Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  The humidity was high, the temperature still well into the seventies. To the northwest, Mick could see clouds gathering toward a thunderhead, which was pulling energy into itself from the unstable atmosphere.

  Stumbling forward, he grabbed for a tree to keep himself from falling to the ground. Famished and fatigued, it was all he could do to stand. On the way to Aaron’s church, he’d thought of several different options on how he might get food, but nothing seemed feasible. The boldness that had directed him into Earle’s office had faded.

  Hanging on the tree, he stared at the Dumpster parked directly behind the church, an eyesore hidden from the parishioners. Church was in session. Maybe he could climb in there . . . find some food. . . .

  He thought the idea would sicken him. Groping through garbage for food? But instead, his body urged him onward. With heavy feet, he dragged his stricken body toward the Dumpster, his shoes inching against the gravel of the empty back parking lot.

  Never in his life had he wanted to stand in a shower of rain more than he did now. His sweaty and smelly body needed to be drenched.

  Finally reaching the Dumpster, the wretched smell made his overloaded senses come to life, and he bent over, intending to vomit. He’d never known hunger this severe. What could make a man climb into maggot-infested garbage for food? He gripped a bar that stuck out from the top, pulled himself up with shaking arms, and rolled over into the Dumpster, which was about half full. Flies swarmed and buzzed, unhappy with their new visitor. Mick covered his mouth and nose with the bottom of his T-shirt. Even the smell of sweat beat the pungent odor of sour milk that rose from one of the bags.

  Wasting no time, he began ripping open garbage sacks, tearing his way through the insides, trying to find something he could eat. There were a few half-full cans of soda, a container of juice, fried chicken, and rolls. His mouth salivated while his stomach churned.

  He found an uneaten chicken leg, which he threw into his duffel bag. Then he found an open bag of Lay’s potato chips, crammed three into his mouth, then threw the rest into his bag.

  And then, to his delight, he found a ham sandwich completely sealed in a Ziploc bag. He grabbed it and half of a Diet Dr Pepper and climbed out of the bin. He wanted to sit and eat, but he knew his time was short. He devoured the rest of the potato chips and managed three large bites of the sandwich.

  Setting his duffel bag down at the corner of the church, Mick peeked around the side. Nobody was in sight. He hurried toward the front parking lot, probably three hundred cars full, and tried to spot the top of Aaron’s black truck.

  The music had stopped for a while, but now he heard it again. Running through the parked cars, he finally hopped onto the bed of a pickup and looked around.

  “There!” It was on the other side of the parking lot. Jumping off the pickup bed, he carried himself swiftly through the lines of cars.

  But then Mick heard voices. He stopped and turned back toward the church, glancing around a large SUV he was standing behind.

  A stream of people flowed down the front steps of the church.

  Hand in hand, Aaron and Jenny made their way out of the crowded church. Jenny was talking with one of her friends, but Aaron didn’t feel much like chatting. Jenny had insisted they go to Sunday night church since he missed this morning. He’d gone, but not happily.

  “Babe . . .” Jenny was looking at him. Her friend was gone.

  “What?”

  “My hand. You’re squeezing it to death.”

  “Sorry.” Aaron released her hand and guided her down the steps with his hand on her back.

  “Where’d you park?”

  Aaron pointed toward the back of the lot, where he’d found one of the last spots. He’d dropped Jenny off to find them a seat since they were running late. As they walked, Aaron noticed a large thunderhead to the northwest. The sun glowed around it, creating a majestic throne of clouds with faintly rumbling thunder through the thick air. Jenny’s heels clicked alongside him, and she pulled him to a stop.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re walking like we’re in a marathon.”

  Aaron shook his head and laughed. “I’m so sorry.”

  Aaron fumbled with his keys as they reached his truck. He could sense Jenny studying him as she went around the other side. He tried to look casual and normal, just the opposite of what he was feeling. “Jenny! Come here!”

  “What is it?”

  “Look!” He pointed to the side of his vehicle as she came around to him. The magnetic fish symbol that was always on his tailgate was now just below the door handle.

  “A prank?” Jenny asked, though her eyes told him that she knew what he was thinking.

  “Mick always hated this fish,” Aaron said quietly, looking around to make sure he couldn’t be heard. “I know he did this.”

  “But why?”

  “Get in the truck,” Aaron said; when they were both inside, he continued. “Maybe to tell me he’s alive. Maybe he’s trying to let me know.”

  “By moving your fish?”

  Aaron glanced around, trying to spot Mick’s face through all the people coming out of the church. Opening his hand, he looked at the fish he’d peeled off the side of the truck. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

  Shep Crawford stood on the fourth stair of his home and ran his fingers along the red stripes of the American flag that he proudly displayed on the wall. It was like tracing blood.

  His thumb gently touched the pure white stripe below it. Blood and purity. He thought it appropriate that the two, the blood and the purity, didn’t mix. How could they? Perhaps they could run alongside each other, complement each other like a fine wine to a good steak. But never mix. Because to mix would be to perfectly sacrifice. And as far as Shep Crawford was concerned, there was no such thing. So the white would remain white, and the red would remain red.

