Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  “I would’ve. You just didn’t give me a chance. I’m trying to get my life under control.”

  “I know,” she said, touching his arm lightly. “I know that. You’re a good man. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You make poor choices, but I think it’s because of how you see yourself. You’re always comparing yourself to Aaron. Be who God created you to be.”

  Mick swallowed, her touch still lingering on his skin. “Look, Jen. Please don’t marry Aaron. At least not without giving me another chance. That’s all I’m asking for. Just another chance.”

  “How could I do that to your brother? I’ve committed my life to him.”

  “I know. But if you’ll just—”

  “No. No, Mick. I won’t let you come between us. I’m marrying Aaron, and I wish—I pray—that you would support that. You’re breaking Aaron’s heart.”

  “So my heart doesn’t matter?”

  “You’re being unfair. To say that, and to ask me to give you a second chance.”

  Mick’s nostrils flared as he let out a defeating sigh. Rain dropped to the sidewalk. But he already felt cold and wet.

  “Don’t let this destroy your family. Be happy for us and know that the right woman is out there for you. Get your life together, believe in yourself, forgive yourself. Let God help you.”

  Mick chewed on his lip, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “All Aaron wants to do is point out my flaws. That’s probably how he won your heart, huh? Pointing out how bad I am?”

  “No.”

  Lightning spidered across the sky. Soft thunder followed. Jenny checked her watch.

  “Aaron’s going to come home tonight and tell you who-knows-what about me, but I hope you, of all people, will at least give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You seem to be the only person who has any hope for me.”

  “I don’t understand. What is Aaron going to tell me?”

  “I’ve made mistakes in my life. The biggest one was letting you go. But I have a moral compass. I’m not sure Aaron believes that anymore.”

  Mick began walking off, but Jenny followed him. “What happened?”

  He waved her off and kept walking. Now he knew for sure he’d lost her, and he couldn’t bear to look into her eyes anymore.

  “Mick!” she called, but he opened the gate to the schoolyard, slamming it behind him, his first chance to blow off some steam. “Mick!”

  Across the parking lot, his green car was shiny with rain. Fumbling with his keys, he tried to steady his hand so he could get the car unlocked.

  “Please! Please! Wake up! You have to leave!”

  Mick stared into the rain. Taylor’s voice whispered a plea. Was he imagining it?

  “Please. Wake up, you moron! What have I done?”

  Rain poured over his face, but Mick didn’t move an inch. He was remembering something from last night!

  “Please, please, please. You can’t be here. You can’t. Please.”

  One blink and her voice was gone. Mick wiped the rain from his face. He ducked into his car, his clothes damp against his skin.

  Stephen Fiscall’s reflection told lies, but he didn’t mind, because nobody knew—or cared—what was on the inside anyway. Though he’d been in the southern part of the country for a little over three years, he was a Yankee at heart. Not a popular flag to wave here, but he waved it on occasion. Just to be tacky.

  Tacky didn’t even begin to describe the dress code for attorneys in Texas. Dusty cowboy boots worn by men who’d never touched a horse in their life. Slicked-back hair held in place by their oily personalities. Shirts that looked like their owners were going to the ranch, not the courtroom. Around their waists were belt buckles to match the size of their egos.

  Fiscall was a small man in stature. But it didn’t deter him. His mother had always taught him to hold his head high. No one ever explained that he shouldn’t take it literally. It didn’t matter. He was sort of known for the way he looked when he walked in the courtroom—nose in the air, hair combed without a speck of gel, and a tie, not a bolo. Not a bolo! It enraged him to think of some of the wack-job defense attorneys he’d come up against. The poor defendants hardly understood that the trial wasn’t about them.

  Fiscall straightened his tie and washed his hands, relieved to have his afternoon grande mocha out of his system. The chief of police, Sandy Howard, called it a “chick drink,” which Fiscall always found amusing coming from a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound guy named Sandy. Fiscall imagined he could’ve pulled off the name Kathy just as well. It was simply the kind of guy he was.

