Dawn's Light

by Terri Blackstock

  “I’m worried about you!” Beth reached for her then, and Kay clung to her, feeling as if some unnamed threat — real or imaginary — was pulling her child away. How could she stop it if she couldn’t make her talk? Maybe she should get tough with her. Demand that she open up. Force her to spill her secret.

  But Beth looked so fragile. “I’m just jumpy, that’s all,” she said. “I feel like things are getting worse. Bad things keep happening.”

  “But good things are happening too. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Because the terrible things are bigger.”

  Spoken like a victim of post-traumatic stress disorder. Wasn’t this just what Anne Latham described? The events over the last year had piled one upon the other, until Beth felt crushed beneath the memories. Maybe this was all psychological. No physical threat. No logical explanation.

  Beth needed anxiety medications, antidepressants. Were those even available now?

  Eventually Doug, Jeff, and Logan made it home, relieved to find that Beth was here. Her behavior had been a reason for low voices and whispers, rather than laughter and mockery from her brothers.

  Kay sat on Deni’s bed, holding Beth in her arms as she cried. Her mind raced for answers.

  But for the life of her, she didn’t know how to help her child.

  FORTY-ONE

  BETH DIDN’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT. SHE LAY AWAKE IN DENI’S bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering where the killer was. For all she knew, he could be out murdering others, since he’d gotten off scot-free.

  She thought of that conversation she’d overheard at the park. Blake Tomlin’s wife, defending her husband and marriage to an insensitive friend. She was probably up tonight, as well, wandering the house and praying that her husband would come home.

  Someone had to tell her. Beth got up and went to the window, looked out into the night. There must be some way she could let the woman know without alerting the killer. If she could just get a message to her, letting her know that her husband was dead.

  It wouldn’t make Mrs. Tomlin feel better, but at least she’d know the truth. A woman needed to know when her husband was dead.

  Beth decided to go downstairs and write a note. She could slip it in the Tomlins’ mailbox tomorrow.

  She went into her dad’s study and lit the lamp. Pulling a piece of paper out of his desk, she began to write her note.

  I saw your husband murdered the day the banks opened. A man with a goatee killed him behind Cracker Barrel. He killed another man, too. I don’t know what he did with the bodies.

  I didn’t want you to think he ran off. I can tell from his picture he was a nice man.

  She looked at her scrawl, wondering if she’d said too much. What if Mrs. Tomlin called the police, and they called the newspaper, and the letter was printed? The killer would know that she’d described him. He would come after her for sure.

  No, she’d write it over and leave that part out. Carefully, she drafted it again.

  It was still pretty bold, but she told herself that she had to have courage. She wadded the first one and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  Terror pulsed through her in jolts of adrenaline. She prayed over the letter, that it would help the widow somehow. What was that word they used for ending things? Closure? That was what Mrs. Tomlin needed and deserved. A little closure.

  Weary, she went back to bed, where she lay awake for the rest of the night.

  FORTY-TWO

  WORRY FOR BETH INVADED KAY’S EVERY THOUGHT THE next day. Her daughter still seemed melancholy, like the weather that had turned rainy, and she looked tired, as though she hadn’t slept at all. After her morning chores, Beth left to do her paper route, and Kay went into Doug’s study to pray.

  She often spoke to God curled up in an easy chair in a quiet part of the house, usually after reading her Bible. The act of delving into God’s Word put her in a frame of mind to go to the Lord in humility, recognizing the amazing privilege of going through the veil and straight to his throne.

  There were times, though, when she got on her knees.

  Today, she knelt on the floor to cry out for the protection and deliverance of her child, from whatever bondage she was in. PTSD wasn’t too big for God.

  She prayed for a while, pouring out her fears and worries, and when she finished, she knew she’d been heard. She got up and sat on the floor for a moment, basking in the afterglow of intense prayer.

