Storm Gathering (19 page)

“Sammy can do some pontificating himself,” Horton mused.

“So what happened?” Mick asked.

“Delano got court-martialed,” Horton said quietly, and the men settled down their laughter. Horton, in practiced dramatic fashion, added, “And then he disappeared.”

Mick laughed out of shock. “Delano disappeared?”

Horton nodded. “According to Earle, he escaped custody and nobody has heard from him since.”

“No idea what happened to the guy?”

“Earle always jokes that he’s out there somewhere preaching the gospel of justice,” Horton said. “Of course Earle would be doing the exact opposite.”

“The guy has seriously never been found?”

“Most likely dead,” said Lenny. “Or a street bum somewhere.”

“War can make you go crazy,” said a guy named Mike, who’d yet to speak up. He looked around the room, then back down at his hands. “But you can get past it if you try hard enough.”

“Anyway,” said Horton, turning his attention back to Mick, “who knows why Earle is the way he is. I mean, the guy’s successful, living the American dream, right? He was probably just a snob since he was born.”

The men laughed.

Mick smiled, finishing off his notes. He wasn’t sure how this information was going to be useful, but he thought it certainly showed some character background for the guy.

“Well,” Mick said, sensing the men may have begun regretting all they’d said, “I doubt I’ll use too much of this in my article. The focus is really on the Johannsen trial.”

The men looked relieved. Horton said, “Are you going to interview Earle?”

“Don’t know yet. I have a lot of quotes from him already through the media. You’re right. He does like to spout off. But sometimes it’s what is
not
said that is most interesting.”

“Yeah, well, catch Earle when he’s drunk and you may get more than you bargained for,” said Horton, as if speaking from experience.

“Is that so?”

Horton grinned. “Yeah. The guy can get liquored up. He’s sort of famous for it, but he keeps it out of the courtroom, I guess.”

Mick closed his notebook and stuck the pencil through the spirals. “Well, gentlemen, thanks for letting me take up some of your time this evening. I appreciate the information you gave me. And now I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you talk about every Monday night.”

They all smiled. “Mostly just what’s in the news,” said Arnie.

“Oh,” Mick said, a spider of apprehension crawling up his back. He grinned. “Murder and mayhem in Irving, and all that, huh?”

Horton shook his head. “Nah. Once you’ve seen one murderer, you’ve seen them all.”

Mick couldn’t help but look down at nothing in particular as his face turned hot.

“We actually like talking about the weather.” Lenny laughed. “As crazy as that sounds.”

Mick wished he was not a fugitive on the run. How nice it would be to sit and talk about the weather with a group of fine American soldiers. His body longed for that kind of normalcy. “Sounds nice,” Mick said gently.

Suddenly the waitress who had helped him was carrying a platter full of food to their table. Mick tried to swing his bag around and make an exit, but she was already addressing him. She looked at his notepad. “That working out for ya?”

Mick nodded, hoping nobody was catching on. “Take good care of these gentlemen. They’re a fine group of men.”

“Always do,” she said.

Arnie stood and shook Mick’s hand. “Thanks for making our evening interesting, Trent.”

“You’re welcome.”

Arnie looked at his duffel bag. “They don’t pay you enough at
Time
to afford a briefcase?”

Mick smiled. “Always thought they looked pretentious.”

Arnie and the rest of the men laughed. “Amen, brother.”

The ten-o’clock news droned on as Aaron lay on his couch, yet to change out of the tank top and sweatpants he’d been in earlier when he exercised. A flulike ache added to his fatigue.

He’d spent an hour on the phone with his parents in Kansas City, trying to assure them it was going to be okay. They wanted to drive down, but Aaron insisted they wait. It had been only a day. Mick would surely turn up. Somewhere.

Jenny walked through the front door, carrying Chinese food. Aaron’s appetite had waned all day, but he knew he needed to eat. She went to the kitchen and slid the food onto a plate, bringing it to him with a warm smile. “Here you go.”

He toyed with the fork and listened to the anchor report that the manhunt was still on for the suspected kidnapper Mick Kline. He set the food on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes.

Jenny slipped her arm around his neck.

Aaron said, “I keep thinking of the time Mick disappeared. I think he was about six or seven. It was a Saturday night, and we were all in the house doing our own thing. It was Mom, I think, who realized that Mick was gone. We started looking for him, but we couldn’t find him.”

“What happened?”

“It was horrible. He was gone for about eight hours. Turns out he’d wandered off while chasing a dog he’d found outside in the backyard. We didn’t have a fence or anything, so Mick just followed him into the trees and then couldn’t find his way home because it was dark.”

“How terrifying!”

“I remember the whole neighborhood was looking for him. The police. The firemen. I had my flashlight, and I was bound and determined to find him. If it was the last thing I did, I was going to find him. I was walking through the woods, crying my eyes out, shouting his name. Anyway, they finally found him, four miles away near the creek bed and the highway.”

Jenny fingered through his hair.

“I kind of feel like that right now. He probably is wandering around in some trees somewhere. But his soul has been wandering around for so long too, you know? Just looking for something to attach to, something meaningful . . .” Aaron muffled his words into his hands.

Jenny wrapped her arms around his waist. “It’s okay.”

“There’s a dozen or more law enforcers out there with guns, ready to shoot a man they think has done this horrible crime.”

“We trust God to protect him.”

Aaron scratched his cheek and shook his head. “You believe so easily.”

“No. Not easily. I just believe.”

“And trust. I’ve never met a more trusting person than you. It doesn’t come that easy for me. I’ve built a career on not trusting people. Not trusting people to drive safely, to treat their spouses kindly, to earn a living the honest way.”

She laughed. “Well, I’ll remember that while I plan this wedding of ours.”

“No,” he said, “that’s all yours. I totally trust you.”

“I thought so.” She winked. “See, you are trusting! Now trust me, and get some food down you, okay?” She picked up his plate and handed it to him.

“Where’s he sleeping? What’s he eating?”

“Your brother is very savvy. He’s probably found a way to stay at the Hilton!”

Aaron laughed. “Yeah. Right.”

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.