The Unhinged

by David Bernstein

  He closed the refrigerator door and his cell phone rang. Seeing it was his mom, he answered.

  “Is he coming back?” Aaron asked, heart beating faster.

  “No,” his mother said. “I’m outside. Let me in.”

  “What?” Aaron gasped.

  “I’m right outside the door. Let me in. Barbara’s watching the road for us.”

  “Barbara is doing what?”

  “Just let me in,” she demanded and hung up.

  Aaron went to the front door and let his mom in.

  “I can’t believe you involved Barbara,” he said. “What were you thinking?”

  “I told her about the cop. I had to. She was all in for helping us. She’s a great friend. And I couldn’t let you do this alone. We’ll be able to search faster now.”

  “Mom…” he said.

  “She’s solid and wants badly to see him pay for what he did. She’s just sitting at the end of the road. If she sees him, she’ll call me. Besides, the cop won’t recognize her car, but mine, he might.” She handed him a pair of black leather gloves. “Can’t have you leaving fingerprints.”

  “Thanks. I was just wishing I had a pair,” he said and slid them on. His mother was already wearing a set. He smiled and she smiled back, a moment of understanding silence between the two. “You did good, Mom.”

  “I just want this fucker to pay for what he did to you,” she said, teary-eyed.

  “And I want him to pay for what he did to you,” Aaron said and the two hugged for a moment. “Let’s get started, we don’t know how much time we’ll have.”

  They searched the living room, not finding much to search through save a cabinet containing remotes, a gaming system and DVD movies. The room was spotless, not a speck of dust to be found.

  Next, they headed upstairs to the bedrooms. The first room they entered appeared to be a boy’s room. Posters of various cartoon characters hung on the walls. A few Little League trophies sat on a desk with a computer. There was a box of Legos next to the bed. After checking the desk’s drawers and the closet, finding sports equipment, clothes and sneakers, they headed into another room.

  A pink-and-purple-sheeted bunk bed sat against the right wall. Opposite was a long, natural wood-colored bureau. Along the top were pictures of two girls posing together. From right to left, the framed photos showed an age progression, from youths of about four years old to what Aaron guessed were teenagers, but the older girls’ faces were partially obstructed by their long flowing hair and sunglasses. Along part of the wall were more framed pictures of the girls at a young age posing with the cop, laughing, smiling, looking happy. Aaron’s skin crawled. If they only knew the truth, he thought. The girls’ room was spotless, just like the rest of the house, causing Aaron to wonder if the place was more a model home than a lived-in one.

  Searching, finding nothing of interest, they moved on to the next room. Aaron presumed it was a guest bedroom. There was no furniture save a twin bed in the corner. The closet had a few pairs of shoes, coats and nothing else.

  Finally, they made it to the master bedroom. A king-sized bed with a jet-black bedspread jutted from the wall. There wasn’t a crease on it. Above the headboard was a large painting of a man dressed in black. He had horns protruding from his head and was holding a sickle in the shape of a question mark. Flames danced around him.

  Aaron saw the cop in true form in the painting, a sense of dread falling over him and creeping into his heart. He turned away, no longer wishing to look at the piece.

  “Creepy,” his mom said.

  “Yeah.”

  Like the other rooms, the master bedroom appeared tidy and clean. Aaron opened dresser drawers while his mother went through the walk-in closet. He sifted through shirts, pants and underwear, finding nothing but those items, not even a porn magazine. Having finished searching the second dresser, he slammed the last drawer closed.

  “I give up,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Find anything?”

  “I don’t think our man’s a cop,” she said from inside the closet.

  “Why?”

  “Come here.”

  Kelly was holding up two uniforms; one a cable repairman’s, another a mailman’s. She showed him other uniforms that were on hangers, including a fireman’s heavy outfit.

  “He’s a fraud,” Aaron said, shaking his head. “A chameleon.”

  His mother nodded, then hung the outfits back up. “Now we know he isn’t a cop and we don’t have to fear him in that manner anymore.”

