Dawn's Light

  The building that had once been Majestic Nursing Home was a three-story, L-shaped building, its front door in the corner of the L. She turned into the half-circle driveway at the door. The siren still blared, and she hoped it would draw someone out to help them.

  Doug didn’t wait. He opened the car door, slipped his arm back under Beth’s legs, and got out. Kay ran beside him.

  People were everywhere, sitting on benches outside the doors. Horses and carriages lined the parking lot, and a long bike rack sat on the grass, holding dozens of bicycles. Kay ran ahead and threw open the doors. As he brought Beth in, Kay yelled out, “Help! Someone, please help!”

  The waiting room was full of the sick and injured, but none was as near to death as Beth. The nurse at the receptionist desk stood up, looking across the counter at the blood on Doug’s shirt.

  “We’ve got a severe head injury! Patient’s not breathing — ” Doug yelled, with all the authority of a police officer. “A blunt force injury with possible skull fractures, strangulation — ”

  Fully engaged, the nurse abandoned her post and called to the back for help, then ran around the desk.

  The room seemed to close in on Kay, and she felt herself growing weak, sick. She fought the nausea rising inside her. Someone brought a gurney, but Doug couldn’t let her go. “Her skull is smashed flat. I’m afraid to lay her down. It might do more damage.”

  Kay felt dizzy. She was going to faint. She went to a wall, tried to steady herself. The voices seemed to merge in her head, too many of them all at once. Pulling herself from her fog, she saw the doctor take Beth from Doug’s arms, saw them rush her back through double doors . . . away from them.

  Doug stood with empty arms, his shirt and the front of his pants covered with Beth’s blood.

  “Where — where are they . . . taking her?”

  “To surgery, they said.” Doug just stood there, shock bleaching the color from his face. “They can’t do X-rays, CT scans. How will they save her?”

  Kay took a step toward him. The fog closed in as she hit the floor.

  FORTY-NINE

  THE BURGLARY REPORT AT CAMPORT AND SONS WELDING Company had kept Mark busy for the last hour. In broad daylight, while business thrived inside, someone took the bike rack apart and stole all the bikes lined up there.

  He’d spent the last hour trying to calm down the angry victims who had to walk home, and filling out the report, including a description of the man with the horse and wagon who’d been seen on the street. Then Mark had driven around trying to find that wagon, but the perpetrator was long gone.

  He went back to the station to see if there was anything new he should respond to. Maybe they’d have radios soon, so they could get calls in the field and respond more quickly. Telephones too, though wishing for them seemed almost as futile as wishing for fairies right now.

  The glass doors of the Sheriff’s Department were open in an attempt to keep air circulating in the hot, musty building, but the temperature outside was pushing ninety. He wasn’t sure it helped.

  He looked around at the empty squad room. Usually there were three or four deputies here writing out reports or running things by the sheriff or the chief deputy. Something must have happened to send them all out at once.

  A noise clattered in the small kitchen, so he went to the door and leaned in. Harry Vickers, who’d also been recruited as a volunteer, was dipping water into cups for the prisoners. “Hey, Harry. Where is everybody?”

  Harry glanced back and saw him, then turned fully around. “You haven’t heard?”

  “No, heard what?”

  “Deni’s little sister, Beth, was attacked.”

  His jaw fell. “What? Is she okay?”

  “Apparently not,” Harry said. “They took her to the hospital. Sheriff Wheaton heard the siren and found them there. She’s got a head injury, he said. They took her straight to surgery.”

  Mark couldn’t believe no one had found him to tell him. “How long ago was this?”

  “An hour, maybe less.”

  “Who found her?”

  Harry told him all he knew — that Doug and Kay learned of the murders through some note Beth left, that they’d gone to Magnolia Park and found her unconscious and bleeding.

  This couldn’t be. Not Beth.

  Mark’s heart pounded in his ears. “Does Deni know?”

