Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Providentially—as had been the case in all of their adventures thus far, Arty and Jim watching over them, they still loved to muse—not a single car had driven by the entire time. It was all so meant to be.

  36

  “Jesus, man, I think you killed him,” Charlie said to Andy.

  The two friends stared down at Mike Childs, bound on the den floor of the recently deceased Mr. and Mrs. Hall. Mike Childs had yet to stir after Andy’s blow to the back of his head from the tire iron over an hour ago.

  “Well, he’s breathing,” Andy said, gesturing to Mike’s rising and falling torso. “Maybe he’s brain dead.”

  “Fucker always was brain dead,” Charlie said.

  “You got any ammonia?” Andy asked.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s in smelling salts. I don’t know what the hell else is in the stuff, but I know it has ammonia.”

  Charlie left the den and returned with a bottle of ammonia. He brandished it before Andy with a smile. “Matter of fact, we do.”

  “Cool. How do we make him smell it? Do we use, like, a syringe to shoot it up his nose or something?”

  “Fuck that.” Charlie uncapped the bottle and dumped half of it onto Mike’s face. Mike didn’t stir.

  “Shit—maybe he really is brain dead,” Andy said. “Oh well.”

  “Fuck that,” Charlie said again. “This motherfucker is not getting off that easy.” Charlie left the den again. He could be heard rooting around in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. He returned with a turkey baster.

  “You going to cook him?” Andy said.

  Charlie ignored his friend. He snatched the half-full bottle of ammonia and sucked up a good amount of ammonia with the turkey baster, bent, and jammed the tip of the baster deep into Mike’s right nostril, and squeezed the rubber bulb.

  It worked.

  Mike came to, sputtering and choking, eyes wild and disoriented. He blinked repeatedly, wincing after every few blinks, the ammonia burning his eyes.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Andy said.

  Charlie stood upright, a look of great satisfaction on his face. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey, Mikey,” he sang.

  Mike gaped upwards at his two captors, dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in wonder. If he recognized them, it didn’t show.

  Charlie bent again and snapped his fingers in front of Mike’s face. “Hey! Hey, you with us, Mikey?”

  Mike continued to blink away both the ammonia and the cobwebs. Then, in what seemed like the flick of a switch, recollection clicked, and his bewilderment became instant rage.

  “What the fuck?!” Mike Childs savagely fought his binds—duct tape binding both wrists and ankles, wrists behind the back—to no avail. “Get this shit off me, you fucking faggots!!!”

  “Mikey, please,” Charlie said calmly, raising a finger to his lips. “You’re going to disturb my parents.”

  Andy played along. “That would be quite the trick, Charlie.”

  “Why’s that, Andy?”

  “Because we killed them.”

  Charlie slapped his forehead with his palm. “That’s right!”

  Mike didn’t appear to buy it, didn’t even appear to hear it. “You two are dead, you hear me? You’re dead.”

  Charlie squatted next to Mike. “Did you not hear what my friend just said, Mikey? We killed my parents. Andy’s too. What on Earth makes you think we wouldn’t do the same to you?”

  “Bull-fucking-shit, you did,” Mike spat back. “You two pussies couldn’t kill a fucking insect.”

  Charlie glanced back at Andy. “You see, this is what I was talking about. The lack of respect. The lack of fear.”

  Mike Childs laughed. “Fear? You think I’m afraid of you two?”

  “You were certainly shitting yourself when Charlie had his rifle in your face,” Andy said.

  Mike angrily shook his head, refuting this truth. “Like hell I was!”

  “And you’re not afraid now?” Andy asked.

  “Fuck no!”

  Andy looked at Charlie. “You know, he really doesn’t seem afraid anymore. How do we remedy that?”

  Charlie left the den for the kitchen once again. The sounds of a drawer opening and cutlery being rifled through came from a distance.

