Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  By the way the thunderhead’s cap toppled, Mick knew it would bring rain—a thunderstorm even—but nothing severe. The atmosphere, though unstable, wasn’t humid enough to generate the kind of supercells that produced tornadoes or straight-line winds. If he got lucky, there would be a grand display of lightning. He loved this time of year, when evening often brought some sort of storm.

  Since childhood, Mick had often been able to predict the weather as accurately as the meteorologists with all their high-tech computers. In midmorning, he would look west or south or northwest and know whether it would storm by evening or not. His parents and their friends even placed bets on him. He’d predict where the storms would form, how fast they would move, and what time it would rain in Irving. He ended up having a 67 percent accuracy rate.

  It was the air around him. He was sensitive to it, the way it felt against his skin, how hard his lungs had to work to inhale it. Depending on the temperature outside and the amount of moisture in the air, he could tell whether the atmosphere would conceive a storm.

  It was a gift.

  But not one with much use.

  His parents had encouraged him to follow his other gift, which was math. And so he did what everyone else was doing—got an accounting degree. He couldn’t think of anything more boring, and it seemed a graver mistake than his indiscretions, because it was this kind of boredom that landed him in trouble all the time. Thankfully, the football job had opened up, but being the assistant coach, though somewhat fulfilling, still didn’t scratch the itch that tickled his adventurous side.

  He’d been unsettled his whole life, feeling displaced. He’d had a loving family, grew up happy, possessed great childhood memories. But he never felt satisfied. He still didn’t.

  Mick walked down stone steps into the shadows of one of the man-made cliffs that formed a spraying waterfall. Suddenly cool, he stuck his hands in his pockets and found a bench to sit on. He was about forty feet below street level, and the noise of the busy city traffic drowned in the twenty thousand gallons of water that flowed through the fountains, the falls, and the delicate rivulets that snaked through the park.

  He’d been ten when the park had been completed, and he remembered coming down here with his brother and parents, marveling at the cascading waterfall that fell seven hundred and ten feet down the stone wall. Aaron had nearly pushed him in but caught him at the last second. He had gotten in trouble for it, but Mick thought it was kind of funny. He’d have done the same thing had he thought of it.

  A halfhearted rumble of thunder came from the west. Mick figured he had about an hour before rain fell. He closed his eyes, trying to find the peace that these waterfalls had brought him before. The pure sound of falling water desensitized the ugly world around him. If only for a few moments, he felt centered and well and whole. It never lasted, though. And of course his mind couldn’t be convinced he was in some exotic and beautiful jungle. It was a manufactured park in the middle of a busy, chaotic city.

  But even in his misty and serene surroundings, Mick couldn’t stop his mind from racing, from playing out a hundred different scenarios, including being charged with murder.

  Mick cursed the day he’d touched a drop of alcohol. He stared through the waterfall, watching the scene with Taylor unfold inside his head. The sound that now filled his ears was that of water slapping stone.

  “I like white-water rafting.”

  “Really? I love women who are adventurous.”

  “You seem to love women in general.”

  “I am a fan of the species.”

  “But you’re not a jerk.”

  “That’s perceptive.”

  “I can tell. You’ve treated me with respect tonight, even though you’re nearly drunk out of your mind.”

  “I’m drunk?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I had a little bit too much.”

  “You’re slurring every other word.”

  “It’s just my southern accent.”

  “I like you, Mick. You’re very funny.”

  “But you’re not smiling.”

  “I don’t have a lot to smile about.”

  “Why don’t you tell me? You’ve been mysterious all evening. Hinting at a lonely heart.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Scared? You look scared to me.”

  “You’re drunk. How many of ‘me’ are you seeing, anyway?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “You have to leave, okay?”

  “But I don’t want to. Aren’t you enjoying my charming personalities?”

  “More than you know. Especially the one that keeps winking at me.”

  “Then why do you want me to leave?”

  “You just have to leave.”

  Mick stood, his clothes damp and his hair tossed about his head like he’d overslept for a day. Even his fingers couldn’t comb it into place. A couple of young women giggled as they passed him. Mick couldn’t even begin to look back at them. He’d normally offer a quick grin, but today there wasn’t any flirtatious energy in him. He mostly just felt sick.

  After dragging his weary body back to his car, he fought Fort Worth traffic all the way into Irving. The sun was not down, but the storm was darkening the skies early.

  Driving down Claremore Street, on the shiftier side of Irving, he watched a neighbor kick his dog back into the chain-link fence that also housed an old pickup with only one tire. He hated this street, but right now this area was all he could afford. Jenny definitely deserved more than this. One day . . . one day he’d make it big.

  Mick watched an obese woman in pajamas sweep off a porch surrounded by three-foot-high weeds. He turned down the next street, where everyone mowed.

  Nebulous daylight held its own against the darkening sky, creating an almost perfect platform for the timid storm to move above. He always loved the way daylight willed to hang on, the starless sky capping its warm energy against the earth, just for a few more minutes.

