Fatal Game

by Linda Ladd

  “About an hour ago. It’ll last all day and into the evening with this many players showing up. Even on a bad snow day like today. It’s quite wonderful, really. I suppose people who want to get out of the house have little else to do.”

  “What did those other two guys look like?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t remember. One wore glasses, I think, black ones, maybe. They were pretty young. Well-dressed. They both had on baseball caps. I do remember that, for some reason.”

  “What team?” Bud asked.

  “Don’t recall that much. Might’ve been the St. Louis Cardinals. That’s what I see the most in here. Some Kansas City Royals, too.”

  Claire was pretty sure their Bradshaw well had gone dry. “Okay, thank you so much, Ms. Bradshaw. You’ve been very helpful. May I keep this photo, please?”

  “If you’ll bring it back after you’re done with it, you may.”

  “No problem. You’ll get it back as soon as we make a copy of it. I’ll bring it back in myself. Thank you again, ma’am.” Then they turned and headed hastily for the front of the store. “What’d you think, Bud?”

  “I think we ought to sit down and watch some chess for a while. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “You’re a mind reader, you.”

  So that’s what they did. Some little Cub Scout troop was selling candy bars and homemade lemonade over in the front corner, so Bud bought them lunch. Neither wanted to visit the snack bar, not with a clear-cut vision of pineapple papaya pizza reduced to glutinous green goo dancing in their heads. They perched on a couple of uncomfortable folding chairs in a spot where they could observe the entire audience, which was sitting around silently, watching the chess players sit motionlessly and stare at their boards. Yes, it was a lively, kickass spectacle. Claire kept scanning the tables and all the people standing around them, but didn’t see her prey. Hell, she could probably pick him out from the white glow scorching out of his eyes.

  Several hours passed, with several more winners who were delighted to have advanced into the semifinals. Everybody who won acted as if they had received the Pulitzer Prize for Literature or an all-expenses paid trip to Hong Kong. To each his own, but come on—they were playing a game, for Pete’s sake. While Bud texted Brianna, to keep up with her travel itinerary and post sweet nothings, no doubt, Claire kept her own eagle-eyed gaze out for Crazy Eyes—without a lot of luck. Then, all of a sudden, the clouds parted, like a real-life miracle, and she saw him. He was sitting by himself in the back row on the other side of the competitor tables. Either she had missed him somehow, or he had just turned up.

  “Hang it up, Bud, there he is. Let’s go get him.”

  Claire maneuvered around the opposite edge of the crowd toward Oliver Wood, with Bud right behind her. She kept her hand inside her jacket near her Glock. The pseudo FBI agent was watching the game tables intently and didn’t see them coming; those eyes must have been turned down to low beam. By the time they reached his chair and plopped down on either side of him, it was too late for him to flee like the felon he probably was.

  “Hello there, Special Agent Wood,” Claire greeted him. “Oh, but wait, that’s right. I forgot. You’re not a special agent. You were just feeding me lies. So tell me, who the hell are you, really?”

  The so-called Oliver Wood stared at her, attempting his eye trick. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. Didn’t seem upset about it, either. Claire stared back, not mesmerized this time. Finally, he said, “I’m Oliver Wood. And I do work for the FBI.”

  Bud laughed. “Lying only goes so far, Wood. We know the truth. Quit playin’ us.”

  “Apparently, you don’t know the truth.”

  “Maybe you should come down to the office so we can have a long and drawn out and extremely tough interrogation. We’ll give you a cup of coffee to keep you awake, and a donut, too, if you’re good.”

  Still calm, Wood smiled at Claire. “Are you here to arrest me for something?”

  “I didn’t say that, now did I?”

  “Because you can’t. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Except for that little thing about impersonating a Federal agent.”

  “You’ve got everything wrong. I can explain.”

  “Be my guest.”

