Bad Games

by Jeff Menapace

  “Lorraine?” he called the moment he was inside. He took two more steps, each one slow and delicate as though the floor might give under his weight. “Lorraine? You in here, honey?” He heard nothing but the distant idle of the Volvo outside.

  Norman began to imagine the worst. He thought of the man who had accosted Amy at the market and then peeked into her bedroom window last night. Had he come back? And if he had, was he dangerous?

  Norman felt his pulse thumping all over. He was imagining the worst. But better to imagine the worst and be prepared than to be ignorant and caught off guard, right? He scanned his surroundings, searching for a potential weapon. A sharp metal poker was leaning up against their fireplace to his left. He hurried over and grabbed hold of it. He steadied it in his hand like a fencer about to duel. Am I really going to have to use this?

  “Lorraine?” he called again. His voice cracked this time, the adrenaline sapping his saliva.

  Norman took cautious steps towards the bedroom, the tip of the black poker leading the way. The bedroom door was open a crack. He placed the tip of the poker against the door and pushed slowly. The door felt heavy on the end of the poker as he pushed it open.

  He took in every inch of the dark room, squeezing the handle of the poker for all he was worth. He twisted his left arm and blindly patted the wall to his left, feeling for the light switch. He found the switch and flicked it upward. The room came alive with light, and Norm blinked quickly so his eyes would adjust.

  The bed was made. The closet doors were shut tight. The room looked as if he may have been the first to visit that day.

  Norm let out a long, slow breath. Yes, the room was empty, and yes, he would still need to search the rest of the cabin, but the morbid thought of finding his wife murdered in their bed (a thought that had refused to leave his mind the second it crawled in there) had not come to fruition; and for that he felt a relief like no other.

  Norm took another couple of steps into his bedroom, gave one last grateful look at their empty bed, then turned back towards the door. It was then he realized why the bedroom door had felt so heavy on the end of the poker when he pushed it open. His wife Lorraine was hanging on the back of it. Her head hung to one side, eyes open and lifeless, sagging lips already blue. Below the blue mouth her throat was slashed ear to ear, her entire torso soaked in red.

  Norm dropped the poker to his side without realizing it. He didn’t cry and he didn’t scream. He could only stare. If he had found his wife dead in bed as he had feared, he would have rushed to her side and wept. After the weeping he would have righted himself and began cursing and screaming vengeance while thrashing around like a wild man with that poker as his equalizer. But this? This image? How could he have possibly evoked such a thing? The shock was brilliant. It made him certain his vision was a hoax, a ludicrous trick that projected a false image of his dead wife hanging before him like a giant flesh-puppet stored away on its hook.

  His shock had made him deaf, too. He didn’t hear the closet door open behind him. Didn’t hear the footsteps approach his back. And he didn’t hear the aluminum bat whistling down onto his skull.

  * * *

  The Volvo’s headlights continued shining on the open front door of the Mitchell’s cabin. Carrie and Caleb waited anxiously in the back seat for Norman to reappear.

  Norman never did reappear; but someone else did. It was a man who looked very familiar to Carrie. He had dark hair and dark eyes (except he was wearing a big white Band-Aid on his cheek now for some reason) and was smiling brightly as he approached the car. It was also evident that he was carrying something behind his back.

  As the man came within a foot of Carrie’s window he leaned forward at the waist and, still smiling brightly, sang, “Look who I’ve got…!”

  Josie the doll was whipped out from behind the man’s back and pressed up against the car window.

  Carrie’s eyes jumped with delight and her squeal of “Josie!” reverberated through the car window and above the idling car.

  “Hi, Carrie,” the man said loudly through the glass. He over-annunciated each word. “Your mommy and daddy are at my house. We’re having a big party and they asked me if I would come pick you and your brother up and bring you over there.”

  He held the doll up against the window again and moved it from side to side as though it was dancing. Carrie giggled and the man laughed. He then asked, “Do you think you could unlock the door for Josie and me?”