  Her eyes fell on the wadded paper in Doug’s trashcan, with Beth’s unique handwriting. She pulled it out and unfolded it. And as her eyes moved across the lines, her heart slipped into a mournful percussion.

  I saw your husband murdered the day the banks opened. A man with a goatee killed him behind Cracker Barrel. He killed another man, too. I don’t know what he did with the bodies.

  Kay let out a strangled cry and brought her hand to her mouth. Suddenly, everything came into focus.

  I didn’t want you to think he ran off. I can tell from his picture he was a nice man.

  Kay got to her feet, staggering beneath the weight of understanding, and ran through the house. “Doug! Jeff!”

  But no one was home.

  She burst into the garage and grabbed her bicycle. As she launched onto the wet street, she begged God to help her find her child.

  BETH KEPT HER FOCUS AS SHE DELIVERED THE PAPERS IN THE rain, intent on getting to Magnolia subdivision and putting that letter in the Tomlins’ mailbox. She tried not to let her mind go beyond that one act — to the police who would inevitably be called, the search for the body.

  Would the killer honor the fact that she still hadn’t told anyone about him? Or would he come after her with a vengeance? Surely, word would get out that she’d exposed the murders. He would know that she was the one.

  Fear made her reconsider. No, this was stupid. If she put that letter in the mailbox, she might as well tell her father what she’d seen. If police were to be involved, they needed the information that would lead them to the killer.

  She finished most of her deliveries, saving the one in Magnolia Park for last, as she’d done each day. Since it was raining, the park was empty. She pulled her trailer onto the grass and drew it in front of the box. Unlocking the box, she took out the papers left over from yesterday and put a fresh stack in.

  She left her bike there and went to the swings. With a clear view of the Tomlins’ house, she pulled the letter out and read it again. She thought of that woman who’d sat on that bench, trying to convince her friend that her husband wasn’t a louse who’d abandoned his family. She thought of Blake Tomlin’s face, the stark terror as the killer held a gun to his head. The homeless man whose face she hadn’t clearly seen.

  No one should die without a funeral, without anyone even knowing they were gone.

  She felt like a coward for not acting sooner. Even so, she still didn’t have the courage. So she sat on that swing, moving back and forth, staring at the house where the young family grieved without knowing why.

  FORTY-THREE

  HE COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS LUCK.

  The girl he’d been looking for sat on the swing as if waiting for him, right where he’d been told she’d be around three o’clock each day.

  He’d had quite a time getting to her. He’d narrowed her down to four families in Oak Hollow with children named Beth. As he’d ridden through the neighborhood asking children if they knew her, he’d gotten the name Beth Branning.

  Unfortunately, her father was a sheriff’s deputy, which made his goal more difficult. And there was always someone around her house. Though it appeared that she hadn’t exposed him yet, he knew it was just a matter of time.

  He wasn’t cut out for prison. He would die before going there. But he preferred that she die instead.

  Then he’d learned of her paper route, and her routine of sitting on a swing and staring at the Tomlins’ house. What better opportunity?

  He waited in the trees beside the swings, watching her and wishing for thunde
r so he could get away with another gunshot. Maybe he should shoot her anyway; people in the neighborhood would assume it was thunder. It was raining hard enough.

  But he couldn’t take the chance.

  She was small and frail. He could take her easily with his bare hands. He had the element of surprise on his side. She wouldn’t even know what hit her.

  FORTY-FOUR

  KAY HAD NO IDEA WHO BETH’S LETTER WAS INTENDED FOR. Was she headed somewhere now to deliver it? Kay couldn’t be sure. she wasn’t even sure there was another copy. Maybe Beth had thrown it away because she’d changed her mind.

  Either way, her daughter was in trouble, and Kay had to help her.

  She longed for a telephone so she could call 911. Instead, she flew through town, hoping to catch Doug at the sheriff’s department before he headed out on patrol. She found two patrol cars in the parking lot. Abandoning her bike without locking it, she ran up the steps and into the building.

