Storm Gathering (17 page)

“Huh. You look familiar. You ain’t never been in here before?”

“First time. But it was a great experience.” He winked at her.

She blushed, waving her hand at him. “Well, you bring your pretty little self back in here soon, you hear?”

“I will.” Mick zipped up his duffel bag and turned to leave.

A man stepped in his way. He was large and gruff, with a John Deere hat perched on the very top of his head, the bill tipped upward. A pack of Marlboros peeked out of his flannel shirt pocket.

Mick felt his knees weaken. He was going to have to make a run for it.

“That your bike out there?” the man said.

Mick shifted his eyes out the window where the bike sat. “Yeah.”

“You interested in sellin’ it?”

“Larry, for crying out loud, let our customers be!” the waitress said as she returned from the kitchen. “Don’t you got enough junk around that house of yours!”

A grin eased over Larry’s weathered face when he looked at Mick. “Crabby today, ain’t she?”

Mick smiled. “Sorry, it’s not for sale.”

“It’s a piece of junk. Surely want to get yourself a better bike. I’d pay two hundred bucks for it.”

“Actually, I’m saving up for a car.”

“A pickup, you mean?”

“Yeah. A pickup.”

Larry nodded and stepped to the side. “Well, hope that thing doesn’t bust up on you.”

“Thanks.” He slid the glasses over his eyes.

The man tipped his hat as Mick headed to the door. Outside, he let out a long groan. Stress twisted the muscles in his neck. He hopped on the bike, and after three tries, got it started.

He didn’t mean to peel out.

Fiscall, Captain Bellows, and Detectives Prescott and Wailes huddled outside at the corner of the county courthouse. Bellows was watching in the distance as Chief Howard was giving a statement to a few lingering reporters.

Fiscall noticed the window washers had finished spraying down his office window. Thank goodness. Even though his back was to the window most of the morning, it was as if the blood were shouting his name. Chills kept running over his body. One of the two washers was stuffing a rag in his back pocket and heading around the corner where they were standing.

Fiscall caught his attention. “Thanks for the wash.”

“Sure.” The man shrugged.

“You picked up the dead bird too?”

“Didn’t find a bird.”

“On the grass below?”

The man shook his head. “Naw. Didn’t find nothing like that. Maybe a cat had a good lunch.”

Fiscall nodded and let the man pass by. He tuned into the conversation Wailes and Prescott were having.

“. . . probably the biggest mystery of this case.”

“What’s that?” Fiscall said.

“Those flowers.” Prescott sighed. “We can’t trace the payment of them to Kline, Earle, or anybody else involved in this case. Looks like the man’s credit-card number may have been stolen, though he doesn’t report anything else strange on his statement.”

“We’re sure this man isn’t connected?”

“He’s sixty years old and wheelchair bound, according to the Maine police,” Prescott said. “Was in Irving about a month ago.”

“What was his business here?”

“Came to bury a friend or something. Said he was here for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Okay, well, let’s keep working that angle.”

Bellows stepped back into the conversation. “Kline hasn’t been spotted yet. We sent out a citywide ‘attempt to locate’ message on him that’s been read at all the shift briefings. Pictures were sent along too. The warrant has been entered into NCIC. I also sent some of the flyers over to Dallas PD asking for assistance in the search. They’ll hand them out at their briefings.”

“What about the search for Franks?” Fiscall asked.

“Still cold. Right now, unfortunately, our best bet is what Kline can give us when we get him,” Bellows said. “We should’ve arrested the guy the day we had him. I don’t know why Crawford didn’t at least bring him in.”

Prescott and Wailes didn’t have an answer.

“Speaking of Crawford, where is he? I was surprised not to see the lead detective standing in support,” Fiscall said bitterly.

Bellows said, “Crawford isn’t one for media attention.”

“I took it to mean that Crawford isn’t on board here.”

“Look, Stephen, Crawford is his own man. Always has been. But the department is backing the Kline angle. I think it’s as solid as we’ve got. Crawford will continue to work the case. His objective is to find this woman—dead or alive—and bring evidence against whoever did it.”

Fiscall stared out across the street. “Crawford is a bad seed, Bellows.” He glanced at the captain. “He’s a rogue.”

The other two detectives shifted and watched silently.

Bellows looked at them and then at Fiscall. “He’s the best homicide detective I’ve ever seen. He has solved unsolvable cases.”

“That may be true. But he’s as weird as they come. And I don’t trust him.”

“You have no reason to fear him.” Bellows smiled. “Some people do.”

“And who is that?”

“Criminals, of course,” Bellows said.

Wailes and Prescott chuckled.

Fiscall shook his head, hardly smiling, and he smoothed his tie. “So what do you suppose Crawford is doing right now?”

“Finding clues that nobody else sees.”

Fiscall found it odd, because he felt like somewhere nearby, Crawford was watching him.

Mick had parked the bike at a dilapidated tire shop, where two mechanics didn’t bother to notice. He figured he was about a mile from the water tower. He dropped his bag behind some bushes and began to walk.

He had no trouble finding Mrs. Franks’s trailer near the water tower. He could see the news vans and their antennas easily.

