Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Patrick lifted his head. There were no tears, no anger. Instead there was an odd look of revelation. “The lady on the phone said reunion?” he asked.

  Domino nodded.

  Patrick said, “I think I know where they’re taking her.”

  70

  Patrick headed West on the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the silver Toyota Highlander. Domino followed close behind in a black Ford SUV with Briggs bringing up the rear in a black Mustang. Patrick’s cell phone was between his legs, waiting for the call. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “This is Patrick.”

  “Hey, hey now,” a man said.

  “Arty.”

  “Wow, first guess. I guess it hasn’t been as long as I thought.”

  “What do you want?”

  “No small talk first? No ‘How ya doin?’, ‘How ya been?’”

  “Fuck you. What do you want?”

  Arty laughed. “Okay, I can take a hint. I want you, buddy boy. You and your little rug rats. I want a big old family reunion. I recently had one of my own. It was downright titillating.”

  “Keep my kids out of it.”

  “Well that’s not gonna happen. You’ve got no bargaining power here, buddy boy—I’ve got Amy.”

  “How do I know she’s still alive?”

  “You don’t. Dare I say you’ll just have to trust me?”

  “Dare I say you can lick the sweat off my sack?”

  Arty chuckled. “I can see you’re still the same old wannabe tough guy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Arty. I’m still the same guy who killed your brother and put your scrawny ass in the hospital for months.”

  There was a brief silence before Arty said, “You know, you really should use at least some discretion here. I promise that you’ll see Amy alive, but if you piss me off, then I can’t promise what kind of condition she’ll be in when you do see her. When Jim and I were kids, we used to pull the arms and legs off of insects and see how long they could live without them. It was amazing—some of them would wriggle around for hours. I wonder if Amy could manage the same? Would you still love her if she was just a torso and a head? You’d still be able to fuck her, you know.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I told you—I want a reunion. Any idea where that reunion might be?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “Are you heading there now?”

  “Soon.”

  “And will the kids be with you?”

  A deliberate pause.

  “Patrick … ?”

  “What?”

  “Will the kids be with you?”

  “I told you to keep my kids out of it.”

  “And I told you, that wasn’t going to happen. I suggest you think about your wife’s situation.”

  “Motherfucker. You motherfucker.”

  “Can I take that as a yes then? The kiddies will be accompanying you?”

  Patrick hissed: “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “How do I know Amy will be at Crescent Lake when we get there?”

  Arty’s voice rose with excitement. “You do know where to go! I’m impressed.”

  “How do I know Amy will be there?”

  “I give you my word you’ll see her when you get here.”

  “Your word means dick to me.”

  Another chuckle. “What choice do you have, buddy boy?”

  Patrick said nothing.

  “Exactly,” Arty said. “I’ll make sure you see your wife, Patrick, but I do have a condition or two.”

  “Like what?”

  “You come alone. And when I mean alone, I mean alone. You and your kids; that’s it. I know you’ve had some hired help, and obviously the Feds are involved. I’ll have eyes everywhere when you get close, Patrick. If I even get the slightest hint that you’re bringing the law with you I promise Amy will die. And you won’t know how. I’ll take her body with me. Imagine living the rest of your life wondering how your wife was killed? The things I did. How long it took. How creative I got. You’ve met me before, you know what kind of imagination I have.”

  “I’ll be alone.”

  “No Feds.”

  “No Feds.”

  “No hired goons.”

  “No.”

  “Just you, Carrie, and Caleb. I’m actually looking forward to seeing those two little buggers again. How have they been? Have they grown? Does Carrie still have that weakness for candy? Still trading dolls for a quick sugar fix?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Arty laughed. “So then I can expect the three of you tonight? A nice evening at the lake where it all began?”

  “You mentioned you just had your own family reunion,” Patrick said.

  A pause, and then, “That’s right.”

  “So would I be correct in assuming that the help you’ve had thus far hasn’t been from some deranged fan club—it’s been from family?”

  “Such a clever boy you are, Patrick.”

  “So your real family found you then. Or did you find them?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I can tell you this though,” Arty said. “They’re dying to meet you.”

  The line went dead.

  “I’m dying to meet them too,” Patrick said to himself. He called Domino.

  “Talk to me, brother,” Domino said.

  “It’s all good,” Patrick said.

  “Okay. Don’t call the Feds until we’re close to the lake.”

  “I won’t.”

  “They’ll notify Allegheny County. Those guys are gonna want vengeance for what happened during the court transfer. That means they’ll wanna be cowboys.”

  “You said that could be a good thing, right?”

  “In our situation? Yes.”

  “You and Briggs good?”

  “You don’t need to worry about us.”

  A pause.

  “They’re family,” Patrick said.

  “What?”

  “His help. They’re his family. His real family.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He confirm how many?”

  “No. But I’m guessing it’s just the two—sister and a father. Or maybe he has an older brother. I don’t know.”

  “Okay. How you feeling about your kids?”

  “I’d feel better if I knew where they were.”

  “If you don’t know, they won’t know.”

