Unloaded

by Eric Beetner

  “More than you can imagine.”

  “So keep that in mind the next time you question bullshit details like the size and shape of some fucking swamp land. Or what your boss is doing in his own fucking helicopter.”

  “Point taken, sir.”

  “Sometimes you have to chop off toes to save the foot, and then chop off the foot to save the leg.” Kinsey sat back. It was the first time he’d ever said that aloud. He’d have to trust people to get where he’s going which was as much a leap of faith as flying in a contraption like this. He laughed as he scratched his head where the wind had blown his hair out of place.

  The pilot checked his watch. “The weather is only going to get rougher the longer we stay here, Mr. Kinsey.”

  “Yes.” Kinsey slapped the back of the pilot’s seat. “Right. Okay then. Take off.”

  “We’ll have to wait for your lady friend.”

  “No we won’t.”

  Kinsey couldn’t see the pilot’s eyes behind his sunglasses, but the man shook his head and asked, “Sir?”

  “I want you to get this bird in the air now.”

  He shook his head faster. “You can’t just leave her out here? It’s twelve miles to the nearest road.”

  “That’s her problem.”

  “There’re no smooth paths, sir. Not to mention wild boar and snakes.”

  To hell with her, Kinsey thought. But he wasn’t prepared for Maria to sprint the distance back to the helicopter once the rotor blade got spinning again. She banged on the door, but Kinsey held the handle.

  “Don’t be a child, Allan,” Maria yelled as she tugged on the door.

  Kinsey held firm and shook his head.

  Maria pounded on the door, ducking as the propeller reached maximum speed above her head. She pounded and seemed to be pleading or even begging. Kinsey didn’t know if she begged for forgiveness or simply not to be left out there.

  Maria’s strong fists thudded like distant gun fire, but the anguish on her face was all too close. Tears puddled in her eyes. Kinsey read that as panic more than regret for what she had done and that meant little to him. She continued to pound and cry harder.

  Kinsey touched the piece of paper in his shirt pocket and then pulled it out. With one hand on the door handle he used the other to hold the paper to the window.

  Maria stopped pounding on the glass to read the single word, Loyalty. She looked into his eyes then.

  “Up,” Kinsey shouted into his microphone.

  “Sir, are you sure you want to do this?”

  Kinsey put the piece of paper back in his pocket, leaned forward, and grabbed the pilot by the throat, pulling him across his seat until his torso and head were in the backseat area. He heard gurgling in his headphones. Kinsey said, “If you question me again, I will have your eyes poked out and the only thing you’ll ever fly again is a fucking kite you won’t even be able to see. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “All right. Jesus,” the pilot said. “Don’t get all excited. I’m on your side, remember?”

  Kinsey wanted to leave her there, but no one deserves to face the doom he feared most in the world when he was a child. He opened the door and pulled her in.

  Anger and fear beamed from her eyes as she climbed to her seat and hugged her knees, rocked a little. Her pulse throbbed inside the vein along her throat. She blinked a hundred miles per hour, but held her breath for a few moments as if she’d forgotten how the process worked. She gasped upon remembering.

  Kinsey sat back and listened to the thrush of the propeller. “Now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The pilot worked his levers and lifted them off the ground. Maria didn’t press her face to the window. Instead, she sobbed through a cold stare at her own feet as they ascended.

  With his hands in his lap, Kinsey watched the ground shrink beneath them and the tree tops become a sea of green down below and thought about all the good times he’d had with Maria over the past year and a half. She was so lovely to look at. So sweet to spend time with. Sexy in lurid ways that left him exhausted.

  Then he thought about the pictures of her with Platinum.

  Kinsey touched the piece of paper in his shirt pocket again, leaned across her, and paused his face in front of hers. She opened her mouth as if desperate for a kiss. The thing Kinsey feared most in this moment was the inability to keep his cool. Her lips were slick and full and it took everything in him to reach across her and slide open the door. Maria slapped and beat on Kinsey’s arm until he felt bruises bubble from his bones. He focused on holding the door open and used his other hand to shove her sideways in her seat. She gripped onto the doorframe like an X with her hands and muddy shoes. He pounded her splayed fingers with his fist.

  She hollered curses in Spanish and turned enough to claw at his face, knocking off his sunglasses.

  He squinted through the sunlight as the glasses flew out the door, almost in slow motion despite the wind pushing against their faces. He wiped at the spot on his face where her fingernails gouged him deeply enough to smear blood onto the back of his hand.

  She hollered curses in Spanish again until he reared back and placed his foot in her middle-back. “I was always good to you,” he said as he straightened his leg and forced her out of the helicopter. Her decent as the aircraft climbed to cruising altitude seemed in slow motion. She grew smaller like a doll falling to the ground, and then smaller and finally out of view as the pilot took them southwest.

