Bad Games

by Jeff Menapace

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Did you know The Bad Seed was based on a true story? That there really was a serial killer grandma that had an eight-year-old, serial killer granddaughter?”

  This was a lie, but Patrick hardly cared. He was having too much fun. “I guess the point I’m trying to make here, Arthur, is that in this case—in your case—it looks like heredity was the winner. Hey, you know what I just thought? What if your real father’s name was actually Stanley? How fucking funny would that be?”

  Amy laughed again.

  “So you know what I’m thinking here, Arty?” Patrick said. “I think—no—I bet. I bet my newly saved life that your biological parents, the real people responsible for bringing you into this world, were just as sick and fucked up as you and your brother are.” Patrick quickly corrected himself, “Oh, sorry…as you are. Guess I’d have to say were if I’m talking about Jim, yeah?”

  Arty finally spoke in a tone below a shout, though it clearly held no guarantees it would remain as such; his face was near purple with rage, veins bulged his neck and forehead, looking as if they might split the skin. “You don’t know that. You don’t know that for sure.”

  Amy shrugged. “You’re right. Nobody does—including you. We might be able to find out though. Do some digging maybe? If we really tried I’m sure we could come up with something.” She looked at Detective Henry. He raised both eyebrows and nodded in agreement. Amy continued.

  “But I don’t think you want us to do that, do you, Arty? In fact, I don’t think we would want to do it either. I think it’s best if we just let it fester inside that rotted head of yours. Because deep down I think you know the truth. We all know the truth. And if you’ll forgive the pun…that seed we just planted? That seed that’s gonna keep on growing and growing…? That’s enough for us. That seed will put a smile on the face of my husband and I for the rest of our very long lives.”

  Patrick took another step closer towards the bed. He wanted to hammer the point home. “So enjoy your time in prison, Arty. I wouldn’t hold my breath on waiting for any budding shrinks to come look you up. Especially not after my wife and I make certain that everyone knows the true origins of the ‘infamous’ Fannelli brothers.”

  Patrick began guiding Amy towards the door. Before exiting he looked at Arty, smirked and added, “Maybe Amy and I will send you a card on Mother’s Day.”

  Detective Henry barked a laugh, instantly covered his mouth and said, “Ah shit. Come on.” He ushered the Lamberts out of the room.

  75

  The silver Highlander headed east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike towards Valley Forge. The sunglasses Patrick wore shielded both the sun and the bruising that was still evident around his eyes.

  Amy was next to him in the passenger seat, her hand on his knee throughout the entire trip. She gave it a little squeeze.

  Patrick glanced at her and smiled. “What?”

  She smiled back, took a deep breath. “It’s just nice to know you’re there.”

  He took her hand off his knee, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. “You’ll never get rid of me, baby.”

  “I hope not.” She shifted her torso slightly and winced.

  “You alright?”

  She gingerly patted the right side of her chest. “Still sore.”

  He kissed her hand again. “That’s to be expected. Doctor said it would take awhile.”

  “How about you?” she asked.

  He let go of her hand and touched his stomach. “Still sore. Who would have ever thought two suburbanites like us would be shot and stabbed?”

  She chuckled softly. “Not me.”

  “At least we’ll have cool scars.”

  “I don’t want a cool scar, thank you. A big pink hole over my right boob—I’ll be quite the stunner in a bikini.”

  “Thank God he didn’t shoot you in the boob.”

  Amy shook her head. “My husband: a man of priorities.”

  He smiled and winked at her. She put her hand back on his knee and gave it another little squeeze.

  “Well hey, how do you think Oscar feels?” he asked. “Poor little guy got his tail sliced off. How you doin’ back there pal?” Patrick reached behind him and stuck his fingers through the metal grate of the pet carrier in the back seat.

  Oscar instantly licked his fingers and wagged his stump.

