Storm Gathering (24 page)

The boys shouted and turned, clutching whatever they could carry and racing down the entrance ramp into a nearby, grassy stretch of land that led to a viaduct.

Mick ripped open the Taco Bell sack.

After that episode, Mick realized he was probably more delirious than he wanted to acknowledge. Fatigue and pain were making him bolder than he really should be, and the fact that he was peddling along a service road in the middle of the day wearing a T-shirt saying he’d rather be dead was proof enough.

He headed toward Irving with burning legs, sporting old-man sunglasses, a young man’s smelly T-shirt, and an attitude that was something akin to suicidal.

But what did he have to lose?

Shep Crawford scrawled with permanent marker as fast as he could. The words came faster than he could write. But he tried. After ten minutes, he backed away from the large wall on which he’d scribbled and stared at it. The wall stretched twenty feet wide and was about eight feet tall. It once held a mural in the old firehouse. Now it held Crawford’s sanity.

Like unraveling yarn, a black mess of scribbles captured years of journal-like thoughts onto drywall, hiding the incoherent thoughts of a madman.

Crawford clicked the lid back onto the red marker and placed it in the drawer that held the rest of his various- colored Sharpies. In all the years he’d lived in this firehouse, he’d used red only four times. Amidst the dark colors, the red lines bled through, catching the eye quite majestically, he thought.

Moving to the open second-story window, Crawford gazed out at the sky, drawing in fresh air through his nostrils. As much as he tried not to think about the runt, Crawford could not shake Fiscall out of his mind. He simply could not understand, for any reason, a man who would lose his soul for political gain.

Rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms upward in a relieving yawn, Crawford made his way downstairs, where his teapot was screaming. Taking it off the stove, he poured himself a cup of hot water and steeped a green-tea bag, bobbing it up and down for several minutes, unaware that the liquid in his cup was nearly black now.

His thoughts continued to consume him.

But what comforted Crawford was the fact that he was totally in control. Despite the chaos that had erupted because of those who were incompetent, Crawford knew that things would be as they should. He smiled at that thought, lifted the tea bag out of the mug, and placed it in his mouth, sucking out the flavor. Then he spit it in the trash.

Sipping his tea as he leaned against the wooden island in the middle of the large kitchen, Crawford stared at the American flag that covered the wall near the stairs.

He hummed “The Star-Spangled Banner,” watching the flag as if it were on a pole, flapping its glory in the wind. The hum turned into a recital of the third verse. Hardly anyone knew it, but it was seared onto his heart.

“ ‘And where is that band who so vauntingly swore that the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion, a home and a country should leave us no more?’ ” Crawford gestured upward, as if he had an entire choir singing behind him. “ ‘Their blood has wash’d out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.’ ” He walked to his front door, carefully watching the street as he said, “ ‘And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.’ ”

With each mile, Mick’s resolve built. He peddled rhythmically, never looking around, never worried he would be seen. He simply pressed forward.

A cooling breeze tore through his stubbly hair, but the wind would not erase the unbelievable stench coming from the shirt he’d traded. Part of him wanted to jump in a river to try to wash away all the grime. But he couldn’t afford the time to dry out again. So he pedaled on, trying to forget what now cloaked him. Why would anybody in their right mind trade a nearly clean white shirt for this rag?

Above him, the highway roared, and Mick wound his way through an old commercial district. Generations-old businesses, like tire stores and donut shops, lined the streets. Elderly people sat in chairs and talked or played dominoes. Large oak trees on the corners told of how long this area had been around. How many times had he seen new developments, with skinny, sickly trees everywhere, their roots as feeble as white string? Yes, this place had roots. Deep roots.

Mick sighed as he sped through a four-way stop. Roots. He’d managed to cut his off. His parents still loved him and of course talked to him, but Mick had wanted separation from their old-time ideals. The final blow of the ax had been Aaron’s decision to take Jenny, but he knew deep in his heart that he’d been separated from his brother long before that.

Mick had never really understood Aaron’s religious fervor. His parents, though always religious, were much quieter about their faith. They’d raised Mick in church, but once he was on his own, they let him make his own choices. Aaron, on the other hand, could never let things rest.