  Kinsey swallowed the clot of emotion in his throat and pulled closed the helicopter door. His life was simpler in this one way, but it was exponentially more complicated as sadness would overrun him like new residents flocking to his state.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d killed somebody, but this was the first woman. No pleasure came with the physical act. Instead, only an ability to get a deeper breath, as if his lungs re-inflated for the first time in weeks. He’d never be reminded of the woman he just turned into hog chow. The thought made him laugh. He left his microphone in position and let it run its course. Laughter couldn’t be any worse than what the pilot might have heard during the struggle. After a moment, Kinsey adjusted his posture in his seat. He squared his shoulders and tightened his tie before smoothing hair with his hands. This trip had cost him his sunglasses, but there’d be no ass-whipping when he got home. He squinted into the sun as the pilot headed in that direction.

  Back to TOC

  ITCHY FEET

  S.W. Lauden

  The first wave of strangers descended on the yard sale like vultures in the pre-dawn gloom. Hordes had been arriving in the hours since, paying Joe for the privilege to haul his unwanted memories away. He was judging the rabble from a perch on the porch when one of them walked up.

  “How much for this seltzer bottle?”

  The man was tall and lanky, with dark eyes and a bright red nose. A tiny bowler cap teetered on his smooth, white head. Joe wasn’t sure if he should laugh or run.

  “The circus in town?”

  “Oh, man, you’re still hilarious.”

  The clown’s make up cracked and flaked as he lisped. Joe couldn’t look away.

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “Never mind. I’ll give you a couple of bucks for the bottle.”

  “Fine.”

  He dropped two crumpled bills into Joe’s hand and shuffled away. Joe’s wife walked up a few moments later.

  “Did you see that freak, Helen?”

  Joe spun around to point at the clown, but he was already gone. His wife frowned.

  “Christ, Joe. Are you drunk already?”

  She fixed him with a glare and turned to leave. Joe tried to grab her arm. Helen quickly spun away and hissed.

  “Keep your hands off of me. You’re pathetic.”

  She stormed off with a flip of her blonde hair. Joe was about to chase after her when their teenaged son stopped him.

  “Out of my way, runt.�
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  Joe knew it was a mistake the minute the word left his lips. There was a time when “runt” was just a funny nickname. Now it was more like a declaration of war.

  “I told you to stop calling me that.”

  The boy stepped forward, his chest puffed out. Joe studied the acne-scarred face that looked so much like his own. It was impossible to know where he had gone wrong.

  “Jesus. Take it easy.”

  Joe reached into his pocket and produced a twenty dollar bill. Only one more week until college started and then they could file the divorce papers. Eighteen years of misery was finally coming to an end—but not until their son was off at school. Helen insisted.

  “Go see a movie or something, why don’t you.”

  His son grabbed the money, muttered “asshole” and headed for his car. Joe could still remember the day that he left for college. The sense of freedom he’d felt standing outside his dorm as his parents drove away. He hoped it would feel the same when he was on his own again. If nothing else, he’d have lots of time to kill.

  Joe glanced over to where the clown had reappeared on the other side of the yard. He was shaking his head and flashing a mischievous grin. Joe dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.

  The hours seemed to stretch as the day went on. Joe was thankful that Helen was keeping her distance. It allowed him to sneak a cocktail or two. He stood up to get a third when the clown strolled by. Joe shook his head and snorted.

  “If you’re looking for a whipped cream pie, you’re out of luck.”

  “Still can’t hold your liquor, huh?”

  “Stop pretending like we know each other.”

  “I know you better than anybody ever will. Better than that bitch you call a wife, that’s for sure.”

  Joe took a step forward on instinct. The clown might be right, but he was still in for a beating. Sweat rolled down Joe’s face as he clenched his fists. That’s when the first spray of liquid hit him in the eye. The clown adjusted the plastic flower pinned to his lapel and burst out laughing.

  “Bull’s eye! Man, that never gets old.”

  Joe was wiping his face when Helen walked by. She wore that same disgusted look, the one she reserved for him alone. He motioned to the clown, but she wouldn’t take her eyes off of Joe’s cocktail. He gave her a defiant toast and swallowed the last gulp.

  Helen went over to help a couple of neighborhood dads. Joe watched as they rifled through a pile of his old golf clubs. They were flirting with her while gripping the shafts. He was sure Helen was sleeping with at least one of them. Probably both.

  “Who the hell wears high heels at their own yard sale?”

  Joe was talking to himself, but the clown joined in.

  “It’s not your fault. You gave her all of this and she still isn’t satisfied.”

  The clown motioned to the impressive two-story house. Joe didn’t even bother looking up.

  “Sometimes it feels like this place is crushing the life out of me.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  Joe rattled the ice cubes in his glass and thought it over. He decided his new friend had a point.

  “Come on. I need a refill.”

  A bottle of bourbon and a can of diet soda were still on the counter. Joe filled his glass with fresh ice and mixed a stiff drink. His lips were already on the rim of the glass when he remembered his guest. He eyed the clown with a sideways glance.

