A Trap

I shouldn't be here.

That was the first clear thought I had with the gunshot still ringing in my ears. Pete had killed the guy. Everything after that was a blur.

Duffel bag. Sirens. Fill the bag. Everything on an end table. In the bag. Sirens closer. Pete and the others running towards me. Running towards the door. Everything on the bench by the door. In the bag. Bag zipped. Out.

Four of us spilling in to the hall. Two cops. Gunshots. Feet slipping on the carpet before finding traction. One of us goes down. Run. RUN.

Fire door. Stairs. Outside. Down the alley. Turn. Sprint. Away from the sirens. A few more turns. Slow down. Act normal. Walk home.

That had been yesterday.

My burner phone startled me out of a dead sleep around 11 this morning. Once the adrenaline had worn off I crashed. The number wasn't familiar, but there was no doubt it was Pete

Even though I had known him for the better part of two years, we weren't friends, we were just in the same business. Both of us were a step above dealing on street corners, and we had split some larger deals in the past.

The difference was Pete was a career criminal. He was always reaching for more, trying to build himself up. I was a criminal of convenience. Selling whatever substance I could get my hands on kept a roof over my head while I figured out what to do next with my stalled out life.

I had been walking home after a delivery when Pete spotted me. "It's your lucky day" he had said, "I'm one guy short for a quick job with good money."

At the time I thought he wanted another body there for a bigger exchange. Show of force, safety in numbers, and all that. It wasn't until I was in the apartment that I realized what Pete's job was.

I answered the second time he called.

"Hey. Lucky you got out of there. What did you get?" Pete was never one to waste time.

I had been consciously avoiding the duffel bag in my hallway closet. Out of sight. Denial.

"Not much I don't think. It was a scramble there." I pulled the bag from the closet and started to shake the contents out on my coffee table. Envelopes and magazines fell out first.

"No shit, Brett didn't make it out. We don't know if he's dead or just shot."

A heavy box slid out of the bag. I moved it off to one side of the table. The last thing in the bag was a tablet.

"I panicked man. Looks like I got some of his mail and a tablet."

"Nothing else? No briefcases or boxes or anything like that?"

I can't say why I lied. Just an instinct in the moment. I glanced at the box wrapped in brown paper at the end of the table.

"No, nothing like that. What were we after?"

"The SOB was supposed to make a big payment to Christiano in the next few days. All cash. That's why we hit him." Christiano ran about half the crime in the city.

"Why would we steal it then?" Christiano was not someone to cross.

"He got arrested last night. All his people are either running or working to get him out, it's perfect timing."

"That's still more trouble than I want" I said.

"You don't know the half of it" Pete chuckled. "The bastard was some kind of bomb expert. Lots of people out here think he was sending a shrapnel bomb instead of the money."

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach as a sick feeling washed over me. "Bomb?" was all I could manage, hoping I had heard wrong.

"Yeah, maybe Christiano's lucky to be in jail and in one piece. Listen, you can keep the tablet or sell it or whatever" Pete said. "I'm heading out of town, you should do the same, or at least keep your head down for a bit."

With that he hung up.

WHICH IS IT?

I sprang off the couch, skirting the edge of the coffee table as I backed away, not taking my eyes off the box.

Money or a bomb?

For a good ten minutes I paced along the farthest wall of my living room, those two words consuming all thought.

Money. Step. Bomb. Step. Money. Step. Bomb. Step.

Other thoughts began to creep in as my feet slowed down.

Nothing had rattled when I had moved the box. Did it feel like money? What exactly would money feel like through cardboard? How much could be in there?

What might trigger it? It took a lot of shaking and hits during my escape. Was it on the verge of going off? What is the safe distance? Would it just maim me from further away?

I didn't dare to move it again. Could I poke a hole in it, or cut through a side? There had to be a way to tell.

The box was heavy. That was the only thing I remembered from when I moved it.

