Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “Jon, right?” Allan said. “You’d sacrifice your life for Karen’s? You’d do that, right? Jon?”

  Jon nodded once before his head dropped. To Allan, it looked as if he’d fallen asleep.

  “No…” Karen continued to sob.

  “Well, I guess chivalry isn’t dead,” Kelly said. “Very noble of you, Jon.”

  Kelly whispered something into Jennifer’s ear. Jennifer nodded and lunged forward with the machete, burying it in Karen’s forehead. She then let go of the handle and took a step back, the machete staying put, standing to attention like an odd horn. Only this wasn’t the oddest thing. The oddest thing was that Karen was still alive. Odder still, she began to giggle. Blood running down both sides of her face, eyes fluttering rapidly like some type of nervous tic, she actually started giggling.

  “I think…I think something’s wrong,” Karen said and giggled again, eyes still fluttering. “I think something’s wrong,” she repeated. “Jon? I think something’s wrong.”

  Jon said nothing. He couldn’t—as Allan had guessed, he had passed out moments prior.

  Kelly whispered something to Jennifer again, and again Jennifer nodded back and approached Karen.

  Karen actually greeted Jennifer with a smile. “Hi,” she said to her. “I think something’s wrong—”

  Jennifer yanked the machete free from Karen’s head. Karen’s bizarre chatter stopped instantly. Her fluttering eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Her head dropped forward a second later. Blood immediately began soaking her front. A few of her fingers twitched.

  When Jennifer returned to Kelly’s side, Kelly looked at her and said: “Good for you—” She then gestured to Jon. “I couldn’t even get that one’s ankle off. Gotta join a gym or something.”

  “What the fuck was that?” Allan asked. It came out as barely a whisper.

  “What was what?” Kelly asked.

  “I chose Jon. You know I chose Jon.” His voice started to rise.

  Kelly’s reply was dreamy, as though replying to Allan while thinking about something else. “Yeah…”

  “So then why did you kill Karen?!”

  Kelly brought her full attention back to Allan and gave a bored little shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You wasted all that time having me choose!”

  Kelly nodded. “I guess I did, yeah.”

  “Call them!” Allan screamed. “I did what you wanted, and I chose, NOW CALL MY FUCKING SISTER!”

  Kelly shook her head. “I don’t know…you may be right—we wasted too much time choosing.”

  “What?!”

  “They’re probably going to be here any minute. I mean, what would I even say? ‘Allan changed his mind and doesn’t want to see his kids after all’? Kinda makes you look like a jerk.”

  “No no no no no no no no…”

  “Yeah, you’d look like a total jerk. Your sister would have to turn around and head all the way back home. Your kids would be sad, asking things like, ‘Why doesn’t Daddy want to see us?’ Total jerk. I’d actually be doing you a favor if I didn’t call.”

  “NO! You call them! You call them now!!!”

  Kelly maneuvered behind Allan and tore off a piece of duct tape.

  His head whipped over his shoulder toward her. “I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING LITTLE CUNT! I SWEAR TO GOD, I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL—”

  She taped his mouth shut. Walked back and faced him again. Allan continued to scream through the tape, his face purple, eyes bulging, snot flying.

  Kelly brandished Allan’s cell and then promptly stuffed it back into her pocket again. “Now you’re not a jerk,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

  49

  Amy tried speaking through her tape, her efforts so incessant that Kelly could no longer ignore them. She huffed and tore off Amy’s tape.

  “Yes, Amy?” Kelly spoke with the tone and manner of a parent finally addressing a nagging child.

  “You’re reaching too far again, Kelly. What’s your plan now? You can’t use me as the killer anymore—after what happened with Tim and Irene and my kids, you’d never be able to sell it.”

  “And your point is?” Kelly said.

  “My point is actually for Jennifer.”

  Jennifer, sweating and slightly shaking now from withdrawal, said: “Huh?”

  Amy locked eyes with her. “Think about it for a minute, Jennifer. Kelly here needs a plan B she can sell. Tim’s already gone. Where do you think that leaves you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what a patsy is, Jennifer?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Kelly said.

