The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  That’s because he didn’t have Sloppy Suzy around.

  Tommy’s limbs went rigid, his good spirits draining away.

  Your first lover, the slithery voice whispered.

  She doesn’t count and you know it, he thought. He strode through the pine grove, hell-bent on escaping this shaded oven.

  Your first time—

  No—

  Sweet, slack-jawed Suzy.

  Stop.

  Suzy, who used to ride the short bus to school with the other special needs kids. Suzy, who was seventeen but had the mental capacity of a four-year-old.

  The world began to cartwheel. He sank back on his rear end. Still the grove was spinning, so he lay down. He threw an arm over his eyes to deflect the sunlight knifing through the pine boughs.

  Better. Much better. He didn’t think he was going to puke, but memories of that scorching June day were arising more adamantly now, images of him and his friends Jason and Ty on bikes whizzing down a hill in the country, an area inhabited by farmers, most of them Amish. He and Jason and Ty always got a kick out of the Amish, the women with their bonnets, the men with their long goat beards.

  Suzy Powlen was one of the Amish kids, though Tommy seldom saw her. She’d stopped going to their school at some point, but none of them noticed. What they did notice that searing June afternoon was the basket sitting beside the baking macadam road. Tommy remembered that basket vividly. It had a thick weave, a hinged wooden lid, and a fake blue carnation strung to the handle. Jason and Ty hurtled right by, but Tommy braked hard, the ten-speed skidding to an ungainly halt. He walked his bike to the shoulder, rested it on the kickstand, and hunkered down to examine the basket. It was a pretty thing, in pristine condition, which told him it hadn’t been chucked out a car window.

  Ty and Jason circled back to him. “Think the person’s still here?” Ty asked.

  Jason nodded. “There’s a path down to the creek. She might’ve gone down there.”

  Something about those words still echoed in Tommy’s memory. That magical, talismanic pronoun. She might’ve gone down there.

  She.

  It was the pronoun that started Tommy down the path. A minute or two and they were there, the brown water gurgling and frothing like a giant soda machine, the creek shaded by trees with exposed roots. Tommy glanced upstream, didn’t see anything but a trout line somebody had rigged and forgotten about, the fishing wire snagged on a rotten log.

  Jason whispered, “Look.”

  Tommy glanced stupidly at his friend, then discovered what Jason was staring at. Downstream, maybe forty feet away, a girl stood hip deep in the water.

  Naked to the waist.

  She had her back to them. Tommy watched, heart sledgehammering in his chest, as the girl turned, her boobs large and droopy, her shoulders snowy and round.

  The first day, they’d merely watched Suzy bathe.

  They returned to the country road the next few days, but the pretty weaved basket wasn’t there. Tommy began to fantasize about how it might feel to take one of those plump, saggy breasts and plop it in his mouth, to suck on it and revel in the grunting noises Suzy would make.

  Jason and Ty had protested the ride to the country that fourth day, but when they discovered the basket, they shut right up. They discovered her in the same place, shirtless again. Tommy spoke boldly to her – his friends would later tell him they couldn’t believe he’d done it – and splashed right over to where she stood, the dark water eddying around her thick legs. He’d asked her simple questions about the creek. Did she like it? And about the heat, wasn’t it fierce? After gaining her trust, he surprised himself by peeling off his damp t-shirt and slipping his arms around Suzy’s waist.

  She let him kiss her, and that was nice. Kissing her made him forget how she was and how he would have never said one word to her at school, unless that word was a teasing one.

  But summer was different than school.

  He tugged down her sodden undergarments and pressed himself against her, keenly aware of his friends watching him from across the creek. He was aware of the hotness in his athletic shorts, his white briefs, so he jerked them down. He commenced kissing her, pushing up into her until he felt a greater heat, a slippery wetness, and it didn’t take him long, twenty seconds at most.

  For two weeks they journeyed there on their bikes, looking for the basket.

