Blood Rose

By Victoria Bach

Jessica Moran is walking up the pathway to her apartment when she suffers a waking nightmare. Like a fly on the wall, she is witness to a man’s gruesome murder. Sucked into the grisly scene, she is overcome by the smell of shit and vomit. Looking down, she discovers her hands are thick with blood. Confused and afraid, she clutches the white rose amulet that always rests between her breasts. Normally, pristine and pure, it is now tinged crimson. It was happening again - the fits. As a youth, Jessica sees things others cannot. She is teased by her classmates – Quack, quack, queer duck. Her mother has her medicated and refuses to acknowledge her visions, so Jessica ignores them until her sister mysteriously vanishes. The stress of her sister’s disappearance causes this psychic ability to take on a feverous pitch as Jessica is catapulted into a series of horrific waking nightmares. To find her sister, she must come to terms with her strange ability and learn to trust in the horrifying visions. Following a trail of clues, she discovers her sister has become involved with a ruthless high ranking member of a drug cartel. Things go from bad to worse when she is found out, drugged, and taken to the farm. The farm is not like anything anyone can envision. However, it is the perfect place to get rid of human remains—both living and dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781977246172

Victoria Bach

Victoria Bach is an avid writer and member of The Mystery Writers of America, she loves to write fictional stories with strong female protagonists. Her favorite genres include crime and terror with a paranormal twist. Blood Rose is her first full length fictional novel. Victoria works in the medical field and manages a large portfolio of investment properties. She is also a professional artist and travels the country exhibiting one-of-a-kind ceramic sculptures and clocks. She lives with her husband and youngest child on a farm in rural Colorado. Her favorite hobbies include ceramic art, gardening, bird watching, and spending time with her husband, son and daughter-in-law, daughter and grandchildren.

Book preview

MIAMI

Carl could hear the distant sound of sobbing, muffled and distorted, a man’s sobbing. It echoed off the concrete walls. One set of tormented gasps reeled and faded into another. He smiled, eager to get started.

The late afternoon Florida sun still filtered in through the warehouse’s dusty windows, illuminating the concrete floor in cube-like patterns. Scattered crates and boxes cast ghostlike shadows along the deserted corridor. Weighted down with a large duffel bag, Carl struggled to keep up with his boss, a middle-aged man with dark chocolate eyes dressed in a cream-colored suit, his dark hair smoothly slicked back. Carl was beginning to sweat. His wrinkled shorts were chafing his inner thighs.

The warehouse hadn’t been used in several years. The air was hot and muggy and smelled of dirt and decay. Billowing clouds of dust swirled around his shoes. Swallowing, he tried hard not to cough and focused his attention toward a tall, muscular Cuban man standing next to a door at the end of the filthy hallway.

"Buenas tardes," the Cuban man said, opening the door as they approached.

Carl winced slightly as the smell of putrid body odor wafted over him from the open doorway. His boss, seemingly oblivious to the noxious fumes nodded and stepped through the entrance. Carl followed close behind.

The room was small and windowless. A large fluorescent light buzzed overhead as it filled the room with a murky glow. Two Hispanic men played cards on a crate in the middle of the room. With a look of surprise and recognition at their entrance, the two men immediately stood up.

Carl’s senses, already assaulted by the stink of sweat, were swiftly overcome by the thick smell of excrement and urine. Setting down the heavy duffel, he covered his nose and mouth with his hand, trying to block the stench. The man in the linen suit pulled out a handkerchief and held it up to his face. Both men turned, focusing their attention on the source of the foul odor. A young Latino man, no more than twenty, was seated in a metal office chair in a corner of the room. He had been tied securely to the chair with restraints. As they approached him, it became evident that he had been beaten. The side of his face looked like an overripe eggplant that had split open in the hot summer sun. Dried blood covered his clothes, and flies buzzed around the open wounds. His head wobbled up and down like one of those bobblehead dolls you see in the back windows of classic Chevys.

Turning away in disgust, the man in the linen suit bellowed at the two men standing by the crate. I thought I told you he wasn’t to be harmed! What the hell happened?

