Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  Norma says, “I understand. Aria, I want you to know that you don’t have to figure anything out. Korey’s words and actions didn’t make sense, and they never will. All I want is for you to uncover enough so that you can let go of some of it.”

  I nod. I turn my inner eye toward the black abyss of memory and try again. I picture Korey standing over me with the knife. My neck muscles clench into a tight knot, and I press my back against the bulky chair.

  “He said, ‘You’re a liar, and I’m going to bleed you like a hog.’ Then he started to explain the ancient practice of bloodletting—how when it started in Egypt, it was used to release evil spirits. He talked about how this was going to be part of my purification.” I shudder and hold out my left arm, running a finger along the crook where a puffy, pink scar gleams faintly.

  I tell Norma what else I remember—things I’ve told her many times, but I tell her again anyway. I mention how the newspaper articles covering the County Road 140 case all talk about my being stabbed. It’s true that I was stabbed, but not in the traditional sense of someone doing it with the intention of killing me—of puncturing vital organs. First of all, by the time Korey got around to it, I was so weak and emaciated I could barely struggle. He removed the gag from my mouth. I think he took pleasure in hearing me beg, apologize, and cry when I had the strength.

  That was when Korey put me in the white dress. While I lay on the filthy floor, slipping in and out of consciousness, he stripped me naked before roughly tugging the garment over my body. He told me the purpose of the white dress, but it’s one of the things I haven’t been able to recall. Not yet, anyway. But once I was wearing it, Korey drew a long hunting knife from his back pocket. He leaned over me, his hair greasy and unwashed and hanging in his face. Korey grabbed my limp arm and drove the knife into the big vein at the bend. I screamed. I tried to pull away as warm, sticky blood oozed out. He cut me like this five more times to other parts of my body.

  The irony is that Korey’s freakish bloodletting procedure is probably why I lived, besides Trent finding me when I lay at death’s door. None of my vital organs were damaged. The worst wound is near my right shoulder. My physical therapist told me I may always have trouble with that arm because the muscle tissue hasn’t grown back properly after the inflammation and infection.

  Pulling myself from the nightmarish images, I look up at Norma. “You’re right that it doesn’t make sense. I never understood why he stabbed me near the shoulder. I don’t even know if he could see a vein there, like on the other parts of my body he cut. If he truly wanted to bleed me, he could have gone for my carotid artery.”

  I snort. “But then, he always tried to confuse me. To make me wonder, just like when we were together.”

  I manage a weak smile and exhale, then blinking a few times as I dart my gaze around the room like I’ve just “come back.” Warm daylight streams in the sheer-curtained window framing downtown Round Rock. On the walls are photographs of flowers, bluebonnets in some and daisies in others. Light gray carpeting covers the recently vacuumed floor, and in front of the chair where I sit is a glass coffee table. On it rests my water bottle. Beside Norma, the pale-yellow candle flickers and exudes a pleasant, citrus scent.

  “How are you doing now?” Norma asks.

  “Better,” I say. “I remembered more that time.”

  My counselor smiles. “Very good. I’m so glad to hear it.”

  I think she’s getting ready to conclude our session for the day when I remember something else. “Norma, I meant to tell you about the license plate—Korey’s license plate number. The day after Ayden died, I saw a white SUV slowing down and parking on my street. I couldn’t tell if it was Korey’s or not, but I noticed the license plate. Well, this is the terrible part, but after I was rescued, I checked. That had been his SUV that day, idling not far from my house.”

  I frown and shake my head as I pick up my purse from the floor. “I never should have spoken to him in the grocery store. And I made a nasty comment—I can’t stop thinking that maybe if I wouldn’t have called him a monster, he wouldn’t have abducted us. I knew it wasn’t smart. I knew.”

  “Thanks for telling me, but the abduction wasn’t your fault, Aria,” Norma says.