  “You know.”

  “Your kids are my kids. I hope that’s enough said.”

  “It is.”

  “Alright then. Hit me up again when we pass Shippensburg. Right now I got a Red Bull with my name on it.”

  “Okay.”

  Patrick hung up and let out a good five second breath.

  71

  Amy Lambert felt the van slow to a stop. The engine click off. Ever since the last picture of her had been taken she’d been blindfolded—likely a necessary precaution, yet she wondered if the precaution had compensations that delighted her captors. Perhaps they knew that the only thing she would likely see on the black canvas of her blindfold was the last gruesome image that was all but impossible to erase: the image of Christopher Allan’s head being blown open—product of her selfishness for a stupid massage.

  Massage.

  Oh God, Lana. It only just hit her. Why so long before it resonated, she had no idea, but Lana must certainly be dead. Lana was dead. Because of her. Lana was dead because of her.

  The side of Christopher’s head exploding outward.

  Lana dead.

  How the blood had spackled the walls of the massage room.

  Lana dead. Because of her.

  Christopher’s lifeless eyes open, his blood on the wall.

  Patrick, Carrie, Caleb …

  Amy squeezed her eyes tight, shook her head, desperate to will the images away. She was tough. She knew she was. But how much did she have left? How long before
she truly snapped? She wondered about people who went crazy. Was it gradual, or did it happen like a switch? She knew there was much more in store for her. Knew she would be seeing Arty again. She only hoped her guess about one’s insanity possibly being decided by a simple flick of a switch was something best left to screenwriters and carried no true merit in the real world. Because if there was anything she wanted more in the real world right now, it was to prevail again. To see Arty dead. Deader than dead. Obliterated. Him and his stupid family. Fucking dead. Yes. Yes, this was better. Focus on this.

  Picture Domino breaking Arty’s back with his bare hands.

  Picture Dan Briggs snapping the neck of the pretty woman.

  Picture you and Patrick kicking a helpless Arty until he stopped breathing.

  Picture Domino killing the big guy involved. Shooting him. Stabbing him. Stomping him.

  Picture making sure everyone was dead. Lighting their bodies on fire. Watching them burn until there was nothing left but bone and ash.

  Amy realized she was smiling into her gag as she pictured these things. She was no longer weeping, no longer feeling any remorse—just bloodlust and vengeance. And she wondered if perhaps the aforementioned insanity switch could possibly be a dimmer switch instead. No quick off and on—just a slow, gradual decline into madness. She wondered if her switch was gradually being slid into the abyss.

  • • •

  Amy heard the back door of the van open. She flinched when it slammed shut a moment later. Someone was in the van with her.

  “How you holding up?”

  It was the woman. The pretty woman from her father’s funeral, from the spa. Arty’s supposed sister. Even if Amy didn’t have a gag in her mouth, she likely would have said nothing.

  “My father and Arthur are taking a leak. Men have bladders like acorns.”

  So the big guy is their father. She was never one hundred percent sure. And Arty was here. Why hadn’t he shown himself yet?

  “Do you smoke?”

  Amy remained still.

  “I’ve never seen you smoke. But if you sneak them from Patrick I’ll let you have one.”

  Seen you? How long have you been seeing me?

  Amy decided to shake her head.

  “Okay—just thought I’d ask. Trying to be a good host and all.”

  Amy heard the flick of a lighter, and soon, the smell of cigarette smoke.

  “Big night tonight,” the woman said. “It’s taking my brother everything in his power to control himself. He’s wanted to come back here and say hello so many times. But he’s disciplined—like Dad and I. It’s what separates us from the rest of the sheep.” A pause. The sound of inhaling and exhaling. “So are you excited for tonight?”

  Amy stayed still.

  The woman removed Amy’s blindfold and Amy instantly fixed on the woman. No phony wigs, makeup, or outfits from the spa. The woman had obviously taken the time to clean herself up and was just as stunning as Amy remembered from her father’s funeral. The luxuriant dark hair, the full lips, the shimmering black eyes that now reminded Amy of polished coal behind the rising swirls of smoke from the woman’s cigarette.

  “That’s a little better,” the pretty woman said. “Felt like I was talking to a dummy.” And then letting out a quick laugh she added: “I meant a mannequin dummy. Not an idiot dummy.” She took a quick drag from her cigarette and blew it away from Amy. “Although I do wonder if you are a dummy. Going to that spa was very, very stupid. You got a lot of people killed. And there will be more to come of course.”

  Amy’s guilt became fear. She mourned Lana and Christopher’s death, felt impossibly guilty. But the thought of more to come, this woman reading her inner manuscript as though it was printed out in front of her. Previous, comforting thoughts of vengeance, no matter how far they nudged her towards the teetering edge of that abyss, were suddenly losing their appeal, as if that dark side she embraced as an extreme coping mechanism was somehow nullified in the presence of someone else who knew all too well about the benefits of wearing the evil skin. Except this woman did not wear anything. She had never taken it off.

