The Unhinged

by David Bernstein

  Aaron had been devastated when his father was killed. He hadn’t known the details involving the case—that his father was working with the police—until after the fact. He’d spent his life looking up to the man, only to find out that he was involved with drugs. His father may not have been a king pin, or even a regular pusher, but the man had involved himself in the drug life. Ruined their family. Aaron dealt with the issue while inside, realizing the best thing he could do was honor his father’s memory and start over with his mom. He came to understand that the man had made a mistake.

  Aaron continued along the weed-infested, crumbling asphalt, keeping an eye on the building’s windows, afraid he’d see the flash of a muzzle at any moment. The cop might be hidden within one of the darkened squares, positioned far enough back as to not be seen, peering though the scope of a high-powered rifle, ready to shoot him dead in his car.

  He drove across the parking lot, the yellow lines indicating spaces barely visible, and around to the back lot, a stretch of pavement that extended the length of the building. He stopped the car at the sight of the gray Impala. A lump formed in his throat, as if he’d swallowed a ping-pong ball. This was it. Live or die time. Nothing but the building on his left and hundreds of acres of forest off to his right. Not being able to see the road made him sweat; he’d never felt so vulnerable, alone.

  Past the cop’s car were four loading bays, the large steel doors closed. Shards of various colored glass—clear, brown and green—sparkled on the ground along the building. There was more graffiti too, the scribbles and drawings wrapping around the structure like wallpaper. A stack of burnt logs lay in front of the closest loading bay, most likely the remnants of a barn fire.

  Aaron glanced around, hoping the cop had come alone. He didn’t see anyone else, but that didn’t mean much. With more smashed-out windows along the rear of the building, any one of them could contain the cop’s partner. And then there were the woods. Aaron gave the tree line a quick glance, realizing the cop could have a small army hidden within it—aiming rifles at him—and he’d never know it.

  He shouldn’t have come. Demanded they meet publicly. He needed a drink, something strong. He bit his lip, letting the pain ground him. “You can do this,” he said softly to himself. “It’s almost over.”

  With the engine running, he exited the vehicle, remaining behind the door. He wanted a barrier of some kind between himself and the cop, and if he had to, he could reach the shotgun from there. Having the weapon with him made him feel slightly better, though if he had to use it, it most likely meant his doom. But at least the odds were a little more even.

  The Impala’s driver-side door opened and the cop stepped out. He was dressed in a suit and tie and was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Aaron wondered if he was a detective. He rested his right hand on his sidearm and stood in front of the open car door, clearly not afraid.

  Despite having the shotgun a foot away, Aaron’s heart pounded. He glanced around again, checking the windows for a shooter.

  “Don’t look so nervous, Aaron,” the cop said. “It’s just us friends.”

  “Why’d you do it?” Aaron asked. It hadn’t been the first thing he wanted to say, but his need to know the truth about the robbery was eating away at him. Until now, he’d simply wanted to get the whole money drop over with. Get in and out, quickly. But because of Hanna, he wanted the truth. Maybe knowledge of what really had happened would allow him to look at her without feeling as if his head would explode. Or maybe, someday, he could tell her the truth about what had happened, via anonymous letter or something. Anything to have a less complicated relationship with Hanna.

  “Do what?” the cop asked.

  “Why’d you kill…the liquor store owner?” Aaron asked, his voice cracking. He’d wanted to say Hanna’s uncle, but stopped himself. “I mean, I had the cash. There was no need for that. You said once I left, you’d call the cops.”

  “Now hold on a sec, kid,” the cop said, taking a step forward. Aaron flinched, ready to go for the shotgun. The cop stopped; must’ve sensed something. “I didn’t kill anyone last night. I heard about what happened and thought you’d lost it.”

  “Bullshit,” Aaron said. “You might not have killed him, but you’re responsible. Hired someone to off him.”

  The cop smiled. “What someone else might’ve done, what you might’ve done, was out of my hands. I was waiting for you up by the trestle.”

  Aaron wasn’t going to get anywhere with the guy, and the longer he stayed there, the more likely he was to wind up with his head missing too.

  “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

  “Good, moving on. I like that. Bring me the money, then you get in your car and leave.”

  It couldn’t be that simple. Aaron was a loose end. The cop had no reason to keep him alive. He could only bring trouble for the man.

  Keeping his eyes focused on the cop, Aaron backpedaled to the Camaro’s bumper, opened the trunk with the trunk key and retrieved the cash, then closed the lid and walked back behind the car door. “It’s all here,” he said, holding up the bag, and then let it fall to the ground.

  “You dropped something,” the cop said.

  “This is as far as I’m going.”

  “How much is there?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know. It’s everything that was in the safe.”

  “If you had to guess.”

  “I’m not playing this game. I didn’t take any of the cash. We’re done.” Aaron climbed into the car, closed the door and reversed until he was clear of the building, then slid the gearshift into drive and drove off, watching the cop until his view of the bastard was cut off.

