Cold Summer Nights

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  Rusty smiled. “Then what?”

  “Then,” Rodriguez started. “Then we’ll go back to Nick’s and take another look around. I want you to show me exactly how things happened. And then we try my tricks.”

  Rusty stared into the detective’s intent eyes, knowing that he now had a fighting chance to live a long, full life outside prison walls, instead of remaining shackled to a life of punishment for crimes he didn’t commit. Crimes he couldn’t commit. “I can’t believe you believe me,” he gushed.

  Rodriguez chuckled. “If you’d seen half the things I’ve seen growing up, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

  Rusty nodded with his mouth open as one of the room’s two overhead fluorescent lights flickered and then went out. The other light dimmed, casting thick shadows that masked the color leaving Rusty’s face.

  “Oh shit,” he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Rodriguez asked, puckering his brow.

  “It’s happening again.”

  Rodriguez scanned the room with hurried eyes and turned back to Rusty who had pulled the bed sheet up to his chin. “What’s happening?”

  Rusty inhaled sharply and Rodriguez turned to follow his wide gaze over his own shoulder. His tablet slipped through his fingers and fell to the tiled floor below, shattering into pieces. He stared in disbelief at the woman standing bare foot in the corner behind him. She faced the corner as if being punished for something by an angry teacher or unhappy parent. Rodriguez took a blind step backwards and bumped into Rusty’s hospital bed. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

  “It’s her!” Rusty shrieked.

  Without moving the rest of her body, she slowly turned her head around and stared at them with black eyes that seemed to have no end.

  Rodriguez squinted, but the shadows from the one dim light overhead made it difficult to make out anything other than her pallid legs.

  Suddenly, her body began taking jerky steps backwards, her dark eyes keeping them in her sights.

  Detective Rodriguez gasped and drew his station issued nine millimeter in a flash but she moved faster. Her body spun around to realign with its head and a dead hand shot out and picked Rodriguez up by his throat, lifting his shoes off the ground. His gun dropped to the shiny floor with a loud clatter as his hands began fighting with the vice like grip around his neck.

  She looked over to Rusty and grinned, revealing yellow teeth.

  He pulled the covers up over his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see her but he could smell her. His eyes watered with the rotten smell and he prayed it was all just some terrible dream. But a loud snap preceded a double thud, reminding him it wasn’t. An eerie quiet followed, interrupted only by his heavy breathing. He braced himself for her to grab him next, waiting for her to squeeze the life out of him like she had done with his friends. Time slowed to a crawl with nothing else happening. His warm breath under the sheet swarmed his face.

  Shaking, he peeled back the bed sheet to see Rodriguez was gone and so was the woman. Rusty’s wide eyes swept the empty room. Warily, he looked over the edge of the bed, expecting her to pop up and latch onto him with the same death grip she had put on Nick. Instead, he saw Rodriguez lying on the floor, his neck twisted at an awkward angle.

  “Rodriguez?” he whimpered.

  Nurse Tammy walked in and screamed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  No one believed him, not the cops, not the press, not even his parents. His dad could barely make eye contact with him at the police station. When the police had finally allowed him to hug his sobbing mom, she had flinched with his touch.

  Rusty was under investigation for not only Detective Rodriguez’s murder, but Dallas’ and Nick’s as well. The media had already connected him to the death of Amy Miller and were calling him the Des Moines Strangler. His mom told him that Nancy Grace criticized his parents last night on national television for their lack of “proper parenting skills”, and suggested a good public spanking might just do the trick. Through a flood of tear, his mom kept asking him what she had done to deserve this, desperate to find where she went wrong. The insanity of it all made it impossible for Rusty to even respond.

  The worst part of it all was Rodriguez. The one person who actually believed Rusty and had a plan of attack was now dead. Not to mention, everyone thought Rusty was a cop killer. Even the guards hated him. With a guard on each side of him, he groaned as he stared at a large man with a blond mullet on the other side of the jail cell bars. The man stood frozen, sporting the same orange jumpsuit Rusty was, studying him with large eyes. If she didn’t get him, this big lug probably would.

