Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  “What should we do?” Jenny was nearly shouting over the noise of the storm.

  “Stay here. I’m going to see if I can find it.”

  “No!” Jenny grabbed his arm. “If Mick’s out here, we’ve got to find him fast. We’ll split up.”

  “I don’t want you out in this storm!”

  “I’ll be fine. We can’t sit here arguing. We have to go—and now!”

  Aaron stared forward.

  Jenny opened the car door.

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “All right, listen. See that group of trees over there?” Aaron said, pointing near the house. “You go and look and come right back. Right back. Do you hear me? I’m going to check the other side of the house. I’ll have to walk this ditch and cross the road up ahead. I doubt anybody would be looking outside, but just in case, I have to be careful.”

  Jenny nodded.

  “Promise me you’ll come right back,” Aaron said.

  “I promise.”

  “Leave the groceries here. We can come back and get them if we find him.”

  “What if he’s there?”

  “Stand at the edge of the trees and flag me down when I come back.”

  A gust of wind pushed Jenny forward as she stepped out of the car, and she stumbled, almost falling. The flimsy material of her Windbreaker did little to shield her from the storm, and though she tried to pull her hood up, the wind blew it quickly off her head.

  “Hurry!” Aaron yelled at her from across the top of the car. It was only fifty yards to her destination. He knew she could get there and be back quickly. It would be several more minutes for him, even running.

  Jenny walked toward the trees. Whirling around, Aaron thought he heard the sound of tires on pavement only a few yards away, yet there was nothing but a dark road behind him.

  The clouds were the darkest he’d ever seen them, and the thunder was consistent and deafening. Jenny was walking quickly; she was a small white image against the dark green land now. Aaron hurried along the side of the road, studying the two-story house ahead. Warm, orange light glowed from a few of the windows, but nobody passed in front of them.

  Glancing back, he could barely see Jenny. She was only a few yards from the trees. He picked up his pace and ran for the larger grouping of trees on the other side of the house, about a hundred yards away.

  Thunder clapped overhead. Aaron could no longer see Jenny. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut. He kept running, but his feet were heavy with indecision. Something kept making him look back for her. Was it the storm? or something else?

  He sprinted down into the ditch as he crossed in front of the Heppetons’ home so he wouldn’t be seen. He whirled and looked for Jenny again, but all he saw was a black hole where the dark trees stood against the slightly lighter sky.

  “Jenny . . .”

  He turned and raced back toward the trees. He couldn’t leave her alone out here. No matter how tough she thought she was.

  Earle cursed the rain and the weather as he drove down the tree-lined street in the Cottonwood Valley neighborhood to Irving. It had taken him an hour to drive from Dallas. Squinting through the blurry glass of his windshield, he managed to find Blaine Street. His BMW crawled along the pavement as he read the numbers on each house. Fiscall’s turned out to be a gaudy, white house with an overly manicured lawn surrounded by an iron fence.

  He pulled into the drive. It seemed the only lights on were glowing from the porch. But as he got closer, he could see faint light from one of the windows. Earle turned off his car and smoothed his hands across his chest, pulling the wrinkles out of the silk shirt. He fingered the twenty-four-carat gold buckle that held the quill ostrich leather strap around his Milano El Jefe. Running his fingers through his hair, he plopped the two-hundred-dollar Western hat onto his head. One of the few things worth spending money on.

  Setting his jaw, he sniffed the air, jutting his head upward. He opened his car door and walked quickly toward the covered front porch, where he would at last be free from the annoying wetness.

  Skipping three steps, he bounded onto the porch and noticed that a large clay flowerpot had apparently blown over, scattering a mess of moist soil across the pathway to the door. There was no way around it, so Earle gently stepped into it, then wiped his feet on the welcome mat.

  Taking a deep breath, he geared himself up for whatever was on the other side of the heavy wooden door that towered before him. He glanced at the front windows, sure he’d see Fiscall peeking out at him. But the white curtains stayed closed.

