Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games

by Menapace, Jeff

  Monica stopped in front of a shiny black BMW tucked around a small bend in the lot.

  “This you?” her father asked.

  “For now.” She pressed her keychain and the car beeped and flashed twice.

  “For now?” John grunted and tossed his bag in the back seat. “Hot shot.”

  They both entered the car. John said, “So I have to wait.”

  Monica turned the ignition. “I’ve got plenty to keep us busy until then.”

  He grunted again.

  “We’re gonna have a good time, Dad. Trust your little girl.”

  He threw her a sideways glance and gave a thin smile.

  “Much better.” She reached to her right, opened the glove compartment, and took out her cigarettes. She lit one and cracked her window.

  He waved smoke out of his face. “Come on, can’t you wait until we get there?”

  “Deal with it, you big pussy.”

  He laughed as she took the ramp onto I-95 towards Valley Forge.

  Chapter 15

  Once you received a ticket in King of Prussia to enter the Pennsylvania Turnpike, you had only a few hundred feet to make a decision. East and you would find yourself heading towards New Jersey. West and you were heading towards Harrisburg … towards Crescent Lake.

  The Lamberts were not going to New Jersey. And they certainly weren’t going to Crescent Lake. But they were headed west. They were headed to a small town outside of Harrisburg, just past Hershey, for a visit with Amy’s family.

  Every time Patrick had selected west during that brief stretch of turnpike with only two options (and there had been a few times since the tragedy, all business-related, which thankfully took him no further than a hundred miles or so), it was absurd to suggest that the memories of Crescent Lake would not come flooding back.

  Except it was not the brutal details of his family’s ordeal that he remembered most when he chose west. It was not the horrors of watching his children tormented, the knowing that his wife was being sexually assaulted while he remained bound and helpless in the next room, that she was eventually shot and almost taken from him. It was not the horrors of transforming into the monster he had become in order to protect his family: stabbing a man over and over in hopes of reducing him to shreds of tissue and bone (and that, God damn it, was exactly what he’d been thinking at the time). Nor was it biting the nose off another man before repeatedly shooting him in the face until the chamber clicked empty and the man was deader than dead. Not the painful, physical rehabilitation in the hospital, or worse still, the mental rehabilitation once they returned home.

  It was the hope Patrick remembered. He remembered—as clear as he remembered this morning—the hope he had for his family before their weekend trip to the lake months ago. He’d hoped the weather would be nice. Hoped his wife would transcend relaxation during the time away. Hoped his kids would never want to leave. Hoped it would be the perfect weekend with a family he loved more than he ever imagined possible. He hoped it would be a memory they would never forget …

  Oh, Mr. Irony, he thought, you can be so fucking cruel sometimes.

  “You’re quiet.” Amy said.

  Patrick took his eyes off the road for a second and smiled at her. “I’m good. Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  He knew she knew. But he deflected anyway. And when she didn’t push, he loved her even more.

  “Wondering if you’re prepared to play goalie once your dad starts shooting drinks my way,” he said.

  Amy laughed. “I could be Ron Hextall and my dad would still get a few past me.”

  Patrick threw her a curious glance. “How do you know who Ron Hextall is?”

  “An ex. He was a big hockey nut. Almost as much as my dad. He even tried out for the Hershey Bears.”

  Patrick grunted.

  “Didn’t make it though,” she said.

  “Couldn’t cut it, huh?” Patrick said with some satisfaction.

  Amy flashed a cheeky smirk. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that—he was an amazing athlete … rugged … hot.” Her smirk spread to a grin. “Mmmm, I haven’t thought about him in awhile—”

  Patrick grabbed her knee and she screamed.

  Both kids leaned forward in their child seats. Carrie asked: “What?”

  “Nothing,” Patrick said. “Mommy’s just trying to make Daddy jealous.”

  “Mommy did make Daddy jealous,” Amy said.

  “Anyway …” Patrick said, getting back on track, “I hope you’re prepared to play some solid defense for me this evening.”

