Blood Red Winter: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  “Life isn’t fair, is it?” That’s what the old bastard said to me.

  Yeah, you’re damn right it isn’t fair. Not fair that we used protection every time and she still got pregnant. Not fair that I didn’t love her now and I had no idea why. Not fair that Mary lost the baby when she seemed to have wanted it. And not fair that I was being held to some unattainable standard which wasn’t even being named.

  But I didn’t say any of that. I turned to Mary and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

  “I’m so sorry, Trent,” she whispered, as though her dad couldn’t hear her. “He’s just angry –”

  “I know,” I said. “I have to go.”

  * * * * *

  A week later, I got a call from Mary’s mother. The voice on the line wasn’t in her usual pleasant and gracious tone. Mrs. Durham sounded strained and tired.

  “Trent, Mary is very sick. I wanted to let you know. She wanted me to tell you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “What does she have?”

  “She has something you probably haven’t heard of before. It isn’t very common to women in first world countries. She has something called “postpartum sepsis.” Sometimes people call this ‘blood poisoning.’ It’s an inflammatory response due to an infection from delivery.”

  I didn’t understand. Mary had delivered almost a month ago.

  Mrs. Durham continued. “This is a very bad infection that women can get up to six weeks after they have a baby. And I thought you should know. I think it’s important that you understand she’s extremely ill. It isn’t looking good.”

  I cleared my throat. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Mary or her parents since the day we had dinner and Mr. Durham gave me a piece of his mind.

  “Are you trying to tell me that her life is in danger?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately, that’s what I’m telling you.”

  My tongue was made of lead, but I needed to say something.

  “What could cause something like this? I thought everything in the hospital was sterile.”

  “We don’t know exactly, but it can be caused by different things. Contaminated instruments at the hospital, dirty clothing. Even sex can cause it,” Mrs. Durham said.

  “Oh no,” I said. “We never did that after she had the baby. I never touched her – I mean, not like that. We kissed and held hands.”

  I didn’t add that I had wanted to, even though I didn’t actually want to be with Mary anymore. I did want to have sex. I didn’t know when she would be healed enough for intercourse, but I had wondered about it. However, since I was the one who said we should take it slow, bringing up this subject wouldn’t have gone over well.

  “Well, whatever the reason, the antibiotics aren’t working,” she said. “So if you want to see her, now is the time.”

  Her words were like a hangman kicking the box out from under my feet, while I swung to and fro by the neck, asphyxiating. This was my chance to go see Mary before she died.

  “Oh my God. Yeah, of course. Is she at the same hospital? What room is she in?” My forehead started to bead with sweat and my stomach knotted into a dense ball.

  Mrs. Durham gave me the information I needed, which I noted down, and I thanked her for calling me. I can hardly remember the rest of that day, aside from reading about postpartum sepsis on the internet. I wanted to gain an understanding of why this was happening. I didn’t find it. I decided that I’d go to the hospital first thing in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, when I had a clear head.

  That night I lay on my right side for a while. Then I rolled over to my left, then back to my right side again, and I repeated this pattern endlessly. No sleeping position was comfortable, no matter how I stretched my legs. I saw Mary’s face in my mind, but I still couldn’t feel much of anything for her – not what I was supposed to feel. I didn’t want her to be sick. I didn’t want her to die, but I couldn’t make myself love her. I got not one hour of sleep, and at 5:30 I kicked the blankets off, got out of bed and showered.

  After getting dressed and eating breakfast, instead of calling in due to the emergency I went to work. I found myself completely unwilling to go to the hospital. No matter the actual reason Mary was sick, I had to accept the fact that her parents blamed me for it, at least partially. If I hadn’t got her pregnant, she wouldn’t have delivered a baby, and she wouldn’t be dying now. If I hadn’t had sex with her, she would be in college, living her life. The hours rolled by and morning turned into noon. Noon turned into evening, and I went straight home. I didn’t leave my apartment.

