Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  She’s getting away.

  Domino ran to Patrick and placed his hand on his neck. His pulse was very shallow, his breathing barely there.

  She’s getting away.

  Domino stood and ran to the front door, stopped, and returned to Patrick. He called for help on his cell, and then started to perform CPR on his friend.

  Patrick died before the ambulance arrived.

  77

  Florence, Italy

  Four Months Later

  A beautiful blonde woman in sunglasses sat at a table in a busy outdoor café. When the waitress approached, the beautiful woman ordered a black coffee in perfect Italian.

  While she waited for her coffee, the blonde took a cigarette from her purse, lit it, and inhaled deep. She tilted her head back and blew a stream of smoke towards the sky. She kept her head in that position after exhaling, soaking in the morning sun as though she had never had the pleasure of sampling its allure.

  The waitress returned with the coffee and the blonde thanked her.

  She took a sip, let out a contented sigh, and resumed leaning back in the chair, her face in the sun once more.

  She was drawing on her cigarette again when a woman spoke:

  “Those are bad for you.”

  The blonde casually lifted her head and exhaled. “Amy Lambert, as I live and breathe.”

  “Hey, Monica,” Amy said, taking a seat across from her. “Back to blonde again?”

  Monica ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s real—no wig.”

  “Looks good. Familiar too.”

  Monica smirked. “Bringing back good memories?”

  “Just memories,” Amy said, her eyes never leaving Monica’s.

  “Now come on, Amy …” Monica tossed her lit cigarette to the ground; a patron scoffed at the act. “I always pegged you as rather smart.” Monica brought her hand below the table. There was the faint click of a gun. “You know you’d stand no chance against me.”

  Amy nodded, her eyes no less intense. “I know that.”

  A powerful hand seized Monica’s arm from behind. Effortlessly, the concealed gun was wrenched from her hand and quickly tucked away.

  Without turning around, Monica said, “Let me guess—it’s the big black fella that killed my father.”

  “You can call me Domino,” a deep voice said.

  “I can call you much more than that,” Monica said.

  Domino bent forward and put his mouth to Monica’s ear. “Be quiet and listen to what my friend has to say.”

  Monica’s eyebrows bounced. “Friend? Are you two fucking already? Poor Patrick. It hasn’t even been a year and—”

  There were two muffled thumps. Nobody in the outdoor café heard them. Monica’s head dropped towards the table, towards her stomach. Her face went from shock, to disbelief, to nothing. She fell face-forward onto the table.

  By the time anyone noticed, Amy and Domino were faces in a crowd. The gun Amy used was given back to Domino and tossed in the River Arno.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45 • 46 • 47 • 48 • 49 • 50 • 51 • 52 • 53 • 54 • 55 • 56 • 57 • 58 • 59 • 60 • 61 • 62 • 63 • 64 • 65 • 66 • 67 • 68 • 69 • 70 • 71 • 72 • 73 • 74 • 75 • 76 • 77 • 78 • 79 • 80 • 81 • 82 • 83

  1

  The Pine Barrens

  Southern New Jersey

  Summer, 2010

  Stan and Josephine Barr were heading back into the Pines when they saw the woman lying in the ditch.

  They’d ventured out for the day to collect supplies, made a good run, but the effort had taken its toll. When they were a young couple living in Hoboken, they walked everywhere. And why not—everything was in spitting distance. When they gave up urban life for the secluded one they now cherished, the prospect of using tires instead of feet seemed just fine—especially once they’d settled in and appreciated that spitting distance was now missile distance.

  This made the discovery of the woman in the ditch all the more disturbing: Stan could not remember passing any stalled vehicles along the way. None at the scene either.

  Only moments prior, Josephine had laid her head on Stan’s shoulder and closed her eyes. The dashboard had read 8:30 P.M. Daylight was on its way out, and Stan knew once they ventured further into the Pines, the densely surrounding woodlands would blanket whatever remaining light there was.

  8:30. They’d been out later than he wanted, and there was still a ways to go. He had hoped they’d be back at the house, everything unloaded, and under the sheets by nine. Ten was now looking more likely—late for them.

  Stan had thought about turning on the radio, the distraction perhaps lightening the load on his weary lids. Of course it would also lighten the load on Jo’s lids; and he’d wanted his wife to rest.

  Whistling? He shook his head at himself. No different than the radio, dummy.

  And then the ultimate distraction had presented itself, but it was nothing to be grateful for.

  The woman in the ditch.

  “Jo,” he said. “Jo, wake up, honey.”

  Josephine sat upright, yawned and rubbed fresh sleep from her eyes. “What is it?”

  Stan slowed the truck to a stop on the side of the road.

  “What is it?” Josephine asked again. “Why are you stopping?”

  Stan was pointing in the near distance, the headlights of the truck illuminating everything: a woman in a ditch by the side of the rural road, her body curled into a fetal position. “What do you make of that?”

  Josephine squinted and leaned forward, her tired eyes then springing to life on discovery. “Oh my God.”

  Stan nodded. “What should we do?”

  Josephine motioned towards Stan’s cell on the dashboard. “Call for help?”

