Storm Gathering (28 page)

“Okay, just do it,” he mumbled to himself. He ripped the envelope open. Inside was sixty-two dollars—three twenties and a couple of ones.

“What, Aaron?” Jenny asked.

Aaron got back into the truck, still holding the envelope. He handed it to Jenny. “I don’t know what this means, but hardly anybody sends cash through the mail, with no note and no return address. Think it’s weird?”

Jenny fingered through the cash. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Aaron sighed, backing out of the driveway. “Maybe I’m grasping at straws.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea, really. It just seems weird, and at this point I’ll look to anything if I think it could lead me to Mick.”

“Do you think he’ll contact you?”

Aaron snorted. “Doubtful. He hardly wanted anything to do with me when his life was going fine. I think I’m the last person on the face of the earth he would turn to right now.”

“If he did turn to you, what would you do?”

“He won’t.”

“You need to go.”

“I don’t want to go. Aren’t you enjoying the company?”

“I’m not joking. You need to get out of here.”

“What? Did I say sommmething?”

“You’re slurring your words. Don’t you know when to stop drinking?”

“I don’t remember you telling me to stop as you brought me out these beers.”

“Look, just forget it. I’ll call you a cab . . . hello?”

“Don’t . . . don’t . . .”

“Hey, wake up. Come on, please, don’t do this to me. Wake up. Come on. There you go, open your eyes.”

“Arrre you slllapping me?”

“I just really need you to wake up. Now. Please. Pleassse wake up.”

“I . . . I’m soo . . .”

“Please don’t do this. I need you to . . .”

Mick opened his eyes. Darkness swaddled him, but above a white light burned an outline around something. His head throbbed, and even the tiniest move caused him to moan in pain. After a few tries, he finally managed to sit up. His limbs shook from horrible hunger. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Looking around, he remembered. He’d crawled into this abandoned apartment last night through a window that had been boarded up. Above him were other windows that were covered with plywood, but the daylight was seeping through.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. An old, stained couch had been left, but to him the soft cushions had looked luxurious last night. Even with the dirty stuffing poking out the sides, he’d crawled onto it with little hesitation and fallen asleep.

But this morning his nose was stuffy from the mildewy air. Through the streaming daylight he could see dust particles swimming above him.

He was going to have to get something to eat very soon. Making his way out the same window he’d crawled in, the bright light assaulted his senses. Thankfully, his bike was still where he’d parked it.

He needed to find out what time it was. Midmorning, he assumed.

Several things had clicked for him last night, though perhaps not as consciously as he would like to take credit for. One, he knew he was going to need help. He had a lot of information but no way of implementing what he knew. If someone else had the information, they could take it to the authorities, perhaps change their mind. Two, he knew the only person he really trusted was Aaron.

The trick was going to be contacting Aaron without anybody seeing him. But he thought he had a good plan.

He also had a strange feeling that Taylor Franks had known something was going to happen to her the night she disappeared. As his memory surfaced, her words became pieces to a wide and difficult puzzle, but nevertheless, they were beginning to form more of a picture.

If he had any chance of not being a fugitive forever, it would be to find out what all this meant. And somehow make sure Sammy Earle got what was coming to him.

Mick peddled the back streets, his duffel bag across his shoulder. He had to get food.

And go see Aaron.

In that order.

A gothic-looking but gateless iron fence guarded the two-story home, one of the smaller ones in the Cottonwood Valley neighborhood of Irving. Rumor had it that his wife had left him and taken his children to Florida. The lawn, as green as a crayon and as flat as the end of one, had perfectly squared edges and uniform bushes, a sure sign that no children lived there. Half a dozen inground sprinklers sprayed the ground simultaneously. Heavy white curtains hung in all the windows, looking as if nobody ever peeked out of them.

Aaron suspected that on this Sunday afternoon he would find Stephen Fiscall at home. From across the street he watched Fiscall’s two black Labradors stare distrustfully at him from near the end of the drive.

He contemplated how he was going to convince the prosecutor to allow him to argue his brother’s case. If he could just say a few words, put doubt into Fiscall’s mind about his decision to pursue Mick, maybe it would make a difference. He would try to convince him to take another look at Sammy Earle.

It seemed to be the only thing he could do.

Now sitting stoically, the dogs waited for Aaron to make a move. Aaron put his truck in gear and began to turn down Fiscall’s driveway.

No
.

Braking, Aaron turned around, sensing someone behind him, but there was nobody. The word was spoken firmly, like a father scolding a young child. He was sure he heard it, as clear as if someone had whispered it in his ear. His pounding heart offered evidence that he had heard something.

He turned back around, facing the large white driveway that traced itself through the green lawn. Had he just imagined the word? What harm was there in talking with Fiscall? Yet that small part of his conscience, where he’d doubted this decision and found himself contemplating his trust in God, grew ever larger.

The two dogs’ ears perked, and low growls vibrated in their throats.

He wanted to speak a few brief words to Fiscall. Perhaps Fiscall would sense somebody outside and come out. Aaron’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel, fighting the basic urge to obey.

Backing up, he turned his truck and sped back down the quiet residential street.

Anger grappled him. He was sure God had spoken to him, but He wasn’t making sense. He was scolding him, controlling him. Yet nothing was being done to save his brother. He pounded the steering wheel as he swung out into traffic, heading home.

“Answer me!” Aaron yelled.

A stern horn blistered his ears as he almost crossed the double yellow line.

Mick parked his bike between some trees near the back of the church. It took him until early evening to ride there, as he’d gotten lost twice on the back roads and had needed to stop and rest several times. Muffled organ music pushed through the white wooden walls of the historic Methodist church. Its gleaming gold steeple spiked toward the fading blue, dusky sky.

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!”