Storm Gathering

by Rene Gutteridge

  Mick smiled as much as he could. Sweat poured from his face, but his bloodshot eyes warmed. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment.”

  “Don’t say that—”

  “Freeze!” Standing at the edge of the trees, Shep Crawford had both hands wrapped around the butt of his gun, one arm braced against the side of a tree.

  Mick gasped and started to struggle.

  Aaron held him steady against his body. “Crawford, he’s sick. He needs medical attention. Tell your guys to call an ambulance.”

  “What are you doing?” Mick cried.

  Crawford stepped forward, ripped Mick’s arm away from Aaron’s shoulder, and cuffed him, then patted him down. Mick swayed.

  Aaron grabbed Crawford’s shoulder to steady him. “Did you hear me? He’s sick! Have your guys call—”

  Distant lightning glinted off Crawford’s eyes. “There’s nobody here but me.” Dragging Mick forward, he turned right, and Aaron could see Crawford’s car parked under a tree, hidden by shadows.

  Aaron ran up beside them. “Mick, listen to me. He followed us here. We didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  “Shut up,” Mick spat.

  “Mick, please listen, I had no choice. Besides that, you’re sick. You need medical attention—”

  “Get outta here,” Mick growled as he stumbled alongside Crawford, his hands chained behind his back.

  Aaron rushed in front of Crawford, pushing his hand into the detective’s chest to stop him. “If you lay a hand on him, you’ll be sorry.”

  “I’m taking him to jail, where he belongs.” Crawford looked at Mick. “You should have never run, son.”

  Mick stared with vacuous eyes.

  Crawford knocked Aaron’s hand off his chest. “Officer Kline, believe me when I tell you this is the best thing that could have happened to your brother. Now get out of my way.”

  Aaron swallowed, glanced at Mick, who wouldn’t look him in the eye, and stepped aside.

  Crawford shoved Mick into the front seat of his car and strapped the seat belt around him. In the distance, Aaron could see bright flashing lights speeding toward them, their sirens echoing through the countryside. Crawford was on his radio. Mick’s head lay against the seat as he gazed out the passenger window.

  Looking toward the tree line, he saw Jenny walking out of the shadows. She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her hair matted against her small face. Betrayal glowed in her eyes too.

  In the side mirror, Mick could see two trailing police cars’ lights flash exuberantly. The processional announced itself as it flew down the highway toward the Irving jail. Mick sat next to Crawford in the spotless sedan, the metal cuffs grinding against the bones in his wrists. With his hands clasped behind him and the seat belt crossing his chest, Mick sat motionless. He’d listened to Crawford on the radio, but now there was silence.

  Then Crawford looked at him sideways, narrowing his eyes. “How’d you like your house?”

  “What?”

  “Your house. Did I put it all back in order?”

  Mick swallowed down the bitter bile that sat in the bottom of his throat.

  “You’re a bit of a slob, man. But I thought it was the polite thing for me to do. Put all your toys back where they belonged.”

  “You did that?” Mick could only whisper.

  “Nothing personal. Just needed some info about you.”

  “Bull.”

  Crawford’s eyes smiled. “Well, it was fun too.”

  Mick closed his eyes, tilting his head against the back of the seat. “Why?”

  “Why did I do it?” Crawford laughed. “Why not?” An insidious snicker filled the car. “I like taking these things to the next level; you know what I mean?”

  “Mind games.”

  “Whatever you want to call it. You can tell a lot about a person by how he reacts to certain situations.”

  “You have me all figured out, don’t you?”

  “The question is, do you have me figured out?”

  Bill Cassavo met Aaron at the jail early Monday morning. They walked together toward the room where the guard would bring Mick.

  “The fact that he ran is only going to hurt us,” Bill said with a heavy sigh. “We had a good shot of proving him not guilty before. But now things have changed.”

  Aaron glanced at him as they walked. “We’ll just have to work with it. It’s all we have.”

  Bill nodded. “It doesn’t guarantee defeat. I’m telling you, the prosecution doesn’t have a lot to go on here, other than Mick was at her apartment. It’s all circumstantial. As long as a body doesn’t show up, I think we’re in the game.”

  “What about Sammy Earle?”

  “My investigator is already on it. He’s definitely got a motive. One can never be sure why they chose Mick over Sammy. But the more we have on Mr. Earle, the better.”

  A guard unlocked a large metal door for them.

  “I just can’t get over those flowers, Bill. They mean something, but I don’t know what.”

  “The ones that were signed Sammy but billed to an obsolete credit card? The police are kind of pretending like they don’t even exist, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t think they know what to make of it. It doesn’t fit into the theory that Mick did it, that’s for sure. And if Sammy did it, it seems rather obvious.”

  Another guard let them into a room full of long metal tables and orange plastic chairs. Bill and Aaron sat facing the door so they could see Mick coming.

  “How’s he feeling?” Bill asked.

  “They released him from the infirmary early this morning. He’s going to live, but other than that, I don’t know too much. Last night he looked like he was knocking on death’s door.”

  Aaron saw Mick through the small window of the room. The scrubs hung on him. Mick’s dreary eyes met Aaron’s, then shifted to Bill’s as the door to the room opened.