  Three days passed and I didn’t go to see Mary. Mrs. Durham didn’t call again. I finally resolved that I wasn’t going. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, face them – Mary and her family with their accusing eyes and condescending blame. I told myself it was for the best, because Mary wouldn’t want to see me anyway after everything that had gone down this past year. I was doing the right thing. I might not love her, but I still cared for her, and I would let her have some peace during her illness. Besides, she only had an infection, and infections are treatable. The doctors didn’t know that she would die. She’d probably be fine.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  January 19th

  The round-bellied fellow standing next to the Peterbilt was a truck driver named Bradley Premshaw. We made it past introductions and the “are you okays.” Both of us were wholly unharmed. He told me he hadn’t called the cops yet, and although it made me happy under the circumstances, I realized it was likely due to the accident being his fault. Really his fault.

  “I’ve been goin’ fifteen hours since Jacksonville,” Bradley said. His accent sounded like something from The Green Mile. “I’m over time. I’ll probably get fired for this, but my company’s insurance will pay for your truck.” Both of us stared at the pile of metal that used to be a Chevy pickup. He swore and cleared his throat. “I sure am sorry about this. But glad you’re okay.”

  “Did you get lost?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what possessed him to bring his rig this way. The semi took up nearly the entire width of the rural road.

  “Nah, not exactly,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I missed my exit and wanted to turn around. I saw on my GPS that I could swing back on these roads and meet up with the overpass again.” Bradley had an interesting habit of rolling something around in his mouth when he spoke. Whether chewing tobacco, gum or something else, I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  I nodded, and though I wasn’t sure if the roads circled back or not, I was in no frame of mind to argue. It had now been nearly 48 hours since I’d had any real sleep. “Well, that would be great if the insurance will cover it.” I had to figure out what I’d do when the sheriff came. There had to be some way I could use this.

  “Say, what happened over there?” He tossed his hand in the direction of the house and glanced at the Remington in my hand. His eyes searched my face. If not for the accident, he probably would have asked if I was trying to break into the house. He wanted to see if there was a way he, too, could use this.

  “No one lives there, but it’s my boss’s house,” I said. “It’s been vacant for a really long time. When I was driving by I saw a flicker of light in one of the windows. I pulled over to see what it was, and when I got out of the truck, someone shot at me.” I lifted the rifle in my hand. “I always keep a gun in the cabin.”

  “Hmpht.” He nodded. “You see anybody?” I doubted Bradley would have been able to see the man zip out and run off. Not from the roadside and not in this dark.

  “Yeah. I heard him first. Barely saw the backside of him when he went out the back door. I took another shot at him. Missed though.”

  Bradley continued rolling whatever-it-was around in his mouth, digesting what I’d said and trying to figure out whether he believed me or not. He couldn’t have known about the County Road 118 case or he would have called the cops already, accident or no. He took his fla
shlight and shined it at the house. The beam revealed the gray, disintegrating wood, the window panes containing fragmentary shards and the untended grounds. Brittle, thin yellow stalks of winter grass and tangly weeds ate up every inch of yard that wasn’t occupied with thorny succulents and rock. There could be no doubt the place wasn’t inhabited.

  A man of few words, Bradley gave another nod, seeming satisfied.

  “You mentioned you’d probably get fired,” I said. “Why? Is an accident automatic grounds for termination?”

  “Naw. Like I said, I’m over time. I shoulda pulled over and slept, but I was already behind. Now it’s gonna be tomorrow morning before I can get it there.” He turned and spat. Chewing tobacco, then. “And this is my third strike – on being late, I mean. But I ain’t never had no accident like this before.”

  “Gotcha,” I said. “Well, stuff happens, and I sure don’t see any reason for you to get fired.”

  In the lights from the rig, I watched Bradley’s thick brows relax. The strain fell away from his posture, a silent thanks for a possible out. “You want to handle this ourselves? I can get you a tow truck, get you cash, no problem.” Then he added hastily, “But I’m sure fine with callin’ the police. That ain’t no problem, I want to do it right.”

