True Light

by Terri Blackstock

  Mark thought he’d heard wrong. “What?”

  “I’m letting you go. I don’t have a staff here to guard you, and my gut tells me you’re not like the ones who left. Judge Myers is outside, and he agreed to release you under your own recognizance, waiving bond. I hope we’re not making a mistake.”

  Mark’s heart almost soared out of his chest. “You’re not. You’ll see. When Zach Emory is coherent again, he’ll tell you I’m not the one who shot him.”

  Wheaton didn’t comment on that. “Just don’t leave the county.” He unlocked the cell door, and Mark walked through it.

  This time he appreciated the loud, echoing clang as it closed behind him. “I won’t let you down, sir.” His gaze strayed back to the bodies. “Is there anything I can do? Notify their families — ”

  “No, we’ll take care of it.” He led Mark past the bodies and into the office area. He picked up a letter off of his desk and handed it to him. Mark took it and read the handwritten scrawl.

  To whom it may concern —

  I, Judge Alfred Myers, have this day waived bond for Mark Green and released him under his own recognizance.

  The judge had signed and dated it.

  “This may not be any protection for you,” Wheaton said. “But it’s the best I can do right now.”

  The doors opened, and the medical examiner came in. Turning to the ME, Wheaton pointed to the jail door. “Bodies are back here,” he said in a raspy voice.

  Mark folded up the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

  “Green?”

  He looked back.

  “I’m gonna have to call together a volunteer force. Otherwise, I’d have no way to replace these guys. Our staff is down all over the county, and even the state police are on a skeleton staff. If you know anybody who could help — ”

  “I’ll tell Doug Branning and Brad Caldwell.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re good men who live in my neighborhood. They’ll step up to the plate.”

  “Send them to see me.” Deputy Wheaton shook his hand. “You be careful, Mark.”

  “You too, sir. I’ll pray for you.”

  Wheaton went to the locker where they kept the prisoners’ personal effects, found Jeff’s bag that Mark had brought here with him, and handed it to him. Zipping up his coat, Mark stepped out into the cold.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MARK HADN’T EXPECTED THE CROWD THAT HAD GATHERED outside the sheriff’s department, roped off and held back by a couple of deputies from other substations. Word had gotten around about the shootings, and people had gathered to demand answers.

  “Mark!” He saw Deni ducking under the crime scene tape and running toward him. He opened his arms, and she threw herself into him. Warmth and relief rushed into his chest, washing like a balm over his body.

  “Oh, Mark, you’re all right. I thought you were dead!”

  A roar arose from the crowd, angry, condemning voices demanding that he go back inside. Deputy Wheaton heard the din and came out behind him. “Wait a minute, Mark. This could get ugly.”

  “You ain’t letting him go, are you?” someone shouted.

  “He was there when the sheriff was shot!”

  “You letting another prisoner run helter-skelter around this town?”

  “How many dead bodies do you want?”

  Wheaton raised his hands to the crowd. “Don’t tell me about dead bodies! My friends are lying in there!”

  The group quieted as the deputy chief walked down the steps and came to the edge of the barricade. “You’re right. There’s an army of escaped prisoners running around out there. But Green tried to stop the prisoners’ attack, and he stayed behind when he could have escaped. He’s been a help today — not a threat to anyone.”

  “But he tried to kill Zach Emory!”

  Mark looked and saw the principal from his high school — the man who had once been his biggest fan when Mark led his track team to victory. “He talks a good game, Deputy, but he’s a danger to society.”

  Deni turned on the man. “Mr. King, how can you say that? This is Mark! You know him.”

  Wheaton waved a hand for attention. “The judge has agreed with me that Mark can go home for now, since we don’t have the resources to keep one lone prisoner. Nobody better lay a hand on him. If you want to protect the community, then sign up for the volunteer force and get deputized, and you can go out hunting criminals. We can use all the help we can get.”

  No one stepped forward, and Mark couldn’t say he blamed them. It would take especially courageous people to go hunting crazed killers who had little left to lose.

