Crawford smiled at the thought, but the bliss was interrupted. He glanced to his front door where Sandy Howard stood, dressed in a floral Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. His ugly feet were adorned in black, dusty flip-flops.
“Hey there, Shep.”
Crawford went to the screen door and opened it for him. “Chief.”
Sandy smiled and offered a hand. “You were pretty deep in thought there. I knocked twice.”
Crawford stared at Sandy. He felt violated.
Sandy didn’t seem to notice. He was looking around the house. “I’ve heard about this place,” he said, inviting himself in farther. “Refurbished firehouse. What a thought.”
“I like it here,” Crawford mumbled.
“You’ve done a nice job with it,” Sandy said.
“Give yourself a tour. Bottom level only, though. Top level’s my private quarters.”
Was Sandy a man who could understand that it was the spirits of heroes that dwelled here, creating the ambience everybody loved so much?
Sandy stared at the pile of No. 2 pencils on the kitchen counter, but he remained silent. He walked around the bottom floor, peeking into a few rooms. “You have a lot of books,” Sandy called from the small library in the back wing of the house.
Crawford joined him there.
Sandy pulled out a book on the Vietnam War. “You served, right?”
Crawford nodded.
Sandy smiled a little as he flipped through the book. “My brother did too. He never liked to talk about it much either.” He placed the book back on the shelf with a respectful tenderness.
Sandy scanned the rest of the books, but Crawford kept a protective eye on the well-worn pages of one particular book that had carved his soul as much as his life experiences had. He thought he had probably owned ten or more copies in his lifetime. The words were the same in each one, but as if they were alive, each book spoke something more and more profound.
Sandy’s fingers climbed its spine. The Count of Monte Cristo. His finger and thumb tugged at it, right over the smudge of blood Crawford had marked it with.
“Leave it,” Crawford said.
Sandy turned, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s just really old. It’s a family treasure.”
“Oh,” Sandy said, “I understand. I did love that book.” His fingers dropped from the spine.
“Don’t ever remember you dropping by my house in all the years we’ve worked together,” Crawford said, walking back into the kitchen and standing on one side of the long island in the middle of the large room.
Sandy followed and slid onto one of the four barstools. “Don’t believe I have, Shep, but I wanted to talk to you.” He seemed to have trouble starting his next sentence. “It was close the other day. Almost got him.”
Crawford nodded but said nothing.
Sandy licked his lips. “Some of the guys have indicated you’re not too happy. I’m here because I want to hear what you have to say. Nobody else agrees with you—”
“Everyone does as they are expected to.”
“I’ve always respected your opinion.”
“The man who deserves to go down for this crime will go down, Sandy. I believe in justice and its system.”
“As do I.” Sandy nodded. “But you don’t think it’s Kline.”
“It doesn’t really matter what I think. I’m still doing my best to catch him.”
“I wish we could find Taylor Franks,” Sandy grumbled. “The woman has seemed to vanish. It keeps me awake at night.”
“We may never find the body.”
“You’re sure she’s dead?”
Crawford fiddled with one of his newly sharpened pencils. “It’s my instinct you rely on so heavily, isn’t it, Sandy?”
“It makes you one of the best detectives I’ve ever seen. Too bad we have to back it up with evidence.” An edge chimed in Sandy’s statement.
“Maybe if Kline hadn’t run, we could spend our time finding out the truth rather than hunting him down,” Crawford said after a brief silence.
Sandy nodded. “True. But the fact that he did run makes me wonder if he hasn’t got something to hide, you know?”
“Everybody pays for their crimes eventually,” Crawford said, staring out his window at the line of crows on the large limb of the oak tree. “It always catches up to you, no matter who you are or what you’ve done.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“It doesn’t make the world go around. It just keeps the world from stopping.”
“People would disagree with you, Shep. There are a lot of people who have been victims of injustice.”
“Their justice is coming.”
Sandy let out a nervous laugh. “Sounds like an apocalyptic prophecy.”
“Sometimes you have to make justice happen. If you sit back and wait for a benevolent higher being to do it for you, you’ll never get it.”
“I guess you’re in the right business then.” Sandy smiled; then his expression turned serious. “Shep, my opinion aside, the judge wouldn’t have issued the arrest warrant if he didn’t think it was Mick Kline.”
“Why do you care what I think about it?”
“Because you’re my best detective, and we’ve always seen eye to eye on things. This is an exception, but it’s not the rule. And it shouldn’t put a wedge between us. We have to trust each other to work like we do. And the same goes for Fred. He’s your captain, Shep.”
“Have I done anything to indicate I’m working less than I would if I agreed?”
“Not at all. But I wanted you to know that. And be at peace with the outcome.”
“You also don’t want this to leak to the press because then I could be fodder for the defense in cross-examination.”
Sandy shook his head. “That’s not my fear.”
“True colors will show, my friend.” Crawford glanced into Sandy’s eyes. “A killer, a kidnapper . . . can’t hide behind himself very long.”
