Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  I put the end of my slim flashlight in my teeth and do my best to wriggle my fingers under the thick board.

  Trent stops pulling. "Aria, no! Your arm."

  "I'll be careful. We'll just go slowly. And I'll mostly use my left arm," I say.

  After I get a grip, I find it's a lot thicker than I first thought. It isn't just a half-inch piece of plywood. It's a half-inch piece of plywood nailed on top of a bunch of two-by-fours which were fastened together to make one solid and heavy slab.

  This makes it like pulling a log from mud. It's easier when we get it about halfway, and we use the board's weight against it, directing it toward the floor. We don't let it fall because that'll mean we'll need to pick it up again. Instead, we slide it sideways and lean it against the wall.

  With my pulse whooshing in my ears, I stand back and rub my pulled muscle. It's not too bad. Trent shines the light inside the newly unveiled space. A gasp escapes me, and I jerk involuntarily—not once, but twice, with a secondary reaction to my first. I clamp my hand over my mouth and stifle a cry. My mind tries to process this new vision, but the effort hurts somehow. So painfully real. Reality plays tug of war with my psyche, and it's winning. I want the image to cease. I want this beholding to stop, to cover my eyes and then uncover them to see something else there instead. Of course, I couldn't tear my gaze away if my life depended on it.

  18

  And yet, the sight within the crawl space isn’t gruesome. It isn’t terrifying. It isn’t like what Trent saw when he found me eight months ago. It’s just… strange. There, in the glow of one hundred thousand lumens, lies a complete human skeleton. The clean, white bones no longer attach to one another yet are arranged mostly in the proper order. The hollow sockets of the skull stare up at me with everything unspoken. Its jaw has fallen away. It tilts across the vertebrae now.

  The makeshift coffin is lined with a burgundy, satin fabric, the cloth marred with dark spots from the humidity here and there. Around the human remains are dried flowers, their previous colors of red or pink or purple now faded to dusty brown. A few small envelopes in pastels of lavender and pale green also rest with the deceased. I inhale to find wood and a faint, odd scent of some preservative.

  My chest tightens, and I blink back the discomfort in my aching eyes. I try to get a good breath, but my lungs feel constricted. I should be horrified and shocked at what I’m seeing—and I am. But more than that, I just feel sad. A poignantly sweet, disturbing sorrow swells within me at the notion that someone hid the remains of a person who was obviously a loved one. Yet, he didn’t love her enough to bury her in public. He hid her away in an old warehouse building like a macabre sideshow, like something from the Museum of the Weird.

  I know nothing about skeletal remains identification, but I’d bet my life this is a woman. It has to be. With those flowers and quaint envelopes probably containing cards strewn all about her. Yes, she may have been loved and hated, the same way Korey loved and hated me. But he wouldn’t have taken the time to entomb me nicely in a hidden vault with dried flowers. He would have let my carcass putrefy in that back room of the house. The maggots my only company, the light dying all around me as he snuffed out my flame.

  Bile begins rising in my throat, and I swallow it. I taste the acid first, and then a metallic dryness. My tongue grows thick, and I put the back of my hand over my mouth to stop myself from heaving. I sidestep away from the lockers. After making a fist, I place it against the wall to steady myself. While I keep the back of my other hand over my mouth, I listen to the sound of my panic-stricken, frantic breathing. I squeeze my eyes closed and clench my jaw.

  I reel. I can barely focus on Trent’s voice. He’s on the phone with the police. “Yes, that’s right. Fifteen-fifteen South Lamar Boulevard. We’re in a wooden building toward the back. It’s the one with a hole burned through the wall and ceiling…”

  I step farther away from the lockers and the crawl space. My stomach churns. My heart pounds like a war drum, and I wave my flashlight around wildly as I try to remember where the exit is. The wan sunlight streams from the space in the ceiling—a gash more reflective of an explosion than a spreading fire—and my mind shows me the dirty windows of the old house where Korey held me prisoner. The knife blade gleams in his hand. I moan and fall to my knees. I drop the flashlight and vomit, spilling my half-digested dinner on the blackened concrete.