  His fingers grabbed the red stripe, and it bunched inside his hand.

  Today he would choose red.

  Mick staggered, clutching his ever faithful duffel bag. The zipper looked like a smile. Well, more of a grimace. Sweat poured from his face and his legs shook with each step he took, while waves of chills prickled his body.

  Death walked next to him in the woods, snickering. Whispering. The only part of him that felt alive was a restless, provoking fear.

  Across the treetops to the north, a mighty storm crawled, lightning spidering through the towers of clouds, thunder shaking the ground underneath him. In about thirty minutes, the storm would be here. Darkness had settled itself across the sky. The warm and wet wind that pulled the storm brushed the trees like the fingertips of ghosts.

  Falling forward, Mick collapsed into a bed of leaves, his eyes rolling back into his head. Food poisoning.

  He was sure this would be his end. If he could only make it to the pond, maybe Aaron would at least find his body. If Aaron understood the clue he’d left him, that is. It was a long shot. Perhaps Aaron didn’t even remember the days they’d spent here together fishing.

  With his hands, he clawed at the dirt, inching his way ahead. When he got to a small hill above the pond, he let gravity roll him downward. He hit a log and lurched to a stop. Lying on his back, he stared upward. Black clouds swam swiftly against the sky.

  Breathing shallowly, Mick lay still. Pain stabbed through his stomach in predictable waves. His mouth hung open wide, as if beckoning his spirit to escape through the hole. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see anything.

  A large raindrop splashed against his face, bringing his senses to life momentarily. And then another. The wind picked up, whistling above him. The sky groaned.

  God. The name tingled his lips like salty water.

  Beneath him, his fingers scratched the muddy ground, the ground he would be lowered into one day. Probably very soon.

  I don’t want to die.

  As his T-shirt became wet, the stench grew more caustic, as if he could smell himself dying, his skin rotting
, his blood draining.

  “Aaron,” he groaned.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to bear the hot pain that clamped around his intestines.

  “If you could become anybody else in the world, Mick, who would you become?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “You like who you are?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “There’s nobody else you’d want to be like?”

  “I don’t know. My brother, I guess, though he can be a real pain.”

  “This is the same brother who stole the woman of your dreams?”

  “Yeah. Same brother.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “All I’ve heard about him is what you’ve said. Sounds like you hate his guts. Why would you want to be like him?”

  “Maybe that’s why I hate him so much. Because I’ve always wanted to be like him. I was never able to, though. He was born with a good heart.”

  “I think people can create whoever they want to be.”

  “I disagree. I think people are who they are, and they can only improve upon that.”

  “I’m going to become the person I always wanted to be.”

  “And who is that?”

  “A woman who can tell a man no and defy him and an entire kingdom if she has to. A strong and courageous woman.”

  “Who are you now?”

  “I’m still the caterpillar.”

  Sammy Earle whirled around, dropping his glass of whiskey to the kitchen counter in his Dallas home. It splashed and spilled over the top, its liquid sliding across the shiny counter.

  Thump.

  He swallowed, backing up against the refrigerator, panting. Was it the liquor talking? He was hearing things now too?

  Earle rubbed his eyes, trying to get a grip. He hadn’t slept well. Nightmares had haunted him from the moment his head had rested on the pillow last night. Everything from Vietnam to Taylor Franks. Each night they’d gotten worse. Last night they were nearly unbearable.

  Thump.

  Gasping, Earle looked toward his front door, from where the sound had come. Outside, weather as wicked as devils crossed the sky and blew the leaves off the trees. Still, he’d heard a noise. He knew it. Maybe the wind was blowing something against the door. Rain splashed against the windows in fierce waves, and in the background he could hear the weather alert beeping on the television. But right now a tornado was the least of his worries.

  Creeping forward, he tiptoed out of the kitchen and toward the door and listened. There, a faint sound—something he couldn’t identify—rattled right outside. A crack of thunder caused Earle to jump backward, and then another loud crack made him look out the front window. A large tree limb had snapped and was dangling high above his lawn.

  All Earle could see out his peephole was rain splashing against the concrete of his driveway, creating a white, hovering mist. The front door was bolted shut, so Earle slowly unlocked it, pressing his weight against the door, afraid as soon as he heard the click something might shove the door inward.

  But the click did nothing more than accelerate his heartbeat. Earle shut his eyes and mumbled, “Get a grip, soldier.” He used the word loosely. He’d never thought of himself as a soldier, even when he was in combat. He’d never felt like a killer. He’d never felt brave. His mind and his charm were the weapons he used these days. But when swimming in alcohol, neither proved to be too effective. He’d tried to stop drinking, but the nightmares kept driving him back.

  With a swift pull, Earle opened his front door. A warm breeze blew his hair back, and the pouring rain was deafening. He looked around but saw nothing.

  Then he heard that rattling noise again, and when he looked down he saw it. Near his doorway, by a flowerless pot, was a white piece of paper, flapping in the wind, held down by a smooth, round stone. The rain had not reached it, as it was under the protection of the porch. Earle looked around again, stunned.

