Two more shots thumped into the girth of the spruce, one on each side of his head—a perfect triangle if one connected the dots.
He screeched like a wild bird and dropped to his stomach, eyes closed tight, cheek and body pressed hard to the earth in hopes of somehow sinking into it for cover.
The evil man had missed him on purpose; he knew this fact to be as sure as the ice and snow that was now biting into his cheek and ear. He was being toyed with. The stopwatch, the head start, it was for the evil man’s own amusement, not some race against the clock where life was the prize should he outlast his pursuer. Death was not a possibility; it was a certainty. It was all just a matter of when.
And so there, pressed flat on his belly in the freezing underbrush, he gave up and began to cry.
• • •
One hundred yards away, through the custom scope of his Remington, John Brooks watched the man resign and begin to sob. The image was satisfying, but at the same time disappointing. Tears of dread were always nice—but giving up? Accepting fate? What the fuck kind of pussy shit was this? Perhaps some pain would inspire his prey and resume the chase.
John steadied the Remington, peered through the scope, held his breath.
• • •
A distant boom. The instantaneous whistle of a bullet slicing air. And then a wet thump that carried an explosion of searing pain into the homeless man’s leg. He rolled to one side and gripped the wound, his hands coming away a mess of wet red.
Yes, the evil man was toying with him. Yes, he intended to kill him. But apparently he had no intention of doing it quickly.
The homeless man struggled to his feet, his leg producing a wave of agony unparalleled to that of anything he had ever encountered during his hardships as a transient. He hobbled through the snow, leaving a thick dotted trail of blood behind him. His tears had stopped for now; the pain of the wound had ironically stemmed them.
The man’s destination was unknown. He was simply buying himself minutes before he was ultimately murdered, and he knew that. Was that a purchase he really wanted? Yes. He had accepted fate earlier and had paid an excruciating price—his leg was now a throbbing log of useless meat.
Inevitable fate be damned, he was going to try. Try and succeed. Disappear in the forest. Lay low until it was safe, no matter how long it took. He was a homeless man living in Alaska for Christ’s sake; he could endure the elements. And when it was safe he would find a way back to town. Go to the police. Tell them about the evil man. Beg them to listen for once. Yes—he would go to the police, and the evil man would be punished. Yes … yes, that’s what he’d do.
The homeless man hobbled with a purpose towards a thick mass of pines.
• • •
John was pleased. His shot to the man’s leg had done its job and restarted the game—sort of. Likely, the shot had hit the femoral artery on the man’s leg, and if he managed to hide for the remainder, the man would slowly bleed to death somewhere—the equivalent of fucking for hours without coming, John thought. He could never allow such a thing. He would rather come quick and accept some joy than cope with such an excruciating disappointment.
So let’s just go for the headshot and call it a day, shall we? After all, the man’s terrified expression in the cabin would sustain him for a little while. And the girlish screech followed by the cowardly sobbing was kind of funny the more he thought about it. Nothing great, but it was something.
John waited patiently for the man to finally stop and catch his breath. He was deep into a mess of pines, almost assuredly invisible to anyone looking from afar, but from the custom scope on his Remington, John felt he could reach out and tickle the man’s chin.
John smiled. Zeroed in on the man’s head. Aimed between the eyes. Held his breath. And then watched the homeless man’s head snap backwards, spraying the pines behind with red chunks before his body crumbled to the ground.
Except John never pulled the trigger.
He turned fast over his shoulder, the echo of the mystery bullet still reverberating throughout the forest. Monica Kemp stood ten yards away, her own custom-built Remington gripped tight in both hands.
“Hi, Dad,” she said with a smirk.
John grinned and placed his rifle on the ground. He went in for the hug. “How’s my baby girl?”
• • •
Monica sat at her father’s kitchen table. She kept her heavy wool coat on. “It’s freezing in here, Dad. How do you stand it?”
John placed a hot bowl of stew in front of his daughter. “Getting soft on me are you?”
She pushed the bowl away. “Thank you, but I think I’ll pass on your critter stew. God knows what’s in it.”
John took the bowl away and dumped it back into the pot. “Well then what can I get you, your majesty?”
“Coffee would be nice.”
John went to work in the cubicle of metal and mess he called a kitchen. “It’s going to have to be instant.”
“As long as it’s hot.”
He filled a pot of water, lit a burner, set the pot on the stove. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
Monica took out a cigarette and lit it. “What’s going to happen to your little buddy you were playing hide and seek with?”
John took an ashtray from one of his cupboards and placed it in front of his daughter. “The wildlife will have a snack to look forward to. Circle of life, kiddo. One of the bonuses of living out here.”
“What about the bones?”
“The bones will take care of themselves. Worse comes to worst I’ll pick them up myself in a week or so.” He took the jar of instant from the cupboard. “So tell me about Pittsburgh.”
Monica took a pull from her cigarette, blew a thick stream of smoke into the air and gestured towards it. “Air looks like that. Worse than L.A.”
He waived the smoke away. “And yet you voluntarily inhale the shit.”
The pot started to boil and John turned away for a moment to prepare the coffee. Finished, he turned back and placed it in front of her.
