“Is there anyone else at the office you suspect?”
“No. Besides, how could they have done it? How could they have gotten into the system with Lucas’ identity? Cracked my files and altered my presentation as smooth as they did? As far as I know, Jason Bourne doesn’t work at the office.”
Amy smiled even though she knew the quip had no intention of producing one. “Maybe you should go see Lucas.”
Patrick lifted his head off the sofa. “What? What makes you think he’s gonna want to see me? Shit, I’m still praying he doesn’t press charges.”
Amy knew her husband too well not to suggest it again. She knew the idea had crossed his mind. “Do you really believe it was him?”
Patrick stared at the ceiling for a silent moment. “No,” he eventually said, dejected. “Jon was right. Lucas is a pain in the ass, but he doesn’t have it in him.”
Amy continued to stare at Patrick, her look repeating her previous suggestion.
“What would I say?” he asked.
“You could start with ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Fine—I go say I’m sorry and kiss his ass so he won’t press charges. Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t just let this drop. I have to find out who did this.” Patrick stopped, his fist tightened. “I swear that son of a bitch is behind it somehow.”
“You just said—”
“Not Lucas.”
Amy read his mind. “Patrick …”
“What?”
“You know that’s impossible.”
“So who was it? His asshole-brother’s ghost?”
“Go see Lucas,” she said. “And then after that, I think you should go see Dr. Bogan.”
“Dr. Bogan?”
“You respect him. You’ve told me a dozen times you think the guy is a genius.”
“He works with kids, Amy. Besides, we’ve got Dr. Stone.”
“So then just talk to him. Invite him over for a chat. Nothing official.”
“What about Dr. Stone?”
“Dr. Stone is great—but she’s for us. This is for you. It wouldn’t hurt to call and ask. Tell him what happened. Ask him to drop by for a man-to-man chat. Tell him you value his insight.”
“I don’t know.” Patrick’s eyes scanned Amy’s face. “Doesn’t this bother you? You know I didn’t do it. Don’t you want to know who did?”
“Of course I do, baby.” And then a sudden voice in her head asked: Could it be Arty? Amy’s paranoia since the moment they’d arrived home from the hospital was no less severe than Patrick’s, perhaps more so, but the possibility that Arty was somehow behind this, locked up hundreds of miles away in Pittsburgh, seemed impossible. She buried the thought instantly and continued. “And ultimately I think we’ll find out who’s responsible. In the meantime, I think it might be wise to make amends with Steve Lucas. We’ve already got one court hearing coming up, the last thing we need is to look forward to another. Besides, maybe he’ll have a few theories of his own about what happened. It might shed some light on a possibility you haven’t considered yet.”
“I’ve considered everything.”
“You’re also upset. Your anger’s probably clouding your mind.”
Patrick sunk into the sofa and rubbed his eyes. “Okay, fine.”
“And you’ll call Dr. Bogan?”
“I don’t know if they can do that—make house calls.”
“You can still try. Again, nothing official—just someone you can vent to. How many times did you tell me you wished he was our therapist?”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
Chapter 51
Steve Lucas had been released from Chester County hospital the same day he’d arrived. He had a broken nose, two broken ribs, and a jacket of bruises.
To Patrick’s surprise, Lucas let Patrick into his home and offered him a seat without a fuss. Lucas’ nose was plastered with a white dressing and both eyes were already black. He winced as he took a spot on his sofa. Patrick sat in a chair to Lucas’ left.
“I’m not pressing charges, Patrick, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “I thought about it, believe me I did, but you were the only one who came to check on me after … you know.”
“I’m sorry, Steve. I have no excuse for my actions.” This wasn’t exactly true. At the time, Patrick felt he’d had a damn good excuse. “I had just worked so goddamned hard on that account. What happened … what happened was … Jesus, I don’t even know what to call it.”
Lucas nodded. “It was fucked up.”
Try, Patrick thought. What have you got to lose? “Can you think of anyone at work who might have been capable?”
