Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games

by Menapace, Jeff

  “Welcome back, bitch,” he said. “You ready to have some fun?”

  *

  Amy sat alone in silence, the binds on her hands and ankles still strong and stubborn, affording no slack, the gag taking away any articulation from her voice, the blindfold robbing her sight. Smell and sound were her only available senses, and every now and then she thought she heard breathing, someone watching.

  Something in the room shifted. Amy cocked her blind head to one side, held her breath. Someone was in the room. And she knew who it was. She felt it.

  Amy spoke, desperate to manage Arty’s name around the gag that stretched her mouth. It came out better than she’d hoped.

  Her gag was pulled out and down to her neck. Still blind, Amy said, “Hi, Arty.”

  “Hi, Amy. Long time.”

  *

  Patrick was twenty miles from Crescent Lake. He picked up his cell, hit the speed dial he’d programmed earlier, asked to speak to agent Chris Miller when it picked up on the second ring.

  *

  “Are you comfortable?” Arty asked Amy.

  “Yes, thank you,” Amy said in the most contemptuous tone she could summon.

  Arty slapped her hard. The shock was magnified by the fact that she couldn’t see it coming, and the black screen of the blindfold flashed small bursts of purple light as she struggled to keep her head upright.

  “That was an appetizer … for Jim. A weak appetizer. We’ll be having more. Drinks too. Then the main course. Dessert. Coffee. After-dinner drinks—”

  “Oh shut up,” Amy said. “It’s old. Your whole shtick is old. Christ, any kid with half a brain could come up with a better sequel.”

  Arty slapped her again. She expected it this time, and the shock was lessened—no less painful, but lessened.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Amy. This is not a sequel—merely a continuation.”

  “Tomato, tomato.”

  She heard Arty laugh. “You really think you’re quite the spitfire don’t you? Already accepted your fate, yes?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And Patrick?”

  Amy’s heart jumped. She prayed it didn’t show on her face. “What about him?”

  “Have you accepted his fate as well? He’s on his way you know. Him and your kids.”

  It was impossible for Amy to hide it now. “My husband would never bring our children.”

  “I suspect you’re right. He said he was, but I didn’t believe him. Doesn’t really matter much anyway—after we’re done with you and lover boy we will find Carrie and Caleb. And I’ll take my time with them.”

  Amy’s rage put a momentary hold on her tongue. All she could do was clench her teeth and snort like a bull.

  “I also told Patrick no police. Told him that if we spot them—and we will if they come—you’re dead. I mean you’re gonna die anyway, but I at least promised him a chance to see you before you die. Before you both die. You see I really want it to be like old times. But if we spot the police? The only thing he’ll see when he gets here is your corpse. And believe me, sweetums, I’ll do a serious number on you. He’ll have to identify you by the scar over your tit from where I shot you.” He laughed.

  Amy said, “And when we kill you, they’ll identify you by the scars on your stomach and chest from where my husband fucked you with a knife.”

  The third slap knocked her unconscious.

  *

  “Please remember to hold at the rendezvous point,” Patrick said to Agent Miller. “He said if they spot any police whatsoever she was dead.”

  “We’ll hold,” Miller said.

  “Tell Allegheny County the same.”

  “Already did.”

  “I’m sure they’re jumpy after losing men during the court transfer,” Patrick said. “Tell them they can have first dibs on the assholes, I don’t care. I just want my wife to be safe, alright? Nobody can go in before me.”

  “They won’t, Patrick.”

  Patrick sighed deep into the phone. “Okay. I should be there in about five minutes.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  *

  Amy came to, disoriented. For a moment she forgot where she was, until Arty’s words brought it all back with painful clarity.

  “And she’s back,” Arty said. “Welcome back, Amy.”

  Amy shook her head, trying to clear it.

  “Turned out the lights on that last one, didn’t I?” he asked.

  “Yes, Arty. You should be very proud of your ability to knock a blind woman unconscious. What a stud you are.”

  “I guess maybe you need another, huh?”

  “Is that your plan? To keep hitting me all night? I remember you being more creative,” she said.

  “Oh no … oh no—there’s so much more planned, Amy. The hitting? Just getting carried away I suppose. Your smart mouth makes it all but impossible to resist.”

  “Would you rather I had a dumb mouth?”

  “You see? There you go again—so pleased with yourself in the face of adversity. Perhaps our last encounter was a good thing. It seems to have really toughened you up.”

  “I agree,” Amy said. “Sticking a nail file in your brother’s little balls was very cathartic. Watching my husband blow his head off was even better. Thanks for that.”

  She heard Arty take a sharp intake of breath, controlling his anger. “Now that really deserves another crack upside your cunting head.” Another deep breath. “But I won’t. I won’t because I need you conscious for when Patrick arrives. It won’t be long now. I’ve dreamed of this day, Amy. I’ll admit that for a time I had given up and lost hope. But when my sister contacted me, told me who she was, who my real father was.” Amy heard him sigh contently. “I knew I would have my vengeance soon—I just needed to be patient. And I knew that while I was being patient, my father and sister were picking up right where Jim and I had left off. And God damn were they good. Dead dog? Patrick’s job? Dead dad … ?” He paused as though getting ready to give a punch line. “Being at the actual funeral and signing the fucking guest book?” Arty started laughing hard. He tried to continue but had to pause a few times until his laughter finally subsided. “Monica told me she even got you to drive home wasted one night … right after your father’s drunk driving ‘accident.’ That is absolute-fucking-gold.” He started to laugh hard again, yet managed to finish with: “I’d cut my fucking thumb off right now if I could have seen the look on Patrick’s face when that happened.”

