“My, oh, my, oh, my,” Jim said out of the corner of his mouth, cigarette bouncing with each word.
“I met the husband. He’s a sturdy guy; they won’t break easy.”
“Awesome. The wife?” Jim asked.
“Very nice. Hot.”
Jim grinned. He held the doll up and wiggled it at Arty. “How many kids?”
“Two—boy and a girl.”
“How old?”
“Four and six.”
“Lots of potential.”
“Indeed.”
The woman in bed sighed deep through her nose then resumed her trance. Both men looked at her.
“Jesus, man,” Arty said. “She hasn’t bathed in over three fucking weeks.”
“I know that,” Jim said. “I threw her in the tub first. Scrubbed that ass until it squeaked.”
Arty hung his head and shook it, fighting off a smile. “You’re a sick man.”
Jim took a final drag of his cigarette then crushed it out on the nightstand. “So where are they?”
“In a cabin. Place called Crescent Lake. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it?”
Jim shrugged. “If you’ve never heard of it, then how the hell would I?”
“Well I asked around. I’m thinking we can venture out there in an hour or so. Sneak around a little and get our bearings.”
“Are we gonna take the cabin for a bit when we’re done?”
“I don’t know, I doubt it,” Arty said. “The husband mentioned it was a community of cabins, or something like that. It might be too risky. Plus they’re only gonna be up for the weekend. Who knows who’ll pop in after.”
Jim nodded, yawned, and rubbed the remainder of sleep from his right eye. “Alright, so what’s the next move?”
“Well first things first. We need to get the hell out of here. If we want to do this next one right, we need to start moving.”
Jim rolled over towards the naked woman. He slapped her hard on her bare bottom, a section of the pale flesh instantly glowing red in the shape of Jim’s hand. She hardly flinched. “So should I assume we’re dealing with her and her hubby right now?”
Arty nodded. “Yeah. We’re not killing them though.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because we only kill if it’s necessary…or part of the game. It’s neither.”
“We’ve done it before.”
“And?”
“I think it’s necessary.”
“I don’t.”
Jim frowned. “They’ll ID us, Arty. Jesus, they saw our faces every time we fed the fuckers. This bitch could ID my dick if she wanted to.”
“Yeah, well that last one is your problem. Still, we can fix it so they can’t ID us.”
“Yeah, I know we can—by killing them.”
“No.”
Jim snorted. “How then?”
“Stand up,” Arty said.
“What?”
“Stand up.”
“Why?”
“Just stand up.”
Jim kicked off the blankets and stood. He was just under six-feet with a powerful physique that he owed mostly to good genetics as opposed to hours in the gym. He was also very naked.
“Jesus,” Arty said, the second he got an eyeful.
Jim made no attempt to cover himself. He just splayed his arms. “What?”
Arty hung his head again, shaking it slowly, biting his tongue. He did not want to encourage his brother’s lewd, and often risky, behavior, but found it damn hard not to laugh at his audacity once in awhile.
Jim scratched his naked groin and asked, “So how do we fix it so they can’t ID us?”
Arty raised his head, took a step forward, and jabbed his fingers into his brother’s eyes.
There was a wet squelching sound, and Jim dropped to his knees, grabbing his face with both hands. “What the fuck?!”
Arty instantly held up four fingers and said, “How many fingers am I holding up? Jim! How many fingers am I holding up?”
Jim made several attempts at looking up at his brother, trying to focus, each attempt heightening the pain, his head whipping away from Arty’s hand every time as though it flashed a beam of white light. He finally gave up and tucked his chin into his chest, rubbing furiously around his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“You see what I’m getting at?” Arty asked.
“Yeah…I get it,” Jim said. He rubbed his eyes some more then launched himself upward, driving his right fist deep into his brother’s gut. Arty doubled over instantly, and now it was his turn to drop to his knees.