  Earle decided he’d better just get on with it. He hated not knowing things, and the sooner he understood what was going on, the better he could find a way to use it in his favor. Grabbing the knocker, he pounded lightly on the door. After a few moments, he tried again but received no answer.

  “Come on, Fiscall, get to the door,” Earle grumbled. “I don’t have all night.” He pressed a firm finger into the small, glowing rectangle, and he heard the faint response of the doorbell inside. He pressed it two more times.

  With a flat hand, he pounded against the thick oak. “Fiscall! Open up!” Earle sighed and turned, watching from the covering of the porch as the rain splashed against the ground. The flowers that had been in the pot hung off the side of the porch, their petals flapping in the wind. A strange sense of dread wrapped around Earle, and his body went cold.

  Something was wrong.

  He walked to the small, long window beside the door and pressed his hands and face against it, trying to see through. He could make out a semidark foyer and a sparkling chandelier, but that was it. Inside it was still.

  He tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

  He watched as lightning illuminated the front yard. Earle gasped. Near the corner of the yard next to a large tree, he thought he saw something move. As he tried to study it through the flashes of lightning, all he could make out was what looked like two black lumps, slightly moving . . . but maybe it was the wind.

  “What is that?” Earle whispered, stepping onto the dirt toward the edge of the porch. He glanced back at the door one more time, flared his nostrils, and clenched his fists.

  Running into the rain, he got into his BMW and started it. The windshield wipers thumped to life, startling Earle. Peering through the glass, he tried to make out what the two black lumps were, but he couldn’t. Circling the drive, he turned back out onto Blaine Street.

  Staring out the rearview mirror as much as he was watching the road in front of him, Earle felt dreadfully sick.

  He slammed his hands against his steering wheel and cursed. Someone else was in control. Control of what, he didn’t know.

  “Mick? Are you here?”

  A slight breeze rustled the wet leaves above Mick, and droplets splashed against his already drenched face. Was he hallucinating now? Was that Jenny’s voice?

  He blinked slowly, trying to speak, but all that came out was gurgling.

  “Mick? Are you here?” Her voice nearly drowned in the racket of the storm.

  He knew anything he attempted to whisper would not be heard. He tried to raise his arm out of the mud.

  “Mick?” Her voice sounded more distant.

  He turned his head, trying to locate her. Jenny, I’m here. Come to the other side.

  One more attempt, and his arm was in the air. He waved his fingers into the wind. He could hear nothing but the storm. Jenny’s voice was gone.

  Come back. Please. I’m here.

  He closed his eyes, his arm still in the air.

  Come back to me.

  And then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Mick!”

  He turned and looked into her shiny, wet face. He wasn’t sure if he was smiling. Her eyes turned worried.

  “Jenny . . .”

  “Mick, please try to tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt anywhere?”

  He mumbled, “No. Food . . .”

  “Food? You need food? I brought some
! A ton. Here, let me—”

  He squeezed her arm. “Poi . . . son . . .”

  Jenny knelt beside him. “Food poisoning.” Indecision swept over her features, and she glanced toward the trees. “Mick, we have to get you to a hospital. Now.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes! Yes! You could die out here.”

  “Where’s Aaron?” he whispered.

  “He’s coming. He couldn’t remember where the pond was. He’s looking on the other side of the property. I’m going to wave him over.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Mick moaned.

  “Mick, listen to me . . . ,” Jenny started.

  Mick shook his head. His attention turned toward the sky. The clouds were low and thick. And rotating. He looked at her. “You need to go. Now. Go up to the Heppetons’ house. Hurry, Jenny. This is bad.”

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Jenny, go!” He clutched his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Tears streamed down her face. “I can’t leave you here. I won’t. Come on, I can help you to the car. We can at least get out of this storm.”

  A showering of hail fell into the pond, like a million pebbles dropping into the water.

  Mick seized her forearm. “Tell Aaron that I’m sorry.”

