“Voicemail,” she said to the girls. “It must still be going on.”
Straight to voicemail, though? That probably meant he’d turned the phone off. No way would Allan do that when his girls weren’t around, even if he knew they were with Kat. He wouldn’t even dare mute the ringer. Put it on vibrate or at a lower volume tops, if not just leaving the damn thing to ring at the top of its lungs, rude interruption be damned—his girls had to be able to reach him whenever and wherever.
“Can I try?” Janine asked.
“Wait, let me try again,” Kat said.
She did. Straight to voicemail again. Something with his service? A dead spot in the house?
She tried his landline. This too went straight to voicemail.
“Can you try our house?”
Absently, her head processing things, Kat said: “I just did.”
“There was no answer?”
“No,” Kat said, her tone still far away as she tried to make sense of it all.
Was it possible that Allan had turned his cell off for the meeting? Had taken the landline off the hook? Perhaps she’d been wrong; Allan’s knowing his girls were with his sister gave him the peace of mind to temporarily turn off all devices while his support group did their thing.
The pride that such a notion gave Kat did not silence her skepticism completely. “I’ll tell you what,” she began, “we’ll try again in a little bit, and if there’s still no answer, we’ll swing on by. How’s that sound?”
Chapter 22
Back in the den, Amy told them everything. She was not vague, nor was she long-winded. She gave them the horrific details of Crescent Lake and the subsequent events thereafter in a curt and straightforward manner, never once pausing for effect or sympathy; if this turned out to be what she feared it might, then time was a factor. Time they needed to prepare.
Many questions followed. Not so much about what Amy had endured, but their predicament now. The constant why why whys even though the answers were obvious: The ghosts were here, they were telling them to leave, and yet no one wanted to accept it.
And so now, Amy did not find herself irritated by what appeared to be their willful ignorance, but instead sympathized with it. She’d been there, experienced firsthand the human mind’s ability to ignore the obvious when it was all but slapping you in the face. To desperately cling to some alternative explanation that never failed to give hindsight a good laugh—assuming you had survived to endure hindsight’s laughter, that is.
It was a universal coping mechanism—people didn’t want the truth when that truth was painful or frightening. People wanted what Amy once had: a Patrick. A big lovable Patrick to tell everyone that all was okay despite the blatant clanking of chains and woeful cries in the night. To convince you the ghosts were not in the house.
Except they were.
Or, at the very least, hovering just outside, eager to come in. And the answers to those willfully ignorant questions needed saying, bluntly and without a fleck of sugar. Codependency had no place in this home tonight. Not if they wanted to survive. No fucking way.
“They took our cars and trashed Allan’s so that we’d be stuck here,” Amy said. “They cut the landline and somehow killed a signal for our cell phones to keep us from calling for help. And they left that message scraped into the side of Allan’s car because they’re starting to enjoy themselves. This is probably their first game—and they’re having fun.”
Momentary silence.
“First game?” Allan eventually said.
“Yeah,” Amy said. “Tim and Jennifer seemed willing and dangerous but…unstable. People like that tend to follow rather than lead.”
“So who’s leading?” Allan asked.
(Yes, Amy—who’s leading?)
I don’t know.
(Why not heed your own advice? Go with the most logical explanation?)
Without conscious effort, an image of Kelly Blaine leapt into her head.
But why? She has no grudge with me. Her grudge was with Monica. I killed Monica. If anything, she should respect me.
(People like that are incapable of respect.)
Fine—no respect. But no grudge either—it wouldn’t make sense.
Domino’s voice suddenly echoed in her ear, their conversation on the phone while watching The Joan Parsons Show last year:
Domino: “Ooh—she didn’t like that.”
Amy: “What?”
Domino: “That comment about Monica.”
Amy: “Why?”
Domino: “Ego. I promise you, what Kelly just heard was ‘Monica Kemp is better than you.’”
Amy: “You think?”
Domino: “I know.”
So what does this mean?
(It means Kelly needs to prove that Monica Kemp is not better than her.)
Fine. But that still has nothing to do with me. Domino was Monica’s enemy. Domino was the one Monica wanted to torture and kill.
(Which means if Kelly truly is behind this, she wants to do what Monica couldn’t. She wants to finish Domino.)
But if that’s true, then why all this bullshit here? With me and these people I barely know? I don’t see the connection.
(When Monica failed to kill Domino, who did she go after?)
Me.
(And she failed at that too.)
So Kelly’s coming for me then? Is that it?
(Maybe. Or maybe she’s planning on raising the bar.)
Amy’s blood ran ice cold. “Oh God,” she whispered.
“What?” Allan said. “What is it?”
The prospect grew with terrible possibility. Kelly needs to prove that Monica Kemp is not better than her.
“Amy!” Allan yelled.
Amy snapped from her daze. “We need to get to a phone,” she said. “I need to get ahold of my kids.”
“Your kids?”
“If this is what I think it is, then there’s a chance they’re in danger. I need to go now.”