  Doug was standing at the door to Sheriff Wheaton’s office. He turned when she came in.

  “Doug, Beth needs help!”

  “What?”

  Kay couldn’t cry now. She had to stay coherent. “She’s in trouble. She saw a murder, and right now she’s delivering this to somebody!” She thrust the letter at him as the sheriff came out of his office.

  Doug’s face went white as he read it. “Oh, my God . . .” He handed the letter to the sheriff and brought his hands to his head. “She could have been killed.”

  The sheriff read the note. “Do you think it’s Tomlin? The guy who’s missing?”

  Doug cut across the room to a bulletin board. He pulled down a missing person poster with a snapshot stapled to it. “Could be. She mentioned his picture. Maybe she saw one of the posters somewhere.” He looked up at Kay. “She kept asking about missing persons, muggings.” He scanned the information on the sheet. “It has the address.”

  Kay jerked it out of his hand. “I know where this is.” She turned and headed for the door. “I’m going.”

  “I’ll take you,” Doug said.

  Kay turned back to him. “No, you go to the newspaper office and get a list of the boxes on her route. Follow it and pick her up when you find her. I’ll go to the Tomlins’ street and see if she’s left the note for them. If not, I’ll be there when she comes.”

  Wheaton intervened. “I’ll take care of the paper route. Doug, you take your wife in the other patrol car. Bring Beth back here. We need a statement from her.”

  Relieved, Kay followed Doug to his car, and they headed for Magnolia Park.

  “She’s probably all right,” Doug said as he turned the wipers on. “She’s done her route every day, and nothing’s happened. We’ll find her.”

  Kay hoped he was right. But she couldn’t fight the anguish over what her daughter had been going through, and the fear that had kept Beth silent all this time.

  FORTY-FIVE

  BETH SAW HIM FROM THE CORNER OF HER EYE, AND SHE turned. The man who’d kept her up nights, who had invaded her dreams, whose threat had kept her in terror. He barreled toward her, teeth bared like a rabid dog. A scream gurgled in her throat, weak and useless. She fell back off her swing and tried to get up.

  He grabbed her and slapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her. The strength and bulk of his arms bound her as he pulled her from the swing set, toward the trees. She kicked and jerked, trying to remember everything she’d ever seen on television about fighting off attackers.

  She bit his hand, heard him curse behind her, but he didn’t let her go. She kicked backward, digging her heels into his shin, knocking her head back against his face. He dragged her to the edge of the park, into the trees where no one would see. She lifted her legs, trying to make the weight of her body loosen his grip, but it only grew tighter.

  She bit his hand again, determined to draw blood. He jerked it away, and she choked out a scream.

  “Shut up, you little fool!” He turned her around and grabbed her neck with both hands, his fingers cutting into her throat. Her hands came up to his, clawing and pulling, trying to break free. She struggled for breath as her vision grew blurry.

  God, I don’t want to die.

  Somewhere in her consciousness she felt him lifting her, thrusting her back. Her head smashed into something hard . . .

  And she plunged into a nightmare of darkness.

  FORTY-SIX

  KAY WAS CALMER BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO MAGNOLIA Park. Doug was right. Beth had gone out every day and nothing had happened. She was probably fine, and they would pick her up and insist that she tell them everything. She would lead them to the killer.

  But as they pulled onto Magnolia Drive where the Tomlins lived, her eyes scanned the park. There, next to the newspaper box, she saw Beth’s bike and trailer.

  “Over there!” she cried. “Pull over!”

  Doug stopped his car at the curb and cut the engine. Kay jumped out. “Beth! Beth, where are you?”

  Doug slammed his car door and headed toward her bike. “She wouldn’t have left her bike like this. She has to be nearby.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Beth!”

  Kay went back to the curb and looked up the street for an address on one of the homes. She found one, then counted off until she saw the Tomlin house. Maybe Beth had gone to talk to the widow. Maybe she was in their house right now.