  My ears ring. They did that when Korey beat me. He struck me in the head, in the face. Across the nose once. I scoot away from my puke and sit with my back against a bare stud. I press my hands to my forehead as I try to get a hold of reality.

  It’s not happening now. It’s over. It’s not happening.

  But the flashes of memory beat and pound. I can’t stop them. My body goes limp and useless beneath me as I pass out.

  I awake to the stench of all-encompassing smoke. An odor so thick and deep I could get lost in it and drown. I flutter open my eyes, darting my gaze around in the semi-darkness. Around me, I catch the sounds of men talking and the buzz of radios clicking on and off. Intermittent static fills the gaps between sentences.

  My head aches, and I realize I’m sitting with my back against something hard. My jeans, shirt, and latex gloves on my hands are covered in black soot. The walls, floors, exposed joists, and studs—or what’s left of them—are charred, and some are partially burned away.

  I remember. Trent wanted to explore the warehouse buildings. He wanted to see this area because, like me, he found Rance’s concern a little off. An image of the skeleton among satin and dried flowers grips my mind. It hurts. I don’t know why, but it does. The strange ache in my chest is something akin to a combination of jealousy and mortification. My thoughts and feelings are so fucked sometimes, even to me. I would throw up again if not for the fact that my stomach is empty now.

  “Ms. Owen, are you all right?” a man asks.

  I draw a breath and look up, focusing my eyes on a muscular, dark-skinned police officer. Yeah, he’s a detective now. I recognize him as Jeffrey Spade, my contact for my case with Nick Pearlman.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say. My weak voice is barely audible over radio static and the bustling feet of officers. “I—I got dizzy after our discovery. I guess I passed out.”

  Detective Spade squats down next to me. He offers a smile. “Okay. We just got here, but Mr. Lemend told us this isn’t uncommon for you. Is that true? I just want to make sure that if you need medical attention, we get it for you.”

  “No, what Trent told you is correct. I do pass out sometimes. Not a lot, but just seeing that—I guess I wasn’t expecting to find...” The dizziness returns, and I push my back and head against the board to steady myself. The floor teeters beneath me like a carnival ride. I press my fingers to its griminess.

  “All right, no problem. I’m just glad you’re all right. We’ll get all the information from Mr. Lemend, so you don’t need to concern yourself with that. I’ll have Ms. Sedgeworth walk you out to the car. The air in here is terrible.”

  I nod, noticing my mask was removed, and start to push myself up slowly. My knees shake, and I grab Detective Spade’s massive palm. With his other hand behind my back, he smoothly pulls me up as though I’m a small child. I know I’m standing now, but I can barely feel my feet on the floor.

  A young woman materializes at Spade’s left. She smiles at me as she steps closer. She’s wearing a baseball cap, a white button-down shirt, and jeans. I can’t place the recognition with my head spinning, but I feel like I’ve seen her before. If she’s a police officer, she’s not in uniform.

  “Ms. Owen,” the woman says, the lilt in her tone indicating I seem familiar to her too. “It’s nice to see you again, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances. Come on. I’ll take you outside where you can catch your breath.”

  She places a hand reassuringly on my upper back, indicating the exit with the other. I start walking.

  “Have we met?” I blink and try to ignore the throbbing i
n my temples. Dehydration is what’s probably giving me this headache. My blood sugar’s probably out the bottom too.

  Ms. Sedgeworth chuckles. “Yeah, but I probably look different with this hat on.” She reaches up and touches the bill, grinning. “I’m Naomi, Trent’s friend. We met at the restaurant.”

  I put a hand to my head. A wave of jealousy hits me all over again, but at least this jealousy is somewhat normal. “Oh. Have you graduated from the police academy already? I thought you and Trent were enrolled together.”

  We weave between two men who block our way to the next room.

  “Oh no, you’re right. Like Trent, I basically just started. Trent mentioned this morning that he might swing by this place and have a look. When I saw half the Austin PD outside, I got worried. I don’t know if you saw him, but the tall guy, Officer Sedgeworth, is my dad. Most of his coworkers know I’m in the academy, so I got lucky and was allowed in here. I’m really glad you and Trent are okay.” Her blue eyes study me.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to smile. “You’ve got connections.”

