"Aaron Isaacs."
"You aren't Aaron Isaacs any more than you are Gabriel Nelson," the old man said with a wave of his hand. "Isaacs is a police officer. You're no police officer despite the bloody badge in your car."
Hammond slowly lowered the pistol and stared at the old man in amazement. "My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. I am thirty years old and married. I just killed a cop, and apparently killed my wife's lover as well."
"I know all that, son," the old man said.
"Who are you?"
"What would you say if I told you my name is Hammond Mathieson?" The after keeping a straight face for a moment, the old man laughed boisterously. "Unfortunately, you asked me the wrong question."
Hammond did not know whether he was laughing at a joke, or laughing at the truth. He decided it did not make much of a difference, and asked, "How do you know my name?"
"Also the wrong question," the old man said. "Keep trying."
"Where is your shovel?" Hammond finally asked.
"Ah! There's the right question," the old man said as he rose from his chair and grabbed a flashlight. As they walked towards the barn, he asked, "So who do you prefer, Hammond? Isaacs or Nelson?"
"How do you know all this?" Hammond demanded.
"Why would that bother you after all you have been through so far?" the old man asked.
Hammond grunted. The old man had a point, but it still irritated him. "Who are you?"
"Do you plan to kill me?"
"What? No!" Hammond yelled. "Why would you even ask me that?"
"You mean aside from the fact you have already killed two people you don't know?"
The old man raised his eyebrows, and Hammond had to restrain himself from punching him in the face.
"Have you ever seen me before? Do you plan to see me again?" the man asked. "I should think with what I know I would be the last person you want to see again."
"What are you getting at?" Hammond asked.
"If you don't plan to kill me, see me, or remember me, then why would it matter who I am?" The old man stopped with his hand on the barn door. "I would also think that there are much more important questions you would like answered."
"Like what?"
"I gave you a hint, son," the man said as he opened the door with a grunt. "Do you prefer Isaacs, Nelson, or Mathieson?"
Hammond paused at the door, and had to rush to catch the old man, "You mean, who am I?"
"Might help clear things up."
"But I know my name. My name is Hammond Mathieson—"
"'Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.'" Hammond stared at the old man in confusion. With a sigh, the old man said, "In this case who you are probably has a lot to do with what you have done. 'Who am I?' is a good question, but it's not the perfect question."
The old man handed the shovel to Hammond. Hammond asked, "You mean why am I burying a body?"
"I mean you should ask what's in the trunk."
"I know what's in the trunk," Hammond said. "That's where I put the cop's body."
"With your eyes closed," the old man said. "Hammond. What is really in that trunk?"
The same three sounds came, and Hammond saw the man smiling at him as the world faded out.
***
Hammond was in a jail cell. His clothes had changed to an orange jumpsuit. A guard called, "Gabriel Nelson?" Hammond stood and the guard said, "This way, please."
"What's going on?"
"Arraignment, sir."
In the courtroom, there was a judge, two lawyers, and both detectives. Hammond was led to the front of the room. The bailiff placed him next to the man Hammond assumed must be his attorney.
The judge began, "Please state your name for the record."
"My name is Gabriel Nelson."
The judge continued, "Mr. Prosecutor, what are the charges?"
"Mr. Nelson is charged with two counts of murder in the first degree."
Hammond's heart stopped. Who was the second murder victim? He remembered the detective said Hammond had killed his wife's lover, but they said there was no record of a dead cop.
"Bail is set at $1,000,000," the judge said. "I understand the defendant has entered a confession?"
"Yes, your honor," Hammond said quietly. He was about to say more, but the lawyer to his left interrupted.
"My defendant would like to enter an insanity defense, your honor."
"Are you changing your plea to not guilty?" asked the judge, who was obviously annoyed by this.
"No, your honor, but my client was not fully aware of his actions at the time of either murder," the lawyer said. "He was unable to form premeditation and should therefore be tried for second degree murder. His condition causes episodes of confusion."