Yet there was something oddly endearing about his dogmatic tendencies. Mick hated to admit it, but the way Aaron chased him, like one of the hounds from heaven, was strangely comforting. It was as if Mick knew he couldn’t run too far away. But now he had. He’d outrun the hounds. He’d fled to the dark side of the mountain.

Mick wiped the sweat from his brow and continued toward downtown Irving. He looked to be only three miles away.

He turned onto Las Colinas Boulevard and rode his bike onto the sidewalk, where he hopped off and walked it toward the Irving Convention and Visitors Bureau. Pressing his lips together in hopeful determination, he looked for a large bus across the street in the parking lot. Five years ago, Mick had met a woman at a club who was from out of town. She had said she’d love to get to know Dallas better, so Mick found out that Irving offered visitors a tour from Irving to the Dallas/Fort Worth area.

Mick parked his bike on the rack bolted into the sidewalk next to the Visitors Bureau. Inside, an elderly woman greeted him from behind a plastic ticket-booth window.

“Do you still offer the visitors’ tour?”

The woman looked at the schedule on the wall. “Yes, we do.”

“What time does it run?”

“Only on the weekends.”

Mick sighed.

The woman studied him. “You really want to go?”

“Yeah.”

She looked around and said, “Well, in an hour there’s a special seniors’ trip going.”

“Really?” Mick’s eyes widened with hope.

She nodded. “I’ll have to get special permission, but we’d hate to turn down somebody who wants to see our great cities!”

“I would be so grateful.” Mick smiled. A fleeting flash of fear told him that at any moment this woman could recognize him, but he kept his smile steady and his eyes locked to hers.

“Hold on. Let me see what I can do.”

Mick waited, and after a few minutes the woman returned with a guest pass in her hand. “It leaves from across the parking lot in an hour.” She gave a playful wink. Apparently she couldn’t smell him from the other side of the window.

“Thanks,” Mick said, taking the pass.

“That’ll be five dollars.”

Mick grimaced. “I don’t have five dollars.”

She looked at him curiously. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t worry about it, okay? Go on, enjoy yourself. You look like you could use some relaxation.” She was reading his T-shirt.

Mick laughed. “That’s the truth.” He met her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, young man,” she said. “Every once in a while, we all need a little grace.”

Aaron hung up the phone and sat down at his kitchen table. The flowers that Taylor had received before she disappeared struck him as odd, and now he knew why. After an hour’s worth of investigation, Aaron found out that the bouquet had cost over a hundred dollars. At first he didn’t think much about it. He was actually calling to see if anybody at the flower shop remembered the voice of the person who had ordered them or anything at all about the phone call. Nobody did. As an afterthought, Aaron had asked about the cost.

A hundred dollars seemed like an awful lot of money for a man who, according to Liz Lane, was as cheap as they come. Aaron tried to connect the dots, but right now the picture being drawn was only a jagged, uninterpretable line.

He’d also found out a little more information about Taylor Franks, though it didn’t seem immediately helpful. She’d worked for a while at the front ticket counter before moving to the gate. So she sold people airline tickets. Right now that did nothing to explain her disappearance.

Aaron had every reason to believe that Sammy Earle was involved, but he had no way to prove it. And little room to maneuver to try to. Shep Crawford and his maniacal tactics didn’t scare him. But he knew if he made the wrong move, he could permanently end his career in law enforcement, not to mention hurt the case against his brother.

His doorbell rang and Aaron rose, hopeful and fearful at the same time.

When he opened the door, his partner, Jarrod, greeted him with a smile atop a worried expression. “Hey, Aaron.”

“Jarrod. Hey. Come in.”

Jarrod walked in and held out his hand to Aaron. “How are you?”

Aaron shook it. Jarrod’s depressive tone worried him. “I’m okay. What are you doing here?”

“Just came to check on you.”

Aaron guided him to the living room, where they sat down. “How’s work?”

Jarrod shrugged. “It’s okay. They’ve got me with Jay Caroll now. Not a bad cop, just sort of stiff. Hard to talk to.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t have much to say unless it concerns baseball, from what I’ve found. But he’ll teach you a lot. He’s a great guy.”

Jarrod nodded, staring at the beige carpet under his feet.

“There’s news?”

“Not really. Nothing more on the evidence that I’ve heard. But I know that the DA is going to step it up a notch in the hunt for Mick. He wants him.”