Lucas shook his head. “No. And I especially can’t think of anyone who could get hold of my key card, use it, then slip it back into my wallet hours later without my knowing it.”
That was a big piece of the puzzle. If the key card was missing, then they’d be scratching the surface—someone had stolen his card and they’d be off to some kind of start. Problem was, the card wasn’t missing—Lucas still had it; apparently always did.
Someone could have hacked into the security system in order to frame Lucas, Patrick supposed. It was possible. But it raised some questions. The first being why frame Steve Lucas? Because Lucas can be an asshole. That was easy enough. The second question was not so easy. Why sabotage Patrick’s account in one’s efforts to frame Lucas? What was the connection? Someone with the know-how on hacking into a high-tech security system could almost certainly think of better ways to mess with Steve Lucas than ruining Patrick’s account in the process. Perhaps Lucas and Patrick shared a common enemy at work? Who, though? Patrick liked to believe he got along well with everyone. And he was more than confident that if he had done something to upset someone in the past, it certainly didn’t warrant a retaliation in the vein of what he’d received. No. It didn’t add up. None of it added up.
“Who do you think it might be?” Lucas asked. “Besides me of course.”
Patrick gave a little smile, grateful Lucas had already resorted to levity. “I have no idea, man.”
They sat in silence. Patrick looked around the room and saw that the big hole in Lucas’ wall had not yet been fixed. Should he change gears and mention it? He knew Lucas didn’t like to talk about it, but perhaps if Patrick expressed more interest in the debacle that had ensued with the girl Lucas had been seeing, it would cement Patrick’s status as the caring individual who’d checked up on him, lest the man ever change his mind about pressing charges.
“Any updates on …” Patrick pointed to the hole in the wall.
Lucas didn’t have to turn around and look. “No, thank God.”
“You really don’t remember anything about that night?”
Lucas shook his head. “I remember meeting her at the bar. The rest is a blank.”
“Maybe someone slipped you something.”
Lucas shrugged. “Too late to check now—if they did it would already be out of my system. I can tell you one thing though, Patrick: you can think whatever you like of me, but I have never laid a finger on a woman in my life. I’m no angel, I’ll admit to that, but even at my worst, I have never, ever …” He dropped his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Something weird happened that night. Something I had nothing to do with.” He brought his head back up and locked eyes with Patrick. “I’d bet my life on it.”
Patrick looked at the coffee table and spotted Lucas’ cell phone. “Did you go through your phone? Look for any numbers dialed? Weird text messages? Pictures?”
Lucas nodded. “Yeah—nothing. Just the one photo I took of us when we first got to the bar. That I remember taking.”
“Let me see,” Patrick said.
Lucas held his ribs and winced as he leaned forward and grabbed his phone. He punched a few buttons then handed it to Patrick.
It was a picture of Lucas, grinning in all his glory, his arm out of the frame, holding the camera phone. Hi
s other arm was around a gorgeous blonde. She looked familiar.
“Huh,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“She looks familiar.”
“She does?”
“Yeah,” Patrick said, frowning at the phone. “Where though?”
Lucas said nothing.
“Where did you meet her?”
“At a bar around the corner. Bravo’s.”
“What’s her name?”
“Samantha.”
Patrick stared at the image until it fuzzed. He blinked hard and continued looking. Where had he seen her? It had been recent. He knew it was recent. Maybe he had seen her at Bravo’s too. Except he had only been to Bravo’s once—a long time ago.
Recent. Recent. Where? Whe—
Patrick’s heart skipped. Bob’s funeral. He was looking at a picture of the gorgeous woman from Bob’s funeral.
“Can’t be,” he whispered.
Lucas said, “Huh?”
Patrick ignored him. It couldn’t be. He remembered that woman as having dark hair, dark eyes. This woman was blonde with (he squinted) green eyes. Besides, Bob’s funeral was in Harrisburg. That woman claimed she was a local, knew Bob from Gilley’s Tavern. Steve’s photo was taken here.
It couldn’t be her. No way.
