Storm Gathering (16 page)

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 here! 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.

He gripped the gas container, and, using his feet, rolled the bike slowly out of the small barn over to the open-air barn and hopped off the bike to grab his duffel bag. He pushed the bike to the pickup and replaced the container, about a third less full now. Mick noticed a pair of old, dusty sunglasses on the dashboard of the truck. He snagged them, threw them into his duffel bag, settled himself on the bike, and took off.

He made his way slowly down the dirt-and-grass path that the farmer had driven on. He didn’t want his bike noise to draw the farmer’s attention, wherever he was.

After about two minutes, Mick hit a paved road. He stopped the bike and studied his surroundings. His first task would be to find out where in the world he was.

And then he would try to find a hat. His head was cold.

Mick drove toward Irving, taking as many back roads as he could. A dirt bike would draw way too much attention on a highway. The ride was smooth and calming, though he did miss the wind whipping through his hair.

As he trailed a slow-moving combine, Mick’s thoughts tangled with one another, and he tried as best he could to sort through them in a coherent fashion. The first thought to detach itself from the sticky web in his brain was his house: put back together as if nothing had happened.

Aaron had been at his house, had taken pictures, but did not put his things back. At least he didn’t mention it. And he would’ve told him had he done that.

Somebody was playing mind games with him. Not only was his house in perfect order, but it was in better order than before. It was part of the reason he’d decided to run. This was not a simple police investigation about a missing woman. Things ran much deeper. The net was cast wider than what was being reported in the news.

His thoughts turned to Shep Crawford. The man seemed to know more than he said, but strangely he’d also indicated he was an ally. Was it a trick, meant to draw him in and make him trust the detective? There was certainly nothing to confess, but the man had an edge about him.

Mick wished he’d been able to say more to his brother before bolting. He couldn’t imagine what Aaron must be feeling or thinking right now. Probably feeling betrayed and condemning him for another stupid move. He knew Aaron was being watched, maybe interrogated. It was better that Aaron hadn’t known anything beforehand.

Coming into the city limits, Mick pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and sat on the bike, trying to devise a plan. Ultimately it was Coach Rynde’s words that had made him believe in himself enough to go find the truth on his own. But he was sure the truth would not easily be found.

First, though, he needed a test.

Climbing off the bike, Mick took the sunglasses out of his duffel bag and put them on. His hand self-consciously glided over his nearly bald head.

When he entered the diner, he was barely noticed by the small number of customers eating a late breakfast. Mick scanned the room. Two elderly men sat near the back, sipping coffee and playing dominoes. A truck driver read a newspaper at the counter. On the front page was his mug shot staring back at him.

Hanging above the counter was a small, fuzzy television.
The Price Is Right
boasted an earful of excited cheers. This was a place that watched the news. He was sure that television was never turned off.

Breathe, dude.
He wasn’t going to look inconspicuous with a nervous tick to him. Shaking out his hands, he walked toward the counter, where an impassive-looking waitress was circling a wet rag over the top. He popped the sunglasses on top of his head.

She glanced up at him, giving him a much-needed polite smile. “Hi there,” she said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Coffee?”

“Sure. That would be great.”

The trucker sitting four seats over looked at him and went back to reading the paper.

Mick stared at his picture for a moment.

The waitress poured him a cup of coffee and offered sugar and cream. “What can I get you today?”

Mick figured he’d better be careful with his money. “Just some toast. With jelly.”

“A big, good-looking man like yourself surely eats more than toast for breakfast.” She smiled.

Mick smiled back. “Not feeling all that well this morning.”

She went to prepare his toast.

Mick stared up at the television, where a
Breaking News
Flash
sign was preceded by a news anchor’s face. But Mick couldn’t hear. The waitress returned with his toast and noticed the anchor. She reached up and turned up the volume.

“. . . in the next few minutes we expect Assistant District Attorney Stephen Fiscall to explain the charges that are being brought against the man they say is responsible for the kidnapping of twenty-seven-year-old Taylor Beatrice Franks.”
Mick’s picture flashed across the screen.

Sweat trickled down his backbone, but he tried to take a bite of toast anyway. He attempted to seem only mildly interested, like everyone else in the diner.

“. . . and here he is now, Assistant District Attorney Stephen Fiscall.”

The scene cut from inside the newsroom to outside the Irving courthouse. Mick watched the DA approach the podium of microphones. Behind him was Chief Sandy Howard and Captain Fred Bellows. Next to him stood two homicide detectives whom Mick recognized from the first day Taylor was missing.

Noticeably missing was Shep Crawford.

“Poor woman,” the waitress mumbled, serving Mick a selection of jellies and butters. “My goodness, you are fast.”

Mick looked up at her. “Excuse me?”

She nodded toward his empty coffee cup. “You want a refill?”

Mick declined. He was jittery enough as it was.

Looking back at the television, the news station was running some apparently pretaped footage of Taylor’s mother addressing the media.
“. . . and please, please let Taylor go if you have her. Please. She’s the nicest girl and I just want my baby home. . . .”
The downtrodden woman fussed with her worn and dirty blouse. Her hair, loosely pinned to the top of her head, looked as if it received little care.

The mystery of Taylor Franks grew.

An urge to talk to her mother swelled inside Mick. He reached in his duffel bag and pulled out a twenty, sliding it over to the waitress. While she was making change, Mick continued to watch the news, wondering how he would be able to talk to her. It would be a tremendous risk but could provide invaluable information.

Mick noticed the base of a water tower behind her trailer. A blue marking showed just above the base. Royal blue markings.

He knew the water tower. It was about fifteen minutes from his home. His football team’s mascot was painted on the side.

The waitress handed him his change, but the look on her face made his stomach lurch. It was the look of recognition.

“You from around here?” she asked.

Mick forced a kind smile. “Just passing through.”