  She turned to tell Doug, but saw him walking toward the swing. “Doug, maybe — ” Then she saw the narrow trenches in the mud. It looked as if someone had been dragged.

  Her chest grew tight, her lungs clamping shut.

  Doug ran toward the trees. Kay followed on his heels, unable to breathe.

  There she was. Lying in a heap in the dirt.

  Kay let out a desperate scream as Doug fell to Beth’s side.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  HE HOPED THE KID WAS DEAD, BUT HE COULDN’T BE SURE. She was as light as a feather, and strangling her had been easy. He couldn’t believe the strength behind his hands as he’d slammed her head against the tree.

  Eighteen days ago, he’d had all the makings of a model citizen. Now he’d killed three people, one with his bare hands. Where had that come from?

  Fear had overcome him, turning him into something he didn’t like.

  And then he’d heard the car, and someone calling her name. He’d left her there on the dirt and set out into the trees. The power outage was his friend today. If there had been cell phones and police radios, they would have cut him off as he came out on the other side of the trees. As it was, he was sure that whoever had come was more interested in the girl than in him.

  He only hoped he hadn’t mucked this one up. She had to be dead.

  Then he could get back to his life, appease his wife and keep his baby. And no one would ever know what he was really capable of.

  He would become a model citizen.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  DOUG CHECKED HER PULSE AND SAW THE BLOOD POOLING in the mud.

  “Is she dead?” Kay screamed, falling to her knees. “Oh, dear God, she’s blue!”

  “No, there’s a pulse.” He slid his hand under her head. His face twisted with anger as he looked toward the trees. “Her skull. It’s . . . caved in.”

  “Beth! Beth!” There was no response. “We’ve got to get her to a hospital.”

  He started to pick her up, but Kay tried to stop him. “We shouldn’t move her. What if her neck or back is broken?”

  “There’s no time to get an ambulance!” He scooped her up in his arms. Her head lolled back, her mouth open. They ran to the car. “You drive, Kay.”

  Kay opened the door for Doug, and he slid inside. She made sure the door wouldn’t hit Beth’s legs. Oh, God, what happened to her?

  Running around to the driver’s seat, she slid onto the old bench seat and started the car. She turned on the flashing lights and flicked on the siren.

  “Hurry, Kay.”

  She nodded and pulled onto the busy street next to the park. A
wagon with four horses was going by, but she pulled out around him, almost hitting a bicycler coming the other way. She swerved to miss him, then laid on her horn to make people get out of the way. Couldn’t they see this was an emergency? That someone could be dying as they took their time? Didn’t sirens mean anything?

  Next to her, she saw that Doug was holding Beth’s nose and breathing into her mouth. “Has she stopped breathing?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She ignored stop signs and drove through town. “I’ll take her to Birmingham, to University Hospital.”

  “No, Kay.” Doug’s voice was hoarse, frightened. “She won’t make it that far. Take her to Crockett Medical Center.”

  She didn’t like that idea. Crockett Medical Center was a new hospital converted from an old nursing home. Surely they didn’t have critical care or a trauma center. She glanced over at Beth. Her blood was dripping down Doug’s arm into the stained fabric of the car seat.

  Could the little hospital handle a trauma patient with a severe head injury?

  She heard Doug’s sudden intake of breath. “Her neck. There are scratches on it. It’s bruising. No wonder she can’t breathe.”

  Sweat soaked Kay’s armpits, her chest, dripped from her chin. Another horse and wagon slogged along in front of her, and she blared the horn again. “Get out of the way!” she cried, swerving around him.

  Not too much farther. She looked at Beth again. “Her neck . . . what does that mean?”

  “I think she was strangled.” The word broke in Doug’s throat.

  He touched Beth’s face with his blood-covered hand. “Beth, wake up, honey. You’ve got to hang on. Please, don’t leave us now. Wake up.”

  Kay turned the corner; the hospital building lay ahead. “Who did this, Doug?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but we’re going to find out.”