Storm Gathering (20 page)

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Through the small wooden window that was missing two shutters, Mick watched ghostly gray clouds drift over the moon. He rubbed his eyes and suppressed the urge to scream. That’s what he wanted to do. Scream bloody murder.

And then he found himself shouting. “God!”

He stared at the moon as if it were the Almighty’s face. “God!!”

Only the wind answered, quietly howling through the treetops.

“
God
!”

A furious gnawing inside his chest urged him to punch a hole through something.

“Is this how You want me?” Mick cried out. “A wandering, homeless fugitive? Does this make You happy? You showed me, didn’t You!”

Mick kicked the heel of his shoe into the plank beneath him. “You know I didn’t do this!” He rested his head on his knees. “I didn’t do this,” he mumbled. He was sure God heard mumbling as clearly as shouting. Maybe even better. He closed his eyes and tried to settle himself down.

He began to feel a strange assurance brought about by knowing God was just. It had never brought him any peace before. It was that very attribute that scared him, in fact. But now he could use God’s justice.

Use
. Mick shook his head. It was just like him to use God when he needed something. A favor. Unfortunately, Mick didn’t have any favors to call in with the man upstairs.

He figured God was pretty good at creative punishments as well. Mick’s life turned terrible because of the
one
thing he didn’t do wrong. How many other times had he not received punishment for all the things he had done wrong?

What a mystery,
Mick thought, gazing at the moon again. It was full and round, glowing white-orange, dusted with shadowy designs.

He continued to pore over the odd cliché that was his life.

Mick awoke, rolling over onto his stiff and aching back The sun blinded him, and the sweat that had collected under his neck trickled down into his shirt as he sat up. Still, it was a wel- come temperature change from the last three cold nights he’d spent here.

On Tuesday morning, after the first night in the tree house, came the sobering realization that he couldn’t live like this forever, but there was nothing to show him that anything would change soon. He’d curled up and slept most of the day. That evening, he counted his money. He had only thirty dollars left. It would last a few more days, but that was it. For all he knew, he could be running for the rest of his life.

No. One way or the other, there would be resolution.

On Wednesday, Mick was nearly delirious with hunger. Alice and Jack had left midmorning in their Cadillac, so Mick crossed their large backyard to Alice’s garden, where he found a variety of vegetables. He’d munched on tomatoes, tried a pepper but it was too hot, and helped himself to the seeds of the mammoth sunflower garden. The food nourished him but didn’t fill him up. He’d been mindful not to take too much for fear that she would notice or that he might not have food for the following days. He’d kept hydrated by drinking from the garden hose.

He didn’t know how long he would stay here. Fall temperatures were approaching, and soon enough, he’d have to find better shelter. That morning he’d also discovered a few old towels stuffed into the back of Alice’s gardening shed. He’d taken two to use as blankets. It had helped a little. But last night, he was sure the temperature had dropped below fifty. He would not be able to take another night of it.

Putting the sunglasses on, he stuffed the towels into his duffel bag. He’d also found an old cap with a construction company logo on the front, and he took it. It did a lot to keep his head warm.

Through Wednesday, he’d watched with little interest as Alice and Jack came and went from their house, living normal and easy lives. He wondered briefly what Luke and Maggie were up to. Last he’d heard, Luke was in medical school and Maggie had finished West Point.

He’d thought more about Sammy Earle. With the information he had, there really wasn’t much he could prove, other than Earle wasn’t a likable person. Something told Mick to keep sniffing around.

He wouldn’t be able to move about so easily anymore. His five-o’clock shadow had turned into a short beard, and he was looking decidedly homeless. He could use a shower. He was inside Irving city limits, thankfully, but he had no idea where to go or what to do.

Leaving the tree house, he walked the grassy hill toward where he’d parked his bike and wondered about Aaron. For whatever strange reason, it meant something to him for Aaron to know the truth about why he ran. Maybe it was all the memories that danced around him in the tree house. Before Jenny.