  Arty’s words weren’t a revelation for Amy. Had she heard them immediately following each incident, especially her father’s death, they would have carried the impact of a bullet. Now it was all in the “no shit” column. Amy’s face reflected that.

  “Abstaining are we?” There was more than just goading in Arty’s tone; there was a faint sense of frustration.

  “Just bored,” Amy said, bracing herself for another possible hit.

  “Sure you are,” Arty said with a cluck of the tongue. “But you needn’t worry …”

  Amy heard Arty move towards the front of the room. She heard clicks and whirrs—the sounds of some kind of technology.

  Arty removed her blindfold. Amy found herself in a room that was nearly bare. The room contained one tall halogen lamp, one window (that, in the dark of night beyond, only served to cruelly reflect her binds), one table, and most significantly, one tripod supporting an elaborate video camera pointing directly at her, a small circle glowing red on its casing, indicating the camera was live and running.

  Arty stepped in front of the camera. He and Amy locked eyes for the first time in months. Arty smiled from ear to ear; Amy could not fight a mask of hatred.

  Arty’s smile shortened into a satisfied smirk. “… it’s going to be show time very soon.”

  Chapter 74

  Patrick switched off his headlights and rolled to a slow stop at the rendezvous point a hundred yards from the perimeter of Crescent Lake. Before clicking off his lights he had spotted
three unmarked cars. Patrick was pleased Allegheny hadn’t arrived in cruisers; they may have been granted first dibs in taking Arty and his brood down, but it seemed the Feds were still calling the shots.

  Agent Miller approached Patrick as he exited the Highlander. It was dark, but Patrick could still make the agent out fairly well. The rest of the car doors behind the agent began opening—federal agents and members of the Allegheny County Police Department filed out, eight in all, geared to the nines in vests and weapons. The officers from Allegheny County were constantly popping, checking, then slamming the clips back home on their Berettas as they paced and twitched like men having to take a piss.

  Cowboys, Patrick thought. He didn’t blame them though. They weren’t here for points or accolades. They wanted vengeance. Same as him. Same as Arty and his family. Jesus. Today, kids, we’re going to learn about something called a theme.

  “How you doing?” Miller asked Patrick.

  “Scared. Worried.”

  Miller patted Patrick’s shoulder once. “We’ll have the place surrounded, but we’ll be out of sight. When you get near—”

  “Way out of sight,” Patrick interrupted. “He said they have eyes everywhere. If they spot you …”

  “That was likely a bluff. And even if they do have some type of surveillance they won’t spot us.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’m sure,” Miller said.

  Patrick dropped his head and took a breath. “Okay. I’m going to head towards the lake. Cabin eight.”

  “We’ll be close behind, on foot.”

  “Stay away from my break lights,” Patrick said. “If I hit them and they light one of your faces—”

  “We know what we’re doing, Patrick.” Miller patted his shoulder again. “This will all be over soon; you’ll see.”

  Patrick nodded, entered the Highlander, and began a slow drive down the gravel road leading into Crescent Lake.

  *

  Arty’s radio crackled. A deep male voice came through. “Got a car approaching, son.”

  Arty brought the radio to his mouth. “Make?”

  “It’s an SUV.” A pause, and then: “Highlander. Toyota Highlander.”

  “That’s him,” Arty said. “Is he alone?”

  “Can’t tell yet. Looks like he’s about to pull into the driveway.”

  Arty glanced down at Amy and pulled the radio away from his mouth. “Excited?”

  Amy was holding her breath; she said nothing.

  Arty smiled and brought the radio back to his lips. “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “He’s alone. No kids.”

  Amy gasped relief. Arty glanced down at her again and said: “We were expecting that. We’ll find them soon enough.”

  Amy glared up at him with murder in her eyes. He winked at her.

  “Any police?” Arty asked.

  “None so far. He’s heading towards the front door.”

  *

  Patrick stood outside the front door of cabin number eight bordering Crescent Lake. Memories came at him unrelenting, each one staying long enough to burn before the next.

  He closed his eyes. That only made it worse. He opened them. Shook his head. Slapped his face. Stomped his feet.

  Go inside. Do it now.

  Patrick turned the handle on the front door. He did not see the shadows of two Allegheny County officers creeping up close behind.

  *

  Arty’s radio crackled. “He’s at the front door.”

  “Copy that,” Arty said. He licked his lips and readied himself.

  “Except …”

  “What?”

  “… it appears our hero brought the police with him after all.”

  Arty looked down at Amy and grinned. “Well—I guess your hubby doesn’t love you as much as you thought.” He put her gag back on.

