Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  At Trent’s house in Georgetown, I shower and scrub myself. The adrenaline rush quickly bleeds out of me, pouring down the drain with the black soot. Now I’m only exhausted. Even after washing my hair twice with strawberry mint shampoo, I swear I can still smell the smoke. It seeped into the keratin itself.

  Detective Spade calls me back and lets me know he received my message, and he’s glad I’m safe. I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but I’m not about to ask. Afterward, I down a badly needed glass of water that rinses the bitterness from my tongue. Then I remove the throw pillows so I can lie on the couch. The well-worn cushions are a little lumpy and upholstered in rough tweed fabric. Using my arm as a pillow, I close my eyes until somewhere around nine o’clock when the doorknob rattles and Trent walks in.

  “Aria, I’m so sorry.”

  I prop myself on an elbow and wearily try to bring his image into focus. I can’t figure out what he’s apologizing for.

  “I tried to come check on you again,” he says as he pushes the door shut and locks it, “but I couldn’t get away from them—the investigators. They were questioning me, and I was about to go back to you, but then I saw Detective Spade and Naomi. When you left with her, I knew you were all right. But I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have just left you there like that.”

  I knew from the upright position in which I awoke that he didn’t just leave me. “It’s okay. That’s what I figured happened.”

  He sighs like maybe he’s relieved. Then he slips off the tool belt and sets it on the small section of tiled floor.

  I add, “Kyle said the story was already on the news earlier.”

  Staying where he is, Trent begins taking off his shoes. “I believe it. When those reporters see something that looks good, they swoop like vultures.”

  “You mean when they see something that looks dead,” I say. This gets a laugh out of him. I slowly sit up completely. I’m not nearly as shaken as I was, but I’m drained.

  Trent holds up an arm and sniffs himself. “Geez, I reek. So, how are you feeling? Do you need me to get you anything?”

  “I’m okay now. I just had a flashback and threw up.”

  “And passed out,” he adds, his gaze wandering over my face. Remaining on the tile, Trent strips down to his boxers and wads his clothes up in a ball. Otherwise, he’ll wind up leaving a black trail. He tries to smile, but I can tell by the lines on his forehead that something bothers him.

  I ask, “So, did you get in trouble for what we did? You’re not an officer yet, but even if you were, you didn’t have a warrant to search the property.” I stretch my arms and back.

  Trent’s frown deepens. He clenches his jaw. “Well, regarding that, there’s something else I’m going to beg your forgiveness for. I guess…”

  He pauses, looking down at the wadded clothing in his hand while he lags in telling me. “I told a lie. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I guess when we started out today, I didn’t expect our investigation to be so productive. I mostly hoped we’d find something. And I knew how much trouble I’d get in if I said it was my idea. I’d probably be expelled from the academy. So, I told them that as the real estate assistant who participated in the sale of the property, you were concerned that your client might be in danger. And you wanted to have a look for your own peace of mind. And that I told you I would accompany you for your safety. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was rattled, and I wasn’t thinking. I know I have this terrible habit where I don’t think things through, and I just rush in—”

  He shakes his head, shifting his gaze from the floor to the coffee table and back to his soiled clothes. “I’m sorry, Aria. It was really stupid.”

  Leaning back and folding my hands in my lap, I wonder if I should be angry with him. It’s true that he told a lie. It wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t want to go. I’m already in deep shit with Kyle, although he mentioned he suspected Trent was involved in our little detective stunt. But regardless of whether Trent told a lie, I’m still accountable for going. And if he hadn’t lied, it wouldn’t change that.

  I take a deep breath. “Well, I don’t like the idea that you blamed it on me. But I’m exhausted. Far too exhausted to be angry. But honestly, I did want to investigate in a way. I mean, not actually in real life. Like if there were a way I could have remotely done it, as though I were playing a video game, I would have preferred that to going there in the flesh and having the experience. I don’t know.”

  My lips press into a wry smile. “And it’s hard to be mad at a guy confessing in his underwear.”

