Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Monica was not beneath the running water—Elizabeth’s corpse was. Monica was dry and off to one side, her gun also dry and resting on one of the porcelain shelves. The other necessary items were locked safely away in one of the lockers. When she heard Amy’s protection enter and begin opening and closing a few of the locker doors, she felt a brief jab of worry, but the metallic echoes of his indiscriminate opening and closing of the doors made his actions sound more arbitrary than necessary—kicking over stones even though he knew nothing of worth was beneath them.

  When the protection’s footsteps drew nearer, Monica lifted her gun off the porcelain shelf and quietly steadied it in her hand. When his silhouette—tall and lean—appeared in front of the curtain, she pointed the gun at its head.

  The silhouette stood there for a beat. Monica held her breath, finger stroking the trigger, waiting for any sudden movement. The silhouette finally moved past her, checked the next stall over, turned and walked past again without pausing in her direction.

  Another beat of silence followed. Was he waiting? Testing to see if she’d poke her head out? That’s what she would do—and so far these guys proved to be good. She stayed put.

  The connecting door into the massage room finally opened. Monica heard Lana’s Russian accent echoing from the massage room, asking if all was okay. The protection’s deep voice responded, but the particulars were cut off by the closing of the door. She was alone again—save for Elizabeth at her feet of course.

  • • •

  “Everything appears fine,” Allan said upon his return. “I’ll be out in the waiting room. What kind of traffic does that fire exit outside get?” he asked Lana.

  “Traffic?” she asked.

  “How often is it used? By employees? Can I expect anyone coming through there?”

  Lana smiled and shook her head. “No—I go outside sometimes to get air. No one comes in though.”

  “Okay,” Allan said. He looked at Amy. “Enjoy your massage.”

  He left.

  “Okay,” Lana said to Amy. “You can get undressed and get under the sheets. I think I will start you face-down today.” Lana pointed to the head of the table where a face-cradle protruded, allowing clients to lie completely face-down without having to crane their necks uncomfortably to one side. “I am going in to tell Elizabeth the man is gone and it is safe to come out of the shower.”

  67

  Lana Rabinovich closed the door behind her as she entered the shower room. The water was still running in the middle stall. She approached.

  “Elizabeth?”

  No response.

  Lana rapped her knuckles on the strip of tile separating the stalls. “Elizabeth?” She paused, listened, heard only the consistent rushing sound of the showerhead hitting the same spot. No splashing, no movement.

  She slid the curtain open and looked down at Elizabeth’s dead body, fetal on the tiled floor. There was little blood—the shower continuously washing away the red leak from the hole in Elizabeth’s forehead.

  Lana did not recoil in horror. She did not scream for help. Did not even turn around. She lifted her head, straightened her back, and with both eyes fixed straight ahead, she began to speak. “I am a Russian Jew. Growing up in Moscow I watched many of my people die. When I was a child I watched my best friend kicked to death by two men—I could not recognize her face when they had finished. I have been prepared to die my whole life—I am not afraid. I only ask that you do not be a coward. Do not shoot me in the back.” Lana turned slowly and faced a woman with dark hair and dark eyes. The woman had a gun pointed at Lana’s head.

  “I can’t say I’ve met anyone as brave as you,” the woman said. “I almost regret having to do this.”

  Lana’s pale blue eyes stayed fixed and fearless on the woman. “I have seen your kind before. You are not capable of regret.”

  The woman smiled. “I guess that’s true. And I guess that’s why I said almost.” The woman pulled the trigger and shot Lana in the head, killing her instantly.

  68

  Amy was face-down and under the sheets on the massage table. Head secure in the face cradle, her only view was the rug. She pulled her arms out from under the sheets and brought them beneath the cradle to study her fingernails. She wondered if she would have time to sneak in a quick manicure. Well … time she had, the question was whether or not she could convince Domino to let her stay a half hour longer after the massage to get them done.

  Amy heard the connecting door from the showers open and close. She brought her arms back to her side and took a deep, nurturing breath.