One of the men dropped his cards onto the dirty floor and began ushering forth an explanation in Spanish. Apparently, the young man in the chair had resisted, and they were forced to subdue him with physical force.

Enough! shouted the man in the linen suit, raising his hand.

Several moments passed. No one breathed.

Composing himself, the man in the suit began again. Has he told you where he hid the box of tequila?

"No, Tio. He claims he didn’t take it, and we found nothing at his house."

Felipe, I’m holding you responsible for this screwup. Find that case!

"Si, Tio, I understand."

Does he know what was in the shipments he was delivering?

No, he’s only a delivery boy.

If he dies before we find out where that case is, there are going to be a lot of dead bodies piling up, and it won’t take long for the DEA to start putting two and two together.

"Tio, I promise you that I will find the tequila."

The man in the linen suit glared. If you weren’t my nephew, I’d … Turning to Carl, he clenched his teeth and rotated his neck side to side. For a brief moment, the man in the suit shut his eyes, and Carl could hear a small puff of air exit the man’s nostrils. Calmly, in a low voice devoid of emotion, his boss continued, I need him alive, and I need the information now. Understand?

Carl nodded. For the last two years, they had been bringing in millions of dollars’ worth of cocaine, fentanyl, and pure heroin into the United States from South America. Their chemist in Colombia had dissolved the narcotics into bottles of tequila and other hard liquors that were being legally imported. Not all the shipments were drug laden, only certain specially marked cases. Apparently, this kid had snatched one of those cases.

Carl watched as his boss slowly walked past the Cubans and exited the room.

How long has the kid been tied up in the chair? Carl asked the man who had dropped the cards.

Avoiding his gaze, the man spoke to his feet. Since last night.

Has he had any water or food?

"No, Senõr. No water. No food."

Carl shook his head in disbelief. Idiots! He was surprised that his employer trusted any of them enough to take care of things while he was away. If it were up to him, he would have gotten rid of all of them long ago. Hiring relatives always opened up a can of worms.

Carl swallowed his annoyance. What’s his name?

José … José Santiago, replied one of the men.

I need him under the light where I can see what I’m doing. Carl turned his attention to the duffel bag he had set down earlier.

A loud screech emanated from the chair that held the bound, broken man as the two men dragged it toward him. Carl cringed at the sound—fingernails on a chalkboard. Bending down, he unzipped the bag, revealing an array of medical supplies and equipment. Removing a clean, white drape, he placed it over the playing cards still spread out on the wooden crate. He also removed several metal rods and assembled them quickly into a makeshift IV stand. He placed the stand next to the chair the kid was sitting in.

Carl swallowed hard, fighting to keep down the lunch he had eaten on the plane. It was obvious the kid had soiled himself. Every time he took a breath, he could feel his stomach threatening to dispense its contents with the force of a fire hose. Rummaging through the contents of the duffel, he retrieved a face mask along with a leather briefcase. He unsnapped the clasps that held the case shut and exposed its contents. He needed something to mask the putrid odor emanating from the boy in front of him. Thank God, he thought, recovering a small vial of tincture of spearmint. It wasn’t often he had to use the preparation, but today it would come in handy.

Quickly applying some to the mask he still held in his hand, he expertly slipped the loops over each ear and secured the mask to his face. Immediately a strong mint odor overcame the putrid smell of the room. Carl shut his eyes and took in a few slow breaths as he waited for his gagging to subside.

After putting on a pair of vinyl gloves and a protective apron, he turned to check out the damage done to the young man. Tilting the kid’s head to the side, he inspected the jagged gash on his cheek. Manipulating the swollen tissue, he could make out a gleam of white bone. The kid cried out in pain.

It’s okay. I’m a medic. Hold on. I’m going to give you something that will make you feel better.

From his duffel, he retrieved a clear plastic medical pouch filled with a glucose-saline mixture. Carl attached it to hook on the top of the IV stand. He wrapped a rubber tie around the top of one of the kid’s arms and tightened it down. After several attempts, Carl was able to get the needle into a working vessel and carefully adjusted the drip rate on the bag. He hoped it would be enough.

As the liquid steadily made its way through the kid’s veins, Carl assessed his vital signs. After finishing the exam, he took off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, punching in a number.

