Bad Games: Malevolent

by Menapace, Jeff

  Domino inched towards the edge of his porch. Leaned over the railing and scanned his backyard in all directions.

  “Colder.”

  “You can see me, huh?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately. You haven’t aged well.”

  Something started to gel. He might have gotten there sooner after the mere mention of Patrick’s name, but alcohol and rage had blurred his reasoning.

  He stepped back inside and locked the sliding glass door.

  “Warmer.”

  Domino tossed some bait. “Playing a kid’s game like the amateur you are. Why am I not surprised?”

  A pause, and then: “This ‘amateur’ is going to pull off what your ‘professional’ never could.”

  Domino could not help but smile. More bait: “Oh, that Joan Parsons really got to you last year, didn’t she, Kelly?”

  No reply.

  Domino started down his hallway towards the front door to double-check the locks. “I don’t know how the hell you did it, but simply locating one’s phone number is hardly cause for a pat on the back.” Then, saving the best bait for last: “Monica Kemp, you are NOT.”

  Kelly Blaine responded without the voice changer. “You’re right. I’m not Monica. I’m better. And you’re red hot.”

  Domino’s front door burst open, the impact splintering the frame, catching Domino in the chest and knocking him clean off his feet, head ricocheting back against the hardwood floor, gun and phone flying.

  Two enormous men came through his doorway, one bald, one not. Both ugly and scarred. The one with hair wielded an aluminum baseball bat, the bald one a weighted battering ram that hung in both his hands like a small cannon with handles.

  The bald one set the battering ram to the floor and closed the door behind them. He then pulled a thick length of pipe from his waistband and tested its weight with a solid whack into his palm.

  Both men loomed over a dazed Domino.

  “This is the Negro who kill Ivan?” the one with the hair asked in a thick Russian accent.

  “That’s what the girl said,” the bald one replied, his accent no less thick and Russian.

  “I thought he was supposed to be sick.”

  Sick? Domino managed to process. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  The bald one shrugged. “That’s what she tell me.”

  “He look drunk, not sick.”

  Slowly, and with no sudden movements, Domino began scooting back along his hardwood floor, trying to buy himself time until his head cleared. If he had to guess, he’d wager “Ivan” was one of the three Russian men he was forced to kill when Monica had hold of him back in the Pine Barrens, and these lumps standing over him now were somehow related, seeking vengeance.

  As for “the girl” the lumps mentioned? Well, that had to be Kelly, didn’t it? Amateur indeed. If she was looking to one-up Monica, she was not only on the wrong track by trying the same exact thing Monica had, but she was only sending two men to the party instead of three.

  “You’re right, I am drunk,” Domino began, still casually scooting backwards, still looking to buy time. “Why do you think she told you I was sick?”

  Neither man replied. And they were not ignorant of Domino’s movement; they followed him, step for scoot, unnervingly patient, as though they were in no rush to do the job.

  Domino went on. “The girl who sent you…she can’t be trusted. If she paid you and told you I was going to be an easy target because I was sick, she was lying.”

  The two men exchanged a look.

  Bald placed his gaze back on Domino and said: “She is paying us nothing. She only tell us you kill Ivan and where we find you.” Bald slapped the heavy pipe into his palm again. “This is personal.”

  Hair grinned and brandished the bat. “She tell us you being sick is just bonus. Allows us to take our time and have fun.”

  Domino had managed to scoot into his den without incident. His head was somewhat clear now. Still buzzed good from the alcohol, yes, but the cobwebs from banging the back of his head on the hallway floor were gone.

  “Well, I’m sorry to ruin your fun, boys,” he said. “But I’m not sick…” Then, in fluent Russian: “And I’m no easy target.”

  The two men paused, Domino’s Russian throwing them as he’d hoped it would, buying him precious seconds.

  Domino rolled and dove at Hair’s waist, hitting him with a diving tackle that would have cut a smaller man in two. The two big men crashed hard to the floor, Domino on top. Hair fought to regain his consciousness. Bald lunged forward with the pipe, swung it for all he was worth at Domino’s head. Domino rolled away at the last second, and the pipe came down onto Hair’s skull instead, knocking him cold.