  I nod, but my inner voice says otherwise. What if it was? What if what I did to Ayden wasn’t in self-defense at all, and I killed him in cold blood? Maybe I set him on fire myself.

  “Did you want to say something?” my counselor asks.

  I stall, pushing my socked feet against the gray carpeting. “It’s just that… even though I’ve remembered more in our sessions, I still can’t remember what happened with Ayden. I just don’t understand.”

  “I know,” Norma says, “but like we’ve talked about, that’s often the mind’s way of protecting itself from traumatic experiences. You’ve read the police report. Do you have any reason to believe it’s incomplete?”

  Only that Ayden’s ring turned up in my house, but other than that, no. No reason at all. Yet when I awoke the day after the fire, the ceramic dish was clean and empty—no blood.

  “Not really,” I say, which isn’t true at all. But even Norma, who I’d trust with my life, can’t be trusted with that memory. At best, I could go to jail. At worst, I’ll be locked up in a psych ward somewhere for hallucinating murder tokens.

  I add, “It’s just that I remember most of what Korey did to us. I should be able to remember the incident with Ayden.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll get to the bottom of it in due course when you’re ready for it. Are you feeling better for the time being?” This is her way of asking if it’s okay to end off. Norma is an alternative counselor who was recommended to me by one of my housemates, and we don’t always talk for the same amount of time each visit. It depends on how I’m doing.

  I take another deep breath. “Yes, definitely better. Thank you.”

  We both stand up, and I stretch my back.

  Norma smiles as she asks, “You said you’re meeting Trent for dinner tonight?”

  “I am.” The grin dies on my face.

  Thinking of Trent usually makes me happy, but not today. I clench my jaw and rub my sweaty palms on my slacks for the third time before hooking my purse strap over my shoulder. I snatch my bottled water. As I move off toward the door, guilt gnaws a hole in my chest. There’s something else I haven’t told Norma—something that happened just this morning, and it’s my reason for wanting to see Trent even more than usual.

  I tell Norma goodbye, go out to my car, and lock myself in. Sitting with the windows up and the A/C blasting, I know I can’t keep my secret much longer. Not if I want Trent’s help or at least his understanding. Unfortunately, revealing this one thing will probably push Trent away forever.

  6

  The person who found me in that house on County Road 140, stabbed, chained to the wall, and left for dead, is a thirty-one-year-old man named Trent Lemend. I lost Carol, but for some reason, God, or the universe, sent him to me. I’d like to think my torture fulfilled some penance. That I’m now supposed to live out the rest of my days as best I can with the person who’s dearer to me than life itself. Too bad it doesn’t feel like that. It’s August now, and besides the brutal heat of Texas summer stirring up the memory of Ayden’s burning, I received a strange call at work this morning. Strange and oddly specific.

  After leaving Median Realty for the day, I sit across from Trent at Jack Allen’s Kitchen in Round Rock. In the open dining room divided down the middle by long, brown curtains hanging from the ceiling, spicy aromas of grilled catfish drift up from my plate. I explain to Trent what I know about Ayden’s death a year ago, including that I have almost no memory of the incident itself. For now, I leave out what I found later. My hands shake so hard I have to tuck them between my thighs occasionally. Beneath the suspended strands of golden lights, I study Trent’s brown gaze while he listens.

  He holds his drink but doesn’t put it to his lips. Confusion hardens his fac
e. Maybe he doesn’t believe me. Maybe he thinks I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder from the abduction. Or that I’m desperate for attention since he knows I want a relationship with him. Maybe it’s something else. Am I burdening him with one more thing? All I know is Trent sets his glass down and stares at it. His eyes go distant in the long silence before he replies.

  “Aria,” he says, mopping the puddle under his Coke with a napkin. “Why did you never tell me about this before?” He lags before looking up like he might be angry with me.

  “Well, probably several reasons.” I poke at my mashed potatoes with my fork. “For one thing, I’m ashamed of it. And secondly, I thought you might not understand. I don’t understand myself. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Trent scowls. “Aria, with something that important, you should have told me as soon as possible. Why did you wait so long?”

