Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  “He has a good heart, though sometimes he doesn’t use his head.”

  “I’m scared that somebody will get hurt, Jenny. They’re going to consider him armed and dangerous. I have no idea if he has a weapon or not. Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid.”

  “Mick’s got a plan.” Aaron looked up at her. Her always-positive face glowed with a shade of enthusiasm. “He didn’t just bolt to run from the police.”

  Aaron sighed and rejoined her on the couch. “I pray that Mick knows what he’s doing. Because I sure don’t.” He pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was under interrogation for nearly the whole evening.”

  She sat up. “Really?”

  “I think they believed me in the end, but it looked pretty bad because I asked for extra time and met Mick at his house; then he disappeared. Anyway, I’m on paid leave.”

  “Oh, Aaron. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know how long it will be. Captain Bellows knows me. I’m sure he believes me, but I understand why he’s doing it.”

  “You want some coffee?” Jenny asked.

  Aaron nodded and she went quietly to the kitchen to make it. He found himself staring out the window. The only thing staring back was his somnolent face.

  He wondered if he should tell Jenny. It was probably better that she didn’t know. It was better that no one knew.

  Mick had taken his badge.

  Assistant DA Stephen Fiscall had slept soundly and was now enjoying a double caramel mocha as he drove to work. The radio waves were filled with alerts that a fugitive was on the run, and the DJs were talking about it as if it were sport. Some stations were placing bets. Others were issuing overly dramatic warnings about what you should do if you see this “very dangerous man.”

  It all massaged his ego, because he knew he’d been right. Shep Crawford and his amour propre had done nothing but make himself look foolish. Maybe Chief Howard would see Crawford for what he really was this time. The department could live without his maniacal tendencies, regardless of his proclivity toward brilliance.

  Last night before he’d turned in, Fiscall heard the police helicopters overhead, the thumping of the blades at times shaking the glass of his house.

  The man had run. Fiscall couldn’t have orchestrated anything better. Secretly he’d had doubts about being able to prosecute either suspect. There simply wasn’t enough hard evidence, especially with no true validation of a murder and barely validation of a kidnapping. But now he had a fugitive.

  As he rode the shiny gold elevator up one floor to his office, he turned toward the mirror, mindless of the others in the elevator, and adjusted his tie. He’d picked his best suit, the one he wore for press conferences. He suspected he’d be on television at least twice today. As he got off the elevator, his prosecutors and fellow employees grinned and shot thumbs-up.

  Fiscall nodded humbly, smiling cordially and shaking the hands that were offered.

  District Attorney Willie Blazedell, his boss, caught him as he rounded the corner toward his office. “Stephen,” he said with a lazy accent, “my goodness. What a day. Good job. Not bad for a Yankee.” He offered his large hand and winked.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sandy called, said they picked up Kline’s scent but lost it across the highway.”

  “They’ll find him. Nothing like a good manhunt to get the police fired up.”

  Willie laughed but then turned serious. “Good call, by the way. I looked over the evidence. Not enough against Sam Earle.”

  “Not the kind of mess we want right now anyway.”

  “I agree. The flowers made me hesitate, though. We’re going to have to figure out what to do with those.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But in the end, it was this Kline guy who was at the scene of the crime.”

  “Can’t say I’m a big fan of an attorney like Sammy Earle, but we got the right guy.”

  Willie smiled. “Would’ve been something. Taking down one of the most despised attorneys in Dallas.”

  “Ever been up against him?”

  “No. But feel like I have, as much press as that guy gets. I just hope he never sets foot in Irving.” Willie checked his watch. “Well, don’t let me stop you. You’ve got things to do. Heard there’s a press conference called for 2 p.m.”

  “Hope I have some news to report.”

  “If not, play the other coin. Try to avoid mentioning his brother. Let’s keep that out of the news as much as possible. Want to make this about the man and the evidence. Just be careful what you say.”

  “Yeah.” Fiscall held back a smile. It was nice to have his boss trust him with a press conference.

