If only they could find the body so the family could be notified and have some kind of closure.
She thought of Beth’s fear over the last few days. On Disbursement Day, Beth had begged to stay home. Deni had found her sitting on the window seat looking out at the street when she’d gotten up, while it was still dark. Beth probably hadn’t slept at all that night. Now it felt as if all the anguish Beth had endured had collected in the pit of Deni’s stomach, making it impossible for her to stop crying.
Someone tapped on her shoulder, and she turned to see Craig. He opened his arms, and she fell into them. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m so sorry, baby.”
He wasn’t Mark, and she wasn’t his baby.
But his arms did bring comfort.
FIFTY-SIX
MARK’S SHIFT ENDED, BUT HE HAD NO INTENTIONS OF abandoning his task. Clay Tharpe still hadn’t been found. Mark had gotten word that Beth had survived surgery, and he longed to go to Deni. But minutes counted in a murder investigation. Tharpe was still free, and he probably knew by now that they’d identified him. They couldn’t allow him to escape.
As the new shift came on duty, Mark walked into Wheaton’s office. The sheriff usually worked from his Birmingham office, but since the attack, he’d hung around Crockett. Mark supposed he had a vested interest in the case, since Beth was the daughter of one of his volunteers.
“Sheriff. I’ve decided to stake out the Tharpe house all night.”
“How?” Wheaton asked. “If you have a vehicle there all night, he’ll see you as soon as he turns onto the street.”
“I could camp out in their backyard.”
Wheaton shook his head. “You can’t do that, Mark. It’s private property.”
“Come on, Sheriff — you know he’s the killer.”
“I don’t know any such thing, not for sure. And even if I did, it doesn’t matter if he’s Charles Manson. We can’t go onto that property without an invitation or a search warrant.”
“Then I’ll sleep in somebody else’s yard, somewhere that gives me a good view of the house. They won’t see me.”
“Again, you’ve got legal complications.” Wheaton leaned on his desk, palming his elbows. “Look, you have to do this right or the guy’ll get off on a technicality as soon as he’s arrested.”
“Not as long as Brad Caldwell is the prosecutor.”
“Brad Caldwell is not the judge,” Wheaton said. “And even Brad will have to go by the book so this guy doesn’t walk.”
Mark felt like Wheaton was playing for the opposing team. “Then what do you suggest?”
“Either you sit on the street, which is no good, or you could park at the school grounds a block away.”
“But I won’t have a good view from the school grounds. It’s too far away. And in the dark — ”
“There’s nothing else you can do.”
Mark dropped into the chair across from Wheaton’s desk. “Why can’t I talk to some of the neighbors, get them to let me use their house?”
“First, you’d have to tell them what’s going on, and they’re liable to tip the Tharpes off, especially if they’re good friends. I don’t have enough staff to send somebody with you, and if you’re there alone, what are you gonna do when you see him? You can’t very well arrest him alone and haul him in.”
“Watch me.”
Wheaton pushed his chair back and got up. “Mark, I know you’re highly motivated to find this killer. I am too. But I’m not sure about this.”
“I’ll stay awake all night if I have to,” Mark said. “I’ll walk up and down the street.”
“You’re liable to get shot if somebody thinks you’re a prowler.”
Mark threw his hands up. “I’ll take my chances. Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” Wheaton said. “I’m just being realistic, and I don’t want to see one of my best men get killed.”
“I won’t get killed.” Mark stood up and strode to the door. “I won’t rest until I have this guy in custody.”
“Just be careful, son.”
THAT NIGHT, MARK PARKED HIS PATROL CAR BEHIND THE HIGH school, where no one from Tharpe’s neighborhood would see it. From the corner of the parking lot overlooking the neighborhood, he could see candlelight flickering in Tharpe’s windows. Leaving his patrol car, he ambled up the sidewalk, then lingered at their yard. Through the windows, he saw Analee walking back and forth with the baby, looking forlorn and upset.
If only he could get a warrant to search the house and the yard, to see if he could find any clues leading them to Blake Tomlin.
All of their evidence was circumstantial. No matter how Tharpe’s disappearance after the attack looked, it wasn’t enough to support an arrest. Neither was his previous employment with the Speedy Lube next to the Cracker Barrel. Yes, he fit the description in Beth’s note, but that wouldn’t stand up in court.
Mark walked up and down the street as the night grew darker. His eyes were growing tired and dry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He could use a jug of water. Maybe he should just give up and go to the hospital.
But something told him that Clay would try to return home tonight. Mark had to be here when he did.
The candle went out in the Tharpe house, and Mark figured Analee had given up and gone to bed. He felt sorry for her. After he and Wheaton had interviewed her earlier today, Mark’s gut told him she’d had nothing to do with the attacks. If that was true, she probably felt abandoned by a husband who seemed to have vanished.
He ambled back to the high school parking lot and sat under the roof overhang in front of the door, watching the street and wishing for a pair of night vision goggles. He prayed for Beth, begging God to save the kid who meant so much to all of them, and to help him bring justice to her attacker.
