Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I told you: Taking our cars was only a means to an end—they only did it to make sure we couldn’t leave. Same reason they trashed Allan’s car.”

  “Okay, they wanted to make sure we couldn’t leave,” Jon said. “Why? What are they planning?”

  Amy said nothing.

  “Earlier, you said ‘if this is what I think it is,’ then your kids might be in danger,” Allan said. “You then told your friend Domino that you thought someone named Kelly might be behind this. What did you mean by that?”

  “I don’t have time to explain.”

  “Please.”

  Amy sighed. “Let’s just say the past I told you about might be coming back to haunt me.”

  “I thought they were all dead,” Karen said.

  “They are. Sort of. There’s one…” She sighed again, frustrated.

  “Kelly?” Allan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A psychopath. I really don’t have time to explain further. I’m sorry. I hope my hunch is wrong, I really do, but right now I’m just asking you to please trust me. Please.”

  Allan dropped his head and nodded.

  Amy started for the front door.

  “Wait, so if this is all about your past, then what the hell are we doing here?” Jon asked, gesturing to his wife and Allan.

  “You’re here for support group,” Amy said.

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant why are we involved?”

  “Bad luck,” Amy said.

  “Bad luck? I think we’ve all had enough bad luck for one lifetime, Amy. There’s no way something so traumatic could happen to us again. Not after what we’ve been through.”

  Amy laughed. “Forgive me, Jon, but you’re a fucking moron.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The quicker you get it through your head that there is no grand scheme in the universe, the better off you’re gonna be.”

  “Grand scheme? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Things do not”—she made air quotes—“‘happen for a reason,’ Jonny-boy. They just happen. And here’s another useful little tidbit for you: Life is not fair. It’s just life. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it fucking sucks. And it can keep on sucking—there is no cosmic rule that states one misfortune exempts you from another.”

  Amy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, cheeks puffing, feeling a little guilty for her outburst at these people who were not just mourning, but who were also very scared.

  “Look, I’m sorry for being so blunt,” she said. “I guess you could say at this stage of my life—after what I’ve been through—discretion is something I’m finding less and less use for. The reality is that bad shit happens to good people because bad shit happens to good people. That’s it. Look no deeper.”

  Jon finally spoke up. “God wouldn’t allow so much tragedy in one lifetime,” he said.

  Amy laughed again. Burst out laughing, actually; whatever guilt she might have felt for her behavior toward the Rogerses moments ago now gone in the presence of Jon’s unwavering ignorance.

  “Okay, Jonny-boy…okay,” Amy said. “Maybe your god can talk to my god sometime. I’ll give you a heads-up, though: My god has a sick sense of humor.”

  27

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Kevin Lane ordered another round.

  The bartender, mid-forties, close-cropped graying hair, solid build on display thanks to a tight black staff shirt, had a different suggestion. “How about a Coke instead?”

  Kevin frowned. “Why?”

  “Because you’re drunk.”

  Kevin waved a hand over the bar. “Everyone in here is drunk.”

  “Maybe. But I got shit for serving you too much the other night. Last couple of nights, as a matter of fact.”

  “I take care of you,” Kevin said.

  The bartender conceded this with a little nod. “Yeah, you do—but I’m not about to lose my job over a good tip.”

  “Come on, man, just one more.”

  The bartender shook his head. “Can’t do it, buddy.” He then leaned over the bar and spoke in hushed tones. “Listen, man, I don’t want to sound like a dick, but you’ve been coming in here a lot lately doing nothing but sitting by yourself and getting drunk. You might as well do that shit at home, man. Save yourself a lot of money, not to mention a DUI.”

  “I’m waiting for somebody,” Kevin said.

  “Tonight?”

  “Every night.”

  The bartender leaned back. “Well, obviously she’s not showing anytime soon, man, so why don’t you—”

  “He.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not showing.”

  “Whatever, man—bottom line, you’re cut off, all right? So, maybe it’s better you just go.”

