Dawn's Light (21 page)

“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.”

M
ORGAN UNLOCKED THE
S
PEEDY
L
UBE FOR THEM, AND THEY
went inside.

Careful not to disturb anything that might turn out to be evidence, Mark stepped into the car 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.

fifty-one

T
HE
S
URGICAL
I
NTENSIVE
C
ARE WAITING ROOM, WHERE THE
Brannings were told to wait for news of Beth, was no place for a shell-shocked family. Because it wasn't a priority area of the hospital, the generator-powered electricity wasn't on in this room. That was fine with Kay, since she would rather they use all their resources in the operating room right now. But the dismal waiting room only had light from one corner window. She supposed it was a good thing that the room didn't get more sun, though, because the heat was already stifling. More sunlight would make it even worse.

Oh, for air conditioning.

Doug paced the room, wearing a set of green scrubs that a kind nurse had found for him. His bloody clothes were wadded in a bag at her feet.

The waiting room was full of others who'd been through the wringer. Vinyl recliners that made Kay's skin sweat were the only beds some of them had known in days. People who looked in bad need of a bath sat with numb expressions, staring into the air, waiting for word of their loved ones. Some of them probably hadn't eaten in days. Waiflike, some drifted around the waiting room, living for the few minutes every few hours that they could see their loved ones.

She begged God not to put Beth in the ICU, unless they let Kay stay with her. She couldn't stand the thought of putting her child's life in the hands of overworked and understaffed medical personnel, and the thought of Beth waking up alone was almost more than she could stand.

“Kay, I came as soon as I heard!”

Judith and Brad Caldwell rustled into the waiting room. Judith's face shone with perspiration, and her green scrubs were ringed with sweat, like all the others who worked here.

Brad wore a golf shirt and dress pants. Since he'd been appointed Crockett's prosecutor to replace the attorney who'd quit, he'd had to start wearing his nicer clothes. It was a far cry from the uniform he'd worn before, when he worked as a volunteer deputy. They'd all been glad to have him using his attorney's skills again.

Kay and Doug hugged them both.

“Judith, can you find out anything for us?”

“I already did. She's still in surgery. But she's got the best neurosurgeon we have working on her. He came from University Hospital. We got him when this hospital opened because his parents live in Crockett. He decided to move his family here so they could be closer to them.”

“Well, that's a blessing.”

“Girl, you have no idea.”

Brad sat down near where Kay was standing. “Kay, I know you've had a rough day, but I need you to tell me what happened.”

Kay sat and launched weakly into the story again. Her voice was hoarse from screaming at the park, but she pressed on, giving as many details as she could.

When she finished, Brad looked as angry as Doug. “Well, it's in the sheriff's department's hands now.”

“Wrong,” Judith said. “It's in God's hands.”

Brad wasn't a believer. As many times as Doug and Kay had shared their faith with him, he'd remained uninterested in God. He encouraged his family to go to church, but he rarely joined them.

“Whoever's hands it's in,” he said, “when they find this dude and put him in
my
hands, you better believe he's going down.”

Judith looked at Kay. “You need to get somewhere where you can pray. I know just the place.”

“I'd love that,” Kay said.

Judith sprang up. “Get your stuff and follow me.”

They all gathered their things and trailed Judith through the halls.

“There's a conference room where you can sit in more comfortable chairs and have a little privacy. I can't promise we'll have it all day, but it's empty now.”

“Thank goodness somebody knows their way around this place,” Doug said. “I'd never even been in it until today.”

The hospital had only opened a month before, in response to the growing number of patients from Crockett who were having to travel long distances to get to the one open hospital in Birmingham. The government had given Crockett a grant to buy this old abandoned nursing home and have it converted into a hospital. It had taken months for it to be ready, but now that it was, the doctors around town who practiced from their homes had moved to the hospital.

Judith had worked for Derek Morton in their neighborhood until he'd moved, and then she'd gotten hired on here too. This was also where Chris worked.

They followed Judith into the conference room. It was dark, but there was an oil lamp in the corner of the room. Judith lit it and set it in the center of the table.

The glow was welcoming. Everyone sat down around the table, Jeff and Logan side by side, Deni and Kay opposite them.

Doug sat on the end. “Are you sure they'll know where to find us when the surgery's over?”

