Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Kelly went back into the den. Irene and the kids sat huddled together on the floor. Kelly raised her gun on them. Carrie whimpered and tucked her head into Irene’s side. Irene squeezed her tight. And though Caleb did not make a sound when the gun was raised—did not even flinch—Irene pulled him in close and squeezed him just as she’d done his sister.

  “Say hello,” Kelly said, holding the phone out to them.

  No one said anything.

  Kelly cocked the hammer on her pistol. “Say hello.”

  “Hello!” Irene yelled.

  Kelly moved the phone closer to Carrie. “Now you,” she said. “How about an ‘I love you, Mommy’?”

  Carrie hesitated.

  Kelly aimed the gun right at Carrie’s head. “Or how about a ‘Goodbye, Mommy’?”

  Carrie screamed.

  Kelly laughed. “Ooh, that’ll work.” She brought the phone back to her ear. “Some lungs on your daughter.”

  Amy went to say something, but Kelly took the phone away again. Held it before Caleb.

  “Your turn, little fella,” she said.

  “I’m here, Mom,” Caleb said.

  Kelly nodded and lowered the phone. “Good boy.”

  “Fuck you,” Caleb said.

  Kelly laughed. Irene pulled Caleb in tight and hushed him.

  “I like your son,” Kelly said once she was back on the phone. “Good potential. I’d love to keep him for a while.”

  Amy ignored Kelly’s comment. “Now what?” was all she said.

  “Well, do you believe they’re all alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then let’s make a swap, lollipop.”

  58

  Irene and Caleb were ushered out first. Caleb spotted his mother among the sea of uniforms and flashing lights and sprinted into her arms. Amy showered him with love then held him back at arm’s length and checked him up and down. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Caleb nodded and dove into her again. Amy started to cry.

  Irene came over, and Amy pulled her in with them. They all cried together.

  “Mrs. Lambert?” an officer said behind them. Still in the embrace, Amy turned her head. The officer was holding out a cell phone. “It’s her,” the officer said.

  Amy pulled away from Caleb and Irene and took the phone.

  “We’re not done yet,” Kelly said.

  “Send out Carrie,” Amy said. “Then I’ll come in. I promise.”

  “Gee, lady, you mean it? Honest and for true?”

  “Look, Kelly, I—”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up. You want your daughter, then you better get your ass in here first. You’ve got one minute.”

  • • •

  Amy went through the front door. Kelly was in the hallway, Carrie on her knees before her, Kelly’s gun pressed to the back of her head execution style.

  “Shut the door and lock it,” Kelly said.

  “Carrie, honey, are you okay?”

  Carrie started crying. She could only nod.

  “Shut the door and lock it,” Kelly said again.

  “Why?” Amy asked. “You’re only going to have to unlock it again when you let Carrie go.”

  “I’m not letting Carrie go,” Kelly said.

  “What?”

  “I’m just not comfortable letting her go. You’re too crafty, Amy. Too tough. You and me alone? I feel like you’d try to pull something. I’m not the biggest girl, in case you didn’t notice. Even with a gun, I still wouldn’t feel a hundred percent safe alone with you.”

  “This is fucking bullshit.”

  “You always talk like that in front of your daughter?”

  “We had a deal,” Amy said. “Honor it and let my daughter go.”

  Kelly pretended to consider. Then: “Nope.”

  “If you let my daughter go, I will not try anything. I will do exactly as you say. I swear.”

  “See? There you go promising again. Why on earth would you think that holds any value for me?”

  Amy said nothing.

  “How about this?” Kelly began. “I can’t promise you’re going to walk out of here alive, Amy, but I can promise you that your daughter will.”

  “And why should your promises hold any value for me?” Amy said.

  Kelly dug the gun barrel into the back of Carrie’s head. Carrie winced and cried harder. “I’d say under the circumstances, they would be fucking priceless.”

  Amy turned and shut the front door. Locked it and turned back toward Kelly and Carrie.