Jim hopped up and danced over his brother, laughing hysterically, his genitalia flopping left and right. Through his pain Arty still managed to witness the unsightly phallic jig occurring overhead, and although his breath had left him, he could not resist an attempt at a laugh.
“Sick…fuck…”
Jim continued his dance around the room, eventually leaping onto the woman, gyrating on top of her still-fetal body while hooting and hollering like a horny chimp.
Arty got to his feet, holding his stomach, wheezing out more chuckles as he watched his brother carry on, his gyrating atop the woman stopping, changing to the missionary position as he began miming wild intercourse, his hooting louder with each imaginary thrust. “Get over here, dickhead,” he said.
Jim hopped off the woman and sauntered over to his brother. He walked with an exaggerated strut, like a cowboy entering a saloon. His eyes were rimmed red from Arty’s recent attack, but it hardly seemed to bother him now. He was grinning like a kid.
“So you know what I’m getting at then?” Arty asked, still breathing hard, still holding his stomach.
“Yeah, I think so,” Jim said.
“We’re just taking their eyes, Jim. That’s all.”
Jim nodded, paused, thought for a moment, and then asked, “What about their tongues?”
“Huh?”
“Well wouldn’t it make sense to take their tongues too? See no evil, speak no evil—wait—what’s the other one? Hear no evil? Yeah…it’s hear no evil. So that means the ears too, right? We’ll take the tongues and ears too?”
Arty gave the suggestion a few seconds, smirked, then palmed his brother’s bald head, running his hand back and forth over it as though rough-housing with the family dog. “Why not? Such a clever brother I’ve got.”
Jim kept grinning. “Hey, maybe we could preserve everything when we’re done. You know, dry ’em out like beef jerky, and then make a necklace for them. Something to remember us by.”
Still smirking, Arty waved a playful finger at his brother and said, “James, now you’re just being mean.”
5
With the half-eaten blue lollipop now discarded, and Josie the doll in the hands of a stranger, it would likely take Santa Claus himself to bring a smile to Carrie’s face—or perhaps a dog.
As the silver Highlander pulled into the gravel driveway of cabin number eight bordering Crescent Lake, a mangy Border terrier began yipping and yapping at the SUV with an enthusiasm that suggested it might explode at any moment.
“Daddy! Look at the dog!” Carrie yelled, straining against the binds of her car seat to get a better look.
Patrick needed only a second’s glance at the dog before saying, “Don’t go near that thing, honey. He doesn’t look very clean.”
Carrie ignored her father’s comment and continued to gape, letting out anxious squeaks and smiles that matched the dog’s eagerness for contact. Caleb leaned over and took a hard, wary look at the dog the moment Carrie began shrieking.
Patrick caught his son’s expression in the rearview mirror, reached back and rubbed his knee. “Don’t worry, pal, it’s no big deal.”
“You think it’s a stray?” Amy said.
“Probably. Stay in the car for a couple of minutes though. I’ll get out and shoo it away.”
The instant Patrick stepped out of the car the terrier leapt towards his thigh, begging for affection, its spastic behav
ior accompanied by a multitude of whines that could crack glass. Patrick shook him off and nudged it away with the tip of his shoe. He clapped his hands loudly. “No! Bad dog! Get out! Shoo!”
The terrier took a few cautious steps back, regrouped, then dove after Patrick’s leg for a second try.
“No! Get out of here! Bad dog! Bad!” Patrick yelled louder, nudging harder with his foot. This time the dog took several steps back and eventually sat. It quivered and whimpered from its spot, spring-loaded, anxiously waiting for Patrick to succumb to its canine charm so that it could rocket forward again.
Patrick opened the driver’s door and poked his head in. “You know what, baby? Why don’t we take the kids inside, and we’ll unload everything. It seems harmless enough, but looks pretty dirty. I don’t want the kids touching it.”
Carrie whined. Amy reached back and squeezed her daughter’s knee to quiet her. “Okay, that’s a good idea,” she said.
Carrie folded her arms and grumbled, “No it’s not.”