“Go where?” Allan asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll walk until I get a signal.”
“Are you nuts?” Jon said. “For all we know, they’re out there waiting for us. You can’t just go wandering around in the dark hoping to get a signal.”
She turned to Allan. “Your neighbors,” she said. “Who are the closest?”
“Mike and Pam Rolston. About a hundred yards east, give or take. They’re not right next door, that’s for sure.”
“Then I’ll head there. If I get a signal on the way, great. If not, I use their landline.”
“You’ll still be out in the dark on your own, Amy,” Jon said. “You’re safer in here with us.”
Amy’s temper was nearly off its leash. “Jon, in any other situation I’d agree with you, but this is about my kids, so with all due respect, back the fuck off.”
Jon leaned back and raised both hands as if Amy had pulled a gun.
Amy hurried towards the front door.
“Amy, wait!” Allan yelled.
Allan ran to the foyer and grabbed Amy’s shoulder just as she unlocked the front door. Amy instinctively spun and smashed the heel of her palm into Allan’s nose.
Allan dropped to all fours and groaned, blood pouring from his nose and onto his tiled floor. He brought an exploratory hand to his face and came away with a palm full of blood.
Jon and Karen could only look on in disbelief.
“Jesus, Amy…” Allan said without looking up. “What the hell?”
Amy dropped next to him and started rubbing his back. “Allan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Just please understand, I need to get to a—”
Amy’s cell phone rang.
Everything stopped.
They all gaped at Amy, even Allan, now wide eyed and oblivious to the blood streaming down his nose and gathering on his chin where it periodically dripped.
Amy frantically dug into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
The caller ID read “Domino.”
Chapter
23
Mike Rolston, sixty-seven, pulled the six-pack of beer from the fridge, placed it on the kitchen counter, and then began rooting in his cupboard for a bag of chips.
His wife, Pam, entered the kitchen and spotted the beer on the counter. “What are you doing?”
Mike answered while still digging through the cupboard. “Was going to pop in on Allan, see if he wanted to have a few beers. Do we have any chips? I thought we had chips.”
“Honey, Allan is hosting his support group tonight.”
Mike pulled his attention out of the cupboard and fixed it on his wife. “Huh?” His expression was that of a boy who’d been promised pizza but tricked with leftovers.
“Allan’s hosting his support group tonight. You knew that. I told you.”
Still the dejected face of the boy with no pizza. “No you didn’t.”
“I did—you don’t listen.”
“I listen.”
Pam snorted and started making herself a cup of tea.
“What time does his group thing end?” Mike asked.
“No idea.”
“Nuts.” Mike put the beer back in the fridge. “Are the girls there? At the support group?”
Pam nudged her husband aside and went into the fridge for some lemon. “I doubt it—I don’t think they’d be ready for something like that.”
Mike grunted and itched his bald spot. “So then who’s watching the girls?” he asked.
Pam set the bag of precut lemon wedges on the countertop, then got the honey and a box of tea from the cupboard. “I don’t know. His sister, Kathy, I would imagine.”
“Have I met her?”
“Many times.”
“I have? What’s she look like?”
“I swear, if you weren’t like this from the day I met you, I’d worry you were getting senile.”
“You know what the best thing about senility is?”
Pam groaned. “What?”
“You get to hide your own Easter eggs.”
She shook her head. “You never run out, do you?”
He laughed and sidled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Took a stab at a romantic one. “And every night with you would be like the first time.” He kissed her cheek.
“Well, I guess that’s a plus; I’m not sure the first time was worth remembering.”
“Hey!”
She turned in his arms and faced him. “Oh, honey, you know I’m just teasing. It was the best thirty seconds of my life.”
“Hey, I finished right on time. You were late.”
Pam laughed and slapped him lightly on the chest. “You really are always on, aren’t you?”
“What was it little Jamie said the last time we babysat? Oh yeah: ‘On like popcorn!’”
“Oh, that you remember.” She pushed him away.
The doorbell rang.
Mike’s eyes lit up. “What are the chances Allan’s support group is finished and he wandered over here for a beer?”
“You wish.”
Pam went to the front door and opened it. The decent glow of the porch light revealed a young man and woman. The young man had thinning blond hair; the woman, long and ink black locks with what appeared to be a sizable patch shaved into the side of her head. Both were thin and pale. Neither was smiling.
“Can I help you?” Pam asked.
“We’re here for the meeting,” the young woman said. Her tone was flat, her face vacant.
“I’m sorry?”
“The meeting.”
It clicked. “Oh! Oh, the support group. You’re looking for Allan Brown’s house, yes?”
“Yes.”
Pam smiled a little uneasily. Not the friendliest of people, these two.
“Allan is next door,” she said, gesturing to her left.
The couple turned and left without a word.
Pam shut the door behind them. “Well, you’re welcome.” She returned to the kitchen.
Mike had resumed his search for the missing chips. “Who was it?”
“A young couple looking for Allan’s house. For the support group. They were more than a little rude, I must say.”
