“WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER?” DENI WHISPERED WHEN she and her mother returned to the kitchen. Craig was still eating. Doug was washing his plate in the bowl of water on the counter.
“I don’t know, but I’m getting concerned,” her mother said. “I was talking to Judith, and she thinks Beth might be showing signs of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Deni shook her head. “If anyone had that it would be us, not her. She’s just been an observer. She hasn’t actually had anything happen to her.”
“Everything that’s happened to us has happened to her too,” Doug said, glancing toward the living room. “She’s young and takes things hard. Remember how she got after Mark was beaten?”
Craig set down his water. “Mark was beaten?”
“Don’t look so gleeful,” Deni said.
“I’m not gleeful. Who did it?”
“It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter. The point is that Beth was really upset by it.”
“Mark too, I’ll bet,” Craig said. “Is that where he got that scar on his forehead?”
“And a broken arm and collarbone,” Jeff said.
Craig’s eyes narrowed. “No kidding? I’d think he could defend himself better than that.”
“He did,” Doug clipped. “Otherwise he’d be dead.”
Deni jerked Craig’s glass out of his hand and went to wash it. “You know, I really don’t want to talk about this.”
He got up and followed her around the counter. His contemplative look rattled her. He was probably fantasizing about Mark getting lynched.
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “When I was working for Senator Crawford, we worked on a bill about PTSD for veterans who fought in Iraq. I know a few things about it. If I can help — ”
Deni drew in a long-suffering breath and looked at her mother. She was wiping the counter, practically ignoring him.
“Thanks, Craig,” Kay said. “I think we’ll go with a counselor.”
It was rude, but it put him in his place, and Deni almost couldn’t blame her mother. Still, when she saw the flush on Craig’s face, she felt a little sorry for him.
NINETEEN
MARK HAD NO INTENTION OF GIVING UP HIS SEAT NEXT to Deni when they assembled for church that morning. But neither did Craig. So they both stood nearby, waiting for her to sit so they could grab the seat next to her.
Mark had to admit what he was doing was lame, like some love-struck high school kid, but what else could he do? No way was he going to let people think Deni was back together with Craig. Already, neighbors who’d heard of his work on the recovery team were treating him like a celebrity.
Chris Horton, Deni’s best friend, came through the small crowd and greeted Craig as if he were a long-lost friend. She and Deni talked for a moment, then Chris caught Mark’s eye, puckered her lip in a mock pout, and slipped away from Craig’s fan club.
“Okay, what’s going on?” she whispered as she reached Mark. “What’s Craig doing here?”
Mark wanted to roll his eyes, but others were watching, no doubt whispering about his rival, waiting for him to reveal his true feelings. Instead, he gave Chris an exaggerated smile. Through his teeth, he whispered, “He rode in on his white steed yesterday, ready to rescue his damsel in distress.”
“I heard it was a Malibu.”
“Steed, Malibu, same difference.”
Chris looked thoroughly entertained. “And you’re thrilled about it.”
He tilted his head. “Couldn’t be happier.”
“Don’t worry, Mark. You know she loves you.” Chris glanced back at Craig. He had shaken enough hands to win an election. “He is really cute, though.”
Mark’s fake smile crashed. “Traitor.”
She flashed him a teasing grin. “If you want me to, I’ll sit next to him. It isn’t everyday there’s an available man around here.”
“It’s your big chance. Go for it.”
As Chris ambled back toward Craig, Mark ground his teeth. What was it women saw in that polished facade of his? His charm was as rehearsed as a presidential candidate’s.
He swallowed back his distaste. He was going to have a hard time worshiping today. As the guitar music at the front signaled the people to take their seats, he looked toward the lawn chairs.
Beth was sitting at the end of a row, her hair chopped as short as a boy’s. He almost didn’t recognize her. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses too big for her face. She sat hunched over, hugging herself.
He sidestepped down the row and took the seat next to her. “I like your hair, Sparky.”
“No, you don’t.” She usually smiled at the nickname he’d given her after the first time she’d sparkled on stage. Today, her frown had a tight hold.
“I do. It’s a nice look for you.”
“Okay, whatever.” Clearly not buying it, she looked over his shoulder to the street.
He set his arm on the back of her chair. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her answer was final.
“Is it Craig?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, that’s what’s wrong with you.”
He couldn’t help chuckling. “Well, you’ve got me pegged.” She didn’t respond. Her glance strayed to the street again. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” she said, jerking her gaze back.
“Jimmy, maybe?”
“No! Why do people keep asking me that?”
Something was really bothering her. All playfulness faded from his tone, and he leaned down to her ear. “Hey, you know if you need to talk, I’m here, right? If something were wrong, you could come to me.”
Beth looked up at him with those doleful eyes. Her lips parted, and she started to speak. But as Jeff stood up at the front with his guitar and began leading them in a praise song, that vacant, distracted look returned to her eyes.
“You know that, don’t you?” he asked her again.
Her voice was softer now. “Yeah, I know.” She swallowed hard.