She took a sip and cringed. “Fucking hell, Dad.”
“Sorry, I’m afraid my espresso machine is in the shop.” He set a small bowl of sugar on the table that she waved off. “All that money and travel has turned you into a snob.”
She smiled. “A snob who got the drop on you a few minutes ago.”
“You don’t think I knew you were there?”
“I know you didn’t know I was there. You’re getting old, Dad.”
“Old, my ass.” John took off his flannel, rolled up his short-sleeve, and flexed a cannonball bicep.
Monica feigned childish awe. “Daddy is so strong.”
John frowned and muttered, put the flannel back on, then picked up her modified Remington resting against the table. “Jesus, look at this thing. It looks like a goddamned M40A3. Could hit a fucking beetle in Anchorage with this thing.” He gave her a curious look. “I know you didn’t get this from a Marine …”
She batted her eyes and waved both hands towards her chest. “Don’t underestimate a perfect pair of tits, Dad.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You don’t say shit like that to your father.”
She brought the coffee mug to her lips to hide her complacent smile. “Sorry.”
“Pittsburgh,” he said.
She took a sip, set the mug down. “I established contact at the hospital. He was shocked at first, but I gained his trust quickly. He gave me the thumbs up to finish off the adoptive mother. She’s very dead.”
He smiled, nodded, and took a seat across from her. “How’d he look?”
“Weary. He was stabbed a lot; it looked like much of the fight had gone out of him. I think seeing me might have ignited a spark though. And I’m sure knowing his fake mom is dead certainly won’t hurt his mood.”
“You weren’t spotted by anyone?”
Monica pursed her lips and frowned.
John held up a hand in apology.
Monica
took a final drag of her cigarette then swirled the glowing tip into the ashtray until it was dead. “How do you want to play things for now?”
John’s face fell grim. He hung his head for a moment before lifting it. “We’re sure the other is … ?”
Monica nodded, equally sullen. “He was killed that night. His name was James.”
The father nodded. He took another moment before saying: “Arthur and James, huh?”
“Was that our mother’s idea?”
“Who the fuck knows? Doubt it. My guess is that it was the adoptive parents. Your mother probably would have named them Jack and Daniels. Named you Meth or something.” He spit on the floor. “Good riddance, bitch.”
“What would you have named us?” Monica asked. She looked sincere in the inquiry.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Every time I’d come home on leave, another one of you was gone. Don’t know why I kept fucking her. Guess you spend so much time fucking Asian pussy, you start to crave some good old American poontang, no matter how fucked up they might be.”
“Nice way to talk to your daughter, Dad.”
“Getting even for the ‘tits’ thing.” He rocked in his chair. “Either way, you hit the fucking lottery with that family that snatched you up. It’s like you’re a goddamned Kennedy or something. And I like the name Monica. It suits you.”
“So are we going to be calling him Arthur then?”
“Up to him I guess.”
Monica stayed quiet and sipped her coffee.
“So what are you telling the Kennedys you do for a living these days?” John asked.
“International banker. Lets me travel on assignment without suspicion; keeps their lofty status in tact. You know—brilliant, wealthy daughter traveling the world and all.”
He beamed. Monica had tracked down John when she was only fifteen and still in prep school. Summer vacations allegedly spent in the Hamptons with a classmate’s family, winter vacations skiing with friends in Aspen, spring breaks in Tortolla—all time spent with John, learning, training, following and obeying the deadly impulse that was ingrained in their bloodline. On her eighteenth birthday, when most women were blowing out candles, Monica blew a hole in her first human head from fifty yards away. They even stuck a candle in the hole afterwards, laughing hysterically when the man’s hair eventually caught fire.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said.
“Like what?” His beam became a grin.
“Like the cat with the cream.”
“I can’t admire the product of my tutelage?”
“Oh get off your high horse, old man. My education didn’t exactly stop with you, ya know. Maybe one day you’ll let me introduce you to the twenty-first century.”
He barked a laugh. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave all the geek shit to you. My education stopped at Donkey Kong and Pac-Man.”
“Shame—you’d get hard over something like Call of Duty.”
“There you go with that fucking mouth again.”
She grinned. He frowned. And then neither grinned nor frowned; their faces fell into somber masks of rumination, the subject of that rumination instantly shared when they eventually locked eyes.
“They were off the radar, Dad. Even if that fucking family and their doctor hadn’t buried the adoption—and believe me, I dug—it’s obvious Arthur and James inherited our control; they would have avoided the limelight. Only pathetic serial killers want to be caught so they can have their fifteen minutes. James went out on his shield.”
John nodded once, stood, and walked towards his kitchen window. He gazed outside, the now-setting sun reflecting in his unblinking eyes, his mind lost in a fantasy of things to come. He spoke in a low, dreamy tone—a haunted voice emanating from deep within the darkest chamber of his core. “It’s time to bring Arthur home. Let him know what real family is all about … what we’re truly capable of …”
“We will,” Monica said. “We just have to be patient, Dad.”
He nodded slowly, still unblinking out the kitchen window, still seeing nothing but the fantasy.