  I didn’t notice the tall guy she mentioned, but I’ll take her word for it. So, Trent told her he would be here, and her dad is a cop. For some reason, these facts tick me off, but they do explain her presence.

  I do my best to make it look like I’m not having difficulty walking in a straight line. What must she think of me after whatever Trent probably told her, and now this? Aria Owen, the mess. Aria Owen, the traumatized girl who nearly died in January, now found unconscious on the floor of a burned building after a flashback. I swallow and pretend to check the ground for debris so that I won’t trip on anything.

  Naomi stays close by my side as we enter the main warehouse building where I first came in with Trent. She motions for me to go first, and I exit through the front door where the evening greets me with a dusty violet sky. Two police cruisers are parked at the curb, along with a black, unmarked car. I can’t remember where I parked my Camry, but I’m hoping it’ll come to me in a moment.

  “Thank you for walking me out,” I say. This time, relaxing my face, I manage to put on a better grin. I meet Naomi’s gaze briefly before digging into my jeans pocket for my car keys.

  “My pleasure,” she says. “But please don’t try to drive yet. Why don’t you sit here by the curb, and I’ll get you some water? I want to make sure you’re feeling okay before you get behind the wheel.” She points to a clean spot on the concrete between the two police cars.

  I want to barrel home. I want to disappear like a bat under the Congress Avenue Bridge, but she’s right. I’m having trouble focusing, and my feet aren’t entirely connecting with the ground.

  “That sounds good. Thanks,” I say.

  I lower myself down and take a seat, then stripping off my blackened latex gloves. I shove them in my back pocket. Naomi places a bottle of cold water in my hands, and I accept it numbly and drink. I glance up and down Lamar, watching the comings and goings of the officers. Now I notice a white crime scene van a few vehicles down. And then, like a bad hallucination, my gaze finds a man. He’s not a cop. He doesn’t fit. He shouldn’t be here.

  Nick Pearlman. He’s standing in a dark suit, watching me from the other side of the street. Since I know his silhouette, the twilight doesn’t hide him much.

  “Naomi?” I call.

  I turn for her, but she’s gone. I scan my nearby surroundings for one of the policemen, but it seems they’ve all disappeared too. Tugging my cell phone from my other back pocket, I dial Spade’s mobile number. I listen to it ring. I keep my eyes on Pearlman. As I hold the phone to my ear, Nick starts to walk over. I leap to my feet and back away as I get my balance.

  “Are you going to listen to me now? Do you think it might be worth hearing what I have to say?” he asks.

  I don’t answer, my pins-and-needles fingers barely keeping my cell phone in place.

  Pick up. Pick up. Please pick up.

  Spade isn’t answering. I search for Naomi, but she hasn’t returned.

  “Stay the hell away from me,” I say.

  I back up a few steps toward the nearest squad car. How can there be so many cops here but not one of them outside? I saw several less than a minute ago. Can I run? I doubt it. With my stomach cartwheeling, I take another look at the black police cruiser. I grip the passenger’s side door handle and tug. It’s unlocked. I slip inside and slam the door. Then I press the button to lock myself in. The heat of the black interior stifles me, but it’s safer than being out there. If the bastard wants me that bad, let him break into a cruiser.

  Nick Pearlman slowly strides to the police car and stands there. The windows are tinted, so I don’t know if he can see me. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He lingers a foot away in that dark business suit in the waning heat of August evening. His body motionless. His head fixed. He continues to stare, his eyes burning into me like he wants to tear my throat out. I jerk my gaze away and face the windshield. I breathe in scents of leather and Gatorade while I continue pressing the phone to my ear. The call goes to voicemail.

  “Hi, Detective Spade,” I say as I scoot as far to the left edge of the seat as I can. “This is Aria Owen. I’m outside in one of the police cars right now. Nick Pearlman came out of nowhere, and he’s standing by the cruiser staring at me. Can you come out? Please. Please help.”

