The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  His mom left the room, ashen faced and sobbing.

  A tear or two had spilled down Will’s cheeks as well, but for a different reason. But he wasn’t going to share that with his dad. He’d resolved to never share anything with his dad again.

  BJ asked, “Why’d they think he was in Lafayette?”

  “Bates escaped and stole a car. He strangled the driver and left the man’s body in a ditch. He was spotted near Lafayette, and there was a chase.”

  Will’s mind was racing. He didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to. “Did he get shot in the leg?”

  His dad’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

  Will swallowed. “It was on the news, wasn’t it?”

  “You said you didn’t know about the manhunt.”

  Will gave a poorly contrived shake of the head. “I must’ve forgotten.”

  His dad’s face went deadly serious. “I don’t believe you.”

  Unable to meet that cold, penetrating stare, Will picked up his fork and studied what remained of his waffles. He could no more eat them than he could have eaten a tire iron, but if he moved them around long enough, he might get through breakfast unscathed.

  Later that day, Will returned to the woods.

  He’d been watching Peter for over a minute before the man opened his eyes, blinked up at him, then broke into a goofy grin. “Hey, champ. I must’ve been sawing logs. You bring me something to chow?”

  Will didn’t speak.

  Peter’s face clouded. He pushed into a sitting position. “Something wrong, champ? You’re looking at me like I stole your favorite comic.”

  “Is your last name Bates?”

  The man’s goofy grin disappeared, something alert taking its place. “Before you make assumptions, I need to explain some things.”

  “You could’ve explained them the first time we met.”

  “They framed me, champ.”

  “What about the driver?” Will asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The one whose car you stole. The one you killed.”

  Peter shifted uncomfortably.

  “Did someone else kill him too? Were you framed by the same person, or did someone different frame you this time?”

  “You need to understand something, champ.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine,” Peter snapped. “I’ll just call you kid or something. What I’m trying to tell you, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “It’s never your fault.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Someone made you cut off your wife’s hands—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “—and chop her head off—”

  “I didn’t—”

  “—and kill your little girls—”

  “I didn’t hurt them!” Peter shouted.

  Will turned. “I’m telling.”

  “Jesus Christ, stop!” Peter began to sob. “You’re just like the others. The judge and that fucking lawyer. Those old bitches on the jury.”

  A question occurred to Will. He could ask his dad, but he knew where that would lead. He could ask his mom, but she’d end up taking him to a doctor. BJ wouldn’t have the answer he needed since this didn’t involve sports or the amount of hair on Miss February’s crotch.

  He peered down at the man he’d befriended, the monster who’d murdered four people.

  “What was your sentence?”

  Peter scowled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “What did the jury give you?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  Will clenched his jaw. “What did they give you?”

  “A life term, what else?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Three life terms, if you want to be specific.”

  “Why not death?”

  “They don’t have the death penalty in Illinois.”

  Will nodded. It’s what he expected.

  Peter’s face hardened. “You gonna tell them? Get your name in the papers? The boy who caught Peter Bates, never mind that he aided and abetted him first.”

  Will was surprised to find himself grinning. “You’d tell them that?”

  “Damned straight I would.”

  “You think that’s going to stop me?”

  Peter didn’t answer.

  The silence drew out.

  Will said, “Peter?”

  When Peter only stared obstinately ahead, Will repeated it in a louder voice.

  Peter’s lips twisted bitterly. “What?”

  “I’m not going to tell on you.”

  Peter glanced at him. “You’re not?”

  Will shook his head. He walked away.

  And never returned.

  Chapter Four

  You’re certifiably insane, Lucy thought. It’s two in the morning. The last time you spoke to him, blood was sluicing from your forehead and you basically told him to get lost.

  She stopped outside his door.

  You’ll wake him up, the voice persisted. He’ll be livid.

  Lucy knocked. Waited.

  He’s lying in bed, wondering what kind of imbecile calls on people at two in the morning.

  Rustling from within.

  It’s not too late to run, the voice urged.

  Lucy stood her ground.

  Muffled footsteps.

  Okay then. Take your medicine. You deserve whatever you get.

  The door opened. Rick stared blearily at her from the shadows.

  She scanned his chiseled torso, his rippled stomach, like the cover of a romance novel. Hell. He wore black boxer shorts that drooped a bit at the waist, revealing muscles that were dizzyingly pronounced.

  His eyes met hers, and though she was blushing, she didn’t look away.

  “How’s the forehead?” he asked.

  She touched the Band-Aid. “Not my proudest moment.”

  He grinned. “You want to come in or go somewhere else?”

  Her mouth half-opened at the question.

  A slight nod. “I’ll get a shirt on. Shoes, if I can find them.”

