“It’s getting to be so you should be charging me.”
Domino made a face.
Amy wiped away an errant tear. “They’re dead. They’re all dead. We don’t need protection anymore.”
Domino took his hand off her knee and looked away. “Gives me peace of mind.”
“It’s going to give you a bad back. You can’t be comfortable on that sofa every night.”
“I’ve slept in worse places. Besides, I like to think Patrick is happy I’m checking in on you.”
Amy took Domino’s hand and squeezed it. “Except you’re not checking in; you’re practically living here, trying to turn me into freakin’ G.I. Jane. You’ve got me constantly kicking and hitting that mannequin-punch bag thing you bought me, which, I’d like to add, scares the crap out of me every time I go into the basement to get something.”
Domino chuckled. Amy went on.
“I used to hate guns. Now I find myself pointing out all these errors on crime shows. I used to like those shows you know.”
He chuckled again. “I came in here to console you.”
Amy smiled. No grimace this time. “Maybe consoling you helps console me.”
Domino’s own smile faded. “I know that I failed. And I know that a man is defined by how he picks himself up after that failure…” He looked at Amy with soulful eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get up from this.”
“I’m alive, Domino. My children are alive. Patrick would have given his life a thousand times for that.”
Domino dropped his head and nodded into his chest.
They sat in silence for a beat. Amy sniffled a few times and wiped away the last of her crying face. “I heard you in the hallway,” she said. “Please tell me the kids weren’t up.”
“They heard you crying.”
“Oh, God damn it.”
“Nothing wrong with crying, girl.”
“When it wakes your children there is. I need to be strong for them.”
“You’re human.”
She sighed. “I’m pretty good during the day. The new house helps. Keeping busy helps. But bedtime…” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “I keep thinking I’m going to roll over and see him. Feel him. I know he’s gone—on a conscious level I know that. But it’s like my subconscious is taunting me, giving me tastes of him when I’m at my most vulnerable.”
“Routine pattern,” Domino said.
“Huh?”
“Ever move something in the kitchen that’s been there forever? How many times do you still reach for it in the old place even though you know it’s not there? Or how about the ‘mannequin-punch bag thing’ I bought you? You know it’s in the basement. You know it’s been there for almost a year now. Yet you say whenever you go down there to get something it always give you a quick scare.”
Amy nodded, then stopped soon after, her head down. When she looked up she said: “Or maybe he is with me.”
Domino wanted to punch himself for using such a clinical analogy at a moment like this. Immediately he said, “Yeah, I like that much better.”
Amy gave a little smile.
Domino squeezed her hand. “Never stop loving your husband, girl. Keep on crying. Just adjust the volume a little.” He winked.
She chuckled and nodded.
“I got an idea,” Domino began. “How about I take you and the kids out for breakfast in the morning? After that, we drop the kids off at Patrick’s folks’, then you and I go visit Patrick. Just the two of us. You can cry as loud as you want.”
Amy chuckled again.
“What do you say?”
She nodded. Domino patted her knee and stood. “Alright then. Get some sleep.”
Domino was headed for the door when Amy said: “I sometimes wonder who made out worse.”
Domino turned. “What’s that?”
“Who got the worst of it? Me or Monica?”
Both of Domino’s eyebrows went up. “She’s dead and you’re alive. I think most would say she made out worse.” And then Domino quickly reconsidered her question, again cursing his militant nature for jumping to black and white conclusions about all the world’s problems, especially those that gave you endless layers of gray no matter how hard you scrubbed. “You’re talking about living with the fact that you killed someone,” he said.
“No. No, I’m glad I shot that bitch. I’m glad I avenged my husband. My only regret was that we weren’t able to hang around and watch her bleed.”
Domino suppressed a smirk. He knew that Amy wasn’t trying to talk tough. Amy was tough. The woman’s heroics were the catalysts that lead to her family’s survival during the first ordeal with the Fannelli brothers at Crescent Lake. Amy had feigned acquiescence during a potential rape in order to snatch a large metal nail file and jam it into one of the brothers’ bare balls. After which, she knocked him cold with a lamp. Badass was the first word that had popped into Domino’s head when Patrick had told him that.
“So then what is it you’re saying?” he asked.
“She’s dead. That’s it for her. Me? I have to continue living without Patrick.”
“Well like you said: you’re kids are still alive. They’re a part of him. And you’ve still got the chance to move onward. You’ll never forget Patrick, and I wouldn’t dare suggest you try, but you do have the opportunity to do right by him. Watch your kids grow. Build a new life.
“It’s a truth that nobody under dire straits wants to hear, but time does heal. And you’ve got a lifetime in front of you, girl. The only thing that crazy bitch has in front of her is six feet of dirt.”
Amy exhaled and nodded. She then stopped and gave Domino a sidelong glance. “Try telling the Feds that.”
Domino groaned. “Yeah—I’d say I’m officially off their Christmas card list.”
“Think they’re still looking for her?”
“Surviving member of the infamous Fannelli clan? Wanted for multiple murders nationwide, both civilian and law enforcement officers? Yeah, I’d say she’s still in their top ten.”