  The metal bars jerked and began sliding open. The amplified sound of metal grinding against metal bounced off the cinderblock walls, drowning everything else out. He was sure the other inmates would’ve been cat-calling him on his way in, but they hadn’t. They looked almost as scared as he was. Interested but scared.

  The bars slid by as the beefy man’s eyes remained fixed on Rusty, who stood holding folded blue blankets, sheets, towels and one dingy white pillow in his arms. He turned to the two guards standing on each side of him. “I think you’re making a big mistake here, guys.”

  They grinned without speaking.

  Rusty shook his head. “You’re obviously putting this man’s life in extreme danger,” he said, nodding to the big lug inside the cell. “Just ask Nancy Grace.”

  They laughed as the door jerked out a final clank and fell silent.

  “In ya go, asshole!” the short guard said.

  Rusty swallowed and stepped inside, the smell of dirty feet and urine growing even stronger.

  The taller guard whistled and the cell door began sliding shut. The big boned man standing on the far side of the small cell didn’t take his eyes off Rusty. The door locked shut with a heavy echo that rattled down the wide hallway, and the man shifted in his stance.

  “Let me guess, you’re Bubba?” Rusty said, pointing at him.

  The man’s Adams apple bobbed up and down one time as he swallowed. He took a small step back, bumping his leg on a silver toilet without a lid. He was twice Rusty’s size with black tattoos running the length of his hairy arms, but Rusty had survived much worse than this asshole. If anything, this gorilla would only be doing him a favor by driving a shank into his jugular. As long as the guy’s pants didn’t come off, Rusty could care less at this point. She’d be back soon anyway and there was nowhere to run now.

  He glanced to the crumpled bed sheets on the bottom bunk and looked up to the stripped mattress above.

  “You can have whichever one you want,” the man said, attempting a smile. “I can move my stuff to the top.”

  Rusty snorted, wondering again how it had come to this. Even this guy was scared of him, but if he only knew. “And have you come crashing down on top of me in the middle of the night? No thanks, Jabba,” he said curtly, tossing his stuff up top and causing the man to jump. Rusty shot him a sideways look.

  The man blinked wary eyes while cracking meaty knuckles.

  Rusty grimaced with each loud pop. “You okay?”

  The man hesitated. “Yeah, just a little nervous I guess. My name’s Clark,” he said, extending a beefy hand.

  Rusty slowly reached out and took it. “Rusty,” he said, shaking the man’s sweaty hand.

  An uneasy smile spread across Clark’s gristly cheeks. “I know.”

  They released and studied each other for a moment longer. Clark ran a hand through his blonde mullet and broke eye contact first.

  “Home sweet home,” Rusty sighed, sweeping his puffy eyes across the tiny cell. The small stainless steel toilet made him wonder if he would ever be able to go poop again. Probably not out in the open like this with the whole world watching his every wipe. Then he imagined Clark on it and shuddered. He tore his eyes away and examined a tiny workspace, littered with hand drawn pictures of brightly colored chickens. The desk’s orange chair looked like it would break for sure if Clark ever sat in it. The smal
l desk reminded Rusty of his grade school days. Days when he still thought he had a legitimate shot at becoming a Major League Baseball player or a cop. Now the cops hated him.

  “I draw those for my kids,” Clark volunteered.

  Rusty turned to him. “Huh?”

  Clark nodded to his artwork. “For some reason, my two youngest love chickens.” He snorted, staring at the pictures with glassy eyes. “Used to anyhow; don’t get to see em too much anymore.”

  Rusty turned back to the chickens. “That’s great,” he mumbled. “My aunt had a chicken named Harry.”

  Clark’s face got round. “Really? What kind of chicken was it?”

  Rusty shrugged. “Mixed breed I think. Part Beagle, that much I remember.”

