Dawn's Light (11 page)

Beth Crebbs, Beth Owens, Beth Branning. He repeated them over and over in his mind. He'd look up those three last names when he got home and located his phone book. It would have addresses. Then he'd be able to find her.

twenty-four

T
HE STACK OF FILES ON
M
ARK'S DESK AT THE SHERIFF'S
department seemed to be growing, no matter how fast he worked. A group of inmates they were holding in the jail were being transferred to the county prison today, and their paperwork had to be up-to-date and in order. The job had fallen to Mark and Doug, but Mark feared it wouldn't be done in time.

“I never worked so hard in my life,” Doug muttered as he closed one of the files and tossed it into the transfer box. “Stockbroking was a piece of cake compared to this.”

“Yeah, and it paid better.” The truth was, any pay would be better than the salary they took home here. They had volunteered for the job with no expectation of pay at all. But now that they'd been at it for a few months, the sheriff had put them on the payroll. Sometimes the county could pay them—sometimes it couldn't. Mark had learned to expect nothing, and when a paycheck came, it was like found money. His satisfaction came from knowing that crime wasn't allowed to go unchecked, though there was only so much this tattered group of untrained deputies could do.

Mark finished a file and opened another. “So … has Craig found a place to live yet?”

“No,” Doug said. “He seems to be dragging his feet.”

Mark glanced up at him. “You know why.”

“Yeah, I know. But I don't want to throw him out. He's a new Christian—I don't want him to think he can't count on the body of Christ when he needs us.”

Now Mark couldn't concentrate on the file in front of him. He brought his eyes up to Doug. “You really think that's real? The whole Christianity bit?”

Doug met his eyes. “I've talked to him, and I think it is. But whether he's sincere is between him and God. It's not our job to judge him. It's our job to disciple him.”

“Fine, but do you have to do it with him living in your home? Can't the guy afford a place to stay?”

“He can, and I'm sure he'll find a place soon. I'm still pushing him to rent Eloise's house.”

Mark didn't want him living across the street from the Brannings, either. If Craig had to live in Crockett, let him move across town.

He punched holes in a stack of loose papers, shuffled them so the judge's ruling was on top, followed by the police report and the affidavits signed by witnesses. Another file completed.

His mind wandered back to Craig and his newfound Christianity. Doug was right. He had no business judging the sincerity of another Christian. Salvation didn't turn people into perfect replicas of Christ. Sanctification took time and discipleship.

Maybe he needed to cut the guy some slack. Mark had been kinder to the men who had beaten him half to death. He'd found forgiveness in his heart for them—had even cleaned out their cells and scrubbed their filthy toilets, so they wouldn't have to live like animals during their incarceration. But bitterness toward Craig had taken deep root and was infecting his every thought.

Doug's sermon the other day came back to him.
We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren
. He had heard it through his bitterness, applying it only to Craig, and not to himself. But he was called to love too.

Craig didn't need any toilets cleaned. But as Doug had pointed out, he did need discipleship.

If he extended an olive branch and offered to do a Bible study with Craig, would he accept? Maybe he'd be too proud to back down from a challenge.

It would certainly kill two birds with one stone—he would be able to test the sincerity of Craig's Christianity and, of course, follow the Great Commission to make disciples.

His bitterness seemed to lift as his goal came into sharper focus. Yes, he'd extend the invitation tonight, right after work. Then he'd see what Craig Martin was really made of.

twenty-five

B
ETH HAD NEVER FELT MORE AWKWARD
. I
T WAS WEIRD HAV
ing Benny Latham's mom examining her thoughts, trying to figure out if she was losing it. Maybe she should just save them all the trouble and admit that she was. Thankfully, the counselor had decided to let her mother sit in with them for this first session, so Beth didn't have to do all the talking.

They'd paid for her time with a basket of eggs. Her mother thought it was a fair exchange to keep Beth from going crazy.

