Storm Gathering (2 page)

“Did she tell you that?”

Aaron looked away. His brother’s wrath seemed incurable. It had been four months, and he was as angry as the day it happened. “You would’ve dumped her like every other girl you use and dump. Jenny is too special for that.”

“You don’t have to tell me she’s special. I know that. I knew it the day I met her.”

“You need to get your life together, little brother. What’s it going to take with you? You’ve already wrecked your car, nearly killed yourself, drunk out of your mind. You can’t hold a steady job, a steady relationship. You alienate almost everyone who tries to help you.”

“So I need to be more like you, is that it? Elite law enforcer. Perfect lover. Best son. Child of God.”

“Why do you always make this about us? It isn’t a competition, Mick. Can’t you see your life is spinning out of control?”

“Maybe by your standards. But the problem is, nobody can live by your standards. Have you mentioned them to Jenny yet? Have you let her know you expect her to be perfect?”

“Unbelievable!” Aaron shouted and then turned away, ripping his fingers through his hair. “You drive me crazy! I’m going to be burying my little brother someday! My only brother! Because you’re so
stubborn
!”

“You have the solution to everything, don’t you?” Mick murmured, sweeping past him in the backyard and heading to his back porch. “Go to church. Be good. Be nice. Accept the fact that my brother stole the one woman that I—” He stopped and wiped his mouth. “You can let yourself out the back gate. And don’t expect an appearance at the wedding. Frankly, I never want to see you again.” Mick opened the screen door and slammed it shut on his way in.

Mick’s temper knew how to coax Aaron into doing things he shouldn’t. How Aaron wanted to kick down that door and choke some sense into that boy!

Instead he checked his watch. He was supposed to meet Jenny in an hour for their regular Tuesday night dinner. He opened the gate, latched it back, and limped to his truck.

He was getting too old for these kinds of fights.

“What happened to you?” Jenny’s mouth hung open as she stood in greeting at their favorite restaurant. Aaron kissed her on the cheek and sat down. “Are you okay? Did something happen at work?”

Two bruises on either side of his left eye and a scrape across his chin and jaw were evidence enough of a doomed attempt at talking with his brother.

“I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.”

“Yeah, right. What happened?”

“I went to see Mick today.”

“You told him?”

“Yeah.”

“He hit you?”

“He didn’t take it well.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, which they often did because of an overly tender heart that had won his affection almost immediately. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Mick’s a loose cannon. He’s still angry. He’s been angry for a long time, way before you came along. It just all came out today.”

“I guess.”

“I think Mick had stronger feelings for you than we realized,” Aaron said, pausing as the waiter took their drink orders.

“Why do you say that?”

“Just some things he said.”

“Oh.”

“It’ll be okay.”

Jenny stared at the table, her arms folded loosely in her lap, her lips puffed with sadness.

The waiter returned and Aaron ordered for both of them. When the waiter left, Aaron couldn’t contain the question any longer. “Were you ever in love with Mick?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“It’s a simple one.”

“Who am I sitting here with? Who am I going to marry?”

Aaron tried to smile, but her expression told him things he didn’t want to hear. “You were in love with him.”

“He was completely wrong for me. You know that. We’ve talked about it.”

“We talked about how wrong he was for you. That doesn’t mean you weren’t in love with him.”

“Why are you asking now?”

“Because I want to know.”

“What does it change?”

“Nothing. On my end. But maybe it will help me understand Mick a little better,” Aaron said. “When I told him today, he was so crushed. I thought you two had a casual relationship. That’s how it seemed when I met you.”

“It was a casual relationship. I knew the moment Mick and I met that he was trouble.”

“So why did you date him?”

“I was tempted; I admit it. I’d been a good girl all my life, gone to church, dated the good, Christian guy. And then I met Mick. And he was . . .” She looked unsure if she should go on.

“I know, I know. Strikingly handsome.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Come on,” Aaron said. “It’s been that way our whole lives. I was always the mature, good son with high ambitions. Mick always had the looks.”

“You’re handsome and you know it.”

“You were saying?”

“I don’t know if I should go on.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Maybe you did. Maybe you don’t want to hear this. And maybe you shouldn’t. What good is it going to do now? I’m in love with
you
. I’m going to marry
you
, Aaron. You’re the one who I’ve waited my whole life for. You’re the one who saved me from marrying a guy like Mick.”

“Mick thinks he was in love with you.”

“I can’t speak for Mick.” She stared at the straw in her drink. “It was an intense relationship. Only three weeks. But intense. I was nearly willing to throw away all my convictions for that guy. And then I met you.” She smiled. “And I knew you were the right one for me.”

Aaron propped his head up with his hand and scratched at his forehead with his fingers. “You know, I always wanted to be Mick when we were younger. I always wanted to be that guy who could have any woman I wanted. By God’s grace I ended up with the
only
woman I ever wanted.” His grin faded with thoughts of Mick. “I’m so scared for Mick. I don’t want to see him throw his life away. All he wants to do is chase storms and women—with a shot of tequila, or whatever it is he drinks.”

