Maybe she’d stopped to take a shower, he thought. Maybe her battery was dead. Maybe she had a problem with her security system. Maybe Cisco had run away. The more he tried to think of reasons why she hadn’t shown up to meet him and wasn’t answering her phone, the more concerned he became.
Sheriff Scott entered the office with a sour expression on his face. He looked as if he wanted blood.
“Sir,” said McGaven.
“Make it quick, Deputy,” the sheriff grumbled.
“I know there’s a lot going on, but… I can’t seem to get a hold of Katie.”
“What do you mean? You’re partnered with her.” The sheriff turned to face him directly.
“Yes, sir. We were supposed to meet here half an hour ago. I wouldn’t trouble you, but I think something may be wrong.”
Sheriff Scott took a step back to assess what he had heard. It was obvious that he was on his way somewhere important, but this new situation involved a fellow law-enforcement officer, not to mention his niece, at potential risk.
“Sheriff… Sheriff!” Chad hurried into the room, breathless and looking concerned. “It’s Katie,” he gasped. “I can’t find her. I went by her place. Her Jeep is there and Cisco is in the house.”
“Take it easy,” said the sheriff. “What makes you so concerned?”
“Early this morning, we went up to the graveyard crime-scene area. She wanted to check it out again, but she wouldn’t tell me any more than that. I just went along for the ride.”
McGaven pushed into the conversation, “Where did you meet her? I talked to her more than an hour ago and she was almost home.”
Chad caught his breath and took a step backward. “We met at Highland Park. I drove her to the area, and then we came back and I dropped her off at the park.”
A few deputies had gathered in the background, listening to the conversation.
“Why did you go to her house?” asked the sheriff.
“She seemed down after she received that call from McGaven, so I wanted to stop by to see how she was doing.”
“I’m not going to stand around debating any longer,” said Sheriff Scott. He turned to McGaven. “Try calling her again, and keep calling her on the way to her house.”
* * *
Two police cars and Chad’s truck arrived at Katie’s house. The three vehicles blocked the driveway behind her Jeep. The property was quiet and there didn’t seem to be anyone around; nothing looked out of place.
Cisco began barking, and Sheriff Scott immediately got out of his unmarked police vehicle. “McGaven, any luck?”
“No, still no answer,” the deputy stated with a worried look on his face.
“Check the perimeter,” the sheriff ordered. “Chad, come with me.”
While McGaven took off to search the grounds and the exterior of the house, Sheriff Scott and Chad ran to the porch, their footsteps pounding on the steps. The sheriff hammered on the front door, causing Cisco to bark even louder. “It’s okay, Cisco,” yelled the sheriff. “Katie! Katie, you home?” He looked to the left and right. “Katie!” he yelled again.
Nothing.
Peering in the window next to the front door, he couldn’t see anyone inside, and the interior didn’t look to be disturbed.
McGaven appeared. “Clear,” he said breathlessly.
“What do we do now?” asked Chad.
The sheriff glanced up at the front camera and saw that the lens had been covered by some kind of spray paint or adhesive. He immediately reached into his pocket, retrieved a set of keys and inserted one of them into the new lock.
Click.
He waited a moment before he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The alarm went off, waiting for the code to be punched in. The sheriff’s jaw clenched. “Cisco, take it easy, boy.” He pushed the door open another few inches, and was greeted by a dark nose breathing deeply, followed by canine grumbles. “Easy, boy,” the sheriff coaxed as he pushed the door wide, stepping inside and hitting the four-digit code.
Cisco ran around the living room and then moved to the large window. He stood up on his hind legs and pounded his paws against the glass.
“Where’s Katie?” the sheriff urged the dog.
McGaven disappeared down the hallway calling out Katie’s name. He returned almost immediately, shaking his head.
The sheriff looked around. “Her briefcase and keys aren’t here,” he said.
McGaven ran out the door, followed closely by Cisco. He opened the unlocked Jeep, where he saw Katie’s briefcase on the passenger seat and her keys still in the ignition. He grabbed them up, then returned to the house, where he put the items on the kitchen counter. The three men were quiet for a moment; all of them trying to figure out where Katie was and what could have happened to her.