  “Oh stop. You know my dad’s idea of male bonding is booze.”

  “And that’s fine, I’ll watch him drink all night. Doesn’t mean I have to match him drink for drink though.”

  Amy’s grin returned. “Oh yes it does. And God help you if there’s a Bears game on tonight.”

  “You just want me hung over in the morning so you can make my life miserable.”

  “Correct.”

  Patrick went to grab her knee again. She saw it coming and dodged. “Too slow.”

  Patrick placed his hand back on the wheel. “Fine—then you’re driving home tomorrow while I sleep.”

  She shrugged cheerfully. “Okay.”

  “You suck. Don’t expect any later tonight if your dad gets me loaded.”

  Amy glanced in the back seat. Both kids were oblivious to their father’s implication. She faced front again. “Fine by me.” She then whispered: “It’s creepy doing it at my parents’ anyway.”

  “So what did you do in high school?”

  “Oh, so now you want to talk about my exes?” She sighed and gazed dreamily towards the roof. “Let’s see … who to think about first?”

  This time her knee had nowhere to hide.

  Chapter 16

  Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

  Bob and Audrey Corcoran had company from out of town. The Toyota Highlander parked in their driveway told you that. In this neighborhood, the SUV was an exchange student in a proud classroom of names like Ford, Chevy, and Dodge.

  Patrick’s decision in choosing the Highlander had little to do with a lack of appreciation for American craftsmanship and more to do with providing conveniences for his family. The Highlander ticked three out of four on that ballot—tons of space, a smooth ride, safe (as far as SUVs go), but damned expensive. And yet he still bought it. Because he could. Patrick had had done well for himself thus far. So had Amy. Their combined income gave their family a comfortable life in a suburb that flaunted fine sushi and martinis with clever names.

  And yet when they stepped out of their lavish suburb for journeys elsewhere, there wasn’t the slightest hint of unease. Both Patrick and Amy were raised in small blue collar towns throughout the state of Pennsylvania, and despite the amicable friendships formed back in that lavish suburb, which often involved outings at restaurants plentiful with sanctimonious patrons, assuredly there to be seen as opposed to dine, it was not uncommon for Amy and Patrick to go it alone in a quest to seek out less-stifling accommodations—a place that served a steak that wasn’t the size of a nickel, a place where you couldn’t give two shits about what you looked like, who you saw, and who saw you. Somewhere you could get drunk in public and receive been there! giggles from fellow patrons instead of rolled eyes and disgusted clucks of the tongue.

  The Lamberts did not resent their luxuries back in Valley Forge; they had worked hard for them. The surrounding school districts were excellent too. Amy and Patrick were comfortable in both worlds; it was why they were soul mates. Their marriage wasn’t one that saw Patrick sitting on the sofa watching the game, farting and drinking beer while Amy pined to go out to extravagant restaurants and social events. She happily joined him on that sofa. Drank beer and farted with him.

  And there were plenty of times when too many nights of sloth tugged at their social needs, and they would happily get dressed up and do the town. The fancy town—the type of town they often resented. It was all about mode
ration. One type of evening would help them appreciate the other, and vice versa.

  So it was no chore to be nestled here in a cozy blue collar neighborhood just outside of Harrisburg. Patrick knew the booze would be poured down his neck the moment he entered, and Amy knew a part of him—despite his flimsy objections earlier—looked forward to it. She would likely let her hair down and have a few too. They all would. Except for Amy’s mother of course.

  Mrs. Audrey Corcoran did not drink—that was her husband’s job. If there was one bit of resentment Amy had concerning her old stomping grounds, it was that the intangibles seemed to remain as traditional as the tangibles. Although never voiced, it was still presumed that the husband was the head of the house, and the wife, while not exactly on her hands and knees scrubbing floors with a pregnant belly, did not hide the fact that her primary purpose was to serve her husband. The husband made the money, the wife took care of him. That’s just how it was. Amy didn’t necessarily approve, and things were certainly not the same for her and Patrick, but she accepted it. She had no choice. Besides, her father was a good husband. A good father. Rough and stern at times, but good. He could scream and holler like hell, and his fuse could be just as short as the next man’s (especially after a few), but Amy could never recall him laying anything but a tongue-lashing on her mother, and the odd spank on the butt to her and her brother growing up.