  Kevin Lane now had no alternative but to ask. “You know a guy named Domino? Big black guy?”

  “Yeah, I know Domino. That the guy you’re waiting for?”

  Kevin nodded. “I was told he comes in here sometimes.”

  “Yeah, he does. Sounds like you’re not so much waiting for him as much as you are looking for him,” the bartender said.

  “Something like that,” Kevin said.

  “Domino’s not the kind of guy you want to be stalking, man. Trust me.”

  Stalking.

  It sounded so ugly. But it was true, wasn’t it? He’d been told this was Domino’s favorite watering hole and had been frequenting it nightly ever since. He even knew where Domino lived, knowledge few had. He’d camped out at Amy Lambert’s house one night and had gotten lucky when Domino showed up for a visit. All he had to do after that was follow Domino home. Tricky stuff with men of Domino’s ilk, but somehow he’d managed to do it undetected.

  All there was to do after that was knock on Domino’s door, introduce himself (even though he was fairly certain Domino would know who he was), and then flat-out ask Domino whether he’d be willing to help him take Kelly Blaine down. After all, if anyone knew how sinister the little bitch was, it was Domino Taylor.

  Problem was, Kevin Lane could never quite bring himself to knock on Domino’s door. Though he’d obsessed over the girl getting her comeuppance for as long as he could remember, that obsession growing to one of disturbing proportions following her embarrassment of him on nationwide television—he seldom ate or slept; his home had become derelict with neglect, resulting in many complaints from his neighbors; he drank daily and abused prescription drugs— Kevin simply had no idea how he’d go about doing such a thing. He was a school counselor (or had been), not a vigilante.

  Domino Taylor, however, was as close to a vigilante as you got. And he had some serious history with Kelly. It was almost perfect. It was all just a matter of presenting it the right way so Domino didn’t slam the door on him or, if he did manage to catch him at the bar, toss a beer in his face and call him crazy like so many others (so many others) had done these past few years.

  And sometimes Kevin wondered whether he had perhaps gone a little crazy. How could such false exploitation over the years not take a toll on a man? Still, the one thing he did know, the one thing he believed to be sane and just down to his very soul, was that Kelly Blaine needed to be exposed for the psychopathic killer she was. He believed Domino Taylor was his last chance.

  “Yeah, I know,” Kevin said. “I’m willing to take my chances, though.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Your health.”

  Kevin chuckled politely at the bartender’s wit. “You mind telling me when the last time you saw Domino in here was?”

  The bartender held up a hand. “Sorry, man—I’m not being a part of this.”

  “What if I gave you my name and number? Maybe the next time Domino comes in you can give it to him?”

  “Man, what did I just say? Hey, Tommy,” the bartender called over Kevin’s shoulder.

  A bouncer appeared next to Kevin.

&nbs
p; “This guy’s done,” the bartender said.

  Kevin turned on his stool and looked at the bouncer, a man who looked like something out of a fairy tale who ate children.

  “Let’s go, man,” the bouncer said.

  Kevin pursed his lips. “Fine.” He looked at the bartender. “No tip for you tonight, pal.”

  The bartender snorted. “There goes my yacht.”

  The bouncer escorted Kevin outside and shut the door behind him. Kevin closed his eyes and stood there for a moment, listening to the ambient noises of Philadelphia nightlife all around him, people shouting, laughing, cabs honking, and he wondered whether he should take the bartender’s advice and go to the nearest store, grab a cheap case of something, and sit at home to get properly shitfaced without trouble. It was still early in the evening; he could find a place still open.

  And Domino Taylor would still be awake, he thought.

  Hoping to catch him at his favorite watering hole had been a bust. He’d previously flirted with the idea of staking Domino out and following him on his daily routine, perhaps running into him at the supermarket: Oh hey! Domino Taylor, right? Remember me?

