Storm Gathering (23 page)

Mick’s skin felt thick and heavy and completely numb. The dark sky glowed faintly from the fire. Mick trudged to the littered embankment, where beer cans, fast-food cartons, paper, and oily residue piled along the banks.

All around him, shiny metal buildings reflected the dusky moon’s timid light. He’d climbed out into a seemingly abandoned industrial park. Large cranes, motionless like fossilized dinosaurs, cast monstrous shadows across the gravel roads that wound around the quiet buildings. But there wasn’t a car in sight, except the stream of headlights to the north. Loop 12?

He stumbled across the gravel, nauseous and hungry. When he reached a stretch of buildings, he tried a few doors, but they were all locked. A musty, pungent smell swept past his nostrils. He needed food soon.

Through the darkness, Mick wandered around, finding everything securely locked up. Then he spotted an open window, three stories high in what looked to be a large warehouse.

Small, metal rungs protruded from the west side of the building, which was not as tall as the rest of the warehouse. From the roof of that part of the building, he felt sure he could reach the open window.

Hoisting the bag over his shoulder, he feebly climbed upward, breathing hard and shivering with each burst of wind. With an awkward roll over the top of the two-foot wall, Mick landed on his back with a thud.

It was colder up here.

Without wasting time, he made his way over to the window. He was high enough that he could see in the window, but it was so black inside he couldn’t tell what was in there. He wondered if he had enough energy to lift himself up through it. With both hands, he grabbed the bottom of the window and pulled, hoping his feet could get a grip on the side of the metal warehouse. But his shoes, still soggy, slipped right out from under him, and he couldn’t do much more than hang there.

Letting go, he kicked his shoes and socks off his shriveled feet. After airing them out a bit, he tried again. This time his sticky skin proved enough to give him leverage, and within seconds his waist was hanging over the windowsill and he was peering into a gigantic black hole. Clenching his teeth to manage the pain in his legs, he awkwardly scooted through the window onto a metal platform that he could see extended several feet each way. Beyond that, the warehouse was completely dark. Later in the night, as the moon moved across the sky, he might be able to see more, but for now he was next to blind.

He sat down, pulling his knees in. He immediately felt warmer. Looking around, he noticed a few cigarette butts. He hoped he was the only homeless person around tonight. Distant scratching sounds and high-pitched squeaking rose from behind nearby walls.

He had enough light to see his duffel bag, so he unzipped it and pulled out the contents. They dripped with creek water, and he laid everything out to dry. Then he fumbled around inside for his money. All that emerged was three dollars.

Frantically, he searched the bottom of the bag. The rest of the money must have fallen out somewhere along the creek. In a fit of rage, Mick threw the money back into the bag, zipped it up, and threw it down. He curled into a ball.

“I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

“You, Mick? You seem like such an outstanding citizen.”

“Don’t I? Hanging out at the bars at all hours of the night?”

“I’m serious. I see compassion in your eyes. A certain warm light.”

“Sounds poetic.”

“I should look hard into people’s eyes more often. The window to the soul, right?”

“That’s what they say.”

“We all have our pasts, you know. They’re not easy to shake.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

“We all try to reinvent ourselves, don’t we? In some way. But that person we know ourselves to be continues to follow us. It spies on us, doesn’t it? And reports everything it sees.”

“I don’t think too much about it.”

“You live in the moment.”

“I try to.”

“So the woman you loved so much, you’ve forgotten her?”

“There are some things that will always stay in your heart.”

“If only money could buy new hearts.”

“Money can’t buy a whole lot.”

“I think it can. I think it can buy newness. And newness will go a long way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s not permanent. The real person always comes back.

But for a while, it is a certain kind of shelter from the world.”

“Haaa haaaaa!” A wide grin stretched across Mick’s face as he lay on top of the roof, basking in the midmorning sun. Lying spread eagle, he felt warmth on his skin, through his bones, and into his blood for the first time in hours. The humid air meant thunderstorms would probably arrive later.

But right now, it never felt better to be warm. His nose tickled with the first indication of a cold, his eyes stung with fatigue, and the backs of his legs still gnawed with pain, but he wasn’t wet and he wasn’t chilled.

He didn’t think it was possible, but two hours later, he felt hot. Drowsy but hungry, he was motivated to do more than sit there.

He donned another white T-shirt—the one from the bag—and the wind pants. The new T-shirt had a large cross on the front, and Aaron’s church’s logo and “Running for Jesus” printed across the back. Couldn’t it have at least been another color? The appearance of his clothing had hardly changed, except now he looked like a priest. He’d put his shoes on without socks. While the creek was pretty muddy, it had actually washed him of the caked-on dirt, and it was probably the closest thing to a shower he was going to get.

Climbing down the ladder, he walked toward the sounds of traffic, wondering how far out of Irving he really was. If that was Loop 12, he was going to have to hitch a ride if he wanted to get anywhere fast.

He followed the road for about an hour but knew he was a long way from Irving. He wasn’t really a man of prayer, but he was becoming one, and he didn’t even care that it was because of desperation. He just knew he was out of options.

Mick entered the first parking lot he’d seen. It was attached to a large building with a computer-sounding name on the front. But apparently, whatever the business, it had been overly ambitious in its perceived need of parking space. Only about a fourth of the lot was full.