  Trent gives a little chuckle before taking his clothes to the kitchen. I hear him stuffing them into a plastic bag. He returns to the living room and stands across from me with his arms crossed. “Thanks. Thank you for being so… More understanding than you should be.”

  “Sure. I just hope I won’t be fired for this,” I say. I pick up the brown and dark yellow throw pillows from the floor and arrange them.

  He looks at me hard. “You’re not getting fired. I’ll twist Kyle’s arm myself if I have to.”

  It’s not his job to do that since I went to the Lamar property of my own volition, but I don’t feel like disagreeing. “I’m turning in for the night. You going to stay up a while after your shower, or are you coming to bed?”

  “If I’m able to wind down, I want to get some sleep. I’ll see you in a bit,” he says. He pads barefoot to the bathroom.

  I have a light snack of chicken soup before getting in bed. On my back with my knees up, I listen to the water pummeling the bathtub floor as Trent showers. Then I pull the blankets up to my chin and lie still so I can concentrate on my strong heartbeat and breathing. Since my trauma with Korey, I’ve found a way to fall asleep. What I do is evoke a memory from my childhood.

  I visualize a day spent with my mom. We lived in Dallas, and one day we visited my maternal grandmother, who had an especially beautiful backyard. My mother and I sat at the patio table beside the Texas lilac tree. We were alone for a little while because Gram was napping after lunch. Across from us, black-eyed Susans, purple asters, and red roses burst with brilliant colors along the fence, and the honeyed scents of so many blossoms felt otherworldly. I was just a little girl then, but my mom gave me a small glass of sweet tea—she allowed it sometimes if I was good. I sipped it happily. I swung my short little legs up and down in the space under my chair. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, when I was basking in my floral paradise and unbridled caffeine exhilaration, Mom surprised me with a bottle full of bubbles.

  I don’t know why I’ve chosen that particular memory to calm myself whenever I freak out. I think it’s because now, as an adult, I know that my mother planned everything about that magical memory. She carefully crafted it all—the trip to Gram’s backyard garden, the sweet tea, the bubbles, the retreat to the quiet patio where we could enjoy our time together. That day, I was young and happy. I didn’t feel alone and afraid. As I slip into the memory more deeply, my body slowly relaxes. I drift to sleep.

  Perhaps I dream. Perhaps the light is too bright, or the yellow flowers glow almost neon, overpowering me in the strong sun. I turn my head, trying to shut my eyes. Something continues blinding me.

  I gasp and sit up in the darkened room. Light stabs through the curtained window, very sharp and out of place for this rural property at night. I can still hear the running water in the shower. I must have only been asleep for a few minutes. After leaning to reach, I lift a corner of the curtain and peek outside. A car is stopped in the road, turned so that the headlights point straight at the house. I pull back and wait. Maybe it’s just someone turning around. But after a short while, the car hasn’t left.

  I slide out of bed, take my pistol from the nightstand, and pad to the bathroom door. I knock. “Trent, there’s a car in the road with its headlights aimed right at the house.”

  “How long has it been there?” he asks through the door.

  “A few minutes. It’s odd how it’s in the
middle of the road, turned like that. I thought you might want to come take a look.” My words are calm somehow. The image of Nick Pearlman standing outside the baking-hot police cruiser springs to mind.

  “Okay, I’m coming right out.” The faucet knobs squeak. The water heavily drips a few times and stops. A few seconds later, Trent appears with a towel wrapped around his waist. He flings open the bathroom door, and it bangs against the adjoining wall. Water runs down his face, and he leaves wet footprints as he jogs into the bedroom. I follow.

  “They must have gone,” Trent says.

  I check. The car has disappeared, and the two-lane road is dark. Trent returns to the bathroom to finish drying off while I sit on the edge of the bed with my Sig in my hand. It’s cool to the touch and has that new gun smell. There’s no way I can fall back asleep now, at least not until Trent joins me. And even then, I’m not so sure. We uncovered human remains earlier in the day, and only yesterday, we were shot at right here on County Road 152.