Mike pulled his head out of the cupboard and looked at his wife with mild concern. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They didn’t even thank me after I told them where Allan lived. Just turned and left.”
Mike gave a partial shrug. “Well, it is a support group for the grieving. I imagine they had other things on their mind.”
“Good manners cost nothing,” Pam said and then set the kettle on the burner.
Mike went back to checking the cupboards.
The doorbell rang again. Mike popped his head out again. He and Pam exchanged a look that said: Now who could that be?
Pam started for the door.
“Wait,” Mike said, “let me answer.”
Mike opened the front door. A young man and woman. Thinning blond hair for him, long and ink black with a bald patch on the side for her. Thin and pale. Neither smiling.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re here for the meeting,” the young woman said. Flat tone, vacant face.
Mike frowned. “Weren’t you just here?”
“No.”
Pam appeared behind her husband, peering over his shoulder. “You were!” she exclaimed. “You were just here.”
“Can we come in?” the young woman asked.
“No, you may not,” Mike said, and started to close the door.
The young man stepped forward and stuck his foot in the door, preventing Mike from shutting it completely. Mike went to put his shoulder behind it, but the young man beat him to it, lowering his own shoulder, the door flying open and catching Mike in the chest, knocking him back into his wife’s arms.
The young man and woman stepped inside and shut the door behind them. The young woman pulled a gun. The young man held a pitchfork at his side.
Pam screamed just as the kettle began whistling on the stove.
The young woman’s face was no longer vacant. She was grinning.
Chapter 24
Amy couldn’t answer her cell phone fast enough. “Domino?”
“Hello?” It was an odd, sexless voice. Almost synthetic.
“Who is this?” Amy asked.
“Amy? You there?”
“Is this Domino?”
“Of course it is. Who else would it be?”
“It doesn’t sound like you. You sound funny. Like a machine voice or something.”
“You sound funny too. And the connection is bad. You keep going in and out.”
“We’ve had no connection for nearly an hour. All our phones are dead. The landlines too. Listen to me, something very bad is happening. I think Kelly Blaine is behind it.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t have time to explain, just please trust me. I need you to get the kids and take them someplace safe.” And then a forgotten truth slapped her. “Shit, are you still wasted?”
“Amy? You there?”
“Fuck!” Amy zigzagged throughout the house in a desperate bid for a stronger connection, asking whether Domino could hear her every few feet. Allan, Jon, and Karen looked on, wide eyed and anxious, Allan with a bloodied rag pressed to his nose courtesy of Amy.
Amy got reception halfway up the stairs.
“Amy?” the distorted voice on the phone said.
“Yes!” She froze on the spot, each foot on a different step, not daring to move. “Yes, I’m here. Can you hear me?”
“Barely.”
“Listen to me, Domino.” She spoke loudly and slowly as though trying to speak over a racket. “You need to get Carrie and Caleb someplace safe. If you’re still drunk, call a cab, call a limo, call anyone, just get them someplace—”
“Amy? You still there?”
“FUCK!” Amy moved a few steps up the staircase. “Domino?”
“Yeah, I’m here. You keep breaking up. Can you get to another phone?”
Amy nodded into her cell. “I’m gonna try. I’ll call you right back, okay?”
“I’ll be here.”
Amy hung up and hurried down the stairs. “Gimme your phones,” she said to the group.
Without debate, Jon and Karen handed theirs over.
No signal for either of them.
She tried hers again. It too now had no signal. “Goddammit! It was just working!”
“Let me go get mine,” Allan said, starting for the stairs.
“What’s the point?” Jon said. “You’re not going to get a signal.”
Allan ignored him and bounded up the stairs.
Chapter 25
“This isn’t happening,” Allan said as he descended the stairs ten minutes later, dabbing at his nose with the rag, the bleeding now all but done.
“What?” Karen asked.
“I can’t find it,” Allan said. “I looked everywhere, and I can’t find the damn thing.”
They adjourned back to the den. Allan tossed the bloodied rag into a small wastebasket in the corner.
“Are you sure you left it in your room?” Amy asked.
“Not a hundred percent, no, but high nineties.”
“Did you look anywhere else?” Karen asked.
“Yeah. Checked the girls’ room, the guest room—nothing.”
Amy’s lips vanished in contempt. “How long were they out of our sight?” she asked.
“Who? Jennifer and Tim?” Allan said.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know—they wandered a few times. Each time seemed like it was only for a couple of minutes, though. Why? Are you suggesting they went into my room and took my phone?”
Amy nodded.
“How would they know it was even up there? In my entire house, in the short intervals they were gone, how would they know to look in my bedroom for my phone?”
A pause.
“Because you said,” Karen whispered.
“What’s that?” Allan asked.
“You told us it was in your bedroom. You were about to go upstairs to get it, and Jon said you could use his phone instead, so you stopped.”
Allan frowned. “I’m not following.”
Amy said: “She’s saying we weren’t the only ones who heard you say your phone was upstairs.”
Bad Games: Malevolent Page 10