“You have a strange belief system, Shep, but it works for you. It lets you sleep at night, I guess.” Sandy rose from the barstool, using his two hands to push his heavy body off. He walked to the door, his flip-flops dragging across the floor in a shuffling manner. “I think we’ll get Kline. He’s been a little too bold. Don’t know why in the world he’s hanging around here anyway. Suppose ’cause he’s got family. We still got a tail on Aaron?”
“Off and on. I don’t think Aaron knows where he is. Sometimes tailing a less-obvious person pays off anyway.”
“All right. Well, let’s try to hit the news this weekend. I want this guy’s photo all over the place.”
Crawford nodded.
Sandy shook his hand again. “Have a good evening.”
Two knee-replacement surgeries caused Sandy to take the porch steps slowly, and he waddled his way to his sedan. He waved before driving off.
The vanishing sun left the air cold.
“This was nice.” Jenny smiled at Aaron as they headed back from Grapevine, where they’d taken an evening drive. “It’s been a while since we just drove around. Like teenagers do.”
Aaron laughed. “How come I don’t feel like a teenager?”
She stroked his arm and looked out the windshield of the pickup. “The sunset was beautiful tonight.”
Aaron nodded. “What do you say we go by Mick’s house? Make sure it’s in order and everything. We’re only a couple of minutes away.”
“Sure. Whatever you want to do.”
After a few moments of silence, Jenny asked, “So what do you think now that a few days have passed? Do you think he’s innocent? Deep in your heart?”
“I know he’s innocent of this crime. I know it. I just hate that his life has had to fall apart like this. I always expected it would happen, you know? Eventually you hit bottom. But I hoped that he wouldn’t have to go so low that he might not get back out.”
“Have faith that God knows what He’s doing.”
“Don’t you think, thou
gh, Jenny, that eventually God turns us over to the devil if we deny Him enough times?”
Jenny sighed. “I don’t know, but don’t you think God is capable of handling your brother better than you are?”
Aaron glanced at her. “Are you saying I’ve done something wrong?”
“I’m saying that you’ve planted a lot of seeds along the way. Maybe it’s time to let God water them.”
Aaron sighed, leaning his head against his hand, which was propped up against the driver’s-side window. “There’s a calm about you. It’s a little uncanny, to tell you the truth.”
Jenny shrugged. “I guess I just believe that this isn’t an accident and that God is using this in some way. That’s all.”
“No accidents.” He shook his head. “I don’t know that I can believe that. Do you know how many car wrecks I’ve worked? Drunk teenager hits a family of five head-on? The blood and carnage I see just on the roads make me wonder.”
“Aaron, your faith is being challenged. Let it be challenged. Don’t fight it. Let God show you what He can do.”
“Would you be saying the same thing if we’re putting my brother’s body in the grave next week because he was shot to death by the police?”
“Don’t you have enough to worry about today?”
Aaron pulled into Mick’s driveway and stopped the truck. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to check around the house, make sure everything’s intact.”
Aaron hopped out and checked the front door, which was still locked. He peeked through the windows, then went around back where past memories snapped at him like a vicious dog.
Aaron sat on the back-porch steps, holding his head, heavy with despair, in his hands. “Mick,” Aaron whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all those times I never gave you the benefit of the doubt. I think I’m most scared of never seeing you again and you not knowing how much I love you. That’s all. We all mess up, bro. I think I became a self- righteous pig and didn’t see . . . I should’ve looked deeper.”
Aaron stared at the dirty cement under his feet. How much he longed for the simpler days of their childhood, when they played and laughed and had few cares. Life was real now, and somehow Aaron had taken the right track. By the grace of God, he reminded himself. I was one beaten path away from the wide road too.
Standing, he checked the back door, peered into the still and somber house, and returned to the truck.
“You okay?” Jenny asked.
Aaron nodded.
“Why don’t we get his mail?” she suggested.
“Good idea.” It would make it seem as if Mick were just on a long vacation and returning soon.
The mailbox boasted a wide mouth crammed full of junk. Aaron attempted, unsuccessfully, to pull it all out without dropping it, but several letters fell onto the ground. Pushing the rest of the mail under his armpit, he bent to retrieve the others. As he straightened, one envelope stood out among the junk mail and bills.
Walking back to the truck, he studied it. It was a handwritten envelope, with no return address.
“Here, Jen, hold these,” Aaron said, standing at the passenger’s side and handing the mail to her through the window.
“What is it?”
The postmark was from Irving, mailed the day after this whole fiasco started. Aaron flipped the envelope over, deciding whether or not he should open it. Now he was snooping through his brother’s mail? Biting his lip, the indecision caused several seconds to drift by. He could feel Jenny staring at him.
“Okay, just do it,” he mumbled to himself. He ripped the envelope open. Inside was sixty-two dollars—three twenties and a couple of ones.
“What, Aaron?” Jenny asked.
Aaron got back into the truck, still holding the envelope. He handed it to Jenny. “I don’t know what this means, but hardly anybody sends cash through the mail, with no note and no return address. Think it’s weird?”
Jenny fingered through the cash. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know.” Aaron sighed, backing out of the driveway. “Maybe I’m grasping at straws.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I have no idea, really. It just seems weird, and at this point I’ll look to anything if I think it could lead me to Mick.”
