“What are you doing?” Ben said.
Domino ignored him, his eyes stuck to the rearview. The headlights grew as they gained.
If she rides my ass, looking for a shot at my tires, I’m slamming the brakes and sending her through the fucking windshield.
The headlights sped closer, the silhouette of a car now faintly visible—about fifty feet behind them. She could shoot from there; he had to be wary.
If she’s stupid enough to try and pull up alongside for a shot at us, I’ll swerve and blast her right off this puny road.
Twenty feet.
Come on, bitch…fucking bring it.
The headlights were on top of them now.
Domino stomped the brakes, the truck grinding rock and soil as it skidded to a stop.
The Lexus swerved deftly out of the way as if expecting the sudden stop, then sped right on by.
Domino gaped at the dwindling tail lights of the Lexus until they were gone.
“Was that her?” Ben asked, panting.
Domino nodded, dumbfounded.
“Why did she pass us? Where is she going?”
An icy terror flooded Domino’s veins. “Oh Jesus God no.”
78
Amy opened the chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, poured herself a generous glass, and then set the bottle on the coffee table. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she then took her glass of Pinot, settled back into the couch, grabbed the remote beside her, and hit play.
The video of she and Patrick at Avalon came to life. She smiled and took a deep pull on her glass of Pinot.
Her cell phone rang.
“Oh come on,” she muttered, setting her glass on the coffee table, shaking off the blanket, then heading back into the kitchen.
Her phone was flashing on the countertop. She grabbed it and checked the caller ID. 732 area code? Where the hell was that? She ignored the call, and returned to the couch for her trip to Avalon with Patrick.
79
“Answer the goddamn phone, Amy!” Domino screamed into the receiver of the diner’s payphone.
He dialed again. It rang until he got voicemail again.
“FUCK!”
The few patrons in the diner glanced Domino’s way. An imposing man to begin with, Domino was now an imposing man who looked as if he’d just waded through a herd of rhinos. His friend, a young white kid by his side, looked as if he’d fancied swimming with the rhinos as well.
Domino dialed again.
“Hello?” Amy sounded annoyed.
“Amy, thank God.”
“Domino? Where—?”
“Shut up and listen to me. She’s alive. Monica’s alive.”
“What!?”
“Get the kids, and get out of the house now.”
“The kids aren’t here; they’re with their grandparents.”
“Okay, okay good. Perfect. Leave them there. I want you to leave the house now. Just get in the car and go. She got a head start on me, and she was moving—she could be as close as an hour from you by now. When you’re on the road, call the police and tell them the surviving Fannelli sister is on her way to your home. They’ll be there in a fucking blink.”
“Domino…”
“Do it, Amy!”
“Okay.”
“I’m on my way now. Be safe, girl.”
“Okay.”
Domino hung up and turned to Ben. “Listen to me. You call your mother and tell her where you are. Tell her you’re safe. Then you ask the manager here to call the police; they’ll come get you. Got it?”
Ben nodded.
“You’re safe now, Ben. Do what I said.”
Domino started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ben asked.
Domino ignored him and left.
80
Amy stood very still after hanging up with Domino. She was not frightened. She was in fact, surprised by her calm. Had the kids been with her and not at their grandparents for the night, she’d already be on the road, doing exactly as Domino instructed.
But she was alone. And Monica was coming for her.
And she’ll keep on coming for you, she thought. No matter what happens, she’ll keep on coming…always.
Amy headed back to the sofa and picked up the bottle of wine.
81
Monica parked two streets down and made the rest of her way on foot. There was a chance that Domino had phoned ahead and warned Amy. There was a chance the police were there. There was also a chance that Domino and Ben never even made it out of the Pines; that in his weakened state, Domino crashed the damn truck before he could even call to warn Amy.
It didn’t matter either way. Monica was going to find Amy and kill her. Kill her kids. Find Kelly after that and kill her. Domino after that and kill him. Kill everyone.
She crept towards the house. Ducked and hid behind a car in the driveway of a nearby home. She saw no police vehicles in Amy’s driveway, marked or unmarked. None in the street. Perhaps her final and least likely stab at guesswork had been correct after all: Domino had never made it to a phone.
That would be so very good.
The creeping became an anxious walk, her fury, her need for blood superseding caution. Odds were on her side anyway. If the police were hiding, waiting, they would not shoot right away.
She would.
Monica was by the side of the house now. All lights inside were off save for a flickering glow in the den. The television. Monica paused there, held her breath and listened. The suburban summer night was still and without wind. Locusts and cicadas and crickets were in full chorus. A dog barked in the distance.
And that was all. Her trained ear could detect nothing else of note. She was helpless to a smirk as she moved towards the den window that flickered light from the television. She risked a quick peek. Spotted the back of the familiar sofa she’d seen weeks before while doing surveillance on the house. Could see the top half of Amy’s torso nestled into the sofa, a large blanket formed into a cowl covering her head and shoulders like a cozy hooded sweatshirt. She could see an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of the sofa, an empty glass next to it.