  “Sit here,” the guard instructed and put a firm hand on Mick’s shoulder, pushing him into the seat as if he couldn’t do it by himself. The guard chained his leg to the chair but uncuffed his hands.

  “Hi,” Aaron said gently.

  Mick didn’t respond.

  “Mick,” Bill tried, “you should know, the detective followed them to the pond. It wasn’t a setup. They had no idea.”

  Mick’s eyes shifted back and forth between the men. Then he stared at the table. “Okay,” he murmured.

  “How are you feeling?” Aaron asked.

  “If I died in the next five minutes, I wouldn’t be upset about it.”

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” Aaron said.

  “I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Things aren’t adding up. There are a lot of things about this case that don’t make sense if you’re the fall guy,” Aaron said.

  “I’m confident I can build a good defense case,” Bill added. “They don’t have a body. They don’t have anything other than your admission that you were there.”

  “That seems to be enough.” Mick sighed.

  “Do you remember anything from that night? anything more?” Aaron asked.

  “Things have become less foggy. But I don’t remember anybody coming in and taking her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Bits and pieces of conversation. Taylor seemed to be searching for who she was. Apparently she came from a pretty rough background.”

  “Did she say that?” Aaron asked.

  “No. I found it out. Talked to her mother.”

  Aaron and Bill exchanged glances. “When?”

  Mick shrugged and smiled. “I’ve been doing a little investigating in my spare time.”

  “No kidding. What else did you find out?”

  “Sammy Earle’s a woman’s worst enemy. According to his secretary, he ruined Taylor’s credit when they broke up.”

  Aaron shook his head while Bill feverishly wrote notes down. “Wow. Who else did you talk to? The p
resident?”

  “Crawford. According to him, you’ve been doing some investigating too.”

  “Finding out everything I can, brother, to prove your innocence.”

  “I just wish I knew what happened to Taylor. We had this weird connection. Nothing really even romantic. Just two people who could connect.”

  “My money is on Earle, and I think that’s where we need to focus,” Bill said. His cell phone rang, and he excused himself from the conversation.

  Aaron shook his head and sighed. “He just got that thing, and it rings all the time. I think I liked pagers better.”

  Mick leaned forward and in a hushed voice said, “Aaron, I can’t afford an attorney like Bill. I’m going to have to have a state defender.”

  “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ve gotten myself into a real mess here.”

  “I’ve been pray—” Aaron stopped himself. His brother didn’t want to hear it.

  “You’ve been praying what?” Mick asked.

  “Um . . . praying for you.”

  “Probably what kept me alive,” he said with a boyish grin. “I ran through a fire to escape!”

  Aaron laughed. “That’s what I heard. Pretty bold move.”

  “Wouldn’t do it again. Lucky for me, there was a stream that ran through the field. I have no hair left on the back of one leg. However, I did learn that it’s really not that helpful to be soaking wet, because it causes steam burns. Who knew?”

  They both chuckled and Aaron said, “Probably every firefighter in America.”

  Then Mick said, “I prayed too.”

  The men smiled at each other.

  Aaron said, “Bill and I will get to work on your case. We’ll leave no stone unturned. And I called Mom and Dad this morning. They believe in you. Don’t doubt that.” Aaron reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot. I went by to get your mail, and this was in your mailbox.” He handed him the envelope.

  “What is it?” Mick looked down and opened it, pulling out cash. Aaron watched as he quickly counted it. “I can’t believe this.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This is the exact amount that was stolen out of my wallet.”

  “You had money stolen?”

  “Yeah. But I couldn’t quite figure out when. The only thing that made sense was sometime at Taylor’s, but I could never put it all together.”

  Aaron and Mick stared at each other across the table.

  Bill approached. “You’re not going to believe this. My investigator just called, and he’s pulled up some very interesting information on Sammy Earle.”

  “What?” Aaron asked.

  “Let me guess,” Mick said. “Found out that Earle was involved in a controversial shooting in Vietnam.”

  Bill and Aaron looked at Mick.

  Bill’s mouth was hanging open. “How’d you know?”

  Mick offered a sly grin. “Like I said, I’ve been poking my nose around.”

  “What happened?” Aaron asked Bill.

  “According to my investigator, Earle witnessed his best friend get shot to death in Vietnam by another U.S. soldier. Earle has sought psychiatric help for it. He’s a known alcoholic. Anyway, the soldier who shot Earle’s friend was court-martialed. Earle testified against the man, who claimed he was saving Earle’s life because his buddy was getting ready to kill him by accident.”

  “So Earle testified on his dead friend’s behalf.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It certainly gives us a good idea about his past,” Aaron said.

  “So was he found guilty?”

  “Yes,” said Bill.

  “And then he disappeared,” Mick added. Bill and Aaron couldn’t hide their astonishment. Mick smiled mildly. “Patrick Delano, right, Bill?”

  Bill nodded.

  “What do you mean he disappeared?” asked Aaron.

  “Disappeared before he was sentenced. Escaped somehow, but there’s not a lot of information on how he did it.” Bill looked at the money on the table. “What’s that?”