  Thunder clapped and without further hesitation, Earle picked up the stone and grabbed the paper with his other hand before the wind carried it off. He tried to hold the paper upright so he could read the typed note:

  Mr. Earle,

  I have some information about you concerning the Taylor Franks case. Information that is neither helpful to you nor to me in my prosecution of the suspect of this case. I need to meet with you privately. Do not bring any lawyers or anybody else. This stays between you and me. Come to my house tonight between 10:30 and 11:00. 11898 Blaine Street. And whatever you do, destroy this letter.

  S. Fiscall

  The rock rolled out of Earle’s trembling hand, landing on the porch with a loud thump. He stared at the note in disbelief. Backing up through his doorway, he slammed the door shut and took a loud, wheezing gulp of air. This was no alcoholic mirage. Stumbling into the kitchen, he scrounged around for another bottle, all the while holding the paper delicately, as if it held the very power of life in it.

  Drinking straight from a bottle of chardonnay he reserved for special guests, Earle tried to get a grip. He studied the paper, examining every word. But with each passing minute, he grew more and more anxious. What information did Fiscall have? Why did he want to see him?

  Earle gripped the bottle in one hand and the letter in the other. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was a little after seven.

  Holding the letter over his stove top, he turned on the gas flame. The paper ignited, and a hot orange flame climbed its fibers. White smoke twirled toward the ceiling as gracefully as a ballerina. Earle stared at it, memorizing the address. Neither fire nor alcohol could kill the demons. Wherever he went, they followed.

  He dropped the letter into the sink and pounded the small fire out, leaving crispy edges but the letter intact. His gut told him to keep it.

  Sammy Earle stood under the cold water of the showerhead, slapping his hands against his cheeks. He managed to bathe before grabbing a towel and stepping onto a small, round red carpet.

  Scrubbing his head with the towel, he then pulled on a purple silk shirt and black slacks but no tie. The crumpled note held down by a stone was indication enough that this meeting wasn’t going to be formal.

  He was feeling sick. Fiscall knew enough information that he was certain Earle would show up. But it also sounded like if Earle would cooperate, this information might be gladly swept under the rug.

  He combed his hair and smothered his cheeks in aftershave, then went to his closet and put on a black raincoat. As he buttoned it up, he stared out the window at the storm. White light cut into the dark, and Earle sighed. There was hardly a good reason to go out into weather like this.

  Hardly a good reason. But this was a good reason.

  He pulled up the collar on his coat and found his keys. Taking another swig of chardonnay, he headed to his garage, cursing the day he ever met Taylor Franks.

  Gripping the steering wheel, Aaron navigated through the torrential rain, leaning toward the windshield, wishing the wipers on Jenny’s Honda would swipe twice as fast. Next to him, Jenny gripped the door with her right hand and with her left held two sacks of groceries on her lap.

  The lightning gave them some needed light on this dark country road. They’d been traveling on what they thought and hoped was Agriculture Road for about twenty minutes, but this far out, road signs were nonexistent. The only thing that told them they were on the right road was all the agriculture.

  “Please let us be right,” Aaron mumbled.

  Jenny touched his arm. “It’s a long shot.”

  Aaron squinted through the foggy windshield. It was a long shot. Connecting a fish on his truck to a fishing pond he and Mick had played at as kids. But it was a perfect hideout, if that’s where Mick had been all this time.

  They’d decided to take Jenny’s car out of simple paranoia. Though there wasn’t a car in sight at Aaron’s house and hadn’t been for days, the thought of a bird dog being attached to his truck caused him to think o
ut his plan further. He’d checked underneath his truck twice, but the thing could be well hidden.

  He hated to drag Jenny into this, but so far the detectives had shown little interest in her. Besides, she insisted on coming and was tough and stubborn—two of the qualities that had initially drawn him to her. Jenny had even thought of going to the grocery store to pick up food for Mick . . . and make it look like an innocent trip.

  “Should I get the map out again?”

  “No. There’s only one Agriculture Road and only one Peachtree Street.” A bright light flashed in the rearview mirror, and in the distance, two foggy headlights glowed. Soon enough, the lights faded into the rain, and they were alone on the bumpy paved road again.

  The headlights caught a shimmering, rectangular green sign: Peachtree Street.

  “Yes!” Jenny cried.

  They turned right and the car climbed a steep hill, the wind rattling the windows and the loose metal on the bottom of the car. This was the worst storm Aaron had seen in a long time. Ironically, it had always been these kinds of storms that Mick loved.

  As the car topped the hill, Aaron saw a blurry white box on the top of the next hill. The wipers struggled to keep up with the sheets of rain rolling against the windshield.

  “There,” Aaron said, pulling to the side of the road. He turned off the headlights. “I think that’s the Heppetons’ house.”

  Checking the rearview mirror, he found nothing behind them but a black, lightless tunnel of rain.

  “Where’s the pond?” Jenny asked.

  Aaron studied the fields and trees. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember which side of the house it was on. All these groupings of trees look alike. But there’s only one pond here. I think the property’s about fifteen acres.”