  *

  Patrick opened the front door and walked into the den. He did not survey his surroundings. He did not survey them because the enormous television perched high up on its stand in the middle of the room captured every bit of his attention.

  Amy was on that TV screen. The scene was a horrific memory come back to life—his wife bound and gagged and helpless in a chair, Arty next to her, grinning, back in charge. Patrick stared, his mouth gaping.

  “I told you you’d see her again,” Arty said. He stroked Amy’s hair as he spoke. She violently recoiled away from each stroke. “You can speak if you like. There’s a mic; I can hear you.”

  Anger had not hit Patrick’s face yet; it was still shock. “What is this?” he said. “You said you wanted us both. You wanted … you wanted a reunion.”

  “Oh I do. Or should I say: I did. But I had to test you first, Patrick. And guess what?” He made a boo-hoo face. “You failed.”

  “What? I did exactly what you said! You son of a bitch, I did exactly what you said!”

  “Did you? Where are the kids?”

  Patrick swallowed hard. He looked away and said, “They’re in the car.”

  Arty made the sound of a game show buzzer. “That’s a lie. I imagine you’re not much of a poker player.”

  Patrick’s chest was heaving now. “You knew I wasn’t going to bring them, Arty. You knew that.”

  Arty closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I suppose I did.” He left Amy’s side and approached the camera, his face now taking up the screen. “But what about the fuzz? The pigs? The coppers?”

  “What about them?”

  Arty tilted his head to one side, pursed his lips and said, “Come on, Patrick. I told you we would know if they came with you.”

  “There are no cops,” he said fast and desperate. “I swear, I swear.”

  “I swear, I swear,” Arty mocked. “You might want to peek over you shoulder, honest Abe.”

  Patrick spun. Two Allegheny County Police Officers were behind him, guns drawn, eyes stuck on the television, confused.

  “No!” Patrick screamed at the officers. “GODDAMNIT, NO!”

  Patrick spun back towards the television. “Arty, please! Just listen to me!”

  Arty shook a finger and made a tsk, tsk sound. “Shame. You know, despite my hatred for you, Patrick, there was always a little bit of respect. I thought you had balls. Honor.” He shook his head. “You’re pathetic … and your wife is as good as dead.”

  “NO! NO, WAIT! YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

  Arty waved goodbye, stepped away from the camera, and let an image of a sobbing Amy in plain view for a few intentional seconds before the screen went black.

  Patrick kicked the television over and roared. The front door burst open and the remaining officers and agents flooded in. Patrick screamed and spat insults at them. Punched holes in the walls. Kicked a table over and stomped it until it was in pieces. No officer or agent dared intervene. Not even Agent Miller.

  Patrick let loose one more almighty roar and then ran out of cabin number eight on Crescent Lake like a maniac into the night.

  Chapter 75

  Patrick sprinted through the woods. Branches smacked and stung his face but did not bother him; the pain fueled his charge. It was dark, and at times he doubted his footing, but he knew he was headed in the right direction. If he took a spill, fuck it. He would bounce right back up no matter what the damage and keep on going.

  Twenty yards ahead he began to make out the road, and the idling car that was waiting.

  *

  An Allegheny County Officer approached Agent Miller following a thorough sweep of the cabin. “Nothing,” the officer said. “Just the TV and some surveillance equipment.”

  Miller looked at the ground, kicked over a stone and cursed under his breath.

  The officer said, “Look, we may have jumped the gun a little, but she wasn’t even in there. The sick bastard was playing games. He was gonna kill her no matter what. If she was there, we might have been able to save her.”

  Miller looked away and sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Tr
y and explain that to Mr. Lambert.”

  The officer looked in all directions. “Where is he?”

  Chapter 76

  Patrick sat in the passenger seat. Dan Briggs sped through the back roads of western Pennsylvania as if he’d lived there his whole life. They were almost there.

  Patrick’s cell phone rang. The caller ID was blocked, but he knew who it was—he was counting on it. Patrick flipped open his phone. “Hello?”

  “Disappointment is an understatement here, Patrick.”

  Patrick glanced at Briggs, nodded, then replied: “Where are you, Arty?”

  “I gave you pretty simple directions. And yet you chose to let your wife die.”

  “Fuck you. You were going to kill her anyway.”

  “I wanted to play the game again. I wanted a reunion.”

  “You’ve been playing the game, asshole. Or should I say, your family has been playing the game while you’ve been locked away. Living vicariously through them just isn’t the same thing though, is it?”

  Brief silence. “Are you trying to mind-fuck me, Patrick? Unwise.”

  “No mind-fuck. Just truth. I have no doubt you would have done the actual deed when the time came, but at the end of the day it would have left you empty inside, wouldn’t it? Just murder? No fun, no games?”

  Arty laughed, but it sounded forced. “Who said no games? We had many, many things in store for you two.”

  “Bullshit. You’re not invisible anymore, Arty. The FBI dreams about you. You’ve got to keep on the move. Your father and sister could plan and spend all the time they wanted. They still can. But not you. Nope—your days of fun and games ended the night my wife and I kicked the living shit out of you and your douche bag brother.”