Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  Mick had parked the bike behind a crowd of trees, fairly well hidden, at least in the darkness. From the hill, he could see the Heppetons’ large, Victorian-style home that sat on fifteen acres of land, its many windows still glowing this late at night. He watched Alice, in her late sixties now, loading the dishwasher. He couldn’t see Jack, her husband, but figured he was probably in his study working. The man worked long, hard hours as an architect, he supposed, so they could continue to live like they did.

  Mick walked down the hill toward the fishing pond, away from the tiny, little-known road that gave access to the pond area. Moonlight rippled across its murky waters. The fishing dock on the other side of the pond, shadowed by the many trees that hung over it, brought a smile to his weary face. How many days and nights he’d spent at this pond, fishing with Aaron and the Heppetons’ two children, Luke and Maggie. The families had been longtime friends, and though Mick had lost touch with the kids, he knew his mom and dad still talked to Alice and Jack regularly.

  He wondered if Jack and Alice had heard the news. What they must be thinking. He’d always had great respect for them. As he neared the pond, most of the house went out of view, except the roof and its three towering chimneys. The moonlight sliced a path through the dense brush for him. Looked like there hadn’t been much activity down here in a while. Jack had always been good about clearing the brush for ample fishing room. But the water was down, and there was a collection of windblown trash against the southern part of the pond.

  Mick wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he’d thought to bring a coat. At this time of year, the temperature at night could range from the sixties to the forties. Mick guessed it was probably around fifty-five. Cool and windy enough to make him tremble. The bike ride alone had chilled him to the bone, even riding the whole way at twenty-five miles an hour.

  The water sloshed along the shallow and muddy banks. The sound reminded him of days spent jumping off the dock, fully clothed, enjoying the warm water. He would float on his back and stare up into the blue sky that stretched across the horizon. Those were the memories that grieved him—when life was simple and fun and full of hope, with no real responsibilities. He supposed it was foolish to mourn the fact that he was all grown up. But it came with such burdens. Maybe he’d enjoyed his childhood more than he was supposed to. His actions even baffled himself sometimes.

  His thoughts turned to the night he met Taylor and how he’d told himself to go home, to stay out of trouble, yet instead he folded to a simple temptation from a woman offering to chat with him, and now it had turned into the greatest nightmare of his life.

  Something told him that Taylor Franks was a woman very much in control of herself. Those dark, smoky eyes of hers told conflicting stories, though. On one hand, they had the pragmatic stare of a woman who knew what she wanted. But flickering through the fortitude was an uneasy ambivalence. He saw in her a longing to connect but a sturdy wall that would not allow it.

  And that he could remember, never once did they do more than philosophize about life, in general terms at best.

  Mick sighed, throwing a few sticks into the water. He had enough on his own plate. No need to be psychoanalyzing someone else. But even in the drunken stupor he’d been in, he remembered wondering who this woman was and what was behind the mystery. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it had something to do with her disappearance.

  It took him ten minutes to make his way around the pond, clearing the brush as he went. He didn’t bother being extremely quiet. He knew the Heppetons didn’t have dogs. Alice was allergic to them, and Jack was good enough with a shotgun not to need one.

  The wind carried some of the sounds from the house—a lantern swinging, the door to Alice’s gardening shed banging slightly against the doorframe. Something in him wanted to go up to their back porch and knock on the door. He knew they’d take him in, which is why he would never go.

  Once on the other side of the pond, Mick stopped near the fishing dock and looked toward a grouping of trees that had once been familiar but had now filled in so much he couldn’t decide if that was the right location or not.

  This was going to be quite a task, even with ample moonlight.

  Mick trudged forward, his arms and legs being scraped with each footstep. About twenty yards ahead, he thought he recognized the area and tried to pick up his pace. When he got there, he knelt down and used his hands to clear away the leaves and limbs. But there was nothing. He moved a few feet over, doing the same thing. But again, he found nothing.