  He drove home, only stopping to pick up a case of beer. As soon as he entered the kitchen, he shoved the twelve-pack into the fridge, returned the shotgun to his mother’s closet. Then he went back to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of brew from the already opened twelve-pack he’d purchased the other day—a few bottles were left over—and finished the contents in seconds. His nerves were fried; he needed to get drunk.

  He plopped down in front of the television, a few beers on the table in front of him, extra medication at the ready so he didn’t have to get up any time soon.

  After flipping through the channels and finding nothing he cared to watch, a nice buzz coming on, he decided to call Hanna before he got wasted. He received her voicemail and left a message, letting her know to take her time, that he was sorry for her loss, and if there was anything she needed to just call.

  He slowed the drinking down by the time he finished his third beer, feeling much better. He was done with the cop. At least he told himself he was, but deep down, he didn’t believe it.

  Aaron couldn’t lie to himself. Loose ends were never truly free, always looking over their shoulders. He hadn’t seen the cop kill Hanna’s uncle, didn’t even know the man’s name, but he knew enough to cause trouble for the fucker. The truth was, he’d only really be done with the cop if he ran or moved far away, or if the cop died.

  He sank back into the couch, holding a bottle of warming, yet still on the cool side, beer. He was so fucked. He’d have to be careful wherever he went. The cop knew where he lived, so he’d have to make sure the doors and windows were always locked. Maybe even get an alarm system installed.

  He wished he had someone to confide in. Keeping everything to himself was driving him mad.

  He thought about killing the cop. Murder was an option, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to go through with it. He wasn’t a killer, at least not yet. It wasn’t like the world would miss the cop, and in fact, it would be a safer, better place with him in the ground. He was an evil fuck who took advantage of people, and had most likely killed Hanna’s uncle, which also meant he had most likely killed other people too, or had an accomplice who did the killing.

  Aaron needed to do something to get the co
p off his tail for good, but without resorting to murder.

  He downed another beer, deciding to hell with not getting drunk, hoping his wasted mind might come up with an answer to his problem.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aaron awoke to the incessant buzzing of his alarm clock. Even with the alcohol he’d consumed, he managed little sleep, tossing and turning. He should’ve gotten drunk on hard liquor, that way he’d have been knocked out for sure.

  Exhausted, he decided to call in to work. Mike wasn’t happy, asking him who was going to cover his shift. Aaron was too tired to care. He apologized, and lied about having a terrible stomach flu. With all the vomiting he’d been doing lately, the lie was easy to tell. He fell back asleep in seconds, but was awoken a few minutes later by his mother.

  “You’re going to be late,” she said, the light from the hallway piercing Aaron’s dehydrated brain like thousands of mini needles.

  “I’m not going in today,” he said, turning over to hide his eyes from the light.

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Sick. Just need to sleep it off.”

  His mother scoffed. “Sick, huh? Could it be the twelve-pack of beer you drank last night?”

  “Mom,” he whined. “Please.”

  “All right,” she said, her tone disapproving. “I’m going in early again. Have a good day.”

  The room darkened and he heard the door close. He was able to relax again, quickly falling back to sleep.

  Aaron awoke a few minutes before noon. He stretched, feeling refreshed, but a little dehydrated, having forgotten to guzzle water during the night when he got up to pee.

  His thoughts immediately fell to the cop. Then to Hanna. It seemed as if the two people were connected, Aaron unable to think about one for long without the other popping up.

  He checked his phone. There were no missed calls.

  Thankful the cop hadn’t called, but disappointed Hanna hadn’t either, he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to relieve his bladder.

  Standing over the toilet, he couldn’t believe everything that had happened, from hitting it off with Hanna, to robbing her uncle, to finding out the man was murdered, and finally, to delivering the cash and making it out alive. Of all the things, Hanna’s uncle’s death affected him the most, as if a lead blanket of guilt had been flung over him and couldn’t be removed.

  How was he supposed to have a relationship with Hanna, knowing what he knew? He wondered if they did wind up together, if he’d be able to tolerate the guilt. He could never tell her the truth, and that might one day be the end of them. She wouldn’t understand, would see him as a bastard. She’d hate him.

  Aaron jiggled his penis, getting the last drops into the toilet, then flushed.

  He washed his hands in the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, feeling silly, like a schoolboy with a crush and a dream. He was planning on Hanna and him being together, even imagining them getting married one day. How ridiculous. He laughed, guessing this was the stuff he missed out on in high school, having gotten laid in drunken and high states, never having been in love.

  He longed for things to work out with Hanna.

  His past was the past. He’d had to learn this concept while in prison. He didn’t forget anything about the past, but he could forgive himself and move on, having learned from it. He was forced into the situation with the cop, like a man who robs a bank because his family is being held at gunpoint. If he’d known the cop was a killer, he never would have gone along with him. In his position, or status, in life, he was going to have to do things he didn’t want to do, just like people in the position of power were able to buy and do things they wanted to do. He couldn’t keep beating himself up over Hanna’s uncle. Nothing positive was going to come from it.

  Besides knowing how difficult it would be to be in a relationship with her, he needed to concentrate on Aaron, needed to get off parole and make something of himself. Go to college and get a good-paying, respectable job. Come Monday, he decided, he was going down to the community college to take a look at some courses.