FIFTY-SEVEN
DENI COULDN’T SUPPRESS HER YAWNS AS DARKNESS FELL over the waiting room. She watched with her head resting against the wall as a hospital orderly dragged a ladder in, climbed up, and tightened a lightbulb. Someone at the door flicked the light switch, and a dull yellow glow gave the room a more homey look. It wasn’t enough to read by, but it would keep them from tripping over each other. Most of the visitors had returned home to take care of their own families, leaving only family members of the sick or injured.
Across the room, she heard sniffling as a family waited for word about their young son’s surgery. He’d fallen out of a deer stand and broken his back, and Deni supposed he was in as much trouble as Beth. His family sat stiffly in the uncomfortable chairs. She had done the same earlier today. Now she and her brothers had settled in. Logan had rolled up a pillow and was sleeping on the floor. Jeff sprawled across two chairs, but he wasn’t asleep.
Craig sat next to her, his foot jittering on the floor. The sound made her nervous.
She was thirsty. There were jars of water that someone had brought as a ministry to them. But she didn’t dare drink. To go to the bathroom, they had to go outside to the Porta-Johns lined up behind the building. It just wasn’t worth it.
Chris had come on shift and brought them some tortillas to get them through the night. It was much-needed sustenance.
But Deni needed more.
Where was Mark? She hadn’t seen him since he’d brought her to the hospital earlier. He had sent her messages with some of the deputies who’d come by after their shifts. He was tirelessly hunting the killer, they said. He had taken Beth’s attack personally, and God only knew what he would do when he came face-to-face with her attacker.
Mark’s determination would result in an arrest, Deni was confident. She just hoped he didn’t get killed in the process.
Her heart ached to see him. His presence calmed and comforted her. Even when he’d been the one in trouble, he always considered her comfort first and assured her that things would be all right. She wanted him to talk to Beth. Maybe her sister would respond when she heard Mark’s voice. Beth had always had a special bond with him.
Not s
o with Craig. Though her ex-fiancé had remained by her side for the past few hours, forsaking his important work, her family hadn’t invited him in to see Beth. His presence would add nothing. But Deni appreciated his being here. It was so different from the months following the Pulses, when he’d been indifferent and detached. Part of her drew satisfaction from his focused attention. The other part wished he’d go back to work.
Her father stepped into the doorway of the waiting room. He had aged ten years in the past few hours. Deep lines cut into his face, pulling his features down. His nose and the rims of his eyes were red, breaking her heart. He walked slowly, his hands limp at his sides, and his eyes looked distracted.
Deni got up as he came toward her. “Dad, is there any change?”
He rubbed his mouth. “No, no change.”
“Is Mom alone?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you go keep her company?”
Deni looked down at Craig. “I’ll be back.”
He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. “Send a nurse to get me if you need anything.”
She went into the ICU, changed into a fresh set of scrubs — bleached colorless from the frequent washings — and found her mother sitting beside Beth’s bed, resting, her head beside Beth’s leg.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Kay sat up. Deep half-moon shadows drooped under her eyes. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine.”
Deni went to the bed and leaned over to kiss her sister. They had turned her to her other side since Deni had been in last. The back of Beth’s head seemed more swollen than before. So did her face. Her skin was pallid and thin. Deni swallowed the thought that she looked like a corpse.
Her face twisted as she met her mother’s eyes. “Mom, she’s not getting better, is she?”
Kay just shook her head.
Deni pulled a chair up to the bedside and got close to her sister. “Talk to us, Beth. Please wake up.” When there was no response, she turned back to her mother. “Has she done anything? Moved at all? A toe, even?”
“No, hon. Nothing.”
There was no sign that Beth heard.
Deni’s eyes followed a tube from Beth’s head to a small bulb half-full of red fluid. “Maybe the anesthesia hasn’t worn off. Maybe tomorrow morning she’ll wake up and start chattering.”
The look on her mother’s face told her she doubted it.
Kay forced a smile and changed the subject. “Has Mark come up yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Craig?” Her tone was a little cooler.
“Yeah, he’s here. He’s been great. He has such an important job and he’s just sitting here with me.”
“We need Craig out there,” Kay muttered. “Maybe they could do more for Beth if we had power. And if we had an MRI or a CT scanner, we’d know what we were dealing with, and maybe the doctors could do something.” Kay slid her fingers through her hair. “I never thought I’d have to watch my child suffer because of a stupid power outage.”
“I know.”
Kay began massaging Beth’s leg. Deni scooted her chair down and started rubbing the other one.
Her mother’s voice was hoarse as she spoke. “I should have been more thankful for all the medical marvels when things were working, but I took them so for granted. How dare I ever be depressed about anything when I had it so good? A car that ran, electricity, computers, telephones, drive-thru windows, medicine for anything that ailed. What more could I have wanted? I was spoiled rotten.”
“No, you weren’t, Mom.”
“Yes, I was,” Kay insisted. “Even right after the Pulses began, when we had a pantry full of food that we hadn’t eaten, a freezer full of meat, neighbors to help us and give us advice, a lake and tools and an ax. I felt sorry for myself then. I wondered, ‘Why us?’ ”
Deni thought of protesting again, but her mother just needed to vent.