  “We need to keep searching. There’s nothing illegal about these outfits. It’ll get us nothing, but at least we have a better idea who we’re dealing with.”

  Aaron went back into the bedroom and checked under the bed. He lifted the mattress, making sure to flatten the comforter out so it looked perfect. Standing, he said, “I guess it’s time we hit the basement.”

  His mother emerged from the closet holding a shoebox-sized lockbox. “Found this, but it’s locked. He’s probably got the key on him.”

  “Is it heavy?”

  “Not really. Feels like papers inside.”

  Aaron felt a twinge of excitement. The stuff inside was probably just documents, insurance papers, a deed, but he had to open it. “He probably does have the key on him, but I’d bet he has a backup here too. These things always come with two keys.”

  “I’ll search the closet, check above the doorframe and in the clothes’ pockets.”

  “Okay, I’ll search the bedroom.”

  Aaron checked the nightstand—both inside and out—and behind the flat screen on the wall, coming away with nothing, not even dust.

  Standing in the center of the room, he looked at the painting above the bed—the thing he’d been avoiding. A chill shot down his spine. The devil-man’s eyes seemed to bore into him. He shook his head and approached the painting. Gently, he pulled it away from the wall and felt along the inner lip of the frame. Nothing. Then he fingered the corner and felt something rigid and slid it into his palm.

  The small key gleamed like a jewel.

  “I think I found it,” he said, and sat on the carpeted floor, the lockbox in front of him. His mom came from the closet and plopped down next to him. He stuck the key into the keyhole and turned it. The lock disengaged. He opened the lid and his mouth dropped open. His mom gasped. “We hit the jackpot.”

  “Holy shit…” his mom muttered.

  Stacks of pictures—both Polaroids and traditionally developed—were inside, along with a number of USB flash drives bundled together with a rubber band. Aaron picked up a stack of photos and leafed through them. They were all of one woman. Written on the back of the first picture was Samantha 2/11/1995. It was a close-up of the young woman’s face, mascara running down her cheeks, eyes red from crying. The next photograph had a knife pressed to her throat—panic in her eyes, lips a frown. Another showed a trickle of blood leaking from one nostril. As they continued to go through the shots, the pictures became more disturbing. She was blindfolded. The picture was taken from afar, her entire body in view. She appeared to be on a small stage. In other photos, she was gagged, naked, wearing leather, while in others she was bleeding from cuts along her arms, legs and stomach. The pictures obviously spanned a length of time, the girl’s body looking more fragile and skeletal with each one. Kyle posed with the woman in some of the pictures, holding knives, saws and other tools to her nipples, throat and stomach. Then the man with the scar appeared in the photos. Kelly shivered and looked away. The man with the scar was beating the woman named Samantha. In the next photo he was raping her.

  Aaron didn’t know how much more he could take, but he continued sifting through the pictures. He needed to see the monsters he was dealing with. Samantha’s condition worsened; the look in her eyes was of a person who had lost hope. Aaron had seen this look on men in prison—the ones who had n
o backbone and let others have their way with them.

  The black and blue bruising and the gashes and cuts along Samantha’s skin multiplied. Her head was shaved, nails poking from around her skull. When Aaron neared the final photographs, he fought hard not to vomit. Samantha’s arms and legs had been removed, the stumps sewn closed. Her eyes were open, showing that she was alive and aware. Another photograph revealed her vagina, the slit sewn closed. Her breasts were mangled pieces of meat, appearing as if a dog had been gnawing on them. She had no nipples, the pointy protrusions now bloody sores.

  Aaron hesitated before moving to the next picture, afraid he’d see the girl dead, but it was far worse. The man with the scar was raping her from behind, her face turned toward the camera, eyes seeming to stare into some distant void.

  His mother rose and staggered to the bed. Her face looked like it had aged ten years. Aaron put the pictures back in the box and shut the lid, then locked it with the key. He’d seen more than enough.

  “Sorry you had to see that, Mom,” he told her, wishing he’d made her sit on the bed sooner.

