Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  He says, “She’s right. You’re fine. Now hand me your purse.”

  Nick mentioning my purse makes me think of my knife again. It’s inside the pocket of my slacks. I slip my purse from its crosswise position over my left shoulder and push it along the seat toward Nick. He grabs it and tosses it on the floor at his feet. My phone and ID are in there, but not my little switchblade.

  “Now give me any other weapons you have,” he says. My eyes must flash guilt because he adds, “Do it, or I’ll force you.”

  I’ll never surrender my weapon. I guess he’ll have to force me. I whip out the switchblade and lunge at him. His rear comes off the seat like a bug on a hot pan, and he dodges just before I stab him in the carotid artery. The knife buries itself in the upholstery with a neat zip.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! You’re going to pay for that,” the woman says, whether to me or Nick, I don’t know.

  And I don’t care. I yank the knife out and stab straight for Nick’s face. With the snap of a rattlesnake, he catches my wrist in his bony fingers. I growl. My arm trembles as we push against each other. He adds his other hand to the force and pushes me backward. I haven’t let go yet. I won’t. I grit my teeth and strain every muscle. With my free hand, I make a fist and punch him square in the nose.

  “Goddammit! You—” His face blooms red, and he removes a hand from my wrist to grab the one that struck him.

  My back and arms sear with pain, but still, I push. My quivering muscles finally give out, and Nick thrusts me against the edge of the seat, where I slide off. My head cracks into something—the door handle, maybe.

  “You said you weren’t going to hurt her!” the woman says.

  Nick wrests the knife from my grip. I try to catch myself before falling completely into the narrow floor space, but my hand slips off the back of the passenger’s seat. I push myself up and scoot against the door. I pant like a rabid animal. Nick closes the knife. As he shoves it in his trouser pocket, I slam the heel of my hand into his nose.

  He wails. He spouts profanity and covers the wound, rocking back and forth a few times.

  “You deserved that, I think,” the driver lady says.

  “Shut up!” says Nick.

  “Let me out of this fucking car, or I’ll hit you again,” I say.

  “No, this is your fault. You wouldn’t listen. I told you—I’ll let you go. I just need to show you something first,” he says.

  I make for his right ear. I’ll tear it clean off if it’s the last thing I do. But as I lash out to grab it, Nick shoves hard against my breastbone. The force hurls me against the door. My head hits the window.

  “Stop it, both of you! Just stop!” the woman says. She slams on the breaks.

  “Shut up!” says Nick. “Keep driving.”

  The back of my skull throbs, and disorientation shakes me. I grab the passenger’s seat to steady myself. Then I notice the window—it’s cracked. Now I can break it the rest of the way. I might even be able to jump out before the driver takes us on the highway. My arm shakes uncontrollably as I make a fist. I’ll pound every shard of glass from that window if I have to.

  “No,” says Nick. His voice is weary.

  Blood trickles from the left nostril of his fire-engine red nose as he withdraws a semi-automatic pistol from beneath his waistline. It’s not mine. It looks like a Glock. He racks the slide, clicking it in place with a portentous snick. He aims the black barrel at me.

  “You brought a gun? What the hell were you thinking?” the driver says. “I didn’t sign up for this. If you hurt that poor girl, it’s not going to be my ass on the line. You need to think about what you’re doing. Because we’re not both going to jail. You better not be planning to kill her.”

  “Shut up, Goddammit,” Nick says. “You’re doing what I paid you to do. Force is the only thing some people listen to.”

  With my eyes aching, I give up my window idea. I lean against the corner of the back seat with my hands in my lap. Nick calmly keeps the gun trained on me. He doesn’t look angry, even though I probably broke his nose. He looks annoyed.

  Korey was really calm at times, too, just like this. He had his crazy, emotional fits when he screamed, smashed things, or threw stuff. Sometimes the thing he threw was my body. Not up in the air, but he would shove me so hard I’d fly against the wall or floor. But he also had moments when he was so sedately insane. Those were some of the worst. Those were the ones that got me drained of blood and strung up against the wall in the house on County Road 140.

  But before he sank the knife into my flesh, he put me in a white dress. The white dress—I finally remember. It would have been my wedding dress, he told me. I betrayed him in life, but I would marry him in death.