“And in the winter months, I felt so sorry for us because we were almost out of food and everything was so hard. But we still had our family. We still had everybody healthy. We had fire to keep us warm, and Mark and your father and Jeff to hunt for us and bring us food. We had the solar oven that Mark showed us how to build. We had enough. God provided. Why couldn’t I be more grateful?”
“You were, Mom. We thanked God all the time.”
“Not really. I didn’t. A week ago, even, I felt sorry for myself because I was tired. I didn’t realize the sheer bliss of having my family safe and healthy.”
“Mom, stop beating yourself up. You’re not like that.”
Kay looked fully at her daughter. “You don’t know what goes on in my heart, Deni. My poor-mouthing to God must be a constant insult to him.”
“Mom, God didn’t do this to punish you for not knowing what you had,” Deni whispered. “He isn’t trying to teach you to be grateful by letting Beth’s head get bashed in.”
The words tripped in Deni’s throat, and she couldn’t help the thought that followed. Why had he let Beth’s head get bashed in? God could have prevented it. Tears burned her eyes. “Why didn’t God intervene, Mom?”
Kay cleared her throat, probably searching for the mature thing to say. “He did intervene. We got there in time to save her.”
“But why didn’t he get you there in time to keep it from happening?”
She saw the conflicting emotions passing across her mother’s face. When Kay’s features dissolved into tears, she wished she hadn’t asked.
Kay pulled a handkerchief out of her jeans pocket, wiped her nose. “Later, when we’re able to step back and think this through, we’ll see the ways that he worked. What Satan meant for evil, God meant for good.”
Deni thought of the story of Joseph in Genesis. His brothers had been jealous and sold him into slavery. Later, after years had passed, Joseph had forgiven his brothers with those same words.
But she couldn’t see any grand purpose in the attack on Beth. Clearly, her mother couldn’t, either. Tears had sapped her strength. Deni stopped massaging Beth’s leg and looked around for a glass of water. She saw the one she’d brought to her mother earlier, still sitting on the table beside Beth’s bed. She handed it to Kay. “Mom, you need to drink this.”
Kay smiled and took the glass, bottomed it. “Thank you, honey. You’re giving me strength.”
But her mother didn’t look strong. She looked as though she hung on a fraying cord of hope. And soon it could break entirely.
FIFTY-EIGHT
ANALEE THARPE WISHED SHE HAD GOTTEN MORE INFORMATION from the police when they were there earlier. But the minute they asked for that picture of Clay, she’d known they weren’t just there to ask him a few questions. Why would they want his picture if he hadn’t done anything wrong?
She’d almost told them that Clay had shaved several days ago. He’d worn that goatee as long as she’d known him. His reason — that it was too hot for any hair on his face — seemed lame and ridiculous now. And why had he cut it off away from home? He’d come home with sprigs all over his chin.
Had he gotten rid of it because the law was looking for him?
She had expected him home long before dark. But here it was, eleven o’clock, and no sign of him.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was in trouble. This was more of the same, really. He often came home late. And he’d been acting strange. He’d been jittery every day for the last week.
When she’d found the necklace in his pocket, he’d explained it away. “I saw a girl drop it at the produce stand,” he’d told her. “I picked it up and tried to return it, but she was gone. Trust me. I don’t even know her.”
“Why do you still have it then?” she demanded.
“In case I run into her again. Don’t go getting all jealous, now. If I had a girlfriend I’d be giving her a necklace, not the other way around.”
That hadn’t made her feel better. He’d had a lot of late nights at work for the past few weeks, and some of those times she had checked up on him and found that he wasn’t really at the pl
ant. When confronted, he always had some excuse — that he was sent to work on a car at some government agency, or that he’d been dispatched to run an errand. Funny that no one at work said that when she asked them where he was. She had threatened to leave him and take little Star home to her parents. Those threats always pulled remorse and apologies from him, and he’d straighten up for a while.
But the police wouldn’t have come here for infidelity, would they? They wouldn’t care whether he was faithful to his wife.
It had to be more than that.
She finally went to bed but lay awake staring at the darkness, listening to the sound of her baby’s breathing in the bassinet next to her, wishing Clay would come home.
And then she heard the door. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the rifle as someone came in.
“Analee?”
She heard Clay’s voice as he came through the house, and a combination of relief and anger burst through her. Setting the rifle back down, she ran to see him. “Where have you been? The police were here asking about you. Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through today? The baby was crying all day and I was worried — ”
He set a hand over her mouth to stop her talking. “Analee, listen to me. We don’t have much time.”
FIFTY-NINE
CLAY ALWAYS HAD TROUBLE GETTING HIS WIFE TO LISTEN to him. In fact, it was hard getting a word in. She spoke every thought that came into her mind, fully formed or not. But now she seemed speechless as he removed his hand from her mouth.
“I’m in some trouble,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. He went to the window, looked out, then closed and locked it. “And it’s my own fault. But I need you to listen to me and understand how it happened.”