  Jenny wiped her tears. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  “I have more regrets than you could possibly imagine,” Mick said. His chin quivered with every word. “But I need Aaron to know that I love him.”

  “Aaron loves you.”

  “I know that.” He looked into the sky. “It’s so beautiful, so powerful. I bet the head of this storm is towering above forty-seven thousand feet.”

  “Look, the storm is passing,” Jenny said as the wind suddenly died down. The sky was a milky green.

  “No. Go, Jenny. You must go. Please. The storm isn’t over.”

  Aaron was about twenty yards from the trees that Jenny had run into. She hadn’t emerged yet. He didn’t want to draw any attention from Jack or Alice Heppeton so he’d yet to call out her name.

  Pulling to a stop, Aaron tried to catch his breath. He looked down the gravel road, but it remained quiet.

  With each step, he became more and more hopeful of seeing his brother. Maybe Jenny had found him. The wet grass was slippery. He approached the woods. There! He could barely see the pond, but he could hear the rain splashing into it and could smell the fish. Smiling, he began to walk into the darkness of the trees. Maybe Mick was waiting for him on the dock.

  As he rounded a large tree, someone grabbed his arm.

  Aaron twisted his arm, trying to get loose, but the next thing he knew, his head whipped back, hitting the trunk of the tree so hard that when he opened his eyes, arrows of light shot through his vision. A gloved hand wrapped around his neck.

  When the darts of light faded, he stared into two cold, black eyes. He grabbed at the hand around his neck. After a few seconds, the grip relaxed and Aaron swallowed air as fast as he could.

  “Don’t make a sound,” came a whisper.

  Shep Crawford’s wet and angry face stared at him, his knee jammed between both of Aaron’s. Aaron knew if he made a move, he’d pay for it. How did Crawford find him?

  “Listen to me and listen to me very carefully,” Crawford said. He glanced over Aaron’s shoulder, and Aaron knew immediately that Mick was there. “You have two choices. Turn your brother in, or I’ll guarantee that he and probably you will get shot.” Crawford looked behind his own shoulder, then back at Aaron. “I’ve got two other agents here, weapons ready. I don’t want your brother to get hurt, which is why you’re going to go in there, walk him out like there’s nothing going on, and hand him over.”

  “You want me to turn my brother in.”

  “You better believe it,” Crawford snarled. “I’m tired of chasing that boy around, and as far as all these men around here are concerned, he’s armed and dangerous.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Who’s to say that he hasn’t gotten ahold of a weapon?” Crawford let the words hang in the air. “Now, you can either tip your brother off so he can run right into a spray of gunfire, or you can walk him out peacefully.”

  “Betray him.”

  “You know it’s for his own good,” Crawford said.

  Aaron looked away. “I was under the impression you thought he was innocent.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. Am I the one in control here?”

  Aaron looked at him. It was an odd question, and one that was spoken as more of a statement than a question. A strange twinkle glinted in Crawford’s eyes, and he smiled ever so slightly as the rain washed over both their faces.

  “That man is innocent.”

  “Don’t you believe, Aaron, that in the end justice will be served?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  Crawford pushed his hand off Aaron’s chest and stepped back a foot. “You don’t know what to believe? You always seemed to me to be a man of belief.”

  Aaron’s nostrils flared. “I believe in God.”

  Crawford stared at him. “ ‘I have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees.’ So you must trust me.”

  “You’re quoting from The Count of Monte Cristo,” Aaron breathed. “ ‘Now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!’ ”

  Crawford smiled at him. “Good book.”

  “Haven’t read it lately.”

  Crawford’s attention turned toward something behind Aaron. “Now go. Get your brother. Bring him up the hill to me, and I can guarantee his safety. If not, I cannot guarantee anything.”

  Aaron stared at the muddy ground.

  Crawford said, “And in case you decide to do anything crazy, it’s not just your life we’re talking about. Your girlfriend is down there too.”

  “Jenny . . . ,” Aaron breathed.

