Wait. Amy. Where the hell was Amy?
This memory, like the others, trickled into place. She’d gone next door to ask the Rolstons for help. She’d gone alone because she had the gun. Did she make it? Did she get help? He guessed no. If she had, why the hell were they tied up in his fucking den?
Allan eventually came to a realization. Tim could have killed Allan, but did not. The girl with the machete (or maybe that other psycho girl…Jennifer, was it?) could have killed Jon and Karen while he was unconscious, but did not.
Realization: They were being kept alive for something.
But of course the realization was anything but final and only served to produce the obvious follow-up question: kept alive for what?
Amy was nowhere in sight. If she’d gotten help, there was a strong chance it would have been here by now. So that meant Amy was either dead or on the loose. If she were dead, then why the hell was he still alive? Why were the Rogerses still alive? This was about Amy, after all, wasn’t it? And what had Amy said before when Jon had asked why they were involved if all of this had to do with Amy’s past?
Bad luck was all Amy had said, and none too compassionately.
Which then made the follow-up question to Allan’s discovery that much more enigmatic. If Allan and the Rogerses were only involved in this mess from Amy’s past because of bad luck, why keep them alive? Surely they were nothing but an insignificant liability, yes? A potential risk?
And then just like that, Allan had an answer to the increasingly enigmatic follow-up question, yet he took no pleasure in it:
Because we are significant, he thought. We’re pawns. And what was it Allan’s father had told him years ago about pawns when first teaching him the game of chess?
“The thing about pawns, Allan, is that their low piece value allows you to sacrifice them relatively easily in order to gain a stronger position overall,” Martin Brown had told his son.
We’re pawns, Allan thought again. Here to be sacrificed so that Kelly may gain a stronger position over Amy.
39
Amy ascended the Rolstons’ stairs slowly and deliberately, gun at her side. The sound of the running water was more distinct now. It was not the sounds of someone running a bath, but the sounds of a shower.
Oh, hell—someone in the shower? No wonder they didn’t hear her banging on the door and ringing the bell.
But there were two of them, weren’t there? Pam and Mike Rolston, Allan had said. One of them would’ve had to have heard her racket while the other showered.
Unless only one was home? Maybe.
How about if they were showering together? Another maybe, she supposed. Personally, Amy had hated showering with Patrick. He was just too damned big and hogged all the hot water whenever he stood before the shower head. Not to mention they’d nearly broken their damn necks trying to make sex work, no matter what position they tried. Talk about Bambi’s first go on ice.
Again, she could stand and theorize, or she could just finish climbing the damn stairs and find out.
Amy crept further. A step creaked below her weight, and she winced at the sound. She felt like an intruder. And she was. Except she felt like the bad kind.
The Fannelli brothers kind.
The fleeting parallel made her momentarily ill, like a hot flash or a wave of nausea. She gripped the railing with one hand and steadied herself. Breathed deeply and slowly. This was not the first time her traumatic past had her questioning a change in her psyche. She had enjoyed killing Monica. Enjoyed it immensely. What was it Monica had said as she lay dying at Amy’s feet, looking up at her, smiling with a mouthful of blood from the gunshot wounds Amy had inflicted on her?
Maybe we’re not so different after all, she’d said.
Amy pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes, and grimaced. “Fuck you,” she whispered to both Monica and herself, then continued climbing.
She reached the landing without incident and now stood in the center of a long and spacious hallway. Bedrooms on opposite ends, one bathroom in between.
The bedroom doors were open. The bathroom door was closed. The running water behind it could be heard clearly.
Amy pressed her ear gently to the bathroom door. Listened for any change in the water’s cadence, the verification of someone actually showering. She heard nothing but the unbroken flow of the water.
She slowly lowered herself to all fours and strained to peek beneath the door. Waited several breaths and saw nothing pass.
She stood and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Amy turned it slowly, as if turning it too fast might trigger an alarm. Opened the door a crack and peered inside. The humidity of the shower greeted her instantly, misting her face and blurring her vision. She inched it open another crack, allowing more steam to exit into the hallway. Her vision was better now. It allowed her full view of the bathroom’s interior without committing to full entry.
The interior was modest. White tile. White walls. There was a sink and mirror; there was a toilet; there was a shower and tub. The shower’s curtain was pulled tight, the color midnight blue. It did not offer any silhouetted glimpse of anything behind it.
Gun on the shower curtain, Amy slowly entered the bathroom. She dropped into a low crouch and paused by the sink, waiting. If she couldn’t see them through the curtain, they couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t have felt the bathroom’s shift in temperature when she entered, the subtle breeze of an open door in a room full of mist that was now dissipating. If someone behind that curtain was waiting to yank it back and pounce, they would be expecting her to be upright, not in a crouch. They would momentarily pause, giving her the precious time to blow them away from below.
And so she waited in a crouch by the sink. And just as she heard no change in the water’s cadence when she’d pressed her ear to the door, so too did she hear no such change in the water’s tempo by the sink.
