Cold Summer Nights

by Sean Thomas Fisher

Nick tilted his head, his mouth hanging open, and stared into Bill’s dead serious eyes. “Was that a Karate Kid reference?”

  “Nick, I need you to make this happen. Do you have any questions?”

  Nick looked back to the picture of the house and shook his head. “I’m on it.”

  “Good! And sorry to hear about your grandma,” he said, tapping the door frame two times and whisking his mug down the hallway.

  Nick arrived twenty minutes early to give the vacant house a quick once over before Ms. Gardner showed up. He closed his car door and took a look around with the sunlight bouncing off his black shades. Like most of the other homes in the Beaverdale area, the flawless front yard gave it instant curb appeal. Brightly colored flowers were just starting to poke out of red mulch chipping that bordered the front of the house’s dark brown bricks. Tidy bushes accompanied a newly poured walkway that snaked its way through the greening grass to a set of wide steps leading to a spacious front porch. He couldn’t imagine why Carla had been having a hard time selling it.

  Inside, freshly painted olive colored walls mingled with the kind of thick, dark woodwork that gives real meaning to the word character. He groaned, however, when he saw the kitchen and two bathrooms, which needed some serious updating. Kitchens and bathrooms were the biggest selling points for women and these outdated cupboards, countertops and appliances weren’t going to get it. He sighed, knowing he would have to play up the original hardwood flooring throughout, the working fireplace in the living room and the spacious back deck. He would also be sure to point out the plethora of beautiful crown molding running throughout the older home.

  His phone began vibrating in the front pocket of his black slacks. He fished it out and didn’t recognize the number on the screen but answered it anyway, thinking it was Ms. Gardner running late. “Nick Foley.”

  “Nick, it’s me,” Rusty whispered.

  “Hey, you got a new phone,” Nick said, keeping an eye out the arched window in the living room. A slight pause made him think the call had dropped. “Hello?”

  “I’ve got some bad news,” Rusty said grimly.

  Nick dropped his gaze to the shiny wood floors. “Don’t tell me you signed with AT&T.”

  Rusty exhaled. “Amy is dead.”

  Nick’s smile faded. “What?”

  “Her sister found her inside her apartment last night. No one had heard from her in days.”

  Nick glanced out the front window to see two squirrels go chasing each other across the sun splashed yard as he tried to understand why Rusty would joke around about something like this. The mailman suddenly walked past the arched window and Nick’s heart shuddered. “Dude, I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “I’m not making this up, Nicky. Scout’s honor.”

  Nick’s mind began to race. The lid from the mailbox dropped shut on the other side of the arched front door that matched the two large living room windows, giving him another jolt. “How?”

  “She had a key.”

  “No, I mean how did she die?”

  Rusty made a clicking sound when he swallowed, like he had bad cotton mouth. “Someone strangled her,” he said thickly.

  Nick’s eyebrows drew together just as a shiny black Volvo pulled into the driveway and parked. He watched a gray haired lady wearing a springtime yellow coat climb out and shut the car door. She immediately began looking the house over from top to bottom, making a visor out of one hand and stumbling through the front yard. Nick turned to the fireplace with the ornate mantel. “Are you serious?”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Someone broke into her apartment?”

  “Kristin said there was no sign of forced entry.”

  “Well, how is that…” He trailed off, Brad flashing through his mind.

  “She thinks it was Brad. He had a key,” Rusty said, clearing his throat.

  Nick suddenly found himself wanting to tell Rusty about the toaster and the remote. Other than Summer, he hadn’t told anyone. He listened to Rusty’s heavy breathing and craned his neck, looking out the front window for Ms. Gardner who was now nowhere in sight.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  Silence swept the line.“Did you kill Amy?”

  Nick’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “If you did, just tell me. I swear to God I won’t go to the cops. I never liked her that much anyway and I’m sure you had a good reason.”

  Nick’s face twisted. “I didn’t kill her, you idiot!”

  A knock on the heavy wooden door startled him.

  “Well, it was either you or Brad.”

