Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Amy went on, tucking the gun in her waist and then readjusting the strength in her ponytail as she did so. “Domino knows all about Kelly Blaine,” she said. “More than you can possibly imagine. If he heard me mention her, he knows something’s wrong, and he’d start calling for help. He knows I’m not one to panic.”

  “All the more reason you should stay here,” Jon said. His tone was not one of concern—she’d just called him a pussy, after all—but that of a man insisting his plan was superior.

  “The connection was shit,” Amy said. “I’m not a hundred percent on what Domino heard and what he didn’t. I do know he heard me mention Kelly’s name. Either way, I am going next door to call my kids and make sure they get somewhere safe until we know what’s what.”

  “So what do we do while you’re gone?” Karen asked.

  Amy popped the clip on the Glock, double-checked the ammunition, popped the clip back in, and then aimed the gun at the far wall. “Cover your ears.”

  She fired two quick rounds into Allan’s wall.

  Everybody flinched as though a bomb had gone off.

  “What the hell?!” Jon yelled.

  “Gotta make sure it works, Jonny-boy,” Amy said. Then to Allan: “Keep safe. Grab whatever you can for defense just in case. I’ll be right back. Sorry about your wall.”

  29

  Kevin Lane found it odd that a former security specialist like Domino Taylor would have a front door in such need of repair. Even with the door closed, it was apparent that the wooden frame was badly cracked. Kevin believed that with enough strength, one could still probably open the door—locked, bolted, and chained—just on the splintered, defective frame alone. Literally rip the thing open.

  Still a little drunk, Kevin was not drunk enough to ignore common sense. It was odd that a security specialist like Domino would have his front door in such a state. What was the old saying? “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire”? Was the cracked frame on Domino’s front door the smoke; inside, the fire? It was damn sure possible. Better still, it now gave Kevin an excuse to at least ring the doorbell. If Domino answered and treated him with less than a little kindness, he might be able to fumble out an excuse that he just wanted to chat and happened to notice his front door and got concerned. A nice little diversion into something that would make Domino appreciative for Kevin’s concern, and thus perhaps receptive to what he had to say.

  And if he didn’t answer the doorbell?

  What about the police? Call the police and tell them, I dropped by to say hello to an old friend, noticed the state of his door, rang the bell to no avail, and now I’m concerned?

  Sure, he could do that. There were a few problems to that approach, though.

  Kevin Lane’s obsession with Kelly Blaine was not a secret from the Philadelphia police, or many other police forces across the state or even the country, for that matter. Living the life of a transient over the years, many was the night that, after too much booze and too little sleep, he had phoned authorities, begging for them to listen to him. His public execution on The Joan Parsons Show certainly didn’t help paint him in a better light, either. If he were to call the police now and tell them he was standing outside Domino Taylor’s front door—Domino Taylor, who happened to have a strong rapport with the Philadelphia police—would they still think him a crackpot and hang up? Maybe, maybe not.

  There was something else to consider though. Another problem, if you will.

  Kevin wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted the police involved in bringing Kelly Blaine to justice. She’d eluded them so many times before, convinced them she was the victim and not the evildoer, and, of course, in doing so recently, painted him as a sex-offending liar. If this were to happen yet again, if she were to slip out of his grasp for the umpteenth time, he would assuredly and finally lose his mind. He was terrified to take that risk. A part of him wanted his own justice for Kelly Blaine. Even if that meant wrapping his hands around her little throat and squeezing until he heard a snap.

  So what did all this mean? No police, if possible. But first why not try ringing the bell, for Christ’s sake?

  He did. And there was no answer. He pressed the button again, and once again got no reply. He decided to knock, first a few polite raps, and then a firm couple of thumps.

  The door creaked open on the last thump.

  Not only was the doorframe cracked, but the door had been unlocked. Things were no longer odd. They were unsettling.

  Kevin steadied himself, took a deep breath, and went inside.

  30

  Incredulously, Amy’s biggest concern during her trek next door to the Rolstons’ was not running into the likes of Tim and Jennifer. A part of her hoped they’d show up, try to get the jump on her. She would happily put many bullets in them and continue on her way.

  No, what Amy was worried about was everyone who wasn’t Tim or Jennifer or whoever the hell else was involved in their stupid game. As rural as the neighborhood was (and Allan was right, Amy was finding the Rolstons were anything but right next door), it was still a neighborhood. Here now, in the dark, keeping low and taking periodic cover as she moved from tree to tree, Amy would not put many bullets in anyone unless she was absolutely sure it was Tim and Jennifer. God forbid it was a man or woman simply out for a nightly stroll. This meant hesitation. Hesitation was often the difference between life and death, as Amy well knew.

  Fortunately, such concerns became immaterial; she’d arrived at the Rolstons’ home without incident. Amy was surprised to see that practically all the lights in the house—a sizable two-story contemporary—were on. More curious still, the lights on the front porch shone bright and welcoming.

  It was as if the Rolstons were expecting company.

  31

  After locking the front door behind Amy, Allan returned to the den.

  “She gone?” Jon asked.