“Nothing,” Patrick said, shaking his head, handing the phone back to Lucas. “She reminded of someone I recently met.”
“You met her?”
“No, no. The woman I met lived in Harrisburg. She was at my father-in-law’s funeral. Besides the woman I met had dark hair and dark eyes. They just look a lot alike I guess.”
Lucas said, “Well, if you ever do run into her, steer clear. The girl is bad news.”
Chapter 52
Amy was heading out for the night with friends. Patrick told her not to drive home drunk. She punched him in the chest and told him he was hilarious.
An hour later the doorbell rang. Dr. Bogan wore a pleasant smile as Patrick invited him in and took his coat.
“I really appreciate you coming, Dr. Bogan. I know this isn’t usually the norm.”
Dr. Bogan waved away Patrick’s comment. “Not a problem.”
They left the foyer and entered the den. “Can I get you a drink?” Patrick asked. “We’ve got scotch, gin—”
“I don’t suppose you have any V8 Juice?” Dr. Bogan asked.
“I …” Patrick turned towards the kitchen. “I’m not sure. Let me check.” Patrick hurried towards the kitchen and checked the fridge, hoping to spot Dr. Bogan’s request. No luck. He checked the pantry. A large bottle stood tall and unopened. Nobody in their house drank V8, but there it was. Sadly, Patrick thought, this plastic bottle of vegetable juice might be the only pleasant surprise he’d had all week. “Eureka,” he called into the den. “It’s warm. Do you want ice?”
Dr. Bogan, who had been puttering around the den, fingering books on shelves and smiling at family photos, said he would.
Patrick returned to the den with a tall glass of V8 with ice. “You don’t mind if I fix myself a drink, do you?” Patrick asked.
“Of course not.”
Patrick opened the liquor cabinet adjacent to their largest book case, poured himself a Glenlivet neat, and motioned for Dr. Bogan to sit anywhere he wished. Dr. Bogan took the chair next to the sofa. Patrick took the sofa.
“Cheers,” Patrick said.
Dr. Bogan smiled with his eyes and clinked Patrick’s glass.
They sipped, sighed, then sunk into their seats.
Patrick had explained everything to Dr. Bogan over the phone, even his paranoid fears that in some inexplicable way, Arty Fannelli was responsible for recent events. Initially he had no intentions of briefing Dr. Bogan over the phone, but at the time it felt necessary, perhaps trying to convince Bogan to show in case the good doctor thought it best otherwise.
Despite the briefing and the obvious subject at hand, Patrick felt he should begin by wading into the shallow end. “Caleb is doing great,” he said. “Better than great. He looks forward to your visits.”
Dr. Bogan set his V8 on the coffee table. “Tell me about you,” he said.
Patrick smiled. He should have known small talk was off the curriculum with Dr. Bogan.
*
“What you’re suggesting is somewhat fantastic, Patrick,” Dr. Bogan said.
“I know—I don’t see how it could be possible either. Christ, I even called Pittsburgh this morning to see if he was still locked up.”
D.r Bogan accommodated him. “And is he?”
Patrick smiled. “Yes.”
Bogan returned the smile and sipped from his second glass of V8.
“It’s just this whole thing—everything that’s happened after Crescent Lake—it’s something he would do.”
“The sabotage of your account?” Dr. Bogan said.
“No. Well, yes, but …” Patrick gave a frustrated sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing: before everything got really bad at Crescent Lake, there was all this … bad luck. I mean it’s all hindsight now, and I’ve been trying desperately not to kill myself over it, but we should have left that goddamned place long before everything went to hell. You see, that’s how they worked, him and his brother, they played games. They probably could have killed us whenever they wanted to—Christ, from the day we first arrived there for all I know. But they toyed with us. Even when they had us captive they still …” Patrick clenched his fist. “They still had to have their fun, still had to play their little games.