  When Trent slides under the blankets beside me, I try to sleep again. I have a fleeting thought about Margarita. There’s no way she believes we aren’t having sex, but even if we are, it’s none of her damn business. Trent lies with his back to me. He’s pretty careful not to touch me much whenever we sleep next to each other. That’s probably another thing Margarita wouldn’t believe. I hardly believe it myself.

  Lying on my back, I bend my knees and close my eyes. Again, focusing my mind on the memory of my mom, I try to slip into the images and conjure drowsiness. But it isn’t meant to be.

  Thud.

  I sit bolt upright from my shallow sleep, my breath catching in my throat. Did something hit the side of the house? There are no trees close by, so it couldn’t have been a branch falling. Trent rises beside me at almost the same moment. He grabs his 9mm by the table lamp.

  “Aria, here.” Trent’s low voice is thick with sleep. I’m glad one of us got some. He thrusts the grip of my own pistol at me—there’s only one nightstand, and it’s on his side.

  I take the proffered weapon. Trent snatches his cell, slides off the bed, and drops to the floor. He dials 911. I follow, rolling myself in his direction and dropping down to the carpet beside him. My heart hammers and my hands have already started to sweat. After giving what information he can, Trent hangs up and sets his phone beside him.

  Thud.

  Something else hits the side of the house, dangerously close to the window. I twitch, keeping my fingers wrapped firmly around the grip of the pistol.

  Thud.

  I glare at Trent in the semi-darkness. Nick’s cold, pasty face springs to mind, but it’s hard to believe he would throw things at Trent’s house. It seems so… sad. Pointless. Unless it’s explosives. I straighten and grab Trent’s shirt sleeve.

  “Let’s get away from the wall,” I say.

  Trent nods, and we scoot to the opposite side of the room.

  Minutes tick by, and nothing happens besides more “thuds.” I wonder if the person is trying to hit the glass or if he’s just trying to hit the exterior of the house to scare us. Maybe some kids are pulling a prank. But that’s a laugh. It’s never kids with me. It’s never something minor—never an accident or a childish game.

  Another thud against the wall, this one louder. Closer? I can’t stand not seeing and not knowing who or what is making the noise. I crawl back over and lean up toward the mattress, where I reach out trembling fingers to draw back the curtain.

  20

  As I curl my fingers around the curtain to draw it back, Trent materializes behind me and squeezes my bicep. “Whoever’s out there wants us to check. That’s the whole point. They want us to look out the window, go out there, and get shot, grabbed, or God knows what else. That’s how Patrick Durham nearly killed me with a flashlight by getting me out in the open. And it’s not happening again. Not to me and certainly not to you. I’ll kill the person myself before I let that happen.”

  I crouch beneath the sill again. Sometimes it surprises me that Trent seems almost as protective of me as I am of him. “I don’t disagree. I’m sure as hell not going out there, but I can’t stand doing nothing. What can we do?”

  Thud.

  This time, the impact rings with an extra bite, like the wooden siding cracks. Is he throwing rocks? Or maybe something metal?

  Trent snorts. “Not much—yet. Wait for the police to get here. If I had a nickel for every time I wished I’d done that.”

  “Better late than never,” I say.

  Thud.

  Staying near the closet, Trent starts tugging on his jeans. I pull out my own from the dresser and wriggle into them. I yank a t-shirt over my sleepwear. Trent’s cell phone lights up and starts ringing. With bleary eyes, I watch him answer.

  “Deputy Reyes, yes. We’re still in the house,” Trent says. He listens. “No, since we don’t know what the person’s throwing, I haven’t looked out the window again. But Aria said there was a car in the road earlier with the headlights shined at the house.”

  After getting dressed, I get a whiff of a clean, metallic scent as I tuck my pistol in my back pocket. I position myself near the corner of the wall opposite the striking projectiles.

  “We haven’t left the bedroom,” Trent says to Reyes.

  Thud. Thud.

  “Okay, thanks. We’ll see you soon,” says Trent.

