I WAS SIX YEARS OLD THE FIRST TIME I HAD AN INKLING GOD WOULD NOT always protect me.

My parents raised their children according to the strict tenets of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What was offered to us as truth was simple: all one had to do was be baptized, pay a faithful tithe, and follow the teachings of the Lord's prophets — nothing too difficult, even for a first grader to grasp. I swallowed it dutifully, wholeheartedly, relieved that life was simple and easy. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I knew the basic truths of God's plan for us. I felt comfortable and assured that I would wake up the next day knowing exactly what to expect.

On a sunny, warm April afternoon in 1972 my friend Cindy Caldwell and I blissfully played on her property, two miles from the nearest house. Eight-year-old Cindy had picked me as her best friend in the Farmington Fifth Ward, despite our two-year age difference. I had a serious case of hero worship.

Our playground was two acres of big boulders, trees and brush, and lots of places to hide — a child's paradise. We'd received permission to go there from Cindy's mother, who was grateful for anything to distract us so she could plan her Relief Society lesson.

We knelt by the side of the shallow, ice-cold creek that flowed down from high up in the Wasatch Mountains. By the time it reached us — near the valley floor — it had divided many times, and was now no more than a small stream of water. We dipped our Barbies into the swimming hole we'd formed for them by damming up the water with rocks and twigs. The older and wiser Cindy explained to me the consequences of being baptized, something that had happened to her just a month before.

"... And when you get baptized, you can't sin anymore, 'cause God won't automatically forgive you." She gave me a knowing look. "You don't have to worry about that yet, Alli. You still have two more years."

"What's a sin?"

"A sin is when you do something really bad, like steal something, or touch somebody's private parts. After you get baptized, if you do that stuff, you have to repent and tell the bishop."

I was quiet as I digested this information. I thought of the time several weeks before when my good friend Bernice Franklin and I had explored each other's girl parts while we played doctor. I remembered it felt really good when Bernice touched me there, and I squirmed with the memory. Feeling good was a sin? I was in deep trouble.

I also did not want to have to tell our bishop about my sins. Bishop Harwood was a big, loud, jovial man with shiny red cheeks, almost no hair on his head, and great tufts of it everywhere else we could see, including his nostrils. It sprang from the dark holes like a big unruly hair forest, hiding all types of unknown beasts and vengeful creatures. I had a hard time looking at him without fixating on his nose and all the wiry hair that came out of it.

Our neighbor, Rodney Crowell, who was in my first grade class at school, spent the entire summer a year before trying to convince Bernice and me that the bishop was a werewolf. I told my mother, and Rodney didn't come out of his house for a week. He never brought up the werewolf theory again.

"Now, when they baptize you, they do this," Cindy prattled on, apparently not noticing my discomfort. She took her Barbie and placed her in the water. "I baptize you, Barbie Caldwell, in the name of God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost."

She dipped her Barbie under the water and held her there.

"How do you keep from drowning?"

"Silly!" Cindy giggled as she pulled the doll from the water and shook it off. "They don't hold you down very long. They just dip you down and then lift you back up."

She moved from the side of the creek to the little chapel we had built a short distance away. "Now we need to confirm them ..."

A crrrr-aaaackkk filled our ears, and we both jumped and screamed, as only little girls can. After our first shaken moments of terror, we looked at each other and Cindy said, "Ralph!"

Cindy's brother, Ralph, sixteen and a bully, lived to torment us. He'd gotten his first shotgun for Christmas that year and was always up at the Caldwell property looking for rabbits, squirrels, birds, and other small creatures he could torture and murder.

"Ralph!" she yelled, standing up. Her knees were covered with dirt and little red dents from the pebbles we knelt on. She had her hands on her hips, like my mother did when she scolded us. "Ralph, where are you? You're gonna get it. When I tell Mom you shot around us with your gun, you'll never see it again! You know Dad will take it."

No answer came, no snicker, no sign of Ralph. I fidgeted with uneasiness, and realized I had to pee badly and the only toilet was far away.

Cindy looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and sat back down. As she reached for her Barbie, we heard the snap of a tree branch and we both jumped again.

"Knock it off, Ralph! Dammit! Mom's gonna kill you."

"You said a bad word!"

Cindy gave me an impatient look and turned back to the trees where we believed Ralph to be hidden.

"Is swearing a sin?" I needed to know, because my devoutly religious father swore all the time.

"Alli!"

We looked over to the area across the creek where we'd heard the noise, and I saw a sight that caused my heart to jump in my chest — the barrel of a rifle pointed directly at us. We couldn't clearly see the person holding the rifle because he wore camouflage, but he sported a dark beard peppered with gray. Ralph shaved once a month at best.

Slowly it hit me. This was not Cindy's brother.

We were going to die.

"Stand up," ordered the man. His unfamiliar gruff voice caused prickles of sheer terror to run up and down my legs and arms.

I couldn't move.

Slowly, Cindy stood up.

"Stand up!" he ordered again. Cindy grabbed me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. I'd sat too long, and my feet and legs had gone to sleep. Now pins and needles ran through them as the blood began to circulate. I couldn't help it — I hopped up and down, trying to ease the pain.

"Knock it off, you little bitch!" he ordered. I couldn't stop dancing, and he lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at me. I think my heart stopped, and Cindy jumped in front of me, as though she were going to save me. He jerked the rifle up into the sky and fired a warning shot.

I peed my pants right then.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "Take them off now!"

We still could not see much of him besides his beard and the gun as he stayed hidden behind the tree and heavy brush.

"We won't take off our clothes!" Cindy said in a brave voice. "We won't. You'll have to kill us."

It was quiet for a moment. I imagined he was deciding whether or not he wanted to murder us. I was too young to consider any of the implications of our removing our clothes. Silently, I prayed, vowing fervently to never tattle again, never sneak cookies when I had been told no, never pick on my brother Kevin.

Please, God, please, don't let us die. Don't let the man kill us. Please save us. I promise I'll be good.

"All right," he yelled. "Little blond girl, you run. Run now. Run fast. Don't look back or I'll shoot you."

He meant me. Cindy had beautiful long brown hair that curled up at the ends. I hesitated. I wasn't going to leave my friend.

"No,"...