  “Rusty, it wasn’t me,” he whispered. “Listen, I’ve got a client who just showed up. I’ll call you back.”

  “Nick wait!”

  “What?” he asked impatiently.

  “Tell me that you did not murder Amy Miller.”

  “I just did,” Nick whispered through gritted teeth.

  “I wanna hear you say it again!”

  The knocks came again, louder this time.

  “Nick, I wanna hear you say it again because if my best friend is a cold-blooded murderer, I think I have the right to…”

  Nick hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket. He took a deep breath, straightened his sports coat and stared at the wooden door in front of him. This couldn’t be happening. Who would murder Amy? And why?

  More impatient rapping jerked him from his trance.

  He turned the knob and pulled. The door swung smoothly and silently inward. “Good morning,” he said, forcing a smile while having an outer body experience. “I’m Nick Foley,” he told her, extending his sweaty hand.

  “You taking a nap in here or something?” she barked, tromping past him into the living room without shaking his hand. Her heels clicked rapidly on the shiny floors as she began inspecting the place from top to bottom.

  After Ms. Gardner decided she still wasn’t sure about the place - despite the fact that Nick had clearly pointed out that both the roof and furnace had been replaced just last year - he watched her get back into her glistening Volvo and leave. He waived and turned to go back inside, knowing full well that Bill was going to kill him for blowing the deal.

  He pulled his phone out and called Rusty’s new number back. It rang several times and just when he was about to hang up, Rusty answered.

  “Yo!”

  Nick frowned and stopped on the shaded front porch. “Who’s this?”

  “Who dis?” the man snapped right back.

  Nick snorted. “Who’s this?”

  “Shit homie, this is your daddy. Now, whatchu need? I ain’t got all day.”

  Nick’s eyes roamed the quaint neighborhood, feeling like whoever was on the other end could somehow see him.

  “Uh, is Rusty there?”

  The man paused. “Rusty? Who the fuck is Rusty?” he asked, causing a burst of laughter to erupt in the background.

  Someone yelled, “Hey tell that foo I killed Rusty!”

  “You hear that? Sounds like your boy is dead. Shoulda paid his damn bills!”

  Laughter exploded again, followed by a car honking.

  Nick squinted and scratched his head. “Okay, so Rusty isn’t around then?”

  Silence took the line. “Hell no Rusty ain’t around then! This here’s my damn phone! Ain’t you been payin attention, cocksucker?”

  Nick rubbed his forehead. “What’s that now?” he asked, intentionally trying to get under the guy’s skin.

  “Motherfucker, I said,” the man slowly began in a much lower tone. Then the man paused, making Nick think he had hung up on him.

  “Nick?”

  Nick’s heart trembled when the stranger mentioned his name. “Yeah?”

  “You should really think about staying away from her.”

  Goosebumps rippled across Nick’s arms and legs, spreading like measles. He looked up from his black shoes and saw another squirrel go hopping across the front yard, oblivious to his presence on the porch.
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  The ruckus in the background grew quiet as well.

  The young flowers bordering the porch suddenly looked like aliens from another planet. Everything around him stretched into strange and foreign shapes. Even though it was a beautiful sunny day, he felt the cold arms of darkness gently embrace him. Finally he found his voice. “Stay away from who?”

  Somebody in the background shouted out, “Yo Terrell, what’re you getting his number or somethin?” The group’s laughter returned in full force, cutting off when the line went dead.

  Nick put a finger to his other ear. “Hello?”

  An eerie stillness floated out of the phone’s receiver.

  He pulled the cell away and stared at it, wiping sweat from his brow with his other hand. He called the number back but this time no one answered so he fumbled the phone back into his pocket and scanned the area, a cold shudder whisking through his body. A man across the street came out to get his mail and waved. Nick waved back and galloped down the front steps. He jumped into his Jeep Wrangler and bent over the wheel, looking back at the Manning house. His grandma glared down at him from an upstairs window, the look of anger on her face so fierce it made his pulse race. Something smashed into the Jeep’s passenger side door. His head snapped around to see someone sprinting towards him. A young kid bent over and came back up holding a tennis ball for him to see.