  “He should have been a cat,” Amy said. “Nine lives and all.”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t get,” Patrick said. “Those sickos had no trouble taking the lives of all those people, yet when it came to a dog…”

  Amy shrugged. “Not part of their stupid little game I guess. I won’t even pretend to understand.”

  Patrick grunted.

  Amy reached back and let Oscar have a lick of her fingers as well. “I still can’t believe they found the bugger. I can’t wait to see the look on Carrie’s face when we get him home. I’m praying it helps speed up the healing process.”

  Patrick sighed. “Yeah.”

  * * *

  The symbol of a gasoline handle was lit on the Highlander’s dashboard. Patrick paused before exiting the car and turned to his wife. “You want anything?”

  “Something to drink please.”

  “Coke?”

  “Fine.”

  Patrick exited the SUV and began pumping his gas. When he finished he went inside the mini-mart to pay. As he exited with a bottle of Coke in hand, he noticed a man filling his black Volkswagen behind the Highlander. The pump was running hands-free, and the man was leaning against the hood of his Volkswagen, both arms folded, staring at the rear of Patrick’s car.

  “You go to Penn State?” the man asked when Patrick arrived. He was a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a white sweatshirt. He was smiling pleasantly when he asked the question.

  Patrick said nothing. He walked around his SUV, opened the passenger door, and gave Amy her Coke. She pulled the door shut, and Patrick pressed on it afterwards to ensure it was shut properly. He then calmly walked over to the smiling man and launched him clear across the hood of his Volkswagen with a thunderous right hook.

  Patrick got back into the driver’s seat of the Highlander and looked at his now wide-eyed wife. He shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, baby.”

  76

  After a few months, the Lamberts were finally ready to entertain. Nothing big—just a few friends over for dinner and drinks.

  The “subject” was carefully avoided at first, almost to an awkward degree, making conversation hollow and generic. But as the drinks continued, and the mood lightened, it was all but impossible for someone not to take that first plunge.

  Long-time friends, Jamie and Alexis Brown, were those first two.

  “So how are you two coping?” Jamie asked. “I mean really.”

  The remaining couple, Tom and Jane Jenkins, shared an uncertain glance.

  “I think we’ve crossed the last big hurdle,” Patrick said after he and Amy shared their own uncertain glance.

  With the exception of police and close family, the couple had not shared any details about their ordeal at Crescent Lake to anyone, yet knew it would ultimately surface one day and need to be addressed. They had even rehearsed what should and should not be divulged. The gist of the tragedy had already been learned (how could it not after the media coverage it had received), but it was the details that were shaky ground. A vague synopsis of the goings-on could be discussed, but gruesome particulars (Patrick biting off a nose; Amy jamming a nail file into a man’s balls; et al) were better left locked away in a vault that even the Lamberts struggled to open.

  “How so?” Alexis prodded.

  Taking a healthy pull from her chardonnay, Amy said, “Patrick and I have been seeing a therapist who has helped us a great deal. He helps us try to place the incident in the same category as a bad dream. It will surely haunt us, likely forever, but time will hopefully be our ally. The more we can distance ou
rselves from everything and remove all traces of the affair, the less impact it will have over time. At least that’s what we’re being fed.” Amy ended with an awkward laugh. The table’s placating laugh that followed was even more awkward.

  “What about the trial?” Jamie asked.

  “Of course we’ll eventually have to revisit some unpleasant memories at the trial, but we’re not even thinking about that right now. Right now is all about healing immediate wounds.” She took another decent swallow from her glass. “Like I said; lessen the impact…”

  “Speaking of wounds, how are…?” Tom motioned his hand over his own torso, hinting at the physical wounds Amy and Patrick had endured.

  Patrick touched the scar on his stomach; the wounds on his face had long been healed. “Well, they’re a reminder of course.” He looked at Amy who rubbed the spot above her right breast. “Something that has unfortunately tattooed us with the memory of everything, but…as Amy said, we’re hoping time will be our ally.”

  “Any pain?” Jane asked.

  “Not too bad anymore,” Amy said, rubbing her chest again. “It was pretty bad at first. God bless Codeine and wine.”

