True Light

  Then everything had gone terribly wrong.

  Was it some sin he’d committed, or just more of his father’s curse being played out? He knew the biblical warnings about the sins of the father being visited on the sons to the third and fourth generations. But didn’t it also say that God would bless to the thousandth generation those who loved him?

  Yet here he was, hunkering in an alley like a fugitive, trying to decide where he would sleep tonight.

  He thought of the area under the bridge, a mile east of the Crockett exit on I – 20. There wasn’t anything there but woods. It would be easy to walk to, and if he started a fire there, maybe no one would see it. Maybe by morning Zach would tell them the truth and all of this would end.

  Mark sat in the alley for hours until darkness fell. As he waited, he looked through the bag Jeff had packed for him. He’d given him a flashlight with extra batteries, some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, a ski cap, some extra socks, and a small Bible. Way to go, Jeff. He couldn’t have packed better himself.

  When he felt covered by darkness, Mark made his way to the street and started walking to I – 20.

  The interstate was barren and covered with four inches of snow. The moon overhead lit the road ahead of him, uncertain and long.

  Cold dried his lips and numbed his face, and he wished for waterproof shoes instead of this worn-out pair of Nikes. Burrowing his hands into his pockets, he trudged toward the bridge, doubting he would find much comfort there.

  As he approached, he smelled smoke and saw the light of a fire flickering near the bridge. He slid down the grass embankment before he got to the bridge, and walked under it.

  And then he saw it. A community of tents, spread out among the trees and under the bridge . . .

  Who lived here?

  Carefully, he approached the fire. People sat around it. A woman, some children, a man . . . and on the other side of the flames, more people. Skin-and-bones people with dirty, unshaven faces, filthy skin, rotting teeth. Their clothes were not warm enough to brave this cold, and yet this seemed to be their home.

  No one seemed to notice him as he walked up to the fire. He got the feeling that transients came and went from this place — strangers sharing a patch of earth, never knowing each other’s names. He wondered if they were hiding from the law, or if they were simply here because they had nowhere else to go.

  He counted five tents, two fires . . . Twenty or more people of all ages.

  He warmed his hands, then walked between two tents to another fire coming from a hole in the ground. Someone had dug a pit there and filled it with wood, set a fire, then placed an oven rack on top of the hole. They were using it for cooking. He moved closer to see what was on the rack. It was some animal the size of a chipmunk. That wouldn’t go far.

  “Hey, mister. You got any food?”

  The voice came from a little girl about eight years old. Her hair was long and matted, and she looked as if she wore her whole wardrobe layered thick. Pants on top of more pants, a dress on top of that, sweaters and a hooded sweatshirt, all padding the little girl for warmth.

  She needed a good coat. And a place to live.

  “No, I don’t have any food. I’m sorry.” He stooped down to look at her. Her face was dirty, and snot crusted under her nose. “Do you live here?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I hate snow, don’t you?”

  Little girls were supposed to love snow. They were supposed to laugh and slide around in it, to make snow angels and snowmen.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked her.

  “A few weeks,” she said. “Ever since our house burned down.”

  “Ruth, come here.” It was a woman’s voice in the darkness. The little girl turned and hurried to her mother. “I told you not to talk to people,” she whispered harshly.

  The girl went into the tent, and came out a few minutes later with two other children. The boy was a little older than she, and the other girl a little younger. A man who must have been her father took the chipmunk — or whatever it was — off the flames and carried it into the tent. The children and mother all hurried in after it.

  As the fire warmed him, he looked around, astonished at what he’d found. When he’d learned about the problems in the apartments around town, he had done his best to help them survive. He’d helped dig a well and had altered some of the apartments to add fireplaces and cookstoves for the winter. He’d even taken them food.

  But he’d never imagined that, right here in Crockett, there were people who didn’t have any roof over their heads at all — who slept with their families under a bridge in twenty-five-degree cold.

  The areas around the fire were all occupied by tents or pallets laid out on the ground. Debris sat around all of their areas — discarded items and broken possessions. It looked like most of the people here didn’t even have enough blankets to get through the night.

  He found a spot away from the fire and leaned back against a tree trunk. Then he got out the Bible Jeff had packed for him.

  He pictured Deni’s brother running around frantically, trying to think of what Mark might need. He never would have expected the Bible, but it was a godsend.

  He opened it and tried to read in the dim light of the fire.

  He heard footsteps in the leaves and saw a homeless man staggering toward him. He looked like someone Mark would have avoided if he’d seen him on the street.

  “How ya doing?” Mark asked, reaching out to shake his hand.

  The man didn’t shake. He just looked at the things Mark had pulled out of his bag. Apparently, nothing looked interesting enough, so the man turned and walked away without a word.

  Mark hoped Ruth and her siblings stayed away from the man.

  The night grew late, and as Mark read, he listened to voices around the fire. Some of the squatters sounded a little crazy or mentally challenged. Others were desperate. A couple were mean and threatening.

  And then there were those like him, probably wondering how they’d wound up in a place like this. Longing for morning.