  Carrie and Caleb liked Grandma and Grandpa Corcoran. Not as much as Grandma and Grandpa Lambert, but this had nothing to do with personalities; it was simply a matter of location. The elder Lamberts lived in Conshohocken—a fifteen minute drive from Valley Forge. Harrisburg was an hour and a half away. The kids saw Grandma and Grandpa Lambert more often. Nearly once a week. It was why the elder Lamberts were called to pick the children up after the incident at Crescent Lake. Despite the cabin belonging to the Corcorans, comfort was the order of the day after such a tragedy, and Patrick and Amy had both decided on the spot that it would be better if Grandma and Grandpa Lambert were initially called. The Corcorans showed up the following day after a call from Amy, never once questioning why they hadn’t been contacted first. Amy had felt deep down that they understood, and she loved them for it.

  Amy stood on the third and final step to her parent’s front door. Black iron railings sloped up from the ground and attached themselves to a white brick exterior. Two oval lanterns hung lit on opposing sides of the door. As a child Amy always thought they looked like giant fireflies. This evening was no different, and the nostalgia warmed her heart.

  Patrick stood on the second step behind Amy, a hand on the shoulder of each child that flanked him. Carrie picked at a chip of black paint on one of the railings. Patrick tapped her hand and told her to stop. She did for a second, then continued. Caleb shook from a gust of wind and Patrick pulled him close and rubbed his shoulder.

  “Did you ring the bell?” Patrick asked.

  Amy glanced back at him with a “duh” face. “No, honey—I thought if we just waited out here in the freezing cold, they might eventually come out and greet us.” She rang the bell again.

  A voice boomed behind the door. “Who is it?”

  “Dad, open the door, it’s freezing.”

  “We don’t want any.”

  “Dad!”

  A click of a lock, the sound of a chain sliding, and the door flew open, revealing a man who, if he ever decided to dye his brown beard white, could have doubled for Santa Claus without a hint of scrutiny. His nose was round and red, eyes bunched into slivers from full cheeks and a constant smile, and a frame short and thick with a belly seemingly in its third trimester. He was even wearing a red sweater.

  Amy’s father barked out what seemed a triumphant laugh, then snatched his daughter into him. He kissed her cheek hard and rubbed his beard against it.

  Amy pushed away and wiped her face as a child would. “I hate when you do that!”

  He grinned and looked past her. “And who’s this big bugger you’ve got with you? He’s a handsome fella. Finally got rid of Patrick did you?”

  Patrick laughed. “How you doing, Bob?”

  “Gettin’ older and fatter.” Bob Corcoran then looked over the heads of both Carrie and Caleb, scanning east to west as though searching for something. “Funny,” he said, “I could have sworn I saw two little varmints with you when I opened the door.” He continued his ruse, searching aimlessly above them. “Guess they ran off. Shame too, ’cause we got cookies and hot chocolate inside.”

  Carrie blurted out as though jabbed with a stick. “Grandpa!”

  Bob made a startled face. “Who said that?”

  “Me!” Carrie shrugged her father’s hand off her shoulder and joined Amy’s side on the third step.

  “Oh, well there you are …” Bob bent forward and tapped Carrie’s nose with his finger. “Good thing I found you …” He stood upright and jiggled his big belly. “I woulda had to have eaten all the goodies myself!”

  Carrie giggled, and Bob stroked her cheek before standing up and playing blind again. “Now I could have sworn there was another little varmint roaming around here. Where’d that one go?”

  Caleb stayed tight to his father’s side but raised a hand. Bob honed in on him. “Ah ha! There he is!” He took a step down and clamped onto the top of Caleb’s head. “Guess I won’t be getting any cookies at all now that this big fella’s on board!”

  “I’m big too!” Carrie piped up.