  My face heats. I shove a strand of hair out of my face and squint at him. “It’s been a year since it happened. Ayden is dead. Dead men can’t come back to haunt us—I mean, not in the flesh, anyway.” I swallow and look down at my plate. “This wasn’t something I would have told you at that coffee shop in Georgetown the first time I saw you after being released from the hospital. All I could think about was what happened with Korey.” I pause. “‘Great to see you, Trent, and by the way, I think I killed a guy a year ago?’”

  Trent inhales and leans back. He heaves out a heavy sigh and rubs his face. His voice is more solemn when he replies. “Well, I guess that’s understandable. Did it get any news coverage?”

  “No. Not even an article,” I say.

  “And Korey knew about it? You told him?” He picks up his cola and takes a sip.

  “He knew, but I couldn’t remember enough to tell him. He found out from the cops. But the last time I saw him before he kidnapped me, he didn’t ask for my side of the story—not one question,” I say. “And after he took me, he never mentioned his brother’s name one time.”

  An image of the foul, urine-covered floor of the County Road 140 house flashes into my mind. Carol’s emaciated body lies like a skeletal ragdoll below me. Then, the same as I always do, I shove those images in a vault and lock the door.

  Trent shakes his head, his frown making a deep line between his eyebrows. “Okay. It sounds like what you did was fully in self-defense. He had it coming. And the police must have investigated, and the case is closed. So, what made you decide to tell me now? I don’t mean that as a criticism—I’m interested.”

  I shift in my seat, feeling like a liar. How will he react when I tell him the reason? It’s been a year, Korey’s in jail, and there’s no reason it should be on my mind. I set my fork down and lean my arms against the edge of the table.

  “This morning, I got a weird phone call at work. At first, all I heard was a lot of background noise and static. Terrible reception. But I was able to make out a few things the caller said. First, he mentioned something about being interested in a building, but I couldn’t hear where. I just heard ‘building,’ or maybe ‘buildings.’ That part wasn’t strange. Then there was a gap, like papers shuffling or wind. After that, he said, ‘What you did is as good as murder.’”

  I watch Trent’s face. Unable to gauge his degree of belief or lack thereof, I continue. “The man who called also said, ‘sometimes it’s the things we don’t say that hurt us the most.’ After that, there was more static. The last thing I heard was something like ‘just because’… then something about ‘property’ and ‘you acted in your best interest doesn’t make it right.’”

  Trent puts a hand to his forehead. Running his fingers through his dark hair, he exhales. “Aria, are you absolutely sure that’s what he said? I don’t suppose you wrote any of this down.”

  I snort softly. “Of course I did. I have it right here.” I reach into my purse for the small notepad. After tugging it out, I flip open the green cover and find the last written-on page. I hand it to him.

  Trent takes it. His gaze traces the words on the page. “This was smart. I should have known you’d make a record.”

  I know that’s his way of apologizing for assuming I didn’t.

  Trent says, “You said ‘he.’ Did you notice anything about his voice? Anything that stood out?”

  “He sounded older. Maybe close to sixty. His voice was kind of… I don’t know, haughty? Like he was full of himself. And he also seemed irritated. Not angry, really, but irritated at me.” Without realizing it, I’ve leaned forward and clasped my hands over my plate. I drop them to my lap and push my back against the chair.

  Trent scans the numbered lines of my notes a second time.

  “God, why now?” he asks, more to himself than to me. He huffs and avoids eye contact. His attention has turned inward to that dark, distant place he seeks when something pains him.

  I can already hear the questions he isn’t asking. My ears burn. “I don’t know anyone, Trent. I don’t even have many friends besides you and Kyle, a few acquaintances at the office, and my housemates. Obviously, my family is gone. Korey is in prison. He has family, but they know what happened because I spoke to them after Ayden died. They were grieving, but they understood that his death was accidental. They never pressed charges. So, I don’t have any answers. I don’t know who would want to unearth what happened or why.”

