Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  “Ma’am?” the officer says.

  I jerk awake. Was I about to pass out standing up? The policeman stands beside me, his forehead furrowing in concern. I cover my mouth with one hand. He must either think I’m nuts or incredibly rude. “Forgive me. Yes, I’m Aria Owen. Please come in.”

  He does but stands aside for two paramedics—a man and a woman. The woman has golden brown skin and gives her name as “Asha.” I don’t catch the man’s name—maybe he doesn’t say. They have me sit down in one of our wooden kitchen chairs, and the man draws my blood while Asha asks me questions, takes my blood pressure, listens to my heart, examines my head, inspects my eyes with a light, and does a few simple tests to gauge my responsiveness.

  “Do you have any drug allergies?” Asha asks. She tugs her navy-blue medical bag closer and rummages in a zipper pocket.

  “No, none that I know of.” I hold pressure on the cotton ball over the puncture site in the crook of my arm.

  “Okay. This will help with the pain,” Asha says. She gives me a packet with two Tylenol.

  The man hands me a bottle of water, which I guzzle after swallowing the pills. Then he labels three vials of my blood while Asha goes to work cleaning and disinfecting the wound on my scalp. She says it isn’t bad, and relief sets in when she tells me they won’t shave my head or stick any bandages there. While they continue looking me over, Officer Davis slips out the backdoor.

  “Ms. Owen,” Asha says, “From what I can see, you don’t appear to have a concussion, but you might have been drugged. But because you didn’t have alcohol, the effects are much less than they could be—this is a very good thing. You’re going to be fine. We’ll come to get you after you’re done speaking with the police.”

  “Come get me?” I ask. My head is still spinning like crazy, but my speech has improved a little.

  The screen door whines open, and Davis thumps across the tile landing. Radio in hand, he talks in short bursts of code while he lingers on the burgundy rug.

  “Yes, we’d like to take you to the ER for a more thorough examination,” Asha says.

  I frown but don’t protest. After the EMTs collect their gear and head out the door, Officer Davis walks over with his gun leather creaking. He gives an apologetic, closed-mouth smile.

  “Would you like to sit?” I ask. I indicate the chair on the other side of the table, where I’ve remained after all the first-aid poking and dabbing.

  “Thank you, no,” he says. He raises his clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

  I blink, and his smooth face blurs a little. “Mostly, I’m just disoriented and sore—and my head is killing me. But I’m okay. I can talk as long as I’m able to keep my eyes open.”

  “I understand,” he says. “I’m very sorry about what happened today. If you’re up to it, can you tell me what occurred?”

  “Yes, of course.” I proceed to do my best. It takes a lot of effort to explain, especially with my head spinning and the thick dopiness clogging my thought process. After I’ve given every detail I can recall, and he asks a few questions, I look to him for something. I don’t know what. A verdict?

  “All right, Ms. Owen. Thank you very much for that. Just sit tight and take it easy. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  I nod. Surprisingly, my body no longer shakes, and my pulse has slowed to normal. An almost numbing calmness settles over me. Maybe my adrenaline rush has ceased, or it could have to do with the toxin in my system if that’s what happened.

  Davis joins the others outside, but I’m not left alone while I wait. A few officers cluster near the door and speak in low voices. Two of them let themselves out, but one remains. After about fifteen minutes, Officer Davis comes back and finds me still at the kitchen table. I glance up at him as I lean back woodenly with my hands in my lap.

  “Ms. Owen, I wanted to let you know that we’ve identified the man who attacked you as Ayden Nemeth. He was pronounced dead on arrival. I also want you to know that at this time, the cause of death is still uncertain. Although it can happen, it’s rare for someone to die from a stab wound to the eye. Regardless, the evidence shows you were acting in self-defense. I’m telling you this to put your mind at ease.” He gives a firm nod as reinforcement.

  My mind still bakes with an overly calm fog. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but at least he won’t be able to do something like this again to you or anyone else. Once his family is notified, the Round Rock Police Department can testify on your behalf if there are any legal proceedings. So, you have nothing to worry about there either.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.