  Except staking out someone like Domino was a far cry from staking out Amy Lambert. On his first night, Domino would have likely made him. And as for approaching him in the supermarket? Even if Domino did accommodate him with a friendly hello, what next? Listen, Domino, would you be interested in helping me bring down that crazy little bitch Kelly Blaine? Oh, don’t mind us folks, continue shopping, just ordinary everyday conversation here. If Domino didn’t suspect Kevin might be losing it before, he would definitely think so then. Probably stuff him in the shopping cart and kick him down one of the aisles until he took no for an answer.

  So what did that leave? He knew he had to at least try to talk to him. Even though he had no formal plan, perhaps someone as keen as Domino would see the desperation in his face. And again, if anyone knew the real truth about Kelly Blaine, it was Domino Taylor; he might, in fact, be the only person left in this world who truly believed Kevin’s side of the story.

  Yes. Yes, he’d decided. Or maybe his gut full of booze had decided for him, but he’d decided all the same. He would go to Domino’s. Go to Domino’s and hope that the only person left in the world who might believe him was willing to help. He had to try. He was a short step above rock bottom. He had to at least try.

  28

  Several minutes of silence passed as Amy and Jon cooled down.

  Amy’s words to Jon, harsh as they were, rung truer than anything else Allan had ever heard. Her choice of words about a “grand scheme in the universe” were eerily similar to his invisible “scales of justice” that seemed to cruelly insist on tilting against him ever since Sam’s passing. From the cop who’d given him a ticket earlier today, to his girls’ struggle to comprehend the cathartic benefits of support group when it came to their mother, to right now, knee deep in one hell of who knew what. Not to mention the slew of other bumps (and, quite often, some seriously cavernous potholes) he’d endured over the past two years as a recent widower who was desperately trying to nurture his grieving children without simultaneously losing his own shit.

  And so as far as Allan was concerned, Amy’s assertions were spot on. Things do not happen for a reason. Life is not fair. One misfortune does not exempt you from another. And, most of all, bad shit happens to good people because bad shit happens to good people.

  And there was a sort of liberation in that for Allan, crazy as it may sound. No false hope, no complaints about the injustice of it all. It forced you to know exactly where you stood and whom you could rely on. Not so far off from the coveted here and now.

  “So, are we safer inside or outside?” Karen eventually asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amy said. “For all we know, there’s someone in the house right now.”

  “But we’re not positive about that,” Jon said.

  “Then how do you explain someone taking Allan’s phone after Tim and Jennifer were gone?” Karen asked.

  “Could be a few different explanations,” Jon countered.

  “Occam’s razor, Jonny-boy,” Amy said.

  “What?”

  “Basically, it means the answer to a problem is often the simplest,” Allan replied for her.

  Amy nodded approvingly towards Allan.

  “Well, then how the hell did someone else get into your house after Tim and Jennifer had already left, Allan? Don’t you have an alarm system?”

  Now Amy answered for Allan: “Tim and Jennifer obviously let them in while they were still here.”

  Jon grunted and looked away.

  “Look, whatever we decide is safest is irrelevant,” Amy said. “I’m going next door.”

  “Maybe we should all go,” Karen said.

  “And what if they’re out there waiting for us?” Jon said. “We’d be far too vulnerable in the dark.”

  “They took our cars and killed our phones, right?” Karen said. “That means they want to keep us from going for help, but most of all, keep us here.”

  “So?”

  “Well, if you ask me, it means they intend on coming back.”

  Jon considered his wife’s words, then shook his head adamantly. “No—I say we stay here. We arm ourselves and stand back to back in the den. No surprises that way. We see what’s coming, and we’re prepared.”

  “Do what you want,” Amy said and started for the front door again.

  Jon thrust a finger at her. “There, you see? It’s like a damn horror film. Everyone always splits up and does the exact opposite of what they should do.”

  “So you propose we arm ourselves and stand back to back in the den until when?” Karen asked.

  “Until sun up if we have to. But it’ll never come to that. Allan, your kids are with a sitter, I assume?”

  “My sister’s. A sleepover.”