  I lean against the wall, my legs trembling. My rabbiting pulse betrays my adrenaline rush, but my heavy eyelids tell another story. I’m so tired. I just want it to end.

  Thud.

  Of course, today is nothing compared to the exhaustion I felt when the paramedics pulled me out of that house on County Road 140. It’s a level of tiredness I don’t think many people have experienced. So, every time a projectile whacks against the siding and gives me an involuntary muscle spasm, I keep that in mind.

  The thudding continues at erratic intervals. I try to envision what he’s throwing. I think of rocks, or maybe metal ball bearings.

  Thud. Thud.

  It’s got to be something heavy enough to damage the siding, like in the cracking sound I heard earlier. But until I go out there and have a look, there’s no way of knowing. A police siren wails outside, and tires grind to a halt on the gravel drive. With one hand on the wall, I remain still as I strain my ears to pick up anything significant. The thudding sound has stopped. Trent slides into place at my left and remains motionless there, frozen like I am in perplexed listening. Nothing new meets my ears. Maybe our antagonist ran off.

  My gaze flicks to the clock on the nightstand with its glowing red numbers—12:17 a.m. At 1:01, Trent glances at me. I pick up his unspoken statement—that our surroundings are still silent, and we haven’t heard a siren again or an officer’s voice.

  Trent says, “Stay here, okay? I’m going to see what’s happening.”

  I nod.

  His work boots thump softly across the carpet as he leaves the bedroom. Shortly after, the front door swings open. I catch a brief exchange between Trent and another man but can’t make out what they’re saying. Then finally, I discern the officer saying clearly, “They’re gone.”

  The familiar voice of Reyes stabilizes me, and I exhale. I leave my sentry place at the wall and join Trent and the deputy sheriff in the living room. The two of them stand in the middle of the space with the overhead light on. It glares down upon Trent’s pale face and the dark circles under his eyes. Reyes is tall and tan and looks the way I remember him, a mid-fifties guy with a face creased from experience.

  “Did you happen to see what they were throwing?” Trent asks, slouching a little. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Reyes gives a little chuckle. “Yeah, just a bunch of rocks. There’s a good pile of them back there. Because of your history, I’m going to investigate this further. But it might have just been kids. I imagine there’s not much to do out here in rural Georgetown at night. Maybe a few boys got bored.”

  I place myself near the two of th
em, ruminating over how we went from getting shot at to finding human remains, and now we have rocks. What kind of criminal would waste his time on that? I ask, “Did you see a car? Or anyone running off?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Reyes says. “I looked all through the yard here, up and down the street and in the adjoining fields. They probably left just before I showed up.”

  “But the rocks were hitting the house right up to the point when I heard your siren,” I say. “How could they have hidden so quickly?”

  “They probably planned their escape route before I got here. That’s the kind of thing juveniles pull. Don’t worry, Ms. Owen. Like I said, I’ll continue checking and make sure he or they aren’t lurking around here somewhere. Safety-wise, I don’t think you have much cause for concern. Just keep your eyes open, as usual. And if anything else happens, you or Trent can give me a call.” Reyes gives me a closed-mouth smile. He holds a clipboard in his hand and quickly notes a few things.

  “She’s had someone threatening her,” Trent says. “A guy named Nick Pearlman. She’s been giving all the information to Detective Jeffrey Spade in Austin. We thought this might be related.”

  I notice Trent doesn’t add how we found human remains in the South Austin building that Pearlman showed an interest in purchasing. This is probably due to the whole going onto private property without a warrant thing and Trent not technically being a cop yet. I still can’t figure out if that comes to two strikes or just one. But Reyes will find out eventually. I wonder if it will affect Trent’s employment eligibility with the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office. Trent’s shifty eyes tell me he’s wondering the same thing.

  Reyes frowns. He glances between Trent and me, lowering the clipboard. “Threatening you? Is this in any way related to what happened to you earlier this year?”

  “Not directly, but I think Nick may have known Korey’s brother, Ayden. His death was accidental, but he died about a year ago,” I say.