He walked down Bellmont Avenue, noticing from a distance the cluster of news reporters gathered in the street waiting around for something big to happen. Mick didn’t see any government vehicles or patrol cars. How was he going to get into the house? He saw no way, even posing as a reporter.

Mick fingered the badge in his pocket. Was it worth the risk of getting caught to find out perhaps nothing more than how Taylor grew up? Mick bit his lip as he stood behind a large oak, glancing around it now and then at the commotion down the street of trailers.

He studied the trailer park, noticing the chain-link fences around some of the yards. He wondered how easy it would be to get to the backyard. He could walk one street over, and if he could clear the first yard, he’d be in hers.

But then what?

As he thought this out, Mick decided to go ahead and walk one street over. He didn’t need to be seen loitering. In four blocks he was in front of the larger trailer whose yard backed up to Mrs. Franks’s.

He wiped the sweat off his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger. Perspiration, along with a thumping heart, warned him how bad an idea this was.

But so far it was his only idea. And the only way he was going to get himself out of this mess was to prove that he didn’t do it.

A picture of Coach Rynde hiding in a closet flashed through his mind, and determination built up inside him. Nobody ever got anywhere amazing by not taking risks. Mick just hoped a stubbly head, a prickly face, and a pair of round sunglasses were enough to hide his identity.

He would knock on the back door, flash his badge, and pose as a detective. He’d ask a few questions and then get out of there as quickly as he could before some real cop showed up.

It was a flimsy plan, but it was the best he had. First of all, he had to explain why he was coming to the back door. How in the world was he going to sell that plan? Doubt nudged itself forward.

Mick quietly walked alongside the trailer. A dog two houses down barked at him, causing him to pick up his pace.

He immediately noticed that her backyard could not be seen from the front yard, thanks to the long angle of the trailer. Several large trees also proved to be a good shield from the crowd in the street.

Mick jumped the chain-link fence that separated the two lines of trailers and walked into her backyard. What if she was watching him out the window?

Mick walked onto the covered patio, complete with fake turf and real dog dung. He stepped over everything carefully, climbed up the creaky wooden steps that met the back door, and found himself staring at a screenless screen door, loose at one hinge.

Behind it was a white wooden door. Mick opened the screen door cautiously and then, with bated breath, knocked.

She must’ve been standing two feet away, because the door swung open immediately. The woman whom he’d seen on television looked even more worn in real life. Her face was crinkled and strained.

But Mick recognized Taylor’s dark eyes in hers. And these dark eyes were beginning to fill with fear.

“Ma’am,” Mick said, “it’s okay.” He flashed his badge. “I’m with the police department.”

“Why are you at my back door?”

“I didn’t want all the media making a big fuss, as I’m sure you don’t.”

She frowned, but Mick couldn’t read her expression very well. “Well, your other two detectives just left five minutes ago.”

Mick felt his chest constrict. “Oh. Yeah. Right.” He willed himself not to say
um
but to think very quickly. “I’m actually the department chaplain.”

“A chaplain?”

“Yes. And I offer counseling to families with whom we have an open investigation.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize they did that.”

Mick looked behind her. A few people, apparently relatives and neighbors, mingled in the small living room, stealing glances at them. “Listen, why don’t you step outside here, and we’ll sit for a moment on your back porch. I won’t take up much of your time.”

Mrs. Franks hesitated, studying him. Mick was just about to open his mouth to say who-knew-what, when Mrs. Franks said, “But I ain’t religious.”

Mick closed his mouth and drew in a mild breath through his nose. “That’s fine, Mrs. Franks. We’ll just talk, and maybe I can offer some consoling words.” That sounded like something Aaron’s pastor might say.

Mrs. Franks sighed and stepped outside, leaving the door open but letting the screen door shut. “I doubt that. I can’t sleep a wink. Got to use them pills.”

There was no place to sit except on two rickety old lawn chairs that looked like they’d been folded against the house for twenty years. Mrs. Franks grabbed one in each hand, and with a mighty flick of her wrists, they opened. She set one in front of Mick and sat down on the other.

Mick hooked the badge on his shirt and sat down, trying to remember that he wasn’t a detective here to question her. He was going to have to be careful with how he approached this.

“Look, mister . . . what’s your name again?”

Mick grinned, using the pause to come up with something quick. “Chaplain Goode.”

“Okay. What I was saying is that I feel so desperate. I can’t imagine what I’m gonna do if they find her body. I just can’t imagine.”

Mick nodded, a thousand thoughts and questions spiking in his mind. “I understand.” He tried to sound very pastorlike. He blinked slowly and tilted his head ever so slightly.

“I been feeling so much guilt,” she said through watery eyes.

“Guilt? What for?”

The woman used cusswords like adjectives, but she finally got around to saying that she and Taylor had not spoken in a year because of her breakup with a boyfriend.

“What is the boyfriend’s name?”

“Sammy Earle,” she said. “I told all this to the detective, but I could see the judgment in his eyes. Like I was a horrible monster for trying to tell the girl she didn’t know what she had. She had so much! More than I could’ve ever dreamed about.”

“And that’s why you two don’t speak?”