“Where was the last place you and Katie visited?” the sheriff asked McGaven.
“Today? Nowhere yet. We were meeting back at the department to figure that out. And to find out the details of Mrs. Compton’s arrest.”
“Yesterday?” he pushed. “Where did you go?”
McGaven stuttered a bit and then recalled the previous day. “I met her at the forensic lab, then we went to talk with the Darren brothers, but they weren’t home, so we went to see the medical examiner again and then a couple of carpenters, and to Charles Rey’s house to talk about the coffins.”
The sheriff spoke in an authoritative tone. “I want to know the whereabouts right now of everyone she had contact with yesterday and the day before. I don’t care if it’s the waitress at lunch or deputies you passed in the hall. I want to know where everyone is now and where they were two hours ago.”
He took a moment and then appeared to formulate a plan. “McGaven, pay a visit to both the medical examiner and the forensic lab. Check back in with me as soon as possible. Keep this quiet until there’s something to report. Got it?”
McGaven nodded and hurried to the police car.
“Let me help,” said Chad. “Please, Sheriff.”
The sheriff hesitated. “Okay. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” asked Chad.
“We’re going to pay the Darren brothers and Charles Rey a visit,” he said. “But you’re only here as an observer, and you do as you’re told. No argument.”
“Got it,” said Chad.
Forty-Six
A low baritone droning bombarded Katie’s eardrums. The sound matched the pain at the back of her head, a relentless, stabbing agony with a pulse. Her body bumped and bounced every once in a while without any sort of rhythm or warning, as if riding in an old-fashioned buckboard wagon. Her breath caught in her throat, pushing down hard on her chest. It was difficult to breathe, and when she tried to gasp for air, it smelled like a musty barn.
She opened her eyes and saw nothing. Turning her head slightly to the left and then to the right, there was just a dark abyss. Even that slight movement made her nauseous, and waves of unconsciousness flowed in and out.
With her eyelids heavy, she slowly raised her right hand and touched her moist face. Clammy and cold, she shivered, her teeth chattering. It made a hollow sound around her, eerie and haunting.
She couldn’t remember what had happened.
Where was she?
Why was it so dark?
She bounced again, harder than before, but this time she felt a solid surface next to her. She tried to turn her body to the right, but the obstruction wouldn’t let her move in that direction. She tried the same position on the left side, with the same result.
The searing pain at the back of her head pulsed with renewed energy, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut. When she finally opened them again, she could see a tiny ray of light coming from a faraway corner, like a beacon of hope.
She moved her hands down the sides of her body and realized that the obstruction was wood. Not smooth to the touch, but rough and uneven. Raising them to her face, neck, and upper chest, she felt a cold perspiration that misted her body and chilled he
r fingertips. She was suddenly aware that she was dressed only in her bra and panties.
Her arms and legs flailed in terror, causing a loud banging all around her as she pounded the wooden walls.
Her fuzzy mind began to clear and her thoughts turned to her predicament. She was lying flat on her back. It was hard and uncomfortable against her spine and the back of her cranium.
The bumping and bouncing resumed.
Her rapid heavy breathing echoed in her ears as the air thinned, making it more difficult to take in oxygen. Her pulse rate accelerated and a panic attack took hold of her, gripping her mind and throwing off any semblance of balance and sanity with a massive dose of adrenalin.
Tears streamed down her face as she realized that she was lying in a sealed wooden coffin. She immediately pictured the dead eyes and perfectly posed bodies of Chelsea Compton and Tammie Myers. The sweet, innocent girls had looked as if they were merely sleeping. The sight was seared into her mind.
Fierce as any warrior, she began to scream with every last ounce of energy, while punching and kicking with her bare hands and feet.
Forty-Seven
Deputy McGaven sprinted through the department, knocking into a couple of deputies in the process, but kept moving until he rang the buzzer at the forensic lab.
“Open up,” he called, waving his hands at the video camera just above his head. His face was pale as he tried to steady his heavy breathing. “Open up,” he repeated, knowing he must look crazy.
The door buzzed and unlocked, opening a couple of inches. He pushed it wide.