  “She’s gone.”

  “I was hoping she decided to stay.”

  “Because she’s got the gun?” Allan asked.

  “Because she seems to be tougher than about ninety percent of the men I know.”

  “If you’d gone through what she went through, I’d imagine your skin would be a bit calloused as well.”

  “Do you really think this is connected to all that?” Karen asked. “Or do you think maybe it’s like Amy suggested: groupies or whatever playing sick games on the anniversary of the tragedy?”

  “I really don’t know,” Allan said. “Does it matter?”

  Both Karen and Jon said nothing.

  Allan nodded with a thin smile that said he was disappointed to be right.

  “So what do we do now?” Karen asked.

  “Stick to the plan, I guess,” Allan said. “Arm ourselves and stay put right here—” He pointed a finger straight down toward the floor of the den. “—and wait for Amy to return or, better yet, Amy and the police to return.”

  “Okay, let’s think,” Jon said. “You’ve got knives in the kitchen, right?”

  Allan nodded. “Of course.”

  “Okay, I guess we can start there—”

  “Let’s go to the garage,” Allan interrupted.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have an axe, a pitchfork, and even a machete out there. But if you’d feel safer with a kitchen knife…”

  They went to the garage.

  32

  Amy tucked the gun into her waist and approached the Rolstons’ front step. She squinted from the glare of the porch lights. Were they expecting company? Perhaps so. Perhaps company was already there. She turned behind her and checked the driveway. No cars. None on the street either. Long rectangular windows flanked the door, and Amy bent at the waist to peek inside. She saw the interior of a nicely furnished home, and that was all. No signs of life. Perhaps they were out? Amy often left more than the usual amount of lights on in the house when she was away to give the impression that someone was home when they were not. An old-school deterrent to burglars that still held me
rit, according to Domino.

  Was that what was going on here? Had the Rolstons gone out and left the lights on? Perhaps. No cars in the driveway didn’t necessarily make it so, however; Amy could make out a sizable garage at the far west end of the house. Likely, the cars were tucked in there for the night. The only thing the empty driveway (and street, for that matter) told her was that if the Rolstons were home, they were likely alone. No guests.

  Enough guess work. Ring the damn bell.

  She did. Rang it once, and then accompanied the ring with a firm but respectful knock. Waited. Got nothing. Rang again and knocked again. Waited and got nothing. She peeked through one of the rectangular windows again, hoping to see someone approaching, or perhaps someone peeking out at her, justifiably wary about who was so insistent on seeing them on a Sunday night.

  She saw nothing.

  Amy tried a final time. Ringing the doorbell twice, knocking several times. Shifting to the adjacent slice of window to peek in right after, hoping the new perspective from this window would give her a different view of something, anything.

  What Amy saw through her new perspective was just the thinnest slice of a television set down the hallway and into the adjoining den. The television was on.

  Screw this, Amy thought, and pinned her finger to the doorbell, letting it ring countless times, the bottom of her fist banging against the door just after, no firm courtesy knocking anymore, but an insistent open-up-dammit! banging.

  She pressed her mouth close to the window, screamed: “Please open up, it’s an emergency!” In her haste and frustration, she went to wriggle the doorknob, only to fall silently stunned as the knob turned without resistance and the door opened, the sound of the television down the hall suddenly clear, as if welcoming her.

  33

  Allan could not help but fixate on his newly mangled car when the three of them returned to the garage.

  “Leave it be,” Karen said. “We’ll make them pay every single cent for its repair.”

  Allan said nothing, just guided them toward a large metal tool cabinet standing tall in the far corner of the garage.

  “You really have a machete?” Jon asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Clearing brush in the backyard. My girls have a trail they like to walk. It gets overgrown sometimes.”

  “Hedge clippers don’t do the job?”

  Allan sighed and faced Jon. “I suppose they would. I think I have an old pair somewhere in here. Would you prefer wielding those over a machete, Jon?”

  Jon conceded Allan’s point with a little nod and a smile, a silent touché.

  The beige cabinet had one giant locking door, the keyed handle long and silver. Despite this, Allan never locked it. Didn’t even know where the damn key was, to be honest. He’d told himself countless times he should for the safety of his girls, not that he imagined his girls would find much interest in horsing around with axes and pitchforks and the like. Still, he supposed if they were bored enough they could access the cabinet whenever they wanted without much troub—

  A sudden bolt of terror struck Allan square in the chest.

  He did not bother to relay his fear, just prayed as he ripped the cabinet door open.

  The cabinet was empty. Taped to the inside of the cabinet door was a single piece of paper. On it, a message.

  Allan snatched the paper and read it.

  You really should keep this locked ☺, it said.

  34

  Amy stepped into the Rolstons’ home. Her tread was light and deliberate, as though the floor might give beneath her. She took quick inventory of the situation. She’d rung the doorbell a zillion times, and knocked on the door twice as many. Each time she got no response. Saw no life through the windows when she peeked in after each ring and knock.

  Except the television. The television was alive yet apparently entertaining no one.