  “Good,” Kelly said. She took the gun off Carrie and waved Amy closer with it. “Come closer.”

  Amy shuffled forward a few steps.

  “Closer.”

  Two more steps. She was close enough now to reach out and touch her crying daughter kneeling before her. And she did, taking Carrie’s face in her hand and gently raising it to hers.

  She did not say anything to her daughter, only smiled down at her with endless love.

  “One more step,” Kelly said.

  Amy did.

  Kelly took the gun off Carrie and raised it on Amy, the tip of the barrel no more than a few inches from her forehead. It was then that Amy noticed it was not the 9mm pistol Kelly had been carrying at Allan’s house, but a six-shooter.

  “Put your hands in your pockets,” Kelly said.

  Amy did.

  “Good.” Kelly opened the revolver’s cylinder chamber and dumped all six bullets into the palm of her hand. She tossed all but one aside, the bullets clattering then rolling once they hit the wooden floor.

  She held the single bullet up for Amy to see, slid it into one of the six empty holes in the cylinder chamber, gave the chamber a solid spin, and then slammed the chamber shut with the heel of her palm, midspin.

  “I know I’m going to prison, Amy,” she began. “And I’m sure you know someone like me could never tolerate being caged. So, I don’t plan on leaving here alive. However, I’d like to test something.”

  “And that is?”

  “Back at the house you said you agreed with me that life was not fair. You said something like there was no balance in the universe, and that one tragedy did not make you exempt from another. Was that the gist of it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’d like to test it again. Lord knows you’ve endured tragedy countless times, so one would say further testing was unnecessary, but still, I’d like to try one more time. Let’s see if life will be fair to you just this once.”

  “By playing Russian roulette?”

  Kelly smiled.

  “I thought you said you had no intention of leaving here alive.”

  “I don’t. Even if I win, I’ll still pluck one of those bullets up off the floor and put it in my head.”

  “If you’re going to kill yourself no matter what, why not just let us go?”

  Kelly laughed. “Amy…you know I can’t do that.”

  Amy dropped her gaze to Carrie, caressed her face again, and then looked back up at Kelly. “Win or lose, my daughter leaves?”

  “Yes.”

  Amy nodded. “Let’s play.”

  59

  Kelly held up a coin and looked down at Carrie. “Heads or tails, Carrie?”

  Carrie wept silently.

  “Hey!” Kelly flicked her on the top of the head. “Heads or tails?”

  Carrie tucked her head and whimpered.

  Amy saw red. “Don’t hit my fucking kid.”

  Kelly smirked and held up an apologetic hand. “Sorry. How about you choose then?”

  “Tails.”

  Kelly flipped the coin, caught it, then slapped it on the back of the fist holding the gun. “Tails it is,” she said. “Choose.”

  “You go first,” Amy said.

  Kelly smiled. “Hoping to get lucky right from the start, are we?”

  “You and I don’t believe in luck.”

  “Touché.”

  Kelly cocked the hammer, stuck the gun in her mout
h, and pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked empty.

  She pulled the gun from her mouth and aimed it between Amy’s eyes. “One in five chance now. You ready?”

  Amy just stared at her.

  Kelly pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked empty.

  Kelly smiled again. “Starting to get interesting.” She cocked the hammer, stuck the gun in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked empty.

  “Uh-ohhh…” Kelly aimed between Amy’s eyes again. “One in three.” She nudged Carrie with her foot. “They teach you about odds in school, Carrie? How risky is a one-in-three shot?”

  Carrie looked up at Amy. “Mommy?”

  “It’s okay, baby.” Amy’s heartache was crippling. “Mommy wants you to put your head down and cover your ears, okay? Don’t look up, no matter what.”

  Carrie stared up at her mother.

  “Just do it, honey,” Amy said softly.

  Carrie did as she was told.