  Charlie returned with a kitchen knife the size of his forearm. “Got to save some for the main course later,” he said, “but I think we can offer him a little appetizer for the moment.”

  “The fuck is that for?” Mike asked. His voice was shaky and uncertain now.

  “There!” Andy exclaimed, pointing a finger down at Mike. “Right there is exactly how you looked when Charlie had his rifle in your face.”

  Charlie grinned at his friend. Squatted next to Mike again and began gently tracing the tip of the blade across Mike’s face.

  “Okay—wait!” Mike said. “Wait-wait-wait-wait…”

  “Wait, what, Mikey?” Charlie said, his pressure on the blade’s tip increasing, creating tracks just shy of drawing blood.

  “I’m afraid, okay? Is that what you want to hear? You win; I’m afraid. I’m really fucking afraid.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Charlie said, increasing the pressure, the tip of the blade now piercing flesh, Charlie dragging the blade, surgeon-like, down Mike’s cheek.

  Mike cried out. “Jesus Christ, stop! PLEASE STOP!”

  Charlie did. He stood upright again, fingering the blade, wiping Mike’s blood off with his thumb and index finger. He played with the blood between his two fingers with great amusement, like a child might some foreign goo.

  “Tell me you’re sorry,” Charlie said absently, eyes still on the blood between his thumb and index finger. “Tell me you’re sorry for how you treated my friend and me all these years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mike said instantly.

  Charlie wiped the blood on his pants and glanced back at Andy. “That sound genuine to you?”

  “No, it did not,” Andy said.

  “I’m sorry, all right?! I am truly, truly sorry. I’M SORRY.”

  Charlie glanced back at Andy again. “How about now?”

  “Honestly?” Andy replied. “I’m still not buying it.”

  Charlie sighed. “Yeah…me neither.”

  “Please! Please just stop and let’s talk about it.”

  “We are talking about it,” Charlie said. “And I just thought of another way you can make it up to me.”

  “Done,” Mike said immediately. “Name it and it’s done.”

  “Call me Peanut,” Charlie said.

  “What?”

  “Come on, Mikey, you know the nickname well. Call me Peanut.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It…it’ll make you mad.”

  “Oh, I’ve been beyond mad for a very long time, Mikey. Say it.”

  “Why?” Mike asked again.

  “Because you’re tied up and bleeding and I have a knife. Say it.”

  Mike closed his eyes. “Peanut,” he said meekly.

  Now Charlie closed his eyes. He exhaled long and slow. “Thank you. I needed that extra push for what I wanted to do. I was worried I might not have the stomach for it.” He turned to Andy. “Help me get his pants off.” He turned back to Mike. “My only regret, Mikey, is that I won’t be able to march you up and down the halls after.”

  37

  Amy walked in the front door, gym bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair in a ponytail, gray sweatpants, gray Penn State sweatshirt. She dropped her gym bag next to the stairs and went straight to the kitchen for water.

  Carrie appeared a moment after, done up for a night on the town.

  “Ooh, don’t you look sexy,” Amy said. “Date?”

  “Girls’ night. How was kung fu?”

  “Jiu-jitsu,” Amy corrected her. “And it was fine, thanks. Choked two guys out tonight.”

  “They let you compete against children?” />
  “Funny.” She snatched Carrie by the arm, yanked her in, and locked on a rear naked choke, squeezing just enough for Carrie to feel the choke’s Ambien potential.

  “Get off me!”

  Amy laughed and let go.

  Carrie fixed her hair. “I hate when you do that.”

  “You should start coming with me,” Amy said. “Would do you some good to learn a few things.”

  “I’ve got better things to do on a Friday night than roll around with sweaty men in pajamas, thank you.”

  Amy went to the sink and started filling a glass of water. “Like you’re not hoping to be rolling around with a sweaty man tonight?”

  “Please stay far away from my love life.”

  Amy finished the glass of water and put it in the dishwasher. “So, what’s this girls’ night about?”