  During their less-than-friendly exchange, Wood kept glancing at the game tables. Claire followed his interest and found he was looking at one of the players, a guy who saw her watching and quickly looked back down at the chess board. He was fairly young, had on black-rimmed glasses, and had already made it into the semifinal rounds and was awaiting a new opponent. “That guy in the glasses a friend of yours, Mr. Wood?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy you were surveilling.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your problem with me is. But if you want to take me downtown and question me, I’ve got no problem with that. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Good, because that’s gonna happen right now.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Get up,” Claire told him, tired of his cavalier airs. She stood up. This guy.

  “Let’s go,” Bud said.

  The three of them got up and walked along the perimeter of the player tables. The guy in the glasses was speaking into his cell phone now, not looking at them, as if he bore no interest whatsoever in what they were doing. Wood didn’t look at him, either. Had their silent communication been Claire’s imagination? She thought not.

  Outside, they walked straight into a large crowd of loitering paparazzi. They started yelling her name and snapping pictures and asking her to stop and give them a good money shot.

  “Damn it,” she gritted through clenched teeth. She kept a tight grip on Wood’s upper arm. “Just push on through them, Bud. How the hell did they find out I was here?”

  “Told you that picture of you in that bikini was hot,” Oliver Wood said softly to her. He was grinning, still not exactly terrified to be taken down to the sheriff’s office.

  Claire and Bud got on either side of him and held him tightly between them. They pushed their way through the cameras, heading at a fast walk across the street to Bud’s truck. They were moving pretty good, but some of the media types were hot on their heels and trying to block their path. Halfway across the ice-slick road, a car came barreling down the street right at them, motor gunning. Claire whirled around and saw a brief flash of black metal before Oliver Wood grabbed her and shoved her hard out of the way. They fell together against the front fender of a parked car, Oliver on top of her, knocking the breath out of her.

  Bud wasn’t so lucky. The car swerved toward him, knocked him up in the air, and then down over the top and off the back of the speeding vehicle. He landed upside-down in a deep snowdrift pushed up under a lamppost.

  Pulling her weapon, Claire tried to jump up and fire after the speeding car, but she’d landed so hard on her hip that her knees went out from under her when she tried to stand up. She’d slammed the side of her head, too, and could feel warm blood running down into her ear. Her head started pounding, but she was more worried about Bud. He wasn’t moving, and Oliver Wood was already up off the ground and bending over Bud. “Call 911,” he yelled at her. “I think his leg’s broken.”

  Claire groaned, the pain in her head throbbing like hell, but she got her phone out of her pocket. She called 911 and asked for an ambulance. Then she struggled up onto her feet and braced her palms on the hood of the parked car. It felt as if her hip had been knocked out of socket, but it wasn’t, or she wouldn’t be standing at all. Photographers were all around her now, and Bud, too, snapping pictures as fast as they could. Nobody offered to help them, just took advantage of the accident, the jerks. When she looked back at Bud, he was moving a little and groaning. The car that had tried to kill them was long gone. So was Oliver Wood.

  Play Time

  Nobody found poor little Rosie the
Hooker’s body for a long time. Almost three months passed before a hiker discovered her bones and various tufts of russet-red hair that had not been dragged away by wild animals. But that was okay. The news of the murder hit all the Los Angeles newspapers, and Junior and Lucky bought up all the editions and pored over the articles and photos. Turned out Rosie was a runaway from Ada, Oklahoma. Her real name was Mary Sue Johnston. She was twenty-nine, a wannabe actress, and a UCLA film student. The newspapers said her life’s ambition was to join the cast of Grey’s Anatomy. The papers had printed her senior picture, in which she looked a lot younger and fresh-faced.

  No clues found with the body, however, and no mention made of the candlestick token they’d left glued to her palm. Police were probably keeping that information secret in case a confession came in. Junior and Lucky hadn’t made a single mistake, and that boded well for the next round of their lethal little game. They hadn’t committed murder again, hadn’t had the urge all that much. It had been a bloody affair, after all. Instead, they’d spent time in the basement, sitting at the table and remembering the shivery thrill of it all. They burned the bloodstained rug where Rosie had landed and mopped up all the spilled blood on the big white tiles with concentrated bleach water. Then they got serious about their game. For weeks, they sat and figured out the all the complicated rules of Live or Die, using elements from several other board games and eventually ironing out every detail that bothered them. They could not be careless or reckless. One thing for certain: In the future, they would kill their victims elsewhere so they wouldn’t have to clean up such a big mess. That nasty task had not been pleasant, and the game room still smelled like blood. Cleaning up a murder scene sucked.