  “Well, I thank you for that. I appreciate it,” I said. “But there’s no reason for you to get fired. If there’s a way you can help me with my truck, let’s just do that.”

  “Oh okay,” he said. He brightened like he couldn’t believe his good luck. “What year is the truck?”

  My Silverado was ten years old, but being in decent shape before the accident, it would have probably sold for around five thousand dollars. Bradley and I discussed the particulars and came to an agreement.

  “I’ll leave you with all my info,” he said. Bradley disappeared momentarily into the cabin of the Peterbilt. While he rummaged around, I squinted at the license plate and tried to commit it to memory. He emerged a few seconds later and handed his card to me. “I’ll get you five thousand cash and once I get back here, we’ll get a tow truck and I’ll drive you home. I give you my word.” His belly fat jiggled when he shook my hand.

  There was no way to know if he would do it or not, but I’d rather experience Bradley’s no-show than be arrested. The sheriff would have questions I wouldn’t be able to answer.

  “All right,” I said. “Appreciate it.”

  The thrumming clack of the diesel engine faded into the blackness on the rural road. I began to search through the wreckage of my pickup. The front end and motor were pulverized, but I was hoping parts of the cabin might be intact. Since the collision was head on and the truck was actually pushed along by the force of impact for a short distance, the truck bed was the least damaged.

  I reached my hand in through the twisted frame of the broken passenger side window to see if I could open the glove compartment. It was jammed shut. I got my hands around the door the best I could and pulled, and it came off at its hinges. Staggering backward, I dropped it to the ground and tried the glove compartment again. The dashboard was all smashed in, which was why it wasn’t budging. Finally, I took the stock of the Remington and pounded it a few times. The glove compartment snapped open and I retrieved my prize: the slim silver flashlight.

  A couple about my age in a white SUV pulled over. I set my rifle on the ground by the front tire. They rolled down their window and asked if I needed any help.

  “I’m good,” I said. “No one was hurt. Just waiting on the tow truck.” I smiled weakly to hide my nervousness.

  We exchanged a few words and they moved on. They craned their necks to stare at my misfortunate salvage vehicle as they pulled away.

  Barely able to see my hand in front of my face, I navigated the best I could all the way to the house. No matter what else happened, I had to make sure my cell phone wasn’t in there. When I got to the back door, I clicked on the flashlight and shined it inside. The sickly sweet death smell hit my nostrils and I tucked my shirt collar over my nose. Repulsive.

  I stepped inside and aimed the beam at the wall where I had found the young woman hanging, nearly dead. Mental images of January 5th came crashing down like a hammer, but it was just a filthy wall now. I inspected the floor below, expecting to see a chalk outline where the corpse had lain, but there wasn’t one. I guess they only do that in the movies.

  I swung the flashlight beam to the adjacent wall. The glow illuminated a large white square with words written in bright red. My already straining heart leaped into overdrive as I read the message.

  SHE’S DEAD ANYWAY.

  It knocked the wind out of me. I was gasping for breath. I stepped back, my ankles colliding with some garbage on the floor.

  She’s dead anyway… She’s dead anyway. The woman who had been hung up to die? Was this message his reason for luring me here? Why would he want me to know that? Why would I care about a woman I’d never met?

  This was a tiny piece of the puzzle – not that I understood it. I noticed how the man had affixed a piece of poster board to the wall, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to read the words against the dark wood wall. It was neatly done, deliberate. Clever, sick bastard.

  The message added something to the lingering stench and my stomach wriggled like a fish. I forced the bile down. I needed to tough it out and see if my phone was still here.