  “A patsy is someone who is easily manipulated and taken advantage of. Someone to blame for something. Two addicts like you and Tim? Do the math.”

  Jennifer glanced over at Kelly.

  Kelly closed her eyes and calmly shook her head. “Don’t listen to her,” she said again.

  “Hell, I’d be shocked if Kelly had intended for you and Tim to survive the night even if the plot worked out the way she’d planned,” Amy said.

  “That’s not true,” Jennifer said. “We made a deal.”

  “That’s right, you did,” Kelly said. “I intend to honor it.”

  Amy laughed. “What was the deal, Jennifer? Do as she says and you’ll get all the heroin in the world? Let me ask you something: If you and Tim were to go missing, would anyone notice?”

  Kelly raised the gun on Amy. “Shut up.”

  Amy continued, undeterred. “Someone who is easily manipulated,” she said again. “Your addiction checks off that box, Jennifer. All we have to do now is wait and see if plan B includes blaming you for anything.”

  Kelly pressed the gun barrel against Amy’s forehead. “I said shut up.”

  Amy’s eyes stayed on Jennifer as she said: “If it weren’t true, she wouldn’t be getting so agitated now, would she, Jennifer?”

  Gun still pressed to Amy’s head, Kelly glanced back at Jennifer. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just trying to mind-fuck you.”

  Jennifer rubbed a hand vigorously up and down the arm holding the machete as if trying to warm herself even though such an assumption contradicted her incessant sweating. She was also shaking considerably now. “What is plan B?” she asked Kelly.

  “You’re going to get what I promised you,” was all Kelly said.

  “I need a hit,” Jennifer said.

  “She’ll hold out on you until you do as she says,” Amy said. “Makes it easier to manipulate you, Patsy—I mean Jennifer.”

  Kelly dug the barrel into Amy’s head and glared at her. “I would really, really consider shutting the fuck up.” She then pulled the gun away with one demonstrative gesture, twirled on the spot and addressed everyone: “Okay! Plan B? Everyone wants to know what plan B is, yes?” There was an exasperated condescension in her tone and theatrics. She maneuvered behind Amy and taped her mouth shut once again. Then, looking at Jennifer: “Wait here.”

  “I need a hit,” Jennifer said again.

  Kelly’s flared nostrils betrayed her patient smile. “If you just wait here and keep an eye on them, I will set you up for life, Jennifer. You will never have to go on the street for it again.”

  Amy mumbled something into her tape. Jennifer looked at her as if she not only understood what Amy had just mumbled, but was also considering it.

  “Jennifer?” Kelly said. “Who are you going to believe? A woman who will say anything to save her life, or someone who has already shown you kindness and supplied you with the purest dope you’ve ever had? The purest dope that will be all yours when the night is done? Tim’s gone now, remember? All yours.”

  Jennifer started to nod, slow and tentative at first, and then soon faster and with more assertiveness, the sickness, her debilitating need overriding all else. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” Kelly left the den.

  The mudroom door leading into the garage could
be heard opening and slamming shut in the distance. Echoes of clanging and banging inside the garage. Sounds of the mudroom door opening and slamming shut in the distance again.

  Kelly appeared holding a can of gasoline. She raised it for all to see.

  “Plan B,” she said.

  50

  Kelly began sprinkling gasoline all throughout the den, talking as she did so.

  “It has been my experience that fire is one of the true constants you can rely on in this world. I’m actually a little ashamed it took me this long to consider it for plan B.”

  She stopped speaking just then and intentionally sprinkled a generous amount of gasoline at the feet of Allan and Amy, winked at them, and then carried right on speaking while attending to the rest of the den.

  “People consider forest fires a tragedy. They try to stop them. But forest fires are, in fact, nature’s way of cleansing the earth. Even the Native Americans knew that. They did not try to fight the fires that occurred for centuries in dry habitats, but instead let them run their course. They knew how beneficial they could be in cleansing the environment.”

