Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (12 page)

*

Just past midnight, Bob Corcoran eventually swayed his way out of Gilley’s Tavern. John nudged his daughter. Monica sat up, instantly alert.

“About fucking time,” she said.

Father and daughter watched their drunken target manage his way towards a blue Ford Taurus. He dug for his keys, dropped them, bent down, and nearly tumbled scooping them up.

“Wasted,” Monica said.

John nodded, immediately hit reverse, and screeched out of the lot. They needed at least a two minute head start to prepare.

Monica eyed her father playfully as he drove. “You better hope he takes Woodmere, old man.”

John shot his daughter a look. He knew Bob Corcoran’s type—drinking and driving was not oil and water to a man like that. It wasn’t lemonade either. It just was. You drank—because that’s what you do—and you needed to get home. Designated driver? Fuck off. I can get myself home, thank you.

Still, no matter how hammered, you weren’t
completely
stupid. You could take the quick route home, the route on the main road with dozens of street lamps and a cop aching to fill a quota around every bend, or you could be a clever little drunk and take the long way home down Woodmere Road … just as Bob had planned to do with his son-in-law last night.

Not long after his stay at Gilley’s, John had spent a good portion of last night becoming familiar with Woodmere. He quickly found that the road held an allure for drunk drivers that was the epitome of a paradox: It was narrow and rough, lined with steep wooded embankments, and despite high beams, it was like finding your way through a cave with a dying torch. Yet after fifteen tactical runs last night, John Brooks had passed
zero
cars. Certainly no police. None hiding in dark corners either. And it made sense too: Why fish in a lake with no fish?

Ten more runs were completed today to keep sharp. He’d passed only two cars this time, both going ten miles under the speed limit in broad daylight.

And so now he did not, as his daughter joked,
hope
Bob Corcoran would take Woodmere. He was sure of it.

“How sad it is when the delusional student feels they’ve surpassed the teacher,” he said to her.

“Not nearly as sad as when the archaic teacher refuses to accept the fact that the seedling will ultimately grow taller than the one who planted it,” she retorted.

“Keep dreaming, little sapling.”

She grinned at him.

He hit the accelerator and succumbed to a grin himself. It was fucking Christmas.

Chapter 21

Bob Corcoran took Woodmere Road, just as he had done every night he left Gilley’s Tavern for the past umpteen years. Drunk or sober—and he was indeed drunk—he knew every hair-pin turn before he made it, every blind hill before he hopped it, every weathered stop sign before he slowed toward it. He knew the notorious embankments where even his drunken pride could not dispute anything over fifteen miles an hour. What Bob didn’t expect was for there to be a flashing car stopped twenty yards ahead, on the edge of one of those embankments. And he
never
would have expected such a car to be what looked like a brand-new BMW.

“Talk about a hard-on in church,” he said aloud.

He was hesitant to stop in his drunken state, but when a young woman who might have been the sexiest little thing his old eyes had ever seen stepped away from the car and waved him down, Bob pulled his Taurus right on over.

*

Monica had to hand it to her father; he had called everything to a tee. She watched the blue Taurus slow to a stop a few yards in front of her BMW, and waited for Bob Corcoran to exit.

“Now you
must
be lost, young lady!” he called the moment he stepped out. He swayed on approach, the hazard lights on Monica’s car flashing rhythmic shots of a bearded smile as he got close. “Wait a second now,” he said, scratching his beard. “You were at Gilley’s earlier, weren’t you?”

“Was I?”

Bob scratched his beard again, smiled and said, “Ma’am, you can be sure I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.”

Monica stepped closer, into the light. “That’s very sweet.”

“Well, like I said, ma’am, a fella isn’t likely to forget a woman as sexy as you.” He looked at her car. “So I imagine you’re lost? Not many folks would come through here in a beemer.”

Monica leaned against the BMW. “Bimmer,” she said.

“Come again?”

“It’s actually referred to as a bimmer. BMW
motorcycles
are called beemers. But I wouldn’t expect ignorant white trash like you to know that.”

Bob’s smile slowly faded. He blinked several times. “I’m sorry?”

