Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Mom used to say that,” Mick said, standing and walking out the office door. Rain pelted the skylight of the athletic lobby. Mick stood at the front glass doors, watching the rain wash the parking-lot concrete.

  His mind drifted to Taylor. He could see her face clearly. The hangover was starting to free his thoughts, one by one, through the pounding pain in his head. How many drinks had he downed last night?

  “Kline,” Coach Rynde called, “let’s go pump some iron.”

  “On my way,” Mick said. He tucked in his shirt, still trying to smooth out his hair. He needed a haircut. He needed a life makeover. He needed a purpose.

  While he stared into the rain, another woman’s face filled his thoughts. Jenny Arlington’s. Why couldn’t he erase his mind as easily as Coach Rynde erased the blackboard after practice? A swipe of the eraser and the plays were gone. Now Aaron always appeared at Jenny’s side. Why couldn’t he just let go of her? Why must he battle his feelings? He saw Aaron’s and Jenny’s hands intertwined at the dinner table . . . that first night the family had tried to come together and behave as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. As if, not two months earlier, Mick had not sat at the same dinner table with her by his side.

  “Taylor,” he said aloud. He hoped she would call.

  Aaron drank his coffee as he drove against the Irving traffic. The mixed odor of jet fuel and bus exhaust caused him to turn the cruiser’s air to circulate.

  “Okay, I’ve held my tongue long enough,” Jarrod said. “I’m dying to know. What’s up with your face?”

  His young, hypercurious partner hardly ever let anything go. “Got in a fight with my brother.” Aaron shot him a look. “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay . . . ,” Jarrod said, still blowing the steam off his coffee. After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So what’d he do?”

  “What’d who do?”

  “Mick. Driving drunk? Bar fight?”

  “What makes you think he did something?”

  “Isn’t he always doing something?”

  “He didn’t do anything. We just had a disagreement.”

  “It’s always like that, you know. Pastors’ kids go party. Firemen’s kids burn down the school. Principals’ kids flunk out. And then . . . well, you’re not his dad, but you get my point.”

  Jarrod needed a good smack. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What do you mean? Mick’s always in trouble.”

  “He’s just . . . he’s . . . he’s . . .” When was he going to stop making excuses for Mick? Jarrod was right. Mick was always in trouble. It’d been like that since Aaron and Mick were kids. Early on, Aaron realized making the right choices would make his life better. Mick always liked to see what would happen if he made the wrong ones. And at twenty-eight, he still hadn’t stopped.

  Aaron glanced at Jarrod, who was staring at him. He realized he hadn’t finished the sentence. “Mick’s going to come around. I pray for him every night.”

  Jarrod gave a half laugh. “There it is,” he said, pointing to the apartment complex. He put his cup on the dashboard and said, “You got a mint?”

  “A mint? What for?” Aaron pulled to the curb, trying to find his notepad.

  “I’ve been drinking coffee. And we all know how attractive ticket agents can be. It’s practically a job requirement, you know.”

  “First of all, you haven’t been drinking coffee. All you’ve been doing is blowing on it. Second, we’re on the clock. No flirting.” But it was hopeless. He’d once witnessed Jarrod flirt with a car-crash victim while waiting for the ambulance and fire trucks to arrive. The woman wasn’t seriously hurt, but she had been stuck in her car, and Jarrod had volunteered to hold her hand. It was shameless.

  “Taylor,” Jarrod whispered as they walked up the stairs toward her apartment. “That’s such a great name. I mean, when have you ever met an unattractive chick named Taylor? Huh?”

  Jarrod actually expected an answer back.

  “This is it,” Aaron said, standing in front of apartment 345. He knocked three times. “Miss Franks? It’s the police. Are you okay?”

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone’s home,” Jarrod said.

  “Hello? Miss Franks?” Aaron tried the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door opened. He looked at Jarrod, who was equally surprised. “Let’s go in,” he said quietly. “Carefully.”

