• • •
Caleb hadn’t lied to his mother. He was at a diner. Waiting to hear from Ray in the basement had been maddening. His adrenaline was too high; the basement had felt like a cage. He ordered coffee and eggs and toast, knowing he would be unable to eat anything, yet ordering them all the same, rationalizing that he would need the fuel for the task ahead.
He drank cup after cup of black coffee, the caffeine not doing his nerves any favors. To the onlooker, he might have been the very thing he would be hunting tonight. The dark circles under his eyes—product of too many sleepless nights, too many nightmares—so unusual for a kid his age. His pale complexion, heightening those dark circles. His hair unkempt. His attire sweatpants and a dirty gray long-sleeve. Even his waitress seemed to give him a wide berth, only coming over when he called to her for more coffee.
This irony—his appearance eliciting wary looks from both patrons and staff—was not lost on Caleb. And he supposed they had every right to be wary. After all, he was a killer. And tonight, he planned on killing again. But as had been the norm ever since he got his mind around it, he merely reminded himself that he was not indiscriminate in his choosing. That he was punishing bad people. People who hurt good people. Because there were good people in this world. People like his father. Like Domino. He could not stop his murderous impulses, but he could redirect them. Point them in a direction that was not restricted by the red tape of the law.
And although Ray might have been correct in his assessment concerning the forever selfishness of man—after all, Caleb was only sitting in this diner now because of his need to impose his selfish will onto others—Caleb no longer cared. It was what it was. And tonight, the bad people would be punished.
He picked up a spoon, looked at his reflection, and repeated the mantra that had been a constant in his head since he first spoke it hours ago. “Sorry—but this is me now.”
41
Amy had peed only once since talking to her daughter, but as Murphy’s Law clearly states: the phone always rings when you’re either on the toilet or in the shower.
That was the reason Amy was checking her phone now. Carrie should have been home by now. She wasn’t. Amy guessed she might have tried calling during that one time she was on the toilet. She had not. Her phone displayed no alerts, just her screensaver of Carrie and Caleb as kids on the beach.
For reasons she didn’t know, the old-school public service announcement came to her:
It’s eleven o’clock. Do you know where your children are?
For more reasons she didn’t know, she actually replied aloud:
“No.”
Amy immediately dialed Carrie’s number. It rang several times before going to voicemail.
Amy felt a surge of panic. Murphy’s Law had all sorts of annoying truisms. In addition to the phone always ringing while on the toilet or in the shower, there was another, more recent addition that went, to wit: If bad luck has come to pass, the Lambert family is sure to get it straight in the ass.
Amy dialed Carrie again. It rang.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up…”
Voicemail again. She left a message this time.
“Hi, honey, it’s Mom. Just wondering where you were. Please call me back as soon as you get this.”
Amy waited, pacing the living room.
Probably ran into an old high school friend on the way out of the bar. Got to chatting. It would be rude to turn the friend away.
The cynical—dominant—side of her brain entertained less appetizing scenarios, Allan’s previous words offering assistance:
There could be someone out there right now, right this second, who’s murdered countless times, and worst of all, he’s been getting away with it…And this killer delights in that knowledge…Except soon that knowledge isn’t enough. Soon he needs the world to know…He needs the world to know that he was smarter than everybody. Better than everybody. That the only reason he was caught was because he allowed himself to be caught…under one condition, of course. That you tell his story.
Her response to him that night coming right after: And in the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve had how many of these psychos ringing my doorbell?
“Exactly,” she said aloud.
And then Allan again: Nice attitude, Amy. You of all people should know bad luck is your soulmate.
Murphy’s Law now: …the Lambert family is sure to get it straight in the ass.
“No. No, no, no…” She dialed again. “Pick up, Carrie!”
Voicemail.
“Hi, honey, it’s Mom again. I know I just called, but I’m starting to get a little worried. Please call your paranoid old mom back and put her mind at ease. If you ran into some friends and decided to stay at the bar, I’m totally fine with that. Just please call and let me know.”
Amy set her phone down. Picked it back up. Set it down again.
Go sit on the damn toilet.
She did. Good thing too, because anxiety was pressing on her bladder. She started to take her phone with her, but stopped.
Won’t work if you have your phone with you.
“So stupid,” she said, yet set her phone back down all the same and went to the bathroom, leaving the door open to hear in case it actually rang.
It did, of course. Midstream. She clenched and cut the stream off, hiked up her pants, hurried back into the den, and grabbed her phone.
Carrie was FaceTiming her.
Amy breathed a sigh of relief, answered the FaceTime call, and was greeted by a smiling kid with a shaved head.
42
“Amy Lambert, as I live and breathe,” the kid with the shaved head said.
Amy’s greeting smile dropped to a curious frown. “Have we met? Where’s Carrie?”
“You might not know me, but I certainly know you. The whole world knows you, don’t they?”
“Who are you? Where’s Carrie? Why do you have her phone? What—?”
“Whoa, whoa—slow down there, superstar. All will be revealed in—”
Amy’s pulse quickened. “Where is my daughter? Put her on the phone now.”
