clean ones from the laundry basket sitting on the sofa, the man returned to the kitchen and paused, unsure what to do next.

  He was alone.

  He only had a few minutes before he needed to get back to work so that someone wouldn’t notice he was gone. Grabbing a drinking glass from the cupboard, he watched as his hand shook with anger slowly turning to rage.

  Trying not to participate in the emotional baggage that most people struggled with, he filled the glass with tap water. As he concent
rated on the swirling of the liquid and the tiny bubbles vying for the surface and then dissipating into the clear, perfect drink, he felt his pulse return to normal. He drank the entire ten ounces in one breath.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the search—it was what fed him physically and mentally.

  It was what he loved.

  He knew he needed to maintain his focus and keep his emotions in check to sustain his work—not his autopilot day job, but his calling. If he wasn’t careful, someone would find out his secret; someone would know.

  Breathing in deeply, he exhaled the frustrations of the day. With each inhale and exhale, the triumphant soldier resurfaced again.

  He carefully rinsed the glass and set it in the drying rack.

  Glancing to a small table, he opened a drawer where a photograph of a smiling thirteen-year-old girl lay in a special silver frame. Memories flooded back to him. Sometimes those memories were followed by the exact feelings he had had when he received the phone call. It was nearly fifteen years ago now, but it still felt like yesterday. There had been no warning, and no doubt of the horror. His baby girl had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He would never forget her lying in the morgue, brutally beaten, stabbed, and raped. The image would never leave his memory.

  No one knew about his daughter. She was gone. He would make sure that no little girl would ever have to suffer the horrors his daughter had.

  Never.

  It was time to complete the next step; to perform his special check.

  He walked to a narrow door in the kitchen, gripped the handle, and turned the knob, looking at the wooden stairs leading down into the basement. It was often used as a fruit cellar to store things that required a stable temperature between fifty-five and sixty-five degrees. It was a place hidden from most. Sounds didn’t carry. Most of all, it made him feel good being there.

  Descending the stairs, he heard the third step make the familiar creak, and then down, down to the bottom. The cool temperature leveled his rage and steadied his pulse. The familiar musty odor caught his senses, and forced him to remember one of the cold nights his father had made him stay in the basement until he was sorry for what he had done. He had said he was sorry, but he wasn’t. He was never sorry for anything he did.

  As he stood in the darkness, he knew that nothing and no one could ever again make him say he was sorry.

  Focus.

  He walked to the end of the cellar and turned to his right. He hesitated. A single, unidentified door greeted him. There was no handle and no indication how to open it. To most, it would seem like a closet or another area for storage; perhaps a place where the electrical breakers were located.

  He retrieved a key from a Mason jar in the corner. He kept it away from his crowded key ring to make sure no one could accidentally find it. Inserting it into the camouflaged lock—higher than the usual key insert and merely resembling a gouge in the door—he turned it.

  The locking mechanism clicked and the man pushed the door inward and flipped a light switch. A low motorized noise engaged and set off a well-tuned reaction.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  Four specialized fluorescent lights ignited overhead and brightened the room’s low ceiling. Every corner was illuminated, casting away all shadows to reveal an organized, compartmentalized room.

  One area appeared to be a primitive workshop where large rectangular wooden boxes and bolts of fabric waited. Several small plastic containers containing thread, needles, and ribbon were stacked in the corner.

  Along one wall, various clear and dark glass bottles adorned with skull-and-crossbones warnings cluttered a work table. Bags of saline and several different types of pain medications, paralyzing solutions, and sedatives sat neatly at the end. Stainless-steel instruments from a doctor’s office neatly filled a black satchel, sterilized and ready to be used. It was an ideal playground for a mad scientist in training.

  Next to the surgeon’s tools, there was a laptop computer.

  A rolling garment rack was pushed into the corner, a few small dresses hanging from it.

  As the man slowly sauntered through his workshop filled with ominous items, he ran his hand along the meticulously clean countertops. It surprised him every time he performed this routine gesture that he felt an electric shock through his fingers and up his arm. It was more than a static reaction. It was life given over to him.

  He stroked his fingers across a custom table carefully crafted from assorted leftover lumber found at various locations, complete with shelves and drawers underneath. The flat surface measured three feet by five. The beautifully stained and varnished top was one of his most prized accomplishments.

  The deep vastness of color.