“In the meantime, I’ll start gathering the necessary intel,” she said. “We want to wait for things to die down some anyway. Everything is too raw now. Too acute. We want to wait until they feel some measure of safety again. As if things might finally be getting better.” She licked her lips. “That’s when you and I start to play.”
John turned from the window and looked at his daughter; his pupils were his whole eyes. “Before this is all over … they’ll be praying for death.”
Monica licked her lips again. “Yes they will.”
4
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
Three months later
The Lambert family had survived hell. Not only survived, but managed to kill one of their two evil captors.
James “Jim” Fannelli was dead.
Arthur “Arty” Fannelli, however, was alive, but had been severely wounded during the ordeal, and was now in custody of the Allegheny County Police in Pittsburgh, awaiting trial.
Patrick and Amy Lambert, along with their two children, Carrie and Caleb, did not come away unscathed. Patrick had been badly beaten and stabbed, and Amy had been shot in the chest from close range. And then there was the psychological damage, to which the toll seemed unforgiving.
Immediate counseling for quiet suburbanites like the Lamberts after such torment was strongly recommended, and, when offered, Patrick made one of the doctors laugh when he said it was like asking a sailor if he wanted to get laid after being away at sea.
So for the three months that followed the harrowing incidents surrounding Crescent Lake, the family had been attending frequent sessions with a psychologist.
To the surprise of no one, things were shaky from the start. Dr. Janet Stone explained that their psychological trauma would assuredly hit peaks and valleys for awhile, but in time the bad memories would become just that—memories. A thing of the past to which the old chestnut rang true: Take it one day at a time until each passing day carries less impact than the last. Even seven-year-old Carrie, who had been plagued with nightmares from day one, would soon follow suit, Dr. Stone assured—youth was on the little girl’s side.
This logic proved especially true for four-year-old Caleb. The incident seemed a lost memory a mere week after arriving home. It was almost as if the boy had never been subjected to such horrors in the first place. That was until he put more than a dozen thumb tacks into Amy’s slipper one night, tearing her foot to shreds. A joke little Caleb thought Mommy would find amusing. She did not. A particular child psychologist referred by Dr. Stone was immediately contacted. Caleb Lambert’s appointment was scheduled for 7 P.M.
5
Dr. Bogan initially wanted to speak to Caleb with his parents in attendance. Carrie was in an adjoining room being entertained by the doctor’s wife with an array of books and toys.
The first half of the session (Caleb seated on his mother’s lap, her stroking his fuzzy brown head of hair) had nothing to do with the events surrounding Crescent Lake. It consisted of the doctor asking the Lamberts fundamental questions in regards to milestones achieved by their son during his developmental years, in addition to behavioral patterns in his daily life.
Amy and Patrick answered frank and with zero hesitation; they were in fact, somewhat proud as they sensed that each answer they provided was almost assuredly positive:
No—there were no abnormalities before, during, or after childbirth.
No—our son did not suffer any head trauma at any time throughout his life.
Yes—our son walked when he was expected to, spoke when expected to, and no, our son never wet his bed; he was actually potty trained in less than a week at the age of two.
A few more questions:
Cruelty to animals?
No way.
Unusual signs of aggression?
Nope.
Poor impulse control?
No, sir.
&nbs
p; Irritable temperament?
Quite the opposite.
Lack of empathy towards others?
Again, quite the opposite.
Dr. Bogan closed one notebook and retrieved a second. He then asked Amy and Patrick if he could speak to Caleb alone. The Lamberts hugged their son, told him they loved him, then joined Carrie and Mrs. Bogan in the neighboring room.
• • •
Although acquaintances with Dr. Stone, it was not uncommon for Dr. Bogan to receive referrals from doctors he had never met. He was that good.
Dr. Bogan believed that working with children was a special craft; the younger the child, the more subtle the approach. If the doctor cozied up to the child with sunshine eyes and a syrupy tone, the child would likely shrink further into his or her shell, only poking their head out once the blatant bastard had disappeared. And while his peers sometimes scoffed at the notion that children of such an early age were capable of identifying—and therefore rejecting—such deliberate behaviors in adults, the good doctor liked to remind them that children often cried when they sat on Santa’s lap, even with their parents close by.
And so now, alone with the boy, Dr. Bogan had but one thing he wanted clarified. Caleb had already stated that he put thumb tacks into Amy’s slipper because he thought his mother would find the prank amusing. What Dr. Bogan wanted to know was if Caleb, after bearing witness to the brutal games orchestrated and enjoyed by two grown men (despite any anguish it caused his family), did what he did because of his age, and thus, his inability to understand the ramifications of physical humor? Or did the boy, perhaps already armed with the terrifying ability to exhibit convincing deception, injure his mother because there was a part of his fledgling mind where a sinister need festered … and Caleb himself thought the prank would be amusing?
The former seemed likely; the latter frightening.
• • •
The session was over. Dr. Bogan opened the door to the adjoining room. Caleb walked past the doctor and made a bee-line towards his mother who stood talking to Mrs. Bogan. Patrick sat on the floor reading a book to Carrie, her head on his lap.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 28
