“I hope so too. It’s all in God’s hands.” It felt like one of those churchy things to say. As Deni walked back to her bike, she wondered if Mrs. Anthony saw it that way. Was she a believer? Did she, too, see a purpose in the cruelest of events?
Or was she sick of the lip service people paid to the grieving?
Mark pulled her close as they walked and kissed her cheek. “You did good,” he said.
“No, I didn’t. We should have left them alone. Those poor women.”
“Well, don’t get discouraged now,” Mark said, looking up the street. “We have lots more people to talk to.”
Three houses away Deni saw a lady working in her garden. “Let’s talk to her next, since she’s outside.”
Mark agreed, and they walked their bikes to her house. When Deni introduced herself, the woman gave her a boisterous hug. “Bless your heart! It’s a shame that your sister got caught in this mess. But you know, what happened to Blake was bound to happen. That man was mean.”
Deni frowned. “Blake was mean? In what way?”
“Smashin’ furniture, beatin’ that poor woman in the face. I’ve seen her eye so swole up she couldn’t see out of it. And y’ask me, that little boy had his fair share of bruises, too.”
Deni met Mark’s stunned eyes. “Did others in the neighborhood ever witness that?” she asked.
“’Course they did. You couldn’t help hear it. We talked about what to do about him.”
Deni glanced at Mark. He had that look on his face that he had when he slammed against the crux of a case.
“Did anyone confront him about it?” Mark asked.
“You bet they did. One time a few weeks ago a couple of the men interrupted when Blake got too rough with his wife, and they escorted him out of the neighborhood. He came back, apologizin’ up and down, and she took him right back in.”
Deni was amazed no one had mentioned it before. “Could you point us to those people who escorted him out?”
She pointed. “Melissa’s next-door neighbors. The ones on either side of them. Tell them Corinna sent you. They’ll talk.”
Deni could hardly wait to talk to them. As she and Mark stepped out into the street, Mark spoke quietly. “Let me do the talking from here on out, okay?”
She didn’t argue. “Can you believe this? Blake Tomlin was a wife-beater? Why wouldn’t Melissa have told us that?”
Mark sighed. “Maybe she knows her father was the accomplice. Maybe he wanted Blake dead for what he’d done to Melissa. Maybe he hired him. Maybe that’s why he killed him — to shut him up.”
“Wait.” Deni stopped in the middle of the street. “He wouldn’t kill Clay in front of the judge to keep him from telling him he’s a killer!”
Mark had to chuckle. “That would be pretty dumb. But people who are emotional don’t think.”
“That’s not it. That man didn’t look like a killer.”
“But he was a killer. We saw him kill Clay Tharpe.”
She thought of the anguished look on Scott Anthony’s face after he shot Clay Tharpe, and the submissive way he’d let them take him away. It seemed more an act of grief than an attempt to cover up a crime.
They found one of the men at home and questioned him about Corinna’s story. “Yeah, it happened that way, all right. We intervened several times when they were fighting.”
“Why didn’t you tell the deputies that when they questioned you?” Mark asked.
“Because they weren’t interviewing us about Blake. They were questioning us about that girl who was attacked in the park.”
They interviewed the rest of the neighbors on the street one by one. All were more than willing to tell what they knew. Each had the same refrain. Blake Tomlin was a wife-beater, and everyone knew it.
Deni and Mark headed back to the hospital. “So we have a wife-beater who’s even hurt his son,” Deni said. “We have neighbors who’ve pulled him off his wife. Then on the day the bank opens, that same guy is murdered? There’s some connection here that we’re missing.”
“Maybe God used Tharpe to bring Tomlin’s crimes back on his own head.”
“Maybe,” Deni said. “But I’m more inclined to think that someone else used Tharpe.”
Mark had to agree. “Mr. Anthony sure had a motive.”
