The Unhinged

by David Bernstein

  He followed the old man into an office. Faded posters of various liquors took up the wall space. Empty bottles sat in bins along the floor. A filing cabinet that had seen better days rested in the corner. Behind a large, metal desk and chair was the painting of Bourbon Street, just like the cop had said.

  The old man headed for a safe next to the filing cabinet.

  “Not that one, old man,” Aaron said. “The one behind the painting on the wall.”

  The old man grumbled something under his breath, then shuffled around the desk to the painting. He pulled on one side of it, and the painting opening like a door, the safe revealed.

  Aaron stood behind and to the left of the old man. “No funny business, got it?”

  “I got it,” the old man said, working the dial.

  “We can both walk away in one piece. The cops will come when I’m long gone; you make a report, and then let the insurance do the rest.” Aaron had no idea if that was true. For all he knew, the cash in the safe was mob money, or unreported earnings.

  The old man finished turning the knob. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, blocking Aaron’s view of the interior. “Careful,” he said, then tossed the duffel bag onto the desk. “Fill it.”

  The old man positioned the chair to his right, then placed the bag on it and reached into the safe. He withdrew a stack of twenty-dollar bills and dropped it into the bag, repeating the process, one bundle at a time.

  “Faster,” Aaron said, guessing each stack was a thousand dollars.

  The old man continued at his current pace. Aaron counted ten stacks before the man stopped. “Is that enough?”

  “I want all of it.”

  “You’re going to leave me with nothing. I’ll be broke.”

  Aaron cocked the hammer back, the click echoing in the quiet room. “I don’t need you anymore, old man, so don’t make me shoot you.”

  Ten more bundles were taken out of the safe and placed into the bag. Aaron told the old man to move aside so he could make sure the safe was empty. The guy zipped up the bag and placed it on the desk.

  “There,” he said, head hung low.

  Keeping the gun trained on the old man, Aaron picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Take it and go,” the old man said. He sat in the chair and pulled himself to the desk, rested his elbows on it and sighed, looking defeated.

  Aaron ripped the telephone cord from the phone on the desk. “You have a cell phone?”

  “It’s out front, by the register.”

  Aaron glanced around the room. “Where’s the security tape?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “I saw a camera out front.”

  “Fake. You can look. You’ll see there’s no red lights glowing from it.”

  Aaron didn’t want to waste time threatening the old man again. He was wearing a mask and didn’t see any recording equipment in the office.

  “I’m supposed to tie you up, but I won’t,” he said. “Count to one hundred before you poke your head out of this room.”

  “Got it.”

  Aaron turned to leave and heard movement. Spinning around, he saw a blur coming toward him and managed to get his arm up and block the attack. The impact was hard, his shoulder exploding in pain. He cried out as the gun left his grasp.

  The old man had hit him with a baseball bat and was gearing up to hit him again, this time with a home run swing. Aaron lost his balance, fell back and crashed to the floor, the bat just missing his nose.

  “I’ll kill you, you little turd,” the old man grunted as he hefted the bat over his head.

  The bat came down. Aaron rolled left, his arm slipping free from the bag’s strap. The lumber glanced off his other shoulder. The blow stung, sending a bolt of electric-like pain across his collarbone and into his skull.

  The old man hoisted the bat again, teeth bared like a vicious beast hungry for flesh. Aaron saw the gun resting on the floor a few inches from his feet. He brought his leg back and kicked the old man’s right ankle as hard as he could. The liquor store owner cried out and lost his balance. The bat came down weakly. Aaron was able to catch it and yank it free. He tossed it aside and sat up.

  The old man righted himself, then looked down and saw the gun. His eyes went wide and he bent to grab it. Aaron sprang into a crabwalk position and shot his right foot forward, connecting with the top of the man’s head. The old man flew backward, landing on his ass a few feet away. Aaron scrambled forward and snatched up the gun, then pointed it at the old man, who was getting to his feet.