  38

  Maria Fannelli usually didn’t bake cookies this time of night. On any other evening she would have been finishing the last drop of her chamomile tea, switching off the television, and making her way upstairs to prepare for bed.

  But there would be an exception tonight. A very special exception. Her grandchildren were on their way over.

  Her son had phoned ahead and told her to expect the children soon. Maria had no sooner hung up the phone before she began gliding from one corner of her kitchen to the other, snatching the necessary ingredients from both her cupboard and refrigerator. Her smile, the kind of smile only a grandmother awaiting the arrival of her grandchildren is capable of producing, never waned for an instant.

  * * *

  Once the cookies were in the oven, Maria returned to her den. She was too excited to sit, so she stood, waiting in front of her recliner—pink house-robe from neck to ankles, red fuzzy slippers on the feet, warm, welcoming blue slits beneath a pair of thick lenses, and shoulder-length white hair that was just slightly tangled and unkempt.

  Ask five people to draw a lion and you’d get five different lions. Ask those same five to draw a grandmother and you’d get five Maria Fannellis.

  Maria waited in front of that recliner, wringing her soft white hands together as though she had four winning lottery numbers, the impending knock on her front door the official announcement of the fifth and final.

  When the knock arrived she found herself moving with a speed that surprised even her. She opened the front door and those blue slits behind the lenses stretched wide and that grandmother-smile took up half her face.

  She bent forward and hugged her grandchildren with as much love and vigor as her body could muster. When she was finished she stood upright, smiled adoringly at her son, and gave him a hug of equal love and vigor.

  Arty Fannelli hugged his mother back and said, “Hi, Ma. Are those cookies we smell?”

  39

  One Hour Earlier

  Arty drove the Volvo Station Wagon towards his mother’s house. Carrie and Caleb were silent in the back seat, Caleb’s eyes getting heavy, and Carrie over the moon, pre-occupied with Josie’s return.

  It was imperative that Arty call his mother before their arrival, but first he needed to touch base with Jim to ensure their prior arrangements were moving along as planned.

  Arty flipped open his cell phone and dialed his brother’s number. Jim answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up?”

  “So far so good,” Arty said.

  “You call Mom yet?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to get hold of you first—make sure things were moving along okay.”

  “Everything’s fine here. I’m at Mom’s now.”

  “You’re there now?”

  “Yeah, no worries though; she didn’t hear anything. I’ve got them fixed up tight in the basement. Lights are all off. It’s black as coal down here. We’re good.”

  Arty lowered his voice and said, “Well you’ll need to wait until I can get Mom and the kids into the family room before you try and move them upstairs.”

  “But you haven’t called Mom yet,” Jim said. “We don’t have much of a plan B if she’s having an on day do we?”

  “I told you she’ll be off. She was spacey when I was there earlier setting up the camera. She didn’t even ask any questions when she saw me running wire through the floor. Kills me to say it, but she’ll be off. She’ll be off.”

  “Okay,” Jim said. “But call her now.”


  “Fine. If there’s a problem, I’ll call you back. If not, then you know we’re good to go and I’ll send you a text to let you know when you can start moving them.”

  “Alright.”

  Arty snapped his phone shut and turned to the kids in back. His mouth was barely open when Carrie beat him to the punch.

  “Where’s Mr. Mitchell?” she asked.

  Arty turned back towards the road. “He’ll be there; don’t you worry.”

  Carrie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t get what?”

  “How will Mr. Mitchell get to the party?”

  Arty smiled. “He’s going to drive sweetheart. How else would he get there?”

  “But this is his car.”

  Clever little bitch, Arty thought.

  “I know it is, sweetheart. Mr. Mitchell is going to be getting a ride with Mrs. Mitchell. He’s back there at the cabin now waiting for her to pick him up with a different car. Okay?”

  “No—I still don’t get it.”