  She stood in the hallway while he rattled around, muttered under his breath, finally switched on a lamp. Though she wasn’t consciously spying on him, she couldn’t help but notice him pause in the middle of the room, evidently scouring the floor for his clothes. She studied his back muscles, his defined shoulders.

  She tore her eyes away before he caught her looking.

  When he joined her in the hallway, she caught a whiff of something fresh. “Did you brush your teeth?”

  “Had to,” he said. “I can’t do anything until I’ve showered and brushed my teeth. I feel gross if I don’t.”

  They started down the hallway.

  “You didn’t shower,” she said.

  “Should have. But I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I would’ve put on a hat, but I couldn’t find it.”

  “You always this disorganized?”

  “You always call on people in the middle of the night?”

  “Ouch.”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m glad you did. We haven’t had much chance to talk.”

  “I figured you were avoiding me.”

  He looked away, but before he did she glimpsed what might have been frustration. They reached the staircase, started down.

  “I began my story,” she said.

  She braced herself for a caustic response – It’s about damned time – but instead he smiled broadly. “Hey, that’s outstanding! What’s it about?”

  When she hesitated, he put his palms up. “No pressure. If you don’t want—”

  “It’s a mystery,” she said. “The Fred Astaire Murders.”

  “That’s a hell of a
title.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Truth.”

  “I mean, I like the title, but I would, right?”

  “I can see it on the spine. All caps, big white letters, black background.”

  “You think?”

  “Uh-huh. It’ll be suspenseful but classy. Bloody when it needs to be—”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged. “The title.”

  They reached the bottom of the staircase. “I’m not sure if mine qualifies as horror.”

  They stepped around a corner, into an area she’d never explored before. The corridor was handsome – chestnut wainscoting, a few paintings – but there was a disused quality to it, like it needed a good airing out.

  There was a door to their left. Rick paused, opened the door, and poked his head inside.

  “What’s in there?” she asked.

  He moved aside. “See for yourself.”

  She stepped beside him, beheld a cramped room not much larger than a closet. In it there was a workbench, tools, a fire extinguisher, and an axe. “Looks like a torture chamber,” she said.

  Rick closed the door and they continued on. “Speaking of that, what’s your antagonist like?” Rick asked. “That’s where the horror could come from.”

  “He scares me.”

  “Good.”

  “No, really,” she said. “He’s totally amoral, but I’ve known people like that.”

  Rick slowed as they came to a door at the end of the hall. “You’ve already gotten to the bad guy?”

  “I wrote the last scene first. Is that weird?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve heard of it happening. Writers know the ending, then they go back and do the rest.”

  “You ever work that way?”

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “I’m not that weird.”

  She punched him on the arm. “Where are you taking me?”

  He seemed to debate. “That’s the thing. I don’t know if I should.”

  “Well, now we have to go inside.”

  “Curious, huh?”

  “Aren’t all writers?”

  “Not necessarily,” he answered. “Some think they know everything.”

  “Like Bryan?”

  “There’s one.”

  “And Elaine.”

  “She’s pretty set in her ways,” he agreed.

  “Open the door.”

  He favored her with an appreciative glance. “Well, okay.”

  When he drew open the door, she scrunched her nose at the odor of damp earth. She reached through the doorway, switched on the light.

  “You said you had an ending,” he said as they started down the steps.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Tease.”

  Halfway down, the bare yellow bulb only revealed a small oval of concrete at the base of the steps. The rest of the basement remained shrouded.

  She glanced at him. “Do you tell people about your stories?”

  “No one asks.”

  “Okay, but would you tell them?”

  “Probably not,” he conceded.

  “The scene I wrote is at the very end,” she said at the bottom of the stairs. “The denouement.”

  Wordlessly, he sidled past her, reached out, and tugged a string. A yellow bulb spilled jaundiced light around the basement. The space was circular, broad, with multiple doors off the main room, reminding her of bicycle spokes. She had no idea how large the adjoining rooms were, but the feeling that they stood in the hub of an enormous wheel was strong.

  “I fainted down here,” Rick said. When she raised her eyebrows in question, he explained, “Last night. With Wells.”

  She thought the doors were metal or steel. It was difficult to tell in the gloom. “I can see how this place might make someone ill.”

  “I felt pretty foolish today. Told myself I was being skittish. But now that I’m here again I feel the same thing.”

  Lucy studied his face, took in the beads of sweat peppering his forehead. “What you said about the policeman.…”

  His skin reddened. “Ah. That.”

  “You said he was a character from your novel.”

  He grunted laughter, but there was no humor in the sound. “Deranged, right? I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

  “Maybe—”

  “Could you do me a favor and pretend I didn’t say it?”

