Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  Mick glanced up. Gary was chewing his lip and looking into the air. Owen, on the other hand, was studying Mick with an intense smirk trembling at the edges of his lips, waiting to break into a full-force sneer.

  “You don’t know what’s going to happen next?” Gary was studying him.

  Mick shook his head. “No idea. I mean, they haven’t arrested me yet, so that tells me there are some other angles being looked at. Thank goodness.” He propped his tired head onto his hand, closing his eyes at the exhausting thoughts and the men’s skeptical expressions.

  “You look like you could use a bed to rest that conscience of yours on,” Owen said under his breath.

  Gary shot him a look that kept his mouth shut for several more minutes.

  “Look, Coach, I didn’t do this,” Mick said. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s as big a mystery to me as it is to anybody what happened to this lady.”

  Mick hated the term this lady. He’d known Taylor for only a short time, but she wasn’t a total stranger. Unfortunately, much of her identity was lost in the fog of his mind.

  Gary glanced at Owen. “Give us a minute, will you?”

  Owen flinched at the idea, his nostrils flaring in protest. But without another word, he left the room.

  Gary rose and shut the door behind him, then turned and leaned against it, crossing his arms together in the same manner he did at football games while watching one of his many plays unfold on the field.

  Mick hung his head. Gary seemed to be everything Mick wanted in his life. In his late forties, he was still a good-looking, athletic guy, with a lot of charm, wit, and character. It takes a special personality to relate to kids who think they own the world, and Gary had it. But today, Gary’s normally sparkling eyes were sterile.

  “So, what are you going to do here?” Gary asked, adjusting the sun visor he always wore.

  “Do?”

  “You have a game plan?”

  Mick swallowed. Well, no. But he didn’t really see this as a game that needed a strategy. His perplexed look caused Gary to chuckle a little bit.

  Gary strolled over to the large chalkboard he kept in his office, eyeing the Split V-3 play he’d constructed last week. They’d run it a few times in practice, and it seemed to work well. Gary seemed to be a genius at everything he did. But Mick could tell that, though Coach stared at the board, his mind, for once, wasn’t on football.

  “So you’re just going to sit there and take it? Is that it?”

  He wasn’t sure what Gary was trying to say.

  Gary smiled as he went to his desk. He stared at Mick with openly candid eyes. “Mick, you’re not a murderer or a kidnapper or anything of that sort. Gruber would love for you to go down for this. But Gruber is an insecure guy who loves to try and squash anybody that might threaten his little throne of power.”

  “I don’t think I’m a threat to Owen.”

  “Everybody is a threat to Owen.” Gary scratched his head and said, “Back in 1984 I was coaching at a small middle school out in Plano. We had a winning team two years in a row, and it really picked the school up. But along came Ricardo Martinez.”

  “Ricardo Martinez?”

  “Two-hundred-pound linebacker with a body that could crush a car.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. At fourteen too. Problem was, Ricardo was no good. But his parents didn’t see it that way. And his parents were psychopaths.”

  Mick laughed.

  “You know the type, yelling at the Little League games, cursing at small children, threatening to kill their parents. Every time I put Ricardo in, however, he’d mess up and end up costing us a lot. I worked with the kid—or tried to—but at the end of the day, Ric thought he knew it all and was unteachable. He wouldn’t even try to implement what I showed him. So I yanked him from the lineup and refused to start him.”

  “Good for you.” Mick smiled.

  “Yeah. Until they accused me of sexual abuse.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. Said it happened in the showers when all the other kids were gone. I got suspended, of course, and they began a criminal investigation on me. I’d been married three weeks when all this went down.”

  Mick’s mouth fell open. “I had no idea!”

  “That’s because I never talk about it. They were some of the worst days of my life. I didn’t do it, but how can you prove it?”

  “So what happened?”

  Gary grinned, stretching his arms over his head and clasping them behind his neck. “The only thing I could do. Fight for myself. And so I did.”

  “How?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Snuck into the family’s house while they were gone, hid in a living-room closet behind some coats. Waited. When they returned, my wife called and pretended to be a reporter asking questions, which got the topic started once they hung up the phone. And so I tape-recorded them talking about their plan to bring me down. For thirty minutes they gave me everything I wanted. I stayed in the closet all night until they left the next morning. Then I took the tape to the police before they even brought it to the DA. Since it was still at the investigation stage, the tape was used to prove I was set up. It never went to trial.”

  “Wow!” Mick shook his head. “That’s an incredible story.”

  The fervor of the storytelling faded, though, as Gary leaned forward on his desk. “Mick, I don’t know what happened here, but you better find out. You don’t know who you can trust. Doesn’t seem like anybody is looking out for your best interest. They’re out to find a kidnapped woman and someone they can nail for it. It’s either going to be you or the person who did this.”

  “But how do I—?”

  Gary held up his hands. “You’re a smart guy. Half the time you don’t tap into what’s up here. But this is a serious thing, and you’re going to have to figure it out fast.”

  Mick couldn’t fathom how he might do that.

  Gary stood, holding out his hand.

  Mick stood too, shaking Gary’s hand firmly. “You’ve always believed in me, Coach.”

