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.
Something soft poked into Mick’s cheek when he tried to move and pry open his right eye. A bright patch of light stung his vision. Nausea swirled in his stomach with his tiniest movement, and his head roared with pain.
Hangover. Go figure.
But where was he?
He tried not to focus on the physical ailments that were giving him few clues as to the mystery of his surroundings but on his memory, which was foggy at best.
His fingers came to life suddenly, and as he patted his way around his body he realized he was on . . . carpet?
Not a good sign.
He rolled his forehead so it was facing down and opened his eyes. Yes. He was staring at beige carpet.
A disgruntled groan fled his throat when he lifted himself up off the carpet into a kneeling position. His stomach lurched and his head spun. Taking deep breaths, he managed to recover enough so he could open his eyes again. In front of him was a multicolored, pastel couch. Next to it were a recliner, light blue, and a TV and a stand, decorated with picture frames and ivy real enough looking to be fake. A quaint, brick fireplace was against one wall, and there was a small kitchen and dining area. He gazed outside through sheer white curtains. He could see a railing. He was in an apartment.
Whose apartment?
He stood, steadied himself three times, and walked to the kitchen, turning on the water and splashing his face, then spitting out the vile taste in his mouth. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet next to the sink and drank half a glass of water. A horrible uneasiness settled into his emotions, causing him to hold his breath.
Was that a shower running? No. The treetops swishing in the wind outside. A window was slightly open, and the screen was hanging off. His ears tuned in to the sounds outside. Busy streets.
He slowly made his way back toward the living room, looking around, shielding his bloodshot eyes from the light coming in through the windows. As he neared the couch, an image of a woman shot through his mind.
Taylor. He remembered sitting on the couch with her. She was at one end; he was at the other. Had she been crying? He couldn’t remember. But now he knew where he was.
Had he passed out in the middle of her living-room floor? fallen off the couch? A groan left his lips, and he covered his mouth in embarrassment.
He picked up a picture of Taylor and a friend from the top of her TV. Her brown hair was longer, held back with a clip at the back of her head. Her friend, a blonde with sunglasses on, hung her arm around Taylor’s neck.
Mick walked toward the back bedroom, carefully listening for anything. But the apartment was quiet.
“Taylor?” he managed, his voice scratchy and accompanied by a burning sensation in his throat. “Taylor? It’s Mick.”
Nobody was home. Had she left him passed out in her living room? Mick sighed. He patted his back jeans pocket, glad to know his wallet and keys were still there. He wandered around the apartment, trying to get a better idea of the woman who’d taken him to her home last night. He was fully dressed and relieved to know he’d not done something incredibly stupid . . . other than pass out on her living-room floor. That was embarrassingly stupid.
Her house smelled like a florist’s shop, but there were no fresh flowers around. Lots of candles, though. And a lot of mementos indicating she liked to travel.
Mick forced an imaginary conversation with Aaron and what would surely be accusations out of his mind and decided he’d better find out what time it was.
He looked at the microwave clock: 7:30 a.m.
Panic raced him across the room toward the door. He was supposed to be at the school in fifteen minutes to help in the weight room. He decided to leave Taylor a note. He found a notepad, scratched down his phone number, and put it on the kitchen counter.
Outside, the sun’s bright rays assaulted his eyes. He stumbled down three flights of stairs, barely dodging an older woman who was coming up with a sackful of groceries.
“Excuse me,” he said, holding on to the rail and finishing off the last ten steps. At the bottom, he walked toward the parking lot, where at least two dozen cars were lined up. But after three minutes of looking, he realized his green Toyota Camry was nowhere in sight.
Had he ridden in her car?
Where in the world was he, anyway? The tall sign above him read Greenview Apartments. They were the kind that looked nice on the outside and were cozy on the inside. He’d priced apartments like this once but couldn’t afford them.
As he stood there wondering what to do, he was reminded of Taylor’s scent. He’d thought she smelled amazing, even against the various and unpleasant smells of the bar.
“I let her slip away.” Those were the words he’d spoken to her sometime last night. Talking about Jenny to another woman. But she’d seemed concerned, willing to listen beyond whatever sad story she was living. Did he ever hear hers? The hangover blocked any further inquiries from last night. At least for the moment. Hopefully the fog would lift later. Right now he had to get to the school.
He still had no idea exactly where in Irving he was. He hoped he was still in Irving. He could see himself hopping a plane and landing in Kentucky. He decided to walk to the apartment offices.
Inside, a young, scholarly looking woman smiled a greeting.
“Can you tell me the address here?” Mick asked.
She handed him a business card. “It’s on there. Are you looking to rent an apartment?”
“No. I’m lost.” Mick looked at the card. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“Dial 9.”
Mick dialed his perpetually unemployed buddy, whom he always called when he was too drunk to get home.
It was early September, and even in the morning, the heat of the day was already arriving. He looked at his crinkled shirt and pants as he waited by the curb, then swept his hand through his hair. He hoped his eyes didn’t look too puffy. They felt like they were about to explode out of his head.