  Kelly steadied the gun, cocked the hammer—and paused. Held the gun between Amy’s eyes for several seconds, milking it. Loving it.

  Amy contemplated going for the gun. But if she missed…

  “Just fucking do it,” Amy said through gritted teeth.

  Kelly pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked empty.

  Amy exhaled, shoulders dropping. Her legs felt weak. Her vision swam. But now it was Kelly’s turn—and a one in two, no less. Fifty-fifty.

  Except Kelly wasn’t raising the gun on herself as swiftly as she had on previous turns. Instead, her gun arm dangled at her side as she considered Amy.

  Oh, Christ, she’s not going to take the chance.

  She’s going to shoot me.

  All she has to do is pull the trigger twice and fast and I’m dead.

  I have to go for the gun.

  (And suppose you fuck up and she decides to shoot Carrie instead?)

  I…oh God…

  “Fifty-fifty odds,” Kelly said as she started to raise the gun.

  A sickening bit of irony hit Amy just before Kelly pulled the trigger and ended it: Amy had expected Kelly to play fair.

  60

  Kelly Blaine cocked the hammer, stuck the gun in her mouth, and blew her head off.

  61

  One month later

  Amy replaced the old flowers in front of Patrick’s grave with some new ones. She then sat, as she always did, over a spot on the cemetery grass she liked to think was his lap.

  “Me again,” she said. “They finally caught that girl I was telling you about before. Jennifer? The junkie who was helping Kelly Blaine? They finally got her, so I guess that’s something. Still won’t bring Jon Rogers’ wife back, but at least they got her.”

  She paused there for a moment. Dropped her head.

  “Sometimes I wish it was like that for us. That it was me who died and not you. I’m strong for the kids, but sometimes my head feels like it’s going to explode. You were always so much better when it came to dealing with drama.”

  She knuckled away a tear and looked up at a cloud. She wondered if somewhere, somehow, Patrick could see the same cloud.

  “Speaking of drama, Carrie’s still sleeping with me, and I have the gall to give her shit about it sometimes. Here I am, thinking I’m about to lose it, and I have the absolute gall to give our eleven-year-old daughter shit for being scared and wanting to feel safe by sleeping with her mother at night.”

  She shook her head at herself and fingered the cigarette burn on her cheek that was nearly healed but would leave a scar.

  “Caleb? He’s still a rock, you know? He’s still like he was right after we first encountered Arty and Jim at Crescent Lake. Insisting on sleeping by himself. Puttering around without talking. No tacks in my slipper this time, thank God, but it’s got me worried. I’m beginning to think Domino’s death affected him more than we initially thought. He was like a statue at the funeral. No tears, no nothing. And never mind the fact that he killed a man. He never minds the fact that he killed a man. When the therapist asks him about it—when I ask him about it—he just shrugs as if it was a job he had to do, no big deal. It scares me, honey.”

  She looked up at the sky again. “His school called me in again. His third fight this month. Remember that little boy who used to cry when Carrie would squash a bug in front of him?” She dropped her head back down to Patrick’s tombstone. “I worry about our baby boy, honey. Carrie is so easy; she displays her emotions on a billboard. But Caleb…” She looked away. Fixated on another grave and its engravings for a spell in a bid to tamp down her anxiety.

  “You know I tell Caleb that you and Domino are together now?” she eventually said. “That the two of you are watching over us? He smiles, but I think he’s just placating me. You believe that? A nine-year-old boy placating his mother?” She chuckled without humor. “Still, I like to believe it. I like to think you and Domino are living it up somewhere, drinking scotch and shooting the shit and watching over us like guardian angels. It helps me sleep better at night.”

  Amy stood and brushed her butt and legs off.

  “I went through hell again, baby. And I survived again. I’d like to think this was the last of it, but I think you and I know better by now. Christ, I’ll probably go home to find aliens on my doorstep. I guess the Lamberts are just lucky that way.” She chuckled dryly again, looked up at the sky, and closed her eyes.