  After fifteen minutes, he still had not found it, so he stood, panting out his aggravation. It was a silly idea to think that it would be here after all these years.

  But as he looked to the west, he saw a small blue corner of something. Mick rushed over to it, three tree groupings down. Falling to his knees again, he shuffled his hands through the dirt and leaves until he cleared enough of it that he realized he’d found what he was searching for.

  “Hah!” Mick laughed. Taking the edge of it, he pulled it loose from the rest of the dirt.

  Their old tent!

  It smelled musty, and the royal blue color had faded. The long, narrow bag that held all the equipment to set it up was still tied to the side. Mick quickly unrolled it, fighting the breeze, and dumped the ridgepole and pegs out.

  It had been a long time since he’d pitched a tent, and probably the last one he’d pitched was this one. They’d spend long summer nights out here, he and Aaron and Luke. Maggie was never allowed to join in and never wanted to anyway.

  When Luke got into high school and lost interest in their friendships, Mick and Aaron still wanted to come out and camp, so they buried their tent here and thought of ways they could sneak out and come over. They did it two or three times, but without Luke, it wasn’t nearly as much fun.

  He shook off more dirt and crossed the poles, stringing them through the loops. It wasn’t fancy, but it would do to block the wind at least. After putting it all together, Mick raised the tent and drove the pegs into the ground.

  “Yes!” Mick felt like he’d just won a football game.

  He dusted his jeans off and was about to climb inside when the wind picked up and he heard a loud ripping sound. Before he could blink, a large piece of vinyl flapped in the wind, and one entire side of the tent tore away. Mick kicked the rest of it down in anger, stomping it into the soft ground. He should’ve known a tent’s threads would never hold up to years’ worth of the elements.

  He threw the poles down and turned away, grabbing his duffel bag off the ground.

  And then he had another thought.

  The tree house.

  It was about fifty yards from the old pond. Jack had built it when Maggie was born, and Mick and Aaron had spent plenty of time in it over the years.

  Surely it had not survived the fierce Texas storms.

  When he’d cleared enough trees to look for it, he was surprised to find it still up in the large oak tree. Mick laughed. Could he still climb a tree?

  Walking the length of the yard, the main house came into view again. A few more lights had been turned off. He wished he had a bed.

  When he got to the tree, he looked up, wondering how they ever did climb it. Jack had nailed a feeble ladder that was now missing three out of its five rungs. Mick tried a couple of times to use it, but one rung broke off, and the only one left was three inches above his head.

  Mick wondered if he could jump high enough to grab the bottom limb, and then hang on to it.

  Then he had an idea.

  He threw his duffel bag up into the tree house.

  That would be incentive to get up there. It contained all the money he had!

  After three jumps, he finally caught a large branch, but his hands slipped off. One more time, and he grabbed it, his feet swinging a couple of feet off the ground. He turned his body and tried to use the last wooden rung to get a foothold. It teetered but held his weight. With his right hand, he managed to
grip a small, healthy, bendable limb. With a lot of muscle, he pulled himself upright and swung a leg over the branch he’d been hanging from.

  He was at the front porch of the tree house. Mick used his hands to test the durability of the wood. It looked like it could hold his weight. After all, Jack was an architect. Surely he’d built this to stand the test of time.

  Carefully and slowly, Mick crawled in on his hands and knees. How small this place looked now! Years ago it seemed like a mansion in the trees. Now his head nearly hit the ceiling while he sat.

  Mick scooted to the corner, trying to see through the dark if there was anything left inside. When his eyes adjusted, he noticed a few metallic candy wrappers and a box of old baseball cards, wet and warped.

  Mick leaned against the side that blocked the wind, then lay down, using his duffel bag as a pillow. Without the wind, he’d probably be okay, though it was going to take a good two hours to finally warm up the place so his teeth weren’t chattering.

  He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  Through the small wooden window that was missing two shutters, Mick watched ghostly gray clouds drift over the moon. He rubbed his eyes and suppressed the urge to scream. That’s what he wanted to do. Scream bloody murder.

