Wishful Thinking

The sound of a fist pounding on wood momentarily drowns out the sound of the TV, then stops. You look up curiously--it’s nearly midnight--then push up off the couch and wander over to the door. You lean forward, peeking warily out the peephole. You furrow your brow when you see that no one is there, then unlock the door and open it anyway.

A brown paper bag is sitting before you. You bend down and cautiously pick it up, revealing a business card and a key. You pick those up as well, then step back into your house and lock the door.

You make your way back to the couch and fall onto it, regarding the items in your hands with more than just mild curiosity. You consider for a moment just throwing them away, but decide against it. You set down the key and business card, then tear into the paper sack.

Seconds later, the bag is lying in shreds at your feet and you’re holding a small black gun in your hands. You drop the gun, as if it is painful to touch, and grab the business card. The front is an ordinary business card belonging to an insurance salesperson you have never heard of. Flipping it over in your hands, you find that someone has scrawled a phone number on the back. You pick up your home phone, fingers hovering over the numbers, debating whether or not to call. Finally, you punch in the first number, then the second. When you finish dialing, you hold the phone up to your ear, your eyes glued to the gun that is now lying on the floor at your feet.

The phone dials once, twice, three times. “Hello.” The strange lack of emotion in the cold voice on the other line makes you uneasy, and for a moment you consider hanging up.

Instead, you croak out, “Hi.”

“I assume you’ve received my…package,” the mysterious man’s voice says, his voice still void of any emotion.

“Yeah, I--” you begin, but the man hushes you like you’re a baby who’s just begun to cry.

“The key is to a safety deposit box,” the voice continues. “I suggest you keep it in a safe place.”

“Why do I need a key to a safe deposit box that doesn’t belong to me?” You ask, a slight panic edging into your voice.

“Don’t concern yourself with that,” the voice tells you.

“But I--.” Again, the voice hushes you.

“Put the gun behind the Cheerios in you pantry,” he orders you, giving you the sinking feeling that whoever it is has been in your home. Instead of trying to interrupt him again, though, you remain silent as the man continues, “And burn the business card in that fancy fireplace of yours.”

Despite the typical Florida heat, you suddenly feel very cold. “How did you…?” you trail off as the voice hushes you yet again.

“Goodbye,” the voice says.

You move the phone away from your ear when the dial tone plays, staring at it disbelievingly. Then, you slam the phone in its cradle and do as the voice told you--he’d already been in your home, who knows what he would do if you didn’t listen--stashing the gun and key behind your box of Cheerios. Then you begin pacing in a panicky manner, for God knows how long.

The sound of a fist pounding on wood startles you awake. You sit up and stretch, wincing slightly, and make a mental note not to sleep on your uncomfortable couch again. Then you stand and amble over to your door.

This time when you open it, instead of a paper bag, you’re greeted by two police officers. The older of the two, a man with graying brown hair, hands you a piece of paper and pushes past you into the house.

Stepping aside to let in the other officer, you look down at the paper in confusion. It’s a search warrant. You look back up in alarm.

“A search warrant?” you ask, panic involuntarily finding its way into your tone. “What do you expect to find?”

“It says on the warrant, Sir,” says the young officer, pushing his curly black hair out of his face as he wanders into your kitchen. You watch uneasily as he opens your pantry and begins moving around the contents.

You see his eyes widen as he carefully extracts the gun and the key. “Well what do we have here?” he asks, turning to you. You open your mouth, but can’t seem to make any words come out. “Hey Joe!” the cop calls.

The other officer, who had been searching your bedroom, walks out. “Yeah?”

“Look what I found behind the Cheerios,” the young cop says, holding up the gun. “Same caliber as the murder weapon.”

“Murder weapon?” you ask, looking between the two cops in a slight craze. “I don’t know anything about a murder!”

“Yeah,” the old cop--Joe--says, slapping a pair of cuffs on your wrists. “They all say that.”

“So,” says the other officer. “What’s this key for? Wouldn’t happen to open a safe deposit box, would it?”

“Nope, don’t answer that,” the old officer tells you. “Because you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

As you’re led out of your house in handcuffs, you can’t help but vainly wish that you’d just hung up the stupid phone.