Dawn's Light (27 page)

“Did the guys at work have anything to offer?”

“Oh, yeah. They were so ticked about him stealing the car that they were ready to spill their guts. Couple of them said that a few months ago he'd put in for a transfer to one of the Huntsville plants. Ned Emory confirmed that, but he didn't agree to the transfer.”

Mark took in the other notes on the board. Under “Huntsville In-Laws,” Wheaton had written, “Infidelity.” Mark pointed to it. “What's this about?”

Wheaton crossed his arms. “One of his coworkers told me that Mr. Tharpe wasn't always faithful to his wife. He has a weakness for pretty women. And he has a gambling addiction. The same guy was Tharpe's gambling buddy. Said that before the Pulses Tharpe lost their life savings. He kept it from his wife.”

How could that fit into the murder and assault? Was the robbery of Blake Tomlin to make up for the lost money? Maybe that was his motive. “Can we go to Huntsville and bring him back?”

“Brad Caldwell gave us a green light for the arrest after he heard about Tharpe assaulting you. The prosecutor wants the guy locked up as much as we do.”

“Did anybody have the address of the parents in Huntsville?”

“Yep,” Wheaton said. “Turns out their next-door neighbor had it from a couple of years ago when they'd gone home for a week. Left the phone number and address in case of emergency.”

“What are we waiting for?” Mark asked. “Let's go to Huntsville.”

sixty-six

T
HE OLD VAN WAS IN SERIOUS NEED OF A FRONT-END ALIGN
ment, and whenever they increased their speed over fifty miles an hour, the steering wheel shook and shimmied. It was a gas guzzler and got about ten miles to a gallon, less if they were in town. But they had brought along another tank of gas that they hoped would get them there and back without having to stop and search for another source.

It took them two and a half hours to get to Huntsville—
much too long as far as Mark was concerned—but Wheaton didn't appreciate backseat driving. Billy London rode shotgun, constantly fidgeting and glancing at the speedometer. The horses and wagons and bicycle trailers on the highway continually got in their way.

After what seemed an eternity, they got to the Huntsville exit. Pulling off into the parking lot of a closed convenience store, they tried to figure out where they were. After a few minutes, they had the place mapped out and were on their way to Clay Tharpe's in-laws.

They drove to the neighborhood, aware that once they turned onto the street their engine would alert every resident there.

Wheaton decided to park on the next block over. “He's not gonna come without a fight, so let's move quietly and cover the doors and windows before we let them know we're here. Once we've apprehended him, we can go back for the van.”

They locked the van, then took off on foot to the next street over. Drawing their weapons, they fanned out around the house. While Sheriff Wheaton and London went to the door, Mark covered the back, watching the windows and doors, expecting Tharpe to make a quick exit. He heard the pounding on the door, heard Sheriff Wheaton calling out “Po-lice!”

Suddenly the back door flew open, and Tharpe lunged out.

“Hold it right there!”

Tharpe froze.

“Hands behind your head!”

Tharpe did as he was told, but his eyes shifted from side to side, looking for escape. “I want my lawyer!” he shouted. “I'll have you arrested for stalking. First, my house, now this!”

Keeping the barrel of his Glock aimed between Tharpe's eyes, Mark moved closer. “On the ground!”

Tharpe knelt, hands still behind his head. “Look, I know you're chapped about the two-by-four, but you scared me. It was self-defense.”

Mark pulled his handcuffs off his belt and got behind Tharpe. He pressed the barrel of his pistol against Tharpe's head and snapped a cuff onto one wrist. Before he could get the second one on, Tharpe swung around suddenly and grabbed the gun.

Rage shot through Mark's head, pounding in his temples, as he struggled to overpower him. Tharpe's grip around Mark's wrist was strong—the same grip that had almost killed Beth. Mark threw the weight of his body into loosening Tharpe's grip. Inches from his was the face Beth had seen before she fell unconscious.

Vengeance exploded in Mark's brain, and he slammed his head into Tharpe's face. Pain blasted through his busted forehead, but he felt Tharpe's nose crunch. The killer let the gun go and brought his hands to his face. Mark knocked him to the ground and wrestled the other cuff on. Tharpe screamed like a little girl.