“He’ll find his way,” Jenny said. “God won’t let him slip away without a fight.”

The swarthy, soulful harmony of Seal’s “Kiss From a Rose” pumped through the bar’s stereo system. For a Wednesday night, the dance floor was crowded with attentive couples.

“Another scotch,” Mick told Jimmy.

Jimmy shot him the familiar just-this-last-time look and took his glass. Soon another glass slid toward him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mick said. “My brother’s getting married.”

“Aaron, right? The cop?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, tell him congratulations. And whatever you do, don’t lose the ring, like I did at my brother’s wedding. It was a nightmare.”

Mick turned on his barstool to watch the crowd again, scanning the room for the kind of woman that might want to marry him. It was an amusing game he liked to play after his third scotch. Near the door a tall, sophisticated, way-too-young blonde engaged in a lively chat with girlfriends. Near the bathrooms a professional woman, maybe an attorney, stood with two friends, looking out of place and ready to go home.

He imagined a conversation.

“And what do you do for a living, Mick?”

“Well, Miss Professional Woman, I’m a part-time football coach and just got fired from my accounting job that I have to work because I can’t make enough money coaching football. Oh, you have to leave so soon?”

Another woman, a redheaded giggler broke his concentration. She glanced up at Mick once, shot him a smile, and went back to whatever was so stinkin’ funny.

The cumbersome Band-Aid above his brow reminded him he probably should’ve gone to get stitches, but why not have a scar as a token of brotherly love? His fingers retreated as his day-old wound shouted out its protest with a surge of pain.

Across the bar on the other side, he spotted a beautiful, petite brunette. Her hair was cut short, right below her ears, wispy and modern. Was she gazing into a scotch? He watched her for a few moments, wondering if someone would join her. But her only companion seemed to be formidable thoughts. Bryan Adams’s “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman” cleared the bar and crowded the dance floor again.

Mick stood, making his way around to the other side of the bar, flashing Jimmy a smile as he noticed his intention. Mick took the seat next to her. “Hi.”

The woman looked up, gloom brushing annoyance over her face. “Please do yourself a favor, save yourself some time, and go away. I’m not here to get picked up.”

Mick smiled. Feisty. “I don’t find many women who drink scotch.”

“Good for you. Now go away.”

“Come on. At least let me buy you another drink. Looks like you could use a little more liquid to drown your sorrows in. I’ve been watching you. You look depressed.”

“Why don’t you just leave me alone, okay? I’m not interested in spilling my guts to a guy who looks like he’s been in one too many bar fights.”

“Who says I want you to spill your guts? I was hoping I could spill mine.”

She looked at him sideways, and amusement softened her expression. “Got it bad, do you? What, did some beautiful woman dump you for a better man?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, there are certainly many women around here who would be willing to be your rebound. I’m not one of them.” She sipped her scotch and studied him. “You are a handsome one, aren’t you?”

“But never the good son. That’s my brother’s job.”

“Oh, poor thing. Handsome and rebellious. What a combination. I think I dated you in high school.”

Mick grinned. “I wish.”

“Look,” she said, “I’m flattered you’re over here. You’re just as adorable as you can be, even with scotch on your breath. But I need to think. And I can’t do that while you’re whispering sweet nothings into my ear.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“And apparently not the smart son either. Aren’t you getting the message here? I want to be alone.”

“Maybe you don’t need to be alone. Maybe you need an ear.”

“I have two of them. Thanks.”

“Come on. I’ll tell you my sob story; you tell me yours.”

She laughed. “Is that seriously the pickup line you use on all the ladies?”

“Only the ones who look sad.”

Her thumbs traced the rim of her glass. “Okay, maybe on any other night I might entertain the thought of sharing a dance and a drink with you. Those eyes of yours are tantalizing, to say the least. But not tonight. This isn’t a good night.” Her eyes darkened.

“All right.” Mick touched her shoulder and she startled. “But whatever’s bothering you, you shouldn’t keep it inside. Believe me. Keeping it inside makes you do crazy things, like clobbering your only brother and telling him you hate him.”

She looked at his Band-Aid and then at him. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Mick slid off the barstool and turned to head to the bathroom.

But she said, “She must’ve been something special.”

“Who?”

“Whoever you lost.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of the way you’re looking at me. You’re over here to pick up on me, but in your eyes I see someone else’s heart in the way.”

“Yeah, well, she’s out of the picture now, so I guess it’s time to move on.”

“She broke your heart?”

“I broke my own heart. I was too stupid to see what I had in front of me. I didn’t realize it until she was gone into the arms of my brother.”

Her eyes registered surprise. “Interesting.”

“Yeah. Well, enjoy your evening.”

Mick went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and then leaned against a stall door, trying to make the right decision for once in his life. He should go home. He’d had enough to drink. Staying around the bar would only get him in trouble. There was nothing here for him but a bad hangover. Swinging the stall door open, he tripped and fell against a small brick alcove, his right cheek scraping against the rough surface.