  “Thirsty?”

  “You know I can’t drink.”

  “Right…Where did we meet again?”

  “Elementary school, when they still called you Joey. We got back in touch your freshman year of college.”

  “San Francisco, huh? That makes sense, judging by the looks of you.”

  Joe gave a nervous laugh. He still couldn’t visit that city without having panic attacks. Not since the night that somebody dropped something into his drink at an end-of-semester party. He liked it so much that he started dropping it into his own drinks after that.

  Those next three months were still a total blank. An epic, summer-long blackout when he started wearing tie-dyes and grew a beard. That was before he snapped out of his hippie trance and transferred to a school back east. Joe was clean-cut and wearing a suit from the moment he arrived on his new campus. He didn’t come home to California until he had an Ivy League MBA to hang on his office wall.

  “To the good old days.”

  Joe raised his glass. His face was pink from alcohol and sun. The clown’s lip curled into a sneer.

  “We had some real fun together that summer.”

  “I honestly don’t remember.”

  It was a lie. The memories were bubbling up even as he said it. They were choppy and silent at first, like watching a horror movie through somebody else’s bedroom window. The clown went on in a whisper.

  “You’re not trying hard enough, Joey. Picture their faces when you woke them up in the middle of the night. Pure fear is a beautiful thing.”

  “Shut up!”

  Joe collapsed to the tile floor. A flood of images raced through his mind—strange apartments, couples in their beds, a kitchen knife in his hand. He was shaking when the clown knelt down beside him.

  “I’m amazed that the cops never figured out it was you.”

  He slid the kitchen drawer open and handed Joe a familiar weapon.

  “What the hell is this for?!”

  “It’s time you came out of retirement. Don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about it. Let’s start with your wife.”

  Joe stood up and inched out of the kitchen toward the front door. It felt like the clown controlled his movements now. Like everything was finally falling back into place.

  “Helen! I need to tell you something!”

  Joe kicked the screen door open and emerged onto the porch. The blade glimmered in the sunlight. The clown nudged Joe down the steps to the lawn. He felt powerful again, for the first time in years.

  His wife stood there, making change for one of the neighborhood dads. Terror filled their eyes as Joe charged, knife clenched tight in his fist. The clown laughed maniacally in the background.

  Joe was almost upon them when a whistling sound came from behind him. The second neighborhood dad swung the driver and connected with the back of Joe’s head. He went face first into the grass, the knife cartwheeling out of sight. The two men were on him in an instant, huffing and puffing as they swung their clubs. He could hear his bones snapping. His vision got blurry.

  Joe turned his head to look at the clown. He was sitting on the front steps, elbows on his knees and his eyes on the ground. It sounded like he was sobbing. Joe didn’t feel good about letting his old friend down, but there was nothing he could do.

  The blood drained from his face and dripped from his lips. That’s when Helen stepped in front of him. Joe concentrated on the pointy tip of her shoe as she drove it right between his eyes. The clown fell silent when the lights went out. Joe was finally free.

  Back to TOC

  MYSTERIOUS WAYS

  J.L. Abramo

  I sat at the reception desk of Diamond Investigations at nine on Monday morning. It was unusually early for me to be at the office.

  My associate, Darlene Roman, who traditionally occupied the front-room desk, much more effectively, had taken off the previous afternoon for a sojourn in Las Vegas.

  “What’s in Vegas?” I had asked.

  “I don’t know, nobody is telling.”

  It was the first day of February, a typical San Francisco midwinter morning—forty-three degrees, humid, mostly cloudy, chance of light rain.

  Darlene had taken care of all the first-of-the-month business required to keep the office functioning, lights operational, telephone on line, wolves from the door. She had left me very little to do other than sit at her desk testing a theory suggesting that if the phone bill was paid the thing might actually ring once in a while.

 
; Or read a book.

  At the moment I was halfway into Great Expectations and not feeling particularly optimistic.

  Between page turns, I took a quick bite from a buttered hard roll and sipped from a gone-cold paper cup of coffee from the delicatessen below.

  There was a rapping at the door.

  Two tentative knocks.

  I was about to rise, cross the room, and let my visitor into the office—but saw no reason to amend Darlene’s customary protocol.

  “It’s open,” I called.

  The door swung into the room revealing a man of fifty or so—imposing, six-two, two-twenty, unthreatening. The grey suit was well-tailored but worn. The white shirt was wrinkle-free and the necktie was tight to the collar. The shoes were practical. He took a step across the threshold and stopped short. I nearly said come in close the door take a seat—but I stood and walked over to the stranger instead.

  “Jake Diamond,” I said, extending an arm.

  “Henry Campbell,” the man replied, accepting the handshake.

  I gently guided Campbell clear of the entry way, shut the door, ushered him to the client chair and invited him to sit. I thought about offering a cup of coffee but remembered no Darlene, none made.