Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  He gripped the gas container, and, using his feet, rolled the bike slowly out of the small barn over to the open-air barn and hopped off the bike to grab his duffel bag. He pushed the bike to the pickup and replaced the container, about a third less full now. Mick noticed a pair of old, dusty sunglasses on the dashboard of the truck. He snagged them, threw them into his duffel bag, settled himself on the bike, and took off.

  He made his way slowly down the dirt-and-grass path that the farmer had driven on. He didn’t want his bike noise to draw the farmer’s attention, wherever he was.

  After about two minutes, Mick hit a paved road. He stopped the bike and studied his surroundings. His first task would be to find out where in the world he was.

  And then he would try to find a hat. His head was cold.

  Mick drove toward Irving, taking as many back roads as he could. A dirt bike would draw way too much attention on a highway. The ride was smooth and calming, though he did miss the wind whipping through his hair.

  As he trailed a slow-moving combine, Mick’s thoughts tangled with one another, and he tried as best he could to sort through them in a coherent fashion. The first thought to detach itself from the sticky web in his brain was his house: put back together as if nothing had happened.

  Aaron had been at his house, had taken pictures, but did not put his things back. At least he didn’t mention it. And he would’ve told him had he done that.

  Somebody was playing mind games with him. Not only was his house in perfect order, but it was in better order than before. It was part of the reason he’d decided to run. This was not a simple police investigation about a missing woman. Things ran much deeper. The net was cast wider than what was being reported in the news.

  His thoughts turned to Shep Crawford. The man seemed to know more than he said, but strangely he’d also indicated he was an ally. Was it a trick, meant to draw him in and make him trust the detective? There was certainly nothing to confess, but the man had an edge about him.

  Mick wished he’d been able to say more to his brother before bolting. He couldn’t imagine what Aaron must be feeling or thinking right now. Probably feeling betrayed and condemning him for another stupid move. He knew Aaron was being watched, maybe interrogated. It was better that Aaron hadn’t known anything beforehand.

  Coming into the city limits, Mick pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and sat on the bike, trying to devise a plan. Ultimately it was Coach Rynde’s words that had made him believe in himself enough to go find the truth on his own. But he was sure the truth would not easily be found.

  First, though, he needed a test.

  Climbing off the bike, Mick took the sunglasses out of his duffel bag and put them on. His hand self-consciously glided over his nearly bald head.

  When he entered the diner, he was barely noticed by the small number of customers eating a late breakfast. Mick scanned the room. Two elderly men sat near the back, sipping coffee and playing dominoes. A truck driver read a newspaper at the counter. On the front page was his mug shot staring back at him.

  Hanging above the counter was a small, fuzzy television. The Price Is Right boasted an earful of excited cheers. This was a place that watched the news. He was sure that television was never turned off.

  Breathe, dude. He wasn’t going to look inconspicuous with a nervous tick to him. Shaking out his hands, he walked toward the counter, where an impassive-looking waitress was circling a wet rag over the top. He popped the sunglasses on top of his head.

  She glanced up at him, giving him a much-needed polite smile. “Hi there,” she said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Coffee?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  The trucker sitting four seats over looked at him and went back to reading the paper.

  Mick stared at his picture for a moment.

  The waitress poured him a cup of coffee and offered sugar and cream. “What can I get you today?”

  Mick figured he’d better be careful with his money. “Just some toast. With jelly.”

  “A big, good-looking man like yourself surely eats more than toast for breakfast.” She smiled.

  Mick smiled back. “Not feeling all that well this morning.”

  She went to prepare his toast.

  Mick stared up at the television, where a Breaking News Flash sign was preceded by a news anchor’s face. But Mick couldn’t hear. The waitress returned with his toast and noticed the anchor. She reached up and turned up the volume.

  “. . . in the next few minutes we expect Assistant District Attorney Stephen Fiscall to explain the charges that are being brought against the man they say is responsible for the kidnapping of twenty-seven-year-old Taylor Beatrice Franks.” Mick’s picture flashed across the screen.

  Sweat trickled down his backbone, but he tried to take a bite of toast anyway. He attempted to seem only mildly interested, like everyone else in the diner.

  “. . . and here he is now, Assistant District Attorney Stephen Fiscall.”

  The scene cut from inside the newsroom to outside the Irving courthouse. Mick watched the DA approach the podium of microphones. Behind him was Chief Sandy Howard and Captain Fred Bellows. Next to him stood two homicide detectives whom Mick recognized from the first day Taylor was missing.

  Noticeably missing was Shep Crawford.

  “Poor woman,” the waitress mumbled, serving Mick a selection of jellies and butters. “My goodness, you are fast.”

  Mick looked up at her. “Excuse me?”

  She nodded toward his empty coffee cup. “You want a refill?”

  Mick declined. He was jittery enough as it was.

  Looking back at the television, the news station was running some apparently pretaped footage of Taylor’s mother addressing the media. “. . . and please, please let Taylor go if you have her. Please. She’s the nicest girl and I just want my baby home. . . .” The downtrodden woman fussed with her worn and dirty blouse. Her hair, loosely pinned to the top of her head, looked as if it received little care.

