Dawn's Light

by Terri Blackstock

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE SURGICAL INTENSIVE CARE 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

  CLAY THARPE’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 th
at 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.”

  “You mentioned you have some cash now. Did you get it out of the bank the day they opened?”

  “Clay did. He didn’t want me there with the baby.”

  “Did your husband work that day?”

  The baby started to kick and grunt. She went to her diaper bag on the table and dug through for something. “No, he had the day off so he could go stand in line.”

  “Which bank was his account with?”

  She pulled out a pacifier. “There it is. I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  “His bank.”

  “BankPlus. We used to be at Alabama Bank and Trust a couple of years ago, but they had this rude teller — ”

  “And he came home with the money?” Wheaton cut in.

  She put the pacifier in the baby’s mouth. “That’s right. And you know the first thing I bought?”

  Mark almost chuckled at the look of dread on Wheaton’s face. “What?”

  “A car seat for the baby. Now, I know I’m not going to have anything to put it in for a while, but I believe in positive thinking, you know? My neighbor was selling the seat at the swap meet, and I snapped it up. Little Star and I will be able to travel again, and I can take her to see her grandparents, can’t I, Star?” She leaned over the child. “Isn’t that right, precious? We decided to name her Star since she was born during the Pulses. She’s going to have a big impact on the world, aren’t you, sweetie?”

  Mark jumped in. “Mrs. Tharpe, do you have a picture of your husband that we could have? It has to do with an investigation.”

  She frowned. “What kind of investigation?”

  “We can’t really discuss it right now. But it would help us a lot if we could have his picture.”

  She glanced at the picture. It seemed a lightbulb had come on, and she had begun to realize that Clay could be in serious trouble. “I . . . I only have that one. I don’t want to give it to you. It’s my favorite.”

  “We could bring it back. If we could just have it for a couple of hours — ”

  The doors seemed to shut. “No, I don’t think so.” She crossed her arms and the luster in her eyes disappeared. “Is Clay in some kind of trouble?”

  “We just need to talk to him, Mrs. Tharpe,” Wheaton said.

  “He is in trouble, isn’t he?”

  Mark looked at the floor as Wheaton spoke up. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Tharpe. If you change your mind about the picture, we’d appreciate your bringing it by the sheriff’s department.”

  They started to the door, and Analee followed them out. “Do you want me to give him a message?”

  Wheaton turned back. “Ask him to come by and see us. We’d just like to chat with him for a few minutes.”

  As they got back in the van, Wheaton glanced at Mark. “Well, there’s one thing for sure. That woman has nothing to hide.”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said. “She got uncooperative there at the end. Sure would have liked having that picture.” He slipped behind the wheel. “Going to the conversion plant?”

  “That’s right. Let’s hit Alabaster Road.”

  As he drove, Mark yearned to be with Deni and her family. He should be holding her, comforting her, praying with her.

  But since he’d first heard about Beth, Mark had been on a vengeful hunt for the man who’d attacked her. He wouldn’t rest until he found him. Only then would he allow himself to succumb to his own grief.

  THE ALABASTER ROAD CONVERSION PLANT WAS RUN BY NED Emory, who lived in Oak Hollow. He was the father of Zach Emory, who had been shot a few months ago, and Mark had been blamed. Though Mark had been found innocent and the real killers had been caught, Emory still seemed to dislike him.

  For that reason, he decided to let Wheaton do most of the talking as they went in to find Clay Tharpe. The garage bays of the plant were open, letting a light breeze drift through. The sound of a hundred revving motors reverberated through the place, and men who’d been drafted for this purpose worked tirelessly over each one.

  They stopped at the closest group of men. “Where can we find Clay Tharpe?” Wheaton yelled over the noise. One of the men pointed upstairs.

  At the top of the stairs, Mark saw another group of men, heads together over something they were putting together. Mark searched the faces for a grey goatee. And then he saw Ned Emory. The plant manager came toward them, a look of dread on his face.

  “What are you two doing here?” he asked.

  Wheaton shook his hand. “Ned, I’m sorry to disturb you at work, but we’re looking for one of your employees — Clay Tharpe.”

  “Tharpe? What for?”

  “We want to ask him some questions.”

  Ned seemed to recognize the evasion. He looked down over the rail to the first floor, scanning the heads. “Well, I don’t see him anywhere.” He hollered downstairs. “Jessup, you seen Tharpe?”

  Jessup looked up at him and yelled back, “He left early.”

  Mark looked at Wheaton. So much for Clay having work as an alibi.

  They started down the stairs.

  “You can talk to Jessup, his supervisor. He’s not in some kind of trouble, is he?” Ned called down.

  Wheaton and Mark ignored him as they headed toward the supervisor. “Mr. Jessup,” Wheaton called.

  The chubby man looked up at them. “Yeah?”

  “You said Tharpe left early. What time would you say that was?”

  “I guess around eleven o’clock,” he said. “Told me he had a migraine headache that was killing him. I told him this was the last time I was letting him off.”

  “The last time?” Mark asked. “Has he been taking off a lot?”

  “Yeah, he’s been leaving early every day, coming back late from lunch. I’ll put him on a task, and when I turn around, he’s gone.”

  “Has he always been like that?”

  “No. Just the last couple of weeks. Why? Has he done something?”

  “We just want to question him about a situation that he might know something about.”

  “Well, I don’t expect to see him again today. He’ll milk this migraine for all it’s worth. You might catch him at home, if he’s really sick.”

  “We were just there. His wife thought he was here.”

>   “Well, there you go. Now you see what I’m dealing with.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  CRAIG HAD NEVER FELT MORE OUT OF PLACE. HE STOOD just inside the fence at the substation on Tambridge Road, observing the work being done to get the station back online, so that power could be restored to the Crockett area. He’d gotten word this morning through a telegram that one of the utilities that supplied electricity was back online, generating electricity again.

  Craig thought it was a joke. After driving from one substation to the other, he’d finally found his transmission engineer, Butch Morris, whom he’d only known for a couple of weeks. He relayed the message. “Is this even possible this soon?”

  “Sure, it’s possible.”

  “But how could they have all their control circuitry repaired that quickly? I expected it to take weeks, if not months.”

  Butch took off his hard hat and finger-brushed his comb-over. “They had the parts already in place in some of the hardened warehouses, just waiting for the Pulses to be over. They probably started transporting ’em the day the Pulses ended. Wouldn’t take many days to replace ’em and get ’em them generating again.”

  “So what does that mean to us?”

  “It means that as soon as we can get our substations repaired, we can connect them to the transmission lines and get our areas back up. Problem is manpower. We don’t have enough workers. We need more linemen. You’re not hiring ’em fast enough.”

  “Trust me,” Craig said. “If someone puts lineman or technician on their application, I put them right to work.”

  He let Butch go back to work and stood back, running through the crash course he’d taken about turbines and insulators and transmission towers. There was a time — before the outage — when he would have driven past a substation and complained that it was an eyesore to the community. He might have suggested that Senator Crawford write a bill about camouflaging them so they’d be more attractive. It would have been born of pure ignorance, since he’d had no idea that these were the stations that brought lights and heat and air conditioning, and powered the companies that pumped sewage or provided running water.