  She opened her mouth to push the matter but saw the appeal in his eyes. She nodded to her left. “Should we try one of the doors?”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest it.”

  “Why’d you bring me here?”

  “Did I come to your room at two in the morning?”

  “Yikes.”

  Rick smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

  She glanced at a door that was slightly more illuminated than the others. Started in that direction

  Moving abreast of her, Rick said, “Tell me about the denouement.”

  “My hero is at a banquet hall,” she said. “The killer shows up, but he’s not there for her.”

  “The hero and villain both make it through the story alive?”

  “It surprised me too.”

  They reached a steel door. It was bowed in places. As if something had tried to batter its way out.

  “That seems like a bad sign,” Rick said.

  “Let’s check a different one.”

  The next door was comprised of the same aged steel but featured no bulging dents. She experienced a tremor of alarm as Rick reached out, twisted the knob. The door creaked inward, and a flood of fetid air rolled over them.

  “Smells like an open grave,” he said.

  “Rick.…”

  “No, really. I took a job one summer as a gravedigger—” At her dubious expression, he said, “Okay, graveyard worker. Even back in college I wanted to be a horror novelist. So I approached the local cemeteries, asking if they needed help.”

  “Do they call that a sexton?”

  “Nobody there called it that. I think that’s someone at a church graveyard in the eighteen hundreds. Anyway—” He took a step forward, reached into the dark doorway, felt along the wall. “Damn…no switch.”

  “You sure?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe there’s a pull string inside, but I’m not going in there.”

  “Can we close the door?”

  He did, moving with poorly concealed haste. “Glad I’m not the only one with the jitters,” he said, starting back toward the stairs.

  “How was the graveyard?”

  “Most of it was mowing, weed-whipping, tidying up the cemetery.” They reached the steps, where he paused, letting her go up first. He extinguished the main bulb, started after her. “But when there was a death, I helped dig the grave.”

  “Aren’t graves dug with a machine?”

  “Partially. But the backhoe only does the main excavation. It’s imprecise at the corners.”

  They emerged from the basement. “You had to climb inside the grave?” she asked.

  “The other guys couldn’t believe I wanted the job. They usually drew straws.”

  “Probably thought you were a ghoul.”

  They ambled down the hall.

  “You gonna tell me how you cut your forehead?” he asked.

  Her smile dwindled. “I think you already know.”

  “Frustration.”

  She nodded.

  “I’d like to read your books.”

  It stopped her. “How’d you hear about them?”

  He didn’t bother playing dumb. “I heard Elaine mention it. Anna too.”

  She glanced at him. “You like Anna?”

  “You’re the only one I’ve taken to the basement.”

  She smiled d
espite herself.

  He said, “You know…that’s in your past.”

  When her eyes narrowed, he rushed on. “I’m not saying your books are bad – I haven’t read them. I just mean, whatever disappointment, frustration—” a nod at her forehead, “—it’s over. It can’t hurt you if you don’t let it.”

  “You live by the same advice?”

  He looked stricken. With a weary sigh, he stared down at his feet. “I’m the last person who should be giving advice.”

  She wanted to take it back, to restore the vibe. But before she could find the words, he said, “It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

  Fuck, she thought.

  She followed him up the staircase, and with barely another word, he returned to his room.

  She was on the way to her door when a voice said, “No goodnight kiss, huh?”

  She discovered Bryan watching her from his doorway.

  He shook his head. “Some guys move too slowly.”

  “Hey, Bryan?” she said. “Go to hell.”

  She slammed her door on his laughter.

  Chapter Five

  Anna heard a knock on her door. On the way out of the bathroom, she thought, Evan, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of her in her terrycloth robe.

  She wondered, Rick?

  It was seven a.m., a horny time for her. Perhaps Rick was horny too.

  At the door, Anna paused, spread the green folds of her robe to reveal the tops of her breasts. They were tanner than usual, her sunbathing paying dividends.

  She opened the door and took an unconscious step backward.

  Bryan grinned at her.

  Anna’s fingers twitched toward her chest, but she forced her hand downward. “Come in. I was just getting dressed.”

  Bryan entered, closed the door. Stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as she went to the makeup table. She never wore much, but what she did apply required good light.

  Her back was to Bryan as she sat, but that was okay, she could see him in the mirror. Before she realized what he was doing, he was striding over to her bed, reaching down to awaken her laptop.

  She turned instinctively but kept quiet.

  He gazed at the screen. “You have a lot written.”

  Thirteen thousand, five hundred and twenty-six words, she thought.

  “Is it good?” he asked.

  She stifled a snort. Is it good? Of course it’s good, you hemorrhoid.