  Carrie went to the mirror in the den to check and see if her mother had ruined her makeup. “Drinks at Benny’s,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Who’s driving?”

  “I am.”

  “Who’s driving home?”

  Still checking her face in the mirror, she replied: “That would also be me.”

  “If you need a ride home, you call me.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m serious, Carrie. This isn’t college. You’re not in walking distance from everything.”

  “I’m not calling my mommy to come pick me up from a bar.”

  “Carrie, look at me.”

  Carrie huffed, turned, and faced her mother.

  “This family doesn’t have the greatest track record when it comes to drinking and driving,” Amy said.

  Bob Corcoran. Amy’s father.

  Carrie’s face went respectfully grave. “I thought Monica Kemp and her father killed Grandpa.”

  “His drunken butt taking a deserted back road to avoid police certainly made it easier for them. And are you really trying to justify drinking and driving to me right now?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. Please call me, if you need to. And if it’s not cool to have your mommy come pick you up, then at least go talk to your brother. Maybe he will.”

  “I can’t,” Caleb said behind them.

  Mother and daughter jumped and spun.

  “Jesus, honey, you’ve got to stop doing that,” Amy said.

  “I’ve got plans tonight,” Caleb said to Amy. “And I’ll need your car. That okay?”

  “What plans?” Amy asked.

  “The stuff we talked about before,” Caleb said. “Stuff with Jack Dixon.”

  Amy’s face was uneasy but hopeful. “Oh yeah? Is it promising? I mean, could it…help?”

  “I don’t know. Can I have your car?”

  “Of course. I’m in for the night.”

  Caleb nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Well, I guess there goes my ride home, if I need it,” Carrie said.

  Amy turned to Carrie. “Oh right…” She turned back to Caleb. “Your sister may need a ride home later. Are you sure you won’t be available to go get her?”

  “I’m sure,” Caleb said. He looked at Carrie. “Don’t drink.”

  Carrie snorted. “Sure thing, Dad.”

  A terrible quiet came over all three of them.

  Carrie dropped her head. “Ah shit, I’m sorry.” The quiet remained for a few seconds longer. Then: “I’ll take a cab home.”

  “Better yet—” Amy went for her purse on the kitchen counter. “Why not take one there as well? On me. Silly to leave your car overnight if you don’t have to.” She pulled some cash from her purse and handed it to Carrie.

  When mother and daughter turned back to Caleb, he was already heading back down to the basement—to wait.

  38

  Caleb sat in the basement, waiting for his phone to ring.

  Ray had told Caleb that he would let him know when the two kids Caleb had met in that infamous lot behind the bar were on the move.

  Ray had told Caleb that he would have good eyes on the kids. That he could track them most anywhere.

  Ray had told Caleb that he suspected the kids would be up to something tonight. None of it good.

  All Caleb had to do was wait to hear from him.

  And when you do?

  Caleb closed his eyes. A million images flashed at once like some kind of acid trip, all of them red with atrocity. He felt the familiar heat swirl in his belly, and he both cursed and relished the feeling.

  He opened his eyes and walked towards the mirror above his dresser. He stared into himself. His reflection stared back, unforgiving in what felt like judgment. He shook his head, disagreeing with his reflection, its judgment.

  “Sorry,” he said to himself, “but this is me.”

  39

  Benny’s Tavern was a bust. Not because the place wasn’t hopping—it was—but because Carrie’s mind had been on her family the whole night. On her stupid remark to Caleb, calling him “Dad.” She periodically flashed on the FaceTime exchange she’d had with her mother while she was still at Kutztown. How towards the end of that initial rocky conversation, she’d felt an overwhelming surge of love for her mother and wanted nothing more than to be back home, curled up in her mother’s lap, her mother absently stroking her hair as she always did while the two of them watched some terrible reality TV show together.

  Right now that prospect sounded miles better than any crazy night on the town.