  Toward midnight, most of the people settled down on their little squares of earth or in their tents, so he moved closer to the fire to get warm. Since he didn’t have a pallet or sleeping bag, Mark found a dry place on the bridge’s concrete base and used his bag to pillow his head. He prayed for Zach to be all right, to wake up and tell what happened. He prayed for Deni and her family, and for Sheriff Scarbrough, and for his mother, and his stepfather John. He knew his mother was probably grieving, sick with worry over where he might be. Somehow he had to get word to her tomorrow, let her know that the lynch mob hadn’t caught up to him. Sadness washed over him, and he began to wonder what God was doing.

  Last Sunday at church, Doug had preached that our trials always had a purpose.

  That meant that the thing with his father had been for a reason, though Mark had never seen any good that came from it. The fact that his half-brothers had fled arrest for the shared crimes had had some purpose too. And the legacy of their reputation, which now left him an outcast, had some overriding meaning.

  He just couldn’t see what it was.

  The effort left him defeated.

  Lord, I know I’m not alone . . . but I feel alone.

  Desperately wanting a word from God, some wisdom, some peace, he flipped through the Bible, wondering what to read. Some people just opened their Bibles to a word from God, flashing out at them like neon, but that had never worked for him. It seemed, instead, that when he needed encouragement the most, he had no idea where to read.

  But he’d been doing a read-through for the past few months, and he was up to Isaiah.

  He opened the Bible again, and using the flashlight now, he turned to the passage where he’d left off — Isaiah 43.

  The Lord was talking to Israel, but as Mark read, the words began to take on life — profound and personal.

  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overfl
ow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I have given Egypt as your ransom, Cush and Seba in your place. Since you are precious in My sight, since you are honored and I love you, I will give other men in your place and other peoples in exchange for your life.

  GOD WAS PAYING ATTENTION. NONE OF THIS HAD ESCAPED HIS notice. He had not abandoned Mark as the neighbors had. And Mark had nothing to fear.

  You are precious in my sight . . . you are honored and I love you . . .

  He kept reading until his defeat turned to devotion, and as he lay under the bridge, watching an occasional lonely man feed the fire from a woodpile they had cut, he felt blessed again. Sleep came in snatches, dipping into dreams that mingled with the cold of reality.

  When the first lights of morning broke, he gathered his stuff and hurried back to Oak Hollow. Hoping his neighbors would sleep a little longer, he sneaked into his yard and to the van that held all his family’s meat. Pulling out the bobcat and some of the venison he’d stored there, he loaded his bike trailer and headed back to the bridge.

  Little Ruth was already up when he got back to the campground. Her father had an ax and was chopping wood for the fire.

  Mark pulled his bike trailer among the tents and began unloading the meat. “I brought you some breakfast,” he told her parents. “There ought to be enough for everybody.”

  Others came out of their tents, and those on the ground began to stir. They eyed the meat with hungry eyes. Ruth’s father got the pit stove lit and began to cook.

  As hungry as Mark was, he ate only a little; then he sat by the fire, savoring the smell of roasted game, watching as the homeless filled their bellies.

  After they’d cleaned the bones and tossed them into the fire, Ruth approached him again. “Thanks, mister,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” Grief overcame him that this child had to live in a place like this. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the three coins. “Here,” he whispered. “Give these to your dad. Maybe he can use them to get your family into an apartment or something.”

  She took the coins, her eyes widening with the beauty of them. “Wow,” she said. “Pretty quarters.”

  He grinned. “They’re worth a lot more than quarters.”

  She brought her curious gaze up to him. “Are you rich?”

  He thought of evading the question, but compared to them, he was. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Then why were you sleeping outside?”

  He smiled. “It’s a long story.”

  “Ruth! Come here! I told you — ”

  Ruth hesitated, looking up at him.

  “You should listen to your mom,” he said. “People around here could be dangerous. You really shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

  “You’re not a stranger. You brung us food. And money.”

  “It’s not money, exactly. Just give it to your mom and dad, okay? Don’t tell anybody else.”

  “Ruth!” Her mother was getting angry.

  “I’ll see you later, Ruth,” he said. “I have to go.” He started to walk his bike back out of the woods. Before he had gotten far, he looked back, and saw Ruth showing the coins to her mother. The woman looked up at him, her mouth open in astonishment.

  He hoped it would make a difference.

  TWENTY

  ZACH HUNG ON THE EDGE OF CONSCIOUSNESS, EMBEDDED in a cloud. Sounds — words, footsteps, the hum of a machine, his mother’s crying — floated through the haze, registering in fragments in his brain, but he couldn’t find his way out.

  He tried to open his eyes or to reach out to his mother to tell her to stop crying, but he couldn’t move his hands or his eyelids.

  She was always crying. Lying in bed in a dark room, staring at the walls and wishing for brighter days. He never could make her smile.

  Voices slammed against each other over his head — Dad condescending, Mama raising her voice. A nurse asking them both to leave.

  Yes, Mama. Cry somewhere else.

  Silence, then a crash some distance away. Had his mother turned something over?

  Calm down, Mama. Calm down.

  The clouds thinned, and he managed to slit his eyes open. Tubes tangled over him, something on his face . . . in his throat. Someone beside his bed, bent over.