  Gary smiled. “There’s something holding you back. I hope you find out what it is soon.” Gary walked him to the door a few feet away. “I’m going to try to persuade the board to make this a paid leave. I’m not sure how I’ll fare, but I’ll try.”

  Mick hadn’t thought of the financial implications. He tried to keep a steady smile on his face, though. “Thanks.”

  “Touch base with me on this, okay? I want to remain updated.”

  “I will.” Mick walked down the long hallway that led out to the gymnasium and then the east parking lot. His stomach burned from stress and hunger, so he decided to go to the grocery store.

  He’d always lived a bachelor’s life, in need of not much more than milk, orange juice, eggs, and cold cereal. Was there really anything else in life? On occasion, he had been known to go to the trouble of fixing a ham-and-cheese sandwich or a PBJ. And he even liked cucumber sandwiches, especially when his mom used to bring over fresh cucumbers from her garden before their parents moved away.

  He hadn’t called their parents yet. He knew Aaron would, anyway. The fact of the matter was he didn’t have a clue how to explain this. He didn’t much understand it himself.

  Mick strolled down the cereal aisle, parking in front of the ones that cost twice as much and were loaded with sugar. He picked up a couple of boxes and threw them into his cart.

  “I’ve found men are all the same.”

  “Do you think that’s fair?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you disagree? Here you are, stumbling into my apartment with a woman you hardly know, expecting who knows what.”

  “I’m not that kind of person.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Mick blinked and the conversation faded. But he saw the scene in his head. They were at Taylor’s apartment, sitting on the couch together. Mick’s head was buzzing, and the store was swirling. He’d been trying to concentrate
.

  Mick pushed his cart forward.

  “You seem genuinely concerned about me.”

  “I am concerned. I want to help you, but you haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

  “You shouldn’t be here. I’m a moron for bringing you back here. Why do I always make the same mistakes with the same kind of men?”

  “What kind of men?”

  “The kind that think of women as pawns in a wicked game of power.”

  “Sir? Sir. Hello? Fifteen dollars and seventy-two cents.”

  Mick stared at the woman in front of him. He was at the checkout and hardly remembered getting there. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. Fifteen and?”

  “Seventy-two cents, for the fourth time.”

  “Right.” Mick grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket. But when he opened it, his money was gone. “What the—?”

  The woman at the cash register had her hands on her hips, as did the mother of four behind him. “Problem?”

  “My money’s gone!” Mick’s mind raced. He’d had his wallet with him since Wednesday night, and it had been with him even when he thought somebody might have been in his house.

  “Yeah, it just spends itself, doesn’t it?” the cashier said, popping her gum.

  His maxed-out credit card was still there, and he didn’t have his checkbook.

  “What’s the problem here?” the store manager asked. His chin was tilted up with authority.

  “No money,” the woman said.

  “My money has been stolen,” Mick explained. “I had at least sixty bucks in here.” He knew he’d started Wednesday night off with eighty or more. But even buying Taylor’s drinks, he wouldn’t have spent more than twenty or twenty-five dollars.

  “Sorry to hear that. How are you going to pay for these?” the manager asked, pointing to the sacked groceries.

  Mick stuttered. “I-I can’t.”

  The matronly woman behind him sighed loudly as one of her kids belched in the other kid’s face, inducing hysterical giggles.

  Mick folded his wallet and walked out, the gnawing hunger in his stomach completely gone.

  Shep Crawford eyed Captain Fred Bellows, who was standing near the two-way mirror staring openly at the woman in the interrogation room.

  “Life has beaten her to a bloody pulp,” Fred remarked.

  Mrs. MaryLou Franks looked eighty to her fifty-four years. Kind, hollow eyes stared across the room, and in her face years of pain had etched deep, scarlike wrinkles into her skin. She was nervously tapping her fingers against the metal table, waiting.

  “You sent Prescott to interview Sammy Earle?” Fred asked, keeping his eyes forward but raising an eyebrow. “I thought he could handle it.”

  “You hardly ever think Randy can handle anything.”

  Shep looked through the window. “I think Mrs. Franks will be invaluable. Besides, clues are rarely where you think they should be.”

  “So you say. Rumor has it you think Kline isn’t our man.” Fred stepped away from the mirror and to the watercooler. “I don’t like being underhanded, Shep.”

  “All that stuff we found in the victim’s apartment seemed a little too convenient to be attached to this Kline guy. I need some extra time. Prescott will give me some good information on Earle, the ex-boyfriend, and then we’ll go from there.”

  “The chief isn’t happy. We’re all coming under heat for this, including Fiscall. It’s a high-profile kidnapping case.”

  “All Fiscall cares about is the election in eighteen months. He could use a case like this, couldn’t he?”

  “I don’t care about Fiscall. Just get back to me and soon. I want a decision by tomorrow.”

  “Who’s pushing you on this?” Crawford asked.

  “Irving is pushing. The story broke this morning and people are going to want to know something, especially with a very viable subject running around town. A viable subject who is coaching their children.”

  “I think we’re going to find Sammy Earle very interesting.”