  Asha and the other EMT reappear to take me to the Emergency Room. I grab my purse and follow them out the door into the surreality of the black, smoking backyard. The ceramic dish containing Ayden’s bloody ring stays where it lies on the coffee table. I didn’t mention it once. I couldn’t because I completely forgot about it after I passed out on the couch while waiting for the police.

  I have a short stay in the Emergency Room of St. David’s Round Rock Medical Center. A CT scan reveals no concussion, which I already suspected due to what Asha, the EMT, told me. As for the nausea and dizziness, however, the doctor informs me I tested positive for Rohypnol. I sit on the papered table in my hospital gown while he explains.

  “You’ve probably heard it called ‘roofies’—the date rape drug,” he says. The harsh fluorescents gray his olive complexion beneath his shiny, black hair. “It’s unlikely to cause you any serious harm, especially since it wasn’t combined with alcohol and you’re in good health, but you might feel its effects into tomorrow. You might also experience anterograde amnesia, which means that once the effects do subside, you may not be able to remember what happened during the period the drug was active in your system.”

  The lemonade. Korey.

  “And I’ve found no signs of serious damage from your head wound,” he says. “It’s a superficial hematoma and will heal on its own.”

  “That’s good.” I press a hand on the stiff bed to readjust my position and the paper crinkles. My eyes droop heavily with each blink. At the same time, my pulse has begun rabbiting along again like I’ve had a Red Bull. I can still smell cigarette smoke and gasoline. I can still hear Ayden screaming.

  Looking over at the doctor in his white coat, I ask, “Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I bite my lip.

  “Yes,” he says. He turns from the counter where he’s been noting things in my open chart. “I’ve seen this and much worse. But you’re the first patient I’ve met who killed her attacker. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it now, but you’re extremely fortunate. People have wound up in ICU from sexual assault, not to mention needing to prove who did this to them, which isn’t always easy.”

  I nod and glance at the off-white wall. I don’t feel fortunate, only exhausted, shaken, and confused.

  The doctor continues. “Although he wasn’t able to commit the crime he intended, we’ll still take certain samples from your body. In this case, we won’t have to match DNA to a living person, but the evidence we collect will stay on record and will help if you need to go to court.”

  “There was no… semen if that’s what you mean by taking samples,” I say.

  The doctor nods. “That’s fine. I’ll just do the examination. Even though you weren’t raped, his actions were violent, happened without your consent, and clothing was removed. That is still considered sexual assault. I want you to understand that. There’s a process we go through to ensure nothing is missed—for your safety and that of others.”

  I inhale. I didn’t think of it that way. “Thank you.”

  The door swings open, and the nurse breezes in, carrying a plastic bundle of what looks like clear, small bags and vials. I discover the whole procedure is indeed a process. The doctor and nurse are thorough in their questioning about the incident, the examination of my body, and they even collect a hair from my clo
thing that may belong to Ayden.

  “Use an ice pack on your head as needed, and it should be back to normal within a few weeks. Get rest and take it easy until you feel better. Unless you have any questions for me, you’re free to go. Just make sure to schedule the follow-up visit with your primary care physician,” the doctor says.

  I have lots of questions, unfortunately, none of which the doctor can answer. Since the blow to my scalp against our splintery, unclean shed wall did break the skin, he recommends a one-week course of antibiotics. Prescription in hand, my mind reels more with thoughts of what I did than the fact of being a near-rape victim leaving the hospital.

  * * *

  That night, after waking up on the couch and talking to Carol, I take the ceramic dish from the living room and retreat to my own space. I stand reeling in horror at what I find when I take off the lid. The bloody eye ring—the “souvenir” of my kill. I pass out and wake up again in the middle of the night. I pick up my cell phone—no messages from Korey—and read the time as 3:42 a.m.