He started to sing the praise chorus, but Beth remained quiet.
Deni slipped down the row and sat beside him. Craig plopped down on the other side of her, and Chris followed him.
Deni slid her hand into Mark’s, drawing his attention back to her. Relief and pride warmed his tense muscles, reminding him that she was still his girl.
FOR THE LAST SEVERAL WEEKS, DOUG HAD BEEN PREACHING through the convicting book of 1 John. But Mark was too preoccupied to be convicted.
We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He who does not love abides in death. Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer; and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him. We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.
Mark wondered if Craig could even follow the theology. Could the pompous narcissist grasp such concepts? The man who had refused to work to help the poverty-stricken apartment dwellers a year ago didn’t strike Mark as someone with a great capacity for love.
Yes, Christ could have changed Craig, if he’d really given his life to him. But Mark doubted seriously that Craig’s Christianity was real. Surely he was donning the robes of belief for the sake of winning Deni back. His desire for baptism was all an act.
Mark prayed it wouldn’t work.
Mark brooded through the sermon, arguing with the voice in his heart that said he should welcome Craig into the family of God. As the service ended and the congregation crowded around the water’s edge to watch Craig’s baptism, Mark stood at the outskirts. Doug waded into the water, and Craig followed, all arrogance gone from his face. Deni stood back with Mark, her arm through his. “Be nice,” she whispered.
Anger pulsed through him. Be nice?
He wondered if Doug had any compulsion to drown him. If Mark were in Doug’s place, he might.
With that thought came a rush of guilt, but he quickly shoved it down.
He lis
tened to Doug’s prayer over Craig, watched him go down into the water . . .
“Baptized with Christ in death . . .”
And come up wet . . .
“Raised to walk in newness of life.”
He saw Craig wipe the water from his eyes, saw the trembling of his lips, the sincere look of submission . . .
Doug hugged him, and as Craig slogged out of the water, shame began to burn in the pit of Mark’s stomach. What if Craig wasn’t acting? What if he really had come to Christ after his breakup with Deni?
Was Mark judging Craig or simply discerning? There was little Craig could do to convince him it was real . . . even if it was.
Dripping wet, Craig took the towel Kay had brought for him. Wiping his face and wrapping it around his shoulders, he walked into the crowd of well-wishers.
Mark swallowed the bitterness in his throat. He could at least act happy about the supposed conversion. He planted his feet as Craig worked his way through the crowd. When his rival came close, Mark extended his own hand.
“Welcome to the family,” he forced himself to say.
Craig wiped his wet eyes. “Family?”
Deni smiled. “He means you’re brothers now. Brothers in Christ.”
Craig studied him, as if he didn’t know whether they were James and John . . .
Or Cain and Abel.
And Mark wasn’t so sure himself.
TWENTY
THE KILLER HADN’T SHOWN UP FOR CHURCH. WHILE THE baptism went on, Beth wandered to the message board at the edge of the lake and read every scrap of paper that had been stapled, taped, or pinned there. There had to be a missing persons report. If the man who’d saved her life had been homeless, as he looked, he might not have been missed — even though he was a hero. But wouldn’t the other man’s family be worried about him? Wouldn’t someone be looking for him?
She swept her bangs back, felt them curling up in the heat. All the man would have to do was come here and ask anyone for a blonde girl named Beth. Everyone knew about her because of the plays she’d put on in the neighborhood. She’d made herself too famous to all of her neighbors. Short hair or not, anyone could point him right to her front door.
She looked from one face to another. There were no more than thirty-five people here — she would certainly recognize the killer if she saw him again, wouldn’t she?
Unless he wore a disguise.
No, she knew everyone here. No disguises.
Maybe he wasn’t going to do anything. He was just trying to scare her into keeping her mouth shut.
She looked toward her father, dripping on the bank. She should tell him. He could figure out who the killer was from her description and lock him up. Then it would all be over.
But if he didn’t find him, and the man knew she’d talked . . .
Would it matter? Didn’t he want her dead either way?
Her friend Cher came over and touched her hair. “Beth,” she whispered. “I didn’t know that was you. Did you get your hair cut for the play?”
She thought of saying yes, that she was casting herself in one of the boys’ roles. But that wouldn’t fly. She had enough boys who wanted a part.
Her heart sank as she realized that the next play would call attention to her. The killer would find her for sure. It was way too public.
She touched her hair. “No, I just got sick of the heat. And I’ve changed my mind about the play this summer.”
“But, Beth, you already wrote it!”
“I know, but I’m too busy to help with it,” she whispered. “I don’t have time.”
Cher looked crestfallen. “The little kids will be so disappointed. They’re all looking forward to it.”
“I can’t help it. They’ll find something to do.”
Cher looked stunned. “What’s wrong, Beth? I haven’t seen you in a week. You’re acting different.”
“I told you, I’m just busy, delivering the papers and all.”
“It’s not like you have to go from house to house. You’re just filling up the news racks.”
Beth wasn’t in the mood for this. She wanted to go home and hide in her room. “Look, if you want to do the play, go ahead.”