  Jason and Ty took their turns. Soon they had sex with Suzy every day, now bringing along a blanket and some towels so they could swim and then do it on the shore.

  It was June twenty-fourth – Tommy remembered because his fifteenth birthday was the following day – when they rode out to the countryside expecting to find the basket by the roadside.

  A man waited there instead.

  He was alone, but he was enough to turn Tommy’s blood to ice. He had a long white beard, a gaunt, dour face. His eyes were a ghostly blue, so pale that Tommy was reminded of a husky dog they once owned. The man wore a black hat, a light blue shirt, and navy trousers.

  The man waited for them, hands dangling at his sides. Tommy wanted to ride past, would have ridden past, but the man stepped into the road to bar their passage. Tommy clenched his hand brakes too hard, bounced to a nerveless stop.

  “Suzy told us about you,” the man said in a low, trembling voice. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Tommy’s mouth was open, and he was breathing hard. He wanted to say something to impress his friends, something they could joke about later, but he was so frightened of this gaunt man with the ice-chip eyes that it was all he could do to avoid shitting himself. He realized he was close to tears.

  “You’ve done a wicked thing,” the man said. “All three of you. You’re bad boys.”

  Tommy nodded, the molten tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. He stumbled turning his bike around. They pumped back to town in silence and didn’t address the incident until that night, when Ty asked in a hesitant voice, “You think it was her dad?”

  In his parents’ basement, Tommy said, “He was too old to be Sloppy Suzy’s dad. Her great-grandpa maybe. Or the family goat,” and they all three laughed, a cathartic fit of laughter that simultaneously erased Tommy’s shame and opened the spillgates of a new river of conversation, a way of talking about girls that made them feel stronger and older than they were. After that, when they’d see a woman on TV with big breasts, one would say, “Not as big as Sloppy Suzy’s.” If they watched a sex video, someone would joke, “Bet she can’t suck dick like Suzy,” and they’d laugh some more.

  They stopped laughing that October when they encountered Suzy at the fall festival.

  Old Settlers it was called, a seedy traveling carnival that rolled into town just before Halloween. They were playing games and burning through their money when Tommy happened to glance over at the village green and spot her, the Amish girl who might have been pretty if not for her mental defects. Suzy’s hair was contained by a gauzy net of some kind, her plain green dress covering her throat, her arms, her thick white legs.

  But the dress couldn’t conceal the bump in her belly.

  A week later, the white-bearded man showed up at Tommy’s house.

  He was upstairs when the doorbell rang, and he knew who it was, knew even without getting out of bed to peer through the window. But he got up anyway, wishing he hadn’t slept in so late. His dad would be at work, but his mom might still be home if she hadn’t gone shopping. Oh hell, Tommy thought, tiptoeing to the window. If his mom was home and that pale-eyed spook with the white beard told her what he knew, Tommy’s life would be over. He listened for his mom downstairs, but the house was cloaked in silence.

  Tommy reached the window, his fingertips brushing the sheer curtain, and the man looked up at him. Tommy gasped and backed away, and God help him he scuttled under the bed and lay there sweating for the better part of an hour, the
dust and hair sticking to him in that sweltering, lightless place. Tommy waited for the doorbell to ring again, and though he didn’t hear it, he knew the man was still down there.

  That night Tommy dreamed of the man. And the next night. And the worst of it was, the man never harmed him, never laid hands on him, never trampled him with his fucking horse-and-buggy. Only accused him with those chilling eyes, and in his nightmares the man did speak to him, repeating the same words he’d uttered that terrible June afternoon.

  You’ve done a wicked thing.

  Tommy glimpsed the child for the first time the following summer when he and his buddies were playing baseball. A group of Amish were ambling along the sidewalk bordering the field, the shade trees obscuring their faces. But Tommy could make out a slatternly girl pushing a stroller, and the words echoed in his head: You’ve done a wicked thing, Tommy. You’ve done a wicked thing.