  The mystery of Taylor Franks grew.

  An urge to talk to her mother swelled inside Mick. He reached in his duffel bag and pulled out a twenty, sliding it over to the waitress. While she was making change, Mick continued to watch the news, wondering how he would be able to talk to her. It would be a tremendous risk but could provide invaluable information.

  Mick noticed the base of a water tower behind her trailer. A blue marking showed just above the base. Royal blue markings.

  He knew the water tower. It was about fifteen minutes from his home. His football team’s mascot was painted on the side.

  The waitress handed him his change, but the look on her face made his stomach lurch. It was the look of recognition.

  “You from around here?” she asked.

  Mick forced a kind smile. “Just passing through.”

  “Huh. You look familiar. You ain’t never been in here before?”

  “First time. But it was a great experience.” He winked at her.

  She blushed, waving her hand at him. “Well, you bring your pretty little self back in here soon, you hear?”

  “I will.” Mick zipped up his duffel bag and turned to leave.

  A man stepped in his way. He was large and gruff, with a John Deere hat perched on the very top of his head, the bill tipped upward. A pack of Marlboros peeked out of his flannel shirt pocket.

  Mick felt his knees weaken. He was going to have to make a run for it.

  “That your bike out there?” the man said.

  Mick shifted his eyes out the window where the bike sat. “Yeah.”

  “You interested in sellin’ it?”

  “Larry, for crying out loud, let our customers be!” the waitress said as she returned from the kitchen. “Don’t you got enough junk around that house of yours!”

  A grin eased over Larry’s weathered face when he looked at Mick. “Crabby today, ain’t she?”

  Mick smiled. “Sorry, it’s not for sale.”<
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  “It’s a piece of junk. Surely want to get yourself a better bike. I’d pay two hundred bucks for it.”

  “Actually, I’m saving up for a car.”

  “A pickup, you mean?”

  “Yeah. A pickup.”

  Larry nodded and stepped to the side. “Well, hope that thing doesn’t bust up on you.”

  “Thanks.” He slid the glasses over his eyes.

  The man tipped his hat as Mick headed to the door. Outside, he let out a long groan. Stress twisted the muscles in his neck. He hopped on the bike, and after three tries, got it started.

  He didn’t mean to peel out.

  Fiscall, Captain Bellows, and Detectives Prescott and Wailes huddled outside at the corner of the county courthouse. Bellows was watching in the distance as Chief Howard was giving a statement to a few lingering reporters.

  Fiscall noticed the window washers had finished spraying down his office window. Thank goodness. Even though his back was to the window most of the morning, it was as if the blood were shouting his name. Chills kept running over his body. One of the two washers was stuffing a rag in his back pocket and heading around the corner where they were standing.

  Fiscall caught his attention. “Thanks for the wash.”

  “Sure.” The man shrugged.

  “You picked up the dead bird too?”

  “Didn’t find a bird.”

  “On the grass below?”

  The man shook his head. “Naw. Didn’t find nothing like that. Maybe a cat had a good lunch.”

  Fiscall nodded and let the man pass by. He tuned into the conversation Wailes and Prescott were having.

  “. . . probably the biggest mystery of this case.”

  “What’s that?” Fiscall said.

  “Those flowers.” Prescott sighed. “We can’t trace the payment of them to Kline, Earle, or anybody else involved in this case. Looks like the man’s credit-card number may have been stolen, though he doesn’t report anything else strange on his statement.”

  “We’re sure this man isn’t connected?”

  “He’s sixty years old and wheelchair bound, according to the Maine police,” Prescott said. “Was in Irving about a month ago.”

  “What was his business here?”

  “Came to bury a friend or something. Said he was here for less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay, well, let’s keep working that angle.”

  Bellows stepped back into the conversation. “Kline hasn’t been spotted yet. We sent out a citywide ‘attempt to locate’ message on him that’s been read at all the shift briefings. Pictures were sent along too. The warrant has been entered into NCIC. I also sent some of the flyers over to Dallas PD asking for assistance in the search. They’ll hand them out at their briefings.”

  “What about the search for Franks?” Fiscall asked.

  “Still cold. Right now, unfortunately, our best bet is what Kline can give us when we get him,” Bellows said. “We should’ve arrested the guy the day we had him. I don’t know why Crawford didn’t at least bring him in.”

  Prescott and Wailes didn’t have an answer.

  “Speaking of Crawford, where is he? I was surprised not to see the lead detective standing in support,” Fiscall said bitterly.

  Bellows said, “Crawford isn’t one for media attention.”

  “I took it to mean that Crawford isn’t on board here.”

  “Look, Stephen, Crawford is his own man. Always has been. But the department is backing the Kline angle. I think it’s as solid as we’ve got. Crawford will continue to work the case. His objective is to find this woman—dead or alive—and bring evidence against whoever did it.”

  Fiscall stared out across the street. “Crawford is a bad seed, Bellows.” He glanced at the captain. “He’s a rogue.”

  The other two detectives shifted and watched silently.