“Don't worry,” Judith said. “I'm going to tell them where you are right now.”

Brad lingered at the door. “You guys need anything?”

Kay shook her head. “No, thank you, Brad.”

“You can come pray with us,” Doug suggested.

Kay expected some cryptic remark, but Brad just shook his head. “No, I'll leave you guys alone.”

They stepped out of the room, and Kay looked at Doug. His eyes were full of tears, and his lips trembled at the corners. He closed his eyes and took his wife's and son's hands. They joined hands around the table. Lowering his head, he whispered, “Lord, this room is a blessing. Thank you for this kindness.”

He sank in emotion, but kept praying, lifting Beth up to the throne of heaven, laying her in the arms of God, begging him for healing. Even Logan, who usually prayed in halting one-sentence prayers, talked openly to God, appealing to the Creator of the universe to pull Beth from the edge of death.

fifty-two

C
LAY
T
HARPE'S HOUSE DIDN'T LOOK LIKE THE HOME OF A
killer.

He lived in a neighborhood that Mark had helped build a couple of years ago, when he'd worked in construction. They were attractive little starter homes, built for families with young children. The subdivision was well kept. While most of the homeowners had made vegetable gardens out of their front lawns, Tharpe still had grass.

Mark supposed Tharpe's job at the conversion plant gave him enough cash to buy food. It was difficult for a man with one of the few full-time jobs available these days to find time to keep a garden.

The sheriff's department van had drawn a lot of stares as Mark and Wheaton drove up the street and pulled into the Tharpes' driveway. By the time they got to the door, a woman had already stepped out, holding a baby girl on her hip. She met them in the yard.

“I heard your van coming. What's wrong?” she asked as they got out of the van. “Has my husband been in an accident?”

“No accident,” Mark said. “Are you Mrs. Tharpe?”

“Yes.” She touched her chest. “Thank goodness. Every time I see a sheriff's van turn into this neighborhood, I'm just absolutely certain that Clay has been hurt. You know, people think all they do at the conversion plant is work on engines, but there's a million things that can go wrong. Just last week Fred Tipton cut his hand off when he got it stuck in some kind of contraption he was working on, and Jerome Novak had severe burns when something he was working on caught fire.” She extended her hand. “My name is Analee, by the way. And why are you here?”

She was a talker, Mark thought. That could work in their favor.

Wheaton spoke first. “Mrs. Tharpe, we came to ask you a few questions about your husband. I assume from what you've been saying that he's not home.”

“That's right,” she said. “He's at work. What's this about?”

“You mind if we go inside?”

She looked around at the neighbors who were watching from porches and sidewalks. “Sure, come on in.”

Though they didn't have a search warrant for the house, being invited in at least gave them the chance to look around to see if there was anything lying out that might connect Clay Tharpe to Beth, or even the missing man, Blake Tomlin. The house was spotless. It looked like the Tharpes were neat freaks.

Mark saw a picture of a man on an end table—goatee and all. His stomach burned.

“So what's this about?” she asked, motioning them to the couch.

Wheaton sat, but Mark kept standing. “Could you tell us if you've seen your husband today?” the sheriff asked.

“Of course, I saw him this morning. I made him breakfast before he went to work.”

“What about later on today? Say, around lunchtime.”

“He didn't come home for lunch today. Occasionally he does, but a lot of times he takes his lunch with him. They've got so much work there he can't get away. Wouldn't be so bad if we could have some of the fruit of his labors. I'd kill for a running car again. I couldn't believe it when I heard the Pulses had stopped, and I started thinking that maybe that would happen soon. Now that we have the cash we need we can put it into a car as soon as it's available. That is if they're cheap enough, but they'd have to be, wouldn't they? Otherwise how could anyone afford one?”

It was hard getting a word in, but Wheaton tried again. “So he didn't come home for lunch today,” he repeated. “Mrs. Tharpe, which conversion plant does your husband work at?”

She put the baby in her infant seat. “He works at the one on Alabaster Street in Crockett.”

That helped. There were four in the Birmingham area, and Mark was glad they wouldn't have to drive a long way to interview the man.

“How long does your husband usually take off for lunch?” Wheaton asked her.

“If he comes home he usually has an hour, but like I said, most of the time he just eats while he's working.”