“Go home for once in your miserable life, you moron!” he growled, rubbing his cheek and checking for blood. No blood. “Learn something from your brother.”

Mick agreed with himself and left the bathroom. He pulled out a twenty to pay Jimmy, then turned.

Standing behind him was the woman he’d just spoken with. She offered a gentle smile, holding out her hand. “My name is Taylor.”

He shook it. Firm grip, silky skin. “Mick Kline.”

“Maybe I’m up for a sad story after all,” she said, sliding onto a barstool.

Mick sat next to her and looked at Jimmy. “Two scotches, please.”

Shep Crawford’s fingers rolled across the ten pencils whose tips were still dull and blunt while the clear buzzing sound of the pencil sharpener filled the office. He pulled the second pencil out of the sharpener and examined the flawless point. He pressed his finger into it and drew blood. Perfect. The pencils were a rarity. One could hardly find a pencil at a police station, only black ballpoint pens, which was why the majority of his were locked in the bottom-left desk drawer.

He placed the pencil into the silver holder that sat three inches from the right corner of his desk, next to the stamp dispenser and the stack of envelopes ready to go out in tomorrow’s mail, laid out in order of importance. Each stamp was flush against the white corner of the paper.

He picked up the third pencil and let the sharpener blades saw at its wooden flesh. The sound filtered out the murmuring coming from behind other cubicles. Computers, machines, lights, people. Sometimes he wished they would all just shut up.

Detective Randy Prescott, with his fancy hair and his fancy shirt, strolled up beside Shep’s desk, setting his coffee mug on a stack of folders, which he eyed curiously. “How long did it take you to stack these?”

“If you leave a coffee ring on that folder, you’re going to be wearing it, not drinking it.”

Randy sighed and picked up his mug, glancing at the top of the folder to make sure there was no evidence of a coffee ring.

Shep nodded in the direction of Randy’s desk, which looked like a pile of garbage. A real stink in the midst of the homicide division. “Five seconds of extra effort to not live like a pig.”

Randy smirked off the comment and sipped his coffee. Shep put pencil number four in the sharpener.

“They have mechanical pencils you never have to sharpen,” Randy said.

Randy was probably just trying to be helpful. He was new to the division and hadn’t picked up on Shep’s “idiosyncracies,” as his captain, Fred Bellows, liked to put it.

Idiosyncracies. He’d heard a fellow detective call it idiot-syncracies once. He paid for it; he was now working the desk in some small town. Everyone paid for things eventually.

He sharpened pencil number five.

Randy still stood by Shep’s desk and suddenly picked up the small framed picture that sat at the edge. “Who is this? Your dad?”

“I don’t expect you to know who that is, but for the betterment of your measly little life, I’ll tell you. Thomas Juggerson.”

“Who?”

Shep snatched the frame out of Randy’s hand and placed it back on his desk after wiping Randy’s fat thumbprint off the glass. “They were going to throw this away. They’re redoing the entryway, making it more ‘modern.’ Thomas was going to be thrown out with the trash.”

“He a relative?”

“No, Randy, he is not a relative. He happens to be one of the bravest men around. Back in 1960, this man gave his life and saved five of his fellow officers in a shoot-out. You don’t see that kind of bravery these days. Nobody cares about the guy who gives everything. Out with the trash.” Shep stared at Juggerson’s haunting gray eyes.

“Well, I’m going home,” Randy said, checking his watch. “You know it’s after nine, right?”

The whirling sound of the sharpener was the only reply Randy got. He shrugged and walked back to his messy desk, shuffling papers around before he was able to put his coffee mug down.

Pig
.

Shep stole glances at Randy. Perhaps Randy thought his wardrobe made up for his incompetence. The man had yet to solve a crime on his own. He wore the detective badge like a piece of women’s jewelry.

“See you tomorrow,” Randy said as he passed Shep’s desk, carrying a soft leather bag stuffed with Cheetos and files and who knew what else. It bulged at its center.

Irritation picked at Shep. His fingers twitched, and an anxious foot bounced his knee up and down. “Tomorrow.” He smiled. “Gonna catch me a bad man tomorrow.”

Randy turned to him. “There hasn’t even been a crime committed.”

“There are always crimes being committed,” Shep said. “Always men wronging other men. And they think they’re not going to get caught. Always. They go on with their lives. And think they’ll never get caught.” He picked up pencil number six.

Randy Prescott should be selling insurance somewhere. He didn’t belong in homicide. But Captain Bellows always did like a suck-up. The sharpener’s sound rose in pitch as Shep pressed the pencil down harder.

Randy moved on.

Taking the pencil out, he examined it. Poked his finger into it. Picked up pencil number seven.

Five minutes later, Shep had twelve perfectly sharpened, No. 2 pencils. He pulled them together in the pencil holder so all the erasers touched one another. He swept his hand across his desk. Everything was in its place. Even Randy, whose place was somewhere outside this office. Probably with his homey little wife and bratty little kid.

“Gonna catch me a bad man,” he said in a singsong. The alarm on his watch beeped.

Now it was time to leave.