  The hum silenced.

  He tried to focus on the man rising up, looking down at him. Blurred . . . unfocused.

  “Doc, you gotta help me.”

  Whose voice? It came from across the room.

  Clouds closed in again . . . eyes shut. Swimming through the fog, trying to reach the surface.

  “Sorry, I’m not a doctor. I’m just visiting Zach.” It was the man above him, strange, unfamiliar.

  He couldn’t breathe. Forced his eyes open . . .

  “Then go get one, man.” The panicked voice came from the bed next to him. “My IV’s come loose.”

  Zach couldn’t catch his breath. Panic tightened his chest.

  Help!

  Man walking around his bed. Too fast, too blurry. Help . . . can’t breathe . . .

  Gasping.

  “Hey, he can’t breathe. Listen to him!”

  “I’ll go get a doctor.”

  “Tell him to hurry. That guy’s ventilator is off!”

  Sucking air through a straw. Help me!

  “I’m going. If anyone asks you, tell them Mark Green stopped by.”

  “I don’t care who you are! Call him a doctor! Help! Somebody help!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE LAST THING SHERIFF SCARBROUGH WANTED TO DO was arrest Mark Green. But the Emorys’ claim that Mark had been in Zach’s room and unplugged his ventilator gave him little choice. Thankfully, the event had shown them that Zach was able to breathe on his own, though he’d struggled at first. They’d been able to take the tube out of his throat, and Scarbrough hoped he’d be talking soon. But the exhaustion from the struggle had plunged him back into sleep.

  “So you didn’t see him?” he asked Ellen and Ned softly as they stood over Zach’s bed.

  “No. We had stepped outside — something crashed down the hall, some drunk guy was yelling. We went to see what was happening.”

  Charles Hoyt, the man in the bed next to Zach, looked exhausted. Yesterday, he’d had stomach surgery for a stab wound. “I saw the guy,” Hoyt said. “Right after the nurse left the room, he came in here real quiet. I was trying to sleep, didn’t even hear him come in. When I woke up, he was standing over Zach’s bed, and the ventilator was off.”

  “What did he look like?” Scarbrough asked.

  “What do you mean, what did he look like?” Ellen asked. “He looked like Mark Green!”

  “Guy must have been crazy,” Charles said. “Walked over and introduced himself.”

  Scarbrough couldn’t make it add up. “Presuming Mark Green wanted to kill Zach to keep him from telling who shot him, why would he leave his name so he could be identified? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He’s insane, like his father,” Ned said. “If you don’t arrest him, we’ll make sure that someone else takes care of him.”

  “Don’t go making threats, Ned. You let me handle this.”

  “Are you going to? Before he really kills Zach?”

  Scarbrough evaded that question and looked at the man in the bed again. “Mr. Hoyt, you never did describe the man you saw.”

  “He was average height, I guess. Five-ten, five-eleven. Light brown hair. Kind of skinny.”

  Scarbrough frowned. Mark was taller than average — six-two or -three. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and he would never be considered skinny.

  He glanced at Ellen and Ned. “That doesn’t sound like Mark.”

  Ellen seemed dumbfounded that he wouldn’t just believe them. “Charles, did you have your glasses on?”

  Charles shook his head. “I was trying to sleep. They were on my bed table.”

  Scarbrou
gh stepped closer to him. He was wearing the glasses now. “So you didn’t see him clearly?”

  The man took his glasses off and handed them to the sheriff. “I’m not that nearsighted, but yeah, the man was a little blurry. But I saw him.”

  Scarbrough looked through the lenses. They were pretty strong. His heart sank. Maybe it was Mark, after all. Maybe he didn’t really know the kid. Maybe everything he thought about Mark was just a facade to cover his true nature.

  He had been wrong before.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DENI BRANNING PACED ACROSS HER LIVING ROOM, THE heat of her anger warming her face even though the fire had died out an hour ago. “Not Mark!” she cried to her father. “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “Zach’s roommate confirmed it. Said Mark told him his name.”

  This was getting worse and worse. Why would Mark go to the hospital after Ellen Emory’s reaction yesterday? Tears burned in her eyes as she tried to sort through it.

  “I tried to go talk to him, Deni, but he isn’t home and hasn’t been seen all day,” Doug said.

  Deni hadn’t heard from Mark since he left yesterday to escape the lynch mob. Where was he? “Dad, I don’t know what happened or why he was there. But I know it’s not like they’re saying. What if something’s happened to him? What if Grantham’s gang caught him?”

  “I think we’d know if that had happened. They would have bragged about it. It’s more likely that he’s been arrested.”

  She didn’t like that idea any better. She grabbed her coat and started for the door. “I have to go look for him.”

  “Deni, what if he comes here? We’re one of his last safe places.”

  She sighed and realized he was right. “I’ll give him an hour,” she said. “Then I’m going out there to find him.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  SCARBROUGH LEFT THE HOSPITAL, A SICK FEELING IN THE pit of his stomach, rivaling the fluid in his lungs. He now had probable cause to arrest Mark Green — three of them, to be exact — and he knew there was no way around it. But for some reason, he couldn’t make it compute in his gut.