The Unfortunate Ones

A future where mistakes can be made for all eternity.

The wide subdivision streets spread out before Rick, each an inviting rainbow leading to a pot of gold. Every house, a mansion, stood tall in opulent arrogance, advertising wealth and an alarm company for protection instead of a leprechaun. The ability to prevent thieves in either case was a mythical attempt at security theater. Half of the homeowners weren’t hooked up to a service and the rest didn’t understand the cops’ response times in the gated community were thirty minutes at best.

Rick’s partner in crime, Ken, signaled from the side of a house on a cul-de-sac. Partner felt too intimate. Rick and Ken had only met hours before they were scheduled to break into the marked home. He hated working with an associate, thought it unnecessary, but his handler said it was a requirement to include him in the job. Ken had infiltrated the neighborhood, handled intelligence gathering and wanted to reap the rewards. He wasn’t shy about letting Rick or the handler know the information would result in a hefty payday.

The two men crouched behind a set of carefully manicured hedge bushes in front of the porch, out of sight from the street. The house had no cameras installed, and the nearest neighbors with cameras had them pointed in other directions, leaving a dead spot. The final puzzle piece, a large door with an old-fashioned mail slot, provided them with a picture perfect scenario. A bronze statue of a crane peaked out nearby, standing guard as a silent conspirator.

“What are we waiting for?” Ken asked.

“I need to make sure nobody is home,” Rick said.

“I already told you the family is on vacation. Gone for the whole week. I did my job, now do yours and get us inside.”

“I am and I will.”

Rick removed a small, latched box from his backpack. He opened it to reveal a computer monitor encased in the lid, and a smooth silver puck the size of his hand. He reached in, pulled out the puck and set it down in the mulch. After powering up the monitor, he pressed down on the top of the puck and it came to life as eight long legs sprouted from the body and a small camera popped out the front, zooming in to capture its surroundings.

Ken admired the arachnoid with a slick, jealous smile, and said, “You really are a boy scout.”

The two men watched the robotic spider walk up the sidewalk, climb the stairs and then up the door. It held open the mail slot with two legs while it slipped through the other side. The monitor color flipped to pale shades of green as the infiltrator activated night vision. Then it scurried through the house, building a schematic layout as it went, inspecting all of the surroundings.

“Why didn’t it just open the door?” Ken asked.

“It will. I want a full layout first. If we get in a bind, it will lead us out without any confusion,” Rick said.

But that wasn’t all. Rick didn’t trust Ken. He wanted to make sure nobody was inside, and the arachnoid would pick up thermal signatures. He prided himself on leaving occupants unharmed, including himself. No guns were allowed, but Ken insisted on carrying. The finesse of the work involved was lost on Ken, but it wouldn’t matter in another hour, when the thieves would part ways and never speak again.

After a few more minutes the arachnoid traveled to the last door cracked open near the end of an upstairs hallway. The monitor flipped to shades of blue and purple, which contrasted the red and yellow blob on the bed, and several sleeping bags full of littler blobs. The heat was emanating from an adult woman and a group of girls at an impromptu sleepover. Rick looked at Ken who shrugged his shoulders and smirked, an innocent child, unashamed by his carelessness.

“We’re done here,” Rick said.

“No, we ain’t,” Ken said, pulling a revolver from the waistband behind his back. He held it loosely, pointed at the direction of Ken’s head.

“You go in there, you’re going in alone,” Rick said.

“This is the biggest score of my life and you’re the man with all the fancy gadgets who is going to make it happen.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I could blow your brains out right here and now, and nobody would know the difference. Could even claim self defense. No officers, I caught him creeping around the place trying to peek inside. Must have been a pervert, what with all those girls here to spend the night.”

“The safe in the basement — when we get what’s inside, we leave, no matter what else catches your eye.”

“Fine. Get your little friend to open the door and let’s finish this.”