  “How do you think I found him? You decided to take Jenny’s car tonight. Bad choice.”

  Aaron headed toward the pond. As he cleared the trees, he immediately saw Jenny and Mick. Mick lay on his back about four feet from the edge of the swollen pond. Jenny was tugging at his arm. The wind picked up.

  Aaron ran toward them. “Jenny!”

  Jenny looked up, surprise lighting her eyes.

  Aaron scrambled beside them. Mick looked barely conscious. A dark beard covered his jaw, but his head was nearly bald. Aaron grabbed Jenny’s shoulders. “You have to get out of here.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she yelled back. She pointed to Mick. “He’s really sick. Food poisoning.”

  “Aaron . . . ,” Mick mumbled. Though the wind was warm, he was shaking.

  Taking Mick’s hand, Aaron tried to focus, but he thought he could hear guns being cocked all around him. Or limbs snapping. It all sounded the same.

  “We have to get you out of here,” Aaron said. He glanced through the trees and couldn’t see anybody. An eerie silence settled over the water. He pulled his brother to a sitting position, but Mick’s head whipped backward and he groaned. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just hang with me,” Aaron urged.

  Aaron tore his raincoat off and said to Jenny, “Help me with his shirt.” They peeled it off and Aaron took his own shirt off, mostly dry from the protection of the raincoat. He slid it over Mick’s head, and Jenny helped him poke Mick’s arms through. “Let’s get this coat on him. He’s trembling.”

  After a few seconds, the coat was on and Jenny helped button it up. Aaron held Mick’s soggy wet shirt in one arm, his brother’s limp body in the other. “Jenny, hold him up for a second.” Jenny braced herself against his back, and Aaron slipped on Mick’s shirt. Something told him if the police got trigger happy, they were going to go for the man in the black T-shirt, especially under these stormy conditions.

  “Where are you going to take him?” Jenny asked as Mick slumped back into Aaron’s arms. “He’s
really sick.”

  “No . . . no hospital . . . ,” Mick groaned.

  Aaron grabbed Jenny and caught her attention with stern eyes. “Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I want you to stay right here until I come back and get you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Jenny, you must trust me. You must.”

  Her eyes shone with fear.

  “Do not get up; do not walk anywhere. You sit right here until I come back and get you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded but said, “What’s going on?”

  Aaron didn’t answer. He flung Mick’s arm around his neck and lifted him up underneath the armpit. Mick cried out in pain. “Stay with me, buddy. You can do it. Gentle steps. We just got to get up this small hill.”

  With gritted teeth, Aaron carried his brother up the hill toward Crawford. Mick’s feet dragged alongside him, his eyes dull and lifeless. Aaron breathed methodically as if he were lifting weights. A few more feet, and they’d be up the hill. Mick tried to help, but his limbs were so weak it ended up making their effort clumsy.

  “Come on, brother, come on . . . there!” Both men stood panting. Aaron looked around, trying to identify where the officers were. But at night, all he could see were drifting shadows and dark, lightless corridors. The rain pounded again.

  “Where . . . where are we going?”

  “Come on,” Aaron said, pulling him forward. As they walked toward the black trees, Aaron’s mind raced, but he had no options. Mick was too weak to do anything but be carried.

  Mick turned his head toward Aaron. “I knew you’d come.”

  Aaron squeezed his shoulder. “Save your strength.”

  “No, I mean it. I knew it. I’m sorry, Aaron. . . .” His voice cracked. “For everything. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t talk.” Aaron looked his brother in the eyes and gave him an assuring nod. Mick grinned, a grin that Aaron hadn’t seen in years. Aaron plodded through the trees, adrenaline pulsating through his blood. Any moment, he was going to be considered a traitor by his brother, and everything would be back to where it was.

  He glanced at Mick. “You must know that everything I’ve ever done I’ve thought was in your best interest. But since you’ve been gone, I’ve realized that, more than anything, I’ve judged you instead of loved you. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel inferior. We’re both from the same dust.”