  Oh how he wished he could tell the truth. To watch the expression on her little face when he told her that Mr. Mitchell was very dead. That his bald head was split open like a ripe melon. Would you be as inquisitive then, you little shit? I don’t think so.

  “I’ll tell you what, honey,” Arty began, “Why don’t we let Mr. Mitchell himself explain it to you when we get to the party? How does that sound?”

  Carrie didn’t answer, and that was just fine with Arty. He treasured the silence for a moment before bringing up something crucial to the game. He spoke slow and concise like a schoolteacher.

  “Hey, kids? You’re going to be meeting my mother at the party tonight. She’s a very friendly lady who loves to play silly games.” He shot a quick smile over his shoulder. “Her favorite game is a goofy one where she teases and pretends to be everybody’s grandmother. It’s a game she loves to play, and she takes it very seriously. And you know what the best part is? If you play along I’m sure she’ll bake up some cookies for us.” Another quick smile over the shoulder. “How does that sound? You think you can play along? Because I can tell you right now; my mom makes some pretty tasty cookies.”

  “Will she pretend to be my Mommy and Daddy’s grandmother too?” Carrie asked.

  “Probably,” Arty said. “She can be pretty silly sometimes.”

  Carrie laughed. “That’s funny.”

  Arty grinned. “It is funny isn’t it?” He flipped open his phone again, dialed, waited a tick, and then, “Hey, Ma! Guess what?”

  40

  Jim Fannelli was in the basement of his mother’s house waiting for a text message from his brother Arty. The basement had a ground-level entrance via sliding glass door that Arty had left unlocked during his earlier visit when he was installing the camera. Jim used it to bring both Amy and Patrick Lambert through unobserved.

  Husband and wife were both gagged, then bound at the wrists and ankles. The exertion of moving them (especially a man Patrick’s size) annoyed Jim, and he was only too happy to drop them hard onto the basement floor like bags of laundry—Patrick first, and then Amy. When Amy hit, the heavy impact brought out a cry and a whimper. Patrick instantly growled and fought his binds.

  Jim laughed. “They should be here soon, tiger,” he said. “I just spoke to Arty a few minutes ago.”

  Patrick lay on his side to Jim’s right, Amy flat on her back and to the left. Both bodies were vertical silhouettes on the floor as Jim didn’t dare offer up any light for fear of alerting his mother to his presence so soon.

  Amy tried screaming through her gag once, but this resulted in a resounding stomp to her solar plexus that curled her body into a breathless, agonizing ball. Patrick went berserk the instant the blow landed and flailed desperately against his binds. He received an equally debilitating blow in the form of a hefty boot to the head that all but knocked him unconscious.

  “Jesus, you guys aren’t making this easy on yourselves are you?” Jim said. “I mean all you have to do is lay here and shut the hell up and I’ll leave you alone.” He spit on the concrete floor. “I mean no one’s gonna rescue you out here in Mayberry. We might as well be on another fucking planet.”

  He laughed as softly as he could before adding, “And don’t think Arty and I don’t know about your little buddy the sheriff. I’m sure it’ll kill you to agree with me here, big guy, but you gotta admit he’s a useless old fucker, isn’t he? Couldn’t catch cold wearing undies in a snowstorm.” He paused, liking to think he was about to answer the questions they would have undoubtedly asked had they not been gagged.

  “Yeah, he searched that cabin we were at,” he said. “Did a bang up job too.” He laughed again, a little louder now. He put a hand over his mouth for a few seconds to catch himself, eventually whispered, “At one point Arty and I were standing no more than three feet from him, I shit you not. The old fart was in the kitchen poking around, and we were pressed up against the opposite wall doing our best not to piss ourselves laughing.

  “He didn’t even check the bedroom where Arty hit a homerun with those old folks’ heads. We were stressing about that—worrying that we might have missed something, ya know? Like a spot of blood or whatever. But the dumb fucker didn’t even check the room.” He couldn’t help it; Jim barked out a single laugh before instantly slapping a hand over his mouth and whispering, “Shit.”