Cher looked as if Beth had just broken off their friendship. “Are you mad at me?”
“No. I just don’t want to do it, that’s all.”
Cher sighed. “Okay, then . . . I guess I’ll lead it. It won’t be as good, but at least the kids won’t be disappointed.”
“Good,” Beth said, trying not to cry. “I’ll get Logan to bring you the script.”
“You can’t even bring it?” Cher asked.
Beth looked at her best friend, knowing she was hurting her. She wondered if she could trust Cher to keep the secret if she told her. Of course she wouldn’t. If Cher told her a thing like this, Beth would definitely tell her parents.
She had never felt more alone.
“I have to go,” she said. “The baptism’s over.”
Cher went back to her family, and Beth went to give her polite congratulations to Craig. While she waited for everyone to hug him, her thoughts went back to the message board.
She would have to check the other boards around Crockett, see if anyone had posted a missing persons report anywhere. If she could find out who the dead man was, then maybe she could at least find a way to notify his family.
They deserved to know. She wished she could do something for the man who had saved her too. He might have a family somewhere who missed him and wished he’d come home. Maybe they’d prayed for him for years, while he lived on the streets.
If only they knew he’d given his life to save her. But she didn’t know his name, or anything about him. She wasn’t even sure he was dead.
“Beth? Beth!”
Beth shook out of her thoughts and saw her mother, looking at her like she’d gone off the deep end. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “Just thinking.”
Her mother put her arm around her, kissed her head. “Let’s get home, okay?”
Beth almost felt safe as they crossed the street and headed for home.
TWENTY-ONE
THERE WERE PAPERS TO DELIVER, AND BETH KNEW SHE had to deliver them. Since the killer hadn’t shown up yet, maybe he didn’t really know where she lived. Maybe that had just been a threat to keep her quiet.
Or maybe her silence was what had kept her alive so far. He could be watching her now, waiting for one sign that she’d ratted him out to her parents — determined to kill them too, if he had to.
Would he see her when she went to do her job? When the Crockett Times had converted from a weekly to a daily newspaper, the Brannings had seen a way to earn extra money. Her brothers were doing the hard work of delivering papers door-to-door, each of them with a large route. Lots of adults had applied for those paper routes too, but Harriet, Deni’s boss, had favored her family because of all the work Deni did for them.
Beth had committed to fill all the coin-operated news boxes around Crockett each day. Some of them hadn’t been filled Friday, and yesterday Jeff and Logan had done it for her. They wouldn’t do it today.
She hoped her haircut was enough of a disguise to keep the killer from recognizing her. She donned her brother’s baseball cap and sunglasses and dressed in clothes that a boy might wear. She hardly recognized herself.
She consoled herself with the thought that she could take the opportunity to check message boards while she was in different parts of town. Maybe she would see a missing persons poster that would tell her who the dead men were.
She went out to get on her bike. Would the killer remember that it was silver? That was a common color, so it wasn’t likely to call attention to itself. The bike trailer stacked with newspapers would certainly be identifiable, but there were lots of newspaper deliverers around Crockett, and they all had trailers. In fact, almost every family had at least one.
Still, she felt a little sick as she biked out to the garage behind the newspap
er office, where she always picked up her papers. She could usually get her deliveries made in the two hours after lunch. It had worked out well when she was going to school in the mornings. Now that school was out for the summer, she had time to do family chores in the mornings, then the newspapers in the afternoon. All her money went into the family fund.
She reached the warehouse and pulled her bike in. Delbert, the old man who oversaw the papers, was tying up a stack.
“Hey, Delbert,” she said, getting off her bike.
The man looked at her like he didn’t know her. “Hello, young fella. Can I help you?”
She pulled her glasses down and looked at him. “It’s me, Beth.”
He gasped and began to laugh a wheezing, phlegmy laugh. “Beth? I didn’t recognize you, darlin’. You look . . . different.”
That was good, she thought. She saw Delbert every day. If he didn’t recognize her, then surely the killer wouldn’t.
“You runnin’ from the law or something? You look like a different person.”
She put the glasses back on. “Can’t a girl get a haircut?”
“Sure can,” he said, still chuckling. “But that ain’t a haircut. That’s a scalpin’.”
She took the cap off to show him it wasn’t so bad.
“You’re still a cute li’l ole thing,” he said in his grandfather tone. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”
Satisfied that her disguise was serving its purpose, she loaded her papers into her trailer and set out to fill her boxes. Then she rode her bike from one newspaper box to another, stopping at the message boards that were usually near them. At each one, she stopped and read the papers stuck haphazardly all over the boards, looking for word of the missing men.
At the third board she came to — the one in Magnolia Park — she saw it. A fresh handwritten flyer with an old snapshot stapled to it and the word Missing at the top of the page. It was the first man she had seen shot in the thunderstorm — the one on his knees. Her heart pounded as she read his name — Blake Tomlin. He was twenty-eight and he lived in Magnolia subdivision — the neighborhood adjacent to the park.
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