  “No!” he wailed, returning to the present. He sobbed into the forest dirt, mashed his face into his forearm, his legs writhing in the pine needles, the odor suffocating him, but the memories far, far worse.

  When he raised his head, the loam mingling with his sweat, he distinguished something across the clearing that made the terror evanesce. He didn’t think it was real at first, so he pushed to his knees, used the front of his shirt to dab at his eyes.

  Anna Holloway stood with her back to him. He’d know that scarlet hair anywhere.

  And that killer body.

  She had on a white, pleated shirt that hung loose, so that her neck and the tops of her shoulders were bare. Tommy pushed to his feet and dusted himself off. He fingercombed his curly hair, did his best to pick the pine needles out of it.

  He started across the clearing. He didn’t look his best, but that obviously didn’t matter to Anna. Why else would she have come all the way out here? He knew this forest was vast, so it could only be intentional that she had ended up with him in this silent, secret place. Tommy crept closer.

  Her hands were busy with something, her shoulders hunching slightly.

  The shirt slithered down her back.

  Tommy grinned to himself, already erect. Now this was how things should be. A romp with the lovely Anna would restore his confidence, would establish him as the Alpha dog. Would even help his writing.

  He wondered if Anna knew he was right behind her. An arm’s length away, he hesitated, debating which would scare her more, speaking aloud or touching her bare shoulder. And man, look at it. Supple skin. He bet she massaged lotion into those shoulders. He reached out.

  His fingers were an inch from her flesh when he paused, frowning. He’d been wrong about her skin being flawless. There were pimples speckling her back, a paleness he hadn’t noticed.

  His fingers hovered over her shoulder.

  She swiveled her head toward him.

  Tommy’s breath clotted.

  The blocky shoulders rotated, the sly, downturned face peering up at him with mock coyness. The blubbery lips spread wider in a dreadful grin. The bare torso moved into focus. Tommy clapped a hand over his mouth, his paralysis breaking, and when he beheld the misshapen newborn suckling at the girl’s breast, Tommy was already backing away. Suzy opened her leering mouth wider, her lips stretching in a hideous jack-o’-lantern grin, and before Tommy turned to run he watched in horror as a furry black spider crawled over the girl’s bottom lip.

  Chapter Eleven

  From Flesh Diary, by Tommy Marston:

  This is how you die.

  Not from cancer, not from heart disease. You don’t die choking on a hunk of gristly steak.

  You perish from desire.

  You die from I want.

  When you see her for the first time, you’re not looking for the one who’ll destroy you. The one who’ll eat you from the inside out.

  The one you’ll choke on.

  When you see her, you’re striding through a bookstore and she’s working the information desk, hair dyed blue, black wool sweater concealing enough to make you turn, and the force of your stare swivels her head around. She looks at you. One part coquette, six parts curiosity. Gazes at you over her shoulder, head tilted, almost like she’s upside down.

  You’re upside down.

  You’re sick in your stomach. Good sick. Dangerous sick. You consider saying something, but what you’d say can’t be said, and anyway, there’s someone standing across the counter from her. So you stare at her, blushing, and she holds your gaze a moment longer and you know to wait. She’ll be with you in a second. Would already be with you if not for this fucking job.

  …the new James Patterson book, the customer is saying. The customer female, bespectacled, somewhere between forty or sixty. Toadlike.

  It’s in fiction, under P, your blue-haired murderess says, showing more patience than you would.

  Is it thirty percent off of hardcovers? Toad asks, as if there aren’t stickers on every hardcover in the store.

  Yes, your murderess says, and only you can sense her impatience. Her smile is serene, but she’s as eager to get rid of this squat lump of cluelessness as you are. You stand waiting until the patron is gone, and the woman with the blue hair turns and rests her forearms on the hunter-green laminate surface. You tell her your name. She looks you straight in the eyes and says, I won’t sleep with you until I’m comfortable in your presence.

  You tell her that’s fine. You’re about to leave when she says your name.