  Months after Rosie had been located, Junior and Lucky huddled together one night at the game table. They were both ready—time to choose victim number two. Since they’d made the decision to kill again they’d been beside themselves with excitement. That was the best part about the act of murder, they had found: the intricate planning and burgeoning anticipation and nerves and fear, but, most of all, the ultimate high of taking a life. They talked a lot about watching a person die, watching a life end for good. How the light left their eyes. They liked that. The finality. The power they possessed. So they spread out the new game board they’d designed on the table and let the fun begin.

  “Okay, first off: Career or College or Travel.” Junior looked up at Lucky. Lucky’s eyes absolutely shone with eagerness. He was really into the game now. “You know what, Lucky?”

  “What?”

  “I think we oughta make this one a contest. Show off our own personal skills and techniques. See who’s better at the game of murder. See who can get the least blood spatter, stuff like that. We can make up a point system. That would be fun.”

  Lucky scoffed. “I’m better at killing, and I always will be. I killed lots of people before you even thought about it, if you’ll recall? It’s your turn.”

  “If this is a game, we need to treat it as a game. We’ll choose our victims, and then we’ll see who does the murder the fastest and the best, and maybe with the most imagination. Ten points for each of those, at least.”

  “You mean you really want to off two people at the same time?”

  “Precisely.”

  “That’ll just end up posing more chances for us to get caught. We don’t need to go overboard and start pushing the envelope like this. No, you kill one. Then later, I’ll kill one. Maybe later, as we improve with all this, we can go after two at a time. Don’t get greedy, dude.”

  Junior was too jacked up on the idea to heed Lucky’s fears. “Bullshit. Think about it: Maybe we could tag along with each other, but only to watch. Maybe one of us could film the other guy’s murder. We’d be at the scene together, if that’s what you really want to do. But the rule is that the guy with the camera can’t help do the killing. That wouldn’t be fair. No competition in that.”

  “We’ll throw dice for who gets to go first.”

  “Awesome, man. Whatever.”

  “Man, do I love this game! My favorite thing ever. We are such badasses to do this and get away with it.”

  Junior grinned. He had always wanted to be called a badass. “Don’t get so carried away. You’ve got to stop that or you’re gonna make some careless mistake and get yourself caught.”

  It appeared Lucky didn’t like Junior’s criticism. He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest like he always did when he was ticked off. He had become so much more cautious than Junior. Who would have thought that? Lucky was the daredevil in the house. He was the one who took all the risks.

  “Okay, c’mon, Lucky, let’s just get this done. Forget the dice. I’ll go first because this was my idea.” He spun and smiled. “Okay, I’m gonna go with a professional person this time. Now for the weapon. Hand me the tokens.”

  Lucky picked up the small cloth pouch and handed it over. Junior pulled open the drawstring and reached inside. He pulled out a piece of coiled rope. “Ah, lookee here: I get to hang my first guy. I’ve been working on how to tie a hangman’s noose. Pretty good at it now.”

  “Or you could use the rope as a garrote. That’d probably be less trouble for the kill. Hanging takes a lot of planning and finesse.”

  “Maybe if it’s a big guy, I’ll use it as a garrote. A girl or a little guy? I want to hang them high, watch their feet kick.”

  Lucky shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not as strong as you are. I’ll have trouble lifting somebody heavy. And you’re not allowed to help, just watch. You’ve got to promise me.”

  “Okay. Unless you get yourself in a jam. Then all bets are off. But if you’re going to do this alone, you need to hit the gym and get some strength in your arms. Some of these guys we pick out are bound to fight back. They’ll be fighting for their lives, and they’ll tear you up in about ten seconds.”