Heavy was good if it was money. It was easy to picture. Wads of hundred dollar bills tightly packed in to the box. Enough money to buy a new car in cash. A down payment on a house. A safety net for launching a new career, or a solid head start for a new business. The key to a life with some direction.

Pete hadn't just said bomb. Shrapnel bomb. If the weight of the box was any indication it would have plenty of screws or ball bearings or whatever else waiting to tear me apart. Limbs separated from body. Burning pieces of steel being propelled through me. Would it be worse to die that way or to survive the aftermath?

I tried to leave it alone, to put it out of my head for a moment. It was hopeless. My mind was glued to the question. The fear of the explosion. The lure of the money. The weight of the box.

For two days the box antagonized me. The end of the first day left me so dehydrated a searing headache further crowded my thoughts. I forced myself to drink more, I needed to be able to think, to sort through this mental puzzle rather than struggling with physical pain. I ate little, food had no taste. I barely slept, and when I did manage to, it was fitfully. Would opening the box be a new chapter in life, or a gruesome exclamation point at the end?

They found me sitting on my couch staring at the box. It started with a loud knock followed by the announcement "Police." I barely stirred.

No crashing through the door. My building's manager must have let them in. Hands cuffed behind my back, I lay facedown on my floor. From the way the cops stared at me, I must have looked as terrible as I felt. Hollow and ragged, my body had focused all of its energy on a problem it could not solve.

Only two cops. No chattering radio. They had only made one phone call after seeing the box. Unusual.

Roughly ten minutes later two other men walked through my door. Although they wore suits instead of uniforms, it was obvious they were also cops.

After a whispered conversation, one of the new guys loudly told the others "We'll take the evidence to booking, you bring the suspect for questioning."

I flinched when I heard them move the box.  No explosion. That was the only "evidence" these two were taking. Had it been money all along? I still felt fear coursing through my veins.

They stared in disbelief after I warned them it could be a bomb. Shaking their heads, the two suits walked out the door. The two originals waited, giving the others time to drive away.

Minutes passed.

For an instant the normal noise of the day was replaced with that of shattering glass and tearing metal. The sound ripped though me, my breath catching as my question was answered.

It was a bomb.

After the briefest vacuum of all sound, car alarms began going off throughout the neighborhood. "Could they be alive?" One cop asked. The one by the window shook his head. "Not a chance."

Every muscle that had been tense now relaxed as I melted closer to the floor. The relief of finally knowing and the wonder of still being alive washed over me. The question that had threatened to break me was answered in a most final conclusion.

Shortly after this I was standing alone in my apartment, no handcuffs, no police. The two remaining cops had quickly dropped any act of being there on official business. They knew I had more to lose by talking than they did.

My relief turned to exhaustion. As soon as the sirens of firetrucks and other emergency vehicles died away, once the scene outside quieted, I slept. I slept better than I could ever remember sleeping before.

No jail. No death. No box.

The next day brought a flurry of activity from me. I can't pinpoint exactly what triggered it. Maybe knowing I had sat inches away from certain death for days. Possibly the mountain of stress building inside me obsessing over a single question. Whatever the reason, the fog I had been living in was lifted.

That box kept me trapped in my own mind. Now the sudden freedom I found was pushing me onward. Selling drugs was never what I wanted, it had just been easy. Chasing something easy, only looking for convenience, had almost ended me. I burned the last of my stash.

Nothing in my apartment really meant anything to me. When I wasn't making deals, I had watched TV or slept. I had let my passions slip away until there was only an empty life left. I sold everything of value, the rest went in the dumpster.

This city had catered to my convenience. It afforded me the opportunity to do little, to become nothing. Since I had moved here I had built nothing, I had no pride in anything. I had eked out an existence putting forth as little effort as possible. I gave the building manager my notice.

When the sun came up the next day, I had very little left. A small sum of cash, and the keys to my car.

One other thing. A sense of purpose.

The sun shone brightly through my windshield as I drove through the city limits. Never again would I fall in to the trap of easy. I will find what sets a fire in me and work for it. I am going to build a life worth living instead of a self imposed prison.