  “B`lyad'!” Bald cried.

  Domino hopped to his feet. “‘Fuck’ indeed, dumbass.” He started laughing. “I’m dealing with two-thirds of the Russian Three Stooges here. I guess that would make you Curly with your bald ass, da?”

  Bald growled and charged forward, pipe high. Domino caught his charge with a thrusting kick to the gut, folding Bald in half, the pipe leaving his grip and clanging to the floor.

  Bald writhed at Domino’s feet, wide eyed and gasping, desperate to find air. Domino immediately stomped on his face and put him to sleep. He then hurried toward his wall safe, unlocked it, withdrew four pairs of plastic flex cuffs, and went to work on cuffing both men by the wrists and ankles as they slept.

  ***

  Finished, Domino went towards the front door to look for his gun and cell phone. He swayed then stumbled along the way, dropping to his knees. He shook his head once and hard. Surely the adrenaline of the fight had helped sober him up. So why did he suddenly feel even drunker than before?

  He got to his feet and resumed his search, eventually spotting his gun in the kitchen and his cell phone by the front door.

  Heading back towards the two men, he swayed again, slapping a heavy hand against the wall to steady himself.

  “The hell is wrong with me?” he muttered.

  Hair started to come to. Domino stood over him, gun in his face.

  “Where is she?” Domino asked.

  Hair blinked several times, dazed, perhaps forgetting where he was.

  Domino slapped him. “Where is she?”

  Hair flashed disgust, Domino’s slap bringing him all the way back into the world. “I don’t speak English,” he said.

  Domino slapped him again. “I know you speak English, dick hole. Where is she?”

  Hair looked away.

  Domino struck him in the throat with his fingers, in and out like a snake. Hair gasped, and Domino jammed the gun barrel into his mouth.

  “I only need one of you to talk,” he said. “Maybe your buddy is more reasonable.” Domino cocked the trigger and raised his free hand over Hair’s face to shield the inevitable blood spatter after he blew his brains out.

  The bluff worked. Hair’s eyes bugged out of his head and he began a frantic string of garbled pleas (in English) around the barrel of the gun.

  Domino pulled the gun from his mouth. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is. I swear to you.”

  “Bullshit. She was watching me. She even knew the brand of vodka I was drinking.”

  “She do that all before.”

  Domino frowned. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

  Bald began to stir. Came to and started fighting his binds. Plastic cuffs are quick and easy, but they aren’t perfect. An exceptionally strong man could snap them—and Bald was a big boy.

  Domino left Hair, walked over to Bald, and stomped on his face again. Back to bed.

  He returned to Hair, stumbled and fell to his knees at Hair’s side. He shook his head hard again. Something was definitely wrong. His buzz should be receding, not growing.

  Domino wrapped his hand around Hair’s throat and pointed the gun between his eyes. “Why did you think I would be sick? Tell me now or you’re dead.”

  “I already te
ll you everything. I know nothing else. She tell us you kill Ivan and where you live and that you will be sick and easy to hurt.”

  “Hurt? Not kill?”

  “Yes. We were not supposed to kill you.”

  “Because she wanted to be the one, right?”

  Hair shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “How would she know when to show? You supposed to call her? No, of course not—she can see, right?”

  Domino stood, swayed and stumbled all the way to the right, his big body hitting and cracking the drywall before dropping to his knees once again. He raised his head and looked at Hair. Hair looked back, his eager expression akin to a hunter waiting for an animal to succumb to the wound he’d inflicted.

  Only he’s not the hunter. She is. She inflicted the wound. But how?

  (Mr. Belvedere.)

  Domino’s last thought before he blacked out was both a question and an answer: How the hell did she get to the vodka?

  Chapter 10

  Domino woke in a fetal position on his den floor. He was bound by the ankles and wrists with the same type of plastic flex cuffs he’d used on the two Russian men, who, curiously, were in the same predicament he’d left them, fetal and bound on the floor as well, facing him—whoever had bound Domino while he was unconscious

  (you know it was Kelly)

  had not bothered to free the two Russian men yet. And the Russian men, big as they were, had either not yet attempted to break free of their plastic binds, or were simply unable to.