* * *
With both kids now safe in the cabin, Amy and Patrick began unloading the rear of the Highlander.
“So what do you think?” Patrick asked, taking a brief look around before reaching for a bag. “Seems just as peaceful as last time, doesn’t it?”
Amy turned her back to the car and looked down the driveway and beyond, out onto Crescent Lake. The lake itself was man-made and about half the size of a football field. The surrounding homes that bordered the green water were in contrast of one another. Some were rustic blocks of wood that looked as if they’d been erected by pioneers hundreds of years ago, and some were more modern establishments that resembled basic, one-story homes you might find in any modest suburb throughout the country.
Crescent Lake was not flashy; that wasn’t its purpose. Its purpose was serenity and solitude, and in that, it excelled. Amy turned back to Patrick, smiled, and said, “Just as peaceful.”
Patrick smiled back and breathed in deep. The smell of wood, leaves, and mountain air calmed him to no end. The trees that surrounded the rear of their cabin, and nearly every cabin bordering the lake, narrowed upward from a mighty base until their tips were lost among an explosion of red and orange, with not a single leaf daring to fall to the earth just yet.
“It really is, isn’t it?” Patrick said, more to himself than Amy. He breathed in the earthy scents again and closed his eyes, the gentle calls of nature singing to him, more acute with his eyes shut. He thought it might actually be possible to fall asleep standing up.
Amy took hold of a small duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. “What do you want to do about food?” she asked.
Patrick snapped from his daze and brought his attention back to the Highlander. He took a small black suitcase from the car and set it at his feet. “You want to go shopping now?”
Amy grabbed another small duffel bag and balanced it atop the black suitcase. “Might as well get it out of the way before we get comfortable.”
Patrick shrugged. “Okay. You want me to go?”
“Nah, I’ll go. You can take the kids for a walk around the lake or something.”
“Oh, I get it. Dump the kids with the naïve dad and the new mangy mutt while you drive off to reunite with your forbidden mountain man.”
Amy raised an eyebrow, and did not smile when she said, “Actually, I was going to go look for your little buddy, Arty.”
Patrick dropped another bag at his feet, stood upright and sighed. “Yeah, that was kinda weird, wasn’t it?”
“Kind of weird? That was flat-out bizarre Patrick. What would a grown man want with a little girl’s doll?”
“Well, I’d like to think he didn’t actually want the doll, Amy.”
“So explain then.”
“I don’t know. My guess is that he was just using it as a way to give Carrie a piece of candy. I mean let’s face it, the guy did have a bit of an odd way about him, to say the least.” He paused for a second, smiled and added, “I guess we must have forgotten to give our daughter the ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ speech.”
Amy shot him a disgusted look. “It’s not funny, Patrick. She was out of my sight for less than a minute. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.”
Patrick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well for starters, how did this guy know Carrie wanted a piece of candy so badly? Was he watching us in the restaurant? Listening to our conversation at the table somehow?”
Patrick’s back stiffened. His wife’s question was a damn good one. He had sized Arty up from the moment he met him and did not figure him a physical threat in any way. Weird? Hell, yes. But a threat? No. The man’s actions at the gas station and the restaurant were no doubt bizarre, but Patrick still felt comfortable that if push came to shove, he could deal with Arty with little trouble.
Amy continued. “I mean that whole thing at the station with the free gas was strange enough.”
Patrick steadied himself, took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say, baby. Maybe in his weird little world, it’s his way of being friendly. You know there are some people out there who just don’t know where the line is.”
“Bullshit. The way he smiled and waved as he was driving away from the restaurant…that was…that was something different than being friendly.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know. Just different, okay?”
Patrick held up both hands. “Okay.”
Amy shook her head and rubbed the back of her neck. “And what the hell was that whole thing with the doll? Carrie barely lets us hold that damn thing, yet she gives it to a strange man for a piece of candy in less than a minute?”
