From the Author
Blood Red Winter is an atmospheric crime novel set in Central Texas. It will appeal to readers who love well-written murder mysteries and thrillers with realistic, complex characters, heart-pounding twists, and gripping plots that keep you on the edge of your seat.
From the Inside Flap
Alone, the footfalls of my work boots scatter the rocks on the rural road's shoulder in Georgetown, Texas, less than half a mile from Tim's unused property. After turning onto County Road 140, it only takes about five minutes until I can see the land. The rusty, barbed-wire fence lies largely disintegrated, and many of the cedar posts are gone, leaving the wire to trail the ground.
I push my feet into the dead grass near the fence and begin stepping carefully through the tangly underbrush. About a hundred feet of overgrown tract spans the distance between me and the house. To my back, the narrow, two-lane country road disappears around a turn, and on the other side, a barren cattle field stretches to the horizon. A bleak, colorless sky fills the space above the empty range, and a sharp wind penetrates my jacket.
There may have been a driveway at one time, but I can't see evidence of one. Dry, untended grass, wiry shrubs, and mesquite trees cover the entire yard. I've never seen a car parked outside. As I continue toward the house, I catch the scent of something vile. The smell irks me like the vague odor of a mostly rotted animal carcass that plumes up from a roadside ditch in a little wisp of misery. It makes me think of a dead deer.
As I approach the house, the faint smell grows slightly less faint. It never becomes strong. Whiffs of rotten air that tell of bloated sewage get into my nostrils and make my stomach writhe. I get another feeling in my stomach, too, an uneasiness, and I glance behind me at the lonely road and vacant cattle pasture. No one there. I keep going toward the house. Whatever I'm picking up has discernible components. Beneath the blanket stench of an open septic tank are human elements. Urine.
I trudge along to the remnants of a rocky path that leads to the covered porch. Its canopy bows in the middle with a defeated sag. Here and there, flakes of peeling white paint fleck the mostly gray, wooden two-story like old skin. The roof appears in the worst shape, but I can't find any holes from where I stand. The shutters might have been lavender once, but those remaining have turned emesis-basin pink.
On the ground near the porch, ashy patches of cactus skeletons lean into the planks, but the wood itself seems stable enough. I test it with my foot, then step up and try the door. I can't open it more than a few inches even though the scuffed Schlage deadbolt isn't locked. The door bangs into something behind it. I put my shoulder against the door, pressing my calloused hands against the old timber, and push, but the dresser or whatever blocks me on the other side isn't going anywhere. I decide to go around back. I can slip in through one of the broken windows, but I don't want to. Not yet.
Maybe a bum has been using this forsaken place as his regular campground. He isn't here now, nor is his evidence of drained whiskey bottles, but that doesn't mean someone hasn't been here or can't come back. My cynical side knows this idea seems out of place, though, even after Tim's concern about squatters. We don't get much of that in Georgetown, especially not out here. I scan the ground. I search the space near and around the house and head back into the yard. Nothing loiters here but dry grass, scattered rocks, cactus spines, and twigs. Where the hell is that smell coming from?
For the next half hour, I comb the property from one side to the other. If a dead doe or some other unfortunate creature is decomposing beneath the vegetation, I sure can't find it. I'm glad I looked, anyway. The weak winter light is fading rapidly, and I pull out my phone and check the hour. Almost 4:00 p.m. I'll check the house one more time and then call Tim back.
The sky starts to drizzle feebly. I return to the back of the structure and look for another door, finding one after a turn in the wall. It attaches to a small protrusion, like a mudroom. The odor swells strongest here--but still weakly. This door is locked. I breathe in that offensive odor again and wrinkle my nose, snorting to try and rid myself of it. I grab the brass doorknob once more and wiggle it before I press my shoulder against the door. I lean in and shove a little harder. As the wood starts to creak and groan, I let off. No need to split the door in half, especially since I'll be the one fixing it. I back away and go over to the nearest window. The glass is missing between three of the frames.
I squint and try to focus inside the dim space. I can't see much, but as I stick my nose in and take a good whiff, I nearly lose the contents of my stomach. Yeah, that's it--repulsive.
I stagger backward, cursing and trying not to puke. After gathering my shirt collar around my mouth and nose to stifle my coughing, I go back to the window to have a look inside. I pull my phone from my back pocket and turn on the flashlight feature.
My heart pounds so hard it shakes my whole body. I don't know what I expect to find. Before I shine the light inside the window, I try listening for anything. My hands are trembling, and my breath comes out in short puffs of mist in the cold air. There's no reason to think the abominable odor couldn't be from some critter that wandered in and died. A stray dog can make a stench like that, and rats and other vermin may be scuttling around the carcass, which I might be able to hear. I must know I'm lying to myself.
The room inside the window lies silent, still, and stagnant in that impenetrable darkness which my searching gaze can't pierce. The gloomy weather isn't helping. Any noises I do manage to catch are outside noises--the dried leaves in a live oak, the wind between bony cactus shrubs, the grass and gravel under my feet when I shift my weight.
With my adrenaline up, my eyes and ears strain furtively for whatever comes next. I try to rest my hand near the window to angle the light from my phone. A dried-up, cobweb-covered insect falls onto my fingers. I jerk my hand, but the dead bug sticks to my thumb, and I can't fling it off. I smear it onto my jeans and swear under my breath. Enough--I need to quit screwing off and look in that room.
Standing like a soldier, I aim the light into the room, into the black hole beyond the broken window. I watch the phone's glow illuminate the space on the other side of the wall. The beam floods the small room with light, revealing the most horrifying thing I have ever seen.
From the Back Cover
Other books in the Trent and Aria Mystery Thriller series, in order:
Her Unspoken Blood
Blood in Truth
Flesh and Blood
Blood Is Thicker
About the Author
J. writes because she loves the universal resonance of stories and the lessons they teach us about human nature. She thinks it's amazing that people from all over the world can relate to the fictional characters in books written by authors they've never met. It's something she never gets tired of creating for others or experiencing herself. When J.'s not dreaming up new problems to throw at her unsuspecting characters, she disappears on long walks, animal watches, or finds new books to read. She lives in the southern US with her brilliant husband and a cat who eats too many lizards.
J. loves hearing from her readers. Feel free to connect with her in the following ways:
Facebook at facebook.com/jconradfantasy/.
Twitter at @j_a_conrad.
Her website at jconradfantasy.com.
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