Storm Gathering (29 page)

“What is it?”

“Look!” He pointed to the side of his vehicle as she came around to him. The magnetic fish symbol that was always on his tailgate was now just below the door handle.

“A prank?” Jenny asked, though her eyes told him that she knew what he was thinking.

“Mick always hated this fish,” Aaron said quietly, looking around to make sure he couldn’t be heard. “I know he did this.”

“But why?”

“Get in the truck,” Aaron said; when they were both inside, he continued. “Maybe to tell me he’s alive. Maybe he’s trying to let me know.”

“By moving your fish?”

Aaron glanced around, trying to spot Mick’s face through all the people coming out of the church. Opening his hand, he looked at the fish he’d peeled off the side of the truck. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

Shep Crawford stood on the fourth stair of his home and ran his fingers along the red stripes of the American flag that he proudly displayed on the wall. It was like tracing blood.

His thumb gently touched the pure white stripe below it. Blood and purity. He thought it appropriate that the two, the blood and the purity, didn’t mix. How could they? Perhaps they could run alongside each other, complement each other like a fine wine to a good steak. But never mix. Because to mix would be to perfectly sacrifice. And as far as Shep Crawford was concerned, there was no such thing. So the white would remain white, and the red would remain red.

His fingers grabbed the red stripe, and it bunched inside his hand.

Today he would choose red.

Mick staggered, clutching his ever faithful duffel bag. The zipper looked like a smile. Well, more of a grimace. Sweat poured from his face and his legs shook with each step he took, while waves of chills prickled his body.

Death walked next to him in the woods, snickering. Whispering. The only part of him that felt alive was a restless, provoking fear.

Across the treetops to the north, a mighty storm crawled, lightning spidering through the towers of clouds, thunder shaking the ground underneath him. In about thirty minutes, the storm would be here. Darkness had settled itself across the sky. The warm and wet wind that pulled the storm brushed the trees like the fingertips of ghosts.

Falling forward, Mick collapsed into a bed of leaves, his eyes rolling back into his head. Food poisoning.

He was sure this would be his end. If he could only make it to the pond, maybe Aaron would at least find his body. If Aaron understood the clue he’d left him, that is. It was a long shot. Perhaps Aaron didn’t even remember the days they’d spent here together fishing.

With his hands, he clawed at the dirt, inching his way ahead. When he got to a small hill above the pond, he let gravity roll him downward. He hit a log and lurched to a stop. Lying on his back, he stared upward. Black clouds swam swiftly against the sky.

Breathing shallowly, Mick lay still. Pain stabbed through his stomach in predictable waves. His mouth hung open wide, as if beckoning his spirit to escape through the hole. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see anything.

A large raindrop splashed against his face, bringing his senses to life momentarily. And then another. The wind picked up, whistling above him. The sky groaned.

God
. The name tingled his lips like salty water.

Beneath him, his fingers scratched the muddy ground, the ground he would be lowered into one day. Probably very soon.

I don’t want to die.

As his T-shirt became wet, the stench grew more caustic, as if he could smell himself dying, his skin rotting, his blood draining.

“Aaron,” he groaned.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to bear the hot pain that clamped around his intestines.

“If you could become anybody else in the world, Mick, who would you become?”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“You like who you are?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“There’s nobody else you’d want to be like?”

“I don’t know. My brother, I guess, though he can be a real pain.”

“This is the same brother who stole the woman of your dreams?”

“Yeah. Same brother.”

“That’s weird.”

“You don’t know him.”

“All I’ve heard about him is what you’ve said. Sounds like you hate his guts. Why would you want to be like him?”

“Maybe that’s why I hate him so much. Because I’ve always wanted to be like him. I was never able to, though. He was born with a good heart.”

“I think people can create whoever they want to be.”

“I disagree. I think people are who they are, and they can only improve upon that.”

“I’m going to become the person I always wanted to be.”

“And who is that?”

“A woman who can tell a man no and defy him and an entire kingdom if she has to. A strong and courageous woman.”

“Who are you now?”

“I’m still the caterpillar.”

Sammy Earle whirled around, dropping his glass of whiskey to the kitchen counter in his Dallas home. It splashed and spilled over the top, its liquid sliding across the shiny counter.

Thump.

He swallowed, backing up against the refrigerator, panting. Was it the liquor talking? He was hearing things now too?

Earle rubbed his eyes, trying to get a grip. He hadn’t slept well. Nightmares had haunted him from the moment his head had rested on the pillow last night. Everything from Vietnam to Taylor Franks. Each night they’d gotten worse. Last night they were nearly unbearable.

Thump.

Gasping, Earle looked toward his front door, from where the sound had come. Outside, weather as wicked as devils crossed the sky and blew the leaves off the trees. Still, he’d heard a noise. He knew it. Maybe the wind was blowing something against the door. Rain splashed against the windows in fierce waves, and in the background he could hear the weather alert beeping on the television. But right now a tornado was the least of his worries.

Creeping forward, he tiptoed out of the kitchen and toward the door and listened. There, a faint sound—something he couldn’t identify—rattled right outside. A crack of thunder caused Earle to jump backward, and then another loud crack made him look out the front window. A large tree limb had snapped and was dangling high above his lawn.

All Earle could see out his peephole was rain splashing against the concrete of his driveway, creating a white, hovering mist. The front door was bolted shut, so Earle slowly unlocked it, pressing his weight against the door, afraid as soon as he heard the click something might shove the door inward.