  “They both need to die,” she said, wiping tears from her cheek with a shaky hand.

  “We’ve got that phony cop by his balls. He’s finished. And I’m sure it won’t be hard to find his scar-faced friend.”

  “I know. It’s just…I want him to suffer for what he did. Die a painful death. But I also know we need to stick to the plan. Public humiliation for the cop—or whatever the hell he is. I hope prison eats him alive. But the other monster…that scar-faced prick. He gets death.”

  “Yeah, the scar-faced man doesn’t get to see the inside of a prison cell. But the phony cop does. Prison will be far better than putting a bullet into his skull. I’ll make sure he suffers. I’ll get in touch with my pal, Big Bear. One visit from him and the cop will wish we had killed him.”

  Aaron stared at the lockbox in front of him. There had to be at least twenty stacks of pictures, each rubber-banded bundle a different woman. Then there were the USB drives, and he could only imagine how many more victims’ pictures and videos were on them.

  Feeling like he’d won the war, Aaron grabbed the lockbox and got to his feet. “We’ve got what we came for.”

  His mother looked at him. She shook her head. “We need more. We need to keep searching this place. We have to search the basement. Whackos always hide things in the basement.”

  They quickly made their way downstairs and found the basement door. As he was about to open it, his mother stopped him.

  “Wait,” she said. “We should have some kind of weapon, just in case.”

  Aaron agreed and retrieved two steak knives from the kitchen.

  “Weapons,” he said, handing a knife to his mom. Then he remembered something. “Shit, I forgot the baseball bat in the bedroom. I’ll be right—”

  Aaron’s words died at the sound of the front door locks disengaging.

  “He’s home,” his mom said, eyes wide.

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know,” his mom said. “Maybe Barbara didn’t see him. We need to hide.”

  There was no way they’d make it out the back. Aaron flung the basement door open. Stairs disappeared into complete darkness. He didn’t want to flip on the light, but he couldn’t risk either of them taking a spill down the stairs.

  He flipped up the light switch and hurried down, his mom in tow.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Aaron froze. His brain needed a moment to process what he was seeing. A young girl, maybe fifteen to seventeen years of age, was on the floor. Duct tape covered her mouth. She had long blonde hair and was wearing red shorts and a tight black T-shirt. Her arms and legs were positioned around one of the house’s support beams—wrists and ankles taped together. She stiffened at seeing him. Her eyes went wide. She tried standing, but fell back to the floor. She tugged on her bonds and was trying to say something, but all Aaron heard were muffled words. Her face was wet from crying, but she didn’t appear to be hurt—her face, arms and legs unmarked.

  “Shhh,” Aaron said, putting a finger to his lips. “You need to be quiet.” He pointed upwards. “He’s back.”

  The girl continued to jostle around and make noise.

  “He’s going to hear her,” Kelly said.

  “She’s scared. Nothing we can do but hide.”

  Aaron looked around the basement. The place was one large room. There were no windows, but there was a door with three deadbolts on it in the back corner. A bright red couch with a matching recliner to either side of it sat in the center of the room. The three pieces of furniture faced a small stage on the other side of the room, curtains drawn. He’d seen the stage earlier when he was looking at the pictures of Samantha. Painted neatly in carnivalee font above the top of the curtains was Theater of Joy and Pain. Aaron guessed the girl tied to the beam was new and would be the next to go onstage.

  “Take this and hide behind the stage curtains,” Aaron said, handing his mom the lockbox.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll be out of sight behind the stairs. He might not even come down here. Maybe he just stopped home for a quick bite. Now go.” His mom hesitated, then turned and headed onto the stage, disappearing behind the curtains.

  “And you,” he said, pointing to the girl, “be quiet and we’ll get you out of here.” He turned and ducked behind the staircase.

  Footsteps sounded from above.

