Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (15 page)

The game wasn’t dead. He should have known better.

Jim’s death had deflated him. The news of his adoption had all but crippled him. For a time he had to face the likelihood that he was not unique, was not an exception to the rules. Facing life in prison was a cold beer and big tits next to this revelation.

But now. His sister. The woman who could be Jim’s twin. Monica, she called herself. In that one brief encounter between the two, she gave him hope. She would resurrect the game. Arty no longer cared about being an exception to the rules. He was
still
unique.
Still
special. How could he not be? Lying half-dead in a hospital, facing an eternity in prison, your brother dead, your life over, and then …
and then
, a visit from an angel, assuring him he would have his vengeance. Assuring him that he was
not
done; there
was
a future.

Arty was not a religious man, but he believed in evil. He
was
evil. And to believe in evil he supposed one must believe in good. Was it God and Satan? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. But he knew something wanted him to continue his work. Something wanted him to continue the game. And if there was a God, he was betting it wasn’t him.

He rolled off his cot, lifted his mattress, took out the card, and read it again. It was a sympathy card. The officers couldn’t make sense of it when it had arrived. They had brought it to Arty, asking him what it meant. At first, Arty hadn’t known either. The officers were wary—there was no return address on the envelope. The card wasn’t signed.

“
It’s fucking addressed to you in a county jail. How could you not know what it means?
” they’d asked.

Arty had just shrugged. He truly didn’t know. He didn’t know anyone named May. And if he didn’t know May, he certainly didn’t know her father.

The officers stuffed the card back into its envelope and winged it between the bars, hitting Arty in the shoulder.
“Well enjoy it. It’s all the fucking mail you got today.”

Arty had read the card, frowned, and then set it aside. He didn’t get it. He had been in the holding cell a few weeks since leaving the hospital and had gotten all sorts of strange mail during that time. Admirers of his work, death threats, love letters—all straightforward in their intent. This was the first that made no sense. Why the hell should he care if some woman named May lost her father? The messenger hadn’t even left a name.
A whacko,
he had eventually surmised.
Some schizo who would probably swear in court that his hamster told him to mail the damn thing.
Satisfied, he’d picked his book back up, found the dog-eared page, and resumed reading. He got one sentence in, then slammed the book shut, snatched the card, and read it again:

May.

May’s father.

May’s father had died.

There was a line about the importance of family.

Family was underlined twice.

May.

Amy.

May = Amy.

Amy Lambert.

Amy Lambert’s father had died.

Family was underlined twice.

This was a message from his sister.

His sister had killed Amy Lambert’s father.

And now Arty sat, reading the card again and again, caressing it,
smelling
it. Trying to imagine how it was done, how badly the Lamberts were suffering from the loss. The flutter in his belly was so intense it teased his throat, threatening to bring up this afternoon’s lunch.

He carefully placed the card in its home beneath his mattress, lay back down, and resumed staring at the ceiling, not seeing the ceiling.

Unique. Special. How could he not be?

Chapter 31

6:30 p.m. Patrick entered the mudroom and couldn’t kick his shoes off fast enough. Exhausted, tie already pulled loose, briefcase feeling like a fifty pound dumbbell—it wasn’t Miller time, it was
Glenlivet
time. Neat, healthy, and straight to the face. Oh and keep the bottle nearby, please and thank you.

Caleb leapt from his hiding spot behind the dividing wall of the family room and attached himself to his father’s leg once he came into view. It was ritual, but Patrick always feigned surprise, looking as though he had just gotten the fright of his life. Caleb looked up at his father with loving brown eyes, a big giggling grin, and suddenly Patrick didn’t need that scotch as much as he thought. He dropped his briefcase, bent and picked up his son.

“How’s it going, brother-man?” he said.

Caleb told his father that he had drawn a picture of a giant bug eating a car in nursery school today. Patrick kissed his son, smiled, and wondered how Dr. Bogan would interpret that one. He set Caleb down and glanced over at Carrie in the family room. His daughter lay smack in front of the TV, hands under her chin, eyes wide and reflecting the screen’s images, seemingly oblivious to her father’s arrival.

“
Hello, Carrie
,” Patrick hummed, expecting no reply. He nearly fainted when she muttered a “Hi, Daddy” in return, although taking her eyes off the TV was simply out of the question.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asked.

Caleb pointed through the kitchen and into the adjoining room towards Amy’s office before flopping next to his sister in front of the TV.

“Why don’t you guys see if you can actually press your eyeballs to the screen?” Patrick said as he walked towards Amy’s office. Both kids blanked him.