  Wheaton motioned for one of his deputies. “Stratton, give Green a ride home.”

  Relieved, Mark thanked the chief deputy and followed Deputy Stratton to his van. “Can she come too?” he asked as they reached the car.

  “Sure, get in.”

  The deputy was quiet as he drove them home, and after her initial questions, Deni was quiet too. Stratton’s face was pale as he drove. Mark wondered if he was considering quitting too. Unless he felt a calling to serve his community in a dangerous job with little pay — knowing he would have to go out looking for the murderers who killed his friends — Mark thought that there was a good chance he’d quit like the others.

  On the other hand, maybe Stratton did feel that obligation to do the job he’d signed up to do. Maybe the ones who were left were men of particular courage.

  He prayed that was true.

  He held Deni’s ice-cold hand, wondering if it was wise to let her be anywhere near him. “Any word on Zach?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t been able to get an update.”

  The car turned into Oak Hollow. Her hand tightened as she leaned forward. “Deputy Stratton, would you please take him to my house? Fifth house on the right.”

  “No,” Mark said. “I need to go home. I need to change out of these clothes — ”

  “Mark, your mother’s at my house. You can wear something of my dad’s or my brother’s. But going home is not smart right now, and you know it.”

  Stratton pulled up to the Branning house and idled at the street. “What’s it gonna be?”

  Mark sighed. “I guess I’ll get out here.” He stepped out of the van, helped Deni out, then got her bike out of the back and set it on the sidewalk.

  He glanced toward the corner. Paul Burlin and his wife were walking their dog, and they’d stopped to stare. Paul was best friends with Lou Grantham and had probably been among those men who’d come after him. He saw the disbelief on the Burlins’ faces as he and Deni thanked the deputy and started up the yard to the door.

  Mark hoped word would soon reach the neighborhood that he’d had nothing to do with the shooting of the sheriff and his men. But as he stepped into the Branning house, he knew it wasn’t over.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AN URGENT KNOCKING SHOOK THE BRANNINGS’ FRONT door a few minutes after Mark came in. Deni knew trouble was on their doorstep.

  “Here it comes,” Mark said. “I’ll get it.”

  “No, Mark!” His mother moved between him and the door. “Please, honey. You can hide. You can go out the back way again.”

  Mark went around her. “I’m not running again, Mom, and I won’t let them terrorize us.”

  Deni turned to her mother. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Next door, talking to Brad,” she said. “Beth and Logan, go upstairs.”

  “But Mom!” Logan whined.

  “Upstairs, now!”

  The two kids headed for the stairs. The banging came again. Mark reached the doorknob.

  Deni stopped him. “Mark, wait for Dad to come back.”

  “I can’t. They won’t wait.” He pulled Deni behind him and opened the front door, and Deni saw a group of men with baseball bats and guns, their faces seething in hatred. Lou Grantham stood at the front of the mob.

  Mark stepped out on the porch. “Looking for me?”

 
Paul swung his bat. Mark caught it in his hand before it made contact. But someone else swung, hitting Mark in the stomach, doubling him over.

  Martha screamed as more bats and sticks came down on him, knocking him to his knees.

  Deni raced across the yard, screaming for her father. “Dad! Dad, help! They’re beating Mark!” She threw herself at the Caldwells’ door, banging with her fists.

  The door flew open, and Brad and her father burst out.

  “Please come!” she screamed. “They’re killing him!”

  Brad ran back in for his rifle, then chambered a round as he came out into the yard. He fired up into the sky, startling the men. It took one more wasted bullet before they backed off, leaving Mark in a heap on the ground. His forehead was bleeding and his cheekbone was swelling. He crawled on the ground for a moment, trying to get up.

  Deni fell to his side. “Mark, are you all right? Mark . . .”

  He seemed dazed, unable to get up.

  Brad and Doug stepped in front of Mark. Brad’s teeth gritted as he chambered another round. “Now, if I were you, I’d be backing toward the street nice and easy.”