“Wish there was a way we could let them know.”
“Me too. I keep hoping that one day someone in Italy will do the math and ship their answer stateside. Until then…” He gestured locking his lips and tossing the key.
Amy nodded. “As long as she’s dead—that’s all I care about.”
“Me and you both, girl.”
3
Monica Kemp drove the dead Stan and Jo’s truck throughout her rural surroundings until scattered signs of commerce began to show. She found a modest 24-hour convenience store and pulled in. She sat in the idling truck and watched the patrons move in and out of the store, ignoring the women and focusing on the men.
When she found the right one, Monica exited the truck, did a quick primp in the side view mirror, then entered the convenience store. She approached the counter. “Prepaid phone and a pack of Parliament Lights.”
The clerk, a heavy balding man who looked as if he played video games in his mother’s basement when he wasn’t working, leered at her. “Matches?”
Monica said no without a thank you, paid and left the counter. She did not leave the store, but instead walked towards a row of snacks where a young man’s drooped and red-rimmed eyes worked their way back and forth over the selection, the ideal remedy for the munchies his prize.
Monica bumped into the kid and immediately apologized, flashing a smile that made the kid blush.
Monica left the store, the kid and the clerk no doubt watching her ass on exit. It was for this reason she waited a minute before stealing the kid’s car. The price for exquisite beauty, she mused.
When the time was right, Monica approached the kid’s Toyota, used the keys she’d lifted off him, and drove off, abandoning the truck in the convenience store’s lot. By the time anyone got clever and linked the stolen Toyota with the truck, Monica would be like the stupid couple who’d picked her up: gone.
• • •
Monica cruised through
southern New Jersey, the prepaid phone open and ready. She knew she didn’t have oodles of time after stealing the boy’s Toyota; he would eventually report it stolen. Eventually. The risk of asking for police assistance looking as if you’d just smoked from a twelve foot bong would not elude the kid, no matter how baked he was. It was the reason Monica chose him.
Still, he would eventually report it. So she needed something new. Her training emphasized constant transition until a strong measure of security could be attained. The more random the transitions, the less pieces to put together.
But no piece-of-shit cars anymore. She’d had her fill over the past year. She was now back in the game. It was finally time for something better.
Monica punched a number into the prepaid phone—a number she hadn’t used in a long time.
A male voice on the first ring. “Code in.”
Monica said, “Neco. 8122765.”
“Waiting for voice authentication…clear—wait. This asset has been out of contact for over a year. Presumed dead.”
“Then who are you talking to now, stupid?”
“ID challenge. Code in: iron.”
“Response: Doberman.”
“Waiting for voice authentication…clear. What do you need?”
“Indefinite transportation and multiple secure lines.”
“Hold on…alright, we got you. Southern New Jersey?”
“That’s right.”
“Sending you pickup specifics via text. Asset ready for new assignment?”
“No.” Monica balanced the phone between her shoulder and chin, began unwrapping her cigarettes while she drove. “I won’t be back to work for awhile. I’m working on something personal.”
“Have you cleared that?”
“What’s to clear? I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” She tweezed out a cigarette with her fingernails and stuck it in her mouth. It bounced unlit as she continued. “I’m going to be needing Intel. It won’t be easy to come by.”
“Intel is for assets on assignment.”
Monica lit the cigarette and inhaled deep. “Then I’ll owe you. Next five are on me.”
“Asset is confirming next five assignments without pay?”
“For Intel and resources at my disposal until completion of my goal—yes.”
“Intel request approved. Resource approval will be predicated upon the complexity of each request.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “Oh come on…”
“Asset has been off the grid for over a year. For now I suggest the asset be grateful she’s getting secure lines and transportation without bother.”
Monica swallowed obscenities and drew hard on her cigarette. “Fine. Start now on that Intel then. Domino Taylor—T-a-y-l-o-r. Last known residence—home and business—was New York City. May have recently re-located. Start with eastern Pennsylvania. Crosscheck with Amy Lambert—L-a-m-b-e-r-t. She too may have recently re-located.”
“Got it. Will send information to one of your secure lines when we have what you need.”
Monica hung up, mumbled “asshole” and then tossed the prepaid phone onto the seat next to her. It beeped a few seconds later. She snatched it back and checked the text for the location of the drop spot. She knew exactly where it was. Sticking the cigarette into her mouth, Monica balanced the wheel with one wrist while using both hands to snap the phone in half. She then took a final drag of her cigarette and tossed it out the window along with the broken phone.
“Okay,” she said to herself, settling in to her seat. She thought of her father. Then Domino, the man who killed her father. No easy task. Any man that could kill her father should not be underestimated. In addition to his physical attributes, Domino was also damn clever. He’d found her in Italy. Her own fault in retrospect—writing ciao on the wall in Patrick’s blood before she fled was stupid. At the time, she couldn’t resist.
Still, the hint to Italy scrawled in blood admittedly her own fault, Monica knew Domino was a seasoned professional, brains and brawn. She could not come at him head on. Her approach needed to be oblique.