Sir, it doesn’t look good. He’s severely dehydrated and in shock. It will be a miracle if he lives, let alone tells us where he hid the case. I know, sir. I won’t be able to give him too much. In his condition, I think it would kill him. Yes, sir, I’ll do what I can.

He snapped the cell phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

You! he barked to the two Cuban men. Out!

In their hurry, the men collided in the doorway. As they wrestled with each other trying to exit the room, Carl shook his head in disbelief. In another place or time, the scene might have been comical, but now he had serious business to attend to.

The young man was quiet. The only way Carl could even tell he was alive was by the slow rise and fall of his chest. It would take at least a liter of fluid to bring him around. He would have to wait.

He busied himself, arranging an array of surgical supplies and instruments onto the white drape-covered crate, laying out syringes, medical vials, tape, and other supplies one might use for minor surgery. His patient was in shock. Carl would have to be delicate in his approach or risk killing him before he had all the information.

Checking his watch, he noted that it had been about twenty minutes since he hooked up the first bag of life-giving fluids. The kid moaned; it was a mournful sound full of pain. He was still delirious, but Carl could tell he was beginning to come to. Carl checked his vital signs. His blood pressure was low but better. The kid’s heart was racing, but that was to be expected. Things were looking up. The bag of fluid was almost gone. Carl readied another one and switched a full bag for the almost empty.

Leaning over, he whispered, José, can you hear me?

The kid grimaced.

I’m going to help you. You want me to help you, don’t you?

The kid shuddered and mumbled incoherently.

I need to know where you hid the box of tequila you took from the truck. Carl placed his hand under the kid’s head and slowly lifted it up. Where is the tequila?

The kid’s eyes fluttered and opened slightly, trying to focus on the voice. Carl wasn’t sure if he could see him. One eye was almost completely swollen shut. His good eye, if you could call it a good eye, was slightly dilated and cloudy.

That’s good. You’re coming around. He smirked. The fluid I gave you will make you feel better. I’m sorry I can’t give you anything for the pain.

The kid trembled as his good eye began to close. Carl shook the kid’s head, forcing his eye back open.

José! Where is the tequila?

With effort, the kid licked his swollen lips and began to murmur. Carl leaned down closer to his mouth, so he could hear him. I don’t know, the kid rasped through putrid breath.

Good, you understand English. Look at me. He raised his voice, shaking the kid’s head again, forcing his only good eye to focus on him. If you don’t tell me where it is, I am going to have to hurt you. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?

The kid’s good eye opened wider as he painfully shook his head. With great effort, he managed to squeak, "No, Senõr. I want to go home. Please."

If you tell me where the tequila is, I promise I will take you home myself, and no one will hurt you anymore. Okay?

"But I don’t know where it is. I didn’t take it, Senõr."

Carl had hoped that the boy’s mistreatment would have made him more pliable, but it was obvious he needed a little bit more persuading. He was walking a fine line. This kid was already in a weakened condition; too much stimulation might kill him.

"Hey, hombre, you must have some big cojones to take a beating like that and keep quiet. Man, I’m impressed. You know you don’t have to worry about that gash on your cheek. Carl bent down so the kid could see him up close. You know, infection. The flies are taking good care of you. Soon, you’ll have all those nasty little worms hatching in your face, eating everything up. Carl chuckled and began to wiggle his fingers in front of the kid’s face. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle."

The kid stared at him through one bloodshot eye, mouth agape—frozen.

Boo! yelled Carl.

The kid’s head jerked.

Carl laughed. This was his favorite part.

Hey, I bet you think you’ve got machismo … a real macho man you are.

Carl began dancing around the kid’s chair and singing with gleeful gusto an old disco song from the ʼ80s. Macho, macho man. I wanna be a macho man.

The kid’s one eye watched, frozen and unblinking at the spectacle before him.

Clapping his hands, Carl suddenly stopped in front of the kid’s face and plopped down. Carl grinned. We can go on like this all day and all night, you know. But unfortunately, I’ve got a plane to catch, so we need to wrap this up ASAP. Besides, you’ve been sitting in your own shit all day. Wouldn’t you like to go home and take a shower?

