Storm Gathering (15 page)

“Mutt,” Sammy said, but he wasn’t talking about the dog. He rolled over onto his back, tugging at his silk robe that tangled itself between his legs. Staring out his bedroom window, he smiled, musing at the events that had unfolded over the past twenty-four hours. How differently things could’ve turned out. After all, he was in a business where justice mattered little but perception meant the world. And perception could be bought.

The irony was not lost on Sammy that this Mick Kline character could have very well been one of his clients, had he had a little higher status in life.

Sammy chuckled and coddled his bottle of brandy, stroking its long neck with his fingers. Taylor Franks had been bad news since the day he met her, and maybe now she’d be out of his life forever. Kidnapped. Ha. That woman was as tough as a bull. She’d have to be tranquilized first.

Sammy thirsted for more liquor, but he was too tired to lift the bottle. With blurry vision and a mellow head, he smiled out his last conscious thought and drifted into slumber, rolling to his side, barely aware that his brandy was spilling onto his arm.

Thump.

Sammy’s bloodshot eyes flew open. Stared into Taylor’s face.

She was looking through the window at him, her hair tousled over her face, her eyes glowing with rage. Her hands were plastered against the glass.

A gurgle rose from his throat, and he twisted himself the other direction, trying to scramble off the bed. He landed on the other side, unable to catch his breath, smelling like he’d bathed in cognac.

Closing his eyes and clasping his mouth with a trembling hand, Sammy willed himself awake. He’d had nightmares before. From Vietnam. Which was why he’d started drinking in the first place. Usually hard liquor put him out of any misery that wanted his attention.

He talked himself back to sanity. He would open his eyes again and be staring at the ceiling and an empty window, where the rain had begun to mist down from the sky. Yes, it was just a dream.

But when he opened his eyes, he was on the floor next to his bed, half his body drenched with a wretched, wet odor. Sammy staggered to his knees, peering over his bed.

A black, lightless window stared back.

At 4 a.m., Aaron’s head bobbed and he startled himself awake, blinking at a fuzzy television screen. He’d fallen asleep? In his lap was his phone, still silent. He’d prayed all night that Mick would call.

He pulled an afghan that Jenny had brought over a few weeks ago around his shoulder and gazed out at the pitch-black night. His emotions had finally settled into a somewhat comforting numbness.

He still couldn’t believe it.

His brother had run.

Knock, knock
.

Aaron jumped to his feet, bolting for the door. Without even looking through the peephole, he swung the door open.

“Hi,” Jenny said softly, her eyes swollen.

“Jenny,” Aaron said, unable to hide his surprise. “Come in.” He ushered her inside, his arm around her shoulders. “I thought you might be Mick.”

“No word?”

Aaron shook his head. “What are you doing here? You should be asleep.”

Jenny set a box of donuts on the table. “I can’t sleep.” She glanced toward the front window where the curtains were drawn. “You know they got a car out there?”

He nodded, going back to the living room and sitting on the couch. His eyes stung from fatigue.

“Are you okay?” She joined him on the couch, touching his arm and folding her fingers into his.

“I don’t know what’s more insulting: Mick taking off on me, using me like he did; or my department not trusting me enough that they send a car out here to watch the house. Of course I’d turn Mick in if he showed up.”

Jenny studied him. “Are you sure?”

Aaron’s gaze darted to hers. “Of course I’m sure.”

Jenny sighed. “Look, Aaron . . .”

Aaron watched her struggle for words. “What?”

“He’s innocent.”

Aaron looked away.

“He’s innocent,” she repeated.

Aaron could say nothing.

“Don’t you believe that?” Jenny asked.

“I thought I did,” Aaron said angrily, fleeing her embrace and walking to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel and looking into its black, ash-covered hole.

“I’m not saying it’s right,” Jenny said, sitting cross-legged on the couch, the way she did when she was up for a long, friendly debate. “But your brother has never been conventional, and he’s always balked at authority, ever since he was young, as you tell it.”