  “Are you comfortable?” Lana asked.

  “Very,” Amy said into the cradle. “You have no idea how bad I need this, Lana. Thank you so much for squeezing me in.”

  “It is my pleasure. You are a good client. I am happy to do it.”

  Lana’s feet appeared beneath the face cradle, her two familiar blue slippers side by side on the rug, facing Amy. Then a gentle hand touched her neck and began to knead. “You have much tension. I can feel already.”

  Amy chuckled softly. “Tell me about it.”

  “You want me to tell you about it?”

  Amy chuckled again. “No, no—it’s just an expression, Lana.”

  “Oh, I see. I thought maybe you were serious,” she said. “Because I can tell you why you’ve got so much tension if you like.” Her accent seemed suddenly thinner. “I’m sure you’ve had quite a bit on your mind lately, yes?” Much thinner now. And there was something else.

  She said “you’ve,” not “you have,” Amy thought. “I’m,” not “I am.”

  In all the years Amy had been coming to Lana, she’d never heard the woman use a contraction when speaking. She’d even mentioned it to Patrick once, wondering if it was a product of respect, or the hurdles of the English language.

  Lana’s feet moved out of sight, her hand remaining on Amy’s neck. Amy went to speak, but a photograph hit the rug below the cradle—a close-up of both Carrie and Caleb in the park, Dan Briggs close by. A second photo dropped an instant later—a close-up of Carrie and Caleb in the park again, Christopher Allan close by this time.

  It took a moment for Amy’s eyes to adjust to the photos in the dim lighting of the room. By the time the third and fourth photo dropped—much of the same—it was all so excruciatingly clear. Amy jerked and went to sit up but the hand on her neck forced her face back down into the cradle. A second later she heard the click of a gun and felt the barrel press hard into the back of her head.

  “Seems like you’ve got a lot of tension now,” an American woman said. “Am I stupid to think you’ve got enough common sense to keep your mouth shut?”

  Amy shook her head into the cradle, heart hammering in her chest.

  “Good,” the woman said. “Maybe you’d want to risk your own life, but I doubt you’d want to risk Carrie and Caleb’s.”

  My God, she knows their names.

  “Yes, I know your children’s names, Amy. They told me themselves less than an hour ago.”

  What? What?!

  Amy cleared her throat, ready to attempt a desperate whisper. The woman’s hand gripped her neck tighter, pressed the gun barrel into her head harder.

  “Don’t speak. At all. Not until I tell you. Do you understand?”

  Amy nodded into the cradle. She felt tears coming but refused to cry.

  “We have your children, and we have Patrick. They are still alive, but their pending status is up to you.”

  Is Domino dead? Is Dan? What about Christopher? Is he still outside the door? Only a few feet away?

  “I’m going to take my hand off your neck and you’re going to slowly lift your head up and call to your little buddy standing guard outside. Ask him to come in for a second. Nice and calm, nothing suspicious. I want some Meryl Streep shit here, Amy, do you understand? If you scream or sound weird in any way, you’re dead. Then Patrick. And then your kids. And I’ll tell them Mommy could have saved them if only she’d
done what she was told. That will be the last thing they hear before I shoot them both in the head: Mommy could have saved you, but chose not to.”

  Amy started to weep silently; she couldn’t help it.

  “Are we clear, Amy? Do you think you can manage what I’ve just asked from you?”

  Amy sniffed and nodded into the cradle.

  The woman pushed the gun barrel harder still into Amy’s head. “Stop crying. If it sounds like you’re upset …”

  Amy took a deep breath and nodded again.

  “Well let’s go then, Mrs. Lambert,” the woman said.

  The pressure of the gun barrel eased off the back of Amy’s head, the hand slid off her neck. Amy raised her head and stole a glimpse of the woman—she remained at the head of the table, dressed in Lana’s blue scrubs, hair as blonde as Lana’s, her face down and hidden behind the hair, gun hand (her right) down and to the side now, out of plain sight, left hand now gently rubbing Amy’s shoulder, seemingly ready to mime a scene of no concern.