  He tried to receive the slap on the back with grace, though he still wasn’t used to all the slapping and hee-hawing that went on in this part of the country.

  In his office, he set his briefcase and mocha down and stretched, releasing a tired yawn that the mocha had yet to remedy. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his door. He buzzed his secretary. “I want all calls pertaining to the Kline case passed to me.”

  He had a lot to do this morning. But he always allowed himself to enjoy his mocha. So he took it off the edge of his desk and turned, ready to relish the warm sunshine that filtered through his second-story window at this time of the morning.

  He stopped.

  Smeared across the outside of his window was . . . was . . . what was that?

  He stepped toward it, leaning in and squinting. He grimaced and stumbled backward.

  Blood.

  Splattered in every direction across his window.

  He lost his taste for the mocha, setting it down on his desk, nearly spilling it. Shaking his head, he turned from the sight.

  A bird had probably flown into the window. He buzzed his secretary. “I need somebody in here from maintenance. Now.”

  Dumb Texas birds.

  “Baaahhhaaaa.”

  Mick jolted upward, causing the sheep to stir. They eyed him nervously. He was hunched in one corner of an open-air barn, leaning against a dusty wall. The sheep were roaming around freely near the barn. Mick suspected they were probably waiting for food, which meant somebody would be arriving soon.

  He checked his watch. It was a little after nine. He’d been asleep for two hours. Exhausted from the night of fleeing in the darkness, he had trouble standing. His legs ached and his toes were sore.

  He coughed and sneezed, his allergies hitting high gear. Dusting himself off, he stepped forward, causing the sheep to scramble nervously toward the sheepcote. He grabbed the small, black duffel bag he’d managed to get out his bathroom window. Aaron had given it to him a while back, something he’d won in some church marathon. Mick had never used it, but inside he knew it had a few items from sponsors, such as a toothbrush, toothpaste, a religious T-shirt, a candle, wind pants with a logo on them, and restaurant coupons. He’d added to that the money he’d taken from his home.

  And Aaron’s badge.

  He held it up and carefully looked at it, then stuck it in his pocket, biting his lip at the thought of what his intentions were for using it. Running his hands through his tangled hair, he tried to focus on what he needed to do.

  He tried to remember all the information about Taylor he’d gleaned from the news and from his brother. She had worked for Delta Airlines, and her friend Liz Lane was the one who’d first talked to the police. The police had interviewed Taylor’s mother, who lived in a trailer park outside Irving.

  Aaron had told him that Taylor had dated Sammy Earle, a well-known defense attorney from Dallas. The relationship had broken up a year ago from what Aaron heard. But he said the day before Taylor disappeared she received a bouquet of flowers from Sammy. That was the only evidence they had that he’d been in contact with her.

  Mick processed all this, storing it away in his mind, and then tried to figure out what he was going to do. He wasn’t sure where he was, somewhere about ten miles north of Irvi
ng, he thought. Last night he’d made his way to a grouping of trees and had darted around avoiding the helicopter’s spotlight for thirty minutes before finally shifting directions and leaving the search behind.

  He’d even heard the dogs, though they were far enough away he didn’t think they’d be able to find him.

  Mick fingered his three-day stubble and realized if he was going to go back into town, he needed to look different. He imagined that the picture floating all over the airwaves was his mug shot from seven years ago, when he’d been arrested on a DUI he was later cleared for.

  He could grow a beard in four days, his stubble grew so fast. He had to shave every morning to even look presentable. By tomorrow, his entire chin and jaw would be darkened by hair.

  He glanced around the barn, looking for anything that might come in handy. Walking the dusty path inside, he was starting to get sick of the heavy farm smells that lingered despite the open-air barn. Parked in the corner was a John Deere tractor. Stacked in the other corner were bags of feed for a variety of animals. An assortment of tires and wires and junk lined the closed wall of the barn.