Rick pressed a few buttons on the screen and typed commands into a console via a wireless keyboard. The arachnoid stopped moving and backed out of the room, traversed the stairs down to the main floor and traversed up the door to the swivel latch. After quick work, it flipped the deadbolt and then the doorknob lock. It crawled into the open foyer and crouched when it completed the tasks, waiting for its master to join in the adventure.

The two men snuck up the porch, and Rick sprayed around the doorjam with a lubricant. It opened and closed without making a noise, the quiet of night filling the large space. They followed the arachnoid down a large hallway past an expansive living room where two more bronze cranes watched on either side of a stone fireplace. The shadow of their figures startled Rick, but Ken appeared unfazed, dense to the possibility of an encounter with the homeowner. On an end table a small wood carving of a crane hovered over a photo frame of the occupants. An Asian woman hugged two grade school aged girls who appeared to be her daughters.

“All this money, ruined by those ugly statues,” Ken whispered.

“Good fortune,” Rick said.

“What?”

“In Japanese culture the crane is a symbol of good fortune, luck and even justice. Maybe she’s a lawyer.”

Ken ignored the observation and continued toward the basement. But the presence of the cranes felt intimate or relatable, their meaning an odd recollection that had no source. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his subconscious, Rick recognized them, even felt comforted. Another feeling bubbled up concurrently, one of guilt and shame, with the word justice playing through his mind on repeat like a broken record.

The finished basement ran under the entire house, another full floor with sliding glass doors leading to a stamped concrete patio. A table tennis table, pool table, shuffleboard, home theater system, bar and kitchen communicated the owners were in a social class Rick would never reach, no matter how many safes he pilfered. On this job, the safe loomed large in a far corner, its serious presence overshadowing the playful decor.

Before Rick could point out the location, Ken walked over, turned on a small flashlight and began spinning the combination dial. With quick fingers he reset it, flipped once clockwise, twice around counterclockwise, and once back clockwise, then tried to turn up the handle. It didn’t budge. He grunted, performing the same series of actions, this time slower, careful to line up the numbers perfectly. The handle still wouldn’t budge.

“I guess your intel wasn’t as good as you thought,” Rick said.

“No, it’s good. She changed the combination,” Ken said.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. It’s a loss we’ll make up for on another job,” Rick said, knowing full well he would never accept a job if it involved Ken’s companionship.

“No, we’re not. I’m going to get the combination if I have to beat it out of her,” Ken said, making his way back to the stairs. Rick stood in front of him, blocking the path.

“You really have a death wish,” Ken said, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at Rick.

“My electronic friend has been recording everything since we started. I die, and you end up on every streaming news channel across America. It’s an insurance policy you don’t want to bet against.”

The arachnoid crouched and made a chirping noise as confirmation, but Ken didn’t lower the weapon until the basement stairs creaked. Both men turned to see one of the girls from the sleepover at the bottom of the steps, confused by their presence, but oddly at ease. Ken shined the light in her eyes as he put the gun behind his back, gripped tight, finger on the trigger.

“Hi Mr. Watson, I thought I heard your voice while I was getting a drink of water. Dawn said you’ve been on a business trip,” the girl said.

“Hey, Taylor, I got back early and wanted to show my partner here something before he left,” Ken said, the gruff voice shifting up an octave, comforting and smooth. “Sorry if we woke you. Why don’t you head back to bed.”

Taylor didn’t have time to respond, not before the woman from the earlier photo walked down the stairs, her eyes wide with fright. She grabbed Taylor to move her out of harm’s way, shielding the girl’s body and causing her further confusion. Both females expressed shock when Ken showed the gun as a passive aggressive warning. Taylor’s lip quivered and she hid behind the woman, unable to budge.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, Akiko,” Ken said.

“I told the lawyer the minute I filed the divorce papers — I told him you were stupid enough to come back and do something crazy,” Akiko said, moving a step back with Taylor.

“This is your house,” Rick said.

“Yeah, this is my house. And there is a half-million dollars of my money in my safe inside my house. You’re not going to get any of it,” Ken said, pointing to shoot at his wife.