But the click did nothing more than accelerate his heartbeat. Earle shut his eyes and mumbled, “Get a grip, soldier.” He used the word loosely. He’d never thought of himself as a soldier, even when he was in combat. He’d never felt like a killer. He’d never felt brave. His mind and his charm were the weapons he used these days. But when swimming in alcohol, neither proved to be too effective. He’d tried to stop drinking, but the nightmares kept driving him back.

With a swift pull, Earle opened his front door. A warm breeze blew his hair back, and the pouring rain was deafening. He looked around but saw nothing.

Then he heard that rattling noise again, and when he looked down he saw it. Near his doorway, by a flowerless pot, was a white piece of paper, flapping in the wind, held down by a smooth, round stone. The rain had not reached it, as it was under the protection of the porch. Earle looked around again, stunned.

Thunder clapped and without further hesitation, Earle picked up the stone and grabbed the paper with his other hand before the wind carried it off. He tried to hold the paper upright so he could read the typed note:

Mr. Earle,

I have some information about you concerning the Taylor Franks case. Information that is neither helpful to you nor to me in my prosecution of the suspect of this case. I need to meet with you privately. Do not bring any lawyers or anybody else. This stays between you and me. Come to my house tonight between 10:30 and 11:00. 11898 Blaine Street. And whatever you do,
destroy this letter
.

S. Fiscall

The rock rolled out of Earle’s trembling hand, landing on the porch with a loud thump. He stared at the note in disbelief. Backing up through his doorway, he slammed the door shut and took a loud, wheezing gulp of air. This was no alcoholic mirage. Stumbling into the kitchen, he scrounged around for another bottle, all the while holding the paper delicately, as if it held the very power of life in it.

Drinking straight from a bottle of chardonnay he reserved for special guests, Earle tried to get a grip. He studied the paper, examining every word. But with each passing minute, he grew more and more anxious. What information did Fiscall have? Why did he want to see him?

Earle gripped the bottle in one hand and the letter in the other. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was a little after seven.

Holding the letter over his stove top, he turned on the gas flame. The paper ignited, and a hot orange flame climbed its fibers. White smoke twirled toward the ceiling as gracefully as a ballerina. Earle stared at it, memorizing the address. Neither fire nor alcohol could kill the demons. Wherever he went, they followed.

He dropped the letter into the sink and pounded the small fire out, leaving crispy edges but the letter intact. His gut told him to keep it.

Sammy Earle stood under the cold water of the showerhead, slapping his hands against his cheeks. He managed to bathe before grabbing a towel and stepping onto a small, round red carpet.

Scrubbing his head with the towel, he then pulled on a purple silk shirt and black slacks but no tie. The crumpled note held down by a stone was indication enough that this meeting wasn’t going to be formal.

He was feeling sick. Fiscall knew enough information that he was certain Earle would show up. But it also sounded like if Earle would cooperate, this information might be gladly swept under the rug.

He combed his hair and smothered his cheeks in aftershave, then went to his closet and put on a black raincoat. As he buttoned it up, he stared out the window at the storm. White light cut into the dark, and Earle sighed. There was hardly a good reason to go out into weather like this.

Hardly a good reason. But this was a good reason.

He pulled up the collar on his coat and found his keys. Taking another swig of chardonnay, he headed to his garage, cursing the day he ever met Taylor Franks.

Gripping the steering wheel, Aaron navigated through the torrential rain, leaning toward the windshield, wishing the wipers on Jenny’s Honda would swipe twice as fast. Next to him, Jenny gripped the door with her right hand and with her left held two sacks of groceries on her lap.

The lightning gave them some needed light on this dark country road. They’d been traveling on what they thought and hoped was Agriculture Road for about twenty minutes, but this far out, road signs were nonexistent. The only thing that told them they were on the right road was all the agriculture.

“Please let us be right,” Aaron mumbled.

Jenny touched his arm. “It’s a long shot.”

Aaron squinted through the foggy windshield. It
was
a long shot. Connecting a fish on his truck to a fishing pond he and Mick had played at as kids. But it was a perfect hideout, if that’s where Mick had been all this time.

They’d decided to take Jenny’s car out of simple paranoia. Though there wasn’t a car in sight at Aaron’s house and hadn’t been for days, the thought of a bird dog being attached to his truck caused him to think out his plan further. He’d checked underneath his truck twice, but the thing could be well hidden.

He hated to drag Jenny into this, but so far the detectives had shown little interest in her. Besides, she insisted on coming and was tough and stubborn—two of the qualities that had initially drawn him to her. Jenny had even thought of going to the grocery store to pick up food for Mick . . . and make it look like an innocent trip.

“Should I get the map out again?”

“No. There’s only one Agriculture Road and only one Peachtree Street.” A bright light flashed in the rearview mirror, and in the distance, two foggy headlights glowed. Soon enough, the lights faded into the rain, and they were alone on the bumpy paved road again.

The headlights caught a shimmering, rectangular green sign: Peachtree Street.

“Yes!” Jenny cried.

They turned right and the car climbed a steep hill, the wind rattling the windows and the loose metal on the bottom of the car. This was the worst storm Aaron had seen in a long time. Ironically, it had always been these kinds of storms that Mick loved.

As the car topped the hill, Aaron saw a blurry white box on the top of the next hill. The wipers struggled to keep up with the sheets of rain rolling against the windshield.

“There,” Aaron said, pulling to the side of the road. He turned off the headlights. “I think that’s the Heppetons’ house.”

Checking the rearview mirror, he found nothing behind them but a black, lightless tunnel of rain.

“Where’s the pond?” Jenny asked.

Aaron studied the fields and trees. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember which side of the house it was on. All these groupings of trees look alike. But there’s only one pond here. I think the property’s about fifteen acres.”

“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.