“I got knocked around a few times myself before the husband died. You live with it. You figure, what am I gonna do by myself? Starve to death! And the man bought her lots of things. Clothes, jewelry. She was living a good life.”

“So Sammy Earle hit her?”

“Just said that, didn’t I?” she snapped.

Mick nodded, backing off his intense need to find out more.

“I done the wrong thing. I don’t doubt that now. But I was just trying to help her. And now look. She probably got killed by some psychopath anyway.”

“Do you believe she’s dead, Mrs. Franks?”

“What kinda question is that?”

Mick tried not to flinch. “I only want to know if you’re prepared for whatever kind of news you might get.”

“Don’t think I can be prepared.” Mrs. Franks sighed. “I don’t feel like she’s dead. Surely a mother would know that kinda thing. Feel it here.” She pounded her chest. “Surely I’d know if her soul flew off to heaven.”

“Tell me a little more about your daughter,” Mick said. “Sometimes it helps people to just talk about their loved ones.”

Mrs. Franks eyed him and then gazed out into her small backyard. “Well, what can I say? Taylor was the kind of girl who was always into trouble. Not bad trouble. She was just a little wily. Okay, a lot wily. She had this thing about her since she was a young’un. Don’t know if it was ’cause her daddy was on the bottle or what. But it was like she had this instinct to want to survive on her own.”

“How so?” Perspiration trickled down Mick’s nose, and he had to keep pushing his glasses up his face.

“Always staying out late, like she had to show me she could do it. And she got picked up for shoplifting a good time or two. They never pressed charges. Saw what kind of life she came from; guess they felt sorry for her. I dunno. She managed to get into trouble at every turn.”

“But it seems from all accounts that she’s a regular, productive citizen.”

“Guess you could say that, yeah. She grew out of it, from what I could tell. Got herself a job when she was sixteen. Liked making that money. Thought she’d go to college, but then she went to work for the airline and done real well there.”

“What kind of person is Mr. Earle?”

She waved her hand at him. “Don’t know him really. Never met him. Didn’t want him to see where she came from.”

Mick felt sad for the woman. In her own desperate way, she was trying to do a good thing for her daughter. But hearing this about Taylor was hardly believable. He would have never guessed she was from a poor family with an alcoholic father. Yet there was a mystery about her that he never could put his finger on in the short time he’d known her.

“You think God’ll forgive me?”

“What? I’m sorry?” Mick blinked away his own thoughts.

“God. Will He forgive me?”

“Umm . . .”

“I mean, I made some bad choices in my life. I guess I’m here because of those choices. Been a bad mother. Probably should’ve left the drunk and taken my daughter, though I don’t know what we’d have done.”

Mick scratched his head. Aaron’s words about forgiveness flooded his mind. He smiled at Mrs. Franks, who was looking at him curiously. “Yes, He will.”

“Are you sure? Because you took an awfully long time answering that.” She frowned.

“It’s sometimes hard to believe, isn’t it?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I have a hard time with it myself.”

“You?” She laughed. “My goodness, the sins of a chaplain. You didn’t share your bologna sandwich with a street bum or something?”

Mick laughed a little.

“I been prayin’. I said I ain’t religious, and I ain’t. But you know when you get to those desperate times in your life that there’s nothing else to do than fall on your old, worn-out knees and pray
something
.”

Mick nodded. “What did you pray?”

Mrs. Franks stared at the plastic grass beneath her house shoes. “I prayed . . .” She choked on her words. And then she whispered, “I prayed God would have mercy on me and my family. If there was a God and there was such a thing as mercy.”

Mick looked into her despondent eyes. “Don’t you believe there is a God?”

“I guess it’s harder not to believe it. I been a bitter woman. I been mad at a lot of things. So I said I didn’t believe in God. But I never really could say it and mean it. Because somewhere inside me I know it ain’t true.”

“Hope is all we have sometimes. Hope. And the truth.”

She looked up at him. “You think God hears the prayers of sinners?”

Mick nodded.
So my brother says.

In the spare bedroom of his house, Aaron lifted dumbbells, trying to work out all the nervous energy that had taken his appetite and replaced it with an intense headache.

The doorbell rang, and Aaron wiped the sweat from his face as he walked to the front door and opened it. Shep Crawford and Detective Prescott were standing on his porch. He wrapped the towel around his neck and grasped the ends of it with his hands.

Crawford’s intensely wild eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Can we come in?”

Aaron opened the door farther and led the two into his living room, gesturing for them to sit wherever they wanted. Aaron sat on the brick hearth in front of the fireplace. He was still breathing hard.

“You heard from him?” Crawford asked, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped together, his forearms propped on his knees.

“Nope.”

“Any idea where he might go, Aaron?”

He didn’t like the way Crawford used his first name. It was deliberate and patronizing. “I have no idea,” Aaron said firmly. “He could be in Texas, Mexico, or three houses down. I don’t know why he ran. I know he was concerned about Taylor, felt guilty for not being able to help her that night.” He blinked tiredly. He didn’t mean to, but he was beyond exhaustion. The words were hard to drag out of his mouth.

“Okay if we look around?”