“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.”
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.
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.
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.”
Karen nodded.
“Wait—no, no, no,” Allan said. “They were gone by then—they’d taken our cars.”
Another pause. The collective chill was almost visible as the only other alternative presented itself.
Amy voiced it: “Then there was someone else in the house who heard it.”
• • •
Ten minutes earlier
Last Allan remembered, he’d left his cell phone on his nightstand.
It was not there.
One hand pressing the bloodied rag to his nose, he used the other to tear his bedroom apart like a burglar ransacking the place, tossing this and that over his shoulder without a care, desperate to locate the goods.
He gave up and slumped on his bed, sighed, and murmured: “This isn’t happening.”
• • •
Tucked safely away in the bedroom closet, watching Allan’s search through one of the slits in the shutters, the object of his search in her bag along with Domino Taylor’s phone and a high-end cell phone jammer capable of miles, Kelly Blaine could scarcely contain her glee.
At one point, out of desperation, Allan had even approached the bedroom closet and opened both do
ors. Stood inches from her. Inches! And yet there she stood unnoticed, her small frame invisible behind the dense row of dresses once belonging to his wife, dresses that grief would apparently not allow Allan to discard just yet.
Such exquisite irony all but made her squeal.
Though she struggled to admit such a thing (any parallels between herself and the likes of Monica and her stupid family were not welcomed observations), Kelly was enjoying this “game” thing immensely.
26
“Someone else in my house?” Allan said.
“It makes the most sense,” Amy said.
“Now? Here now?”
“I don’t know.”
All eyes immediately scanned their surroundings.
All eyes but Amy’s.
Not that she wasn’t frightened. She simply knew better how to cope with fear. One might think Amy had become desensitized to fear after all she’d endured over the past few years, but this too was false. It was, she’d learned, exceptionally rare to become desensitized to fear. Even the biggest and the baddest felt it.
Domino had once made Amy watch a film on Mike Tyson’s first trainer (a short, plump little gray man, Cus something, she couldn’t remember his last name just now) who was explaining to a young and impressionable Tyson that there is no difference between how a hero feels and how a coward feels; they both feel the same.
What separates them is what they do.
The coward refuses to face his or her fear and wilts. The hero fights that fear and does what he or she needs to do to survive. And if Amy Lambert was anything, she was a survivor.
“I need to get to your neighbor’s phone,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” Jon said. “You just said it was possible there was someone else in this house.”
“It is possible.”
“Well, then, shouldn’t we—I don’t know—do something about it?”
“Like what?” Amy said.
Jon looked helplessly at Allan and Karen for support.
“Where are we most vulnerable?” Allan asked everyone. “In here or outside?”
“They took our cars,” Karen said. “They could be long gone.”
“Or they could have parked them down the street and made it back on foot,” Amy said.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 83