“Blackburn, you around?” he said as he moved forward.
He peered into several offices and one exam room, but they were all empty.
“Hello?” he said.
Jamie, a forensic tech, emerged from a door to his left.
“Is Blackburn here?” McGaven asked.
“Uh, no, he hasn’t come in yet.”
“Have you seen Detective Scott today?”
“No, I haven’t seen her since the crime scene,” Jamie replied with a quizzical expression.
McGaven turned and hurried from the lab.
* * *
At the main doors of the morgue, McGaven abruptly stopped. The various cleaning smells and the gurneys shuffling dead people gave him the chills. He hated being inside the building of the dead more than anything, but as a police officer, he knew it was part of the job.
Luck was on his side and he saw the ME leaving one of the exam rooms carrying some file folders.
“Dr. Dean,” he said.
“Ah, Deputy McGaven, what can I do for you?” The man always seemed to sound cheerful, even after dissecting a body and weighing human organs.
“Have you seen Detective Scott?”
“You mean since the two of you were here yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Curious question.” The doctor studied McGaven closely. “Everything okay?”
“Don’t know,” said the deputy. “Have you been here all day?”
“Well, yes, and I haven’t seen the detective.”
“Thanks for your time,” McGaven said, and turned to leave.
“Deputy?”
He turned back. “Yes,” he said, trying to sound calm.
“Detective Scott has a gift. Whatever you’re fretting about, she’ll be just fine.”
The deputy didn’t know what to say. He nodded, then headed out of the morgue to check in with the sheriff.
Sheriff Scott decided to park close to the house. It wasn’t clear if anyone was home.
As he and Chad walked toward the barn behind the house, the sheriff’s cell phone rang. He stopped walking and listened to the caller. “Stay at the department and wait for further instructions.”
“What did McGaven find out?” asked Chad.
“Negative.”
“Were Blackburn and Dr. Dean there?”
“Blackburn hasn’t been at the lab today,” said the sheriff, clenching his jaw.
“What does that mean?” Chad persisted.
“Don’t know yet.”
Chad let out an annoyed sigh.
The sheriff smiled slightly.
“What?”
“Being a detective takes patience. You can’t jump to conclusions no matter how tempting it might be, or how hot your emotions are,” he said.
“I know.” Chad picked up his pace.
When they reached the barn, the doors were closed. The sheriff opened them. “Hello?”
No answer.
The sun shone through the doors, lighting up the tidy interior. It didn’t look as if anyone had been working there today.
“No one’s here,” said Chad, clearly disappointed. He looked at the sheriff, who began to walk around inside the barn. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing in particular. Just want to be thorough.”
“We’re wasting time,” Chad urged.
“Five minutes won’t make a difference one way or another.”
Both men examined the work area, looking in drawers and storage areas. Tools were organized and hung in the correct places. Drawers and cubbyholes held nails, screws, and various kinds of adhesives. Everything appeared as it should.
“Satisfied?” asked Chad.
“For now,” said the sheriff.
They exited the barn and the sheriff closed the large doors. As they began to walk back to the car, he slowed his pace and looked around the property once again.
“What?” asked Chad.
“Just want to check the house.”
They jogged up to the front door and the sheriff knocked. They waited. He knocked again. Still no answer. He put his hand on the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door slightly ajar. “Hello? It’s the sheriff,” he called.
Silence.
They stepped over the threshold and listened. A stark silence greeted them, making the sheriff uneasy. His hand brushed against his sidearm, his fingertips stretching and gripping the handle.
“Stay here,” he said in a whisper.
Chad nodded.
The sheriff moved deeper into the house.
Like the barn, it was tidy and organized. The furniture and decor were worn but in good condition and comfortable. The pillows on the couch were arranged symmetrically, and a blue-and-yellow crocheted blanket was draped neatly over the back.
He scanned the living room and moved to the kitchen. The trashcan was filled with empty beer bottles. There was a coffee mug and a plate in the wooden dish rack. The dish towel was on the counter, efficiently folded.
“Anything?” Chad asked from the entrance.
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 words YOU WILL NEVER FIND ME resonated 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.
Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 23