Aaron smiled as a memory floated through his mind of Mick sticking his tongue out at a police officer while the two boys walked by. As he recalled, the police officer followed them, grabbed Aaron, and lectured him, even though it was Mick who’d done it. “Control your kid brother,” the officer had huffed.

Aaron had tried his whole life, but it had backfired at every turn.

“But what a stupid thing to do!” Aaron said. “Now he’s a fugitive. They’re going to hunt him down like an animal. He had a chance to prove his innocence and now it’s gone.”

“I think Mick is a pretty smart guy, Aaron. And I think he sensed there would be some injustices done.”

Aaron crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall next to the fireplace. “You know, he’s the only one I’ve heard show any concern for that lady. Everybody else is treating this like a crime that needs to be solved. Mick still thinks there’s a woman out there to save.”

“He has a good heart, though sometimes he doesn’t use his head.”

“I’m scared that somebody will get hurt, Jenny. They’re going to consider him armed and dangerous. I have no idea if he has a weapon or not. Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Mick’s got a plan.” Aaron looked up at her. Her always-positive face glowed with a shade of enthusiasm. “He didn’t just bolt to run from the police.”

Aaron sighed and rejoined her on the couch. “I pray that Mick knows what he’s doing. Because I sure don’t.” He pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was under interrogation for nearly the whole evening.”

She sat up. “Really?”

“I think they believed me in the end, but it looked pretty bad because I asked for extra time and met Mick at his house; then he disappeared. Anyway, I’m on paid leave.”

“Oh, Aaron. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know how long it will be. Captain Bellows knows me. I’m sure he believes me, but I understand why he’s doing it.”

“You want some coffee?” Jenny asked.

Aaron nodded and she went quietly to the kitchen to make it. He found himself staring out the window. The only thing staring back was his somnolent face.

He wondered if he should tell Jenny. It was probably better that she didn’t know. It was better that no one knew.

Mick had taken his badge.

Assistant DA Stephen Fiscall had slept soundly and was now enjoying a double caramel mocha as he drove to work. The radio waves were filled with alerts that a fugitive was on the run, and the DJs were talking about it as if it were sport. Some stations were placing bets. Others were issuing overly dramatic warnings about what you should do if you see this “very dangerous man.”

It all massaged his ego, because he knew he’d been right. Shep Crawford and his amour propre had done nothing but make himself look foolish. Maybe Chief Howard would see Crawford for what he really was this time. The department could live without his maniacal tendencies, regardless of his proclivity toward brilliance.

Last night before he’d turned in, Fiscall heard the police helicopters overhead, the thumping of the blades at times shaking the glass of his house.

The man had run. Fiscall couldn’t have orchestrated anything better. Secretly he’d had doubts about being able to prosecute either suspect. There simply wasn’t enough hard evidence, especially with no true validation of a murder and barely validation of a kidnapping. But now he had a fugitive.

As he rode the shiny gold elevator up one floor to his office, he turned toward the mirror, mindless of the others in the elevator, and adjusted his tie. He’d picked his best suit, the one he wore for press conferences. He suspected he’d be on television at least twice today. As he got off the elevator, his prosecutors and fellow employees grinned and shot thumbs-up.

Fiscall nodded humbly, smiling cordially and shaking the hands that were offered.

District Attorney Willie Blazedell, his boss, caught him as he rounded the corner toward his office. “Stephen,” he said with a lazy accent, “my goodness. What a day. Good job. Not bad for a Yankee.” He offered his large hand and winked.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sandy called, said they picked up Kline’s scent but lost it across the highway.”

“They’ll find him. Nothing like a good manhunt to get the police fired up.”

Willie laughed but then turned serious. “Good call, by the way. I looked over the evidence. Not enough against Sam Earle.”

“Not the kind of mess we want right now anyway.”