  Amy cleared her throat a final time, went to speak, and stopped. It suddenly occurred to her that if she managed the ability to sound “nice and calm” right now—managed some “Meryl Streep shit”— it would assuredly get Christopher killed. Could she live with leading an innocent man to his death?

  And then, as this evil woman hovering above her leaned forward and brought her lips to Amy’s ear, Amy wondered—incredulously, and yet, somehow not—if the evil woman could somehow look through her ear and into her mind, reading her very thoughts. Amy wondered this because the evil woman whispered: “Would you really rather save the life of a stranger than your own children, Amy?”

  Amy didn’t have to think. She shook her head.

  “Smart girl,” the evil woman whispered.

  “Christopher?” Amy called. She prayed it sounded okay. “Christopher, are you there?”

  Both women kept their eyes fixed on the door. It was difficult for Amy to register minute sounds; her pulse thumped in her ears like a distant drum. She watched the door knob instead, waiting for it to turn. It did not.

  The woman nudged Amy’s shoulder. “Call him again. Louder.”

  “Christopher? Hello?”

  “Right here.”

  Amy’s head whipped around. The evil woman spun on the spot. Christopher Allan had entered the massage room through the connecting shower room door without so much as a click. His gun was pointed at the evil woman’s chest.

  “If you even try to raise that arm,” Allan said, nudging his chin towards the evil woman’s gun hand, “I will shoot you—many times.”

  The evil woman smiled. “I guess you’re going to tell me to drop it?”

  Allan steadied his aim on the woman’s chest. “Yes.”

  The evil woman kept smiling. “And suppose I—”

  Allan pulled the trigger. Two muffled thumps from his pistol made Amy flinch. The evil woman stumbled backwards, hitting the wall, sliding down the wall, eyes wide with shock, then blinking fast, then blinking slow, then closing. She finally slumped to her right where she lay motionless.

  Amy could only stare at her. She knew the woman now. She knew it was the woman from her father’s funeral. The woman who got her drunk at the bar and bailed on her. The woman Patrick eventually recognized on Steve Lucas’ phone as likely saboteur of his big account. Always different hair, always different eyes, always different whatever—it didn’t matter. Amy knew who she was now.

  Except she didn’t really know. I recognize her. Can identify her. Accuse her. But who is she? Who the hell is she?

  Allan inched towards the evil woman’s body, gun still pointed at her.

  “She said she has my kids,” Amy said. “She said ‘we have your children.’ There are more. They have my kids.”

  Christopher looked over his shoulder. “Relax, Mrs. Lambert. I’m going to contact Domino now and—”

  Amy heard a thump, watched the left side of Christopher Allan’s head pop open and spray blood on the wall before his body crumbled.

  The evil woman got to her feet. “Always go for the head shot,” she said as she began removing her top, two bullet holes clearly evident in the fabric. “He was good; I’m surprised he didn’t.”

  The woman tore off the blue top, revealing the thin Kevlar vest beneath it. A different gun was in her hand. Amy looked at the new weapon without logic. The woman noticed, smiled, and lifted her pant-leg for Amy, revealing the holster attached to her ankle. She then brought both hands back to her torso and began un-fastening the Kevlar vest. “Bastard shot me in one of my tits.” She dropped the vest to the ground and stood in just a sports bra, massaging her right breast. “Hurts like hell.” She looked at Amy and motioned to the vest on the floor. “It still hurts when you get shot in one of those you know. Especially when you get shot in the tit.” The woman inched closer and pressed the gun to Amy’s head, leaned in and whispered: “But hey, I don’t need to tell you that, do I? I heard my brother already shot you in one of your tits.”

  Amy’s mouth fell open on the word “brother,” and the evil woman who just claimed to be Arty Fannelli’s sister started to laugh.

  69

  “Tea?” Patrick asked Domino.

  Domino turned away from the living room window and gave a silly frown to his friend. “Since when do you drink tea?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. Is that bad?”

  Domino walked into the kitchen with a smile. “No. I suppose not.”