The kid with the shaved head sighed. “Typical celebrity. So impatient. So me, me, me…”
“Listen, you little prick, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but I’m not amused.”
“You’re not amused because you haven’t given me a chance to explain anything yet. May I continue?”
Amy said nothing, just stared into the phone.
“Thank you,” the kid said. “We have quite the surprise for you.”
“We?”
A rotating view from the smartphone, throughout what appeared to be an ordinary den. The smartphone settled on a second kid. Dark hair and eyes. He smiled and waved.
“Hi, Amy,” the dark-haired kid said. “It’s an honor. Loved your book. Big fan of the Fannelli brothers, my friend and I are.” The kid rolled up his sleeve and revealed the homemade “Arty” tattoo.
Now the phone being handed off to Arty Tattoo so that he could film the kid with the shaved head. The kid with the shaved head smiled and raised his own sleeve, revealing his “Jim” tattoo.
“What do you think?” the kid with the Jim tattoo asked.
Dreaming. I’m dreaming. Fell asleep on the sofa waiting for Carrie to come home.
Only Amy had gone to the “Am I dreaming?” well once too often to know that she was not.
“Where is my daughter?” she managed.
“Upstairs,” Jim Tattoo said. “Waiting for you. Like I said, we have quite the surprise waiting.”
“Let me see her.”
“In time.”
“Now.”
Jim Tattoo sighed again. “Why do you continue to act as though you have any leverage in this scenario?”
“Because for all I know, you’re two dipshits who stole my daughter’s phone. Let me see her or I’m hanging up and calling the police.”
“And then you’ll have your daughter’s deat
h on your conscience. Come on, Amy, you already lost your husband. You really want to lose your daughter too?”
Amy reddened. She struggled to keep from shouting. “Please let me see my daughter.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Jim Tattoo said. “I like ‘please.’”
Smartphone panning around to Arty Tattoo. Jim Tattoo’s voice off camera: “You ready?”
Arty Tattoo gave the thumbs-up.
The image from the smartphone was shaky as it ascended the stairs. Amy heard one of them giggling. Approaching a closed door now. Jim Tattoo’s voice off camera: “This was my parents’ room. We killed them a few days ago,” he said matter-of-factly, and then opened the door.
The smartphone’s image entered the large master bedroom. Carrie was there, front and center. She was seated in a chair, arms behind her back, bound with duct tape. Ankles too bound with duct tape. Next to her was an empty chair. Carrie did not look afraid. She looked angry.
“Carrie!” Amy yelled into her phone.
Carrie’s face lit up. “Mom?”
“Oh my God. Carrie, honey, are you all—?”
But she got no further. The image swung back around for a close-up of Jim Tattoo’s grinning face. “See? Told you we had her. Would you like to hear about our surprise for you now?”
Amy ignored him, continued shouting for her daughter into the phone. “Carrie! Carrie, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
Jim Tattoo sighed yet again. “Please stop yelling and pay attention, Amy.”
“You motherfucker!”
“Oh, I see; you don’t want the surprise. You’d rather we just kill your daughter outright, is that it?”
Amy literally bit her tongue to keep quiet. She tasted blood.
“Better,” Jim Tattoo said. “Not sure if you noticed, but there is an empty chair next to your daughter. Your chair. My friend and I would very much like for you to come and take that seat beside your daughter.”
“You are way out of your league here, you little fucker,” Amy said. “If you are such a big fan of my book and Jim Fannelli, then you should know that I stuck a fucking nail file into your idol’s ball sack.”
Jim Tattoo smiled. “Isn’t that a funny coincidence? Earlier today, I cut off the dick of someone who’d wronged me. Will you be joining us or not?”
Think think think think…
“Tell me what you want,” Amy said.
“I just did. I want you to take your seat next to your daughter.”
“For a surprise.”
“That’s right.”
“What is it?”
Jim Tattoo made a silly face. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”
“Fine, I’ll be there. Tell me where to go.”
Carrie in the background: “Mom, no!”
Jim Tattoo stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Carrie could still be heard shouting on the other side of the door, pleading with her mother, then berating her captors.
“She really is your daughter, isn’t she?” Jim Tattoo said to the camera. “Got to admire her spirit. Some ground rules first—”
“I know your fucking ground rules. Come alone. No police.”
Jim Tattoo smiled. “That’s correct. But then I suppose this isn’t your first rodeo.”
“No, it’s not,” Amy said. “I hope you remember that when it’s over.”
Jim Tattoo ignored her bravado. He held up a small rectangular piece of paper, a makeshift ticket. Written on the ticket in bold marker was “admit one.”
“Admission to your big surprise,” he said. “It’ll be waiting for you. Popcorn too. I think you’re really going to enjoy what we’ve got in store for you.”
“Likewise.”
Jim Tattoo smiled, dropped his head, and shook it. “Such a tough girl, aren’t you? Just remember this, you attention-seeking bitch, you’ve got no one to blame for this but yourself.”
Amy felt a stab of pain in her heart. Was he right? Scratch that—had Allan been right?
“Just tell me where to go,” Amy said.
43
Amy hurried to her bedroom closet. Tucked deep inside, she retrieved something that resembled a black briefcase. Something Domino had given her. She did the lock and opened it.