  Amy started to cry.

  “Aw, don’t start doing that, lover,” Jim said. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. I don’t want you drying up on me…” He squatted next to her, wiped away the tears, guided his fingers down her body, stopping at the crotch of her sweats, grinned and added, “…In more ways than one.”

  The sexual innuendo resonated with Patrick instantly; he went berserk against his binds again.

  “You’re right, Patrick,” Jim said, turning towards him. “God dammit, you’re right. If she does start drying up on me I could just use a little something to keep the cylinders running smoothly, yeah? A nice lube job? With an average catch I usually just spit on my cock. But your wife?” He wheeled back around to Amy, patted her on the ass, then stood. “She’d get the good stuff. Maybe some of that expensive shit that gets all warm and tingly the faster you fuck…” He started pumping his hips back and forth, both hands miming a grip onto an imaginary ass in front. “Give us both a little pleasure, yeah? What do you say, lover?”

  Patrick gargled something loud into his gag.

  Jim froze his sexual mime in mid-thrust. Slowly turned towards Patrick. “Okay, that was a little too loud, Patrick. You’re leaving me few options. I know you’re pissed off—and I don’t blame you one bit, tiger—but still, way too loud.

  “So it seems like my only option is to just keep on beating you until you eventually shut up. But something tells me you’re a pretty stubborn guy. So why don’t I just say this, so we can put an immediate end to everything and have some peace and quiet. Here goes: if you don’t shut the fuck up, right now, and stay shut the fuck up, I will be sure that your little angels—who are due to arrive here at any moment by the way—will experience fear and pain beyond anything you can possibly imagine.”

  Jim paused and licked his lips. “Do I make myself clear, stud?” He turned to Amy. “What about you, lover? Am I clear with you too?” He took a step back. “Am I clear with the both of you?”

  The basement was still as dark as ever, and husband and wife were still silhouettes, but the shocked whites of their eyes managed to penetrate the gloom the instant their children were mentioned. Stone silence followed.

  “Good,” Jim said. “Good mommy. Good daddy.”

  41

  The light shuffling of footsteps from above had been a constant the entire time Jim held the Lamberts captive in his mother’s basement. When the smell of baked cookies floated their way down the basement stairs, Jim’s heartfelt smile nearly gave way to tears.

  “Bless her heart,” he said after a strong sniff of chocolate and cookie dough. “Li
sten to her scurrying around up there. She’s so excited.”

  And then the light shuffling above became hurried shuffling. The sound of a door opening. Muffled voices, enthusiastic in pitch. More footsteps, both heavy and light.

  Jim looked at the ceiling, his eyes widening with excitement, mouth hanging open before curling upward into a smile. “You hear that?” he whispered, still looking at the ceiling. “Hundred to one they’re here.” He brought his attention back to the bound couple on the floor. “My brother and your kids are here.”

  42

  August 2003

  Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania

  Penn Comprehensive Neuroscience Center

  Philadelphia, PA.

  Arty Fannelli, 27, and Jim Fannelli, 25, wanted to stand, not sit, when the neurologist came in to give them the diagnosis.

  “Dementia?” Arty said. “You mean like Alzheimer’s?”

  The doctor, a tall middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair and small rimless glasses, held up a hand and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Dementia is a rather generic definition, for lack of a better phrase. We ran a CAT scan and gave her several cognitive functioning tests. She did exhibit a few of the symptoms you had expressed concern about earlier, however I believe it’s far too early to give a diagnosis of something specific like Alzheimer’s.”

  “So what does that mean?” Jim asked. “Does that mean she can get better if she takes medication?”

  The doctor took a deep breath. “Well…sort of. There are medications we can try that may help her condition, however I feel obligated to be very frank and honest with you here. Your mother is only sixty-three years old. That’s a relatively young age to start showing the symptoms she’s been exhibiting.”