  Domino, however, was able. Or was once able; he quickly found out, after his first attempt, that his entire body was useless. Every damn thing useless. Except for his mind. A dreadfully ironic

  (deliberate?)

  predicament when he recalled its woozy condition only moments ago.

  But was it moments ago? How long had he been out?

  Everything but his mind, paralyzed. He couldn’t even speak. Just blink, breathe, listen, and think.

  Deliberate.

  What the hell had she given him? And was she here now? In his den? If he could turn his head, he’d look for her. If he could talk, he’d call for her. The best he could manage was a weak moan that never left his mouth, just reverberated in his throat.

  He heard footsteps approaching from behind, a soft tread on his hardwood floor. Now the sense of someone standing over him. And very close. Domino was forced to watch the Russian men’s reaction to gauge the scene behind him. He saw no initial alarm or panic in their eyes. This told him it was someone they knew. This told him Kelly Blaine was here.

  “Cut us free,” Bald said.

  “You failed me,” she said. Her tone was cavalier, unsettling.

  “You said he’d be sick.”

  Domino sensed her squatting behind him now. Felt gloved hands working on the flex cuffs binding his wrists and ankles, cutting them free. Finished, Kelly took hold of his right wrist, raised his heavy arm in the air, and then let it slap uselessly to the floor in front of him.

  “Does he look well to you?” she asked after her display.

  “He was not like that before,” Bald said. “He was still strong. Too strong.”

  “It’s okay,” she said coolly. “You were supposed to fail.”

  “What?”

  Domino felt a gloved hand on his cheek now. She caressed his face as she spoke. “Well, I did happen to watch him kill your pal Ivan and two other men with his bare hands, you know. I’d have to be a fool to think the two of you alone could get the job done.”

  A setup. A goddamn setup. She wasn’t being careless in attempting to mimic what Monica had tried; she was using these two unwitting lumps to play interference for her.

  As if reading Domino’s mind, Kelly confirmed his thought for him. “You were a distraction,” she said to Bald. “Allowed me to enter unnoticed while he beat the shit out of you. That’s all.”

  “Okay, so we did our job,” Hair spoke up. “Cut us free now.”

  Kelly stopped caressing Domino’s cheek and stood. She approached the two men, and Domino got a look at Kelly Blaine for the first time since her appearance on The Joan Parsons Show.

  Her hair was long and dark as he remembered. She was small as he remembered. She wore a black wool overcoat and gloves.

  What Domino did not see was the mask she frequently wore. The mask that she wore in court. The mask that she wore on The Joan Parsons Show. That she wore when she needed to be on stage before a public that could not know she was a baleful psychopath.

  She was not wearing the mask because she had no need for it. No secrets to hide, no performances to give. The mask was off, and the terrifying potential of what lay beneath was on full display.

  “I can’t cut you free just yet. This is a home invasion gone awry, after all.” Then, in a mock Russian accent: “Revenge for your fallen comrade.”

  She laughed, produced Domino’s gun from inside her coat, grabbed a pillow from the sofa, placed it over Hair’s face to muffle the sound, and pulled the trigger.

  There was a pop, and Hair’s bound legs momentarily convulsed as one before coming to a dead stop.

  Kelly removed the pillow, and peeked at her work beneath. “Eww,” she said. She turned and made a silly yuck face at Domino. “I got him in the eyeball. So gross.”

  Bald started screaming for help. Kelly tossed the gun on the sofa and picked the lead pipe that Bald had brought with him up off the floor. Without hesitation, she brought it down onto Bald’s skull.

  The first blow stunned him. The second knocked him out. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth made sure he was dead.

  Domino could only look on, sickened with himself that one of his first thoughts was that the Russian’s once shiny bald head was the perfect canvas to accentuate the excessive damage Kelly had done.

  Panting, Kelly strode towards Domino, placed the pipe in his limp hand, curled his fist around it to ensure his prints took, then tossed it aside, metal clanging on wood wherever it landed.