“Before we even met them they were already planning, had already chosen us. And they were smart. Apparently they’d been doing this shit forever. They play little tricks and set little traps. They make you doubt yourself; chalk everything up to bad luck. Every-single-little-thing that happened—and again, I’m talking before we were tied up, before shit got real bad—was planned by them. From the moment I met the bastard at the gas station, their game had already begun. It just grew and grew from there, and before my stupid ego accepted the fact that this was not just bad luck, that these were not freak occurrences, it was too late. They had us.” Patrick drained his second scotch. “They fucking had us.”
“And so now you think this bad luck—everything you’ve experienced since you’ve returned from Crescent Lake—is not bad luck,” Dr. Bogan said. “That it’s Arthur Fannelli managing to orchestrate some type of new game from behind bars in Pittsburgh.”
“Ignoring my gut last time got a knife rammed in it,” Patrick said. “I almost lost my family. I won’t—it’s not going to happen again.”
Dr. Bogan stood and began wandering around the den as he spoke. “The blown account does raise cause for concern. But the dog? Your father-in-law?”
“And Amy’s drunk driving after her father’s drunk-driving-death.” Patrick added.
Dr. Bogan shot a curious look over his shoulder. “Grief, followed by bad judgment?”
“See that’s just it, Dr. Bogan. It doesn’t seem possible, it doesn’t make sense. But after what I’ve been through, after being up close and personal with this psychopath, I can now—without a fucking doubt—tell you this: It can make sense. It can be possible.” Patrick stared at his empty glass. “I just don’t know how.”
Dr. Bogan began fingering the books on Patrick’s shelves again. “A fan perhaps?”
“What?”
“It’s a sad truth that serial killers have an enormous fan base. Perhaps Arthur Fannelli is pulling the strings of some admiring puppet on the outside.”
Patrick was stunned. He feared Dr. Bogan was doubting him, filing him under paranoia as ninety-nine percent of other shrinks likely would have. But now he gratefully remembered why Dr. Bogan was not like ninety-nine percent of other shrinks, why he’d called him in the first place. The man had no preconceived notions. He did not jump to textbook conclusions. He eliminated the impossible, and whatever remained, however improbable, would likely be the truth. A modern day Sherlock Holmes … who drank V8.
�
��I never thought of that,” Patrick said. “Jesus Christ, I never even thought of that.”
Dr. Bogan continued puttering around the den as he spoke. “Many serial killers have copycats,” he added. “A sick homage to their idols.”
Patrick hopped to his feet. “Well that must be it then! He’s got some crazy fan who—”
Dr. Bogan held up a hand, then kindly waved Patrick back into his seat. “It’s a possibility, Patrick, that’s all. We know someone ruined your presentation, that’s irrefutable. But the other occurrences? To make them look like bad luck and accidents? That would take a significant degree of cunning. I question whether the type who would deify a character of Arthur Fannelli’s ilk would be capable of such feats.”
“Well like you said yourself—what if Arty’s pulling the strings? Telling the guy what to do?”
“Well then that brings us to the issue of communiqué. How would Arty be pulling these strings? I would be shocked if all his incoming and outgoing mail wasn’t thoroughly scrutinized.”
“Maybe Arty paid off one of the officers. I’ve read about corrupt guards helping prisoners. They do all kinds of crazy shit for them. Even help them escape.”
Dr. Bogan nodded. “Possible.”
Patrick felt a queer sense of excitement, like a detective on the verge of cracking a case. “So what can we do?”
Dr. Bogan picked up the guest book from Bob’s funeral. Audrey Lambert did not want the book; its reminder would have forced sincere grief, popped her little bubble-world of repression. So Amy had taken it.
Dr. Bogan smiled at the larger-than-life photo of Bob Corcoran on the cover of the guest book. “Well we can contact the prison again,” he said as he began leafing through the book. “Ask if any mail has seemed out of the ordinary.”
“Should we call now?”
Dr. Bogan flipped another page. “I think it can wait until morning.”
“The trial is this Monday.”
“He’s not going anywhere, Patrick.”
“But if we find something, we can use it—his insanity plea won’t stand a chance.”
Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games Page 19