She pulled a pen out of her pocket and wrote the address on the palm of her hand. The flyer said he was twenty-eight years old, married with one son, age two. Her heart dove to her stomach. Had his wife thought he’d taken off like Amber Rowe’s husband, overcome by responsibility and high on the cash he’d just withdrawn from the bank? She must be crying her eyes out, and that poor baby was probably wondering where his daddy had gone.
And his parents — what were they thinking? Were they angry at him for abandoning his family, or did they even know he was missing yet? What if they lived far away, like her grandparents, and hoped to see him when they had a car running again?
She got back on her bike and looked up the street, trying to figure out where the missing man’s house was. She spotted it just a little way down, easily visible from the park.
Instead of turning back onto the road beside the park, busy with carriages and bicycles and horses pulling wagons, she rode toward Blake Tomlin’s house, then slowed as she rode past it.
It was a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. The garage door was closed, and there was no activity in the yard. Tears burned in Beth’s eyes. She should go to the door right now and tell Blake Tomlin’s wife that her husband had been shot in the Cracker Barrel parking lot, the day before yesterday.
She thought of how tragic that would be for his wife. But it could be just as tragic for Beth’s own family. She had to keep quiet, to keep anyone else from getting killed. Besides, no one would believe her without the bodies. All she knew of the killer was that he had a goatee. He’d been wearing that hood, so she didn’t even know what color his hair was.
If she told them anything, a gang of police would descend on her, insisting on the whole story. And it wouldn’t bring Blake Tomlin or the homeless man back.
She went back to the park. Setting her kickstand, she left her bike and sat on the swing. She could see the Tomlin house clearly from here.
A few children played around her, swinging and sliding, their parents watching from benches. Minutes ticked by, and she knew she should get back to the warehouse and reload for her last few racks. But she couldn’t seem to tear herself away.
After fifteen minutes or so, she saw the Tomlin garage door roll open. She stopped swinging and held her breath as a young woman a few years older than Deni walked out with a broom and began sweeping. Beth’s throat grew thick, and she swallowed. When she got to the end of the driveway, the woman stopped and looked toward the intersection.
She was watching for her husband to come home, Beth thought. Just like Amber Rowe, wondering how her marriage had gone so terribly wrong.
But Mrs. Tomlin’s husband hadn’t abandoned her like Amber’s had. The poor woman had no clue that her husband lay dead.
A boy of about two toddled down the driveway to join his mother. Beth’s hand came to her chest, as if it could calm her pounding heart. The little boy would never know what had happened to his dad. He would grow up thinking his father didn’t love him, that he had just walked away.
Beth was going to cry, and that would call attention to herself, so she got back on her bike and rode away. Wiping her eyes, she glanced around to make sure no one was following her. It was time to go back to the warehouse and reload. She had a few more boxes to fill, and then she could go home.
On her way back, she found herself just blocks from the Cracker Barrel, where it had all started. Curiosity and horror drew her back to the site. She rode past it without stopping, but she slowed enough to look where the second man — the man who’d saved her life — had fallen. From the street, she saw no sign that he’d ever been there. Riding along the curb, she peered behind the Cracker Barrel. There was no sign of Blake Tomlin’s murder, either.
For a moment hope fluttered in her heart, and she imagined that neither was dead, after all. That they’d both been wearing bulletproof vests. That after she’d ridden away, they’d both gotten up and gone home.
But if that had happened, why was there a missing persons sign for Blake Tomlin? Maybe he’d come to, confused and disoriented. Amnesia. Yes maybe he had amnesia, and was wandering around trying to remember his name.
But a chill came over her as she remembered the gun firing right through his head, the man dropping to the ground, blood mingling into mud. People didn’t survive things like that. Even if he’d somehow crawled away, someone would have seen him and called for an ambulance. Deni would surely have done a story on it, and her father would know if it had been reported to the sheriff.
Beth finished her route, her mind racing with possibilities, but the one that loomed largest was this: the killer had come back for the bodies, and only he knew where they were.
TWENTY-TWO
KAY WAS IN THE KITCHEN WHEN BETH CAME HOME AND shot through the room with Jeff’s baseball cap pulled low over her face.
“Beth, where were you? I thought you were in your room.”
“I was delivering my papers,” she said.
Kay smiled. That was a good sign, wasn’t it, that Beth wasn’t hunkering in her room today? Beth pulled the cap off and Kay saw the sweat soaking her daughter’s short-cropped hair. She’d never worn her brother’s cap before. What was that about?
She may have gone out, but she still wasn’t behaving normally.
“Honey, I want to talk to you,” Kay said.
Beth was already on her way out of the kitchen. She turned back. “What?”
“Sit down.”
A look of fear came over Beth’s face, as if she’d been caught at something.
Kay frowned as Beth came to the table and pulled out a chair. “Honey, is there something you want to tell me?”
Beth sat down slowly. “Like what?”
“Like some secret you’ve been keeping.”
Beth’s gaze darted out the window, where her father and brothers were working in the yard. “No, I don’t think so.”
Disappointed, Kay sat down across from her. “Beth, you haven’t been acting normal lately, and I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m taking care of everything.”
“Taking care of everything? What are you talking about?”
“Just . . . there’s nothing to worry about, okay?”
She wasn’t making sense. “Honey, I want you to do something for me. I know you’ve been busy working on the new play you wrote, and you’ll be starting casting for it this weekend. I don’t want to take any of your free time for this, because the Lord knows, you need that. But I’ve been talking to a counselor about you and some of the stuff you’ve been through lately.”
“What stuff?” Beth’s eyes locked back onto hers.
“Just some of the trauma. Some of the things you’ve witnessed.”
“You told her that?” Beth sprang up. “I didn’t see anything. You shouldn’t have told her I did.”