Mick was relieved to find his motorcycle still propped against the dense patch of trees. He dusted off some early fall leaves and hopped on, giving it a good revving before circling around and catching the old, dusty path that led out to Peachtree Street, which ran behind the Heppetons’.

It was nice to get on the road again, and Mick took the same back roads into Irving as he had before. When he reached an area with heavier population, Mick pulled into a gas station and used quarters to get a newspaper from an outside machine.

Flipping it over, he was surprised to find that his face was not the largest picture on the front; in fact his face wasn’t even on there. There was only a small headline near the bottom: Irving Fugitive May Still Be in Area.

Mick opened the paper to page 4A and read the rest of the article that confirmed his belief: They had no idea where he was. Coach Rynde was quoted as saying he believed in Mick’s innocence.

At the end of the article, a small blurb about Sammy Earle said he’d had a previous relationship with the woman but was never considered a suspect. Mick wondered how that was playing out in the media.

Mick noticed a man about his age staring at him. Raising the paper to cover his face, his heart started racing. When he glanced back at the man, he was on a cell phone, pretending Mick was not there.

Mick stuffed the newspaper into his duffel bag and walked as slowly as his adrenaline would let him. He tried to nonchalantly get on the bike, but once he met the man’s eyes, he knew he’d been recognized. Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Mick started the bike and sped away, looking over his shoulder to find the man running after him, apparently trying to get a plate number.

As he rushed toward one of the busier roads, indecision caused him to slow down. Everybody would be looking for a dirt bike, and they’d probably be smart enough to look on the back roads. Mick drove on the two-lane street, trying to think logically. But he could barely catch his breath, and his eyes watered enough to blur his vision.

And then he passed a patrol car.

He heard the sirens first. When he looked back, the police cruiser was whipping a U-turn and speeding toward him. Mick crossed a four-way intersection without even knowing it, floating between two passing cars.

Stop it.
Stop this insanity! Pull over and turn yourself in!

But Mick knew he couldn’t do it. Not after what he’d been through already.

He increased his speed, determined to flee, determined to find out what happened to Taylor. But coming over the hill in the distance was another cruiser, sirens screaming and lights flashing.

He had only a few seconds to make a decision, so he scanned the area quickly. Pastures and farms were scattered among a few houses and businesses. And then he saw his chance: an old farmer out of his truck, opening the gate to his pasture to feed his cattle. About fifty stood on the hilltop in the middle of the pasture, ears twitching with alertness to all the sounds.

A car passed him and then Mick turned, crossing the other lane and bouncing into the ditch. He came up on the other side and made a sharp left turn on the dirt road, the pickup and farmer only fifty feet away. The farmer stepped out of the way just as Mick sped past him and into the field.

Glancing behind him, he could see the cruisers screeching to a stop, trying to maneuver around the truck and through the narrow gateway. Mick zoomed forward, scattering the cattle in his path. Disapproving moos mixed with the sound of his motor as the bike climbed the hill.

He didn’t know what was on the other side of the hill. He had little time to prepare, because he was now flying in the air like he’d just launched off a ramp. The bike wheels spun underneath him, reflected in a large, muddy watering hole below.

“Come on!” Mick yelled, urging his bike forward through the air, hoping to clear the water.

The front tire reached land, but the back tire hit the water, flipping him forward, the bike landing on top of him. His hands and feet stuck in the mud and he couldn’t get any leverage to lift himself out of the water with the bike on top of him.

Blinded by the swirling mud, he wondered how deep he was. His lungs wilted with every passing second.

With a panicked maneuver, he slid sideways and the bike sank into the mud where he’d lain. He groped for anything nearby, which ended up being the bike, and pulled himself out of the water, gasping for breath, gagging on the water he’d swallowed.

His clothes were soggy and heavy. He was caked with mud, but he spotted his duffel bag a few feet away, completely dry. Crawling toward it with every limb shaking, Mick grabbed it and stumbled to his feet.

The sirens were so loud he couldn’t hear himself coughing, and when he turned, he saw the two cruisers had stopped short of plunging into the water. Two cops from the first car and one from the second were opening their doors and drawing their guns at the same time.