Jarrod requested they drive by the 7-Eleven. They’d been on their shift since six, but Jarrod hadn’t managed to shake off whatever wild and crazy party he’d attended the night before. Aaron got out of the cruiser, glancing back to watch Jarrod slowly pull himself out by gripping the car-door window.
“Good morning, Officer Kline,” Martha said as they walked in.
“Hi, Martha.” Aaron smiled and went to the coffee counter. He was stirring in cream and sugar when Jarrod came up beside him, a coffeeless Styrofoam cup in his hand.
“She’s here!” Jarrod whispered.
“Who?”
“Kelly, I think is her name.”
Aaron looked over his shoulder to see a tall blonde grabbing a newspaper. He rolled his eyes.
“She’s so hot!”
“You didn’t really want the coffee, did you?” Aaron asked. “You just thought ‘hot babe’ would be here.”
Jarrod grinned but dispensed coffee into his cup for effect, ferociously blowing the steam off the top as he watched the woman pay for her newspaper.
“Why do they have to make this coffee so hot?” Jarrod complained.
It always amused Aaron how Jarrod couldn’t stand hot coffee. Or his hamburgers with too much ketchup. Or his shoes tied the wrong way. For a man who wanted everything right in his world, Aaron thought he might be in the wrong profession.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Aaron said. He walked by Martha, gave her a wave, and droppe
d a few cents into the MS box that sat on the counter.
Walking out behind him, Jarrod said, “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Give money to the charity of the week?”
“I don’t know. I mean, we get free coffee, so why not?”
“Exactly. We get free coffee. It’s one of the very few perks of this job, and then you have to go and make it not a perk by putting change in the box.” Jarrod stopped. “Wait; I think I left my sunglasses in there.”
Aaron eyed him. “Did you just see another good-looking woman go in?”
“No, I swear it.”
Aaron walked back in with Jarrod, hoping to catch at least the headlines of the newspaper while he waited. As Jarrod roamed to the back of the store, Aaron noticed a woman, seemingly upset, talking with Martha. He stared at the newspaper and listened.
“Well, have you called?”
“Yes, several of us have.” The woman sniffled. “I hope something bad hasn’t happened.”
Aaron glanced over his shoulder, and Martha motioned for him to approach. “Officer Kline, this is Liz. She usually comes in about twenty minutes after you fellows.”
Aaron smiled at the teary-eyed woman. “Hi, Liz.”
“Liz Lane,” the woman said, offering a hand.
Martha said, “Liz feels as if something might have happened to one of her coworkers.”
“Why is that?” Aaron asked as Jarrod came alongside him, flipping his sunglasses on top of his head.
“I’ve called her several times and there’s no answer. She didn’t come to work yesterday. This is the second shift she’s missed,” Liz explained. “I’m having to cover for her again, and I was supposed to have two days off. It’s just that she’s not that kind of person, you know? She always shows up for work. Or at least calls when she can’t come in, which is really rare.”
“Where is work?” Jarrod asked.
“We’re both gate agents for Delta.” The woman shook her head, worry crossing over her features. “I’ve worked with Taylor for two years—”
“Her last name?” Jarrod interrupted.
“Franks.”
Aaron gave Jarrod the I’ll-handle-this look. “Sorry, go ahead,” he said.
“Anyway, she’s very responsible. Taylor comes to work even if she’s sick because she knows how crazy it gets when we’re shorthanded. I’ve called every hospital around to see if there was a car wreck, but she’s not there. And supposedly we can’t even file a report until tonight.”
“How well do you know Miss Franks?” Aaron asked.
“Pretty well. We know each other some socially, beyond work. Taylor has me on this exercise kick, and I joined Gold’s Gym where she works out. I just started last week. She wasn’t there last night.”
“I’m sure Miss Franks is fine,” Aaron said. “It’s probably just a misunderstanding.”
“I’ve called her house. Her cell phone. I didn’t want to call her mother, make her worry. She doesn’t talk to her mom much anyway.”
“You have that number?” Aaron asked.
Liz nodded and took his pad and pencil. “This is her address, all her contact numbers. Plus my home phone.” She handed it back.
“Does Taylor use drugs or alcohol that you’re aware of?”
“Absolutely not,” Liz said. She looked down at the carton of cigarettes she’d purchased from Martha. “Maybe a few drinks at a bar, but nothing more. She’s not an addict or anything like that. Just social drinking. Mostly.”
“Okay . . .” Aaron was jotting down notes, studying Liz’s body language. “You’re . . . um . . . you’re sure, Miss Lane?”
“Yeah, I mean . . . yeah.” She sighed. “She’s been on antidepressants,” she said in nearly a whisper.
“For?” Aaron guided her out of the way of an approaching customer and to the sidewalk outside, with Jarrod following.
“Losing hope in life,” Liz said. “Just like the rest of us. She’s not a freak. She just had a few bad years.”
“Boyfriends? Lovers? Ex-husbands involved?”