  When the can was empty, she set it on the floor and removed her black Zippo. “I guess you can say that’s what I’m doing here,” she said. “Cleansing the environment. Creating my own little forest fire, if you will. All traces of you and your home will be gone, but in time, a new house, a new family will appear. It’s kinda cool when you think about it.”

  Kelly lit a cigarette with the Zippo, snapped it shut, and took a deep drag on it to ensure the tip glowed strong. She exhaled with a grin, looked at Jennifer, said, “Watch this,” and then flicked the lit butt into an area of the den she’d sprinkled heavily.

  Everyone’s eyes, including Jennifer’s, bulged in horror as they tracked the path of the cigarette to the floor where it landed and sat smoldering and harmless.

  No fire.

  There was a unanimous sigh of relief from the three, Allan and Amy from their nostrils, Jennifer from her mouth.

  Kelly laughed and lit another cigarette. “Big myth,” she said. “You see it a lot in movies, but the truth is, cigarettes don’t burn hot enough to ignite gas vapors.”

  All eyes went back on the cigarette as though needing more confirmation despite the experiment they’d just witnessed. The cigarette still smoldered harmlessly on the floor.

  “A match, on the other hand…” Kelly handed Jennifer the Zippo, stuck the cigarette between her lips, and pulled out a pack of matches. She lit one and flicked it into Amy’s lap.

  Amy screamed into her gag, the single paper match flickering on her lap.

  Kelly laughed and retrieved the match. Blew it out, went to toss it, and then hesitated.

  “Wait,” she said. “The embers on a match still burn pretty good after you blow them out. I wonder if a recently burnt match would fail to burn hot enough to ignite our party like its friend the cigarette. I want to wait until Allan’s sister and his Deejays arrive, but it’s too damn tempting not to try right now.” She glanced over at Jennifer. “If it gets too bad, we can always put it out, right?”

  Jennifer nodded back without smiling. Her agreeability at this stage was simply to advance things as quickly as possible. To placate the god who would soon take her away and make it all better.

  Kelly took a final drag of her cigarette, tossed it (once again, all eyes followed its path with dreadful anticipation, prior display be damned), and then lit a second match. She brought the burning match right before the tip of Amy’s nose.

  Amy turned her head and shut her eyes.

  “Make a wish,” Kelly said, blew the match out, and dropped it into the puddle of gasoline at Amy’s feet.

  Nothing happened.

  “Poop,” Kelly said.

  Amy’s head whipped back and dropped down, frantic eyes on the now lifeless match at her feet. Her exhale of relief was so strong her torso appeared to shrink.

  “Shall we try again?” Kelly asked. “What about you, Allan? You wanna try one?”

  Allan screamed muffled hate into his gag.

  “Fine…” she said with mock hurt. “I guess we’ll have to wait until our guests arrive.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Allan’s eyes stretched impossibly wide, rage dilating his pupils demon-like, his muffled tirade into his gag a muzzled dog’s.

  “Now that’s what I call right on cue,” Kelly said with great delight.

  She left to answer the door.

  • • •

  Kelly put on an unassuming face before opening the front door. Her goal was to greet with courtesy and respect, but little enthusiasm; she was playing a member of a grief session, not a host to a party.

  She opened the door and found herself staring into the barrel of a pistol; behind the barrel were the half-crazed eyes of Kevin Lane.

  “Evening, Kelly,” Kevin said and rammed his fist deep into her stomach, crumpling her instantly.

  51

  Earlier

  Parked on a rural side road some fifty yards away from Allan Brown’s residence sat Kevin Lane’s battered Oldsmobile. Kevin Lane was not inside. What was inside—in the glove compartment, to be exact—was a piece of paper spotted with dried blood. On the paper was a message that initially looked to Kevin as if it had been written by two different people.

  The meat of the message was perfectly legible. And that made sense; the man who’d written it had been very much intact.

  The slices of text holding that meat together were a different story. The script was nearly illegible. And sadly, this too made sense to Kevin; the man who’d written those had been moments away from death.

