Bad Games

by Jeff Menapace

  “I just got finished making love to my husband. I can assure you that creep’s face was not on my mind.”

  Norman blushed at Amy’s comment, bit back a smile and looked away.

  The sheriff’s reaction was similar but different. He too blushed, but there was no smile to fight; he seemed flustered by Amy’s bluntness, avoiding eye contact when he said, “Okay, ma’am, I’m just here trying to put your mind at ease, that’s all.”

  “Well you’re accusing me of not seeing something that I know I saw.”

  Another placating gesture of the hands. “Okay, okay…”

  “So what now?” Patrick asked.

  The sheriff answered Patrick by addressing Amy. “You mind showing me which window you spotted him in, miss?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Amy led the sheriff around the side of the cabin with Patrick and Norm close behind.

  “Here.” She pointed to the only window of the cabin that looked directly into their bedroom. “Right here.”

  The sheriff looked into the window for a brief moment, then squatted down into a catcher’s stance, grunting the whole way. He pulled the flashlight from his belt and waved it along the ground for several seconds before mumbling, “Huh.”

  “What?” Patrick asked.

  The sheriff remained squatting, still shining the flashlight on the ground. “Kinda muddy.”

  “So?” Amy said.

  The sheriff glanced up at Amy, a mild look of annoyance now trumping the uncomfortable berth he’d initially given her. When he brought his attention back down to the ground, he proceeded to wave the flashlight over the muddy grass in slow, deliberate circles. “I can’t make out a shoe print. Can you?” he asked.

  Patrick squatted down next to the sheriff. “Can I borrow that?” he asked, nodding his head towards the flashlight.

  The sheriff seemed reluctant, but eventually clicked his teeth and said, “Sure thing.”

  Patrick took the flashlight, waved the cylinder of light over the area beneath the window. He saw nothing that resembled the tread of a shoe or a boot, but he did see something. “There’s a few indentations here,” he said. “It kind of looks like the earth was pressed flat in spots. Maybe he was barefoot?”

  The sheriff stood slowly upright, groaning more so than he’d done during his descent. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I can’t see a man running around out here without a pair of shoes on. Wooded area like this would tear his feet to bits. Hardly worth it for a little peepshow.”

  Amy made no attempt to hide her disgust over the sheriff’s choice of words.

  Patrick stood and handed the flashlight back to the sheriff. “So then how do you explain what my wife saw?”

  The sheriff clicked off the flashlight, hooked it back onto his belt, and let out a long sigh, the delay in his response seemingly intentional, as though he considered his wisdom a privilege, worth the wait.

  “Can’t say for sure,” he finally said. He faced Amy. “It’s obvious you’re quite upset, miss. And I don’t doubt your word. If you’re friends with Lorraine and Norm here then I’m sure you’re decent folks who would have no reason to make up such a story.” He turned back to Patrick. “You say you went out after the guy.”

  “Yeah, I told you that.”

  “How soon?”

  “What?”

  The sheriff enunciated slowly. “After your wife spotted the man, how soon after did you go out looking for him?”

  Patrick struggled for a quick response. The sheriff’s patronizing tone made him feel guilty for some reason. “I don’t know—a minute maybe? I had to throw on some pants and shoes first.”

  “And you say you never saw the guy in the window to begin with? Nobody was there when you looked?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you still went out anyway.”

  “Absolutely. I trust my wife.”

  “How long did you look for him again?” The sheriff didn’t look at Patrick when he spoke; his flashlight was out again, waving about their surroundings, more obligatory than necessary.

  “I don’t know—a few minutes? I kind of ran the perimeter of the cabin a few times, then wandered further out.”

  “But you never saw anyone.”

  Patrick gritted his teeth and steadied himself. “No.”

  The sheriff looked at Norman. “What about you, Norm? You see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Lorraine and I were asleep.”