“Think about what you’re doing. Life in prison for murder one or you walk away with half in the divorce. Let it go,” Rick said.

“That’s what got me in trouble the first time. Overthinking,” Ken said, turning his head to face Rick. The flashlight cast a glare off Ken’s eyes, the emptiness communicating a decision that would change both men’s lives forever.

Before Ken could pull the trigger, Rick whistled high and low, a signal to the arachnoid, who rushed up Ken’s leg. He jumped back and tried to brush off the critter, dropping the flashlight in the process, which flickered as it was kicked across the lush carpet. The two men fought for access to the gun as Akiko and Taylor screamed. Several gunshots rang out, the piercing explosion of gunpowder causing Rick’s ears to ring. A grunt and scream followed two shots, and another shattered the sliding glass door. The revolver fired a few more times and was dropped as Ken fled out the back, a trail of blood dripping behind every step.

Searing pain through the bullet wound in Rick’s side caused him to collapse. Painted spots filled his vision as he crawled over to the flashlight and swept it around the room to make sure Ken was no longer a danger. He laid down, lightheaded, and shined the light in the direction of the girls. Akiko wept as she held Taylor in her arms, bleeding to death. Rick breathed shallow and finally fainted.

2.

Rick’s eyes fluttered open. Bright white filled his vision, like a train coming down a long tunnel at night, illuminating a room with pale soft tones. His arms and legs were strapped to a chair as two medical technicians monitored a computer interface and fiddled with the helmet placed on his head. The replay of events was relayed to monitors mounted throughout the room. Men in suits sitting behind a table discussed judgements in hushed whispers. That’s when Rick heard a drowsy grunt next to him. Ken sat in a chair as well, a victim of the same circumstances.

“Parole hearing 1-1-3-8, rehabilitation crime simulation two hundred thirty-five for Mr. Rick Jones and Mr. Ken Watson,” one of the suits said.

“Do we want to wait for Mr. Watson to be fully awake before issuing a decree?” another suit asked and was ignored.

“Mr. Jones, my name is Mr. Brown, of the Dayton County Prison parole board. Your memory should be returning shortly,” Mr. Brown said. He took a sip of coffee from a white mug. On the side of it the silhouette of a black crane reminded Rick of familiar sights and sounds — maggots slithering across a Salisbury steak in the chow hall, the stink of Rick’s prison cell urinal and the nervous chatter of inmates showering.

“We’re pleased with your progress. In the previous four crime reenactment simulations you have continuously shown care and consideration for the victims involved. You place yourself in harm’s way for their benefit and demonstrate a measure of selflessness in accordance with remorse. Your rehabilitation is complete after twelve years, and you will be released pending the board’s final vote,” Mr. Brown said.

With a groggy voice, Rick said, “Taylor. She’s dead?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones. She is dead.”

To this Rick began crying. He already knew the answer, lurking below the surface, but the pain intensified with every simulation relived a hundred different ways.

“Mr. Watson, are you awake now?” Mr. Brown said.

“What do you say, doc, have I been rehabilitated,” Ken said to one of the female technicians, and started laughing.

“I’m recommending long term stasis through the transmission of consciousness, Mr. Watson. Rehabilitation in perpetuity. All of your cooperative simulations demonstrate a wanton disregard for life and a lack of moral standards in accordance with the law and humanity.”

“Solitary cryofreeze, well, aren’t you sweet. Let me tell you something, boss man, you’re all dead, every one of you! If not in reality, then every time you sleep, I’ll be waiting to slip into your nightmares.”

An officer walked into the room and unstrapped Rick from the chair. The parole board collected votes and signed his release papers. Rick would walk out a free man, but never free from the guilt of Taylor’s death or the constant weight of the decisions he should have made the first time on the job.

Ken looked up at Rick with that familiar slick smile, the mark of a killer beneath dull eyes, and said, “Give Akiko my love.”

“Enjoy your long nap,” Rick said.

Ken struggled against the straps in anger.

“It’s time, Mr. Watson,” Mr. Brown said.