  The rest of the inside of the house was in sad shape, but nothing compared to the back room. In the front room, presumably the living area, there was an old flimsy table and a couple of metal buckets. Nearby was an old wood-burning stove, its solid black iron thirstily drinking up the beam of light. There were still traces of ash on the floor. The kitchen had a more modern gas cook top and oven, “modern” as in from probably the 1950’s. A stainless steel washbasin was against one wall, between two dust-covered countertops underneath grimy pine cabinets. I explored the rest of the house, but didn’t see my cell phone anywhere.

  Going out the way I came, I pushed the back door closed with my shoulder. A band of broken police tape flapped in the wind. I gave the yard a cautionary sweep with the flashlight before turning it off again.

  Back at the truck, I dug out whatever belongings I could while I waited for Bradley. My tablet had a long, deep crack across its glass face. It wouldn’t turn on. The duffle bag and its contents were virtually unharmed, however, which meant I had my two boxes of ammo for the rifle, my wallet and other essential things. Too bad my tablet hadn’t been protected inside, too.

  What I estimated to be thirty minutes later, the diesel roared down County Road 118. Bradley got out and waved a wad of cash in the air. I shook my head. Unbelievable.

  “Okay, I got your money. Let’s go,” he said. Poor guy almost seemed happy to be handing me five thousand dollars cash in one hundred dollar bills. I thanked him and got into the cabin. While I buckled up and stuffed my Remington in the duffle bag, he called a tow truck as promised. I requested that the Silverado be taken to my house instead of a shop. It was a total loss and I’d probably sell the salvageable parts.

  “Where ya goin’ to?” he asked.

  It was now 1:34 a.m., but I didn’t want him to take me home. The place was too trap-like until I could figure out how the house had been broken into right under my nose.

  “Let’s go to a used car dealership,” I said.

  “Sure thing,” Bradley said. He did a quick search and found Buck Shot Motor Company in rural Georgetown, not far from where we were. We took up most of the road as he drove us there in the Peterbilt hauling the loaded trailer.

  Bradley dropped me off at the driveway leading to the main building. I would wait by the street until the place opened.

  “Thanks,” I said. Ironic to be thanking him for demolishing my truck and nearly killing me. We waved each other off and I prepared to wait. My tiredness had turned to numbness and I could no longer feel much of anything. I sat down in the grass away from the road. With my duffle bag on my lap, I leaned agains
t a cedar post. I took my wallet and put it in my coat pocket. I wouldn’t be able to open my duffle bag around people, packing like I was. The car salesmen would think I was here to rob the place.

  She’s dead anyway, I thought. She’s dead anyway. As I wondered what the odds were of getting in trouble for being here at this hour, I nodded off without realizing it.

  “Hey!”

  My body jerked and my eyes snapped open to piercing daylight. A man was calling to me from a red sedan.

  “Oh, hey. I was just waiting for the place to open,” I said. “I got here early. Must have fallen asleep while I was waiting.”

  The man frowned, but brought me up to speed that it was nearly ten in the morning. I sprang to my feet and headed up the drive to main building. Not two hours later, I was happy in the knowledge that I was now the owner of a used Dodge Dakota. Unlike the Silverado, it was tan, not black, and it was a truck that the killer had never seen.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Twelve Years Earlier

  The local Austin newspaper lay open to the obituaries on my modest dining room table. I hunched over it, reading the words again and again.

  Mary Loretta Durham, 19, of Austin, Texas, died on April 15th, 2004, at Seton Medical Center, due to complications from an illness following child birth. She was surrounded by her loving family and her best friend Samantha at the time of passing.

  A Texas native, Mary was born on February 28th, 1985, as the only child of Patrick H. and Rebecca C. Durham. Mary graduated from Austin High School with Honors and planned on enrolling at the University of Texas at Austin in the fall to pursue her dream of becoming a registered nurse.

  Mary was an outgoing, energetic and positive young woman who enriched the lives of all who knew her. Some of her favorite past-times included aerobics, swimming, studying and spending time with her friends and family. During the summers of 2001 – 2004, Mary participated in student volunteer work for the American Red Cross.