“Do you think he’ll contact you?”
Aaron snorted. “Doubtful. He hardly wanted anything to do with me when his life was going fine. I think I’m the last person on the face of the earth he would turn to right now.”
“If he did turn to you, what would you do?”
“He won’t.”
“You need to go.”
“I don’t want to go. Aren’t you enjoying the company?”
“I’m not joking. You need to get out of here.”
“What? Did I say sommmething?”
“You’re slurring your words. Don’t you know when to stop drinking?”
“I don’t remember you telling me to stop as you brought me out these beers.”
“Look, just forget it. I’ll call you a cab . . . hello?”
“Don’t . . . don’t . . .”
“Hey, wake up. Come on, please, don’t do this to me. Wake up. Come on. There you go, open your eyes.”
“Arrre you slllapping me?”
“I just really need you to wake up. Now. Please. Pleassse wake up.”
“I . . . I’m soo . . .”
“Please don’t do this. I need you to . . .”
Mick opened his eyes. Darkness swaddled him, but above a white light burned an outline around something. His head throbbed, and even the tiniest move caused him to moan in pain. After a few tries, he finally managed to sit up. His limbs shook from horrible hunger. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Looking around, he remembered. He’d crawled into this abandoned apartment last night through a window that had been boarded up. Above him were other windows that were covered with plywood, but the daylight was seeping through.
His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. An old, stained couch had been left, but to him the soft cushions had looked luxurious last night. Even with the dirty stuffing poking out the sides, he’d crawled onto it with little hesitation and fallen asleep.
But this morning his nose was stuffy from the mildewy air. Through the streaming daylight he could see dust particles swimming above him.
He was going to have to get something to eat very soon. Making his way out the same window he’d crawled in, the bright light assaulted his senses. Thankfully, his bike was still where he’d parked it.
He needed to find out what time it was. Midmorning, he assumed.
Several things had clicked for him last night, though perhaps not as consciously as he would like to take credit for. One, he knew he was going to need help. He had a lot of information but no way of implementing what he knew. If someone else had the information, they could take it to the authorities, perhaps change their mind. Two, he knew the only person he really trusted was Aaron.
The trick was going to be contacting Aaron without anybody seeing him. But he thought he had a good plan.
He also had a strange feeling that Taylor Franks had known something was going to happen to her the night she disappeared. As his memory surfaced, her words became pieces to a wide and difficult puzzle, but nevertheless, they were beginning to form more of a picture.
If he had any chance of not being a fugitive forever, it would be to find out what all this meant. And somehow make sure Sammy Earle got what was coming to him.
Mick peddled the back streets, his duffel bag across his shoulder. He had to get food.
And go see Aaron.
In that order.
A gothic-looking but gateless iron fence guarded the two-story home, one of the smaller ones in the Cottonwood Valley neighborhood of Irving. Rumor had it that his wife had left him and taken his children to Florida. The lawn, as green as a crayon and as flat as the end of one, had perfectly squared edges and uniform bushes, a sure sign that no children live
d there. Half a dozen inground sprinklers sprayed the ground simultaneously. Heavy white curtains hung in all the windows, looking as if nobody ever peeked out of them.
Aaron suspected that on this Sunday afternoon he would find Stephen Fiscall at home. From across the street he watched Fiscall’s two black Labradors stare distrustfully at him from near the end of the drive.
He contemplated how he was going to convince the prosecutor to allow him to argue his brother’s case. If he could just say a few words, put doubt into Fiscall’s mind about his decision to pursue Mick, maybe it would make a difference. He would try to convince him to take another look at Sammy Earle.
It seemed to be the only thing he could do.
Now sitting stoically, the dogs waited for Aaron to make a move. Aaron put his truck in gear and began to turn down Fiscall’s driveway.
No.
Braking, Aaron turned around, sensing someone behind him, but there was nobody. The word was spoken firmly, like a father scolding a young child. He was sure he heard it, as clear as if someone had whispered it in his ear. His pounding heart offered evidence that he had heard something.
He turned back around, facing the large white driveway that traced itself through the green lawn. Had he just imagined the word? What harm was there in talking with Fiscall? Yet that small part of his conscience, where he’d doubted this decision and found himself contemplating his trust in God, grew ever larger.
The two dogs’ ears perked, and low growls vibrated in their throats.
He wanted to speak a few brief words to Fiscall. Perhaps Fiscall would sense somebody outside and come out. Aaron’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel, fighting the basic urge to obey.
Backing up, he turned his truck and sped back down the quiet residential street.
Anger grappled him. He was sure God had spoken to him, but He wasn’t making sense. He was scolding him, controlling him. Yet nothing was being done to save his brother. He pounded the steering wheel as he swung out into traffic, heading home.
“Answer me!” Aaron yelled.
A stern horn blistered his ears as he almost crossed the double yellow line.
Mick parked his bike between some trees near the back of the church. It took him until early evening to ride there, as he’d gotten lost twice on the back roads and had needed to stop and rest several times. Muffled organ music pushed through the white wooden walls of the historic Methodist church. Its gleaming gold steeple spiked toward the fading blue, dusky sky.
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