His wife came out wailing, her shocked parents behind her. “He didn't do anything! Please—”

Mark jerked the man to his feet as Wheaton and London came around the house.

“Let him go!” Analee cried. “We've got a baby! He'll pay the money back.”

Mark was breathless as he recited Tharpe's Miranda rights. When he finished, he said through his teeth, “You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Beth Branning, assault of a police officer, evading arrest, and grand theft auto, just for starters.” Mark wanted to add that he was charged with the murder of Blake Tomlin and some other unnamed person that Beth mentioned in her note, but they didn't have the bodies yet. Brad had sent instructions to haul him in on the other charges first.

“I was just trying to save my family,” Clay said. “I stole the car but I was going to bring it back. I wasn't going to keep it. I didn't attempt to murder anybody. I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“There's a little girl dying in the hospital.”

Clay spat at him. Mark grabbed his face in his hands. “I'd kill you with my bare hands,” he said through his teeth, “but instead I'll find the bodies of the two men she saw you murder and let the state do it for me.”

“You're not going to find anything!”

“Watch me,” Mark said. “We found you, didn't we?”

London got the van, and Mark took pleasure in throwing Tharpe in, then climbing in next to him to make sure he didn't go anywhere. His wife insisted on coming with them. She said tearful good-byes to her worried parents, then bringing the sleeping baby, she got into the van.

Wheaton turned around and pointed at her. “You can ride as far as we can get without you saying a word.”

Analee just swallowed. “I have the right to free speech. I'm still an American, you know. I think you should know that my husband is innocent. He couldn't kill anyone!”

Wheaton almost came over the seat. “What did I tell you?”

“
Okay
,” she said. “Not another word.”

They were all silent as they drove back to Crockett. It wasn't until they arrived that Mark unclenched his fists. Relief shot through him as he got Tharpe behind bars and slammed the door.

Then he stormed back to the front. “Sheriff, we have to search his house and yard. There are two bodies we haven't found yet.”

“We don't even know that for sure,” Wheaton said.

“Beth had no reason to lie about it, and she wrote it in that note. He moved the bodies somewhere. I say we start with his yard, since it isn't that far from the Cracker Barrel. His yard is fenced in. He could have buried them without being seen.”

He'd forgotten that Analee was sitting across the room. She got up and shoved her chin into the air. “I
welcome
you to search my yard,” she said. “There's no one buried there. My husband is not a killer.”

“Fine, then we don't need a warrant. Let's go,” he said to the sheriff.

Wheaton tagged several of the men. “Come on, we've got work to do.”

sixty-seven

T
HE THARPES' BACKYARD WAS PLOWED AND FILLED WITH
a vegetable garden—which surprised Mark, since the front yard wasn't plowed. Rows of cabbage, carrots, and radishes filled the yard in healthy soil. The garden had been well-tended, so it was difficult to tell where graves might have been dug. But Mark walked along the rows, looking for plants that might be freshly planted, or dirt that had recently been turned.

Analee chattered nonstop. “My husband is a fantastic father and a great husband. He would never hurt a fly.”

Mark stooped and checked one of the younger plants.

“Please don't pull up my plants and don't step on them. That's our food!”

Mark wished she'd go check on the baby. He looked at the dirt that looked a little darker than the rest. No, this couldn't be it. There was crabgrass here, and it was mature. He got up and walked on.

Near the back of the yard stood a portable shed. Wheaton was already at the door, shining his flashlight around inside. It was possible that Tharpe might have stored the bodies there temporarily, but he wouldn't have left it there. It had stopped raining the afternoon of the murders. He would have been able to dig a grave that night if he'd wanted to.

Mark walked behind the shed. The dirt did look freshly turned there, even though some vegetables had been planted. Something was wrong, though. These plants weren't as neatly planted as the rest of the vegetables. He stooped and examined the young plants. They were cucumber plants—he had them in his own yard. But they needed full sun, and between this shed and the fence, these plants would be in the shade for most of the day.