“But he’d have to be an idiot. Seems to me he’d be better off taking his chances that Tharpe would talk than he would gunning him down in cold blood right in front of the judge. Maybe we should go back to Tharpe’s neighborhood and talk to his neighbors. Maybe we’ll find another Corinna.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
FATIGUE CLAWED THROUGH CRAIG LIKE A LIVING THING, making him long for sleep and a reprieve from the urgency in every area of his life. He was used to working on pure adrenaline. For the last year, working for Senator Crawford, everything had been an emergency, and there were no slow days. But at least then he’d been able to focus one hundred percent on work, and hadn’t felt the heavy weight of responsibility for a dying child.
Among the hundreds of job applicants, his team had found a few war veterans and ham radio operators who were fluent in Morse code, making it possible to communicate by telegraph through a series of relay stations between here and Washington. The government also had communications experts building radios with vacuum tubes, which would be available sooner than transistors would.
Craig jotted the note that he wanted sent to Senator Crawford’s office and bent over Horace Hancock, who had just finished receiving a message. “Hey, Horace,” he said to the World War II veteran. “I have to get this to Senator Crawford ASAP.”
The old man adjusted his glasses and read the note aloud. “Senator Crawford, please advise if you’ve been able to find MRI scanners or contacts with Hope Drug Manufacturer? Hoped to hear from you by now. Deni’s sister is dying. Please respond. Craig Martin.”
“That’s a long one,” Horace said.
“Where would I shorten it?”
Horace took his pencil and marked out a few words, and changed a few others. “Pls advise if u found whr MRI scanners r bing manufctrd r contact at Hope Drug Mnufctr stop Hoped 2 hr frm u by now stop Deni’s sister dying stop Craig Martin.”
Craig read back over it. “Is this some kind of telegraph shorthand?”
Horace shook his head. “No, I learned this from my granddaughter who used to love to text-message me.”
Craig grinned. “Should have known.”
“Hey, it works.”
“Could you get it out now?”
He waited as Horace sent the message. If things were working the way they should, Senator Crawford would have the message sometime in the next hour. He’d done a lot for Senator Crawford when he worked as his aid. Maybe the overworked legislator would want to return the favor.
Another of the telegraph operators threw down his headphones and jumped to his feet. “Hot dog!” the white-haired man shouted. “The Tennessee Valley Authority is back in business.”
Craig dashed to his side and read the message. That meant that electricity would reach the distribution plants, and power would flow to the transmission lines in Crockett. If they could get the substations reconnected to those transmission lines, they could get power to the homes in Crockett — and to the hospital.
It all seemed doable now. “I’ve got to get word to our transmission engineers,” he said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. Grabbing his hard hat, he bolted out to his car.
SEVENTY-SIX
KAY GREW MORE DESPERATE AS BETH’S CONDITION declined. Her blood pressure had dropped, and her kidney function was failing. They cared for her with sponge baths and massages, as well as frequent repositioning to keep her from getting bedsores. But they were losing her.
Kay and Doug read Scripture aloud to her, as if the words themselves could speak life into her. But the book of James was more for them than for her.
“ ‘Everyone must be quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger; for the anger of man does not achieve the righ
teousness of God. Therefore, putting aside all filthiness and all that remains of wickedness, in humility receive the word implanted, which is able to save your souls.’ ”
The verses seemed to reflect the growing shame Kay harbored over her hatred for the dead Clay Tharpe. “Do you think that’s why God hasn’t answered our prayers for Beth’s healing?” she asked.
Doug stopped reading and looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean my anger. My hatred. It said the anger of man doesn’t achieve the righteousness of God. Do you think God would have healed her if I hadn’t gone to the jail and tried to start a lynching that day?”
“No, I don’t think that, Kay.”
She sighed, not sure she believed him. “I talked to God about it.” She looked at the IV bag. The slow drips continued. “I’ve repented over and over. I really am sorry I did it. But there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Then he is faithful and just to forgive you, sweetheart.”