And best of all—best of all—Amy was watching some video of her and Patrick at the beach.
Monica was helpless to a grin now. She would enter Amy’s home, incapacitate her, then drag the kids out of bed. She would tie the children up in front of her, and force Amy to flip a coin—a decider on which child was to die first.
When both children were gone, she would cut Amy’s head off with whatever Amy had in her kitchen. She would do it while Amy was still alive, and she would leave the head for Domino with some sort of special note:
Sorry, Dommy, but I’m afraid this situation has come to a head.
Monica bit back a giggle, hurried to the sliding glass door by the kitchen, and fished out her car keys. On her ring of keys was a glass cutter. She carved a small square big enough to squeeze her hand through, tapped the square until it gave, reached in, unlocked the door, slid it open, and stepped inside. If the alarm sounded, she would likely have sixty seconds before the dispatcher called to make sure all was well. Gun to her head, and a threat to kill her children would be all the incentive Amy needed to answer the phone and tell them it was a false alarm.
Except no alarm sounded.
Perhaps she hadn’t triggered it when she entered?
Monica flashed on the empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Perhaps in Amy’s drunkenness she’d forgotten to set it?
Perhaps Monica didn’t give a shit either way?
She hurried towards the den. Spotted Amy on the sofa. Rushed forward and placed the gun to the back of her head.
“Buona sera, Amy.”
Amy didn’t move.
Asleep?
Monica slapped the side of Amy’s head. Amy’s torso rocked onto its side, and then rolled off the sofa, the blanket arranged in a cowl around her head and shoulders coming off.
Monica stared down at the top half
of some kind of mannequin. “What the fuc—?”
Amy emerged from the kitchen and fired her gun into Monica’s back eight times. Monica flew into and over the sofa, her body tumbling to a halt next to the mannequin. Two of the bullets had caught the back of her legs, three had caught her in the back, and three had missed. She lay on the floor, wheezing and coughing blood.
Amy cautiously approached, gun on Monica the whole time.
Monica smiled up at Amy with a mouthful of blood. “Well look at you…”
“Look at me.”
“This is pre-meditated murder, Amy.”
Amy steadied her grip on the gun. “I know that, Monica.”
She wheezed, struggling to breathe. “Maybe we’re not so different after all.”
Amy gave a partial shrug. “Except I’m not about to die.”
Amy shot Monica in the face.
82
Domino left the truck running in Amy’s driveway as he exited the vehicle and bolted for the front door.
Where are the police? Where are the goddamn police?
He came upon the front door and repeatedly mashed his thumb on the doorbell.
Amy opened the door.
Domino pushed his way inside, gripped her shoulder with his good arm, and looked her up and down. A glass of wine was in her hand.
She pulled away. “I’m fine, Domino.”
He looked at her wide-eyed, confused. “Where are the police?”
“I didn’t call them.”
Domino’s face was more confused than ever. There were even hints of anger. “You what?”
Amy sipped her wine and said nothing.
Domino stepped forward and gripped her shoulder again. “Did you not hear me right or something? Monica is alive.”
Amy pulled her shoulder free for the second time, turned and started heading into the den. “Not anymore she’s not.”
• • •
Amy and Domino stood over Monica’s dead body.
“Jesus Christ, girl. I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid that was.”
Amy shrugged. “It’s done.” She finished her wine in one gulp (a brand new bottle of Pinot had been opened for the occasion), and placed the empty glass on the coffee table.
“You knew who you were dealing with,” he said. “I could be standing here looking down on you.”
“Exactly,” Amy said. “I knew who I was dealing with. I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life worrying about my children’s safety.”
“And that’s why you call the police. The Feds have a damned hard-on for this woman. They’d have been at your door before you hung up the phone.”
“You and I both know no one can hold Monica. All the Feds would have done is delayed the inevitable.”
“So you decide to take on a trained killer by yourself? Didn’t you think about the kids? What would have happened if she’d killed you?”
“I was only thinking about my kids.”
Domino shook his head. “Foolish. Goddamned foolish.”
Amy shrugged again. “It’s done.”
Domino took a seat on the sofa. He grimaced in pain doing so.
“By the way,” Amy said. “You aren’t looking so hot.”
“I ain’t feelin’ so hot. I’ll tell you everything later. Right now we gotta figure out our next move.”
“What’s to figure out? The bitch is dead. Dead for real this time. Let’s call the Feds and stroke their hard-on.”
“What we gotta figure out is why you received a phone call from me, telling you to call the police and get the hell out of the house, only for you to not call the police, not get out of the house, and then stay put so you could set a trap and wait—for over an hour—for the bitch to show so you could shoot her. That shows pre-mediation.”