  “You’re a filthy whore, Aria,” he said. “Even though you don’t deserve forgiveness, through your pain and death, you will be absolved of your sins against me. And your blood will consummate the marriage you should have given me in life.”

  But being in this car now has nothing to do with Korey. It’s about killing Ayden, an incident in my past that seems sadly minor in comparison. Yet I’ll die all the same. People always have their reasons, don’t they? But my mind isn’t showing me the occluded memory of Ayden’s death. It’s reeling with the untimely flashback of my torture. I can still smell the filth of that back room, feel the almost tangible yellowish-brown darkness against my skin while I wasted away from starvation. I continuously plotted how to feed myself and my stepmom. Xero’s dog food. I shoved my face in the Purina bag and dropped sticky kibbles into Carol’s mouth. And then I was so tired. The weariness eventually dragged me under like an anchor pulling me to the depths of the sea.

  My head snaps up, and my heart begins pounding. I started to black out without even realizing it. A wave of dizziness hits me, my hands sweat, and my entire body trembles. The car is slowing down. I lean forward slightly, glancing between Nick and the driver. The sound of my frantic breathing envelopes the car’s interior. How long was I half-conscious? I look out the windshield and find we’re coming up to a wide, paved space, like a small airport. Ahead, a dark green helicopter looms on the asphalt, its rotor blades unmoving.

  Nick turns to me. His annoyance is gone, and now his eyes are cold and unreadable. “We’re going to change vehicles.”

  Why bother telling me that? My hands and feet are unbound, and I’m not blindfolded or gagged. Doesn’t he know I can run? That I can still scream? “Why?”

  Nick flutters his eyelids, the same as he did outside the office when I irritated him. “Because it’s too far to drive.”

  Asshole. With my hands clamped between my knees, I sit rigidly and stare straight ahead. The woman at the wheel takes us along a driveway of sorts. There’s a large, gray, metal building to the right. Presumably a hangar. On its side is a large number “2” written in black. The metallic emerald helicopter bears a few thin, gold stripes with a rounded front that draws into a pointed nose. Its cockpit is enclosed with black-tinted windows. Beneath the rotors are written the letters N507TV. I try to commit that to memory, although I doubt I’ll retain it in my present state. The chopper is parked on a white “H” within a circle.

  Beyond the helicopter pad stretches an empty field. The terrain is typical of Central Texas—low-lying, wiry shrubs, agave, prickly pear cacti, scattered grass, and stones. Beyond the expanse of meadow is a wild forest. Besides telephone poles, I don’t see any buildings or any other signs of civilization. This little airport or whatever it is seems to lie in the middle of nowhere.

  The woman pulls into a small parking lot about a hundred feet from the helicopter pad. She parks the Accord and turns off the car. “I’m glad you’re doing better, honey. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon, and then you can go home.”

  “I’m not paying you to talk to her,” Nick says.

  He doesn’t look at her or me but keeps his eyes on the chopper. The morning sun hits the high gloss paint, making it glimmer green, yellow, and blue. My stomach d
ives at the sight of it, and I think I might be sick. But my mind lingers on what the woman just said. Then you can go home.

  “Well, talking to her is the least I can do,” she says. She undoes her seat belt, and when the buckle slaps the car’s vinyl interior, I jump.

  She adds, “The poor girl is scared out of her mind.”

  A tiny thought blossoms in the back of my consciousness. Maybe I’m not going to die. Although, that’s fanciful of me. Too generous. Maybe she only said that to try and keep me calm. Maybe that’s part of how she’s working with him—to be the nice, stabilizing influence of the operation. What an idiot Nick is not at least to bind my feet. When that door comes open, I’m bolting. As long as he doesn’t grab my head like before, I can try and outrun him. I’ll go straight for those woods, and I can walk for days if I need to. I’m not afraid of the wilderness because there are no people there.

  “You’re not going to run. Understand?” Nick asks. He scoots beside me and puts the barrel of the Glock to my forehead.

  The woman stands just outside, waiting for Nick and me to exit the car. The window slightly muffles her voice as she says, “Oh for heaven’s sake.”