“I agree. The flowers made me hesitate, though. We’re going to have to figure out what to do with those.”

“Hmm.”

“But in the end, it was this Kline guy who was at the scene of the crime.”

“Can’t say I’m a big fan of an attorney like Sammy Earle, but we got the right guy.”

Willie smiled. “Would’ve been something. Taking down one of the most despised attorneys in Dallas.”

“Ever been up against him?”

“No. But feel like I have, as much press as that guy gets. I just hope he never sets foot in Irving.” Willie checked his watch. “Well, don’t let me stop you. You’ve got things to do. Heard there’s a press conference called for 2 p.m.”

“Hope I have some news to report.”

“If not, play the other coin. Try to avoid mentioning his brother. Let’s keep that out of the news as much as possible. Want to make this about the man and the evidence. Just be careful what you say.”

“Yeah.” Fiscall held back a smile. It was nice to have his boss trust him with a press conference.

He tried to receive the slap on the back with grace, though he still wasn’t used to all the slapping and hee-hawing that went on in this part of the country.

In his office, he set his briefcase and mocha down and stretched, releasing a tired yawn that the mocha had yet to remedy. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his door. He buzzed his secretary. “I want all calls pertaining to the Kline case passed to me.”

He had a lot to do this morning. But he always allowed himself to enjoy his mocha. So he took it off the edge of his desk and turned, ready to relish the warm sunshine that filtered through his second-story window at this time of the morning.

He stopped.

Smeared across the outside of his window was . . . was . . . what
was
that?

He stepped toward it, leaning in and squinting. He grimaced and stumbled backward.

Blood.

Splattered in every direction across his window.

He lost his taste for the mocha, setting it down on his desk, nearly spilling it. Shaking his head, he turned from the sight.

A bird had probably flown into the window. He buzzed his secretary. “I need somebody in here from maintenance. Now.”

Dumb Texas birds.

“Baaahhhaaaa.”

Mick jolted upward, causing the sheep to stir. They eyed him nervously. He was hunched in one corner of an open-air barn, leaning against a dusty wall. The sheep were roaming around freely near the barn. Mick suspected they were probably waiting for food, which meant somebody would be arriving soon.

He checked his watch. It was a little after nine. He’d been asleep for two hours. Exhausted from the night of fleeing in the darkness, he had trouble standing. His legs ached and his toes were sore.

He coughed and sneezed, his allergies hitting high gear. Dusting himself off, he stepped forward, causing the sheep to scramble nervously toward the sheepcote. He grabbed the small, black duffel bag he’d managed to get out his bathroom window. Aaron had given it to him a while back, something he’d won in some church marathon. Mick had never used it, but inside he knew it had a few items from sponsors, such as a toothbrush, toothpaste, a religious T-shirt, a candle, wind pants with a logo on them, and restaurant coupons. He’d added to that the money he’d taken from his home.

And Aaron’s badge.

He held it up and carefully looked at it, then stuck it in his pocket, biting his lip at the thought of what his intentions were for using it. Running his hands through his tangled hair, he tried to focus on what he needed to do.

He tried to remember all the information about Taylor he’d gleaned from the news and from his brother. She had worked for Delta Airlines, and her friend Liz Lane was the one who’d first talked to the police. The police had interviewed Taylor’s mother, who lived in a trailer park outside Irving.

Aaron had told him that Taylor had dated Sammy Earle, a well-known defense attorney from Dallas. The relationship had broken up a year ago from what Aaron heard. But he said the day before Taylor disappeared she received a bouquet of flowers from Sammy. That was the only evidence they had that he’d been in contact with her.

Mick processed all this, storing it away in his mind, and then tried to figure out what he was going to do. He wasn’t sure where he was, somewhere about ten miles north of Irving, he thought. Last night he’d made his way to a grouping of trees and had darted around avoiding the helicopter’s spotlight for thirty minutes before finally shifting directions and leaving the search behind.