"Is this true, Mr. Nelson?" the judge asked.
Hammond blinked several times before saying, "I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion."
"Your honor, a deadly weapon was used in both murders," the prosecutor said. "There is a strong precedent against reducing the charges for firearm offenses."
"I am sure that the prosecutor is aware of the situation surrounding Mr. Nelson's confession," Hammond's lawyer said. "Mr. Nelson was unaware of his victim's name, forgot he was married, and had to be reminded what year it was. I think we have a strong case for insanity."
"Very well, we will set the hearing for six months from today."
The bailiff placed a hand on Hammond's shoulder, and led him back to the cell. Hammond's head was spinning, but maybe it was almost over. His lawyer had said insanity. Didn't that mean he might not be convicted? Still, they had said "second-degree murder" instead of "not guilty." At least he would avoid the death penalty.
Hammond glanced at the hand on his shoulder, and saw a weathered old hand with a large scar. Hammond gasped and looked at the old man's smiling face. "Who are you?"
"I'm the bailiff," the man paused and gave a sly look, "Hammond."
"What are you doing here?"
"Why would that bother you after all you have been through so far?" the old man asked.
"Stop saying that!" Hammond yelled. It did not occur to him that no one seemed to take notice of his outburst. "Why can't you just give me an answer?"
"Maybe I can't tell you anything you don't already know, Hammond." The "bailiff" pushed Hammond forward gently.
Hammond considered the old man's words as he returned to the cell. It made as much sense as anything had recently.
"Did you figure out what's in the trunk?" the old man asked.
"Yes and no," Hammond said. "I suppose as long as I know it's a body it doesn't really matter whose body it is."
"Or was," the old man said.
Hammond gasped and stopped. "Is it your body?"
The old man laughed raucously. "You don't think I'm real, do you, Hammond?" A final push, and the cell slammed shut behind him.
"Are you saying that you are just a figment of my imagination?" The old man touched his nose. Hammond assumed this was a clever way to say yes. "But if you're in my imagination, who just led me to the jail cell?"
"Ah, I think you've almost got it," the old man said. "Who says you are in a jail cell?"
Hammond realized that if the old man was imaginary, then all of this could be in his head. When he looked down at his hands, he realized the handcuffs he had been wearing were gone. Still, the jail cell remained. "Then how do I get out?"
"You still have two shots left," the old man said.
Hammond looked down and saw the pistol in his hand. When he looked up, the old man was gone. Hammond heard the squeal of tires, but the crashing of the car was covered by the gunshot. He still heard the steady car horn, and that world disappeared forever.
***
Hammond found himself standing in the bottom of a hole. The old man's shovel was in his hands, and his clothes were covered in dirt. Hammond climbed out of the hole, and saw the trunk of the car. The compulsion flared aga
in, Don't look in the trunk. Hammond laughed at himself. What did it matter now? He knew there were two dead bodies in the trunk. He also knew he had to bury them.
When he opened the trunk, he saw Officer Aaron Isaacs, and one unknown man. Despite what the "bailiff" said, Hammond truly expected to see the old man dead in the trunk. Actually, he hoped to see his body. This was the body of a stranger.
Hammond filled the hole first with bodies, and then with dirt. When he finished, Hammond sat in the car unsure what to do. There was a quarter tank of gas, so he started driving. He had no idea where he was actually going, but anywhere other than here was fine.
Hammond was driving mindlessly down the road, when he suddenly came to his senses. He saw an approaching car in the distance. He knew it was Officer Fitzgerald. If I don't stop, then he will drive on by.
The car drove past, and it was indeed a police cruiser. Hammond watched it in the mirror to see if it turned around. He was aware that his driving had become erratic, and decided to keep his eyes on the road. When he no longer could find the car in his cursory glances at the mirror, he pulled over to calm his nerves. He thought, I changed it. I knew it was coming and I changed it.