Monica shrugged. “I called you ignorant white trash. And I don’t think your wife would appreciate you hitting on a woman half your age. How would you like it if my father hit on Amy?”

If Bob Corcoran was confused before, his drunken head now looked close to short-circuiting. The pinnacle was when Monica dropped Amy’s name. He went to speak, but John placed a sudden hand on his shoulder and spun him.

“That’s not a bad idea,” John said. “I could finish what my son James started with her.”

It was all too much to register right away. Drunk or sober, Monica had expected the pause button to be hit. Expected Bob Corcoran to stare at her father, mouth open a crack in a state of wonder, brow furrowed as the pieces tried to come together. The fact that he was drunk only kept the pause button on longer.

John slapped him.

The blow rocked Bob on his heels. He quickly gathered himself and threw a right haymaker. John side-stepped the punch with ease, and Bob’s momentum nearly pitched him over.

“Whoops!” John said.

Monica laughed.

Bob growled, turned, and dove at John’s waist for a tackle. He had a better shot at charging through a stone wall. John stood his ground and let the drunken man literally bounce off his massive frame. Monica laughed again. John glanced over at her and smirked. He then jerked Bob to his feet and spun him into a rear choke with his right forearm.

Bob struggled and flailed, but had all the success of a rat in the coiled grip of a python. Monica continued laughing, felt the familiar tingle warming her belly.

“Bob?” John said calmly into his ear. “Bob, hold still. If you keep trying to fight I’ll break your neck.”

Bob stopped, panting wildly.

“Good boy. I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to,” John said.

Bob garbled a question beneath the weight of John’s arm: “
The fuck do you people want?
”

John took a long cleansing breath before answering. “We want revenge, Bob. You see … Patrick, Amy, hell, even little Carrie and Caleb—they
really
fucked with the wrong family out there by Crescent Lake.”

It all sunk in. Bob screamed and spat, stomped and kicked, reached and clawed behind him to get at John’s face. His fight was admirable, but John still held onto him with no effort, and Bob’s tank soon emptied. His back sank against his assailant in exhausted defeat. Monica laughed some more, but stayed put. This one was her dad’s.

“We have to set things right, Bob,” John said. “Your cunt-of-a-daughter and cocksucking son-in-law may have been lucky enough to visit hell once and return …” He gritted his teeth. “… but they sure as
fuck
won’t do it again.” He tightened his grip on Bob’s neck, placed his lips to his ear. “And you know what? I think I will do as my daughter suggested. I
will
fuck Amy. Your wife too.”

John kissed Bob on the cheek then snapped his neck.

Chapter 22

Back home, Patrick was dreaming about an alarm clock he couldn’t shut off. When Amy’s second elbow drilled into his side, coupled with a muffled yell into her pillow that sounded like “
get it!
”, Patrick abruptly left the dream world and discovered the stubborn alarm’s real-world accomplice was the telephone. He pawed blindly on his nightstand until he found it.

“Hello.” His voice was soft and crackly.

“Hi, Patrick. I’m sorry for calling so late.”

Who was this?
Was this Amy’s mother?

“Audrey?” he said.

Amy rolled over.

“Yes, I’m sorry for calling so late,” she said again, “it’s just that Bob hasn’t come home yet and I’m starting to get concerned.”

Patrick propped himself up on an elbow and looked at the alarm clock. The green-lit numbers were fuzzy. He blinked hard, stretched his eyes wide, and then looked again. 2:30 a.m.

“Maybe the game went into overtime,” he said, swallowing a yawn. “The owners usually let him stay after hours. Did you try calling Gilley’s?”

“I already did. They said he left hours ago.”

Patrick sat up and clicked on the light. Both he and Amy squinted. There was only one thought in his head now, and he wondered if Audrey shared it with him. Likely, she was not concerned with infidelity—in the wave-less world of someone like Audrey Corcoran, infidelity, even if performed smack in front of her, would be quietly repressed until its status inexplicably reached the level of fiction—so what other line of thinking did that leave? Yes, Patrick was sure they were sharing the same fear. But he was damned if he knew how he’d voice such a concern. So he passed it off to Amy and handed her the phone.