  Nick presses the pistol against my skin enough to move my head. “Tell me you’re not going to run.”

  I can’t make myself say the words, but I nod. My arms go rigid, and my hands turn to ice. I clutch my legs to give myself something to cling to. Everything else has fled my control.

  “Get out of the car and walk toward the helicopter. Slowly, like you’re walking down the aisle at your goddamn wedding,” Nick says.

  A wave of terror shoots from my heart to my abdomen at his eerie choice of words. Like he’s watching images of my flashback play on a movie screen. This time I manage to mumble, “Okay.”

  I hear a click, and the door lock springs up, which makes me jump again. With my hand shaking, I force my fingers to pull the handle and open the car door. I swing my right leg out and then my left. I can’t feel my feet. I know they’re there at the end of my legs, but they’re numb, almost like wooden blocks. I put one leg in front of the other. I’m the marionette, and he’s the master. He pulls the strings, and I obey.

  It’s very hard to hit a moving target. But I assume that’s considering the target isn’t two feet away from the shooter. If I run, I’ll be dead before I get to the other side of the “H.”

  25

  My insides compress, and I’m back in that room with Korey hovering over me, my blood pooling around me on the urine-stained hardwood before he strung me up. And at the same time, I’m here. A stranger’s kidnapping me at gunpoint and forcing me into a helicopter. My frail hope of running away or of living past this afternoon evaporates.

  Nick says, “Buckle your seat belt.” Holding the gun in his right hand, he slides something out of his pocket with his left. “After that, blindfold yourself.” He tosses a black strip of fabric onto my lap. “If you allow yourself any gap, I’ll know, so do it right.”

  I don’t answer, snapping the seat belt in place before picking up the fabric as instructed. My fingers quiver as I wrap it around my head and tie it in back. The sloppy knot catches strands of my hair. It pulls them sharply against my scalp. Folding my arms across my chest, I lean back in the seat. I brace my feet as far in front of me as they can go while keeping my knees bent. Even when I open my eyes, the blindfold material is so dark I can see nothing. I strain to hear and perceive what Nick is doing, but all I catch is the metal click of his own seat belt locking and the whoosh of helicopter blades turning. Faint scents of aviation gasoline and warm plastic reach me.

  The tempo of whirring increases, as does the steady, rhythmic hum. The sound continues for what feels like a long time and becomes loud. We sit here forever. No new information meets my ears. Finally, with barely a bump, we’re airborne, lifting smoothly off the asphalt. I press my arms inward, tighter against myself. We’re going up. My stomach drops, and soon my ears clog with cotton. The sounds around me grow muffled as though I’m underwater. Yawning would make that go away, but I resist the urge. However, the fabric itches the bridge of my nose, and I start to reach up a sweaty hand to scratch it.

  “Keep your hands away from your face.” Nick’s voice cuts through the noise.

  My breath hitches. I tuck my hand back against my side. I sit here, listening to the whirring blades, and somewhere behind that, the sound of my panicked breathing. I feel the subtle motion of the helicopter beneath and around me. So different from a plane. It sails along fluidly, like a ship upon a sea as smooth as glass. Keeping my arms clamped against my chest, I hardly move with my mouth pressed firmly in anger. I won’t give Nick the satisfaction of seeing me squirm—of seeing tears roll down my cheeks. There are none, and my face is dry.

  I don’t know how long we fly or in what direction we travel. If I have to guess, we might have been airborne for close to an hour before we start our descent. The pressure change clogs my ears anew, and I swallow, trying to get my full hearing back. As we drop in altitude, my gut sinks, and I clench my hands into fists. The ache builds behind my eyes again. I fight it. I grit my teeth and squint behind my black blindfold. There’s no way for me to gauge where we’ll land and what will happen to me once we get there. But I’m not going to cry. Not yet, anyway.

  The helicopter gets into landing position, hovering slowly as the pilot—the same woman who drove us whose name I still haven’t heard—lowers us down. I reach my hands under my legs and grab onto the seat. Lower and lower, the helicopter descends until finally, it touches down with a soft thump. I twitch again but keep my grip on the plastic chair.