  “I doubt it, unless her parents sent someone to tell her. Wheaton’s first priority was to go to the crime scene and try to catch the perpetrator. He told me to send every deputy that came in straight there.”

  “I’ve got to tell her. She and her brothers should know.” He started for the door. “If Wheaton comes back, tell him I’ll be at the park soon.”

  He ran down the steps, almost slipping on the third from the bottom. In seconds he was in his car, pulling out without looking for anyone in his way. He drove to the recovery team’s building, hoping to find her there. Leaving his car idling in the parking lot, he ran in.

  Thankfully, she was in the front area, talking to some applicants. “Deni, come with me. Beth’s been hurt.”

  Deni dropped her clipboard and followed him out without telling anyone she was leaving. “What happened?” she asked as she got into the car.

  He ran through the story as he’d heard it.

  “Take me to the hospital,” she said as tears rushed to her eyes.

  “First let’s get Jeff and Logan. They’ll want to be there too.”

  Deni couldn’t speak. She only nodded. Mark turned on his flashing lights and headed for the Brannings’.

  WHEN THEY PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY, DENI BOLTED OUT AND burst into the house. “Jeff! Logan!”

  Logan came out of the great room. “What?”

  “Beth’s been hurt. She’s in the hospital. We have to go.”

  Logan just stood there. “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car. Where’s Jeff?”

  “Out back.”

  Deni threw open the door and saw Jeff in the chicken coup, soaked from the rain. “Jeff, Beth was attacked. She’s hurt really bad!”

  Jeff came out and locked the coup. “Attacked? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Come on, we have to get to the hospital.”

  She went through the few details she knew as they rushed to the car. As soon as the car doors slammed shut, Mark pulled out, his lights still flashing.

  “Did you see her, Mark?” Jeff asked, leaning up on the seat.

  “No. I don’t even know the details.”

  “Where was she injured?”

  “Her head, I think.”

  “Her head?” Worry cut deep between Jeff’s brows. “Could she die?”

  Deni looked back. “I don’t know.” But she did know. A head wound was serious. Beth could be dead already, for all they knew. And if she was living, how could they help her without X-rays and other technology?

  She glanced at Logan, who sat quietly in the back. She could see from his pale expression that his mind was trying to grasp such a tragedy.

  “She’ll be all right, guys.” Mark reached across the seat and held her hand for a moment. “We just have to pray.”

  Deni figured there was no time to waste, so she led her brothers in prayer for their sister as Mark’s patrol car flew through town.

  When they reached the hospital, they tumbled out of the car and hurried inside. Deni ran to the desk, cutting in front of those who stood in line. “Please,” she cried to the nurse. “My sister was brought in — Beth Branning.”

  The nurse got a sorrowful look on her face. “Yes, she’s in surgery.”

  That meant she was alive. Relief flooded through Deni. “Do you know where my parents are?”

  The nurse looked as if there was something she wasn’t telling. “Your mother wasn’t feeling well so she was taken to exam room four.”

  Now her mother was sick? “What do you mean she wasn’t feeling well?”

  “She passed out.”

&nb
sp; Deni just stared at her. Was Beth’s condition that bad? “Can we go back?”

  “Of course.” She handed the next person in line a form to fill out, then came around the desk. “It’s just through these doors.”

  Deni turned to check on her brothers and saw that Mark had parked the car and come inside. The group followed the nurse through the doors and down a corridor. Deni saw the “Exam Room 4” sign sticking out from the wall.

  “They’re right in there.” The nurse pointed, and Deni pushed past her and ran to the room.

  She came to the door and saw her mother sitting on a gurney. “Mom!” All her emotion rushed up in her throat and she burst into tears. “What’s going on?”

  Before her mother could answer, she saw her dad getting up from a chair.

  He was covered in blood.