Come alone. No police. The little bastard never said anything about weapons.
Before leaving, Amy left her wedding ring on the dresser.
44
Andy Franklin and Charlie Hall did not keep Carrie company as they waited for Amy’s arrival. Instead, they attended to Mike Childs, who was seated in the room across the hall from the master bedroom.
Mike had lost a good deal of blood from his recent “surgery,” and though the bleeding had now stopped—Charlie had happily cauterized the wound with the stovetop-heated blade of a second kitchen knife—he frequently faded in and out of consciousness. They worried he might slip away for good. This meant the old ammonia-filled-baster-up-the-nose trick to keep him awake more than not. Though “awake” was a generous term. Mike Childs’s fight had completely left him, and when he did stir, it was only to moan and weep, to the great delight of both Charlie and Andy.
Charlie went into the closet and retrieved the box of tapes. He pulled the tape from the box, put the box back in the closet, and then handed the tape to Andy. “Want to go get this ready?”
A pounding on the front door.
Andy and Charlie froze for a moment. Exchanged looks. Andy hurried into the master bedroom with the tape. Carrie could be heard yelling the moment he entered, the yelling dampening when Andy closed the door behind him, the dampened yelling then muffled and inarticulate—the result of Andy gagging her.
Charlie patted Mike on the head, grabbed his father’s rifle, and hurried downstairs.
• • •
Charlie peeked through the blinds of the window adjacent to the front door. Amy Lambert was there, alone, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, blue sweatpants and a blue Penn State sweatshirt. Charlie peered deeper into the surrounding dark beyond her for any signs that she’d been followed. He saw nothing of note.
Charlie opened the door.
“Welcome, Amy.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Amy said and stepped inside without an invite.
Charlie accommodated her and stepped aside, allowing her entry.
Amy looked around. “Nice house.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “It was my parents’. Though I’m afraid they won’t be joining—”
“I know, I know, you killed them. Good for you.”
Charlie frowned. No respect. Certainly no fear. But that was okay. Amy Lambert was merely a means to an end. The true fear would come after. And of course, despite how tough she appeared to be, there was always the night he and Andy had in store. Let’s see how tough she would be by night’s end.
Amy considered the rifle in Charlie’s hands. “Nice gun. Remington 700 ADL?”
Charlie looked down at the gun and paused. “I, uh…”
“You don’t even know, do you?” Amy laughed. “You want to just hand it over to me now to save us both the trouble?”
Charlie rammed the butt of the rifle into Amy’s gut and dropped her onto all fours, gasping for breath.
“How’s that feel, Amy?” Charlie said. “Still feel like being a clever little bitch?” Charlie reached down and began patting Amy for weapons. He found none. “Well, at least you were smart enough to come unarmed. Or maybe not so smart.”
Amy slowly got to her feet.
Charlie gestured towards the stairs with the rifle. “Upstairs,” he said.
Amy, wincing, still struggling to breathe, said: “Where’s Carrie?”
“The party’s upstairs,” was all Charlie said.
“Where’s my daughter?”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Why do you make everything so difficult?”
“Tell me where she is or I’m not going anywhere.”
“Really?” Charlie tilte
d his chin towards the ceiling and hollered: “She’s refusing to come up! Cut her throat!”
“OKAY! Okay, I’m going…”
Charlie grinned and hollered: “Cancel that order!”
Amy looked at him with pure hate.
Charlie waved the gun towards the stairs again. “Now then…”
Amy slowly made her way up the stairs, Charlie close behind, gun in her back. He led her to the master bedroom, pausing at the closed door.
“Almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small handmade ticket with “admit one” written on it. He handed it to Amy. “Gonna need this to get in.”
Amy reluctantly took the ticket.
“Ready?” Charlie asked.
Amy said nothing.
Charlie opened the door, stepped to one side, and waved his hand dutifully inside the bedroom. “Please take your seat, ma’am.”
Amy spotted Carrie and instantly ran to her, hugging her, kissing her, crying, dropping to her knees to inspect her daughter for injuries. Carrie, gagged with a strip of duct tape over her mouth, moaned back, crying along with her mother.
Charlie and Andy exchanged a smile over their heads. Amy spotted it and jumped to her feet. Went for Charlie.
Charlie stuck the rifle in her face and stopped her charge. “No, no, no, Amy…”
Carrie screamed into her gag behind them. Amy spun. Andy had a knife to Carrie’s throat.
“Don’t think I won’t do it,” Andy said. “I literally slashed my own mother to pieces. Your stupid daughter would be a breeze.”
Charlie behind Amy: “Seriously, Amy, stop making everything so goddamn difficult. You can either take your seat next to your daughter and watch while she’s alive, or you can take your seat and watch beside her corpse.”
Amy faced Charlie again. “Watch?”
“That’s the big surprise. A special screening for the Lambert family, starring the Lambert family.” He then gestured to something in the corner—a large tripod with an old handheld camera perched on top. The small red light was on, filming all. “And we’ll be capturing this special moment tonight for the whole world to enjoy.”
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 110