  Jarrod nodded, his eyes widening. The men stepped inside. “Miss Franks? It’s the police. Are you okay?”

  There was no answer. Jarrod moved toward the kitchen, and Aaron looked toward the living room. Near the corner was a window, the cut screen flapping in the wind. Aaron snapped his fingers to get Jarrod’s attention, then pointed at the window. Aaron indicated he was going down the hallway toward the bedroom. Both men’s hands settled on their guns.

  “Miss Franks? It’s the police.” Aaron stepped in a few more paces and called out her name again. The air conditioner kicked on. “Hello?” Apprehension slugged at his heart.

  He turned and walked down the hallway. “Miss Franks?” He called her name loudly, hoping to not startle her too badly if she was caught unaware. The bathroom faucet dripped steadily. The bedroom was a little messy, the bed unmade, laundry sitting out. But there was no sign of a struggle.

  Nobody was home.

  Aaron returned to the living room. “Go get the apartment manager,” he instructed Jarrod, then studied the window more closely. The screen was torn, probably cut. Apartment buildings in general were not known to have superior maintenance. A trained eye was going to have to check it out. He looked to the other buildings and saw half a dozen windows open. It was that season when people were often careless about open windows and unlocked doors.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Aaron turned to find a middle-aged man standing in the doorway, gazing around the room. “Taylor Franks. Do you know her?”

  “Not well,” said the apartment manager. He held out his hand and introduced himself as Chuck. “But she’s been a great tenant. Always on time with her rent.”

  Jarrod walked in behind Chuck. “Halloway and Martin are on their way.”

  “What’s happened?” Chuck asked.

  “We’re not sure. Coworker reported her missing this morning. Her apartment was unlocked and she’s not here. Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

  “No. But I can look it up in our files. She has a designated parking space. I’ll be right back.”

  Aaron squatted in front of the small table that was beside the open window, where two picture frames had fallen over.

  Jarrod was behind him observing the room and the window. “This doesn’t look good.”

  “It’s an odd scene,” Aaron said, standing. “No sign of a struggle, but signs that she left in an unusual manner. Look over there. Her purse is still on the chair.”

  Sergeant Halloway and Detective Martin walked in the door. “What do we have?”

  Aaron filled them in. Halloway was staring at the open window when Jarrod called, “Hey! Found something!”

  The others turned. Jarrod was in the kitchen, pointing to the counter. As they walked over, Jarrod said, “It’s a phone number on a scrap piece of paper. Next to this glass.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Halloway said. “Let’s run this number, see who it belongs to.”

  Aaron managed to say, “Don’t bother.”

  Everyone turned to him. “What do you mean, don’t bother?” Halloway asked.

  “I know who that number belongs to.”

  Shep Crawford drank green tea and gazed out the top window of his home, an old firehouse he’d refurbished himself. He loved it here. The walls seemed to speak of the mightiness of man, the courage that it takes to give up one’s life for a person who is probably not worthy of it. He still kept some of the portraits of the old firefighters on the wall, most likely dead and gone by now. Forgotten heroes. He swallowed the scorching hot tea.

  He was on duty in about ten minutes. In the bathro
om he quickly shaved, then brushed his teeth. He pulled a decent-looking shirt over his white undershirt, stained from years of sweat and hard work. He hated buying new undershirts. A man’s undershirt should tell the story of his life. All those men with their prissy white shirts bleached to perfection. All the stories ironed out. Didn’t they understand that’s what makes them men?

  A pole offered an alternative to the stairs, but Shep opted for the stairs this morning. He blazed down them, humming “The Star-Spangled Banner,” touching the American flag hung on the wall as he trotted past.

  Outside, the large garage seemed to swallow his sedan.

  “I’m going to catch me a bad man today,” he sang, taking a white rag and buffing the side mirrors and taillights on his car. “Gonna catch me a bad man today.”