Mrs. Latham's voice was honey-smooth, like a kindergarten teacher. Her brown hair was cut in a chin-length bob, and she wasn't old enough to have gray roots. “I want to talk to you, Beth, about some of the upsetting things you've dealt with in the last year. I'd like for you to tell me which ones stand out as the most important ones in your memory.”

Beth didn't know where to start. “Finding my teacher and her husband dead, I guess. Deni disappearing. Little Sarah getting kidnapped. Dad getting shot.”

“Do you have a problem reliving the events in your mind? Playing them over and over?”

“Sometimes. I try not to think about them, though. Sometimes I can't control it. I have dreams about them.”

“You want to tell me about those dreams?”

Beth really didn't want to. She was tired and jumpy. She still wasn't sure she hadn't been followed over here. “Do I have to?”

Mrs. Latham exchanged looks with her mother. “Of course not. Only if you want to.”

“I don't.”

“Okay.” She said it like it was just fine with her. “Beth, sometimes traumatic events can create lasting effects in our bodies. Do you have any physical symptoms? Stomachaches, dizziness, sleeplessness?”

“Headaches,” she said. “I have headaches. I have one right now.”

Mrs. Latham seemed glad. She made a note of it, nodding. Beth looked around the room, trying to focus on the way she'd decorated. Ben was clearly the star of the home. There was an entire wall devoted to his T-ball career, a picture of him with a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam suit on. School portraits from preschool to third grade.

A piano sat against the wall, the primer music open to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” And over the couch was a framed mural that Ben must have painted. Either that, or it was by one of those crazy earless painters who made millions from their colorful blobs creatively slathered on canvas.

Mrs. Latham put the notebook down. “Beth, let's get off the subject of the bad things that happened and just talk about you. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Well, you're a very good playwright, a great director, a great actress. Do you see yourself doing something in the performing arts?”

Beth shrugged. “Not really. I think I'm over that.” From the corner of her eye she saw the shadow of someone walking past the window. She jumped.

Mrs. Latham looked out. “That's just my husband, Beth. Did he startle you?”

Her heart was racing. “No. I'm okay.”

“She's very jumpy,” Kay said. “Lots of things have been startling her lately.”

Mrs. Latham studied her. Beth imagined her turning pages in the textbook of her mind. “Page 133, ‘Patient Jumping Out of Skin.’ ”

“Beth, are you expecting something bad to happen?”

Beth brought her gaze back to the counselor. “Maybe.”

“Tell me about that.”

She'd said too much. “Bad things do happen a lot.”

“But aren't you excited that the Pulses have ended? Don't you look forward to having electricity again? Technology? TV?”

She wished they could pull the window shades. Perspiration was breaking out on her face, prickling under her arms. “Yeah, I guess. If they ever do happen. But that's a long way off.”

She felt bad for the counselor. She was probably frustrating her. But she feared if she spoke too much, she'd start crying. And then she couldn't stop.

“I like your haircut,” Mrs. Latham said. “It's pretty. It looks nice on your face.”

Beth touched her hair. “Thank you.”

“Do you like it?”

She hated it, almost as much as she hated the reason for it. “Not really. It'll grow back.”

“Why'd you cut it?”

She looked at her mother. Had she discussed this with Mrs. Latham beforehand? Her mother clearly thought it was a symptom of her going off the deep end. She wondered if Mrs. Latham's textbook had a chapter for random haircuts.

“It was hot,” she said. “It always looked stringy and dirty.” There. That sounded normal, didn't it? Did she sense in her words that she was trying to disguise herself so a killer couldn't find her? Maybe Mrs. Latham wasn't that tuned in to the human mind.

Mrs. Latham finally sent her outside to wait for her mother. Beth figured she was boring her to death. She sat in the shadows of the garage, watching the street for the killer who might be looking for her, trying to figure out which house she lived in. By now, he may already know.

Maybe she should go to the police. Maybe if she did, they could find the killer and lock him up before he came for her. Then again, maybe he hadn't come because he was a man of his word. A killer with a conscience. He'd said that he would only kill her and her family
if
she talked.