  FIFTY

  MARK LEFT THE HOSPITAL AS SOON AS HE GOT THE WHOLE story from Doug and Kay. He raced to Magnolia Park, where he found the other deputies. The attacker was long gone, and most of the evidence had been washed away by the rain. There were, however, men’s footprints with an unusual tread, and small trenches where Beth had been dragged from the swing. There were clear signs of a struggle. Neighbors had been canvassed, but none of them had seen a thing.

  When Mark saw the letter Beth had written, he had murder on his mind. Whoever did this to Beth was going to suffer like she was suffering. He wouldn’t rest until that happened.

  When they felt they could learn no more from the scene of the crime, he and the sheriff went to search the yard behind Cracker Barrel where Beth’s letter said Blake Tomlin and the other guy had been murdered. They found little more than discarded trash. But there was a Speedy Lube and gas station next door, closed since the Pulses began. Maybe there was someone there who’d witnessed what Beth had.

  Mark crossed the Cracker Barrel property and knocked on the side door. No one seemed to be there. He tested the knob — locked.

  He cupped his hands around his eyes and looked through the dusty window. On a table near the door, he saw a box of ammunition. No way anyone would leave it lying around, right inside a window where it could be seen. Ammo was too hard to come by. Maybe the killer had been here and feared going back after committing his crimes.

  “I got something!” he yelled. “Over here!”

  Sheriff Wheaton rushed over. “What is it?”

  He pointed to the box of .38 caliber cartridges on the table.

  “Looks like the killer was waiting for his victims inside here.” He glanced at the door and windows. “No sign of breaking and entering.”

  Wheaton called the other deputies over. “Dust the doorknob for prints.”

  Without the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a computerized database of fingerprints from all over the country, they would need to have a suspect to match them to. But it was a lead. Maybe they’d be able to locate the owner of the building. It was possible that he was the perpetrator. At times like this, Mark wished he had more training. Because of the way he’d been pressed into service back in February, he’d never had time for any real training, other than a few crash courses at night and some books on policies and procedures. Now he wished there was some kind of field manual for solving attacks on innocent girls.

  But no one would have more passion about solving this case than he had. If it was the last thing he did, he would find Beth’s attacker and make sure he paid for what he’d done to his little friend.

  They located the name of the owner of the Speedy Lube on the business license framed on the wall, then found an old phone book on top of a dusty filing cabinet and got his address. “Graham Morgan,” Wheaton said. “Let’s go see if Mr. Morgan fits the attacker’s description.”

  MARK’S HEART RACED AS THEY DROVE TO TRAVIS ROAD, WHERE the owner of the Speedy Lube lived. Wheaton was quiet as he drove, and Mark took the time to pray for Beth. They’d had no time to go by the hospital to get word on her condition. Was she out of surgery yet, or was this one of those all-day things as they tried to piece her skull back together?

  He pleaded with God to save her. Memories of conversations he’d had with her about death and dying flooded his mind. She’d told him once that she was waiting for the Next Terrible Thing to happen. She’d been obsessed with the fear that she’d be the victim of some violent crime. He’d tried to calm her down, to remind her that God protected those who walked with him.

  Why hadn’t God protected her? She’d been witness firsthand to the violent trials Mark had experienced in his own life. Maybe Christians were doing a disservice to people, leading them to believe that God never allowed anything bad to happen to his children. It was a nice thought, but reality didn’t bear it out. And when it didn’t, how many fell away from the faith?

  He should have counseled Beth better. He should have taken more time to explain things to her, instead of blowing it off and trying to make her feel better.

  Now, what she feared worst had happened.

  Please, God, heal her. Reach down and touch her head. Stop the bleeding in her brain. Stop the swelling. Heal her and help her to rise up and walk. Let this be something that strengthens our faith, instead of straining it.

  The Morgan house was out in the country. Two cars were parked in the dirt driveway, covered with a layer of yellow pollen. The hoods were open and the engines had been removed. Morgan was probably trying to convert them himself.

  “If he’s a mechanic, he might be working for the government,” Wheaton said. “We’ll be lucky if we catch him at home.”