  So, Carrie had ducked out of the bar and called her mother, asking her whether she’d be up for a bottle of wine and some Netflix.

  And Amy had emphatically replied in the positive. Carrie told her mother that she would call a cab and be home soon. And when Amy said that the wine and Netflix would be waiting, and that she would even fire up some nachos for them, Carrie’s heart had swelled that much more. She couldn’t leave Benny’s fast enough.

  Carrie had re-entered the bar, told her friend she was leaving and why, and though her friend had seemed disappointed, she understood. When a Lambert mentioned family, everyone understood.

  And so now, heading out to the lot behind Benny’s Tavern to call for a cab, Carrie paused and lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t be able to smoke when she got home, not if she didn’t want an earful from her mother, so she thought it best to get her nicotine fix now.

  Déjà vu struck. Right down to the male voice calling her name while she went to light her cigarette.

  “Carrie!”

  And just as before, Carrie had paused a second before lighting up her smoke, killing the lighter’s flame and staring around the tavern’s lot to find the owner of the voice, unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

  She saw no one. The lot was full of cars, but absent of people. Everyone was inside the bar; ambient sounds of raging nightlife—DJ thumping, people yelling over the din—could still be heard through its concrete walls.

  And like before at the 7-Eleven on Eastwick, Carrie initially thought that the owner of the voice might be an old high school friend. She was, after all, in the parking lot of a popular bar her high school friends frequented. Far more likely that someone she knew would spot her here as opposed to a 7-Eleven in the morning.

  “Carrie Lambert!”

  Carrie threw her unlit cigarette to the ground and stepped further into the lot. She saw two girls walking down a side street in the distance. A solitary girl under the awning of another bar two blocks over, who’d ducked out for a smoke of her own. She saw no men.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  And then she did see someone. He was small and thin with a shaved head. He was standing by a white van in the distance, in the very back of the tavern’s lot. He was smiling and waving at her. Carrie didn’t recognize him.

  “Can I help you?” she called to him.

  “How have you been?” the guy called back. “You home for the weekend?”

  Clearly he knew her. But was that so unusual? Carrie had been popular in high school. Plus, truth be told, though Carrie was not one to indulge i
n the discriminatory social hierarchy of high school, it was very possible that he knew her without her knowing him. Perhaps this was the very same guy who’d called her name outside the 7-Eleven. Perhaps he’d been too nervous to approach her then, but now, standing outside of a bar, perhaps with a bit of liquid courage in him, he was taking that leap.

  She approached the little guy with the shaved head standing by the van. His smile grew.

  40

  The wine was chilling in the fridge. Netflix was fired up and waiting. The nachos were layered high and deep, ready to be popped into the microwave. Amy had even brought extra pillows and blankets down from upstairs. It was the mother/daughter version of a sleepover, its place in Amy’s heart something only a mother could know.

  Still, she had one regret: that Caleb wouldn’t be joining them. Sure, it was a mother/daughter bonding moment, but she could dream, couldn’t she? Amy couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had shared a special moment, free of all the bullshit that had inundated their lives over the years.

  Only Caleb was gone. He’d left an hour ago, stating that he was going to a local diner for coffee to wait to hear from Jack Dixon. Probably for the best, Amy had thought with not a little sadness. If she’d asked Caleb to stay in with her and Carrie that night, she knew what his answer would have been. And though Caleb had his reasons for this particular night, the answer would have stung all the same. The cold, expressionless affect with which he would have undoubtedly given her that answer stinging that much more. Amy was getting time with her baby girl tonight. Would there be a time, she wondered, when she would have time with her baby boy again? Not the excruciatingly enigmatic shadow that he’d become, but her true baby boy? Her Caleb? She hoped, tears not far off, that whatever he needed to work out with Jack Dixon would be worked out. That whatever answers Caleb was seeking, he would find. She hoped it more than anything. The helplessness she felt in her inability to save her son was crippling.