  And then he found himself shouting. “God!”

  He stared at the moon as if it were the Almighty’s face. “God!!”

  Only the wind answered, quietly howling through the treetops.

  “God!”

  A furious gnawing inside his chest urged him to punch a hole through something.

  “Is this how You want me?” Mick cried out. “A wandering, homeless fugitive? Does this make You happy? You showed me, didn’t You!”

  Mick kicked the heel of his shoe into the plank beneath him. “You know I didn’t do this!” He rested his head on his knees. “I didn’t do this,” he mumbled. He was sure God heard mumbling as clearly as shouting. Maybe even better. He closed his eyes and tried to settle himself down.

  He began to feel a strange assurance brought about by knowing God was just. It had never brought him any peace before. It was that very attribute that scared him, in fact. But now he could use God’s justice.

  Use. Mick shook his head. It was just like him to use God when he needed something. A favor. Unfortunately, Mick didn’t have any favors to call in with the man upstairs.

  He figured God was pretty good at creative punishments as well. Mick’s life turned terrible because of the one thing he didn’t do wrong. How many other times had he not received punishment for all the things he had done wrong?

  What a mystery, Mick thought, gazing at the moon again. It was full and round, glowing white-orange, dusted with shadowy designs.

  He continued to pore over the odd cliché that was his life.

  Mick awoke, rolling over onto his stiff and aching back The sun blinded him, and the sweat that had collected under his neck trickled down into his shirt as he sat up. Still, it was a wel- come temperature change from the last three cold nights he’d spent here.

  On Tuesday morning, after the first night in the tree house, came the sobering realization that he couldn’t live like this forever, but there was nothing to show him that anything would change soon. He’d curled up and slept most of the day. That evening, he counted his money. He had only thirty dollars left. It would last a few more days, but that was it. For all he knew, he could be running for the rest of his life.

  No. One way or the other, there would be resolution.

  On Wednesday, Mick was nearly delirious with hunger. Alice and Jack had left midmorning in their Cadillac, so Mick crossed their large backyard to Alice’s garden, where he found a variety of vegetables. He’d munched on tomatoes, tried a pepper but it was too hot, and helped himself to the seeds of the mammoth sunflower garden. The food nourished him but didn’t fill him up. He’d been mindful not to take too much for fear that she would notice or that he might not have food for the following days. He’d kept hydrated by drinking from the garden hose.

  He didn’t know how long he would stay here. Fall temperatures were approaching, and soon enough, he’d have to find better shelter. That morning he’d also discovered a few old towels stuffed into the back of Alice’s gardening shed. He’d taken two to use as blankets. It had helped a little. But last night, he was sure the temperature had dropped below fifty. He would not be able to take another night of it.

  Putting the sunglasses on, he stuffed the towels into his duffel bag. He’d also found an old cap with a construction company logo on the front, and he took it. It did a lot to keep his head warm.

  Through Wednesday, he’d watched with little interest as Alice and Jack came and went from their house, living normal and easy lives. He wondered briefly what Luke and Maggie were up to. Last he’d heard, Luke was in medical school and Maggie had finished West Point.

  He’d thought more about Sammy Earle. With the information he had, there really wasn’t much he could prove, other than Earle wasn’t a likable person. Something told Mick to keep sniffing around.

  He wouldn’t be able to move about so easily anymore. His five-o’clock shadow had turned into a short beard, and he was looking decidedly homeless. He could use a shower. He was inside Irving city limits, thankfully, but he had no idea where to go or what to do.

  Leaving the tree house, he walked the grassy hill toward where he’d parked his bike and wondered about Aaron. For whatever strange reason, it meant something to him for Aaron to know the truth about why he ran. Maybe it was all the memories that danced around him in the tree house. Before Jenny.