  Breathing heavy, his arm throbbing from the first blow, Aaron said, “You’re one tough son of a bitch.”

  The old man stood hunched over, hands on his knees.

  Aaron had seen enough. He motioned the guy to the chair using the gun, then duct taped him to it, wrapping silver strips around the man’s chest, arms and legs.

  “I’ll find you,” the old man promised. “You’re dead. You hear me? Dead.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Aaron said. “I’m the one holding the gun. Do you want to die?”

  “You ain’t no killer,” the old man said. “I should’ve smashed a bottle over your head when I had the chance.”

  Aaron shook his head in disbelief. He picked up the duffel bag, unzipped it, tossed the gun inside, then left the room, hearing the old man cursing him as went.

  At the front door, he peered through the glass, making sure no one was outside, then cracked the door open and checked the sidewalk in both directions. No one was around, so he exited the store and walked casually down the sidewalk.

  Passing by Pawfect Pet Grooming, he saw his reflection in the darkened glass and realized he was still wearing the ski mask. He yanked it off, shoved it into his right pocket, managing to get half of it in, then hurried down the sidewalk to his car.

  He opened the trunk and tossed the duffel bag and ski mask inside, then hopped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and took off, driving the speed limit.

  Halfway home, his body was crashing, the adrenaline wearing off, the nerves settling in. Feeling nauseous, he pulled over, opened the door and vomited. He sat back in the seat, breathed and then drove home, feeling a little better.

  As soon as he pulled into the driveway, he shut the car off and took a few sips of the whiskey. He got out, opened the trunk, put the ski mask in the bag, then grabbed the money and went to his room, grateful his mother wasn’t home.

  Inside, he paced his room and wondered what to do next. He was exhausted, yet he couldn’t sit. His phone beeped, letting him know it needed to be charged. He plugged it in.

  Aaron knew the cop was going to be pissed. Screw the fucker, he thought. He’d needed to get home, get someplace he felt safe. When the cop called, he’d deal with him then. The important thing was he had the man’s money.

  “Okay, Aaron,” he said aloud. “First thing’s first. You need to get rid of the gun, ski mask and your clothes.” He ran and got a large garbage bag, then stripped off his clothes—including his underwear, socks and shoes—tossing them all into the plastic bag. He added the ski mask and gun next, then took a hot shower and scrubbed himself clean. A bruise was purpling on his upper arm, the flesh tender, but it was nothing to worry about.

  Back in his room, he dressed in new clothes and slung the garbage bag over his shoulder. He went outside to the backyard where the burn barrel was located, taking a book of matches from one of the kitchen drawers on his way.

  He emptied the garbage bag’s contents—save the .357, which he shoved into the waistband of his pants—into the barrel. The receptacle was old, rusted, but had held up over time, used to incinerate leaves, twigs and household trash.

  Next, Aaron went into the shed and retrieved the five-gallon gasoline can and poured about half a gallon’s worth of gas over the items. H
e struck a match and dropped it into the barrel, then stood back.

  Flames burst to life, roaring up and over the lip of the steel container, licking the air like hundreds of serpents’ tongues. Eventually the fire settled down, the gasoline having burned off. His clothes had become nothing more than ash and smoke. If someone had seen him during the robbery and described what he was wearing, the cops wouldn’t find those items. Nor would they find any of the old man’s DNA on him. A hair or string of saliva could have found its way onto his clothes, so burning everything was the best way to be sure.

  He found a few downed tree branches and logs and added them to the fire, needing to make sure there was nothing left to identify. He thought about tossing the duffel bag inside too, a big fuck you to the cop, but it was only a thought. He needed that son of a bitch off his ass and out of his life.

  Letting the fire burn, he went back inside, hid the duffel bag in the attic, then grabbed a flashlight and headed back outside and into the woods.