(There’s no one in there. There can’t be.)
Then why leave the water running?
(A trap?)
Possible. Lure me upstairs towards an empty shower so they can—
(So they can what?)
I don’t know. She rose slowly from her crouch. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I came here to find a phone—
Amy’s cell phone beeped. She jumped as though jolted from behind, dug the phone from her pocket and stepped into the hallway. A text message from Domino:
Where are u?
Amy instantly dialed his number. It rang unanswered before going to voicemail. She cursed under her breath and tried texting him back:
did you get hold of c and c?
An excruciating minute passed before Amy’s phone beeped again:
what the hell are you talking about?
Amy cursed aloud, her thumbs working frantically on her phone, mashing buttons without care for misspellings:
somthing bad going on! kelly b behind it. go get c and c and get them soenwhere safe!!!
Another excruciating minute before:
still not following. What are u talking about?
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” she yelled. She went to text again but got no further; her cell started ringing in her hand. The caller ID read “Domino.” He’d gotten through.
“Domino?” Amy answered. “Can you hear me?”
“Amy?” His voice still sounded odd. Sexless and synthetic.
“Yes! Yes, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
“Barely. There’s a lot of static or something. What’s that noise?”
“I don’t hear any—” But then she stopped. Of course she heard something. The rhythmic and unbroken fall of the shower a mere few feet behind her.
She stepped back into the bathroom and immediately pulled back the curtain to get at the faucet and found herself staring at who she assumed were Mike and Pam Rolston. Both on their knees, facing away from her, slumped onto their sides, lifeless white faces mushed against the tiles. They’d clearly been dispatched execution st
yle—told to get on their knees and face the other way while shot from behind. And Amy might have accepted this truth—shot from behind—had a giant pitchfork not stood upright in the corner of the tub, leaning against the tiled wall. Had, upon further inspection, husband and wife not been littered about the head, neck, and back with multiple holes the precise size of the pitchfork’s prongs.
“Jesus Christ…” she whispered.
They marched them upstairs with a pitchfork? No one’s being forced to go anywhere with a pitchfork.
(They must have had a gun. They marched them upstairs and into the shower with a gun.)
Then why not use the gun?
The answer came too fast, tapping deep and dark without conscious effort, and Amy felt the fleeting parallel again, the hot flash of nausea…
They didn’t use a gun because it would be a quick death. No fun.
Amy slowly raised the phone to her mouth, unable to take her eyes off the Rolstons as she spoke. “They’re dead.”
“Amy?”
“They’re both dead.”
“Who’s dead? I can still barely hear you. Did you turn off the shower?”
Amy shook her head into the phone. “No,” she said absently, “hold on.” She bent for the faucet and froze. Slowly stood upright and brought the phone back to her ear. “I never told you anything about a shower.”
“What? Yes you did.”
“No—I didn’t.”
“Well, I must have just assumed, Amy.” The voice on the phone was normal now. It was the voice of a woman.
A breathless pause. Amy felt her pulse in her head. “Kelly Blaine,” she said.
“That’s the name my dead folks gave me.”
Amy bent for the faucet again, shut off the shower, and then slowly stepped out into the hallway, looking left and right as she spoke, gun ready. “How did you get Domino’s phone?”
“Watched him die, then took it. Easy peasy.”
“Bullshit. You may have stolen it somehow, but no fucking way did someone like you kill someone like Domino.”
“‘Someone like me?’”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, Amy—you really should hush.”
Amy started back downstairs, gun leading the way. “Pushing a button or two, am I?”
“Just proving your stupidity,” Kelly said.
Amy’s phone beeped in her ear. An incoming text while she was talking. She pulled the phone away and checked the ID of the text. Restricted number.
Please let this be Domino. Please let this be Domino warning me that Kelly had somehow gotten ahold of his primary cell. That he has Carrie and Caleb safe and sound and that help is on the way. Please.
Amy opened the text. It was Domino. A bloodied image of him with his throat cut. Next to his dying face was Kelly Blaine, grinning, her arm outstretched and off camera as she took the selfie.
Amy stared at the image in disbelief.
A fake. It has to be. Some kind of Photoshop bullshit.
“Did ya get it yet?” Kelly asked.
“It’s a fake,” Amy managed in barely a whisper.
“You mean like the two you just found in the tub?”
Amy closed her eyes and shook her head, refusing to believe. “No. No, it’s fake. There’s no way—”
“No way what? No way that someone like me could have managed such a thing?”
Amy felt sick. It was not like the brief waves of nausea that flashed whenever she found herself subconsciously sharing thoughts with the likes of Monica or the Fannelli brothers, but a deep, cancerous sickness, as if her body was slowly eroding, being hollowed out and robbing her of any conceivable strength.
Still, she managed to voice her denial with some measure of will in her tone. “I don’t believe you. I don’t care what you say or what you show me—I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Amy hung up and immediately dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Yes! Fucking YES!