  Over by the tractor was a workspace of some sort, and as he approached he saw miscellaneous tools and farm equipment. He picked through some nails on a workbench, but avoided a variety of prods, a box of horseshoes, three dirty syringes with four-inch needles, and a long extension cord. He followed the trail of the cord over to a small secluded area and discovered what the cord was plugged into.

  Electric shears.

  Mick scratched the back of his head, his mind hurrying through possibilities. He looked at the large razor attached to the end of the shears, powerful enough to remove a sheep’s thick coat. He reached down, clutched the shears, and turned them on. They vibrated wildly in his hands, and at the sound, the sheep who’d gathered in a little closer to observe him sprinted away.

  Mick started at his forehead and worked backward, clamping his teeth together as the shears tugged and ripped at his hair. He wished he had a mirror, but feeling with his hands, he managed to shear himself in about five minutes.

  He rubbed his hand in circles around his scalp, feeling for any missed hair. There was nothing but nearly smooth skin. He’d need a razor to go completely bald, but he figured this was enough of a change.

  He set the shears down and scooped as much of the hair up as possible. He didn’t want to leave a trail. He wrapped the hair in some discarded newspaper and threw it in the barrel of garbage just outside the barn.

  When he stepped outside, he was surprised to see another barn, not as big but closed and newer looking, about twenty-five yards away. He hadn’t noticed it last night in the dark, but he’d been so weary he hardly remembered collapsing into the hay.

  Making sure there was nobody nearby, Mick hurried over to the small, red barn. The two large doors were padlocked. Mick went around the corner and found two windows. Deciding to try one, he slid it open easily. With one jump, he managed to pull himself up to the window and fall in on the other side, landing on a pile of grain and causing a huge cloud of dust to drift up.

  Coughing and waving his hand, Mick looked around. This place was much more organized than the other barn. A shiny four-wheeler sat in the middle, as though the barn had been built specifically to house it. Mick guessed the guy used the vehicle to get around his land. On the far wall, tools hung in an orderly fashion, and two large shelves held bottles of medicine, hoses, and other items. Hanging above all that was a shotgun.

  Mick noticed a wall of keys and walked over to it. Right in the middle, on a bright red key chain, hung a padlock key. But he wondered what all the other keys were for. There were at least twenty. Some looked like house keys. Others looked like car keys.

  Mick turned to scope out the rest of the barn. In the opposite corner looked to be a pile of junk. But as he got closer, he noticed three dirt bikes, all fairly old and run- down. He pushed some sheet metal out of the way and lifted the motorcycles off one another. The one leaning against the wall of the barn didn’t look as beat-up as the other two. He pressed on the tires, which were both full of air. Pushing as much junk as he could out of the way, he rolled the bike out into the open, next to the four-wheeler, and kicked the stand out. Mick wiped the seat free of dust. By the mud caked to it, it looked like an amateur racing bike.

  Mick returned to the wall of keys and studied each one. He grabbed six that looked like they could fit a motorcycle. He tried the first three and had no luck. On the fourth try, though, the key slipped into the ignition and turned easily. Mick swung his leg over the bike, prepared to give it a good kick start. He tried it once, but nothing happened. A second time, the bike sputtered but died. Mick stood, ready to use his entire weight for the kick start when he heard the sound of an engine.

  Hopping off the bike, he ran to the window. Coming toward the barn was an old Ford pickup, bouncing along the dirt path, the trail of dust behind it looking like the bushy tail of a wild animal.

  Mick watched the tall, elderly man carefully ease out of his pickup, one foot at a time. He plopped a large cowboy hat on his fuzzy head and looked around, arms stretching in a lazy yawn. The man noticed the sheep nearby and walked to the open-air barn.

  Mick’s heart stopped.

  The duffel bag was still over there!

  Where? He thought he might have set it over by the shears, which would be hidden behind a small table but easily seen if the man went over there.

  Mick watched cautiously as the farmer grabbed three large feed bags and threw them into the dirt, slicing them open with the knife from his pocket. The sheep eagerly huddled around. Then the farmer started dawdling toward the red barn.