  The sheriff nodded once and clicked the flashlight off. A brief moment of silence followed. The cacophony of chirps and clicks from the surrounding nightlife echoed throughout the dark surroundings. Such sounds were usually demoted to white noise after only a few minutes of exposure, but now they seemed intent on rising above their disregarded status in a bid to set an ominous mood for current events.

  “Well,” the sheriff finally said, holstering the flashlight again, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat, “I’ve got all your information. I’ll alert my deputies to keep an eye out for anyone fitting the description you gave me, and I’ll send a cruiser out periodically this weekend to do a brief check around the area. My guess is that if there was a guy here then he’s long gone by now, especially when he saw a big fella like this coming after him.” The sheriff smiled and patted Patrick on his upper arm, finishing with a firm squeeze. Patrick flashed on Arty’s similar gesture at the gas station and this time he yanked his arm free. The sheriff dropped his smile and stared. Patrick instantly regretted his action. Not because the sheriff was a good guy (he seemed like an asshole), but because his ego still regretted the physical liberty Arty had taken with him. And of course, the sheriff was law—that was a big one too.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick immediately said. “I’m just…I guess I’m just frustrated. I’m very sorry, sheriff. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  The sheriff slowly put his smile back on. “That’s alright, son. You’ve had a heck of a night. Can’t blame a man for getting frustrated when it comes to protecting his family.”

  Patrick smiled and nodded a silent thank you.

  The sheriff turned to Norman. “Nice seeing you again, Norm.” He looked at Amy, tugged the brim of his hat and said, “You take care now, folks.” He did not look back at Patrick.

  The sheriff sauntered back to his vehicle with all the urgency of a man out for a midnight stroll, painfully obvious to Patrick that the sheriff had felt his time had been wasted, that he was eager to get back to the station so he could put his feet up and continue watching his belly grow.

  Giving a final wave over his shoulder before oozing into the driver’s seat, the sheriff started his engine and left.

  “Asshole,” Amy said once the flashing red and blue were colored dots in the distance. “Is he always like that, Norm?”

  “Can’t say. I’ve only met him at picnics and community gatherings and such. He seemed okay there. This was the first time I ever saw him on the job. Seemed a bit condescending at times, didn’t he?”

  “And then some,” Amy said. She turned to Patrick. He looked strange. “Patrick? You alright?”

  “Yeah,” he said a little too quickly, shaking himself from the blender of thoughts in his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Amy did not seem convinced. “You believe me, right?” she asked. “You believe I saw someone? The guy with the shaved head from Giant? You do believe I saw him outside our window right?”

  Patrick did believe her. Initially. Now he was unsure. He knew how upset his wife had been earlier, and he knew that if you coupled that fact with the dark and relatively unfamiliar environment they were in, it was very possible that she did see something that wasn’t there—a cruel but common trick of the eyes.

  And then there was the evidence. There was none. No shoe prints in the mud, no sign of the guy when he ran outside after him. As much as it pained Patrick to even consider it, maybe the asshole sheriff had been spot-on in his assumption that what Amy truly saw was an image of a man locked
away in the recesses of her mind—unwillingly set free for a fleeting moment when her guard was down.

  Still, Patrick was smart enough to know that betraying Amy’s trust was about as wise as pissing off Lorena Bobbitt, so he prayed his uncertain response gave authenticity. “Of course I do, baby. I’m just flustered right now, that’s all. That sheriff was a dick.”

  To Patrick’s delight, Amy did not appear to second-guess his response. She just walked over and put her arms around him in a tight embrace. He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head.

  “Would you like Lorraine and I to keep the kids for tonight?” Norman asked.

  “Would you mind?” Amy said, pulling away from her husband and facing Norman. “I’d hate to wake them again. Plus it kind of makes me feel better to know they’re not…I don’t know…at the cabin he was looking in.”

  “Wait, wait,” Patrick said. “I’m not too sure about that. Maybe it’s best if the kids are with us.”

  Amy repeated herself, adamant. “I don’t want to wake them again. And I don’t want them to be in the same cabin that he was—”

  Patrick held up a hand. “Fine.”