  Had they left it on before going out for the evening? One of Amy’s neighbors had a rescue dog that used to get exceptionally worked up whenever the family would leave their house. A nice pile of poo would be waiting for them when they would return home. A veterinarian had recommended leaving the television on when they were out—a way to trick the dog into thinking there was still life in the house and it was not being abandoned yet again. Crazily enough, it had worked. No more poo waiting for them when they would return home. Could that be the case here? A dog in the house? No. Unless the dog was deaf, it would have assuredly barked its head off after her incessant ringing and knocking. And if it was deaf, why even bother leaving the TV on for it? The movement on the screen, perhaps. No, that was silly.

  So what else did that leave? TV on, no one answering her banging and ringing. Perhaps the Rolstons had been watching television when they spotted Amy approaching. Took off upstairs or somewhere else in the house to hide until Amy went away.

  But then she’d started hollering, hadn’t she? Pleading for help through the door? Surely the Rolstons wouldn’t assume a solicitor would use such an approach, no matter how desperate. That would make Amy a woman in trouble. Were the Rolstons the kind of people who would turn their backs on a woman’s cries for help? Who knew, in this day and age? You certainly didn’t have to convince Amy that there were plenty of crazies running around. Female ones, even. Perhaps the Rolstons saw it as a ruse to get them to unlock their door.

  But the door was unlocked. How the hell did you explain that? Sure, this part of Montgomery County was considered rural, maybe even country by some, but it wasn’t Mayberry. Even the most trusting of souls knew better these days to lock up just in case.

  Enough guesswork.

  “Hello? Is anybody home?” she called. Waited, and then tried again, louder, cupping a hand next to her mouth. “Hello?!”

  No reply.

  Amy made a left, strolling cautiously into the kitchen. The gun was still in her waist. She contemplated drawing it and keeping it at her side but chose against it just now.

  She noticed something odd on the kitchen counter. A teacup. Next to the teacup was a Ziploc bag of precut lemon wedges. Next to the bag of lemons was a plastic squeeze bottle of honey. Next to that, a box of tea.

  Amy peeked inside the teacup. It was empty. She spotted the kettle on the stove and placed a tentative hand on it. It was still warm. So what did all this mean? Well, it was fairly obvious, as far as Amy was concerned. Someone had been interrupted while making tea. Recently.

  Amy spotted a cordless phone at the opposite end of the kitchen counter. She hurried toward it and raised it to her ear. No dial tone. She mashed a few of the phone’s buttons all the same and tried again. Still nothing.

  A line down in the neighborhood maybe?

  (And how do you explain the cell phones?)

  Amy immediately snatched her own cell from her pocket and checked it. No signal. She powered it down and then started it back up again. All the welcoming noises chimed as the phone came to life, and for a moment Amy felt hope, only to sag at the shoulders and sigh when the screen cruelly informed her once again that she had no signal.

  Except she’d had a signal, hadn’t she? At Allan’s. It was short and fleeting and choppy, and Domino sounded like a robot, but there had been life. So how was that possible? Though she was no expert, cutting landlines seemed plausible to Amy. But cutting signals to multiple cell phones? No, scratch that—turning them off and on? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Occam’s razor. Someone was controlling it. It seemed impossible, but someone was turning their signals on and off as it suited them. It made sense at Allan’s. As they’d surmised, someone could have still been in the house. Tim or Jennifer

  (or, God forbid, Kelly Blaine)

  could have somehow snuck back in, hiding somewhere and using some kind of tech gadget that allowed the on-and-off jamming of their signals. That made sense.

  But here? At Allan’s neighbors’, several hundred yards away? Either the tech gadget jammer thingy had one hell of a range or…

&
nbsp; (or?)

  Someone was home. And it wasn’t the Rolstons.

  Amy pulled the gun from her waist.

  35

  Allan slammed the big metal cabinet door closed. It clanged and reverberated back open, the lock failing to catch from the impact. This time Allan slammed it shut and added his fist for good measure, his knuckles denting the metal door with a boom.

  “Allan…” Karen said.

  Allan turned to her, face twisted with helpless rage.

  “What do we do now?” she asked softly.

  Allan gave her an incredulous look. “Seriously? You seriously think I have an alphabet full of plans for this fucking madness?”

  Jon held up a hand. “Whoa—take it easy, Allan.”

  “You fucking take it easy, Jon.”

  “I’m not the one punching tool cabinets.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t even have the balls to punch a time clock, would you, you fucking sissy.”

  Jon shoved him. “Fuck you, man.”

  Allan stepped forward. He couldn’t be sure, but he felt as though he were smiling. Grinning even.

  (Enjoying this?)

  (Sure. The here and now—momentarily free of everything and anything.)

  Jon took a step back and raised a stop hand at Allan. “Back off, Allan…I’m warning you, I took an advanced weekend course in self-defense last summer and—”

  Allan launched Jon onto the hood of his SUV with a solid right cross. Jon rolled off the hood and onto the cement floor, where he lay groaning.

  Karen ran and knelt by her husband’s side. She soon looked back up at Allan with disgust. “What is wrong with you?!” she yelled.