  Halloway and Martin were trying to calm Aaron down, who was condemning and defending his brother in one breath. “I don’t know what this means,” he said as he paced outside the apartment on the cement walkway. “This is crazy.”

  Halloway said, “Aaron, listen; let’s just get ahold of your brother, okay? He can probably clear all this up. He’s probably with the woman right now.”

  Aaron nodded, but his mind continued to field one anxious thought after another.

  The apartment manager, Chuck, walked up the steps. “Her car is here. That white Rodeo. See it down there?”

  Aaron looked. Covered parking. There it sat. He quickly scanned the parking lot for any sign of his brother’s car, but there was none.

  “Oh no,” Halloway said.

  “What?” Aaron asked.

  “Look.” Halloway pointed below. “Who called Homicide, for crying out loud?” Nobody responded, and Halloway growled under his breath. “This is just great. Crawford of all people. I hate that man. I truly, truly, truly hate him.”

  Aaron watched Shep Crawford step out of his sedan. He was a tall man with shadowy eyes, who hardly ever smiled. Deep craters weathered his skin. And when he walked, he always looked as if he were walking against the wind.

  Aaron gripped the iron railing in front of him. “This is not a homicide.”

  Halloway shook his head. “Crawford’s going to come in here and start running the show.”

  A forensics truck pulled up.

  “Looks like he already is,” Aaron said.

  “We need to establish that Taylor is or is not with your brother, Aaron,” Halloway said. “Can you get in touch with him?”

  “He’s at school today, coaching.”

  Halloway watched as Crawford began climbing the three flights of stairs. “We have six homicide detectives on the force. Why did it have to be this loon?”

  Martin whispered, “I heard the guy marks everything he owns with his own blood so it can always be identified as his through DNA.”

  “You’re kidding,” Halloway said.

  “I swear I heard it.”

  “Marks everything he owns with his own blood. Now that’s a control freak for you,” Halloway said as Crawford walked toward them.

  Even though Aaron had dealt with Shep Crawford on only one other case, he knew the man had a reputation among other officers as being as crazy as some of the criminals he pursued. But nobody could dispute his effectiveness. He was practically a legend. Years ago he’d solved a serial rape case by piecing together the fact that each victim had a faint smell of pine on her clothing. That led him to a registered sex offender who lived in a camper in the woods.

  Still, there was something off about the guy that nobody could put a finger on. Most of the time he looked like a disheveled mess, yet everything around him was in perfect order. Aaron guessed he was in his fifties. His gray and white hair hung in strings over the tips of his ears and was thinner on top.

  “This is ridiculous,” Halloway said and walked back into the apartment, apparently to guard his territory. He looked back at Aaron. “What are you waiting for? Go find Mick.”

  Aaron’s feet felt like lead. Part of him wanted to stay here to find out everything that was going on, any piece of evidence they might uncover. But he thought the sooner he could clear Mick’s name, the better. The high school was about fifteen minutes away. Telling Jarrod he’d be right back, he left.

  “Come on, Jerrings, you woman! Push it!” Mick stood over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker and barked out the order. Jerrings’s face was turning red and his large, white teeth bore down like a clamp. “Come on!” Jerrings’s muscles shook, but he finally got the bar up. Mick helped him move it to the rack. “Good job.”

  Jerrings sat up, trying to catch his breath.

  “Kline!” Coach Rynde called.

  Mick looked up, and Rynde was pointing to the doorway of the weight room. He saw his brother standing there in full uniform. Mick rolled his eyes. He thought better of causing a scene by telling his brother off. He walked toward the doorway, shoulders back and eyes hard. “What do you want?” he said, still fifteen feet away.

  Aaron’s normally kind eyes were equally cold. “We need to talk outside.”

  “I need you to get out of here. I said I don’t want to see you again.”

  “This isn’t about us. You know a woman named Taylor Franks?”

  Mick shook his head but then stopped. Taylor. The woman he’d left the bar with? The woman whose apartment he’d woken up in? He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweats but couldn’t stuff the expression away that told Aaron everything he needed to know.