  “And were you planning on calling to say goodnight?”

  “Yes.”

  Jon splayed a hand. “Okay—so when you don’t call, won’t your sister think something’s fishy?” He spun toward Amy, who was now in the foyer. “Amy, I assume your kids are with a sitter as well?” he called to her.

  Amy stopped, gave an impatient sigh, and turned back toward the den. “That’s right.”

  “No sleepover?”

  She shook her head.

  “And when you don’t show up to collect them, will the sitter not suspect something’s wrong?”

  Amy said nothing, just turned back toward the front door, unlocked it, and went to leave.

  “Wait,” Allan said. “I’m going with you.”

  Jon rolled his eyes and splayed another hand in their direction. “Yes, by all means, let’s split up more so—give the horror film aficionados what they want.”

  “I have a gun,” Allan said bluntly.

  Jon and Karen stood stunned.

  Amy shut the door and looked hard at Allan. “You said you didn’t.”

  “It was Sam’s,” he said.

  “Did she hunt?” Karen asked.

  “No—no way. She went to a range. It was her thing. Some people join a gym. She liked to shoot guns.” He shrugged, then dropped his head, the memory painful.

  “Can you go get it?” Amy asked.

  Allan nodded. He returned minutes later with the gun. He handled it like a man with a critter that may bite.

  Amy took it from him. Handled it like a woman who tamed critters. It was a 9mm Glock. A damn good handgun. Unfortunately, however, it was just that: a handgun.

  Allan noticed her disappointment. “Something wrong? Is it no good?”

  “No—no, it’s great. It’s just…”

  “What?” Jon asked.

  “Well, it’s a pistol.”

  “So?”

  “You ever fired a pistol before, Jonny-boy?”

  “No.”

  Amy turned to Karen. “You?”

  “No.”

  “If it was a shotgun, I’d say hurrah an
d place it in your laps with instructions to blow anyone away who came close. A shotgun blast spreads.”

  “And a pistol?” Jon said.

  “They require training. Lots of training. Movies will have you thinking you can hit wherever you point. It’s bullshit. Hitting your target with a pistol is damn hard.”

  Allan sighed. “She’s right. I went with Sam a few times. It was exceptionally humbling.”

  “So then what are you saying?” Jon asked.

  Amy looked at Allan. “Stay with them. Let me take the gun and go next door by myself. I’m the only one here who knows how to use it.”

  Allan said nothing. Amy went on.

  “Do what Jon said. Arm yourselves. Knives, bats, fucking boiling water—I don’t know. Just arm yourselves. The three of you together make a tougher target.”

  “And you?” Allan said.

  “She’s got the gun,” Jon said.

  Allan shot him a look. Pussy, that look said.

  “Here’s what I can tell you,” Amy began. “I will make it next door. I will call for help. And Jon was right; people will start missing us eventually.”

  Jon raised his chin.

  “Don’t get a big head, Jonny-boy. You’re a pussy, and it shows.”

  Jon frowned.

  Allan bit back a smile.

  “Look, I hope I’m wrong about all this, guys,” Amy continued. “I hope the Kelly girl I mentioned is not involved. I hope these assholes screwing around with us are some sick groupies of Monica Kemp and the Fannelli brothers getting their rocks off by playing games on the five-year anniversary of Crescent Lake or something, I really do. And if my wish comes true, I’m gonna go next door, call the police, and they’re gonna show up and find these copycat amateurs and arrest their asses.”

  “And if your wish doesn’t come true?” Allan said.

  “I spoke to my friend Domino. You all heard me. Domino’s picture is in an encyclopedia somewhere under Do Not Fuck With. You might even say it would be far more satisfying if he found these assholes before the police—the police frown on excessive force.”

  Allan bit back another smile. Was he enjoying this? No. Absurd. Or maybe not so absurd. He was in the here and now, after all. Insistent thoughts of the painful past and uncertain future were forced to leave. The situation demanded it. Damn good therapy this was, albeit the cost a little extreme.