  “Leave your blindfold on,” Nick says. “I’ll lead you inside the location, and you can take it off once I tell you to.”

  I say nothing in response but fumble for my seat belt latch. My shaking fingers finally get hold of it, and after about thirty seconds of grappling with the unfamiliar lock, I get it unfastened.

  Finally forcing myself to yawn with my mouth closed so my ears will pop, I jerk when Nick places his hand on my arm. He barely touches me this time instead of grabbing me and shoving me wherever he chooses.

  He says, “Stand up.”

  I do. He guides me to the door, which I hear the woman open. At least, I presume that’s the noise because I feel the wind on my face and hear birds. The warm, outside air touches my skin.

  “Stay there, and once I get out, I’ll lower you down,” Nick says.

  I try to keep my arms at my sides but mostly only succeed in keeping them suspended awkwardly somewhere around my abdomen. My gut contracts constantly as I think of what will happen if I tumble out onto the asphalt. I assume there will be concrete and not grass. But even if there’s grass, it will still hurt if I fall flat on my face. I shudder and wait.

  After a few seconds, Nick tells me, “Kneel down.”

  Dread plunges through me. I do so slowly, placing one hand out in front to make sure I’m not going to pitch through the open door. Soon after, I feel hands sliding under my armpits, the way one does to lift a child. I gasp and shut my mouth quickly. Nick pulls me forward and lifts me toward him. This makes the poorly healed muscle near my shoulder sear like a bad rope burn, and I grit my teeth and cry out. Then I get a whiff of his thyme and leather-scented aftershave, and I cringe. As he lowers me down and sets me on the ground, my body presses against the front of his. I stiffen, pulling back involuntarily. But I’m not resisting, so I guess that’s why he doesn’t strike me. Korey would have.

  The woman clinks keys together nearby. She says to Nick, “I’ll walk ahead of the two of you and get the door.”

  The trepidation in her voice is plain. I guess she’s referring to the house door if it is, in fact, a house we’re going to. I have no way of knowing.

  After wrapping his fingers around my upper arm, Nick guides me along beside him. He walks more slowly than I expected. He doesn’t drag or push me. He allows me time to take cautious steps, knowing I can’t see anything or where I
place my feet. I don’t know what to make of this.

  After about a hundred paces, he halts and says, “There are stairs here—five of them.”

  I nod. I take each step carefully, pushing my toe forward each time to make sure there’s enough surface under my foot. After the fifth one, we walk onto a landing or porch, I assume—we’re still outside. Keys rattle, and a deadbolt slides open as the woman unlocks the door. Heavy wood creaks on its hinges.

  Nick steers me forward into an atmosphere that holds a light scent like vanilla candles. My high heels dig into what might be a rug. Next, my shoes click across something like a hardwood floor. He directs me to the right.

  He says, “Another flight of stairs. This time there are twenty.”

  The woman’s feet patter up a stairway in front of us. From the sound, it also seems to be hardwood. While Nick keeps his hand on my arm, I do the same as outside and carefully navigate each step. We reach the top, and Nick turns me to the left. Now it seems I’m walking across a carpet. He leads me to the right, and a door closes behind me. I exhale loudly and shiver. I hear the woman, or perhaps Nick himself, locking us in.

  “You can take the blindfold off now,” he says.

  My clumsy fingers dig into the knot and try to undo it without ripping hair from my head. I pull the blindfold away from my eyes and reveal a brightly lit room. The woman stands a few feet from us, scowling and worrying the keys in her fingers. I blink and glance around the space to take in its design and contents. It’s an office or something like one.

  The room is small and plain, with no decoration. It smells like glue and wood. There are no windows that I can see. To the left of the door is a wall with a row of gray, metal filing cabinets. Upon the last one sits a wire basket which contains a few papers. In front of me stands a desk piled with manila folders and more papers, a canister of pens, another container filled with markers, and various office supplies. Above the desk is a corkboard affixed with newspaper clippings and photos. On the right-hand wall hangs a giant map of the state of Texas, surrounded by several smaller maps. From here, I can’t discern if the smaller ones depict parts of the same state or elsewhere. Three chairs are placed in front of the desk.