  I pick up my fork and make sharp furrows across the mashed potatoes. Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I force a bite into my mouth. I focus on the taste of buttery starch. Since being rescued, the eight months of safety have been so wonderful, like a chance to start over. Now that pretense is being taken away. I haven’t paid my dues yet. Murderers are irredeemable.

  “Korey’s family never took you to court?” Trent’s jaw muscles tighten.

  “No. My stepmom thought we should get a lawyer, but we never needed one. I remember that Korey’s mother was distraught, but she didn’t accuse me of anything. His father didn’t speak to me much. But I did apologize to them both, over and over. The police said my statements, the evidence, and their investigation showed that I acted in self-defense. I never meant to kill anyone.” I swallow the golf ball in my throat.

  Trent takes a bite of his fish tacos, which are probably cold by now. He wipes his hands on the cloth napkin and stares at the notepad.

  I ask, “What do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to think. Did the caller sound like Ayden’s father?” he asks. He picks up the notepad and passes it back to me.

  “No, the guy who called was too old. And his voice was different. Softer.”

  The hunch of Trent’s shoulders tells me he’s on edge. Grasping his fork with stiff fingers, he shovels black beans into his mouth. He barely chews. “I guess right now we don’t know enough. I’m not sure what to make of this. Have you contacted Crime Victims Services yet?”

  “Yes. And Jeffrey Spade at the Austin Police Department,” I say.

  Trent flinches at the name. Officer Spade was his late fiancée’s contact in Austin as well. Despite police assistance, Elizabeth was still murdered and deposited on Trent’s porch for him to find. Knowing this, I wouldn’t have brought up Spade without reason.

  “Well,” Trent says, keeping his eyes from me. “It sounds like you’ve done what you can.”

  Pressure builds behind my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I clench my teeth and resolve that I won’t cry at Jack Allen’s in the middle of dinner rush. It’s demoralizing enough as it is. “But you do have some opinion. I can’t help but feel you don’t believe me. Is there something you want to say?”

  Trent sniffs. He checks the time on his cell phone before answering. “Aria, I do believe you. What you’ve told me is disturbing, and I’m confused at this guy’s timing. But I don’t have enough information yet.”

  You don’t know how disturbing it is. You really don’t. Trent returns to eating his tacos and looks up at me intermittently. A draft of cold air blasts me from the A/C duct. The resulting chill sends a virtual ice sto
rm down my arms. I wriggle into my jacket, something I always bring to restaurants for this very reason. I warm my hands between my knees.

  I say, “I feel the same way. And I don’t expect you to do anything about it. I just wanted to tell you.”

  Trent nods. “I know. Well, thanks for telling me. I’ll think about it and maybe get a bright idea of what we should do.”

  We chew our food, a thick, awkward silence hanging over us despite our immersion in the noisy restaurant. A group of young people laugh and drink at the nearest table. Someone’s child throws a tantrum on the other side of the room. Servers clink glasses and deposit trays of dishes in the kitchen. When the waitress comes by to drop off the bill, I jump. I put on a smile and thank her.

  “So, how are things going at work?” Trent asks.

  I manage a chuckle. I guess this is a good time to change the subject. “Fine, besides that phone call. Business as usual. How’s the police academy?”

  Trent grins. “It’s been going well. I never thought I would learn to be so proficient with a weapon. But given what’s happened to you and me, it’s probably the best skill I could have.”

  I nod. Trent knows how I feel about his newly chosen line of work. He’s the only person I’m close to now, and instead of keeping himself safe, he’s intentionally pursuing a career that will put his life in danger every day.

  “Well, I’m glad. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” That came out harsher than I intended, but I’m still a bit miffed about his earlier reaction. I can’t help but think there’s something else he wants to tell me—or is that just my guilt for not disclosing all?