  Fiscall, on the other hand, knew he was regarded by many a redneck as having feminine qualities, only because he showered daily and groomed himself. He shined his shoes. Shaved his face. Common hygiene courtesies were taken for granted here, he was learning.

  Fiscall stared at himself in mock confidence, pressing his shoulders back and raising his chin a nudge. He walked out of the bathroom and straight to his office. The secretary indicated with a nod that he would be greeted when he went in.

  Sure enough, Detective Randy Prescott, one of the better dressed detectives he knew, was staring out the second-story window of Fiscall’s office. Turning, his Southern good-ole-boy grin sliced right across his face. “Stephen, good to see you! How’s our favorite assistant DA today?”

  Charmed. “Hello, Detective.”

  “Thanks for staying a little late. Sure you’re ready to get home to the wife and kids.”

  Stephen Fiscall stepped around to the other side of his desk. Yes. His wife and kids. Who’d left him and now lived in Florida, hardly acknowledging he existed. He hated the small talk of this town. Small talk was cheap and often filthy with hidden agendas.

  “So we have a kidnapping?” Fiscall waited for Randy to sit, stood above him for a moment, then also took a seat.

  “Yep. Looks that way. We got a cut screen, open window, an attempted 911 call, a missing lady who is a responsible type by all accounts, and a fellow who we can place at the scene. Oh, and blood.”

  Fiscall was jotting down notes. “Where’s Detective Crawford, anyway?” The man made him nervous, Fiscall admitted. Crawford had an edge to him that was not easy to miss.

  “I don’t know. Said he’d be here. Went to run an errand or something.”

  “Go on. How thoroughly do we have the guy placed there?”

  “Left his phone number on the counter. Neighbor saw him this morning leaving the residence in a hurry. Fingerprints on a glass. And has admitted to being there.”

  “Admitted being there. Classic. Of course he knows that will justify his fingerprints being there.” Fiscall sighed. “I’ll keep the admission in mind anyhow. It may be an arguable point in closing if this ever goes to trial. Big if right now.”

  “The guy also has scratches on his face.”

  Fiscall heard Crawford’s heavy footsteps before he even rounded the corner into his office. Decidedly, Fiscall resisted the temptation to look up. Instead he kept his eyes focused on the paper until he’d made Crawford stand there without acknowledgment for several seconds. Then he nonchalantly glanced up. “Lieutenant Crawford.”

  “Prescott fill you in?” he asked.

  “Working on it.”

  “Look, Fiscall, here’s the deal. This thing is going to get dicey, and you should know that from the beginning.”

  “Why?”

  “This suspect, Kline, he’s Aaron Kline’s brother. Aaron Kline of the Irving PD.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s an assistant high school football coach. Over at the Catholic school.”

  “And now a psychopathic killer, eh?”

  “I’m not sure we have a homicide.”

  “You have a lot of women show up alive after their homes have been broken into and they’ve tried to call 911? What else?”

  “Reportedly the guy was very intoxicated last night as well,” Prescott said. “And the bartende
r said he’d heard that Taylor had been yelling at someone in the parking lot, but he can’t give an exact time.”

  “So why’d the guy come back to the scene?”

  “He didn’t. His brother brought him back,” Prescott said. “We had the obvious evidence he’d been there, so he couldn’t deny it.”

  Crawford growled, “There’s nothing obvious about this case.”

  “Any signs of struggle?”

  “A few,” Crawford said.

  “What’d he say during interrogation?”

  Prescott cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Crawford made the call not to bring him in.”

  Fiscall couldn’t hide his surprise. He looked at Crawford. “Is that true?”

  “The guy came to the scene. There wasn’t much more we were going to be able to do at the station. Besides, sometimes making a suspect think he’s out of the woods lends itself in our favor.”

  “Fine. Your call. This Kline looks dirty.”

  Crawford said, “I want some time to investigate further.”