  Mick was relieved to find his motorcycle still propped against the dense patch of trees. He dusted off some early fall leaves and hopped on, giving it a good revving before circling around and catching the old, dusty path that led out to Peachtree Street, which ran behind the Heppetons’.

  It was nice to get on the road again, and Mick took the same back roads into Irving as he had before. When he reached an area with heavier population, Mick pulled into a gas station and used quarters to get a newspaper from an outside machine.

  Flipping it over, he was surprised to find that his face was not the largest picture on the front; in fact his face wasn’t even on there. There was only a small headline near the bottom: Irving Fugitive May Still Be in Area.

  Mick opened the paper to page 4A and read the rest of the article that confirmed his belief: They had no idea where he was. Coach Rynde was quoted as saying he believed in Mick’s innocence.

  At the end of the article, a small blurb about Sammy Earle said he’d had a previous relationship with the woman but was never considered a suspect. Mick wondered how that was playing out in the media.

  Mick noticed a man about his age staring at him. Raising the paper to cover his face, his heart started racing. When he glanced back at the man, he was on a cell phone, pretending Mick was not there.

  Mick stuffed the newspaper into his duffel bag and walked as slowly as his adrenaline would let him. He tried to nonchalantly get on the bike, but once he met the man’s eyes, he knew he’d been recognized. Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Mick started the bike and sped away, looking over his shoulder to find the man running after him, apparently trying to get a plate number.

  As he rushed toward one of the busier roads, indecision caused him to slow down. Everybody would be looking for a dirt bike, and they’d probably be smart enough to look on the back roads. Mick drove on the two-lane street, trying to think logically. But he could barely catch his breath, and his eyes watered enough to blur his vision.

  And then he passed a patrol car.

  He heard the sirens first. When he looked back, the police cruiser was whipping a U-turn and speeding toward him. Mick crossed a four-way intersection without even knowing it, floating between two passing cars.

  Stop it. Stop this insanity! Pull over and turn yourself in!

  But Mick knew he couldn’t do it. Not after what he’d been through already.


  He increased his speed, determined to flee, determined to find out what happened to Taylor. But coming over the hill in the distance was another cruiser, sirens screaming and lights flashing.

  He had only a few seconds to make a decision, so he scanned the area quickly. Pastures and farms were scattered among a few houses and businesses. And then he saw his chance: an old farmer out of his truck, opening the gate to his pasture to feed his cattle. About fifty stood on the hilltop in the middle of the pasture, ears twitching with alertness to all the sounds.

  A car passed him and then Mick turned, crossing the other lane and bouncing into the ditch. He came up on the other side and made a sharp left turn on the dirt road, the pickup and farmer only fifty feet away. The farmer stepped out of the way just as Mick sped past him and into the field.

  Glancing behind him, he could see the cruisers screeching to a stop, trying to maneuver around the truck and through the narrow gateway. Mick zoomed forward, scattering the cattle in his path. Disapproving moos mixed with the sound of his motor as the bike climbed the hill.

  He didn’t know what was on the other side of the hill. He had little time to prepare, because he was now flying in the air like he’d just launched off a ramp. The bike wheels spun underneath him, reflected in a large, muddy watering hole below.

  “Come on!” Mick yelled, urging his bike forward through the air, hoping to clear the water.

  The front tire reached land, but the back tire hit the water, flipping him forward, the bike landing on top of him. His hands and feet stuck in the mud and he couldn’t get any leverage to lift himself out of the water with the bike on top of him.

  Blinded by the swirling mud, he wondered how deep he was. His lungs wilted with every passing second.

  With a panicked maneuver, he slid sideways and the bike sank into the mud where he’d lain. He groped for anything nearby, which ended up being the bike, and pulled himself out of the water, gasping for breath, gagging on the water he’d swallowed.

  His clothes were soggy and heavy. He was caked with mud, but he spotted his duffel bag a few feet away, completely dry. Crawling toward it with every limb shaking, Mick grabbed it and stumbled to his feet.