  The gloom was thick, the foliage overhead dense in most places, but a small amount of moonlight managed to get through. He used the flashlight anyway, not wanting to break an ankle by misstepping on a large branch or into a hole. He probably could have navigated the woods without the flashlight, having played in them for hours at a time since he was a child, but there was no point risking injury.

  He headed east and eventually found the hiking trail that started at Pike’s Lodge and wound into the forest and back around. But there were numerous other trails that branched off of the main one, unofficial paths that led to clearings where kids threw parties rode their dirt bikes or four-wheelers, or simply wanted to head deeper into the forest for whatever reason came about.

  Aaron walked about a quarter mile down the main trail before he came to Hubert’s Lake. The large watering hole had a small beach area where the grass was kept short in the summer and spring. A few picnic tables were scattered about next to grills.

  He stood at the water’s edge, opened the revolver’s cylinder and dumped the bullets into the palm of his hand. Moonlight glinted off the copper shells as if they were made of gold, the heads the complete opposite, dull and gray, ugly. They were so small, so meaningless without a partner, without the gun, just like the gun itself—a harmless tool without the bullets. But together, they made a deadly combination, partners in crime.

  Without another thought, he tossed the bullets into the lake, along with the gun. Now the only evidence left was the money. He took a seat on the ground, then lay back and stared at the star-filled sky. The sounds of frogs croaking and crickets chirping kept the silence at bay. Normally, he loved that sound, only realizing how much so after being locked up for so long, but tonight he could not enjoy it. His life was all fucked up. Peace would not find him until he got things in order. Until he got rid of the cop.

  With no peace to be found, he stood and headed home, wondering why the cop hadn’t called, then he realized he’d left his phone at home.

  Unplugging his cell phone from the charger, Aaron saw that he had three missed calls, all private. Without a number to dial back, he kept the cell phone on him and watched TV in the living room. He avoided anything with guns or violence, not able to stomach such shows after today, and settled on a nature documentary about grizzly bears.

  His mind drifted to the robbery and how damn lucky he had been that no one had gotten hurt. He’d shot a gun for fuck’s sake. The bullet could’ve ricocheted. The old man could’ve had a heart attack. The old man could’ve nailed him in the head with the bat, caused brain damage, gotten him arrested or worse, killed him. Thinking about the possibilities made him shiver, and he grew angry with himself.

  “Never again,” he said. “Never a-fucking-gain.”

  He wished he could pass out and have a few hours of peace, but the realization that his car was loaded with illegal narcotics struck him like he’d stuck his finger in an outlet. He needed to check his car.

  He headed outside and searched the vehicle completely, starting with the trunk—including the spare tire—then checking inside the bumpers, the wheel wells and the engine, and lifting out the seats. He found nothing and knew the cop had been lying. It didn’t mean the asshole couldn’t plant drugs on him at any time, but at least his car was clean.

  Chapter Eight

  The man with the scar exited the beat-up 1978 Eldorado. It had taken him thirty minutes to arrive in Harriman. The Cadillac had been his since the day he’d stolen it off the delivery rig, back when he did such things. He was a young man, then, running with a crew that stole cars and robbed the occasional bank. Now, he was wiser, older, but still strong and full of vigor, especially for a forty-five-year-old man. He stood 5´9˝ tall and was built like a tank, all muscle and sinew and mean, besting men much larger than he over the years.

  This was not only because of his strength or the numerous fights he’d been in since the age of twelve, but because of his determination to conquer, to win. He had always been a little different, even at a young age. He was timid, afraid, liked to play by himself, didn’t have many friends. But the day after his twelfth birthday when Jimmy Aslow, a kid at school, beat him up, his life changed. He ran home crying and was still doing so when his father came home drunk, again, and asked him about his fat lip and black eye and why was he sobbing like a little girl.

  “Some kid beat me up at school,” he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  “Who?” his father asked, grabbing another beer from the fridge.

  “A kid in my class.”

  “A kid? As in one?” His father popped the top off the beer and took a swig. The cap hit the worn linoleum floor and rolled under the fridge. “Was he bigger than you?”