“What, another news conference?”

“Probably. The guy likes to see his ugly mug on TV.”

“So it’s Fiscall behind all this?”

Jarrod nodded. “From what I can tell. Rumor has it that Lieutenant Crawford disagreed with the decision to name Mick as the suspect.”

“He wanted Earle?”

“Didn’t say. I just think the evidence was too ambiguous. If Mick hadn’t been there the night before . . .”

“I know, I know.” Aaron sighed, standing and walking to the back window, gazing out at nothing but bad memories. “I know.”

“Any idea where Mick might be?” Jarrod asked.

Aaron hesitated. Was that an innocent question, or had Jarrod been sent? He knew Jarrod could be impressionable and easily influenced. His brown eyes stared vigorously at everything but Aaron.

“No idea,” Aaron said, continuing to look at his green yard. How much time he’d spent making his lawn perfect. But as fall arrived, the grass was fading, dying with the season. He wondered why he spent so much time making everything around him look perfect. Why did he strive for things that weren’t attainable or attain things that would eventually die?

“Aaron?”

Aaron turned. “Sorry. Deep in thought.”

“You have a lot on your mind.” Jarrod offered a smile, but Aaron’s suspicions rejected the sentiment.

“Yeah, sorry; probably not good company right now.”

Jarrod took the hint and stood. “Right.” He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and made his way to the front door. Aaron opened it for him.

Jarrod was about to say something that was sure to be cordial, but Aaron cut him off. “You should know, Jarrod, that Mick is innocent.”

“Sure, Aaron.”

“I would bet my life on it.”

“No kidding. Don’t you think that’s misplaced confidence? Your brother has done nothing but mess up his whole life. And I believe I’m using your words.
Innocent
is overstating it a little, isn’t it?”

“He doesn’t have to earn the right to innocence in this situation,” Aaron said. “He’s innocent until proven guilty.”

Jarrod agreed. “Yeah. Too bad most of us are guilty of much more than our crimes.” He patted Aaron on the shoulder. “Have a good day. I’ll let you know if anything breaks.”

Aaron watched him walk off the front porch to his car. He couldn’t return the short wave Jarrod gave as he drove off.

What was it going to take to clear the name of a man whose name was synonymous with wrongdoing?

The tour guide, a middle-aged man who looked like he’d rather be doing anything but showing out-of-towners around the city, handed Mick his guest pass. “Sure, whatever Nowella says. I swear she’d let every street person on the bus if she could.”

Mick managed to smile. “I’m not a street person.”

The man, whose name tag read Simon, sniffed. “No kidding.”

“Just had a hard day’s work, that’s all.”

“Ah.” The man eyed the skull and crossbones on Mick’s shirt. “Mind sitting in the back?”

“No.” Mick got on the bus. As he walked toward the rear, he heard a few of the seniors mumble. What’d he give for his brother’s Running for Jesus shirt right now.

He sat in the very back, his least-favorite seat when he was a kid. He had always liked to be in the center of the action, mostly around the cheerleaders.

Simon was the last on the bus, and he greeted the seniors with a nod and a forced smile. “Who’s ready to see the Metroplex?”

Fanciful cheers erupted and Simon’s glassy eyes tried to acknowledge the crowd with a bit of enthusiasm. He asked a few people about where they were from. Mick couldn’t have orchestrated this better. Since no one was from around here, he had much less of a chance of being recognized.

And Simon looked like if he did recognize him, he wouldn’t have the energy to do anything about it.

Leaning on the pole at the front of the bus and grabbing a microphone, Simon introduced the driver and the tour began. Mick stared out the window. At some point, he was going to have to find a way to get off.

Thanks to the common condition of overactive bladders that often plagues seniors, Mick had no trouble finding a time to get off the bus. It stopped every thirty minutes for a bathroom break.

When they stopped near downtown Dallas, Mick decided this was probably going to be his best bet. He was unsure if they would stop again inside the downtown area.

After everyone was off the bus and headed into the gas station, Mick circled to the back of the bus and wandered off. Simon, who was at the espresso machine, wouldn’t notice he was gone.

Mick walked toward the skyscrapers, and before he knew it, their shadows loomed over him. He’d grown used to the hot, throbbing pain at the bottom of his legs, the result of treading through fire and living to tell about it.