  The brilliant sheen that glowed from every angle.

  The amazing depth and density still caused his heart to flutter. It was more than a suitable location for his work; it was his center of creation.

  Lying on top of the table, secured with heavy straps generally used to move furniture, was his latest victim. Her long brown braids lay next to her shoulders; her pretty, blue cotton top was smooth and clean.

  Dena Mathews would never know what had happened, or the identity of the man who had snatched her at the park.

  He leaned closer to her. Her flawless skin accentuated her petite features. Her eyes remained closed. Her chest moved subtly up and down.

  “Little girl sleeping,” whispered the man as if he was reciting a nursery rhyme. It was his favorite moment. He hummed and then whispered personal encouragements into her ear—he knew she could hear him.

  He lifted her eyelid and saw that she was in a deep medicated sleep. Letting his hand linger against her face, he remained a little while longer just to admire her.

  “Sleep, sleep…” he said in a loving tone. “I will be back later to complete the task.” He smiled slowly as he allowed his lips to gently touch her cheek. “Sleep for now…”

  Thirty-Four

  With her eyes closed and taking deep steady breaths of oxygen, Katie began to feel alert and stronger. She could still hear the sound of the explosion in her mind. It was something that changed you, skewed your understanding of the world, but strangely made you feel more alive. Not because you’d barely survived but because you lived another day.

  She opened her eyes to see several people standing close. Her uncle and two police officers stared at her with solemn expressions.

  She removed the oxygen mask and said, “I’m fine, really.” Her voice was strangely hoarse and anxious.

  She could see firefighters battling the blaze, which had jumped to other structures on the property but had luckily left the Havens’ house untouched.

  Voices yelled out. Water drenched what was left of the barn.

  “I want her taken to the hospital to be checked out,” ordered Sheriff Scott.

  Katie shook her head adamantly. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need to waste their time.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” the sheriff countered.

  Katie stood up and looked around until she spotted McGaven receiving attention from another ambulance. His face was pale, due to shock, but he was awake and talking with the paramedics as they tended to the various cuts on his arms and face.

  Katie began to walk toward him. Immediately, she stumbled. One of her boot heels had snapped off. “Shit,” she said.

  “You alright?” the two officers said in unison.

  She pulled her boot off and laughed. “I hated these boots anyway.”

  She continued to limp toward McGaven. When he saw her, he just stared, and then he smiled, his entire face lighting up.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asked.

  He nodded and looked at her foot. “Guess the boot didn’t make it.”

  They both laughed, causing a few people to look curiously in their direction.

  Katie stepped closer to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what would h
ave happened if you weren’t here.”

  “You know what they say.”

  Katie wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “You never leave a partner behind.”

  She was overwhelmed with emotion. She wasn’t going to break down and cry, but she had promised herself that whenever something of this magnitude happened, she would make sure she told the person how much they mattered.

  She hugged McGaven tight for a few seconds. “Thank you,” she said again, more quietly.

  Sheriff Scott had followed Katie over. “If you feel up to it, we need your account of what happened, while it’s fresh in your minds.”

  “Absolutely,” Katie replied. “Where’s Detective Templeton?”

  “He had some personal business and will join us later.”

  The sheriff moved around the crime-scene area as he talked on his cell phone. Katie couldn’t quite hear what he said, but she assumed it had to do with ATF and Homeland Security.

  She saw the crime-scene van approach the property and park a short distance away. She wondered if John Blackburn would be attending the scene. It didn’t take long to get her answer as he jumped out of the van and gave orders to his two technicians.

  A deputy with Sanders on his nametag walked up to Katie with a notebook. “You ready?” he asked.

  “Give me a few minutes, please,” she answered distractedly, and walked away.

  He nodded and settled down to wait for her.

  She hurried to the CSI van, where John was organizing metal suitcases and inventorying canisters to collect the pieces of bomb fragments.

  He turned toward her, not overly surprised to see her but calm despite the high-stakes conditions. “Glad to see that you’re okay,” he said with genuine concern. He pointed at her foot, “A fatality during the fire?” He quickly pulled on a white hazmat-type suit.

  “Yes, but nothing was left behind,” she said, holding up her broken boot. “I just wanted to let you know that when we heard the explosion, it seemed to come from the barn doors. I realize now, of course, that it was the car, but the intense heat in the beginning was most likely at the doors.”