Amy snorted. “She said the same thing.”
“What?”
“Forget it. Listen, no one knows what you said to me during that phone call. Maybe all you said was that she was coming to get me now. The woman who killed my husband, and multiple law enforcement officers, was on her way to my house to kill me and my family. That makes her an intruder with harmful intent, and I had every damn right to protect myself.”
“But it wasn’t now. It was over an hour ago.”
“What do you know about time of death?” she asked.
“Some.” He let out a long sigh. “There’s an old rule my cop buddy Hock used to say: only two people know the exact time of death—the killer and the killed. It’s an old saying, but it’s still a pretty solid rule.” He glanced over at Amy. “I suppose you could have killed her moments after we got off the phone.”
Amy nodded.
“You did have every right to defend yourself.”
Amy nodded.
“I highly doubt the Feds are going to waste of second of their time digging into the matter for a piece of shit like her. They’ll probably be too busy planning a party for you.”
Amy smirked and kept on nodding.
Domino sighed again. “So I called you, Monica showed up right after, and you were able to get the drop on her.”
“Sounds nice and neat to me.”
Domino cast Amy a sly glance. “How do you explain the headshot at close range?”
Amy splayed a hand. “She wasn’t dead after I first shot her; she went for her gun; I shot her again.”
Now it was Domino who smirked. “One last thing. We’re gonna call the police now and act like this just happened.”
“Yeah?”
“So how did I get here so fast? I called you from New Jersey.”
“I thought they were going to be too busy planning my party?”
Domino grimaced again as he rose from the sofa. “Yeah, my memory is a bit hazy from the torture and the drugs and the days without water and food and sleep—”
Amy frowned and opened her mouth to speak.
“—but the harder I think about it, the more I’m starting to think I made that call a few miles from here.” He smiled at Amy. “Who’s gonna waste time checking phone records when they got a party to plan?”
Amy’s frown remained despite the ongoing joke. “Torture and drugs? No food, sleep, and water? What the hell did she do to you?”
“You can hear me tell the police everything when they show. There’s a fucked up little amusement park deep in the Pine Barrens of Southern Jersey they’re gonna want to check out…if there’s anything left of it. Ben will help me confirm.”
“Who’s Ben?”
“I’ll tell you later. Actually, just turn on the news. I’m sure the media is humping the hell out of the story as we speak.”
“Huh? You’re not making any sense.”
“Yeah, I may still be a little stoned.” He started towards the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get this over with. I need some fucking sleep.”
83
San Francisco, California
Six Months Later
Karl Stamp was doing ten miles over the legal limit. A lustful smirk on the corner of his mouth, he glanced over at the roses and the infamous little blue bag on the passenger seat.
Tiffany’s. She loved Tiffany’s. It always guaranteed him her best performance. His friends teased him, called him a sugar daddy; he was all but paying for sex; she was a gold digger. Karl didn’t care. He was fifty, overweight, and bald. She was nineteen, ridiculously sexy, and a goddess in the bedroom. She could stay with him and receive his infinite spoils for as long as she damn well wanted. And he hoped it was forever.
Karl pulled into the long driveway of his extravagant home and stopped there. He didn’t pull into the garage because he wanted to surprise her at the front door. Grin at her when she answered, the roses and little blue bag from Tiffany’s behind his back, ready to be whipped forward with an exuberant ta da!
He could already envision her expression. The shock followed by the grin followed by the hands over her mouth in disbelief. She would then jump into his arms, her little frame hanging on his ample. Then
…then, she might just hop off and flash him a tantalizing little grin before dropping to her knees and going down on him right then and there.
Karl could feel his erection building at the mere thought of it all. He hurried towards his front door with the little blue bag and roses.
“Karl Stamp?”
Karl spun. A big black guy with two police officers flanking him was standing on his front lawn.
The big black guy said: “Can we have a word?”
• • •
Christina was spread out on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and channel surfing. She was wearing nothing but a tee shirt and panties and no bra. Fat boy would be home soon, and she knew he liked her in that.
At least he was bringing her something. He never came right out and said it this morning, but the idiot was an awful liar. She only hoped it was something valuable, and not some romantic bullshit like candy or flowers. The last necklace he’d bought her fetched over three grand. She figured if she could save another ten, she’d be able to start searching for the next shmuck, with enough stored away for the interim.
The doorbell rang. Christina grumbled at the inconvenience, stubbed out her cigarette, and went to the door. She opened it and saw Domino Taylor standing there, holding a dozen roses.
“Hey, Kelly.”
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
1
Bucks County, Pennsylvania
November 2003
Kelly Blaine, nine years old, went for her favorite book in the classroom’s bookcase. She’d made it very clear in the cafeteria during lunch that this was her favorite book; no one was to touch it when the time came.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 73