  Yeah? you ask.

  And she says, I’m already comfortable in your presence.

  Chapter Twelve

  The wall sconces and lamps scattered throughout the library did little to mitigate the shadows that clung to everything. To the chairs, the bookcases. To Marek, who clutched his papers and stood before the seething hearth.

  He looked to Lucy like a schoolboy made to recite his essay in front of the class.

  He glanced at the door. “Should we wait for Tommy?”

  Elaine smiled mysteriously. “Tommy is indisposed.”

  “What does that mean?” Anna asked.

  “Still nursing that arm of his,” Bryan said and winked at Lucy.

  Dick.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Elaine said. “I knocked on his door maybe five times, then he told me to go away.”

  “Too scared of being picked,” Bryan said. “I bet he didn’t make his word count.”

  Marek shuffled his papers. He opened his mouth, then devolved into a coughing fit.

  “You okay?” Sherilyn asked.

  Marek straightened, smiled an apology, and went on in a steadier voice. He sounded self-conscious at first, but soon the rhythms of his narrative flowed more smoothly. Wells reclined in his chair and gazed into the fire. Marek was halfway through a sentence when Wells said, “Garbage.”

  Marek smiled uncertainly. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  Wells folded his legs. “You’re a sycophantic fraud.”

  Marek uttered a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not a fraud, Mr. Wells. If you don’t like the piece, tell me how to make it better.”

  “It’s unsalvageable, Mr. Sokolov.”

  The first real flickers of anger banked in Marek’s eyes. “Then tell us why we’re here. To be belittled? To be mocked?”

  “You’re guilty of a writer’s greatest sin,” Wells said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The bottom drawer of your dresser.”

  Marek’s smile faded. Lucy realized her hands had balled into nervous fists.

  “Yes,” Wells said, nodding. “You know what’s there, Mr. Sokolov. And you know why you must leave.”

  Lucy said, “What’s he talking about, Marek?”

  “Wilson,” Wells called.

  A man with square-framed glasses and a brown ponytail appeared at the door. Though Wilson’s ivory chambray shirt an
d faded blue jeans looked vaguely professorial, Lucy felt her flesh tightening. There was something disquieting about him.…

  “Yes?” Wilson asked.

  “Please have Mr. Sokolov escorted off the premises.”

  “Then what?” Marek demanded. “I don’t even know where we are.”

  “The police chief will.”

  “Police chief?” Marek said, glancing at the door, but Wilson had already disappeared.

  Sherilyn went to Marek’s side, but it was to Wells she spoke. “You weren’t very tactful, Mr. Wells. I don’t blame Marek for being hurt.”

  “Marek deserves to be hurt,” Wells said. “His duplicity dishonors all of us.”

  “Sherilyn’s right,” Rick said. “We’re here to learn from you. There’s no need to be vicious.”

  Wells fixed Rick with a wondering gaze. “You think I’m being vicious, Mr. Forrester? My handling of this traitorous behavior has been singularly humane. Have you no competitive spirit, Mr. Forrester? This…dissembler attempted to cheat his way to the crown. He attempted to gain advantages none of you would have.”

  “What’d he do that was so awful?” Sherilyn asked.

  “Never mind,” Marek muttered. “I knew last night this was wrong for me.”

  Wells appeared interested. “And how did you know that?”

  Marek made a square with his hands. “Your insistence on putting us in the same box. Making us write this much in this amount of time. Ordering us to write in the same genre.”

  “He has a point,” Elaine said.

  “Be careful, Miss Kovalchyk,” Wells said. “I have a long memory.”

  Elaine opened her mouth, closed it.

  Wells glanced at Marek. “My words are wasted on you, Mr. Sokolov, but for the others’ benefit, I’ll tell you one more thing.”

  “This should be good,” Marek muttered.

  “It is,” Wells agreed. He gazed about the room. “Mark my words well, everyone. They might save your life.”

  “Save our lives how?” Sherilyn said.