Patrick felt his wife’s frustration and shared it equally, if not more so, but he desperately wanted to put it behind them in order to focus on the weekend ahead. It was the role he often played in their relationship. Amy was strong, tough, and outspoken, but she was a worrier, and Patrick frequently found himself assuring her all would be well, even if it meant bottling up his own fears and misgivings for the time being.
“Honey, I agree, what the guy did was exceptionally odd, but let’s just think about things for a second. He’s got a wife, in-laws, and twins to entertain while he’s up here. I highly doubt we’ll ever run into him again. Chances are, he was probably just passing by the restaurant, spotted our sore-thumb-of-an-SUV in a parking lot full of battered pick-ups, and decided to…I don’t know…reach out again.
“If you ask me he’s just a very strange guy who never received the handbook on acceptable social etiquette. Please, let’s not let it ruin our weekend, okay?”
Amy gave a weak smile, leaned forward and rested her head on Patrick’s chest. He stroked her long dark hair. “You know I would never let anything happen to you guys.”
“I know,” she said softly, her head still in his chest. She remained quiet for a moment before lifting her head and looking up at him. “You do realize we’re going to have to buy Carrie a new doll right?”
Patrick nodded. “Maybe I’ll go buy some lollipops and canvas the local pizza shops later. You know, look for a trade?”
Amy slapped his chest hard and pulled away. “You’re sick.”
Patrick took a step back and rubbed his chest. “Ouch,” he laughed. “That hurt.”
“Good,” she said without a trace of a smile. She picked up one of the small duffel bags and started walking towards the back door of the cabin.
A second later, the censor button on Patrick’s sense of humor appeared—late as usual.
6
Amy drove the Highlander along the only gravel road leading out of Crescent Lake. The large wooden sign that welcomed the family to the lake upon arrival now informed her that she was leaving, just in case the obvious had managed to elude her.
She recalled from previous years spent at the cabin that a Giant Food supermarket was a convenient three or four miles past the lake and would provide a decent go-to spot for any nec
essities that might pop up during the course of their stay.
As for now, Amy’s list was as basic as basic gets: some meat, some liquid, and some starch. Caveman-style, Patrick called it.
Remembering her husband’s expression brought a small smile to the corner of her mouth. When she recalled Patrick’s goofing around with the kids in his caveman voice the other corner of her mouth rose as well. She was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense feeling of love and gratitude for her husband—such a wonderful man who not only loved her unconditionally, but was the ideal father to her two babies.
The smile was now full-blown. Her light-brown eyes rimmed hot with happy tears. Amy laughed a small laugh, wiped the tears with the back of her hand, and pressed down on the accelerator. She wanted the food shopping over with so she could be back home with her husband and children as soon as possible.
* * *
“When will you let me pet him?” Carrie asked.
“When we take him to the vet and get him checked for every possible disease known to dog,” Patrick replied.
“When are we going to do that?” Carrie asked, looking over her shoulder at the four-legged bundle of dirt and fur that was following the three of them around the lake.
“That was a joke, sweetheart. We’re not going to be doing that. Besides, he probably belongs to someone else around here.”
Father, son, and daughter had walked halfway around the lake—Patrick in the middle with Caleb staying tight to his left, Carrie occasionally straying from his right in order to check the status of the terrier.
Despite the lake’s moniker, it was not crescent-shaped. If anything, it was more of a perfect square. However, Patrick believed he was correct in the assumption that “Crescent Lake” carried a bit more flair than the alternative “Square Lake” when it came to attracting potential residents.
Not that there were many vacancies. Crescent Lake was a small community—a secret of sorts. And the locals preferred it that way. If they wanted glamour and tourists they could have gone to any one of the fancy resorts in California, Arizona, Florida. Perhaps one of many island paradises that seemed almost fictional in its extravagance. But here, tucked away in a wooded nook of western Pennsylvania, they remained anonymous, truly to themselves—a prize forever cherished from the moment received.
Bad Games Page 3