  “What will happen tomorrow?” Norman asked.

  Amy gave an uncertain shrug. “I guess we’ll figure that out tomorrow. But don’t be surprised if you find us leaving first thing in the morning. As for right now I’m just thinking about…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.” She looked at Patrick. “Maybe we should wake them.” She looked back at Norm and sighed again. “I don’t know…I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  “No, you are,” Norman said. “I’d be confused and uncertain too. It’s completely understandable.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind keeping the kids for tonight?” she asked again.

  “Absolutely not. You know we love having them. You two go on in and try and get some sleep.”

  Amy snorted. “Right.”

  “We’ll bring the kids over first thing in the morning when they wake,” Norman said.

  “Thanks, Norm,” Patrick said.

  Norman stepped forward and gave them each a hearty hug. “We’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.” He flashed a reassuring smile, turned and headed back towards his cabin.

  Patrick took Amy’s hand and gave her a gentle pull. “Come on, baby, let’s go inside.”

  They were a few feet from the back entrance when Oscar appeared, wagging his tail and whining for affection.

  “And where the hell were you during all this?” Amy said.

  * * *

  Jim had watched every second of the aftermath unfold. He was only fifty yards away during the sheriff’s entire stay—nestled safely behind an enormous oak at the rear of the Lambert’s cabin.

  His feet did ache, but the two thick pairs of wool socks he wore dulled the sharp edges that jabbed into his soles when he fled from the window.

  Watching the couple fuck had proved arousing. But that show was a mere bonus. Anticipation had been the true culprit for the thumping in his heart and the tickling in his groin—waiting for that sweet, sweet moment when Amy (he knew her name now; he heard it spoken from behind the oak) would spot none other than his face leering back at her from the bedroom window.

  The game was officially gaining momentum.

  11

  Arty was nursing a beer when Jim entered the bar. It was nearly 2:00 a.m., and in this particular dive that meant the remaining patrons were still around for two reasons: sex or a fight. Or both. Arty was the exception. He was waiting for his brother to arrive so he could find out how his solo venture at Crescent Lake had gone.

  “It’s about time,” Arty said as his brother took a stool next to him. “Any problems?”

  “Nah—I wore the socks like you said. No serious prints or anything. My feet hurt though.”

  “Can’t make an omelet.”

  “Yeah.”

  Patrick slid a bottle of beer over to his brother. “It might be a little warm. I didn’t think you’d be this late.”

  Jim took the beer and sipped it. “It’s fine.” He took another swig. “I planned on getting here sooner, but I was enjoying myself a bit too much I suppose.”

  Arty laughed and sipped from his own beer. “Tomorrow’s going to be a good day.”

  Jim looked off into one of his thoughts for a moment, a smile on his face that managed both malice and delight. When he returned he quivered and shook his head hard as if trying to wake himself up. “I think I need a shot. You want one?”

  “No, let’s get out of here. There’s some big inbred fuckers at the end of the bar who were giving me shit earlier.”

  Jim looked past his brother, down the length of the bar. Three big men stared back with drunken, arrogant smirks. Two slovenly women accompanied them.

  “Those big hicks? What’d they do?”

  “Just said some shit. Took some cheap shots because I was on my own. Thought I was an easy victim. Trying to impress those pigs with them I guess.”

  Jim was adamant. He continued to stare at the three men as he spoke to his brother. “Well fuck them—I’m not leaving because those hillbillies are looking to start something. Let them fucking try.”

  Arty put his hand on his brother’s forearm. It was as solid as a baseball bat from the angry grip he had on his beer. “We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves, bro. Two guys from out of town fighting with locals will put a beacon on our backs. It’s nearly closing time—let’s just let it go and leave.”

  Jim watched the three men lean in and whisper to one another. The shift in their body language said it all. “They’re not gonna let us leave here without a fight, Arty.”

  Arty glanced down the end of the bar and saw exactly what his brother saw. The three men were fidgeting, psyching themselves up. “Well if it comes to that I’ve got a back up plan I took care of earlier.”