Covering her tracks after regaining consciousness in the hospital in Italy hadn’t been difficult. Doctors and law officials over there had their price. The blonde woman who’d been shot in the café by an unknown assailant had been officially filed away as a Jane Doe, pronounced dead shortly after arrival. She’d become a walking corpse, with the seemingly priceless advantage to come and go as she pleased with immunity.
Monica knew better.
Even if Domino and Amy thought her dead in Italy, she suspected Domino would not have embraced this truth so readily. He would check. Keep tabs.
Monica knew she needed to break all conceivable lines of contact for everything to run smoothly. Moving into the Pine Barrens had allowed her access to some of the most remote areas in the country, assuring her the privacy and solitude needed to complete her masterpiece—a project she’d begun outlining the moment she’d arrived in Florence, days after her father and brother had been killed in that colossal fuck-up in western Pennsylvania.
And now, one year later, her masterpiece was complete—the foundation being an old building in what was left of an abandoned company town dating back to the revolutionary war. It was one of many ghost towns deep in the heart of the Pine Barrens, and although public discovery or interference in such a locale had a probability of nil, Monica had little trouble finding laborers who worked nights, kept quiet, and above all, placed the almighty dollar above morality when it came to restoring the building to accommodate Monica’s bizarre wants.
The final result was all she’d hoped for and more. She had even bought off a few men to keep a periodic eye on it for the time she’d be gone, securing the deal by blowing all three, then promising more and then some when she returned.
Monica was officially ready to begin—and she wanted every conceivable advantage in order to bring her plan to fruition. Though it was not her style, she would enlist help. No one professional. A lackey. Someone with the same impulses as her, but still ripe enough to be manipulated. She now had a decent amount of top-tier resources (pending approval of course, the pricks) as far away as a phone call, but a human element by her side, willing to assist, a possible mole, a possible whatever, would be the final squirt of grease in the cogs, make it all run that much smoother. This would prove especially true if Domino had since enlisted new help.
Monica smiled, reminiscing about killing Briggs and Allan, Domino’s two best men…
And then her smile faded as she thought of her father again. How she could still feel him when she’d said a final farewell to his cabin in Alaska before arriving in southern New Jersey over a year ago. Vividly recall when they first sat down in that cabin and discussed how they would free her remaining brother from jail so they could wreak havoc on the Lamberts.
That was before she knew anything about Domino. Before he was brought in to help the Lamberts.
Domino. Domino. Domino. Her obsession grew each time her mind spoke the name.
Monica no longer cared about Amy Lambert and her stupid kids. She’d left them without a husband and a father. Killing them would be doing them a favor. She was more than happy to let them live; let them suffer.
But Domino? She was going to torture him in the slowest and most excruciating ways possible—and she’d spent the last year preparing quite a few.
4
Domino led everybody to an open booth at the far end of the diner. The restaurant was a regular spot for Amy and the kids—close to home and kid-friendly.
They took their seats in the booth, Amy and Caleb on one side, Carrie and Domino on the other. Domino sat on the end and kept his leg in the aisle.
“So what’s good here?” Domino asked. “Who’s getting what?”
“I always get the blueberry pancakes,” Carrie said. “They’re so good. I’m gonna get the blueberry pancakes. Mom, I’m getting the blueberry pancakes.”
“Yes, honey, I heard you.”
Do
mino chuckled then looked at Caleb. “What about you, little man?”
“Eggs Benedict.”
Domino raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Amy ran a loving hand down Caleb’s short dark hair. “It was his father’s favorite.”
Domino smiled and said no more.
“He doesn’t even like it,” Carrie said. “He just eats the ham part.”
“Carrie.”
Carrie looked at her mother. “What? He does.”
“Enough.”
Carrie, unfazed, announced that she was getting blueberry pancakes again.
• • •
The waitress was clearing the plates when Carrie dropped a bomb.
“Are you gonna marry Mommy?”
Domino Taylor had lost track of the men he’d killed in combat over the years, the atrocities he’d had box seats for. The man was the metaphorical cat for how many lives he’d cashed in.
When an eight-year-old girl asked him this simple question, he was useless.
Amy saved him. “Mommy and Domino are just friends, honey. Just friends.”
Domino could only nod in agreement, the right words still calculus to him.
“Then why does he always sleep over?”
Amy said, “You have sleepovers with your friends, don’t you?”
Carrie frowned, stumped. “Yeah…”
“Well isn’t Mommy allowed to have sleepovers too?”
“I guess…”
Amy glanced over at Domino, her expression underlining their conversation from the night before.
Domino returned a quick, uneasy smile.
5
Carrie and Caleb had been dropped off at the elder Lamberts’ over an hour ago. Domino and Amy now stood before Patrick’s grave alone.
Amy had removed the old flowers from last week and replaced them with new ones. She kidded to Domino that Patrick would rather she left a steak and a bottle of scotch instead of flowers. Domino laughed and said if she made a habit out of that, Patrick’s grave would be inundated with vagrants the moment she left.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 55