  Mick turned and, as quickly and quietly as he could, seized the bike and rolled it back to the corner. He knew if he moved the sheet metal, it would make too much noise, so he tried to lean it against the other bikes. It didn’t look at all like it had before, but it was a start.

  Outside, the farmer was singing a familiar hymn. He heard the chain against the metal door clang as he unlocked the padlock.

  Then Mick realized he still had the six keys in his hand! He looked up at the key wall and wondered if the farmer would realize they were missing. There was no time to think about it. He had to find a place to hide.

  There were three closed, closet-looking doors at the end of the barn. Mick could make it over there, but there wouldn’t be enough time to do anything else if they were locked. He heard the chain fall as the padlock was opened. The farmer was starting to pull one of the heavy doors open. Mick dived behind a large piece of wood, twice as big as a door, that leaned against the wall near the window.

  The window was still open!

  Mick started to step out from behind the wood plank to shut it, but a long block of sunlight stretched itself across the barn floor as the farmer pulled the first door open. Mick slid back into the shadows.

  Holding his breath, he listened as the man sang his way into the barn and messed with a few things over on the shelves. Mick noticed a small crack in the wood plank. With one eye, he peered through it and had a good view of the wall of keys, the four-wheeler, and now the farmer, who had stepped into his line of sight.

  He watched the man take a spray bottle, open another bottle, pour it in the first one, and then close it, shaking it vigorously. Next he stepped over to the wall of keys.

  The man took off one of the keys and turned, his eye on the four-wheeler. Mick let out a gentle, quiet sigh. But as he observed the man, he saw something cloud his expression. The farmer stopped and stared back at the keys. Walking over to the board the keys were hanging on, he was just about to reach up toward the places where the keys were missing.

  Mick kicked the board.

  The farmer whirled around, looking for the origin of the sound. Mick stood still, watching carefully through the small crack.

  Without another second’s hesitation, the farmer grabbed the shotgun off the wall. “You stinking racoons!” he blasted. “Get outta h
ere! Get outta here before I make you into soup tonight!” He swiveled the shotgun around, balancing the butt on his shoulder. “Come on, you two-bit rascals. Show your ugly faces!”

  The barn remained quiet, and the farmer moved about, searching the dark places against the walls and corners. His gaze met the wooden plank, and he studied it for a moment before moving on. But then he noticed the open window. “What the—?”

  He examined the window carefully before pulling it shut. The farmer was no more than seven feet away from Mick.

  “You’re opening windows now, are you, you little rodents?” He locked the window. Grumbling something about mating season, he looked at his watch. Walking to the other wall, he hung his shotgun up and slowly made his way onto his four-wheeler. He turned the key and revved the engine, then drove the vehicle out of the barn.

  Mick waited a few seconds before stepping out from behind the wood. He looked out the window and saw the farmer racing toward a distant pasture.

  Mick quickly pushed the bike to the center of the barn. He tried a few more times to start it before realizing it was out of gas. He scanned the barn for a gasoline container. He checked the closets, but there was nothing but junk.

  Outside the barn, Mick scratched his nearly bald head and tried to figure out what to do. He immediately noticed the man’s truck sitting with its windows down. Could he really steal a truck?

  He walked over to it. The keys dangled from the ignition. A nervous itch tickled his neck. He knew that the police would be paying special attention to any reports of stolen vehicles. He could get into the city with the truck, but then he’d have to dump it. And he’d leave the poor farmer stuck with only a four-wheeler.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted a red plastic gasoline container in the bed of the pickup. Mick picked it up. Full!

  He ran back to the barn and filled the bike’s tank. Climbing onto the bike, he cranked the engine again. It roared, rumbling and lurching like it’d been waiting for years to be brought back to life. Mick laughed and oriented himself with the clutches and brake. It had been a while since he’d ridden a motorcycle, but he didn’t have much choice now.