The kid said nothing and closed his eye.

Carl stood up, placing his hands on his hips. His demeanor, oddly comical a moment before, suddenly became full of malice. Okay, let’s cut out the crap! He grabbed the kid’s chin, jerking his head upward. We both know you took the booze. Someone saw you loading it into your truck. Now, he had the kid’s full attention. Carl stared into his one good eye. The kid began shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Tell me where it is, and I’ll let you walk out of here. I’ll even drive you home myself. Okay?

He could tell the kid was thinking hard, weighing his options. This kid wasn’t stupid. He probably knew somewhere deep down that he was never going home.

"Please, Senõr, I know nothing," the kid pleaded, trying to jerk his chin out of Carl’s grasp.

Carl let out a frustrated gasp. Okay, have it your way.

Carl let go of the kid’s chin and watched as it slipped down, coming to rest on his chest. He bent down and dug through his duffel bag, pulling out a large, black nylon bag. Unzipping it, he removed a wooden vise and some large zip ties. Placing the device and the ties on the floor next to his patient, Carl removed a pocketknife from his trousers and, with one swift movement, cut the rope that bound one of the man’s wrists to the arm of the chair. The boy was too wasted to fight back and didn’t resist. He placed the boy’s hand onto his soiled lap, then picked up the wooden vise, and deftly placed it over the boy’s wrist. He secured the device, now encompassing the boy’s wrist, to the arm of the chair. The bottom part of the gnarly apparatus was underneath the kid’s palm, the upper part resting on top of his wrist bones. Carl walked across the small room and dragged an empty chair over to his patient. He liked to be comfortable when he worked, and besides, all this bending over was giving him a headache. Once seated, he attached a ratchet to a bolt located on the side of the vise that opened and closed its mechanism.

Right tightie, lefty loosie, he exclaimed, giving the wrench a good hearty turn to the right.

"Senõr, what, what you do?" the boy gasped in response to the pressure now being exerted on his wrist bone.

Carl grinned, and in a childlike voice, began chanting. The incy, wincy spider went up the garden spout. He gave the wrench a quick turn to the right.

The kid winced in pain, eyes wide.

José, do you know what this is? Carl pointed to the vise.

"I … I don’t know, Senõr," the kid sputtered.

During the 1400s, the Spanish inquisitors used to use a similar device to get information. You see, how I’ve placed it here, right over your wrist?

Silence.

Carl’s grin widened into a clown-like smile. Out came the blood … He gave the ratchet another quick turn.

The scream lasted only a second before fading off into a weak whimper. The kid started to cry.

And washed the spider out. Carl sang, spinning the ratchet.

Snap! The kid’s body lurched up off the chair as he strained against the rope that securely bound him. He screamed and screamed. The sound reverberated off the concrete walls. It was deafening in the small space. Carl covered his ears with his hands. Snot trickled out of the young man’s nose, mingling with the blood and dirt that already stained his contorted face. The screams soon deteriorated into muffled sobs.

Leaning down, Carl whispered, Where’s the tequila?

The kid swallowed and with considerable effort moaned, In the shed under the floorboards. It’s in the shed.

Where is this shed, José?

Behind my house, the kid sobbed. Behind my house.

Good boy, José. You’ve done good. Carl grabbed one of the syringes off of the white drape and inserted it into a bottle of medication, slowly filling the syringe with clear fluid, You’re going to like this, José. It’s a little thank-you for being so helpful.

The young man looked up at Carl and through the tears and snot said, "Take me home, Senõr? Like you promised?"

Yes, José. I’m going to take you home. Carl inserted the needle into the IV line still attached to the kid’s arm and slowly released the fluid.

It took only a few seconds for the medication to take effect. The young man’s head drooped forward onto his chest, and Carl could hear his breathing becoming more labored.

Leaning over, he grabbed the kid by the hair and lifted the boy’s anguished face to his mouth. Carl whispered into the kid’s ear, Tell Satan I can’t wait to meet him.

Here is the world. Beautiful and

terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.