  Paul spat into the grass. “Put the gun down, Brad. You’re not in this.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m in it,” Brad said. “See, I’m the attorney representing Mark in his conspiracy-to-commit-murder case against you people. It’s about time somebody filed charges.”

  Deni kept her arms around Mark’s shoulders as she looked up at the men. They all knew what Brad meant — just a few months ago Brad had been in Mark’s place, when the same group of vigilantes had tried to make an example of him.

  Lou Grantham wasn’t fazed. “Doug, why are you fooled by the son of the maniac who kidnapped your daughter? You should be here with us, making sure he never hurts anybody again.”

  “He didn’t shoot Zach!” Deni cried. “He’s innocent! You’re all crazy!”

  The men eyed Mark again, then Brad’s gun, and finally someone started to walk away. One by one, the group broke up.

  Grantham was the last to leave. He pointed down at Mark’s bleeding face. “I’m warning you, boy. Pack your bags and get out of town if you don’t want your mama planning your funeral.”

  They watched him swagger away like the only law in the land.

  And Deni knew he would be back.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  UPSTAIRS, BETH CRIED AS SHE WATCHED WITH LOGAN OUT the window as the drama in their front yard unfolded. When Brad’s gun went off, she screamed and sat on the floor, holding her ears.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she imagined the scene outside — her family in danger, Mark bleeding, more people dead. Her head began to hurt as if a knife stuck through her brain, and she wanted it all to be over.

  Logan shook her out of her thoughts, and she opened her eyes and looked up at him through her tears. His face was pale. “Chill out, Beth. It’s over. Dad ran the men off.”

  She sucked in a sob. “What about Mark? Did they kill him?”

  He went back to the window and peered out. “No, he’s getting up. He doesn’t look good, though.”

  She got up, wiping her face, and went to stand next to her little brother. She saw Mark struggling to get to his feet. Blood dripped into his eyes. He leaned on her dad as they came into the house.

  “I’m going down,” she said.

  Logan followed her. They went downstairs slowly as her father walked Mark to the couch. His mother sat next to him, crying and dabbing at the gash. Deni stood over him, shaking like a trapped kitten.

  “Mom? Is Mark okay?” Beth asked.

  “Kids, go back upstairs. I don’t want you to see this.”

  “I just want to know if — ”

  The front door came open, and Brad came in with Dr. Derek Morton, who lived and worked on the street behind them. His nurse Chris Horton, Deni’s best friend, came in behind him.

  “I knew this was gonna happen,” Chris said. “Those old men think they’re in the Wild West, playing shoot ’em up. Grantham’s wife came in the other day with a bruised jaw and said she’d run into a door, if you can believe that.”

  Derek shot an angry look up at her. “Chris, that’s enough.”

  She shoved her blonde curls back. “Oh, yeah. Confidentiality. They won’t tell.”

  Realizing that she and Logan had dropped off her mother’s radar, Beth stepped closer to the couch and watched as Dr. Morton examined the gash on Mark’s forehead. “This is going to need stitches,” he said. “And Mark, your collarbone’s broken.” He felt down Mark’s bloody arms. “Humerus bone is broken.”

  Mark sucked in a breath and groaned as Chris came around the couch to help set it.

  Beth felt sick. Her head throbbed, and she suddenly felt hot.

  Thinking she had to get some air, she went into the kitchen, grabbed her coat, and stepped out into the garage. Tears rushed her again, and she pulled her coat on and zipped it up.

  The Next Terrible Thing had come, and now there would be a next one, and a next one. It was like dominos, each one leading to something worse.

  She decided to escape across the street to Eloise’s house. Her neighbor, who’d died last year, had left her house to her son. Since he couldn’t sell it during the outage, he’d given the neighbors permission to use the one-acre yard for whatever they needed to help them survive. The neighbors had pooled their resources and bought a bunch of rabbits, which they kept in cages in Eloise’s yard and took turns feeding. It wasn’t the Brannings’ day to feed them, but sometimes Beth went over there just to hold the bunnies, pet them, and be by herself. They made her feel better.