  “Yeah, most kids are, but he’s the biggest kid in our class.”

  His father stared at him, lips pursed, eyes red and glaring. “Pathetic.”

  “I…I…” he stuttered, growing nervous.

  “I…I…” his father said, mimicking him. “How many times are you going to let these kids push you around? They all know you’re a pussy. An easy mark. You got to stand up for yourself. Put a real hurt on one of them, or all of them. Whatever it takes.”

  “I can’t. I’m—”

  His father grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close and head-butted him. The boy cried out and fell to the floor.

  “You see, you little shit,” his father said, leaning over him. “You’re a pussy, crying out like that, like a little girl.” The boy’s father kicked the lad in the stomach as he attempted to get up.

  “You’re no son of mine,” his father said, then yanked him to his feet by his hair. Tears streamed down the boy’s face. He tried not to cry, but he couldn’t help it. His father backhanded him, sending him across the room. The man was on him in seconds. The boy tried to scurry away, but his father had him by the throat. “You little shit. You’re lucky your momma’s dead, boy; she’d be so disappointed in you.”

  His father threw him into the wall. The shelves with encyclopedias on them came loose and crumbled onto the stereo below. “Look what you did,” his father roared, then downed the rest of his beer, spittle dripping from his lips like a dog with rabies. The man smashed the bottle against the coffee table, leaving a piece of jutted glass in his hand, then hauled the wailing kid to his feet and slashed his face.

  The boy screamed, his face burning with pain. He covered the wound up, feeling his warm blood oozing over his flesh, then took his hands away and saw the glistening red and thought he was dying. The horror was short-lived, though, as his father’s fist connected with his face, knocking him out cold.

  The boy awoke sometime later, his face throbbing with a burning pain, like the time his father held his mother’s curling iron to his stomach, only this agony reached into his brain with ripping claws of fire. His father said he’d fixed the wound, then shoved some pills down his throat, which took away the pain
and made him feel like he was in a dream.

  Four days later, no longer taking the pain pills, he was able to walk on his own without falling and checked himself out in the mirror above the bathroom sink. His mouth fell open at the sight. He was a monster. Hideous. He touched a part of the gash, now crudely closed with stitches, his father’s drunken work, he knew. The first thing he thought of were the kids at school and how they’d make fun of him. He could never go back, never leave the house again. He sank to the floor in disbelief, leaned against the tub, numb. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. He didn’t know why he couldn’t cry, why he felt rage instead. Rage at his dad? No. He felt rage at Jimmy, and at the other kids who were going to make fun of him. His dad had cured him. Made him a man. He was now tougher and would wear his scar proudly. It was a gift from his father. No one would pity him. He would be the boy with the scar. Crying was for the weak. For girls. Men were tough. Men didn’t cry.

  The following week, he took a rock and bashed Jimmy Aslow in the nose, obliterating it. He was suspended from school, and when he told his father why, the man smiled proudly and rubbed him on the head.

  “That’s my boy,” he said, then gave him his first beer and took him out for ice cream.

  From that point on, the boy never cried again. He made a name for himself around town, and wound up serving a couple years in a juvenile detention center, but that only made him tougher and increased his need to be mean. Those types of places may have helped kids with opportunities waiting for them when they got out, but for kids like him, they were only a precursor to prison.

  He took shit from no one, getting into numerous fights wherever he went. His reputation grew, and people knew not to mess with the kid with the scar.

  At the age of nineteen, he’d been convicted of assault and battery and served time in prison. Not familiar with how things worked on the inside, he antagonized guards—trying to prove his toughness and disregard for authority—and got into fights with inmates. But one day, he beat up the wrong person—the nephew of one of the most notorious inmates the prison held. For his mistake, he was held down by a group of men—two prison guards included—and viciously gang-raped for hours. His asshole needed to be surgically repaired and was never the same again.