“But he won’t forgive us if we don’t forgive, will he? I’m not sure I’ve forgiven. How can you forgive someone who’s dead? How do you let it go when every day you have to watch your daughter die?”
“She’s not dying. She’s going to live.” He turned his chair toward Kay’s and set his hands on her knees. “Look at me, love.”
She turned and met his eyes.
“You have to stop beating yourself up. You had human emotions, and you acted on them. But you’re not the one who killed Clay Tharpe. And you’re not the one who’s keeping Beth from waking up.”
“But we haven’t done everything,” she said. “In the book of James, it says to call the elders. Why haven’t we done that?”
“Our little church doesn’t have elders.” Doug paused and looked at Beth. “But maybe I could get some of the more spiritually mature men to come and pray.”
Kay wondered if God would honor that. They had to try. “We could send Jeff to ask them to come this afternoon. How many do we need?”
“I would think just a few devout men who believe in the power of prayer.”
“What kind of oil do they need?”
“Olive oil would do, if anyone has any.”
“Are you sure? We have to do it right.”
Doug looked helpless. “If there’s some other kind of holy oil, I don’t know what it is. The oil’s not magic, Kay. It’s God who does the healing, not the oil.”
They had no time to waste. Hope rose in her heart as she headed for the door. “I’m going to find Jeff and put him on it right away.”
Maybe prayer from those men would be what they needed to unlock God’s healing power.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
THE THARPES’ NEIGHBORS WERE EAGER TO TALK TO DENI and Mark, and all of them expressed shock at what had been found in their backyard.
But they hit pay dirt with a neighbor six houses down from Clay and Analee.
“We were in the Crockett High School Class of ’95,” Amanda Sellick said as she invited them in. “I have the yearbook if you’d like to see it.”
Deni didn’t know what good it would do, but she took it anyway. As Mark asked Amanda questions about the Tharpes’ friends and enemies, Deni flipped through the pages. She had graduated from the same school several years behind them and recognized teachers and classmates. She found Tharpe’s senior portrait and slowly scanned the faces of the others in his class. She didn’t recognize any of the names or faces. Then she turned the page.
One face with a frame of big, frizzy hair jumped out at her. She caught her breath.
Melissa Anthony, who later became Melissa Tomlin.
“Mark, look.”
Mark stopped midsentence and looked at the picture. His face changed as he took it in. “So Amanda, did you know Melissa Tomlin?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Melissa Anthony,” Deni corrected, showing her the picture.
“Oh, yeah,” Amanda said. “That Melissa. I forgot her married name.”
Deni looked at Mark. “Didn’t Melissa tell you she didn’t know Clay Tharpe?”
“That wouldn’t be true at all,” the woman said. “Melissa and Clay were really good friends in high school. They even dated for a while.”
Deni’s heart started pounding, and the puzzle pieces began to align themselves in her mind. Could Melissa have been involved with Clay?
Mark stared at the coffee table, the wheels clearly turning in his mind. “You’re sure? She told me she didn’t know him.”
“I’m sure,” Amanda said. “You don’t forget your best friends from school. Especially when you live in the same town with them.”
Why would Melissa lie? Wouldn’t it have been natural and normal to tell them that she knew him? Express shock that he was the one? The fact that she’d denied it — when there was proof right here, on paper — made Deni suspicious.
Deni began to wonder if that innocent-seeming, distraught woman she’d talked to earlier had been in cahoots with her husband’s murderer to kill him. Could she have been the accomplice? Was it even possible that she was the one who had told Tharpe where to find Beth?
She felt the heat of indignation flushing her cheeks, almost making her dizzy. She had sat in Melissa’s living room, had felt sorry for her. Prayed for her.
She kept quiet as Mark finished questioning Amanda, but her pulse pounded in her temples. Her lungs grew tight, her breathing shallow. She got to her feet. “I’m sorry. I need some air.”