  “I don’t know her,” Mick said. “I met her. Once. Last night. At a bar.” He fought another urge to punch the judgmental look off Aaron’s face. “It’s none of your business!” Mick roared. “What are you doing now? Following me?”

  “You don’t know where she is?” Aaron guided him out into the hallway.

  “Where she is? No! She wasn’t even in the apartment when I woke up—”

  “You went to her apartment last night?” Aaron whispered harshly.

  “It’s not what you think. I don’t even remember half of it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  Aaron rubbed his face. “Brother, this is not a game. You better tell me what you know and tell me fast.”

  “Why?” Mick demanded.

  “Because Taylor Franks is missing, and your phone number, along with what I’m assuming are going to be your prints on a glass, is on the kitchen counter.”

  “This is absurd,” Mick grumbled as he rode across town in his brother’s cruiser.

  “You better take this seriously,” Aaron said, glancing at Mick, who was staring out the passenger’s window.

  “She took me to her apartment last night. We had a few drinks, talked. That’s it. I left this morning.” Mick’s fingernails scraped against the side of the door. He let out a huge sigh. “Nothing happened,” he said, looking at Aaron. “Despite what you think.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Aaron said, slowing for a stoplight.

  “I just left my number there. I didn’t even talk to her this morning. She was already gone.”

  “You met her at a bar?”

  “Yes, Aaron. A bar. A big, bad, horrible, sinful bar.”

  Aaron glared at Mick while the car was stopped. “Shut up. Just stop that mouth from running, would you? A woman is missing and you were the last person to see her. Do you understand how serious this is?”

  “I understand that you would love nothing more than to see me go down.”

  “Not for this.” Aaron turned left and headed toward the apartment complex. He turned into the parking lot. “Where’s your car?”

  “Back at the bar, I guess.”

  “Which bar?”

  “Tony’s, I think.”

  “Back to old habits, eh?”

  “I was just unwinding,” Mick said, getting out of the car. Then he noticed the police cars and the forensics truck. “How do they know she’s missing?”

  “She didn’t show up for work yesterda
y. Coworker says she never does that.”

  “Maybe she’s out driving around.”

  “Her car’s still here. There was a screen cut and a window open in her apartment.”

  Mick glanced up at the third floor, where officers were moving in and out of the apartment.

  Aaron caught his arm. “You need to tell me right now exactly what happened. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

  “Who says I need your help?”

  “Your pride is going to be your downfall.” Aaron tried to look him in the eyes, but Mick only stared at the ground, muttering something under his breath. “Come on,” he said, leading him toward the apartment. “Go in there, tell them everything you know. Be helpful. We want them looking at you as a witness, not a suspect, okay?”

  Mick followed him. “Which do you think I am?”

  “Don’t make this personal.”

  “You think I did it?”

  Aaron stopped and faced him, pointing a finger at his chest. “I think you decided a long time ago that you’re not worth much. You bought into that lie, Mick, and you’re living your life like you couldn’t care less if you are alive or dead. You’re worth a whole lot more than you know, and I pray you someday realize this.”

  Mick shook his head and shoved him away. “Nice sermon.”

  Aaron grabbed his arm and with a heavy hand guided him toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  Inside the apartment, the buzz stopped when Mick and Aaron walked in.

  Halloway greeted them and growled, “This is ludicrous. Crawford is treating this like a crime scene, and we’ve hardly established that the woman is missing! Look—” he extended his arm behind him—“the forensics guys are here! Crawford is out of his everlasting mind!”

  “Maybe it’s a slow homicide day,” Aaron said, trying to spot Crawford over Halloway’s shoulder. He couldn’t see him.

  “So, you know where this Franks woman is?” Halloway asked Mick.

  “He doesn’t know,” Aaron said.

  “I can speak, Aaron.” Addressing Halloway, Mick said, “I left my number for her. That’s all.”