  Stan picked up the phone. “And how long before someone actually gets here? Remember Jack Logan? By the time they got to him he was dead.”

  “That was deep in the belly of the Pines, Stan. They couldn’t find the place.” Josephine turned and looked in all directions. “We’re still on the outskirts. They’d get here in time.”

  “In time for what?” Stan said. “We don’t know if that girl is dead or—”

  The woman started moving. She uncoiled slowly from her fetal ball, tried to stand, and fell over.

  Stan and Josephine simultaneously exited the truck and hurried towards the woman. Josephine dropped to a knee as Stan stood overhead. The woman was moaning, trying to sit up. Josephine placed a hand on the woman’s back to steady her.

  Stan gave the woman a quick going over. She appeared to be in her late twenties. Brown hair and thin. Disheveled but attractive. She wore jeans and a tee-shirt. A gray lady’s bag was by her side. He could see no signs of blood.

  “Sweetheart?” Josephine said to the young woman. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  The woman stared blankly at Josephine. Then up at Stan. Her brown eyes were wide and glassy. Stan reckoned some state of shock.

  “Sweetheart?” Josephine tried again. “Sweetheart, are you hurt? Can you tell me what happened?”

  The woman tried getting to her feet again. Stan and Josephine helped her, each taking an arm.

  The woman appeared steadier now. She took in her surroundings. “Where?” she said.

  “You’re in Southern New Jersey. The Pine Barrens,” Stan said. “What on Earth are you doing out here on your own? On foot?”

  “The Pine…?”

  “Barrens,” Stan said. “It’s a heavily forested area that stretches across more than seven counties. How the heck did you make it in this far on foot?”

  The woman asked: “Why are you here?”

  Stan and Josephine exchanged looks. The question
seemed irrelevant given the circumstances.

  “We live out here,” Stan said. “We own a small farm. We also own a truck,” Stan said with significance, gesturing to the still idling vehicle.

  “Stan,” Josephine said.

  Stan held up a hand and nodded at his wife’s implication for discretion.

  Josephine turned her attention back to the young woman. “What’s your name?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you hurt?” Stan asked.

  The woman gave her body a brief scan. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Josephine asked.

  “I don’t…” The young woman dropped her head.

  Josephine started rubbing the woman’s back. She looked at Stan for help.

  “Sounds like some kind of shock-induced amnesia,” Stan said. “Someone must have left her on the side of the road.”

  “Better make that call,” Josephine said.

  Stan nodded. “Let’s get her in the truck first. Miss? You feel well enough to have a seat in our truck? We want you to get you comfortable before help can arrive. Jo?”

  Josephine nodded and began guiding the woman towards the passenger side of the truck, whispering soothing words en route.

  Stan noticed the woman’s handbag being left behind. He reached for it and held it out towards his wife. “Jo?”

  Josephine took the bag and continued guiding the woman towards the truck.

  “Wait,” Stan called to them, feeling foolish he hadn’t thought of it sooner. “Look inside.”

  “What?”

  “The bag. Maybe her ID is in there. It might jog something.”

  “Right,” Josephine said with sudden enthusiasm. “Right,” she said again, handing the bag over to the woman, face eager for compensation.

  The woman took the bag, yet paused before opening it. Stan wondered if the young woman might be afraid that the bag would indeed jog her memory, offer up the horrific specifics as to why and how.

  Josephine was apparently on the same page as her husband. “Would you like me to look for you, sweetheart?” she asked.

  The woman shook her head. “No, it’s okay.” She opened the bag and looked. Then she frowned. Then she brought out a gun.

  Josephine immediately stepped back. Stan hurried to his wife’s side.

  The woman turned the pistol over and over in her hand as if it were a puzzle. She looked up at both Stan and Josephine with frightened eyes. “Why do I have a gun?”

  Stan began inching his wife behind him, shielding her from the woman and the gun. He didn’t know what this young lady’s story was, and she certainly appeared as equally confused, if not more so, than he and his wife. But she was still holding a gun. And Stan was sure as hell not going to let his Jo take a bullet, accidental or otherwise.

  “Why don’t you put the gun down, dear?” Stan said. “We don’t want it to accidentally go off. Put the gun down and start looking for some kind of identification. What do you say?”

  The woman nodded, still looking lost. She resumed searching the bag, but did not place the gun on the ground as Stan had asked.

  “Miss?” Stan said.

  The woman ignored Stan. She continued rifling through the bag with one hand while keeping hold of the gun with the other. Occasionally the point of the barrel would wave its way past Stan and Josephine, and Stan would flinch and shield his wife more so. It was not long before Josephine was behind her husband, peeking over his shoulder.

  “Miss?”

  “Got it!” the young woman exclaimed, pulling a wallet from the bag, and then letting the bag drop to the ground. She still held on to the gun.

  “What does it say?” Stan asked.

  The woman brought the wallet closer to the idling truck’s headlights and began flipping through its contents. She paused and squinted at something. “Monica Kemp. It says my name is Monica Kemp.”

  There was a moment of pause—Stan and Josephine anxiously waiting for more from the woman, the woman taking her time studying the ID.

  “Does that name ring a bell?” Stan eventually asked.