  She brought forth an image of Patrick and her in bed on a Sunday morning, sleeping late and cuddling, the kids barging in and piling into bed with them, bouncing and laughing, and Amy felt a transitory moment of peace. She savored it awhile.

  Finished, Amy touched two fingers to her lips and pressed them to Patrick’s gravestone. “You know,” she began, “I don’t believe the world is fair, and I don’t believe the universe has balance…” She flashed a shrewd little smile toward Patrick’s grave. “But I like to think that somehow you and Domino made sure that little bitch ate that bullet.”

  She chuckled, anything but dryly this time, and pressed two kissed fingers to Patrick’s grave again. “See you soon, baby.”

  62

  Three months later

  Living in the now, Allan thought as he stood outside Amy Lambert’s door. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and repeated the mantra his therapist had provided him, the mantra that had become his best friend these past three months:

  Life owes me nothing. I can’t change the past. The future is unwritten. But I’m here. Now. And then his own little addendum that he believed made the mantra that much stronger: Alive. I’m here. Now. Alive.

  He opened his eyes and exhaled long and slow.

  He rang the doorbell.

  Amy answered in a T-shirt and sweats, her long brown hair in a ponytail. “Allan, hi!”

  Allan pulled a bottle of whiskey out from behind his back. “Thought you might want to finally sneak that drink in the kitchen.”

  Amy laughed. She then raised her fist.

  They fist-bumped, and Allan’s smile became his whole face.

  Amy stepped aside and invited him in.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45 • 46 • 47 • 48 • 49 • 50 • 51 • 52 • 53 • 54 • 55 • 56 • 57

  1

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  2:01 A.M.

  A television screen. On that screen were two young men seated next to one another, grinning, energetic, downright giddy. At first glance and to the uninformed, it might have been a low-budget infomercial on late-night TV.

  Except the two pairs of captivated eyes watching the TV were informed. They knew they were not watching an infomercial.

  They knew they were watching a
home movie starring Arthur and James Fannelli, the late and infamous serial killers whose body count was estimated by some to be in the hundreds:

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Arty Fannelli.”

  “And I’m Jim Fannelli.”

  Arty—mid-twenties, slim, dark hair and eyes—leans forward in his chair. “Jim and I are very excited to bring you this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Now, in the comfort of your own home, you will be able to watch and learn from the two single greatest players who ever played the game.”

  Jim—two years younger than his brother, stocky, shaved head and dark eyes—smiles and nods. “Absolutely, big brother. I believe that when this is complete, we’ll have outdone even ourselves.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least, little brother. We DO tend to get better with each passing day. And YOU, my friends—” Arty points a finger at the screen, “YOU are going to be getting a front seat to it all.”

  Jim throws up his arms. “Praise the lord hallelujah.”

  Arty laughs. Then: “In honor of our very first episode today, we’re going to start off with a BIG one. We’re going to be discussing the finer points of a successful home invasion.”

  Quick, sloppy cut, and the two brothers are in a moving car, Arty driving, Jim riding shotgun, the camera clearly positioned in the back seat, both brothers needing to turn if they wish to face the camera.

  Arty speaks first, eyes ping-ponging from the road to the camera and back again as he does so. “Successful home invasions require a good bit of improv after you’ve settled on a target. However, there are some pretty important ground rules you need to follow when CHOOSING a hunting ground. Jim?”

  Jim turns in the passenger seat and faces the camera. “Okay—first things first. Forget upper-class ’burbs. We’re talking high-tech alarm systems and nosy fucking neighbors with nothing better to do than jerk off all over their pristine lawns. Not to mention if some rich pricks get killed in suburbia, the world comes to a screeching fucking halt. Police WILL treat it like the fucking president’s been taken. Arty and I have pulled it off once or twice, but then we’re as good as they come. This here is a beginner’s guide. Baby steps, friends. Baby steps.”