The outburst surprised Kay. It was as if they were having two separate conversations. “Beth, calm down!”
Beth burst into tears. “Mom, I don’t want you going around talking about me!”
“I’m not going around talking about you, Beth. I talked to a counselor about sitting down with you and letting you talk. It was confidential.”
“What does that mean?”
Kay sighed. “It means she won’t talk about it to anyone else. She’s a professional. She has to keep these things to herself.”
Beth’s tensions eased somewhat. She looked down at the palm of her hand, studying something she’d written there.
Kay took her hand and read it.
“Whose address is that?”
Beth pulled her hand away. “Just somebody who wants to subscribe to the paper.” She changed the subject. “About the counselor. I guess I could talk to her, but I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“She just wants to see if she can help you. You’ve seemed depressed lately, honey.”
“I don’t want people discussing me behind my back.”
“We won’t. But a
lot has happened in the last year. Things are better now. We can see light at the end of the tunnel. Everyone’s so excited, but you just still seem so depressed.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I just . . . I don’t want the family to be hurt — ”
“You’re not hurting us, honey. We’re hurting with you. We want to see you get through this.” She touched Beth’s perspiring face, made her look at her. “Will you talk to her? Her name’s Mrs. Latham and she lives a few blocks over.”
“Benny Latham’s mom?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“He’s been in some of my plays,” Beth said. “I know her. She’s nice. She helped make some of the props when we did the Christmas play.”
“Oh, good.” Maybe this would work out better than Kay thought, if Beth already had a relationship and a sense of trust in the woman who’d be counseling her. “Now that school’s out, when will you be rehearsing the play? We’ll work the appointments around that.”
Beth propped her chin on her hand. “I’ve decided not to do the play.”
“What? Why not? You’ve already written the script.”
“I have too much to do, what with the papers and all. I gave the script to Cher. Logan ran it over to her last night. She’ll have to do it without me.” She got up. “Can I go to my room now?”
Kay tried to hide her disappointment. “Well, yes. Sure.”
Kay watched Beth leave the kitchen. What was going on? Beth loved entertaining. She loved writing scripts, directing, casting. Giving the children something to think about other than the hard work they did all day. It was an outlet for them and provided a much-needed source of refreshment for the neighborhood.
Beth loved the accolades she got from handling so much herself. Everyone had been so proud of her when she started this. So what had happened? It had to be PTSD. The aftereffects of the trauma they’d all faced were draining the life out of her. Her child needed help, and soon. Maybe she could catch Anne Latham at home tonight and set up a session for tomorrow.
TWENTY-THREE
SHE HAD TO COME OUT SOONER OR LATER. THE KID NAMED Beth who’d seen him kill Tomlin would show her face at some point, and when she did, he’d take care of her. He’d been looking for her since that Friday, riding the streets of the neighborhoods on the east side of Crockett — the direction he’d seen her go. Occasionally, he would ask kids in the neighborhoods if they knew a girl named Beth — blonde hair, shoulder length, about eleven or twelve years old. Most of them refused to talk to him. With all the crime these days, people were on their guard.
But a few kids who’d bought his friendliness had given him some answers.
They didn’t know any Beths in Broadmoor subdivision, and in Bradford Terrace there was one, but she was six. There were two Beths in Pecan Grove — but he’d seen them both. One was a red-haired sixteen-year-old. The other was four.
There were still several other neighborhoods, with miles between them, at intervals down that long country road. He turned into Oak Hollow, trying to look as if he belonged there. People were out working in their yards, pulling up weeds in gardens in their front yards, planting food. There was money in this part of town. He bet all of them had had cash to withdraw from the banks. And they hadn’t had to kill anyone to get it.
He rode around the neighborhood, skimming the heads of the children he saw, looking for his Beth. He came to a well where several neighbors stood talking. Stopping and balancing his bike with his foot on the curb, he said, “Hey, guys. Wonder if you could help me. I saw this kid over at the produce stand the other day, and she dropped this necklace. The chain must have broken. I tried to catch her when I saw it, but she was already gone. It looked kind of expensive, so I wanted to return it. Name on the back of her jersey said ‘Beth.’ ”
One of the women stepped toward the bike and looked at the necklace. “It’s nice of you to return it. Most people wouldn’t.”
He smiled. “Well, you know. It was probably a gift from somebody.”
“We have four Beths here, at least,” one of the boys piped up.
His dad clamped a hand on his shoulder, shutting him up. “Why don’t you just give us the necklace, and we’ll see which one it belongs to?”
He breathed a laugh. “How will I know you got it back to her?”
“You’ll have to trust us, pal.”
He slipped the necklace back into his pocket. “No, thanks. I’m not even sure she lives in this subdivision. Just tell me where the Beths live, and if I find the right one, I’ll return it myself.”
The child clearly enjoyed being an authority. “There’s Beth Crebbs, Beth Owens, Beth Branning — ”
His dad pinched his shoulder. He should have known. It was a mistake talking to a group with adults among them.
“Come on, guys. The little girl probably wants her necklace. You probably know her. Cute thing. Blue eyes, long blonde hair. Eleven or twelve, maybe older. Just point me to her house. I’ll give it to her parents.”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t really feel comfortable naming names. Either give the necklace to us, or keep it.”
He gave up and decided to come back when he could catch the kids alone.
He rode out of the neighborhood, intent on coming back tomorrow. At least he had one thing going for him. She clearly hadn’t told the police about him yet, or there would be descriptions of him in the papers and on message boards all over town. And Blake Tomlin was still considered missing — not dead.
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
THE STACK OF FILES ON MARK’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
BETH HAD NEVER FELT MORE AWKWARD. IT WAS WEIRD HAVING 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.
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