Her silence could be saving her life and the lives of those she loved.

And no amount of counseling could change that.

I
NSIDE THE
L
ATHAMS' LIVING ROOM
, K
AY WIPED TEARS
. “I'
M
sorry she wasn't more forthcoming. I know you didn't get much from her.”

Anne looked at her notes. “Actually, I got more than you think. Kay, I think your concerns about post-traumatic stress disorder are well-founded. Beth is showing several of the symptoms.”

“She is?”

“Yes. She has physical symptoms, a sense of gloom, she's unable to think about the future because she seems to have the sense that she won't be here. The dreams she has of these traumatic events, her inability to concentrate or focus. Her jumpiness, as if she's living in a state of fear. Lack of interest in the things she used to be interested in. Detachment from the excitement over the Pulses ending.”

“So what can we do to help her?”

Anne closed her file. “Kay, this is considered an anxiety disorder, so there are some medications that might help her. Dr. Morton could take my recommendation and put her on something if we decide that's the best approach. But first, I'd like to have a few more sessions with her alone. See if I can get her to talk about the things that have traumatized her, and maybe we can retrain her thinking so that she can cope with these things. Meanwhile, just reinforce her confidence in her skills and her talents, invite her friends over to get her mind off these events, try to get her to loosen up and have fun.”

“Okay, I'll try.”

“And try to get her focused on the future. On the rebuilding and the good things she has to look forward to.”

Kay wasn't quite satisfied. “What about her cutting her hair? Would PTSD make her do that?”

“It could, though I can't quite put together why she did that yet. Maybe she just wanted a change.”

“Not like that. Not my prissy little Beth. To just chop it off like that, without any warning …”

Anne thought that over. “It is disturbing. I'll keep trying to get to the bottom of it. But PTSD does sometimes cause strange behaviors.” She looked at her calendar. “Why don't we get together next week?”

Kay made the appointment, then walked outside, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Did Beth really need counseling? Did she need medication? Or simply more prayer? Maybe she just needed for Kay to spend more time with her.

The idea of taking a job with the recovery team fled from her mind. No, Beth needed her. And so did Logan and Jeff.

She found Beth sitting in the garage, staring out at the street. The dismal look on her pale face only reinforced what Anne Latham had said.

Beth needed help. And Kay would do whatever it took to get it for her.

twenty-six

D
OUG HAD RESISTED
K
AY'S DESIRE TO USE SOME OF THEIR
precious cash to buy instant coffee, but she had won, and as he sipped it at the kitchen table early Monday morning, he remembered what a luxury it was. He had to sip it black, since he'd put his foot down about buying sugar, but the scent and taste and warmth on his tongue brought back memories of life before the outage. Would life really go back to normal?

Sleep was a rarity when he worked the night shift at the sheriff's department, then got up to chop wood, hunt, and work in the garden that would help feed them for the next few months. And then there were his sermons that had to be composed, and people in his church who needed attention and care. In his spare time, he worked on converting the engine in his Expedition, anxious to get it running again when he had fuel to put in it. There was so much to be done and not enough time.

It was five a.m., and no one was up yet, so he sat under the light of an oil lamp, trying to formulate what he was going to say to Craig about finding a place to live. The young man had made no effort to find a place yet.

Eloise's house sat empty, completely furnished. When she died, her son had encouraged Doug to rent it out if he wanted. The neighborhood did use her backyard for raising rabbits, and someone had stolen siding off of the back of her house, since lumber was so hard to come by. But other than dust and cobwebs, the interior of the house was in good shape. He would have to be firm with Craig and insist that he walk over with him to look at it.

He heard someone coming down the stairs and looked up to see Craig, fully dressed and ready for work, carrying a big bag on his shoulder.

“You're up early.”

Craig's eyes looked sleepy. “Yeah, I wanted to be ready for my first day of work today. There's an awful lot to do.” He looked around the kitchen. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Yeah, want some?” Doug got up and got the pot he had boiled over a fire on the grill outside. He got Craig a cup and filled it.