If there was a grave here, this could be the place. Mark stood up and looked around. If he had been the killer, he would have dug the grave behind the shed. It would have kept Analee from seeing what he was doing. He could have hidden the bodies in the shed until the rain stopped and the ground had time to dry a little, then dug behind here to bury them. Analee would have thought he was simply working in the garden.

“Sheriff, over here,” Mark said. The sheriff came out of the shed and London joined him behind it. In a low voice, he said, “These are cucumbers. They need sun. Either he's ignorant about plants, which doesn't seem to be the case, or he planted them here just to cover something else. They look freshly planted. Look at the soil.”

The sheriff agreed. “London, get me my shovel.”

London crossed the yard and got the shovel leaning against the house.

“What are you doing?” Analee asked, following him. “You're not going to dig up my plants, are you?”

“Just a few of them,” Wheaton said. “Ma'am, I need you to go back in.”

“No! I have a right to see what you're doing to my property!”

Wheaton looked up at her. “Do you want to prove your husband's innocence? If he didn't do anything, then you have nothing to fear.”

“But my plants!”

“If we don't find anything, you have my word we'll put them back.”

Grudgingly, she headed back in. But Mark was sure she was watching through the window.

Wheaton took the shovel and stabbed the blade into the ground, tossed aside the dirt. Summer sun beat down on Mark's neck and sweat dripped from his chin. His heart raced as Wheaton dug the blade in again and again.

The dirt was soft, easily giving way. Mark and London stood still, watching as Wheaton's hole got bigger, deeper. He was digging too slowly, so Mark stepped up. “Here, let me.”

Wheaton surrendered the shovel and wiped his face.

Mark thought of Beth's note, the two men she'd seen murdered. The image of her lying swollen and dying on that hospital bed drove him to dig faster. They were there—the certainty made the hairs on his neck rise.

He rammed the shovel into the dirt and felt his blade hit something. “There's something there.” He dropped the shovel and went down on his knees, digging gingerly with his hands, trying not to disturb any evidence he found. He felt the object, dusted the dirt away.

It was a shoe. He looked up. “Here we go.”

Wheaton knelt next to him. “Let's see what else is there.” They both dug with their hands around the shoe. Some denim cloth emerged.

When they reached the man's twisted body, Mark sat back. Some inexplicable grief broadsided him, and he fought back tears. Beth was right.

As Wheaton uncovered the second body, Mark covered his face with his dirty hands, and thanked God that justice would be done.

A
NALEE FELL APART WHEN THEY BROUGHT HER OUT TO SEE THE
dead men her husband had buried. “Why would he do that?” she cried. “I don't understand. He told me that he gambled our money away before the Pulses, and when the banks opened he was going to be found out. So he had to rob somebody. He didn't tell me he'd
killed
anyone. I never would have left town with him if I'd known that.”

Mark believed her, but it didn't calm his anger. “Did he tell you that a thirteen-year-old girl witnessed the murders, and that he tried to kill her?”

She put her hands over her ears. “No, I can't believe he could do something like that.”

“You want to come to the hospital and see?”

Wheaton held up a hand warning Mark to calm down. “Analee, now that you've seen what your husband is capable of, we need you to come to the department and make a statement.”

She was trembling and unsteady, sobbing hard. “Okay,” she said finally. “I'll tell you whatever you need to know.”

sixty-eight

K
AY'S HANDS ACHED FROM MASSAGING
B
ETH'S LEGS
. H
ER
daughter still lay there like a rag doll. Was she already gone? Had her soul departed at the park that day? Was her brain still working?

She rubbed her tired eyes and picked up the Bible from the table. They'd been reading it aloud, hoping to banish the spirits of darkness and death that hovered over the place. They had started at Genesis and had read straight through, a segment at a time. Doug had left it open to Psalm 55. “ ‘My heart is in anguish within me,' ” she read aloud, “ ‘and the terrors of death have fallen upon me. Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror has overwhelmed me.’ ”

She stopped and swallowed, then forced herself to go on. “ ‘I said, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. Behold, I would wander far away, I would lodge in the wilderness. Selah. I would hasten to my place of refuge from the stormy wind and tempest.” ’ ”

Oh, if she
could
run away. If she could only shrug off this heavy mantle of despair and fly away to a time beyond now. A time when there was no pain.