  The woman continued to stare at the ID.

  Stan gave a demonstrative clearing of his throat. The young woman finally looked up and acknowledged him. “Does that name ring a bell,” Stan asked again.

  The woman smirked. Then smiled. Then grinned. “Yeah it does,” she said, raising the gun on them.

  Stan’s hands immediately went up in surrender. Josephine, still behind her husband, gripped his shoulders in panic.

  “Stupid car broke down a mile up,” the young woman said. “My own fault in retrospect; I was so busy with work that I got lazy with maintenance on the damn thing. I think it might have been the fan belt.” She shrugged. “It was a piece of shit anyway.”

  Stan, hands still up, pointed to the truck. “Take the truck. Just take it and go.”

  The girl pursed her lips and frowned, making a duh face. “I was going to take it, Stan. You think I was in that ditch for fun? Christ, I must have been lying there for a fucking hour.”

  “Just take it and go.”

  The woman ignored him, started rambling about things that made no sense. “I’ve been isolating myself out here for so long. I’m not whining or anything; it was necessary. But still…so long. It feels like forever since I’ve killed someone.”

  Josephine gasped and gripped Stan tighter. Stan held both arms out to his side, trying to create a wider shield. “Please,” he said. “Please, just take the truck and go.”

  The woman considered the gun in her hand. “So long,” she said.

  “Please,” Stan said. “We tried to help you.”

  “Not my fault you’re stupid.”

  The woman shot Stan in the knee. Stan cried out and fell to the ground. Josephine screamed.

  The woman shot Josephine once. In the head. Between the eyes. Josephine’s body crumbled then started a lifeless twitch.

  Now the woman admired the gun in her hand. “So long, yet still so accurate. I fucking amaze myself. ”

  Stan, despite the agony in his knee, dragged himself towards his dead wife. He lay across her body, knowing she was gone, yet still trying to shield what remained of his Jo. He wept uncontrollably.

  The woman bent and picked up her bag. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes, lit one, then crumpled and threw the empty pack to the side of the road. She approached Stan and his wife.

  Stan eventually looked up at her, his eyes red with tears and unfathomable sorrow. His Jo was gone. “Kill me,” he said. “Kill me…”

  The woman’s shoulders dropped. She sighed. “You’re taking all the fun out of it.”

  Stan continued pleading with his eyes.

  “Fine,” she said. “But only because I’m eager to get back in the game.”

  She shot Stan in the head and chest, his body falling on top of his dead wife’s as though trying for one last embrace. Monica Kemp noticed this, said “Awww…” and then headed back towards the truck.

  Before entering, Monica took a final drag of her cigarette, and flicked it towards the dead couple. It hit and sparked off Stan’s back. “Thanks for the lift, good Samaritans. I’m off to see a big black fella named after a pizza.” As she started to pull away, she added, in a low, almost sensual voice: “He and I got lots of catching up to do.”

  2

  Paoli, Pennsylvania

  Domino Taylor woke to the sound of crying overhead. He immediately rolled off the sofa and headed for the stairs.

  Carrie and Caleb Lambert sat next to one another on the landing, Hello Kitty pajamas for Carrie, Iron Man for Caleb.

  “We think Mommy’s crying,” Carrie said.

  Domino parried the comment. “What are you rascals doing out of bed?”

  They both shrugged, the answer obvious, just no way for an eight-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy to articulate it.

  Domino hit the second to last step and palmed both their heads with
his giant hands. “Go on back to bed now.”

  “Are you going to go talk to Mommy?” Carrie asked.

  Domino was already at Amy Lambert’s door. He didn’t answer the children, just put a finger to his lips in a shh-gesture, then waved them away towards their bedrooms.

  Carrie and Caleb went to their rooms. Domino knocked lightly on Amy’s door.

  “Amy?”

  A pause, and then a voice trying not to sound strained. “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine. Come in.”

  Domino opened the door. Amy was sitting upright, her brown eyes swollen from tears, not sleep. She smiled and it looked like a grimace. A remote control was at her side.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me, girl,” Domino said, gesturing towards the remote.

  Amy took the remote then pointed and clicked at the TV near the base of her bed. A muted film of Amy and Patrick at the beach came alive: Patrick lifting a protesting Amy over his shoulder, running and diving into the ocean with her. Amy surfacing, wiping water from her eyes, taking blind swipes at her husband. Patrick laughing, covering up and taking Amy’s shots on the shoulder before grabbing and lifting her overhead for a second plunge.

  It hurt to watch, but Domino forced a smile. “Where was this?”

  “Avalon.”

  “Who’s filming?”

  “The Browns—Jamie and Alexis. You know them.”

  Domino nodded. “How long ago?”

  “2006. The kids were with Patrick’s parents for the weekend.” Amy clicked it off just as her younger self was about to take plunge number three.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me,” Domino said again.

  Amy patted the bed for Domino to have a seat. “I’m fine. What are you doing here? Did you stay the night?”

  Domino nodded.

  Amy cast him a look. “Domino…”

  “Didn’t feel like driving home.”

  “Liar. I should start charging you rent.”

  He smiled. “What do you usually charge for a sofa in the living room?”