  Mark wished they’d taken time to get an arrest warrant. As it stood, this was simply a fact-finding mission.

  But if the guy had a goatee, as Beth had described, Mark wasn’t sure he could restrain himself. Then again, a guilty man would have shaved.

  He kept his hand near his holster, in case he needed to draw his weapon. Wheaton knocked on the door.

  “They’re here!” It was the sound of a teenaged girl. Mark heard giggling behind her.

  The door flew open. Four girls of about fifteen stood there. Their expressions crashed at the sight of them.

  “Oh. We thought you were . . . someone else.”

  Wheaton introduced himself. “We’re looking for Graham Morgan,” he said.

  “My dad,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

  They watched from the porch as the girl ran to the back door and called for her dad in the backyard. The other girls began tittering behind her. From the giggling conversation, Mark gathered that they’d been expecting some boys.

  The back door opened and a man with a full head of red hair, sunburned skin, and a full beard came in. He didn’t appear worried or uneasy. “Come in, officers. What can I do for you?”

  Inviting them in was a good sign, Mark thought. Most criminals preferred to do their answering at the door. And there hadn’t been time for him to grow the beard — so he didn’t fit the description.

  “Are you the owner of the Speedy Lube and Stop and Go on Mulholland Drive?”

  “Such as it is. Haven’t been able to get a drop of fuel in a year, and the conversion plants are doing all the oil changes. Don’t know if I’ll ever get her open again.”

  That was more than they wanted to know. Mark’s impatience tightened his chest.

  “We’re investigating an incident that happened behind the Cracker Barrel a couple of weeks ago. We’d like to search your building. We were hoping you’d come open it for us.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “We have reason to believe the perpetrator may have been hiding inside. We saw ammunition on the table.”

  “Did somebody break in?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. May have been somebody you know.”

  Morgan got his keys and started for the van. “Well, let’s get to the bottom of this.”

  MORGAN UNLOCKED THE SPEEDY LUBE FOR THEM, AND THEY went inside.

  Careful not to disturb anything that might turn out to be evidence, Mark stepped into the ca
r bay with the hydraulic lifts in the floor. Against the wall were dirty, empty shelves that had once probably held motor oil and air filters. The conversion plant had no doubt purchased all of Morgan’s supplies.

  Mark looked around on the oil-stained floor. There were some footprints. Could any of them belong to the killer? They had taken a cast of the footsteps near where Beth had been beaten. He remembered the tread on the killer’s shoes — shaped like lightning bolts. The footprints he saw looked like a match.

  They found the ammunition box they’d seen through the window. “Is this yours?” Wheaton asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “That’s not even the caliber I use.”

  “Can you tell us who has access to your place?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I had two assistant managers who have keys. But they’d have had no reason to be here.”

  “We’ll need the names and addresses of those men,” Wheaton said.

  “Sure,” Morgan said. “Clay Tharpe and J. W. Cole. But they’re nice guys. Family men, both of them. We’ve been buddies for a couple of years. They wouldn’t do anything like that.” He led them into his small office, found a Rolodex. “Here are their addresses.”

  Mark took the cards. The Tharpe address was in a neighborhood only a block away from the Speedy Lube.

  “One more thing,” Wheaton said as he jotted the addresses down. “Either of those guys have facial hair?”

  “Tharpe has a goatee.”

  Bingo. Mark looked at Wheaton, and Wheaton nodded.

  “Who’s the victim, anyway?”

  “We can’t really discuss it.”

  The man swallowed and rubbed his sunburned face again. “Look, I don’t know what happened here, but I can tell you that neither Clay nor J. W. would hurt a flea. Just wouldn’t happen. I know them too well. They’re not perfect, neither of them, but they’re not violent men.”

  “Well, if they’re innocent, they have nothing to worry about,” Mark said.

  But if one of them was guilty, Mark might just give him what he had given Beth.