She heard Mark asking if they could take the yearbook. Amanda agreed. Deni stumbled outside and propped herself against the brick wall.
The door closed as Mark came out. “Baby, are you all right?”
“No,” she said. “Mark, could Melissa Tomlin be the accomplice?”
His lips were tight. “Possible. Maybe she confessed to her dad, and he decided to do what he could to keep Clay from exposing her.”
“That’s why he would shoot him in front of a judge. To keep the heat off his daughter. He decided to shut Tharpe up, and no one would ever figure it out. So he goes to prison for first-degree murder, while his murdering daughter gets off scot-free.”
“But how do you prove it?” Mark asked. “All we have is some hearsay and anecdotal evidence. Just because Clay and Melissa knew each other in high school — ”
“Dated,” Deni cut in. “And it’s not anecdotal. We have the yearbook to prove it.”
“It proves they knew each other, not that they dated,” Mark said. “But even if they did, it doesn’t prove they were in this together. Maybe they were having an affair, and she lied about knowing him to keep it secret. It doesn’t mean she’s a killer. We need more. We need to find out if they had contact recently.”
They got their bikes and headed out. “Think,” Deni said as they rode. “Why would Clay do something like this for her?”
“For money,” Mark said.
“Yeah, but don’t you think she’d want the money, too? I mean, we were all so desperate for cash. I can’t imagine she would set things up so that she didn’t get any of her own money.”
“Maybe Tharpe split it with her.”
Deni nodded. “She might have thought losing some of the money was a small price to pay for getting her abusive husband out of the picture.”
“If they had a relationship, maybe they planned to pool their resources.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Deni felt her strength coming back. “If they were having an affair, somebody knows about it. We’ve got to find that somebody.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
IT WAS GETTING DARK AS CRAIG AND TWO OF HIS employees — an electrical engineer and the PR person filling in for Deni until she got back — drove to the substation that would provide electricity to the eastern side of Crockett, the side that powered the hospital and Oak Hollow subdivision. The transmission engineer who was working to get the substation online had sent word that they would try it this afternoon.
“So could we feasibly have electricity today?�
�� Warren Ames, the PR guy, asked. “Air conditioning? Refrigerators?”
“Maybe,” Jim Sevrino said. “It won’t be perfect. The lights will probably flicker. And air conditioning will draw too big a load.”
Craig hoped the residents would heed the warnings they’d posted all over town, to keep their air conditioners off and their appliances unplugged.
“Why will the lights flicker?” Warren asked.
Craig didn’t know much about electricity — only what he’d learned in the last few months. But he was able to answer that. “Because all of our semiconductors are fried from the Pulses. They regulate voltage. So where you might have been supposed to get 110 volts, without good regulation you’ll get less.”
“Right,” Jim said. “Power without control. Electric clocks might not keep accurate time. Semiconductors make sure the frequency is 60 Hertz and not 58. But without them, that’s not controllable. We won’t be able to control that until we get all that fixed, and it’s going to take time. But for now, I think people will be satisfied with flickering lights rather than no lights at all.”
“Will people have to get the meters on their houses working before they can get power?”
Craig deferred to Jim on that one.
“Some meters will work — the mechanical ones with the disk that spins around. The solid state meters won’t work, but that won’t stop electricity from flowing into their homes. The meters are only for billing. If they don’t work, we can’t measure usage, so we can’t charge users for it.”
Craig glanced at Jim in his rearview mirror. “The government is keeping the power companies afloat until they can start measuring usage and get people paying for their electricity again. The reconstruction can’t go forward until we have electricity.”
As Jim continued explaining the situation to Warren, Craig’s mind drifted to Deni. She should be the one asking these questions. She should be sitting beside him, taking all the technical details and putting them into user-friendly terms that could go out to the press. Her mind was able to grasp the million intricate details that had to be fed to the public. But until Beth woke up and was on the road to recovery, he knew Deni wouldn’t come back to work.
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