  Aaron’s heart pounded painfully against his chest. He kept adjusting his grip on the knife, wiping the sweat from his palm. Time seemed to have stopped. Everything was so loud, from the girl’s struggles, to the man upstairs, to the rush of blood in his ears. Aaron wanted to scream for it to stop, for a moment of silence. He remembered to breathe and told himself he was okay. The element of surprise was on his side. He had his mom and the girl to protect. There would be time to panic later. Now he needed to be a hero.

  Waiting for something to happen was killing him. Sweat covered his skin and the stink of his unwashed body wafted into his nose. When this was all over, he was going to celebrate with a hot shower, then he’d call Hanna and make plans to spend the entire weekend with her. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Thinking of the woman he loved made his heart swell. He felt better.

  The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Aaron’s breath hitched in his chest and any thoughts he had of Hanna vanished.

  “What the hell?” the phony cop said, his voice just above a whisper.

  Shit, Aaron thought. A neat-freak, perfectionist like the phony cop would remember not having left the light on.

  The man descended the stairs. He moved slowly and stepped gently. The phony cop was clearly being cautious.

  Besides having left the basement light on, Aaron wondered if there was something else that had caused the man to become suspicious. Maybe one of them had left behind a shoe print or smudge on the floor upstairs. Or maybe the lunatic had gone into the dining room and seen the shattered glass door.

  Aaron tensed, squeezing the knife’s handle. He watched the man’s feet through the back of the stairs, and swore he saw the flick of a pointy tail. His mind was playing tricks on him, but he remembered the painting and how evil the man was. All the people the phony cop had tortured and killed. Now was his chance to stop him and save the girl from a horrendous death. Give a family back their daughter.

  Aaron slashed at the back of the man’s right foot, just above the heel. He struck with force—slicing deep—making sure he severed the Achilles tendon.

  The man cried out and stumbled down the remaining steps.

  The girl let loose a muffled scream.

  Aaron ran out from behind the stairs. The phony cop was clutching his ankle, blood coating his hands. Their eyes met, a look of complete and utter surprise on the man’s face. But it was only for a second, and then he reach
ed for his gun.

  Aaron sprung forward and kicked the gun from the man’s hands. A shot fired into the ceiling, and then the gun skidded across the floor.

  The girl was going crazy, gnawing at her duct-taped wrists like a trapped animal.

  Kelly appeared from the stage. “Aaron!” she yelled, clearly not knowing what was happening.

  Taking his eyes off his attacker, Aaron looked at his mom and then realized his mistake as tremendous pain burst into his calf. The maniac cop was biting him, growling like a dog. Aaron cried out. He’d made a crucial mistake and was pissed at himself for taking his attention off such a monster. The pain coursing up his leg triggered something in his mind. Anger like he’d never known came roaring to the surface. He thought of his mother and her brutal rape; Hanna’s uncle and the angst she was feeling; the girl tied up, ready to be the next victim; the girl’s family, who would never know what happened to her.

  Aaron reached down, gripped the man’s head and shoved a thumb into his left eye, not even considering using the knife. The man fought against the attack, squeezing his eyes shut. Aaron was determined to win and forced the thick digit in. The orb burst. Fluids rushed over Aaron’s flesh. The phony cop screamed.

  Free from the monster’s grip, Aaron kneed the man in the jaw and sent him crashing to the floor. He jumped onto the man’s chest, straddling him and pressed the knife to his throat. The sicko froze, his good eye staring at him.

  Aaron found the ruined eye a most pleasant sight and wanted to do more damage, supply the man with more pain.

  “You fuck,” the man growled, spittle flying. “Enter my home? Touch my things? You’re dead. Fucking dead. I’ll make what happened to your mother a pleasantry—”

  “No,” Aaron yelled, then brought his face inches from the deranged man. “You’re the one who’s going to die!” Face wrinkled in disgust, Aaron pressed the knife harder against the man’s neck. “Before I kill you, I want you to know you lost.” Aaron stared the man in the eyes and grinned—the need to take the man’s life overwhelming—then plunged the blade in deep. Aaron sat back as blood spewed, gushing over his hands and splattering his shirt.