  Another placating laugh from the table, though less awkward than before.

  The six adults sat in silence for a beat. Some took sips from their drinks, others poked at the remains on their plates. It was only a matter of time before the next question was carefully measured and delivered.

  “How about the kids?” Jamie asked. “How are they holding up?”

  Patrick said, “The psychologists we’ve worked with said they have youth on their side. Said that at their age, their resiliency can prove surprisingly strong.”

  Alexis said, “You seem as if you don’t agree.”

  Patrick gave a partial shrug. “I’d have to agree as far as Caleb is concerned, but Carrie…” He glanced at Amy. His look asked his wife if she felt comfortable with continuing, and it asked if this was indeed one of those details that was better left alone. She answered him by answering the table.

  “Carrie’s been struggling ever since we got home,” she said. “She was sleeping with us up until a couple of weeks ago. She still wakes up screaming and crying from nightmares.”

  Alexis put a hand to her chest. “Oh, the poor thing.”

  Tom wrinkled his brow. “Wait…so Caleb’s okay?”

  “We don’t know,” Patrick said. “He seems okay. In fact, he seems a little too okay. And to be honest, that has us a bit worried. We asked the doctor about it; we were worried that he was in shock, or so traumatized by everything that he had somehow suppressed it. But one of the doctors told us that if he hasn’t exhibited any distressing behavior thus far, then he should be fine. I’m not sure I agree with all that, but hey, what the hell do I know?”

  “I’m not sure I agree either,” Tom said. “How could it not affect him?”

  “The doctor said it most assuredly did, but that because of Caleb’s age, he likely couldn’t comprehend what the hell was going on. Again, it goes back to the whole resiliency thing with kids—the younger they are, the more resilient, I guess. Perhaps he’s already done what Amy and I are hoping to do, and chalked the whole thing up to a bad dream.”

  Tom’s frowned remained. “Strange that he hasn’t even shown the slightest signs of post-traumatic stress.”

  Amy shrugged. “Both kids slept with us when we got home. We insisted on it. But after a few days Caleb wanted to go back to his own bed. He’s been fine ever since; he putters around here as though nothing happened.”

  “Which is fine by us,” Patrick said. “Carrie’s been struggling so much, it helps us devote a little more attention towards soothing her without having to worry if Caleb is receiving equal care.”

  “As odd as it may sound,” Amy began, “I suppose their reactions mimic their personalities. Carrie has always been the high-strung, extroverted one. Caleb could be sitting next to you on the sofa and sometimes you’ll forget he’s even there.”

  “He’s a tough little bugger—just like his old man,” Jamie said with a smile.

  Patrick returned the gesture, but it was labored.

  Jamie played with something on his plate, his attention obviously elsewhere. Patrick sensed something coming he wouldn’t like.

  “How did you do it, Patrick?” Jamie asked. He then looked at Amy. “How did you both do it?”

  Patrick ate a mouthful of food as a means to buy time. After swallowing, he feigned ignorance. “Do what?”

  “How did you manage…to do what it was that you did…to come out alive?”

  “Jamie,” Alexis said.

  Patrick and Amy shared what seemed like their one-hundredth glance before Patrick fixed on Jamie. “Like I said, Jamie—we’re trying to forget it.”

  Jamie held up a hand. “Okay, I’m sorry. I was just…no, I’m sorry.”

  Patrick smiled genuinely. These were his friends; they had been drinking; they were curious. Likely, he’d be the same way. “It’s okay, man. Maybe some day.”

  A whine emerged from beneath the table. All six adults leaned to one side and looked below them. Oscar stood by Patrick’s feet, wagging the stump that used to be his tail.

  “Now here’s someone we could all take a lesson from,” Patrick said. “The poor thing had his tail sliced off, and all he cares about is getting some leftovers.”

  The table laughed—a good laugh this time; no placating; nothing awkward.

  “I guess if you can find one good thing to come from all of this…” Alexis said.