  A few droplets of rain pelted the sidewalk as he parked his car and walked toward his house. But before he even reached the small porch, he noticed the door. Open ever so slightly.

  Though his knees wobbled, his gut told him to kick in the door and surprise whoever was in there with a nice, precise left hook.

  Then he thought better of making all the racket. He gripped the knob, listened, and pushed the door open, gazing into his living room. His furniture was lit by what little light filtered through the windows. Other than that, everything was dark and quiet.

  But not settled.

  He couldn’t believe the scene his eyes were adjusting to. His television had been knocked on the floor, his stereo system next to it. Every drawer in his kitchen was pulled out. Mick fumbled for the light switch on the wall, trying to register what he was seeing. His coffee table was turned over, photo albums strewn everywhere.

  He scratched against the wall, grasping at the light switch, his palms slick with sweat.

  A shadowy figure appeared from the hallway. Mick lunged for the lamp, toppled on its side next to the table that sat beside the couch. The shade was three feet away. From his baseball days, he knew one good swing would plant this monster on the ground, probably crush his skull too.

  He grabbed the lamp and swung it behind his shoulder like a bat, ready for the momentum to kick in and power up this weapon.

  “Wait!”

  Mick froze. The voice sounded familiar. He stumbled backward, not sure what to do. But before he could think too much about it, the figure was over by the light, switching it on.

  “Easy,” the voice said.

  “Detective . . . Crawford?” Mick pulled the name out of the vast collection of information that had piled into his brain over the past forty-eight hours.

  “Shep.” The detective walked forward, a good four inches taller than Mick, who was a pretty tall guy himself.

  Not letti
ng his guard down, Mick kept his hands squeezed around the metal base of the lamp. He took one step backward.

  The detective scanned the room. “Looks like you got a mess here.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mick’s words flew out of his mouth with the speed of a cue ball shooting across a pool table.

  “I came here to talk to you. Your door was open, and I noticed the whole place had been sacked.”

  Mick glanced around, still trying to comprehend what was going on. “You found it like this?”

  “Yeah. The bedroom and bathroom aren’t much better.”

  Mick dropped the lamp and let out a frustrated sigh. “This is insane. I can’t believe I got robbed.”

  “Robbed?” The detective looked at the TV. “This is no robbery.”

  Mick swallowed and stared at the detective. “Then what is it?”

  “Looks like someone was searching for something.”

  Mick left Detective Crawford and walked briskly to his bedroom. Hangers were bare, the clothes left in jumbled piles everywhere. Drawers hung on their hinges. Mick couldn’t begin to fathom what he was seeing. “What’s going on?” he breathed.

  He turned to find the detective observing him from the doorway. “Somebody got some motivation against you to do this?”

  Mick shoved past the detective and stalked to the kitchen. He pulled open the drawer where he kept emergency cash. It was still there. He held it up to show the detective. “This is unbelievable.” Mick threw the cash on the counter and walked to the living room, falling into the cushions of the couch. “Somebody was here yesterday too.”

  Detective Crawford joined him, sitting in the chair across from the couch.

  Mick immediately knew he didn’t like this guy, and it wasn’t just because he questioned him the other day. There was something spooky about the detective, the way his narrow eyes cut back and forth like a snake’s.

  “Where’s your police car?” Mick held his pounding head in his hands. He needed a stiff drink. Bad habits were hard to break.

  “I drive an unmarked car.”

  Mick glanced out the window and saw an unfamiliar sedan parked on the street a few yards from his driveway. Everyone parked on the street, so it had hardly stood out when he arrived home.

  “You said somebody came by yesterday?”

  “They didn’t do this,” Mick said, gesturing toward the TV, “but somebody was definitely here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.” Mick sat back in the couch. “They wanted me to know.”

  “Who do you think would do this?”

  “I have no idea.” Mick grunted. “This whole thing is such a mess.”

  “You think this is connected to yesterday?”

  “I don’t know,” Mick said. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  “No. I just wanted to clear something up.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I work alone.” Crawford stood, finding interest in something on the carpet. He stooped, looked at it, picked it up gingerly and studied it, then set it back down. “Besides, this isn’t official police business.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I have a feeling about you, Kline.”

  Mick couldn’t imagine what that feeling was. Everyone else seemed to have the wrong impression of him, including his own brother.

  “I don’t think you did it.”

  Apprehension, not relief, flooded Mick’s body. One leg bounced up and down nervously, but it was the only thing keeping him glued to his seat. “I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m about the only one who believes that, you see. Everyone wants to nail you to the prison wall, son.”

  “Why don’t you think I did it?”

  “There are many reasons. Some detectives see the clues they want to see. But sometimes it’s what I don’t see that tells me more. Plus, I have a gut instinct. Solved a lot a crimes over the years listening to my gut. It tells me you didn’t kill this woman.”