Frederick Buechner

Chapter One

COLORADO SPRINGS

Five Days Later, Friday, May 15, 5:45 PM

It had been an unusually hot day for May, and the heat from the rush-hour exhaust only added to the late afternoon Colorado Springs air. Jessica Moran’s late-model blue Honda Civic sputtered into the space marked 122. Finally, the weekend was here. She had finished her weekly grocery shopping spree. Even though she was shopping for only one, it felt like she had completed a marathon. She sprang from her car, letting the driver’s door slam shut behind her as she walked to the back of her car.

Lifting the trunk lid, she wrestled the brown paper grocery bag out of the compartment. It had been a long day at the pediatric clinic where she worked as a nurse, and she could hardly wait to trade in the smell of spit-up and dirty diapers for a hot bath filled with perfumed bubbles and a glass of something cold.

The sound of cool blue water gently lapping against the side of the complex’s swimming pool was a welcoming sign that summer was almost here. Planters filled with spring flowers lined her path, their sweet smell making Jessica smile. The maintenance man was busy picking up trash from around the bushes next to the entrance to her apartment building. She gave him a friendly nod.

Resting her package against the side of the entry door, Jessica fumbled in her pocket for her house keys. A can of soup broke through a small tear in the bottom of the bag and crashed to the ground beside her.

Can I help you, miss? said the maintenance man, coming out from behind the shrubbery.

The putrid smell of blood, vomit, and shit slammed into her like a jackhammer into concrete. Cringing at the unexpected assault, she gagged and felt the bag she had leaned against the door jamb hit the ground beside her. Clumsily, she clawed for the doorknob to steady herself but missed and ended up on her ass next to the spilt groceries.

Missssss, are you … came a garbled voice in slow motion from far away.

Blood and urine covered her hands, thick and sticky. Get it off! Get it off! her mind howled as she tried to wipe the blood from her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she could make out the face of a young man smeared with vomit and blood. Jessica tried to look away, but her eyes were drawn to the morbid scene. He was bound in a seated position to a rusty iron chair. His left eye was swollen to the size of a softball, and purplish bruises covered his battered face. The man’s only good eye was dilated and black. Drool and clotted blood trickled out of the corner of his gaping mouth. Next to him stood a blonde man wearing an apron. There was something in his hand, but she couldn’t make it out. At first she thought he was a doctor, but she wasn’t sure. He was talking to the man in the chair, but the words were distorted. The man in the apron smiled, but the smile scared her.

A bright light blinded her, and she instinctively shielded her eyes with her hands.

Miss, are you all right? came a man’s voice from behind her.

Jessica blinked and tried to turn to look toward the voice. The smell of rancid body odor replaced the metallic scent of blood. The face was blurry. She focused on the sound of this voice as his foggy form slowly came into focus. The maintenance man was hunched over her with a strange look on his dirty face.

Confused, she twisted away, forcing herself to look back at the boy in the chair. He was gone. The blood was gone. She saw only her disheveled reflection in the apartment’s exterior glass door. Groceries were strewn around her.

The concrete step she lay sprawled upon was clean, no longer covered in blood and gore. Her hands were clean except for a small scratch on one knuckle that was starting to bleed. Her knee ached. She looked down for the source of the pain and noticed a tear in her scrub pants.

Those awful dreams were back—this time in broad daylight—and she wasn’t alone.

I’m … I’m fine, she stuttered, trying to stand.

Do you want me to call someone for you? The man grabbed her upper arms to help her up.

No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’m okay, she blurted, feeling her face flush. It’s been a long day, and I haven’t eaten anything. Low blood sugar, that’s all.

Jessica’s mind was racing. It was happening again—the fits. Quickly, she bent and started shoving her groceries into the half-empty bag that lay by her feet. The exertion set off another wave of dizziness as the vision yet again threatened to materialize within her head.

Are you sure you’re okay? said the man. Here, let me help you. I’ll get your things. He picked up the grocery sack.

I’m fine. Thank you, she squeaked, trying to fight back the demon still inside her head. Avoiding the man’s gaze, she recaptured the bag from his embrace. I don’t need any help, but thank you.

The maintenance man released the bag and used his key to unlock the main door. "At least let me