  After a shower, Aaron went into the kitchen and saw the recycling bin full of empty bottles and cans. A putrid odor of rotting food filled the air, and he saw that the garbage can was overflowing. His mother usually took it with her on her way out the door, but she’d obviously left it for him to deal with, since he took the day off, he guessed.

  He tied up the trash, needing the kitchen free of the stink, and nearly tripped over a small cardboard box—the size of a red brick—on his way out of the house. The words For Aaron were written across the top in black marker. He looked across the street, then stepped outside, glanced up and down the road as far as he could see.

  Turning around, he faced the small package, a sensation of doom befalling him. He nudged the item with his foot. Then against his better judgment, he picked it up. It felt empty. It had to be from the cop. A going-away present? A little cash from the robbery? A finger—whose, he had no idea? The only way to know was to open it.

  He carried the box inside, grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer and sat at the table. What if he simply ignored it? Put the box in the trash and never opened it. If he didn’t know what was inside, then maybe it couldn’t hurt him.

  Aaron stood, the chair sliding back. He walked to the sink and stared into the backyard. Damn, his anxiety was running high again, the lump back in his throat, his stomach feeling queasy. He wasn’t sure not looking in the box was such a good idea either. If he opened it, he could prepare against whatever it was or what was coming.

  It might not even be from the cop.

  Maybe his mother had left it for him, a reward for taking out the trash. Yeah, that’s it, stupid, he heard the little man in his head say.

  He returned to the table and took a seat, picked up the scissors and sliced the line of tape holding the flaps together. After a deep breath, he opened the box. The interior was filled with a blue spongy material, and in the center was a rectangular cutout, holding a USB flash drive. There was no writing on the drive, no written or typed note waiting.

  The mystery continues, Aaron thought, then stood and went into his bedroom. He powered on his laptop, the SSD drive loading the operating system in seconds, then plugged in the USB device.

  Opening the drive, he found a single video file. Moving the cursor over it, he paused, wondering if, as a last annoying act, the cop had sent him a virus, something to ruin his computer or steal everything on it. He doubted the man would do something so petty, but he scanned the drive with the virus/malware/phishing software installed on the computer. The process took a few seconds, the report showing nothing ominous found.

  He wondered what he was going to see, only able to come up with one thing—the video of Hanna’s uncle being killed. Aaron’s palms grew sweaty. He wiped them on his thighs, then clicked on the file.

  The video player popped up. A triangle sat within a circle in the center of the screen. He clicked on the image and the video started.

  He saw a line of vehicles parked along the side of a street, his Camaro among them, storefronts in the background. Then a figure appeared from his car, and he knew it was him, though he couldn’t make out the details. The camera zoomed in as he went to the trunk, his face clearly visible now. Aaron’s throat tightened. The video was of the night he robbed the liquor store. He watched himself walk down the sidewalk, the details of his face HD quality when he passed under a light. Outside the store, he slipped on a ski mask and went inside.

  The scene remained the same, the cameraman keeping the camera on the store. Aaron couldn’t move, his mind replaying what was happening inside the place. His breathing came in short gasps, his body racked with panic. Like watching a movie he already knew the outcome of, he hoped for something different to happen, but knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  He forwarded the video until he emerged fr
om the business’s door, then let it play at normal speed as he headed to his car. After he drove away, the camera zoomed in on the car’s license plate, getting a clear shot of it before the video ended.

  Aaron clicked the video player off, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  The cop had set him up to go down for the murder of Hanna’s uncle, and if he somehow managed to skirt that charge, he was going down for the robbery. But what jury wouldn’t put the whole thing on him? The cop had him, and at any time the authorities could come crashing through the door and arrest him.

  So why send him the video?

  The answer was simple: the cop wanted something more serious than a speeding ticket to hold over Aaron’s head. Aaron would be the pig’s servant forever, doing anything the man wanted. A small part of him hoped the video was just for insurance, to keep Aaron in check in case he was ever arrested and felt like talking, giving up a dirty cop for a reduced sentence, but he doubted a man like the cop would make a video for that reason.

  Opening his eyes, Aaron pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and set it in front of him. The cop had been watching the house, waiting for him to leave and pick up the box. It was only a matter of time before the bastard called.

  Time crawled.

  The cop was letting him sweat.

  Minutes became hours. His phone didn’t ring.

  Maybe the cop hadn’t been watching, just dropped it off on his way to work, or maybe he had someone else drop it off, someone he blackmailed into helping him, like Aaron.

  If the cops were on the way, he’d be arrested. Never see the outside of prison again. Hanna would hate him. His mother would be crushed, her only son, a murderer. No one would believe his story about a dirty cop.

  Full of rage, Aaron jumped up, his legs stiff from sitting so long. The chair flew back and tumbled to the floor. He stared at the ceiling and screamed, then slammed the desktop with his fists. The faux wood cracked and the coffee mug resting near the edge fell to the floor. The light blue carpeting soaked up the quarter cup of two-day-old coffee.