  “What plan?”

  Arty didn’t answer; his attention was now locked on the three men approaching them. The largest of the three took lead with the remaining two close behind. The leader stood well over six feet and carried significant bulk. His torso was covered in flannel and his thick legs were wrapped in faded denim that ended with a pair of giant construction boots. His greasy hair was long, tangled, and ink black.

  “So your girl finally showed up, huh?” the leader asked Arty, his two friends standing behind him, arms folded, grinning at the insult. They were both shorter than the leader but carried similar girth and attire. The one on the left was slick bald with a scar running through his left eyebrow. The one on the right sported the same greasy black hair as the leader in addition to a heavy goatee.

  Jim went to stand up, but Arty grabbed his shoulder and guided him back down onto the stool. “We were just on our way out,” Arty said.

  “No, not yet you’re not,” the leader said. He gulped the last of his beer then slammed the empty bottle down onto the bar.

  That was when Arty and Jim first spotted the ring. It was silver and huge and practically engulfed the man’s thick ring finger. A skull was engraved into it.

  “Before you leave I’d like you to buy us all a couple of rounds.” The man motioned to his friends on either side of him, then to the giggling girls at the end of the bar who seemed to be enjoying every second of the show.

  “We’re not buying you a round,” Jim said.

  “No?” the leader said. “Why not?” He extended his arm and knocked over Arty’s beer, the remains gradually pumping their way out through the brown neck of the bottle, spreading into a small pool on the counter, then finally a slow drip over the edge of the bar.

  Arty glanced down at his spilt beer then looked straight ahead. He had a strange calm over him that didn’t seem to fit under the given circumstances. The leader seemed to sense this too; a look of both confusion and anger meshed on his thick brow. The man inched closer, made a tight fist, rested it on the bar so that both brothers could swoon over it in all its destructive glory.

>   “Nice ring,” Arty said without even looking at it. He was still staring straight ahead, still inappropriately cool. “Very original.”

  The leader’s brow furrowed some more. Arty’s sarcasm would have been evident to most, but to this man it proved cumbersome. His response was primitive: he opened his fist and closed it again, tighter this time, the skull ring jutting forward like an extra silver knuckle.

  A moment followed where no one spoke. A country song was crooning from the speakers overhead. The bartender—who seemed content to keep his back to the affair—clinked and clanked an array of glasses in the square tub of blue liquid next to the bar’s sink. The drunken gibberish from the remaining patrons—all aging, defeated men, oblivious to anything around them but the unfair world—periodically rose over the country singer’s voice whenever they made frustrated, incoherent shouts to all that might listen.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jim finally blurted, kicking back his stool. “You know what? We will buy you some drinks. In fact we’ll buy you lots of drinks. You know why? Because the way I see it, you’re gonna need some thick fucking beer goggles in order to fuck those two pigs you got over there.”

  The leader didn’t hesitate. He pummeled his right fist deep into Arty’s cheekbone, the sound like a mallet cracking meat. The silver ring cut deep into Arty’s flesh and sent him reeling backwards into his brother. Jim caught Arty and quickly tried standing him upright, but Arty’s legs were gone from the punch, buckling in all directions every time his feet touched the floor.

  Jim opted to drag Arty backward to place him into one of the booths so he could free up his hands for an attack. Arty, however, proved coherent enough to sense what his brother was attempting to do and turned into him.

  “No! Jim, no!” Arty yelled, gripping his brother’s shoulders, stopping his momentum.

  “Yeah, Jim,” the leader laughed, “listen to your girl.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking inbred hick!” Jim spat over Arty’s shoulder.

  The leader stepped forward and Arty pushed Jim back towards the door. “We’re leaving,” Arty said.

  The three men were all laughing in unison now. And as Arty gave Jim one final push out the door, he turned over his shoulder and locked eyes with the big man with the silver skull ring. Arty smirked, winked, and was gone. And the big man with the silver skull ring instantly stopped laughing.