“There’s an ex-boyfriend. They haven’t been serious for a while. It’s an on-again/off-again dysfunctional thing. I don’t know much about it, really. She’s pretty private. Last week, though, she mentioned going on a couple of dates, so I figured it was over with this guy. But Tuesday she got this big bouquet of flowers from him.”
“Him have a name?” Jarrod asked.
Liz ignored Jarrod and looked at Aaron. “I don’t know his full name. Sammy is all I know. She doesn’t talk about him much, to tell you the truth. That’s why it was surprising when she got the flowers. Over the past couple of years, he’s only sent a few things to work and always signed them using what I guess are his initials. SAE. Once some flowers. Well, like three measly roses. Once a candy-gram or some ridiculous thing. Usually after they’ve had a fight or something.”
“Any indications of what the relationship was like?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think it was a good relationship. I guess Sammy’s just your regular stupid guy.” She glanced at Jarrod with those words.
“Anything else you can think of?”
Liz took a lighter from her purse. “We had an incident at the airport Tuesday.”
“An incident?”
“Guy went nuts on us when his flight was canceled. Had to be dragged away. Made some threats to Taylor, really shook her up. But that sort of thing happens. It’s just part of our job. I can’t imagine Taylor not coming to work because of it. But . . . there was something strange about her. Usually she can handle something like that. This time it seemed to really bother her.”
“Know the guy’s name?”
“Airport security will have it.”
“We’ll go see what we can find out for you. I’m sure Taylor’s fine. Okay?” Aaron handed her his card and said they’d be in touch.
“Let’s go find out why this young woman didn’t make it to work today,” Aaron said to Jarrod, who was staring at a woman pumping gas into her car.
“Coach Kline.” Owen Gruber, the athletic director for the high school, said his name with the kind of enthusiasm one uses when talking about a mouse problem in the home. Mick was trying to smooth down one side of his hair, which he hadn’t realized until now was sticking straight up. Owen didn’t fail to notice. “Looks like you had a productive evening last night.”
Mick bit his lip, trying to hold in the string of slander that wanted to rip Owen from the top of his small head, down his pencil neck, through his flat chest to his size-8 shoes. A not-so-kind smile replaced the words. How Owen Gruber, who hadn’t played a sport in his life, managed to become athletic director was still a mystery. It was rumored to have something to do with how much money his grandmother gave to the private Catholic school.
With the religion came the code of ethics that was continually stated and hardly ever followed. Last year, the head basketball coach was caught partying with the players after they won conference. He was reprimanded with a slap on the hand and continued congratulations for his success. There were some things ethics simply couldn’t control—the heart of a man driven by power and sports politics.
Mick tried to nod, realizing that Owen was right in the middle of giving him the speech about his tardiness. Just one nod would get Owen off his back. But he couldn’t seem to give the guy respect. So he simply sat there, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the gold carpet under his feet because it was more interesting than Owen’s beady, judgmental eyes.
“Don’t you want to make something of yourself, Kline?” Owen said.
No, Owen, I want to be a loser for the rest of my life. That’s what I’ve wanted to be ever since I was a little kid and my dad had dreams of me being just like my brother.
“You’re still working on your bachelor’s, right?” Owen asked.
“Of course,” Mick said.
His second bachelor’s. He had his first in accounting, which he found
out he hated. He’d been working on the second for four years. Money was the first problem. Lack of drive was the second. He didn’t want to teach kids math. He wanted to teach them football, in hopes of one day climbing that almighty educative ladder to a Big Twelve school. It was a pipe dream, really. At the age of twenty-eight, he was still assisting at the high school level, albeit a large high school.
Mick was well-known around Irving. Everybody had had such high hopes for him when he was quarterbacking over a decade ago—his family still did. He wished he had those same hopes for himself, but as far as he was concerned, he was a has-been. He’d dropped out this semester. That was before he knew he was going to have extra time since he got fired from his accounting job for being perpetually late.
Outside, thunder rolled over the flat roof of the athletic building. Owen barely noticed. Mick could hardly stay in his seat. He loved the weather. Just like his dad. He and his brother and his dad would pass the spring watching storms roll over the plains of Texas, analyzing the direction, the wind . . . the feel of them.
When a big one came, which it always did in a Texas spring, it was unmistakable. The air seemed to swallow itself. The sky looked as if it were lowering. The birds would fluster in the trees. The animals would pace their dwellings.
But Owen Gruber would never be able to appreciate—or even notice—what Mick considered to be glorious. Owen Gruber never looked up. He always looked at himself—which was exactly what he was doing now. Picking balls off his fancy knit sweater that he thought made him somebody.
“Stop being late,” Owen finally said, flicking the lint away. “You know Coach Rynde hates it, and so do I. Rynde thinks you have coaching talent. I don’t know that I agree with him, but as long as he sees it, why don’t you take advantage of it? Breaks hardly ever come in life, Kline. Especially for people like you, who seem to abuse any break you get.”
“Are we finished here?” Mick asked.
“Yeah, fine. We’re finished. In one ear, out the other.”