  Mick fingered the bills. “A clue that may lead us to prove that things aren’t always as they seem.”

  It had been over a week since Aaron had put on his uniform. It felt heavy. He drove toward the police station, wondering how he would be received. How many people believed in Mick’s innocence? How many in his guilt? Uncertain about how he would feel seeing Jarrod again, he tried to sympathize with his situation. Jarrod was young, impressionable, and easily persuaded.

  At the back of the building, Aaron parked his car and got out, hoisting his belt up and touching his badge. Mick had used it wisely, but Aaron had been dumb not to report it stolen. Aaron walked through the back door and down the long hallway. He noticed a certain empty, eerie silence through the hallways. Where was everyone?

  As he turned the corner, he heard murmuring. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt unbearably self-conscious. Nearing the break room, he could hear distinguishable voices. A large group of people surrounded the small television.

  “What’s going on?” Aaron asked.

  The group jumped and glanced from Aaron to the television.

  Captain Bellows was standing near the front, and he looked uneasy as he approached Aaron. He took Aaron’s elbow and guided him outside the room.

  “What’s going on?” Aaron demanded again.

  “Stephen Fiscall was found dead in his home about twenty-five minutes ago.”

  “W-what?” Aaron stammered. “How?”

  “Looks like he shot himself in the head.”

  Aaron shuttered. “Suicide.” He turned to walk back down the hallway.

  “Kline! Get back here!” Bellows called after him.

  “I have to go!” Aaron said, picking up his pace.

  “Kline!” Bellows hollered as Aaron pushed the back door open. The bright sun blinded him while he raced to his car.

  Aaron sped toward Cottonwood Valley, his thoughts twisted around in shock. He pulled into the neighborhood, which was barricaded four streets away. Pulling his car to the curb, he flashed his badge and ran toward the amassed cars in front of Fiscall’s home.

  Yellow tape crisscrossed the porch. Detectives Halloway and Martin stood on the sidewalk by the front door and watched him approach.

  “Can you believe this?” Halloway said quietly.

  Aaron shook his head. “Crime-scene techs in there?”

  “Yeah, along with Crawford and his team.”

  Martin jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Found him at his desk in a silk robe and slippers, one gunshot through the head.”

  Halloway studied Aaron. “You okay? Heard they got Mick last night.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “You look beat. Why are you here?”

  “I had to come see this for myself. I’m supposed to be at work.”

  A shadow crossed the doorway, and Aaron glanced in. Shep Crawford was walking across the entryway. He looked directly into Aaron’s eyes, held them steady for several seconds, and then walked on.

  Aaron, Martin, and Halloway watched a technician lift fingerprints off the doorknob. Halloway shook his head, staring at the man. Martin was glancing around at the frenzy. All Aaron could hear was the stern no that he had heard the day he had come here, intending to knock on Fiscall’s door.

  A wave of chills raced down his body.

  Crawford was kneeling by Fiscall’s body, his small flashlight tracing the wood underneath the desk. Fiscall was slumped to the side, purple blood snaking down the left side of his face, his right hand stiffly dangling over the side of the chair. A small pistol lay at Fiscall’s foot. A water glass was shattered against the wood floor near where Crawford knelt.

  Randy Prescott came up beside him. “What are you looking for?”

  Crawford didn’t answer but continued to flick his flashlight toward the floor. Then he fell forward, his hand crunching against the broken glass. He cursed and stood up.

  �
�You okay?” Prescott asked.

  Blood dripped from a large gash below his thumb. As Crawford held it up to examine it, a stream of blood fell onto Fiscall’s forearm. Crawford cursed again, this time loud enough for everyone to hear, and grabbed the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it around his thumb. “Somebody get me a Band-Aid! Prescott, make notes right now. Mark the exact places my blood hit Fiscall.” He clasped his hand around the wound and backed up slowly.

  The medical examiner, Douglas June, approached and said, “Let’s go outside.”

  In the front yard, Crawford opened his hand, and the ME wrapped his thumb. “You’ll need stitches,” he said, winding gauze around it. Crawford stood silently as June secured the wrap with tape. “You sensing something here?” June asked, ripping off the tape and patting it into the gauze.

  Crawford massaged his thumb. “There’s something not right.”

  “I heard the guy was pretty depressed about his family leaving him.”

  “Come with me.” Crawford led June back inside to Fiscall’s body, warning him not to step on the glass. “What’s your estimated time of death?”

  June shrugged. “I’ll know more precisely when I get him back to the lab, but I’d say somewhere between ten and midnight.”

  “Look at this,” Crawford said. He pulled on medical gloves and pointed toward the bloody, matted hair on Fiscall’s left side.

  “I see a bullet hole.”

  “Ever so slightly indented?”

  June looked closer. “Okay. Yeah.”

  Crawford stood up. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr. June, but isn’t it true that the gas from the muzzle of a gun puffs out the skin?”

  June glanced back at the wound and nodded slowly. “You’re exactly right.”

  “So why is his skull indented instead?”

  “As soon as I can get this body, I’ll have a lot more information for you,” June said.

  “We’ll work as fast as we can.”

  Chief Sandy Howard walked toward them, his face drawn into a professional but stern expression.