  She squatted next to Domino again, this time facing him, looking him in the eye. “No need to do that for the gun, right? I imagine your prints are already all over it.”

  Done with the pipe. Is she done with the gun now too? What does that leave? The bat? The aluminum bat Hair brought?

  Domino willed every muscle in his body to move. Felt as if he was tapping into his very soul, willing something, anything to move. He zeroed in on her supple throat. If he could just get his hand around her neck, he could rip her throat clean out. Just move, goddammit. Please move.

  “Do you remember anything unusual at the liquor store today, Domino?”

  Domino quickly thought back. He remembered nothing out of the ordinary, no strange faces, no odd behavior from employees; quite the contrary, Karl the shop clerk had greeted him with a friendly hello as he did every Sunday, even remarked how lucky Domino was to grab the last bottle of Belvedere, that a couple of guys came in not long ago and nearly cleaned him out…of…the…stuff…

  Ah, shit. Did they happen to be two big Russian fellas, Karl? One bald, one not? Of course they did. And that one bottle they left on the shelf. Did they happen to bring it in with them and place it on the shelf when you weren’t looking, by chance? After spiking it with God knows what? Pull the security tape, Karl; I’ll bet you all the fucking Belvedere in Poland I’m spot on.

  Kelly smiled. “Yes, that’s right. The same liquor store you go to every single Sunday at the exact same time after church. It’s hard to tell, you practically being a zombie right now and all, but I’m willing to bet you just figured it out. Retirement got you complacent, didn’t it, big fella? Started developing routines?” She shook her head. “Tsk, tsk…”

  She’s so damn close. Move, goddammit…

  Domino focused all of his will on his right arm. He didn’t need the rest of his body to move. If he could just move his right arm, get his hand around that supple neck. Even at twenty percent strength, he was sure he could crush it.

  �
�I don’t want to be Monica, Domino. I never wanted to be Monica. Monica’s a failure. She failed in killing you, and she failed in killing Amy.” She caressed his face again. “But I won’t fail. And I am going to do what Monica never could—because I can.”

  Oh, Christ, no, please no…

  “Do you know what Amy is doing tonight?” she asked him. “She’s going to some support group out in Montgomery County. It’s at some guy’s home. Apparently, the members take turns as hosts. She’s been doing it for a while now, you know.” She smiled and patted his arm. “Of course you know. You’re pretty chummy with her, huh? Her kids too. I love the photo on the fridge. The one of you and Caleb. Yes, I know their names. I know a lot, don’t I? I always was good at homework—well, when it benefitted me directly, that is. Hated algebra.” She laughed at her own wit.

  If you go near that family, I’ll kill you. I will kill you stone fucking dead, you crazy bitch.

  “I could never go after Amy directly, of course. Well, I could, but I’d probably end up being a person of interest after they found the mess, wouldn’t I? I mean, I never did have a beef with Amy; we’ve never even really spoken. But I would almost certainly be a person of interest—at least initially. Definitely don’t want that hassle.”

  She stood, continued talking as she approached the two Russians.

  “So yeah, I’ve got no beef with Amy, or even you for that matter. Sure, you did catch me a few years ago, but that’s just your bullshit Superman code you live by; I didn’t take it personally.”

  She pulled a straight razor from her coat pocket, bent and started cutting the Russians’ binds and then pocketing the plastic strips after.

  “Anyway, I can’t go after Amy directly, so I thought, why not Amy and a host of others? The support group tonight in a private residence is the perfect place. All those people—who would ever know who the prime target was supposed to be? Especially after what I have planned comes to light. In a weird way, I kind of wish you were going to be alive to see it. It’s going to be so much fun, and more than a little brilliant, if I do say so myself.”

  Domino wiggled a finger.

  “You were right when you said Joan Parsons got to me. She did.” She cut the last of the flex cuffs, pocketed them, and turned back to Domino. “Oh, sure, I know I was playing it up as the victim and all—and doing my usual stellar job—but still, it got to me.” She knelt beside him again, started tracing the blade of the straight razor lightly across his face.