Hammond closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them he saw the red and blue lights approaching. He knew it would look bad to obey his instinct and slam the accelerator. Like so many people greeted with irrational solutions to irrational fears, he did nothing.
After sitting behind him for a long time, Officer Fitzgerald stepped out with his hand on his gun. Hammond thought to himself, Why am I back here? I already did this.
The flashlight was in his eyes as the officer asked him, "Is there a problem, sir?"
This time, Hammond simply said, "No. I was just tired so I pulled over."
"Have you been drinking?"
"No."
The police officer said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. He finally bent forward, but Hammond was not surprised when he saw Detective Fitzgerald—Officer Fitzgerald. "License, registration, and proof of insurance."
He handed the license over, and said, "I don't have any insurance, officer. Honestly, I didn't expect to get pulled over."
"Well, I'll have to ticket you."
"But the car isn't moving!" Hammond said frantically.
Fitzgerald frowned. "I don't think it just appeared here. Are you sure you haven't been drinking?"
Hammond cursed in his mind. "No, I haven't. I'm sorry; I haven't had a ticket in years is all."
"Then you should have gotten insurance," Fitzgerald said with a shrug. "I've got to go grab my ticket ledger. I'll be right back.
Fitzgerald stood to leave, and Hammond thought, I've gotten away with it.
"Oh, I will still need to see your registration, sir."
Hammond's heart pounded. "The tags are expired, officer."
Fitzgerald leaned forward again, and looked at Hammond suspiciously. "No, they aren't sir. I saw the year when I pulled up behind you. Is this car stolen?"
"No, officer."
Fitzgerald unsnapped his pistol, and held his hand there. "Why don't you open the glove box and let me see your expired registration, please."
Hammond swallowed, but could think of nothing else to do. He could refuse, but where would it really get him? Fitzgerald would just pull him out and find the badge anyway. Hammond knew it was stupid to keep the badge when he was stuck in George Nelson's life. Maybe I don't have it this time, he hoped.
Hammond opened the glove compartment, and the badge fell out. He swore aloud, but Officer Fitzgerald did not hear him. The officer had already stepped back, pulled his sidearm, and was loudly ordering Hammond out of the car. Hammond debated what to do. He could step on the gas and get away, but the officer would just chase him. He could get out, but he was sure to end up in prison. He knew the trunk was covered in blood, and the stolen badge would land him on death row.
Hammond looked over, and saw the old man sitting in the car. "I thought you would be the other body in the car," Hammond said simply.
"Didn't I tell you I wasn't real?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Why would that bother you after all you have been through so far?"
Hammond sighed in frustration. "What do I do?"
"I think you know," the old man said. Hammond felt as if the pistol had literally appeared in his hand.
"But this could be real. Maybe it's just you who is imaginary."
"One way to find out," the old man said with a laugh. "But you've only got one shot."
Hammond was determined not to look away from the old man, but he had to check. Without looking, he tried to confirm that there was in fact only one bullet left.
"You don't believe me there's only one shot left?"
"How the hell would you know?" Hammond asked.
"Why would that bother you after all you have been through so far?"
"Maybe I should use it on you instead," Hammond said in an attempt sound threatening.
Instead of being frightened, the old man smiled. "If you want to shoot your imaginary friend go ahead. You might look a bit crazy though. You probably will be shot by that officer if you try."
"Are you saying I'm going to die no matter what I do?"
"We're all going to die son."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it!"
"What does it matter, Hammond?" the old man asked. "This is all in your head too."
Hammond raised the pistol to his head, and closed his eyes. Just before he pulled the trigger, he opened them quickly and saw the old man was gone. He knew it was unreasonable to be annoyed given his imminent suicide. At least I won't have to see him ever again, he thought. He pulled the trigger.
II.