  Amy snorted. “Speak for yourself. He eats more than all four of us combined. I don’t know where he puts it in that little body of his. That mangy mutt is going to eat us out of house and home.”

  Another good laugh from the table.

  When it faded, Tom asked, “You don’t think he’s a reminder? The dog?”

  It was a good question, one that Patrick had never really considered. He looked at Amy for help. She looked mildly annoyed at the query.

  “He makes Carrie happy. We’re not about to take that away from her,” was all she said.

  Tom smiled and nodded fast, seemingly realizing that he too had just joined Jamie Brown on the Inappropriate Dinner Conversation Team. “Good, good, I’m glad,” he said.

  * * *

  Dessert and coffee were done, and a brief silence returned once again. Clinks and tinks from glasses, plates, and silverware played a broken tune.

  Carrie’s sudden scream from upstairs broke the silence.

  Both Patrick and Amy leapt from the table, the squeak of their chairs on the wooden floor like sneakers on a basketball court.

  The couple bounded upstairs, the dinner guests leaving their seats and forming a group at the base of the stairs.

  Carrie was upright in bed, sobbing, her sheets soaked with sweat. Amy wiped her daughter’s matted hair from her eyes and flashed on Carrie’s insistence to have her bangs cut when they first arrived at Crescent Lake. She began to cry with her daughter as she held her tight. Patrick sat at the foot of the bed, rubbing his daughter’s shaking legs. He lowered his head and fought back his own tears.

  * * *

  Patrick returned to the group at the base of the stairs alone. He explained that Carrie had a nightmare and that Amy was consoling her. He did not have to ask everyone to leave. They took the cue.

  * * *

  Hugging his final guest before shutting the door behind them, Patrick returned upstairs to Carrie’s room where she had managed to fall back to sleep in Amy’s arms.

  “Are you going to stay in here with her tonight?” he whispered.

  She shook her head, then slowly slid her way out from beneath her daughter, gently lowering her head back down to the pillow.

  They checked Caleb’s room next. He was fast asleep; Carrie’s screams hadn’t woken him.

  “He could sleep through an earthquake,” Patrick whispered as he shut his son’s door.

  The two walked into their bedroom wh
ere Amy sat on the bed and put her face in both hands.

  “You okay?” Patrick asked.

  She looked up, sighed. “Yeah. I just want it all to be over. I want the bad dream to end.”

  He sat beside her. “I do too, baby.” She leaned in and rested her head on his chest. He kissed the top of her head and started running his fingers over her back. “Tell you what, why don’t you go get ready for bed. I’ll go downstairs and clean up.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll come down and help.”

  He pulled her in, squeezed, and kissed the top of her head again. “I insist.”

  She took her head off his chest and kissed him. “I love you.”

  * * *

  Patrick had cleared the dining room table, and was now elbow deep in suds at the kitchen sink. He thought about Jamie’s question:

  “How did you do it? How did you manage to…do what it was that you did…to come out alive?”

  He set the plate he’d been holding back into the sink and shut the water off. How had they done it? How had he done it? That man who did those things. That man who shot, stabbed, and mauled like a savage beast. Was that him? Standing here now, safe in his suburban kitchen, knowing Jim was dead and that Arty was locked away, he felt as though he hadn’t done those things—that someone else had. He felt a vague connection to it as though it were a scene in a film he had seen more than once. Now, in retrospect, he felt removed from the blood lust that had surged through his veins during that horrific moment.

  A tingle began at the base of his spine, and then tickled ice cold all the way to the top of his head…because he had done those things. My God. He had.

  And to answer your question, Jamie, I have no fucking idea how we managed to do it. No fucking idea at all. I guess when it comes to family…

  Patrick thought of the nose he’d bitten off Jim Fannelli’s face and immediately filled a glass of water. He gargled with it then spat. He repeated the process, and then set the empty glass to one side. He placed both hands on the sink’s ledge to steady himself, his head down.