  Puzzlement slipped across Clark’s wide face as Rusty plucked a book from the shelf above the desk.

  His eyebrows rose. “Twilight huh?”

  Clark smiled bashfully. “It was a gift,” he whispered. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Rusty dropped the thick book onto the desk with a booming thud that echoed down the large hallway. “Got a thing for pale vampires or shirtless werewolves?”

  Clark chuckled and looked down, his face turning red. “I got a thing for free books.”

  Rusty pulled the orange chair back, producing a shrill scraping noise against the concrete floor. He collapsed into it and dropped his unshaven face into his hands, still not believing everyone thought he was a murderer, even his mom. She hadn’t said so but her eyes had. Everything happened so fast he hadn’t even had time to think about it, which is exactly what the cops wanted. They kept him on his toes all night long and he didn’t blame them. Rodriguez was a good man and they were pissed.

  Rusty lifted his head and wrinkled his nose. “Man, what is that smell?”

  Clark looked around the cold room and shrugged. “Jail.”

  “Great,” Rusty sighed.

  The big man carefully sat down on the bottom bunk, his head narrowly missing the top frame. “So,” he said, checking the hallway. “Did you really kill all those people?” he whispered.

  Rusty watched Clark’s Adams apple bob up and down. “You’re damn skippy, Clark,” he said with a toneless voice, deciding to use the edge to his advantage.

  Clark gulped again, his large forehead folding into creases and making his hairline dip. “Why?”

  Rusty held the large man’s stare. “They kept messing with my stuff.”

  Clark nodded lightly and slid back against the paint chipped wall.

  “Congratulations, asshole! You made the front page again,” a deputy said, tossing a rolled up newspaper through the bars.

  Rusty picked it up and skimmed the front page with his right index finger leading the way. Des Moines Strangler Caught In Own Rope was the bold headline. He slowed down at the part where the District Attorney claimed Rusty committed the murders after losing his job in order to further his fledgling horror writing career. “Mr. Carson was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block and desperation. Subsequently, we believe he then made the decision to create some new material, by taking the lives of at least three individuals – possibly more,” the DA told reporters. Rusty threw the paper against the far wall making Clark jump and bang his head against the underside of Rusty’s new bed frame.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clark’s heavy snoring vibrated the metal edges of the bunk bed. Rusty stared at the cracked ceiling, wondering if he would ever sleep again. Despite the fact that Rodriguez’s and Hubbard’s cop buddies kept him up the entire previous night with a relentless line of questioning, he still couldn’t fall asleep. At one point, he nearly confessed to everything just to get them to leave him alone. The way they were going at him, he was ready to admit to shooting Tupac but he stuck to his guns and they didn’t like it. They were desperate to get the word out that they had the killer and Des Moines’ streets were safe once again.

  His mind worked backwards from Rodriguez’s murder to Nick’s. If that dark figure really was Summer, he couldn’t figure out why she would kill Nick. Maybe she thought he was going to lead the cops right to her. The flaw in that theory, however, was the fact that the cops were powerless against her. Rusty had unloaded a full clip into her himself to no effect. He massaged his stubbly face, concluding he was in a coma after some horrible car accident he didn’t recall and this was all some horrid nightmare. Maybe he was the one who was dead, not everyone else. He yawned, staring at the dimly lit ceiling and wishing they would turn off the row of lights lining the corridor outside his cell. He wondered how long he would call this place home before being found guilty in a court of law and then moved to a maximum security prison.

  “Hi.”

  Rusty jerked as if a snake just slithered up his orange pant leg. Wide-eyed, he turned to see Summer’s hollow eyes peeking over his mattress. He inhaled sharply and scuttled backwards until he hit the cinder block wall. “Jesus Christ!”

  Clark mumbled something about onion rings and rolled over.

  “Shhhh,” she hissed, a finger to her lips. “It’s just me.”

  His full pupils stared at her in disbelief, sheer horror dripping from his face. “How did you get in here?” he asked in a panic-stricken whisper.