There was the squeal of tires, a crash, and the steady sound of a car horn. When Hammond opened his eyes, he was in a crashed car. He felt as if he had been punched in the face—presumably from when the airbags had deployed—but most importantly, he was in a car he recognized. He remembered now that he was on his way to his night job when a deer had jumped in front of his car. He slammed on his brakes, but lost control. He must have hit this tree, and passed out.
A sudden panic gripped Hammond, and he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He nearly cried when he read the name on his driver's license. "My name is Hammond Mathieson."
He tried to call a tow truck, but his cell phone had been damaged in the crash. He knew he could wait for the police to show up, but after his experience, he didn't really want to see any police officers right now. Or ever again truthfully. As Hammond looked back up the road he had come from, he realized that he was only about a mile from home. Inexplicably, he felt a strong sense of foreboding when he thought about going home. After a long debate with himself, he decided it was just the remnants of his very odd dream.
He started walking, and with each step told himself that the arrest by police, the dead bodies in the car, and the murder of the officer was all just a dream. He had heard of your life flashing before your eyes, but this was as if someone else's life had flashed before his eyes. Hammond decided it was all a fantasy caused by the blow to the head. He had never heard of that happening to anyone else. Maybe everyone had that experience and just didn't want to relive it—he certainly had no intention of repeating these unpleasant dreams.
He suddenly stopped walking and thought, I should have looked in the trunk.
He looked for a long time at the road he had just travelled, and decided it was just paranoia. He was not a murderer, and he did not know anyone named Gabriel Nelson or Aaron Isaacs. Although he hadn't known Officer Isaacs until he murdered him. Or had he met Detective Isaacs when he had first been questioned for the other murder? No! That's wrong. The body was never in my car. Hammond shook his head and wanted to scream. There is no Aaron Issacs.
"My name is Hammond Mathieson. I am not prone to headaches, but I have one at the moment. I was in a car accident, and I imagined a strange world with people and places tha
t did not exist. I probably have a concussion. I am thirty years old, and married to Cailyn Mathieson. This life is real, and I can control my actions."
He felt much better after these affirmations. He honestly felt in control of the situation for the first time in days. He cursed and reminded himself that the days had just lived were nothing more than a hallucination while he was unconscious in his totaled car.
When he arrived at his house, Hammond nearly turned to run the opposite direction. The car from his dream was sitting in his driveway. Hammond desperately wanted to open the trunk, but he knew it could not possibly contain bodies. But then the car's very existence was impossible.
Hammond started up the stairs when he heard someone say, "Are you sure you want to go in there, Hammond?"
Hammond spun to see the old man sitting on the hood of the car, "What are you doing here?"
"Why would that bother you—"
"Don't say it!" Hammond yelled. "Is this your car?"
"Of course not, Hammond," the old man said with a chuckle. "Why would I need a car?"
"You aren't real. You're just here because I have a concussion. I mean I'm only seeing you because I have a concussion," Hammond said as he covered his eyes. "My name is Hammond Mathieson. This is real life, and I can control my actions."
"Exactly right," the old man said. "Which is why you need to decide if you really want to walk through this door. I think you already know what is in there, and how this part will end if you don't walk away." The old man looked sincere and worried for the first time.
Despite this warning, Hammond opened the door and heard unmistakable sounds from the other end of the house—the moans of his wife in the throes of passion. Anger surged in Hammond; the car in the belonged to his wife's lover.
He grabbed his pistol from the drawer, and headed to the bedroom with an unholy passion of his own. With each step towards the bedroom, he heard his wife's moans growing louder. He finally reached the bedroom and stopped himself from literally kicking the door in. Instead, he opened it quietly and stood staring at them both naked and engrossed in their act of adultery.
Hammond flicked the safety switch on his gun. Maybe his wife heard the small click, or maybe she just happened to open her eyes. She screamed, and the man spun. As if by instinct, he looked Hammond directly in the eyes. She was probably trying to explain, but Hammond ignored her frantic jabbering. He was more annoyed that she was trying to cover herself. What did it really matter at this point?