  Everything but fear was now gone. And Amy’s eyes showed it. She shut them like a child willing away the image of the boogeyman standing at the foot of her bed.

  The pretty woman saw it all. Amy could feel the woman tasting her pain and fear, sipping it as though it were the finest of wines. If this had been Arty or Jim she would have flown into a rage, struggled and spat, fought like an animal, just as she’d done months ago. What was it about this woman that froze her spirit with an icy grip of dread?

  “I’m Monica by the way,” the pretty woman said. “We never were formally introduced. Tell me, is Patrick good in bed?”

  Amy’s eyes snapped open. She looked hard at Monica.

  “Does he have a nice cock?”

  A flutter of anger managed to stir. Amy stared at Monica intently.

  “He’s a very good looking man, Amy. And I can’t help but remember the way he kept looking at me at your father’s funeral.”

  The anger grew.

  “I mean it was a funeral for Christ’s sake. Yet he couldn’t show any discretion could he? I caught him staring at my tits more than once. Even my ass as I was walking away. I wonder if he was thinking about fucking me.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette and continued, the smoke fluttering out her mouth and nose while she spoke. “Have you guys fucked since the funeral? I’m sure you have; it was months ago. How much do you want to bet he thought about me at least once while you were doing it? Men can be like that sometimes, especially after years of marriage. They pump away forever like some poor fool on the handle of a dry well. But then, just when all seems lost, they flash on an image—a snippet of porn, a supermodel … a hot piece of ass they saw recently at their father-in-law’s funeral …” She smirked, deliberately letting it singe for a moment. “And then woosh! That well gushes forth as though it had never seen a dry day in its life. And you smile, right? Satisfied? Relieved? As though you were the one that got him off.” She exhaled in Amy’s face. “You know, I wonder … under the right circumstances … I wonder if I could get Patrick to fuck me. I think I could. I can be very persuasive you know. Although by now I’m sure you’ve probably figured that out.” Another drag, another smirk, another exhale in the face. “The only question is: would you want to watch?”

  Amy yelled into her gag, jerked against her binds, eyes narrow and fierce. Monica smiled and seemed to drink it in differently than before. Fear and pain had been a sip of fine wine. Anger and rage was a belt of strong whiskey—hot and rough and good.

  Amy cursed herself for giving the bitch the satisfaction.

  Monica took a final drag of her cigarette and crushed it out on the floor of the van. “Time to go night night again.” She reached forward and pulled the blindfold up and over Amy’s eyes, patted her on top of the head and said, “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  72

  They were an hour away. Dusk was almost gone. Patrick called Domino.

  “Go, brother,” Domino said.

  “About an hour to go, give or take.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would I sound like the world’s biggest pussy if I said I was scared?”

  “You’d sound like the world’s biggest liar if you said you weren’t. Fear is good—it’s natural. If you don’t feel some measure of fear then you’re a sociopath.”

  “So these assholes don’t feel fear?”

  “They can feel pain.”

  “You always know just what to say.”

  “And I love ya back.”

  Patrick gave a soft chuckle.

  Domino said, “Call the Feds about twenty miles out and give them the rendezvous point.”

  “What if they jump the gun before I can get there?”

  “Make it crystal-fucking-clear that if they do, she’s dead. The Feds don’t have a big enough shovel to get themselves out of a mess like that.”

  “
And Allegheny County? Cowboys?”

  “Promise them first dibs on the assholes; all you care about is your wife’s safety. They’ll get their chance to come in, guns blazing.”

  “And then it’s on.”

  “And then it’s on, my friend.”

  73

  Amy heard the back door of the van open again. No greeting this time, just purposeful grunts as her chair was swung around and pulled back on its hind legs before being dragged backwards. More grunts as her chair was lifted out of the van with one swift movement and lowered to the ground.

  She sensed only one person behind the effort—likely the father, the big man; he had hoisted her and the chair out of the van without much of a struggle. She remembered Arty as lean, not the type of build to perform such a laborious act on his own. Besides, and she knew this in her gut, if it had been Arty, he would not have been able to resist the urge to speak. To mock. To play. The father remained quiet. Even when he tilted her chair back again and loaded her onto what Amy could only guess was a dolly—she felt herself being wheeled backwards seconds later—the father still never spoke.

  Monica had mocked. Pushed Amy’s buttons to keep the game ablaze.

  Arty would have certainly said worse. Maybe even hit her.

  The father said nothing. All business apparently. Amy began to wonder if this was more frightening: to resist the urge to toy with the helpless prey. To be so focused and disciplined that the objective would never be compromised by even the most harmless of subtleties until the package arrived safely.

  Amy felt the dolly slow to a stop. Heard a door open. Felt the dolly bounce twice as it was lifted upward over two small stairs. The cold outdoor air lingered on her skin as a door slammed behind her, shutting out the world. Soon, her once-frosty cheeks flushed to the warmth of indoors. She smelled old wood and dust. And before she was tilted back once more to be wheeled towards her captor’s destination, the father finally spoke—the package safely delivered, the objective completed—the time for celebration to begin.