To his right were some trees, but only a few, and then another major road. The pasture was a full square mile. In the distance, thick black smoke bellowed like a dangerous thunderhead. Mick wondered what was on fire.

He wiped his eyes clear of mud and started running. Running and praying.
If I can find the truth, let me find the truth.

It felt as if he were running in slow motion.

The cops were yelling at him to stop, but Mick didn’t look back. If he was going to get shot, he didn’t want to see the bullet coming.

Air wanted to stop short of going into his lungs. All the water he’d swallowed was swishing in his stomach, making him nauseous.

He reached the patch of trees in front of the road, navigating through them in a way that could possibly block any bullets. So far he had not heard a shot. He leaped over a barbed-wire fence, catching his leg and ripping his jeans. Blood dripped from his calf down to his ankle, mixing with the muddy water that was already draining from his jeans. Falling into a ditch, he rolled to a stop and scrambled up, trying to reach the road.

Just as he did, the farmer drove his tractor by and Mick jumped on it.

The farmer saw him in his rearview mirror; Mick could see the terror in his eyes. He probably looked like a swamp creature.

Mick motioned for him to keep driving, but he could feel the tractor slow. When the farmer whirled around, his attention turned to the cops who were running after them. The man shifted down, his expression frozen with shock.

Climbing around to the opposite side of the tractor, Mick tried to hide behind some of its metal but remain out of the farmer’s reach, in case he decided to give Mick a good punt. The man craned his neck out the cab window and yelled something at Mick, but Mick couldn’t hear. When he poked his head up, one of the cops was shouting something into his radio. The other two were still running, pointing their weapons toward Mick.

Mick ducked and looked around. A slow-moving truck crested the hill on the road and rumbled toward the commotion. It pulled over to the side of the road. He could see the silhouettes of two passengers.

Mick hopped off the now stationary tractor and ran toward the truck. The police were still about forty yards away, waving and yelling.

Mick crouched behind the pickup, hidden from the police momentarily, though there was no question about where he was. Everyone had seen him take cover behind the truck. But the cops weren’t going to shoot with innocent bystanders nearby.

The woman in the cab was screaming hysterically, her eyes wide with horror as she stared into Mick’s face through her passenger window.

Mick could hear sirens wailing again. More cops.

The driver was now reaching for the hunting rifle that hung in the back window of his pickup.

Little did Mick know this was going to be an asset. As he sprinted toward the field, he looked back to see the officers shouting at the man with the shotgun. For now, they had more problems than just him.

He hopped another fence. The country air smelled burned, and Mick noticed the smoke seemed just over the hill, perhaps half a mile away. Immediately in front of him, there wasn’t a tree in sight. All he could do was run.

Glancing back, Mick saw the driver of the truck aiming his rifle at him as the police shouted and scrambled toward the man. Nearly giddy with relief, Mick noticed something amazing. The man had only one arm! How good of a shot could he be?

A bullet whizzed past his hand and hit the dirt right in front of him. Mick yelped, losing his foothold and falling to the ground, tumbling forward across the grass. When he looked back, one of the cops was tackling the man with the gun.

A part of him just wanted to play dead.

But he got up and started running again. The other two cops had jumped the fence and were chasing him, but Mick still had quite a lead.

In the distance, he could hear the quiet thumping of a search helicopter. And something else he couldn’t identify. A low roar.

He jumped the far fence, this time clearing the barbed wire. Across the next road, gravel and barely wide enough for a car, a steep hill hid whatever was on fire on the other side. He had run far enough that he was truly in the country, where the square mile no longer existed between paved roads. Climbing a hill this size, rare for the Texas plains, seemed impossible.

Coming to a standstill momentarily, Mick tuned in to another sound in addition to the sirens and the thumping of the helicopter. To the west he saw a train thundering north. If he could get on the other side of that train, the cruisers would be blocked and he would have time to escape. But could he grab hold of a fast-moving train?

Only if this were a movie.

The two cops were now gaining on him. A couple of cruisers were speeding toward him on the road west of the field he was about to clear.

He started running again. Toward the smoky hill.