  “Sorry,” the kid said, running back to his friends two houses over.

  Nick turned back to the upstairs window to see his grandma gone and the curtains were still moving. He swallowed hard and started the Jeep, jamming it in reverse and forgetting to lock up the house.

  Rusty looked even worse when he answered his door this time.

  “Oh my God,” Nick moaned, scrunching his nose up and stepping inside the putrid smelling apartment.

  Rusty plopped down onto the couch and kicked his dirty slippers up onto the coffee table, spacing out with hollow eyes on a rerun of Scrubs.

  Nick stood there, studying him and the apartment. “Who the hell answered your phone earlier?”

  Rusty stared straight ahead as if Nick wasn’t even there.

  “Rusty!”

  Rusty slowly turned his puffy face to Nick. “I told you, I don’t have a phone,” he said tonelessly.

  Nick frowned. “Well then how’d you call me earlier?”

  Rusty turned back to the TV. “Gas station payphone.”

  Nick searched the room for clues that weren’t there. “Payphone?”

  Rusty blew his nose into some Kleenex and dropped the wad on the floor.

  Nick sighed and sat down in a recliner, instantly regretting it. He could already feel the germs latching onto his clothing and begin clawing their way towards his face. “So you were just messing with me earlier, right? About Amy.”

  Rusty languidly turned his glazed look to Nick and responded with a succession of wet sounding coughs.

  Nick frowned. “Wow, okay that sounds good. Were you messing with me or not?” he asked impatiently.

  Rusty wiped his nose with his hand and then wiped it on the couch. “I told you I wasn’t.”

  Nick tore his gaze from Rusty. “Bullshit.”

  Rusty stared blankly at the TV. “What’s Summer’s last name again?”

  Nick wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

  “Stanton?”

  “Sorenson. Why?”

  Rusty continued staring at the old television. “And she’s from Rockford, right?”

  Nick snorted. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Rusty pushed himself up off the couch and went into the apartment’s only bedroom.

  Nick turned his attention to the Ding Dong wrappers, empty beer cans, and plates of pizza crust littering the coffee table and floor around the couch. “Man,” he wheezed, praying that whatever Rusty had wasn’t contagious. Although knowing his luck, it was probably already too late. He glanced down to a wad of crumpled up toilet paper under his shoe and grimaced. “Yeah, this isn’t good,” he muttered, relocating his foot.

  Rusty strolled out of his bedroom in faded blue jeans and a wrinkled Shooter Jenning’s t-shirt with a wolf howling at the moon on it. He passed Nick and grabbed his keys off the kitchen table. “I’ll call you later,” he said, sailing out the front door without looking back.

  Nick’s jaw dropped. “Where are you going?” he shouted just before the door slammed shut. He shook his head and went into the galley kitchen to wash his hands before leaving. His grandma’s eerie image invaded his thoughts as he scrubbed his hands. “What the hell is going on here?” he whispered. Just before he turned the water off, he thought he heard something out in the living room. Cautiously, he traipsed out of the kitchen, drying his hands with a paper towel. His eyes darted across the living room, expecting to find his grandma standing there with that look covering her face. But the room was empty. He glanced down the hall to Rusty’s bedroom, staring at the partially closed door for a moment. He swallowed and quickly concluded that now would be a good time to get the hell out of there.

  After stopping over at his grandma’s nursing home to sign a bunch of papers and gather up what was left of her belongings, Nick stopped at McDonald’s and ate in silence inside his Jeep at a park down the road. The people enjoying the nice day, playing with their dog or children, made him jealous. Dark thoughts clouded his mind, making it impossible to enjoy anything. After lunch, he went to the funeral home to sign even more papers and burned away the rest of the afternoon with the smell of embalming fluid and fresh flowers choking his every thought. When the stoic funeral director asked if he’d like to see his grandma’s body now or wait until they had prepared her, Nick chose the latter and got the hell out of there.