  “I knew a lot of guys who drank tea in college,” Patrick said. “British guys that played rugby. They were tough as nails.”

  Domino held up both hands. “Okay, old chap. You can make me some tea.”

  Patrick smiled and put the kettle on. “You want milk and sugar?”

  “However you usually make it.”

  Patrick reached for the cupboard when his cell phone beeped. He grabbed a mug and checked his phone. The mug in his hand hit the floor and shattered when he saw the picture staring back at him.

  • • •

  Domino ripped the phone from Patrick’s hand, courtesies for his friend snubbed by emergency. Domino stared at the text-photo of Amy Lambert—bound and gagged to a chair in the back of a van, her face a tear-stained mask of fear and shame.

  Domino cursed, pulled out his own cell with his other hand and dialed Christopher Allan. He hung up after four rings; Allan would have answered on no more than two if all was well.

  Patrick’s phone beeped again. Domino clicked the tiny envelope icon for a new text message and the screen opened up, revealing a close-up of Allan’s face—lifeless eyes open, a hole in the side of his head.

  “What is it?” Patrick blurted.

  “Allan’s dead.” He showed Patrick the photo on his cell.

  Dan Briggs appeared in the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  Domino said: “Allan’s dead. They’ve got Amy.”

  “Fuck,” Briggs muttered. He dropped his head towards the floor and made the sign of the cross on his chest.

  Domino flicked his chin towards the den. “Get back in there with the kids. I’ll let you know what the next move is.”

  Briggs nodded and re-joined Carrie and Caleb. Domino sneaked a peak at the two children from the kitchen—both of them laying on their stomachs, hands propping up their chins, eyes stuck on the television, feet swaying back and forth like cats’ tails. Not a care in the world. Their mother was in the hands of psychopaths, one of them the nightmare-man their innocent young minds might finally be starting to forget. And they watched television, blissfully ignorant to it all, as if it were any other day. As if Mommy would be walking in the door at any moment.

  Domino glanced down at the photo of Allan again, swallowed bile, hit the send button. The phone started to ring.

  “We Kill and Kidnap Stupid People, Miss Smith speaking,” a woman said in a cheery tone.

  “So how’s it gonna be?” Domino asked.

  “Nice—direct and to the point. I like tha
t,” the woman said. “Well, for now, I will be taking the lovely Mrs. Lambert to a reunion of sorts.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Direct and to the point, but a bit naïve if you think I’m going to tell you that.”

  Domino breathed fire through his nose. “Just tell me the part when we get involved.”

  “Well it seems to me like you’ve been involved for some time now. Bang-up job, sir. The Lamberts might have been better off just buying another dog.”

  Domino was capable of exhibiting the professional discipline of a thousand pacifists, yet with every word this woman spoke he found himself unavoidably drifting towards demolition mode. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasted blood. “Just talk,” he said.

  “I don’t feel much like talking right now—I’ve got sooo much to do. But please do me a favor and tell Patrick that Arthur will be in touch with him soon … after he gets reacquainted with Amy of course. Ciao!”

  The woman hung up.

  “What’d they say?” Patrick said. “It sounded like a woman. Was it a woman? What’d she say?”

  Domino didn’t answer right away. Dozens of possibilities and objectives raced through his mind. If these bastards wanted Amy dead, she’d be dead, right? So that makes her bait. Problem was, what would these sick sons of bitches do with the bait while his team—

  (one good man down now, God damn it)

  —figured out a way to rescue her? They had to find her fast. Because a thought suddenly occurred to Domino. A thought that tested his earlier logic and made his blood run like ice water:

  Bait doesn’t necessarily have to be alive.

  “It was a woman,” Domino eventually said. He could not look his friend in the eye when he added: “She said she was taking Amy to see Arthur for a reunion of sorts. Said Arthur would be calling soon.”

  Patrick dropped his head.

  Domino had never felt so awful in his life. For the first time ever, he felt both failure and helplessness. He glanced at his friend. “I’m sorry, man. We will get her back.”