  Fiscall tossed his pen on the desk. “That’s nice, Crawford. But I’m not your boss, and I don’t have time for this kind of circus. What are you doing here?” He leaned back in his chair and threw his hands out in question. “You don’t need me to tell you that I need more evidence. I always need more evidence. You’re not going to hear any arguments from me.” Fiscall scratched his chin as he studied Crawford’s eyes—dark and glimmering but without his trademark self-assuredness.

  Crawford looked at him. “I’m telling you, we arrest the brother of a cop and it turns out not to be him, the fallout is coming down on your office. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, Texans enjoy a good fallout.”

  Fiscall swallowed underneath the tight collar of his heavily starched shirt. “Sounds to me like the captain is eager to get this guy.”

  “An attractive young woman is missing, probably kidnapped. Yeah, the public is going to want a mug shot.” Crawford stepped forward. “And you could finally get your high-profile case, right, Fiscall?”

  Fiscall faced Detective Prescott, whose eyes were round with uncertainty. “What do you think?”

  Randy shrugged, glancing at Crawford. “I don’t know. I mean, I think Shep’s got a point.”

  Fiscall groaned and pushed his chair back. “Crawford, for heaven’s sake, can’t anything go normally when you’re involved? Fine, go get your evidence.” He stared at his notes. “Get me a smoking gun. A body would be nice.”

  Crawford started to leave, signaling Prescott to stand.

  Fiscall said, “What’s that tune you’re always humming, Shep?”

  Crawford turned, shaking his head slightly.

  “I know. Gonna get me a bad guy today. That’s it, right? Or catch me a bad man? Something like that.”

  Crawford’s smile didn’t give any hint of pleasure.

  “Just get the bad guy, okay? Or the fallout’s going to be worse than if we get the wrong one.”

  Crawford wasn’t looking at him. His focus was on Fiscall’s file cabinet—on a framed picture of the governor standing in front of the American flag.

  Crawford’s eyes met Fiscall’s, but he said nothing.

  Fiscall sighed as Crawford exited. He looked at the governor, who had cut the police budget last year by 25 percent. Fiscall smiled. Crawford could never understand political ambition.

  On what he was very sure was one of the worst days of his life, Mick Kline could not get Tylenol to kick the headache that rolled against the back of his skull like a loose marble. He’d managed to skirt most of Coach Rynde’s questions. Luckily Rynde had hardly anything else but football on his mind, and Owen Gruber was at a local news station giving an interview about how great a team he’d made.

  Practice had been a mess. The dark skies had cleared enough to let sunlight through, but the field was nothing but soggy turf. Mud was speckled throughout his hair, and the bottoms of his tennis shoes were caked clods.

  At home, he briefly examined the small yard that needed to be mowed. When he’d rented the house, the guy assured him it would be taken care of, but so far Mick had mowed it every time. Unluckily for him, his neighbors took care of theirs, so at three inches tall, his grass was becoming a nuisance.

  Of course, he should have more important things on his mind.

  But this is what he’d done his whole life. Crisis meant refocus. And why not refocus on things that hardly mattered in the world? If the ground hadn’t been wet, he’d probably start up the mower and mow the entire neighborhood.

  Kicking off his sneakers onto the front porch, Mick ran his fingers through his hair, specks of dirt falling onto his shoulders. A shower was in immediate order.

  He felt for his keys in his pocket, found them, and unlocked the door. When he didn’t hear the usual click, he tried again. Still no click. Pulling his key out, Mick blinked and hesitated, then turned the knob and swung the front door open.

  Standing on his porch, he tried to pedal his thoughts backward, beyond the bar, beyond Taylor’s, to yesterday afternoon when Aaron had come over to tell him the “good news.” Afterward, he’d left angrily. He remembered slamming the front door as he walked out. But had he locked it?

  Mick stepped inside, scanning what he could see of his small living room. TV and stereo were untouched. He threw his keys on the small table by the wall and shut the door.

  Switching on the light, he took one more good look around and decided he’d left the door unlocked. Wasn’t something he would normally do, but neither was slugging his brother, so there was not much he could count on about that day. Not much at all.