  The note read:

  save amy

  ALLAN BROWN

  125 HENKEL ROAD

  WESTMORE

  kelly blaine did it

  The conflicting emotions Kevin Lane had faced while standing in a dead man’s home (with two other dead men to boot) were not gentle as they flew at him. They’d crashed into him, each with its own justification.

  Domino is dead. Call 911.

  He’s dead. He can’t be saved. If you call 911, the police will get involved.

  If the police get involved, you lose any chance at getting your hands on Kelly. She could slip away again.

  But I have proof! Domino managed to scribble this note just before he died. How could the police ignore that?

  Do you want to take that chance? See her somehow walk yet again? See her glance your way before she’s out the proverbial door with that faint, almost imperceptible smirk of hers? Implying that she once again, for the umpteenth time, fucked you right in the ass?

  No. No, I surely don’t.

  This note, this address, it’s everything you’ve been waiting for. You happening upon it was no coincidence. You’ve been given a final chance. Use it.

  It came at the expense of a great man’s life.

  So then do him proud. Use it. Save Amy and bring the devil’s child down.

  Yes. Yes, I’ll bring her down. I’ll bring her down and prove to the world that she IS the fucking devil’s child. Yes. YES.

  And so Kevin Lane had become a vigilante. Taking a gun with him. Speeding toward Allan Brown’s home. Parking fifty yards away so he could make the rest of the way on foot undetected. Carefully navigating the perimeter of Allan’s home until he found a window with a curtain that wasn’t drawn. A window adjacent to the patio around back that just happened to give a decent view into the den and the horrific goings on therein, giving him once again the conflicting emotions of both anxiety for the captives (two of them looked dead) and exultation for the opportunity to right the wrong that had consumed his every waking moment for the past several years.

  And the wrong was there. Holding court. Not the blameless victim with the faintest of smirks he was used to, even as far back as Stratton Grove when Kelly Blaine was still a kid, but large and in charge, despite her diminutive stature. Parading about with a cool, confident smile, sometimes even a grin (he ne
ver thought he’d see the day, wondered whether she even had teeth) as she tormented the people before her, one of them Amy Lambert. The Amy Lambert.

  And who was the girl standing next to Kelly? The one holding a…a machete? What role did she play? She was assuredly an addict; years of working with troubled youths had allowed Kevin to spot an addict as easily as the average person spotted a redhead.

  It quickly made sense. Kelly had employed the help of a junkie to assist her, plying the girl with drugs to do Kelly’s bidding. Her bidding for what, though, was what Kevin wanted to know. What was Kelly’s end game?

  Or did he want to know?

  Did the specifics of whatever sick plan she’d concocted really matter? It would all become irrelevant anyway once he got his hands on her. And he would get his hands on her. Finally.

  But how?

  He’d brought a gun with him. Start shooting through the window?

  No. Absurd. Though he was donning the hat of the vigilante tonight, he was still a counselor by trade; he’d probably end up shooting the hostages as often as he shot Kelly and her helper, if he managed to hit Kelly and her helper at all.

  He would need to get close. Did, in fact, want to get close. How often had he fantasized about wrapping his hands around Kelly’s little neck and squeezing for all he was worth? To watch the very life drain from her black eyes with each passing second, with each tightening squeeze. Call him a would-be cold-blooded murderer all you wanted, but in Kevin Lane’s eyes, he was ridding the world of evil. No different than an angel striking down a demon.

  Whichever method he chose to enter the home and take Kelly and her assistant down, it had to be soon; a second, careful reconnaissance along the perimeter of Allan Brown’s home gave him a second window with a decent view into the den, this one at the front of the house, facing the captives.

  And it was at this view that he noted the exceptional amount of blood on one of the captives he’d presumed dead. That one, a woman, was definitely gone. He was sure of it. The other, a man, looked equally gone, though he spotted no blood on him. Unconscious maybe? Who cared? Either way, his next move had to be soon, or Amy Lambert and the man next to her whom he assumed was Allan Brown would quickly join the other two captives in their tragic condition.