It was slightly elevated, and when Mick reached the top, he could see the swarming madness of Irving in the distance—perhaps ten or twelve miles away. Nothing to it in a car, but on foot, it would be a day’s journey.

He heard laughter and turned. About thirty yards away, some junior-high-aged boys were doing acrobatics with their skateboards, bicycles, and scooters down a small entry ramp. He watched them for a few moments, and then a tall kid with spiky hair spotted him and yelled an obscenity at him. The other boys laughed.

Mick walked at a brisk pace toward them. A few other boys piped in their thoughts, though with a little less confidence than Spiky. As Mick approached, three or four of the eight boys looked nervous. The others folded their arms in front of their chests.

Standing about ten yards away, Mick looked at Spiky. “What’d you say to me?”

“What do you think I said?” Spiky laughed, and the other boys joined in.

“What in the world would make you say that?” Mick asked.

Spiky looked ready to fight as long as he had his gang behind him. “What are you doing out here?” Spiky asked, left hand on his hip, right arm embracing his skull skateboard.

Mick noticed his black T-shirt said “I’d Rather Be Dead.”

“Aren’t you all supposed to be in school?” Mick scanned each of them as guilt betrayed their faces. Mick thought this would be a good time to pull out Aaron’s badge.

Spiky was just about to come up with some unclever way to use another profanity when a small boy with large brown freckles across his face gasped. Everyone turned to him, but he was staring at Mick.

“What is it, Bobby?” Spiky asked. Bobby’s mouth was hanging open. “Bobby!”

Bobby glanced at Spiky, then back at Mick. “I-I know who you are,” Bobby stammered.

The others turned their curious stares toward Mick.

“Is he famous?” another kid asked.

Bobby shook his head; then his eyes fell to Mick’s duffel bag.

Mick wasn’t sure what the boy’s intentions were, but he knew one thing: He’d fight to the death to save the three bucks he had. He drew the bag toward himself, unzipping it slightly and sliding his hand in, hoping he could feel where the money was.

Bobby yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

The other boys yelled too and started to run.

Mick shouted, “Stop! Don’t any of you move!”

Bobby looked like he was about to hyperventilate. Stuttering, he said, “T-that’s the guy!”

“What guy?” Spiky asked.

“The guy the police are after! He kidnapped a woman or something! He’s a murderer!”

Mick swallowed as the boys’ eyes grew large and round. A short, large kid in the back was trembling uncontrollably. Spiky’s confidence had disappeared as his complexion grew pale.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Mick said with what he’d intended to be a casual gesture. But his hand was still in the duffel bag, and when he moved it, all the kids hollered. “Settle down; settle down!” Mick yelled over the chaos.

Whimpering ensued.

Mick tried to think quickly. He’d been recognized, so that was going to be a problem. But he’d survived a raging fire. Surely he could survive a few bratty kids.

He turned his attention to a skinny kid in the back who was clutching his bicycle as if it were a limb. “You,” Mick said, pointing to him, “come here. Bring the bike.”

On shaking legs, the kid stepped forward, stopping about eight feet from Mick.

“Give me the bike,” Mick said.

The kid complied, rolling it toward him. Mick noticed his name and phone number written on the side of the bike, and the kid noticed him notice.

Then Mick looked at a tall kid who was holding a Taco Bell sack. “What’s in there?” he asked him.

“A b-b-bean b-burrito.”

“Onions?”

“No.”

“Hand it over.”

The kid threw it to Mick, who caught it with one hand. “Anybody else got any snacks they want to tell me about?”

The big kid in the back mentioned he had gum.

Mick figured he’d better wrap this thing up before the kids figured out the weapon he was clutching in his bag was a soggy dollar bill. He looked at Spiky. “Give me your shirt.”

Spiky’s hands crawled up his chest as if Mick had just asked him for a vital organ. “My shirt?”

“You heard me.”

Spiky glanced around at the other kids. A few still stared in dazed silence, but a couple had amused looks on their faces. Spiky slowly peeled off his shirt, revealing a bony, white torso. A few kids snickered in the back. Spiky shot them a look, then threw the shirt to Mick.

Mick took off his shirt, and to everyone’s great surprise, threw it to Spiky, who couldn’t have looked more stunned.

“Put it on,” Mick said, suppressing a smile.

Spiky eyed the duffel bag, looked around at his cohorts, and then slowly put the shirt on.

“Running for Jesus!” one kid howled, reading the back of the shirt.

“Shut up!” Spiky yelled.

“All of you, listen up,” Mick said, after putting on Spiky’s shirt. Maybe they wouldn’t be looking for a fugitive with the words
I’d Rather Be Dead
on his black shirt. Then again, if the kids talked, they could describe exactly what he was wearing. “Here’s the deal. If any of you say a word about seeing me, I’m going to call each and every one of your mothers and tell them that you ditched school today.” He looked each of them in the eye. A few looked like they’d rather be shot dead right then and there. “And you know what I’d do if I were you?”

They all shook their heads.

No, Mick imagined they had no idea. “I’d go back home and find a local church, and I’d go in and get down on my knees and pray for forgiveness for using such awful cusswords.”

Spiky, in particular, looked perplexed.

“And you, my friend, do not take that shirt off until you get home.” Mick swung his leg over the bike and said, “Now, if I were you, I’d run and run fast.
Go
!”