  “I wanted to come see you.”

  His heart thundered so loudly in his ears, it sounded like it was coming from inside a carved out jack o’lantern. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, refusing to believe anymore of this madness. When he opened them again, she was still there.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  He glanced to the closed cell door. “How did you get in here?”

  She followed his gaze and turned back to him . “I have my ways.”

  Clark’s heavy snoring hitched and then continued its revolving rounds of lazy rumbles.

  Rusty’s face twisted into knots. “What ways?”

  She took a step closer and he tried scooting back further against the cold wall but it wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” she said softy, taking his hand.

  He yanked it back as soon as he felt her cold flesh.

  She glanced down to Clark, before returning her watery eyes to him. “I’m sorry about Nick too,” she said with a sniffle. “It’s not your fault. You don’t belong here.” A lone tear rolled down her white cheek.

  “How did you get in here?” Rusty asked again.

  Clark’s snoring hiccupped, then stopped.

  “You deserve the truth,” she sniveled.

  His eyebrows pulled together. “What truth?”

  “You remember the missing persons flier?”

  “What about it?”

  “I wasn’t running from some abusive guy in the mafia.”

  He glared at her, hanging on her every word, certain the fog floating around his brain like a tall mountaintop was about to finally clear with the afternoon sun.

  Summer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her dark eyes making contact with his. “I was kidnapped while I was out running, by a man whose face I never even saw.” She dropped her soggy gaze and began wringing her hands.

  Dim light from the hall crept across one side of his befuddled face, his jaw dangling in the stale air.

  “He had this…mask,” she said heavily, her eyes going out of focus as she pulled up the memory bank. She looked back up to Rusty. “He made me wear this dress, and then he…tortured me until the next morning.” She blinked her glassy eyes, causing another teardrop to stream down her gaunt face. “I couldn’t get away. I was scared to even try,” she sobbed. “When he finally got bored, he…” She trailed off to swallow. “He stabbed me in the stomach with a hunting knife.”

  Rusty frowned in the thunderstruck silence that shook more tears from Summer’s eyes. They splattered to the cement floor below. He squinted at her, searching for a voice of reason. She looked down to her hands again and began twisting her bony fingers.

  “What?” he gasped.

  She nodde
d. “I’ve…” she said, meeting his eyes again. “I’ve been dead for the past five years now.”

  Rusty’s heart plunged off the deep end, his mind desperately trying to hang on for dear life. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with sweaty palms, reality slipping from his finger tips. When he opened them again, she was standing there watching him. “What are you talking about?” he hissed.

  Summer took a wavering deep breath as the tears kept coming. “He took everything from me. From my family,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Hey Russ?” Clark said thickly.

  Rusty stared at Summer, his chest pumping blood through his temples in pulsating thuds. “Yeah?” he replied, not taking his eyes from her.

  “Who you talkin to, buddy?” Clark asked, rolling over onto his back.

  Summer held his steady gaze, willfully letting him see deep down into her tortured soul, where he could freely search for fact or fiction. It was cold in there. He shivered, not realizing he could see his own breath again. So dark and lonely. Desolate. The kind of place that could drive a person mad with its claustrophobic walls, like being buried alive. Anger suddenly flashed past him in a frenzied blur. A rage so venomous it was blinding to look at. He hastily retreated before it was too late, before it could snatch him, trapping him in there with her forever.

  “Hello?” Clark said.

  Rusty blinked, sucking in big gulps of sour oxygen. “Yeah?”

  Clark chuckled. “You’re not starting to lose it on me already, are ya, boss?”

  Summer glanced to Clark and looked back up to Rusty. “He can’t see me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rusty furrowed his brow. “What do you mean he can’t see you?”

  “Only you can.”

  “Who can’t see who, Russ?” Clark quivered.

  “Why only me?”

  Summer shrugged. “Only those I want to see me can see me.”

  Rusty whipped his blue blankets back and jumped down from the bed. “How is that possible? How is any of this possible?”