“It’s your mom. She says Bob hasn’t come home yet.”

Amy took the phone and sat up. “Mom?”

Amy listened, spoke, listened, spoke. Her voice was calm and decisive. Patrick watched his wife and thought about how life eventually came full-circle. Amy was the mother now; the nurturer, the one keeping it together. But then he had always suspected it had been this way in her family.

“Just call the police, Mom,” she said. “I’m not saying anything’s wrong, but still, it’s our best option right now. Daddy probably just went to another bar to celebrate after the game.”

Patrick wondered if Amy believed that.

“Just call the police and tell them what you told me. They all know Daddy; I’m sure they’ll find him.”

Amy talked and listened a little more, nodding with reassurance into the phone as though her mother could see her. “It’ll be okay, Mom. Call us back the second you hear something. I’m sure Daddy’s fine.”

She hung up and looked at Patrick. Patrick was wearing his apprehension.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m afraid to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Come on, Amy. I told you he wanted to drive home the other night.”

“My father’s been driving home drunk from that bar since I was a kid.”

Patrick couldn’t help but snort. “And?”

Her eyes dropped, the flawed logic evident on her face. “I’m just saying I doubt that’s what it is.”

“Look, baby, I hope it’s not that either. I hope he
is
at another bar. It’s just … I don’t know what else to think.”

Amy looked away. She fiddled with the phone. It rang in her hands and she jumped. She answered immediately. “Mom?”

Patrick watched his wife, studied her face—praying it didn’t droop or pale or burst into tears. He wanted a smile, a sigh of relief, an:
“I told you everything would be okay, Mom.”
But all he got was another: “Okay, well call us back as soon as you hear—”

And then it suddenly came to him like the name of a forgotten song. Patrick blurted: “
Woodmere!
”

Amy’s head whipped towards him. “What?”

“Tell her to call the police back and ask them to check Woodmere Road,” he said.

“Mom, hold on a second.” She covered the receiver with her palm. “What are you talking about?”

“The other night your dad told me he would drive us home on
Woodmere.
At least that’s what I think he called it. Do you know a Woodmere Road?”

“Yeah—it’s out of the way though. It’s all backwoods and—”

“Well that was the point. I told him he shouldn’t be driving because he might get pulled over, and he said we’d be fine if we took Woodmere.”

Amy put the phone back to her ear. “Mom? Call the police back and have them check Woodmere Road.” She listened then said, “I know, but can you just do it please?” She listened a little more. “Okay. I love you. Call us back.”

*

Patrick was in the bathroom taking a leak when the phone rang an hour later. He cursed his bladder and forced the stream out as quickly as possible, its splash making it difficult to hear Amy in the bedroom.

Finished, he hiked up his boxers and rushed into the bedroom. Amy was still on the phone. She kept saying “okay” over and over in an even tone, and did not acknowledge Patrick standing eagerly in the bedroom doorway.

She eventually said thank you, hung up, looked at Patrick and said, “My dad’s dead.”

Chapter 23

Patrick and Amy arrived at the Corcorans’ just after 6 a.m. There were two squad cars out front, lights flashing on one of them. An officer was leaning against the cruiser with the flashing lights. He stood and adjusted his uniform when Patrick and Amy approached.

“Morning. You Amy and Patrick Lambert?”

Amy said, “Can I go see my mother?”

The officer nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Go right on in.”

Patrick thanked the officer and led Amy up the three short steps to the front door. He glanced at the black iron railings with the chipped paint and remembered telling Carrie to stop picking at them. The man they were waiting to see that night was now dead. As a child, Patrick always wished for a time machine whenever his luck went south. A way to go back and change things. It was a silly wish that even as a child he knew held impossible merit, yet still he wished for it all the same.

He found himself wishing for it now. Just as he had done after the incident at Crescent Lake. Just as he had done after Oscar died. Lately, Patrick was getting really tired of wishing for a fucking time machine.

The couple entered and spotted Audrey Corcoran sitting on the sofa, being consoled by a female officer. Amy immediately went to her. The two embraced and began crying.