  “You found her . . . her body?”

  Shep stepped over the stereo and went back to his chair. “No. No body. But 90 percent of these cases turn out . . . poorly. We may never find a body, but that doesn’t mean she’s not dead.” He eased himself back into the chair. “That’s a hard thing for the family. Torture.”

  Mick looked at his hands. “I wish I could remember more about that night.”

  “Pretty drunk, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Just snatches of conversation. But nothing significant. I can’t imagine that I didn’t hear something, though. I mean, that seems so crazy to me, not hearing someone being kidnapped.”

  Shep shrugged. “Bartender—Jimmy, is it?—said you had a lot to drink that night.”

  “You talked to Jimmy?”

  Crawford’s eyes never stopped scanning the room. “He also said Taylor was seen arguing with someone in the parking lot that night. Was that you?”

  “I’m still not sure why you’re here.”

  “I want to find out that one thing that proves you didn’t do it. One thing is all I need.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Crawford didn’t answer, but his eyes glowed intensely.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Detective. I hardly remember anything. My car was at the bar, so if I did take her, I didn’t do it in my car.”

  “Good point. But we already thought of that. Could’ve used her car, then parked it back there that same night.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Did you check her car for blood? The trunk?”

  “It’s being processed right now.”

  “If she was kidnapped, why didn’t she scream? I would’ve heard her scream.”

  “Could’ve been gagged. Or could’ve been blackmailed out of the apartment. Could’ve left with someone she knew.”

  Mick couldn’t sit any longer. He rose and went to the kitchen, leaning against the breakfast bar. “Looks like a storm blew through here.”

  Crawford followed him. “I’m going to need your brother to stay out of this investigation, Kline.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The last thing I need is for him to be nosing around, sniffing up clues.”

  “I thought he was taken off the case.”

  “He was. Probably get suspended if he doesn’t back off. I don’t want him messing things up. He’s going to be hearing things on the news, probably through the department as well. But the fact of the matter is, I’m in control.”

  Mick shook his head, not completely understanding. Was Aaron investigating on his own time?

  Mick walked to the front door, examined it. “Wasn’t kicked in. Wasn’t yesterday either.”

  Crawford joined him, amusement crossing his face. “Good detective work.” He bent down to look at it. “Lock’s been picked. See these scratch marks?” He pointed to the knob. “Amateur. The good ones can do it and nobody will ever know.” Crawford straightened and gave him his card. “Don’t tell anyone I was here. Do you understand?”

  Mick didn’t understand. But he took the card.

  “I’ve got the DA’s office itching for a suspect, and I’ve got the media sure it’s you. I’m swimming upstream here, and I need time to investigate some things. You’re not off the hook, Kline. And if I find your fingernail somewhere it shouldn’t be, I’ll nail you. Got it?”

  Mick laughed a little. “Yeah. But I was already somewhere I shouldn’t have been.”

  Crawford gazed around the room one more time and said, “I’d watch your back. I don’t know who has got it in for you, but it looks like they’re serious.” And then he left, walking across the grass toward his vehicle.

  Mick shut the door, leaned against it, and let out a sigh. He shut his eyes, trying to get himself to stop shaking, trying to stop his heart from beating so fast.

  He wasn’t going to stay here tonight. He couldn’t imagine what they were looking for. Evidence? A
body? Something else? He rubbed the back of his aching neck.

  He couldn’t afford a motel room, not even a bad one, for more than a couple of nights. He doubted any of his friends would take him in, being a murder suspect. And sleeping in his car wasn’t really an option. Mick walked to his bedroom, grabbed a bag, and threw some clothes into it, going to the bathroom next for some toiletries. Back in the kitchen, he stuffed his emergency money into his pocket.

  Then he left out the front door, not even bothering to lock it.

  “I know you’re not hungry but eat anyway,” Jenny said, handing Aaron a plate. Working in his kitchen, she’d made spaghetti with her special meat sauce and topped it with sauteed mushrooms. She added a piece of garlic toast next to the spaghetti on his plate and set down a glass of water.

  Aaron smiled at her, though his stomach, with all its worry, had little room for food. “Thanks.”

  She joined him at the table and began twirling the spaghetti around her fork. “Talked to a Realtor today about selling my house. She seemed confident. Said my neighborhood is selling well.” She grinned. “Can’t wait to put my decorating touch on this place.”

  Aaron laughed. “It needs it!”

  “I love this place. It’s a beautiful house. The backyard is spacious, perfect for a horde of kids, huh?”

  Aaron smiled at her, picturing a darling little girl with blonde, curly hair and a splash of freckles across her nose. “Horde is a little optimistic, isn’t it?”

  Jenny giggled. “Well, at least three, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Two?”

  “Two and a half!”

  “A German shepherd would be nice.”

  The phone rang and Aaron hopped up to get it. “Hello? . . . Yeah. Really? . . . That’s odd. Uh-huh . . . okay, thanks.”