“Yes, hello, I’d like to report a double murder at…”
Shit! What’s their damn address?
Amy ran into the Rolston’s kitchen and frantically scanned countertops for signs of mail. She found nothing.
“I don’t know the address, I’m gonna find it, okay?”
No answer.
“Hello? You still there?”
No answer.
Amy pulled the cell phone away from her ear and found herself staring incredulously at the no-service message displayed.
Amy kicked the refrigerator as hard as she could, threw her head back, and screamed.
A moment passed. She stood panting in the kitchen of two dead strangers, rage and frustration pulsating throughout her body. She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.
Get ahold of yourself…breathe…
She took a long, final inhale and then let it out slowly. It did not entirely defuse her rage and frustration, but it did leash it. How strong a leash would remain to be seen.
So what now?
(Nothing’s changed. We need to get to a phone that works.)
Everything’s changed. People are dead. Domino may be dead. And Kelly Blaine is officially involved. Everything has definitely fucking changed.
(Doesn’t mean getting to a phone still isn’t the number one priority. Now that Kelly Blaine is involved, who knows how far she’ll go? You thought it before: She’ll try to one-up Monica to prove she’s better, and that means not only you, but your kids are now a potential target. You need to get ahold of them now more than ever.)
How? Fucking HOW?
(Keep moving until you get to the next neighbor. These assholes couldn’t have gotten to all of them.)
And how far away are these next neighbors? And in which direction? I could be wandering for hours. And what about Allan and the Rogerses? I told them I’d return.
Amy started pacing in circles, began gnawing a fingernail on her gun hand, completely unaware that the barrel was pointed at her head as she did so.
Well, that’s it then. Two birds, one stone. I head back to Allan’s and tell them there’s been a change of plans. I explain about the Rolstons and that Kelly Blaine is involved and then tell them all of us are venturing out on foot. Allan will know the way to go. Two birds.
(You do realize there’s a very good chance that they’ve already got them, don’t you? Allan and the Rogerses? That by going over there you could be doing exactly what Kelly wants you to do?)
Yes, I know that. I also know that Kelly wants me alive. I know better than anyone that it’s all a fucking game. She doesn’t want to kill me—not straight out anyway. Ironically, that gives me time.
(Time for what, exactly?)
I don’t know. But I am going to kill the little cunt somehow. I know that much.
Amy tucked the gun back into her waist and pocketed her phone. She went to the front door, opened it, and her phone rang again. She brought all of her efforts (and thus, all of her attention) on digging her phone back out of her pocket—
(It was 911 calling back; they’d traced her cell number)
(It was Domino calling; he was not dead, not dead, not dead)
—that she did not see the small blue arc of light that touched her neck and crumpled her into a daze. And she certainly did not see the follow-up blow to the back of her head that knocked her out completely.
• • •
Amy woke, chin on her chest, groggy, head throbbing. She slowly lifted her chin and opened her eyes. Before her stood Kelly Blaine and Jennifer. Amy immediately went to lunge for them but got nowhere. A quick inspection revealed she was duct-taped to a chair.
Jennifer laughed at her feeble attempt.
Amy spit in her direction.
“Amy…” a male voice said to her left.
Amy looked left. It was Allan. Heavily taped to a chair just as she was. Next to Allan were Jon and Karen Roge
rs. They too were in the same bind.
Kelly clapped both hands together once. “Okay! We’re finally all here. Let’s let the healing begin.”
40
The microwave beeped, and Irene Flannigan retrieved the bag of instant popcorn. She pulled at the corners to open the bag, and steam instantly burned her fingertips. She yelped and dropped the bag on the counter, promptly swatting at it seconds after as though it were a living thing that had nipped her.
“Every bloody time,” she muttered, now running her fingers under the faucet.
Caleb appeared in the kitchen after hearing her yelp from the den.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Just your screwy neighbor doing the same thing she does every time she makes popcorn, love—burning her fingers.”
“You okay?”
Fingers still under the faucet, she smiled over at Caleb with genuine affection. Such a caring boy. She’d met few like him in her seventy years. “I think I’ll live, sweetheart.”
Caleb smiled and returned to the den with his sister.
The doorbell rang.
“Want me to get it?” Carrie called from the den.
Irene turned off the faucet and started wiping her fingers on a towel as she said: “No—you two stay put.”
Irene opened the front door. A second door, a screen door, stood between her and every visitor to her home. She never opened the screen door for strangers, and the man standing under the porch light of her front step now was a stranger.
He was a young man. Tall and skinny and pale with thinning blond hair. He did not, according to Irene, look well.
The man smiled at Irene, and the effort appeared both disingenuous and painful, as if aggravating sore muscles in his face.
“Hi,” the young man said.
“Hello yourself,” Irene said. Her expression was stern. Not buying whatever you’re selling, it said.
“I’m a friend of Amy Lambert’s. Her meeting is running late, and she wanted to talk to her kids and tell them herself, you know? Tell them she was gonna be late?”
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 87