  The fresh air outside was a welcome relief, almost cleansing the smell of death from his clothes. His thoughts bombarded him from every angle on the drive home, taking turns poking him with sticks and smacking him upside the head with an open palm. Every time he glanced in the mirror, his grandma or Amy sneered at him from the backseat. The fact that he had to pee like a race horse didn’t help matters any, so he turned up the radio and tried to concentrate on the road as Linkin Park took his speakers hostage. Buildings and houses and cars passed by in a dizzying blur. If Amy really had been murdered, Nick knew he would be a prime suspect if they didn’t already have someone in custody. It was always an ex.

  When he arrived home he sprinted into the hallway bathroom and unloaded his bloated bladder. While washing his hands, he studied the reflection staring back at him in the mirror. His eyes looked almost as dark as Rusty’s and suddenly he had the eerie feeling he wasn’t alone again. The hairs on his arms stood up with goose bumps planted at their roots while his gaze slowly drifted over to the red shower curtain next to him. He turned off the faucet and didn’t bother drying his hands on the red hand towel hanging on the wall.

  Reluctantly, he reached his dripping hand out and grasped one end of the curtain, paranoia coursing through his veins. He stared at the curtain for a moment before realizing he was falling into the oldest horror movie cliché in the book. No one would be in the shower; they would be behind him when he turned around. His eyes lowered, glancing to his side. He spun around to find himself alone. “Okay, I am officially losing it,” he murmured.

  The knock on the front door was so loud, he banged the back of his hand on the corner of the sink, hitting bone. Pain washed over him as he left the bathroom and went to the front door, rubbing his hand along the way. He groaned when he saw Rusty standing outside, and yanked the door open. “Nice cop knock!” he scowled.

  “I told you I wasn’t crazy,” Rusty said, sounding congested and barging past.

  “What happened?” Nick asked, scanning the front yard and shutting and locking the red door.

  Rusty handed Nick a folded up sheet of paper. “This is what happened!”

  Nick took it and hesitantly began unfolding. His eyebrows dipped when he saw the picture of Summer smiling back at him and the word MISSIN
G in bright red letters above her blond hair. His eyes darted back to Rusty. “What the hell is this?”

  “That’s what I wanna know,” Rusty said, dropping onto the couch with a bounce and coughing into his fist.

  Nick’s eyes gravitated back to the color photo. His face wrinkled. “Summer Parker?”

  “Yeah, I thought you said her last name was Sorenson.”

  “I did.”

  “That’s odd,” Rusty said, his forehead creasing. “Sounds like somebody is running from something to me, Nicky.”

  Nick’s legs suddenly felt like heavy bags of sand. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Nick, divorce, kids, bank robbery, murder. Maybe she didn’t mail her movies back to Netflix. That’s your job to figure out,” he said, coughing up blood into his cupped hand.

  Nick’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ,” he gasped.

  “Yeah, this isn’t good,” Rusty choked. “Bet she poisoned me.”

  Nick glided into the bathroom and came back out with a box of Kleenex. “Here.”

  Rusty yanked out four tissues in a row, his eyes watering. “I should’ve never had that beer over here the other day,” he griped, then blowing his nose with a massive honk.

  “You need to get to a doctor,” Nick said, going into the kitchen.

  “I’m fine,” he replied, just before another coughing attack.

  “What do you want? Some water? Pop?”

  “Beer!”

  Nick whisked back into the room and handed him a cold bottle of Boulevard IPA. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, holding up the sheet of paper.

  Rusty took a long drink and swallowed. “Computer at the library,” he sputtered, sounding winded.

  Nick’s brow crumpled. “Library? What, do they have some missing persons data base or something?”

  Rusty shook his head and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. “The Internet. Mine’s been disconnected for two weeks.”

  “The Internet?”

  “I told you I had a bad vibe but you didn’t want to hear it,” he said, taking another lengthy swill. “Just like always.”

  “How did you even find this?”

  “Nick, come on, man. You forget who you’re talking to here. I was almost a cop.”