  Bellows looked at them and then at Fiscall. “He’s the best homicide detective I’ve ever seen. He has solved unsolvable cases.”

  “That may be true. But he’s as weird as they come. And I don’t trust him.”

  “You have no reason to fear him.” Bellows smiled. “Some people do.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Criminals, of course,” Bellows said.

  Wailes and Prescott chuckled.

  Fiscall shook his head, hardly smiling, and he smoothed his tie. “So what do you suppose Crawford is doing right now?”

  “Finding clues that nobody else sees.”

  Fiscall found it odd, because he felt like somewhere nearby, Crawford was watching him.

  Mick had parked the bike at a dilapidated tire shop, where two mechanics didn’t bother to notice. He figured he was about a mile from the water tower. He dropped his bag behind some bushes and began to walk.

  He had no trouble finding Mrs. Franks’s trailer near the water tower. He could see the news vans and their antennas easily.

  He walked down Bellmont Avenue, noticing from a distance the cluster of news reporters gathered in the street waiting around for something big to happen. Mick didn’t see any government vehicles or patrol cars. How was he going to get into the house? He saw no way, even posing as a reporter.

  Mick fingered the badge in his pocket. Was it worth the risk of getting caught to find out perhaps nothing more than how Taylor grew up? Mick bit his lip as he stood behind a large oak, glancing around it now and then at the commotion down the street of trailers.

  He studied the trailer park, noticing the chain-link fences around some of the yards. He wondered how easy it would be to get to the backyard. He could walk one street over, and if he could clear the first yard, he’d be in hers.

  But then what?

  As he thought this out, Mick decided to go ahead and walk one street over. He didn’t need to be seen loitering. In four blocks he was in front of the larger trailer whose yard backed up to Mrs. Franks’s.

  He wiped the sweat off his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger. Perspiration, along with a thumping heart, warned him how bad an idea this was.

  But so far it was his only idea. And the only way he was going to get himself out of this mess was to prove that he didn’t do it.

  A picture of Coach Rynde hiding in a closet flashed through his mind, and determination built up inside him. Nobody ever got anywhere amazing by not taking risks. Mick just hoped a stubbly head, a prickly face, and a pair of round sunglasses were enough to hide his identity.

  He would knock on the back door, flash his badge, and pose as a detective. He’d ask a few questions and then get out of there as quickly as he could before some real cop showed up.

  It was a flimsy plan, but it was the best he had. First of all, he had to explain why he was coming to the back door. How in the world was he going to sell that plan? Doubt nudged itself forward.

  Mick quietly walked alongside the trailer. A dog two houses down barked at him, causing him to pick up his pace.

  He immediately noticed that her backyard could not be seen from the front yard, thanks to the long angle of the trailer. Several large trees also proved to be a good shield from the crowd in the street.

  Mick jumped the chain-link fence that separated the two lines of trailers and walked into her backyard. What if she was watching him out the window?

  Mick walked onto the covered patio, complete with fake turf and real dog dung. He stepped over everything carefully, climbed up the creaky wooden steps that met the back door, and found himself staring at a screenless screen door, loose at one hinge.

  Behind it was a white wooden door. Mick opened the screen door cautiously and then, with bated breath, knocked.

  She must’ve been standing two feet away, because the door swung open immediately. The woman whom he’d seen on television looked even more worn in real life. Her face was crinkled and strained.

  But Mick recognized Taylor’s dark eyes in hers. And these dark eyes were beginning to fill with fear.

  “Ma’am,” Mick said, “it’s okay.”
He flashed his badge. “I’m with the police department.”

  “Why are you at my back door?”

  “I didn’t want all the media making a big fuss, as I’m sure you don’t.”

  She frowned, but Mick couldn’t read her expression very well. “Well, your other two detectives just left five minutes ago.”

  Mick felt his chest constrict. “Oh. Yeah. Right.” He willed himself not to say um but to think very quickly. “I’m actually the department chaplain.”

  “A chaplain?”

  “Yes. And I offer counseling to families with whom we have an open investigation.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize they did that.”

  Mick looked behind her. A few people, apparently relatives and neighbors, mingled in the small living room, stealing glances at them. “Listen, why don’t you step outside here, and we’ll sit for a moment on your back porch. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Mrs. Franks hesitated, studying him. Mick was just about to open his mouth to say who-knew-what, when Mrs. Franks said, “But I ain’t religious.”

  Mick closed his mouth and drew in a mild breath through his nose. “That’s fine, Mrs. Franks. We’ll just talk, and maybe I can offer some consoling words.” That sounded like something Aaron’s pastor might say.

  Mrs. Franks sighed and stepped outside, leaving the door open but letting the screen door shut. “I doubt that. I can’t sleep a wink. Got to use them pills.”

  There was no place to sit except on two rickety old lawn chairs that looked like they’d been folded against the house for twenty years. Mrs. Franks grabbed one in each hand, and with a mighty flick of her wrists, they opened. She set one in front of Mick and sat down on the other.

  Mick hooked the badge on his shirt and sat down, trying to remember that he wasn’t a detective here to question her. He was going to have to be careful with how he approached this.