  Mick threw off his Windbreaker and went to the bathroom to shower. He opened the window above the tub. To him, there was nothing better than the smell after a hard rain. It soothed him as much as a long, hot shower.

  Steam filled the bathroom as Mick dumped his muddy clothes in the hamper in his bedroom and threw on his robe. Fatigue was setting in, and it wasn’t even evening. A quick shot of orange juice could do more than just about any other drink.

  Heading toward the kitchen, the steam of the shower dampened his forehead as he passed the bathroon. He stopped in the middle of the hallway and returned to his bedroom.

  His pajama bottoms were not at the bottom edge of his bed. They were near his hamper. Mick stood in thought. His pajama bottoms, without fail, were always at the end corner of his bed, because every morning he left them there when he sat on the edge to get dressed. It was one of those things that he knew would drive a future wife crazy.

  But that was two nights ago. Last night he had not come home. Had he kicked them out of the way inadvertently the day before? Not likely. He was more accustomed to stepping over all his clothing. Nobody would believe there was a science behind all those clothing piles.

  He scanned the rest of the bedroom. Dresser drawers were closed, but he opened each one anyway, trying to find something out of place.

  He moved to his closet, looking carefully at each section. Hangers had been moved. He sensed it. He knelt, trying to get an idea if anything was missing. In the back corner, he had a safe, filled only with baseball cards, but a thief would investigate it.

  Pushing the clothes aside, he saw the red metal, always flush against the back corner wall. It had been pulled out at least three inches.

  Mick scrambled to his feet, backing out of the closet and whipping around, trying to take in the whole room at once. He backed down the hallway and into the living room.

  There. His CD and VHS collection. Usually in a neat pile—nearly the only thing neat in his entire house—it was pushed sideways, leaning against the side of the stereo casing.

  The photo album under his coffee table that was always open to a picture of him and his mother and father on vacation in the Bahamas was now open to an old photo of him and Aaron at a baseball game, chummy arms around each other.

  Mick glanced at the entryway tile and bent over for a closer look. There—light brown footprints. Fro
m the mud. He followed the prints back to the kitchen. On the kitchen tile, the prints were barely visible, but he could feel them with his fingertips. Nothing else seemed out of order.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was panting like he’d just finished practice. The after-rain humidity crowded his lungs. Opening a cabinet, he grabbed a glass, slamming it to the counter from sheer adrenaline.

  He swung open the refrigerator door and snatched the orange juice container. Mick held it up and stared at it. Completely empty. Somebody drank his orange juice? Clenching his jaw, he threw the container across the room.

  Whoever had been here wanted to make sure Mick knew it.

  Stomping down the hall , Mick flipped the dead bolt on the front door, then went to the bathroom. He threw off his robe and stepped into the shower. His skin stung as the ice-cold water hit it.

  He didn’t care. Right now his blood was running cold anyway.

  Sammy Earle sighed. A long, exhausting, indifferent sigh. His secretary, JoAnne, stared at him from the doorway of his office. “Did you hear me? You’re late?”

  “I heard you,” Sammy said, pushing three pieces of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. He was trying to quit smoking. Trying for five years. He’d stopped drinking and using pot, so the other vice didn’t seem so urgent. Except he couldn’t run a mile anymore. There had been a day when he could run ten. “You keep yapping like a dog and you’re going to turn into one.”

  JoAnne’s heavily lined eyes lit with surprise, and she scowled at him as she turned on her heel and left.

  If JoAnne could manage an ounce of class, Sammy would probably give her a bit more respect. But her bright pink fingernails and her bobby-pinned bushel of hair did little to make her the least bit attractive. He supposed she dressed trashy to offset her other physical disasters, but it ended up creating a package straight out of the ’80s. The woman still wore leggings under her fluffy skirts and hoop earrings that nearly touched her shoulders. Sammy wanted to pin a sign to her forehead that read Wake Up! It’s 1995!

  Sammy grabbed his briefcase and jacket, smoothing out his hair and trying to pull the crease out of his tie. He didn’t feel like defending a rapist today. He hardly ever did.