  “Shut up, Lucky. I can get the job done, so don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself when you pick your own victim. Remember, sometimes you’re too careless and reckless and don’t plan things out. Just hand me the mags.”

  Junior decided to choose a college student like Rosie. He chose a magazine out of the latest stack: Sports Illustrated. The photo he chose at random was an advertisement depicting a heavyset plumber wearing a ball cap and holding a plunger as he fixed a toilet. The guy looked Hispanic, pretty sturdy and strong, and wore his cap backwards.

  “He probably didn’t go to college, Junior.”

  “Yeah, but he probably went to school to learn his trade, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Piece of cake. He’s not all that big. He’s not gonna be a problem for you. Unless he’s armed. We have to consider that, you know. Lots of people concealed carry now.”

  “Nah, I’m not worried. I’ll just sneak up when he’s least expecting it and knock him out. Or I’ll get him while he’s asleep. Then I can do whatever I want to him.”

  “My turn to pick my victim,” said Lucky.

  Lucky picked up a copy of Fortune magazine. He closed his eyes and stabbed his finger down on a page. It landed near a picture of a lawyer, a man sitting at the defense table in a courtroom. “Well, this ought to be fun. Lots of slick lawyers right here in L.A.”

  “Better watch it. An attorney might outthink you.”

  “Not if he’s already unconscious. Let me pick a weapon.”

  Smiling at Junior, Lucky shook the bag and drew out the toy revolver. “Okay, good deal. I’ve got a gun I won in a poker game with the serial number already scraped off. And I’ve got a silencer I bought off a guy when we were down in Houston at that big gun show. Maybe I’ll just shoot him with his own weapon, if he’s carrying one. Make it look like suicide. That would be something new and different.”

  Junior leaned back and gazed at him. “Okay, then we’re all set. Let’s do this thing. Me first. I end the plumbe
r.”

  “Game on,” said Lucky.

  “Game on,” said Junior.

  They both smiled.

  Chapter 14

  Nicholas Black was sitting in a business meeting, trying his best to shake off one extremely foul mood. He was still angry about the damn photographers camped outside his hotel. Most of them had reserved rooms under assumed names, an unwelcome outcome that he really couldn’t prevent, so they were always hanging around, bothering his guests and the staff. He’d blocked off parts of the hotel grounds from their entry, including the bungalows on the point, out of security for his patients housed down there. He had hoped the ice, the plummeting temperatures, the heavy snow, and the holidays would wither up their obsession with Claire and him, and that they would eventually move on to other hapless celebrities victimized by the press. Neither Black and Claire nor Jonesy Jax intended to show themselves outside any more than absolutely necessary, hoping the vultures might lose interest in stalking their every move. Hell, didn’t any of them have families or want to be at home for Christmas? Didn’t they have lives outside of hounding people to death? He felt another swift onset of annoyance.

  After Black had finished his therapy sessions that morning, he’d headed back to his office wing, where he’d been sitting in this endless conference ever since—a meeting that could only be described as long, tedious, and boring as hell. All the physicians in charge of his psychiatric clinics had come to the lake for their annual end-of-the-year patient progress reports. Most had brought their families along for a free vacation on the lake. One by one, they’d been filling him in on the mental stability of each patient under their care, including several well-known celebrities, and then had moved on to discuss the bottom line of financial operations.

  Eight psychiatrists sat with him around the long, shiny conference room table, their leather briefcases full of reports and outlines and flow charts and patient follow-ups. He already knew the medical records of most of their patients, because he visited the clinics often and kept track of their progress with personal visits and/or conference calls. It appeared everything was going well, despite Black’s four-month honeymoon. Everything appeared to be lucrative and well-run, with nothing for him to worry about. That’s all Black really cared to hear. As far as he was concerned, a five-minute presentation was enough. He just wanted to get it done and get out of there. Right now, it was simply corporate minutiae that he could read over in his spare time. He hired the best people for every position he filled, people he could trust and who knew what they were doing, and success was what they gave him. Good news on every front.