  The snow was beginning to melt, and slush ran in the gutters. She slid on some ice as she walked across the street. The tears on her face turned cold in the wind.

  She made her way to Eloise’s fence and opened the back gate. As she went in, her eyes scanned the yard for the cage with the youngest litter.

  But something was wrong.

  A few of the cages were gone, and several more were empty. She caught her breath and walked closer to the cages, making sure the little animals hadn’t burrowed under something to get warmer.

  But they were gone. Only a dozen or so remained.

  Beth screamed, and ran back across the street.

  THIRTY-SIX

  DESPITE THE TRAUMA OF THE SHOOTINGS EARLIER THAT day, Deni found George Mason and Will Truman back in their ambulance, sitting in their usual spot on Keisler Street, waiting for the next emergency. They both stared into space as if shell-shocked. She knocked on George’s window.

  He rolled it down. “Yeah?”

  “George . . . Will . . .” Out of breath, she tried to find her voice. “You’ve got to come. Mark Green’s been beaten. He needs to get to the hospital.”

  The two paramedics wasted no time, and she followed on her bike as they drove back to her house. Derek had stabilized Mark and returned home to his living room full of patients, but Chris had stayed behind. She met them all at the door.

  “It’s an open head wound, and he’s showing no evidence of concussion,” she said as she led them in. “And it’s a wonder, because frankly, I think they meant to kill him. If you ask me, we need to get our own vigilante gang, and make sure those men don’t attack anyone ever again.”

  Martha moved away to give the paramedics room. George stooped down next to him, and Mark winced as he lifted the bandage that Derek had taped to his forehead. “Looks bad,” he said. “Why didn’t the doc suture it for you?”

  “He said it needed a plastic surgeon,” Mark muttered.

  Chris leaned over the back of the couch. “It’s deep enough to need several layers of sutures. He wanted it done right.”

  “He blocked the blows with his arms,” Deni said. “That’s why his arm is fractured.”

  “And if he hadn’t, he’d be so dead,” Chris muttered. “Those baseball bats would have shattered his skull. It’s a classic case of a mob mentality, and these men have been allowed to get away with it too
long.”

  George shot Chris a weary look. “We get it, okay?”

  Chris’s face fell. “I’m sorry . . . I just . . .” Suddenly, she caught her breath. “Oh no. I forgot that you two were at the jail when the shooting happened this morning. You’re probably sick to death of . . . well, death.”

  George ignored her, but Will gave her a long, disbelieving look. Her hands came up to her chest, and remorse colored her face. Deni set her arm around her friend’s shoulders to silence her. The more Chris talked, the more likely she was to dig herself deeper.

  Mark seemed anxious to break the tension. “I think what Chris is trying to say . . . is you guys probably need some time off.”

  George studied Mark’s broken collarbone. “We thought about it, but with convicts and crazies running around, we figure this isn’t the time for a vacation.”

  Chris’s hand came up to her mouth, and tears burst into her eyes. “You guys are such heroes.”

  George’s agitation seemed to fade, and he swallowed hard. “Just doing our job.”

  Mark refused a gurney and limped out to the ambulance. Deni and Martha climbed in with him.

  As George got behind the wheel, Chris came to his window. “Let me know if there’s anything I can ever help you with,” she said. “Really. I have a big mouth, but I’m a very good nurse.”

  George managed a smile. “I’ll do that,” he said as he pulled away.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  PAIN SHOT LIKE FIREWORKS THROUGH MARK’S BROKEN bones, but his condition wasn’t urgent enough to warrant immediate attention. He sat in the waiting room for two hours, his mother and Deni taking turns pleading with the staff to move him up the list.

  He gritted his teeth and tried to bear it — but it wasn’t the physical pain that threatened to do him in. It was the humiliation of being beaten in front of Deni and his mother. He was supposed to be the protector, the guardian who kept his loved ones safe. He’d always prided himself in his strength.

  But they had shown him to be weak.