  The clutter in my head dissipates, and an undiluted clarity takes its place. Now I remember picking up the ring from the shed floor. I never took it from Ayden. He slipped it off before attacking me. Maybe the jewelry had some special significance, and he didn’t want to damage it, but I’ll never know. He accidentally knocked the ring from the shelf with his thrashing, and I picked it up to give to the police as evidence. But then later, when I was waiting for the authorities to arrive, I passed out and forgot all about it.

  Roofies. That’s why I forgot. That’s why my recollection and awareness have been so spotty. And the blood on the ring? It’s my own. I touched my scalp wound before taking the ring from my pocket and storing it.

  I pick up the cotton ball dish and carry it to the bathroom, where I ease the door closed behind me and lock it. The police don’t need the ring as evidence—they identified Ayden at the scene. I take the gold-ball handle and remove the flower-painted lid. It clinks against the granite countertop when I set it aside. I could mail the ring to Korey. Maybe he or another family member will want it. Or I could give it to the police anyway.

  But as I dab cucumber melon hand soap on my palms and wash the blood from the ring, it occurs to me that because I’ve had it this long, anything I do with it now will make me look guilty. After pinching the ring between my index finger and thumb, I hold it over the toilet. I release my grip, and after a plink and a few ripples, the blue eye glares up at me from the bottom of the bowl. I depress the handle, and Ayden’s ring vanishes with a whoosh. Then I wash, rinse, and dry the ceramic dish before taking it back to my room.

  When I wake up the next morning, the ring is gone, and I have no memory of my realizations or what I did during the middle of the night.

  32

  Present Day

  My eyelids flutter open, and I sigh, pressing my fingers against the down comforter beneath me. Beyond my open bedroom window in Round Rock, soft darkness floats. A gentle rain patters against the house, and the cool wind shivers the maple tree branches in the front yard. I inhale the earthy scent of wet grass and sit up in bed. I click on the lamp. After grabbing my mobile, I hold it up and stare at my reflection on the black screen.

  I’m not a monster. I never was.

  Trent and I are called to appear in Naomi’s trial at the Criminal Justice Center in downtown Austin. I’ve been here before, earlier in the year, after Korey was arrested. The boxy, concrete building on 11th Street has always felt intimidating, but at least I won’t also have to attend small claims court for Rance’s lawsuit. Being on the hot seat for murder, he never got around to suing Median Realty. Now his mind is on things like procuring a good criminal defense attorney and what spending the rest of his life in prison might feel like. Damn.

  Naomi surprises me by pleading guilty to her charges and being open and frank about what she did and why. And what she did turns out to be quite a bit. Austin Chief of Police Riley Sedgeworth’s only daughter, Naomi, we learn, has a history of psychological problems. Though the academy knew that she had been institutionalized for a short time five years ago, after counseling and maintaining improved behavior, her father was able to pull some strings and get her accepted into training.

  I sit in the courtroom to the right of the defense with Detective Spade, Trent, and my attorney during Naomi’s trial. Since she confessed, it’s unlikely there will be another hearing after this. She’s seated in the stand calmly, though slightly hunched, with her hands folded. Naomi’s blonde hair is greasy at the roots and has been hastily put up in a messy bun. Her skin appears dull gray in the fluorescent lighting. The white strip of medical tape still covers her nose, and both eyes bear black-and-blue shiners.

  “Ms. Sedgeworth, can you please state your whereabouts on the night of August twenty-second?” my lawyer, Frank Luciani, asks. He’s the same attorney who represented me in Korey’s trial.

  “Yes,” Naomi says. “I was on County Road 152 in Williamson County, outside Trent Lemend’s house.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Luciani says. “And what were you doing outside Trent Lemend’s home at that time?”

  Naomi swallows before answering. “I was upset when Trent told me Aria was staying over, so I—” She pauses, and her gaze falls. “—I drove out there and stopped in the street with the headlights aimed at the bedroom. I could see a silhouette. I knew it was her.”