  Bob jumped back a step, feigning shock, as though Carrie had suddenly grown a foot. “Darn right you are! I just hope our beds are big enough for you two monsters.”

  “Dad?” Amy said. “May we please come in before we freeze to death?”

  Bob Corcoran stepped away from the door, bowed and swept his hand majestically inside. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “After you, your highness.”

  *

  They all entered. Amy got a second hug (no beard this time), Carrie got hoisted up to the ceiling before her hug, Caleb got a firm “man’s handshake” that intentionally shook his whole body and made him giggle, and Patrick got a strong pat on the back followed by an offer for a bourbon. Patrick immediately glanced at Amy and she spun away, her grin visible on the back of her head.

  Audrey Corcoran emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the green apron that covered her torso and knees. Her glasses, thick and outdated, magnified the light brown eyes she shared with her daughter. If you asked Patrick, that was the only resemblance between the two. Audrey was shorter, thicker, and her hair was curly and graying. Patrick did not think his motherin-law ugly, but she was not attractive—certainly no looker like his wife. Even in photos from years past when they were the same age, Amy buried her. And despite his friends’ good-natured ribbing, Patrick was certain that the old axiom they loved to drill him with (“Check out the mother if you want to see what your wife will look like in thirty years!”) was as false as the teeth he suspected Audrey Corcoran wore. Or so he prayed. Actually, maybe he would take that bourbon now, thank you, Bob.

  Audrey Corcoran took her turn with hugs and kisses before switching all attention towards her grandchildren, guiding them into the kitchen where copious amounts of sugar were happily administered post-haste.

  Bob gave a quick tour of the small house, boasting about the new tile he had recently put in the bathroom. Both Amy and Patrick feigned interest (Patrick touching and gliding his fingertips over the tile with an admiring, approving nod, as if he knew what the hell he was talking about), and when all the formalities were done, the three of them gathered in the den with Audrey still entertaining the kids in the kitchen.

  Bob poured Amy a glass of cabernet, then he and Patrick a healthy glass of bourbon, no ice, before sinking into his recliner with a groan and a sigh. Amy and Patrick took the sofa to the right of the recliner. Bob sipped his bourbon, wiped his beard and said to Patrick: “Bears game on tonight.”

  Patrick threw Amy a sideways glance, and she burst out laughing.

  Chapter 17


  Patrick had graduated from Penn State. He was used to crazed fans. But here now, in this neighborhood bar (which was a neighborhood bar in the truest sense of the word, right down to the aging but cheerful staff who appeared happily confined to an eternal stay in their sheltered box, to fifty years of memorabilia smothering all four walls that would mean jack shit to anyone outside a twenty-mile radius of the place), Patrick was almost convinced that these local residents and their devotion to their Hershey Bears may actually trump the phenomena that was Penn State football.

  Finding a spot at the bar, or more importantly, in plain view of a television, was no easy task, but Bob Corcoran was as close to a celebrity as one could get at Gilley’s Tavern. He was showered with handshakes, smiles, and pats on his thick back as the sea of admirers stepped aside after their greeting in order to clear a path towards two stools at the bar, curiously unoccupied considering how packed the place was.

  Christ, I’m hanging out with Norm from Cheers, Patrick thought.

  As father and son-in-law settled into their stools, Patrick’s attention was anywhere but the television, or what he might want to drink; it was on the eclectic abundance of patrons crammed into the humble bar—kids, the elderly, drunks, business men, manual laborers. People who at any other time in their lives might not even share a friendly glance on the street tonight shared one common bond: their local hockey team. The feeling was instantly contagious. Patrick, who had seen maybe one or two Bears games in the past with an indifferent eye—Bob drunk and screaming at the television back in the Corcoran’s home—was now an instant fan. He wanted nothing more than for the Bears to win, to celebrate with these mass of strangers he now felt a connection with. It was a bizarre yet exhilarating feeling that had him wishing Philadelphia fans were not the fickle frontrunners they were so that he might experience this same camaraderie with strangers back home.