  “He’s a prominent attorney. Whichever one ends up being our man, we’re going to be taking a lot of heat. We better make sure we get it right.” Fred rubbed his eyes.

  Shep said, “Let’s see what this young woman’s mother has to say about the man her daughter once loved.”

  Shep stepped around Fred and went into the room where Mrs. Franks sat, clutching her purse and bouncing her knee.

  She stood as Shep entered. “Any word on Taylor?”

  “I’m Shep Crawford, head of the Criminal Investigation Unit here in Irving. Please sit down, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Franks sat back down. “Anything at all?”

  “Not yet. We’re working every angle on this case, Mrs. Franks, which is why I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  Mrs. Franks shook her head. “Not much, I’m afraid. Taylor and I have been estranged for a year or so now.”

  “Estranged?”

  “We had a fight. A lousy fight,” she managed through soft sobs.

  “Over?”

  She didn’t look up as she spoke. “I’m not proud of it. But I just wanted Taylor to have a better life than me. We were always so poor. White trash, I guess you’d call us. We lived in a trailer most of our lives and hardly ever had enough of anything that was good—plenty of things that were bad, though.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “She was dating this man, Sam Earle. The attorney I told the other man about. Have you seen him? He’s always on the television. Real nice-looking gentleman.”

  “About my age, isn’t he?” Shep asked.

  Mrs. Franks nodded. “Yeah. He was an older man, much older than my Taylor. Taylor has never had a problem with men. She just has this class in her, you know? Like she was born to be better than she started out to be. She’s so pretty, has the face of an angel; I swear it. When she left home and went to work, she started dressing real nice too.”

  “And?”

  “She began dating Sam Earle a few years back. Maybe three. She bought a new car. Lived in that nice apartment. Was just a class act. And those two, they looked like they belonged together.”

  “He’s old enough to be her father, ma’am.”

  “Who’s counting years? She finally found a man who could give her the world!” Mrs. Franks said. “Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to have nothin’, but it’s a rotten life, I tell you.”

  “So Mr. Earle gave her the world, did he?”

  “Would take her to fancy restaurants, big parties. They drove around in a limo a lot. Everyone said they were such a handsome couple, and they were.”

  “What happened?”

  Mrs. Franks diverted her eyes, staring at the window that reflected her homely, dejected image. “Taylor, she’s always been so dramatic.”

  “How so?”

  “She blows a lot of things out of proportion, that’s all. She used to be a shy girl, back when she was younger. Didn’t say much. She grew out of that, though. Anyway, she came home with this story about how Sam wasn’t treating her right.”

  “Treating her how?”

  “My goodness, how could he not be treating her right? He was the best thing to happen to her. I’m sure he would’ve bought her anything if she’d asked.”

  “What were her claims against him?”

  “Claims? Oh, I don’t know. The girl rambled about everything, but I guess she might’ve said something about him hitting her.”

  “So he hit her.”

  “That’s what she said. And some psychobabble about verbal abuse.” Mrs. Franks shook her head and laughed loosely.

  Shep leaned forward. “Are you saying that your daughter at one point claimed that Sammy Earle was abusing her, both physically and emotionally?”

  Mrs. Franks’s sour eyes turned to Shep. “Look, she didn’t know what she had. Nothing was good enough for her!”

  “You told her to stay with this man?”

  “I told her that sometimes you just gott
a live with some things. I mean, she wasn’t living in a trailer and she had a lot of money. Sam was treating her real good. I guess he had some sort of temper, but Taylor couldn’t live with that.”

  “So they broke up?”

  “’Bout a year ago. A little over a year maybe. I told her that was ridiculous. I told her to toughen up. But she wouldn’t listen to me. And she stopped talking to me because I told her she should rethink herself. Said I was a weak woman.” Mrs. Franks’s words sizzled with disdain. “You probably think I’m some sort of bad mother.”

  Shep carefully wrote down his notes. “Mrs. Franks, we’re just trying to find out what happened to your daughter. Have you ever met Mr. Earle?”

  “No. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see our roots. She was better off hiding that part of her life.”

  “Tell me about your husband, Taylor’s father.”

  Mrs. Franks’s body seemed to wilt against the chair. “Why?”

  “Simply background information, ma’am. Might be helpful.”

  “Don’t see how. He’s been dead a decade or more.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Liver.”

  “Liver?”

  “That nasty whiskey. Got his liver.”

  “He was an alcoholic?”

  Mrs. Franks’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Did he ever abuse you or your daughter?”

  “Why’s that matter?”

  “Did he?”

  Mrs. Franks laughed off his question and stared at her purse.

  “We’re almost finished, Mrs. Franks. Do you think Mr. Earle might’ve done something to Taylor?”

  Mrs. Franks thought out the question. “I don’t honestly know,” she finally said in a very soft voice.

  “Do you know of anyone else Taylor was involved with? Anybody who might want to hurt her?”

  “Don’t know. She’s a sweet girl, sir,” she said, her tissue catching falling tears. “The other detective yesterday said there’s evidence that she was taken.”

  “I’m sorry. It does appear that way.”