  Well, I guess at least somewhere inside all that crazy lies a conscience. The rest of the story comes out, piece by piece. Naomi parked her car some distance from the house, where County Road 152 meets up with CR 140. Then she walked back to Trent’s, and seeing my car parked outside, became furious and hurled rocks at the bedroom. She hoped she’d break the window, maybe even hit me with a well-placed stone, but it was hard to aim well from the road. When she saw the lights from the Williamson County Sheriff’s cruiser, she slipped into the mesquite prairie the next property over and hid deep in the brush until the officer left.

  Naomi then made her way back to her car and drove halfway between CR 140 and Trent’s house. When she saw both our vehicles leave together, she became angry all over again and followed us to the hotel. She admits to disguising her appearance, attacking me in the parking lot, and putting her hands around my neck in the field. But what she reveals next leaves me stunned. Naomi tells the prosecution what she was up to before she came at me in the ski mask.

  “I drove past the hotel and made a three-way call to my dad and Trent. Before Trent picked up, I told my dad to please wait a moment and listen to our conversation. I also explained that Trent was a fellow cadet in the academy and that after what he had done in the warehouse building in South Austin, his actions were grounds for expulsion. My father didn’t see it that way until he heard Trent and me talking, and he could see that Trent was hurting me—he was playing games with my feelings, leading me on. At that point, I got off the phone, and my dad took over the conversation and made Trent explain things. Not just his investigation of the burned building, but his involvement with me. His intentions. And he threatened to have Trent expelled from the academy if he didn’t clean up his act.”

  I would roll my eyes were it not for the fact that Chief of Police Sedgeworth is glaring at me at this very moment. I recall that once I felt embarrassed around Naomi, but now I’m pretty sure our roles have reversed. She keeps her eyes downcast, her posture still drooping. And how must her father feel?

  Logan Weber’s words flash to mind. “I even know where he goes for a screw occasionally—if you were wondering.” I wasn’t wondering, thinking it was just another taunt, until now.

  “Were you ever in a relationship with Trent Lemend, Ms. Sedgeworth?” Mr. Luciani asks.

  Naomi’s eyelashes flutter as she restrains herself from crying on the stand. “No. But I wanted to be.”

  “Had you and Trent Lemend ever engaged in intimate activity of any kind?” the attorney asks.

  Naomi folds her arms across her chest, her sour express
ion like that of someone who just drank straight Everclear. “No. I asked him to. I tried when he came over to my apartment once, but he wouldn’t. I tried at his house too.”

  She swallows, and her cheeks pinken. Shuddering as she draws a breath, she keeps her gaze aimed at the space to the side of the courtroom. She doesn’t look at the prosecutor. “Trent told me he was in love with Ms. Owen.”

  A cannonball drops into my stomach. Are there ever good cannonballs, or are they all bad? At the very least, they’re always unexpected, and I wasn’t expecting this.

  Trent stiffens next to me, and I get a whiff of his faint, woodsy citrus scent. My hands are folded on the table, and I keep my body still. I want to behave as though this piece of testimony is no different than any other. If what Naomi said is true, Trent sure has a strange way of showing it sometimes.

  Although I maintain the appearance of attentiveness, I become so embroiled in this juicy morsel I forget to pay attention to the examination. The courtroom, the cherrywood judge’s bench, and the defense all melt away as I try to make this fit with everything else I know. Then Naomi’s attorney’s “objection” breaks into my thoughts, followed by Judge Moreau’s “sustained.” What was the objection about? I didn’t hear the question. My breath hitches, and I straighten.

  I learn it was Naomi who shot at Trent and me when we were walking to Tim Corbin’s ranch house. “I wasn’t trying to hit Ms. Owen or Trent,” Naomi tells my attorney. “I didn’t even aim at them. I just wanted to scare her. I thought if I could make it dangerous enough to be around Trent, she would stop seeing him.”

  This much I figured out, but I’m not prepared for what she admits next. She confesses to forging a letter to me in Trent’s handwriting and replacing his actual letter—the one he said he sealed in an envelope. “No matter what I did, Ms. Owen wouldn’t take the hint.”