  19

  Pushing “end,” I disconnect the call to Detective Spade. My message sounded mental. Completely insane. When I turn back to the window, Pearlman is gone. Ms. Sedgeworth is coming up to the cruiser with her ponytail swinging. I unlock the door and stumble out, my legs buckling before I straighten. Naomi stops dead. Her mouth falls open.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “There was someone here who’s been threatening me, and I didn’t feel safe, so I just got in the car.”

  “That really isn’t allowed. Why didn’t you come get me?”

  “I tried. I wanted to. No one was out here. He was right—” I scan all around. “He must still be here. He was standing there seconds ago while I was on the phone. He was just here. His name is Nick Pearlman. He’s wearing a dark suit.” I glance everywhere but still don’t see him, and I shake my head. I feel crazy.

  “Okay, no problem,” Sedgeworth says, her words softer now. She frowns as her gaze sweeps our surroundings. “Did you see which way he went?”

  “No, I was in the car. I couldn’t tell,” I say. Nick may as well be my personal apparition.

  “If you want to sit down a while longer, I can get all the information from you and take it to your contact,” says Naomi.

  “No, it’s all right. I left a message on Detective Spade’s voicemail. He’s been helping me with the case so far. I don’t want to be left out here alone. I either need to go back inside with you and the police, or I need to be allowed to drive home.”

  “If you feel okay to drive, then you’re free to go. I’m not holding you here by any means. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She blinks and regards me with kind eyes, her head tilted slightly. “Where are you parked?”

  Finally remembering, I reply, “I’m over that way, on Collier Street. You can’t see my car from here, but it’s close by.”

  “Okay. I’ll walk you over there,” Naomi says.

  I’m so relieved I nod too many times and let out a long, shaky sigh. I stay close by her side as we make our way to my Camry. I look for Nick everywhere, but there’s no sign of him. It’s like he showed up at the precise moment necessary to make his point before melting into the background. Clever. Convenient. How was his timing so perfect? I wonder if Sedgeworth thinks he was my hallucination. I almost wonder myself.

  Another wave of relief floods through me as I step up to the driver’s side of the car. I unlock it with my remote.

  “Be safe, and if you need anything, just give us a call,” Naomi says. She holds up a hand and starts to move off.

  “Thanks.” I return a small wave of my own.

  As I lock myself in my sedan and start
the engine, I think about Trent inside the building. He’s probably having the time of his life, explaining to the police exactly how we discovered the remains. What will this mean for Rance? Will he be a suspect? Will Spade try even harder to identify Nick?

  As I drive north on I-35, back to Trent’s house in Georgetown, my cell phone rings. It’s Kyle. I groan before pushing the button on my steering wheel. This answers the call and sends the audio through the stereo speakers.

  “Hi, Kyle,” I say. I try to make myself sound calm, as though I’m taking a leisurely drive back to Williamson County and not leaving a crime scene covered in carbon residue.

  Without saying hello back, Kyle says, “It’s on the news, Aria.” He exhales heavily, restraining the anger in his voice. “It’s really on the news. At this moment. Your suspicions were right, but what were you thinking? I thought you agreed not to mess with Rance and the property anymore. I’m so furious right now I can’t think straight. I don’t mean to be, but damn it.”

  I hear static and wonder if he’s pacing around outside.

  Kyle adds, “And I know Trent must have been involved for you to go that far. Damn it, Aria, you don’t always have to listen to him.”

  My chest twinges and I snap, “I don’t always. I just didn’t want him to go alone.” Crap. Now I basically blamed him.

  “This is bad. Really bad,” says Kyle.

  “I understand. And I’m sorry I broke our agreement, but—” The thoughts come to me slowly through my headache and brain fog. “Those remains belong to someone. Now there’s a chance to find out the truth about who and why.”

  “Yes, but what you guys did was wrong. Plain and simple,” Kyle says.

  “I know. But just like you told me that doing the right thing isn’t always the right thing, sometimes it is. And once in a while, doing the wrong thing is the right thing.”