Amy swiveled away from her computer screen and faced her husband when he entered. She tilted her chin up as he bent forward for the kiss. He noticed an empty martini glass next to her computer.

He nudged his head toward the glass. “We doing happy hour?” His tone was pleasant, but he could not hide his curiosity. Amy was no virgin when it came to drinking, and it was not unusual for her to have a glass of wine or two in the evening, but a martini? Patrick knew she liked them, but he struggled to recall a time when she ever drank them at home.

“What?” she said. Her cheeks and nose were flushed, and it wasn’t from embarrassment. Patrick wondered if that empty glass had seen a refill or two before he got home.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just can’t remember the last time you drank a martini.”

“I always drink martinis.”

“Yeah, when we go out …” he said. “I’ve never seen you drink them at home.”

“Well so what? I felt like one.” She swiveled back to her computer.

Was he making a big deal of this? Her father’s funeral was only a few weeks ago. Maybe this was all a normal part of the grieving process. His day at work had been rough and he was looking forward to a stiff drink himself when he got home. Did that make his curiosities hypocritical? Maybe. Except it was not uncommon for him to drink scotch at home. It
was
uncommon for Amy to drink martinis at home.

Stop, Patrick,
he thought.
You’re thinking too much. You
ARE
making too big a deal.

Perhaps he should join her? Or would that be playing the enabler? No—joining her would show he
wasn’t
making a big deal, that it was okay to have a martini or two or
three
if she wanted. Hell, as long as they didn’t get wasted in front of the kids, he started to think he
would
join her.

Patrick began rubbing her shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. How about I go fix you another, pour myself a scotch, and then I’ll come back in here and treat your feet to the massaging of a lifetime.”

Amy still faced the computer, he continued kneading her shoulders. “What do you think?” he asked.

“The kids haven’t eaten yet,” she said.

“I’ll make dinner. I’ll do some chicken nuggets with mac and cheese. They’ll be in heaven.”

He leaned in and kissed her neck, waiting for her to turn towards him with a devilish smile and then plant a good one on his lips after the irresistible offer to fix her another drink, cook dinner for the kids, and the crème de la crème: the foot massage.

Instead she shocked the hell out of him when she stood and said, “No, that’s okay,” and left the room, taking the empty martini glass with her.

When a stunned Patrick eventually wandered back into the family room, Amy was sitting in front of the TV sipping a fresh martini. She glanced over at him and asked: “Are you still going to do dinner?”

Patrick mumbled something that was meant to be “yes,” then turned and waded into the kitchen. Now it kind of felt like a big deal.

*

Amy lay in bed, an open book propped on her chest. The words were fuzzy from too many martinis, and she couldn’t concentrate. But it didn’t matter. The book was a prop, a visual aid to let her husband know that she was sober enough to read (she wasn’t), and that she didn’t feel like talking (she didn’t). She knew her behavior this evening was odd, and for the moment, even
she
didn’t understand why she had behaved the way she did. But she could figure that out tomorrow, and more importantly, they could talk about it tomorrow. Tonight was all about getting her drunken butt to sleep ASAP with as little drama as possible. She had considered rolling to her side and faking sleep, but Patrick would know she was faking. He’d know.

So she lay there, words of the book in and out like a camera trying to focus, listening to Patrick tucking in Caleb, and then Carrie. Listening to Carrie asking to leave her door open, then to leave the hall light on. Listening to Patrick say yes to the door, no to the hall light. Listening to Carrie fake a frightened moan. Pleased to hear when Patrick called her bluff, told her to go to bed, and switched off the hall light.

Patrick walked into the bedroom. She kept her eyes on the book but watched him from her periphery. He did not look her way. Was he pissed or worried? They had not truly talked at dinner; their attention was overtly diverted to the children, making sure food was eaten and manners obeyed, even when it was and they were. An occasional question about his day at work from Amy was asked, and a reply about the rigors of the upcoming presentation, now one month away, was given. There had been no inflection in either of their voices. They were both empty, seemingly rehearsed through years of mundane routine. Except Amy and Patrick didn’t have that type of relationship. There was no boredom. Routine, yes—they had a family after all, so some routine was unavoidable. But there were no mundane, ritualistic motions repeated day in and day out as they pined away for a secret life from one another. They
were
each other’s life. This awkwardness at dinner may have passed without scrutiny in the eyes of a stranger, but for those that new the couple well, it screamed conflict.

Amy watched Patrick undress down to his boxers and toss his clothes in the hamper. He still did not acknowledge her when he disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the faucet running, Patrick brushing his teeth, gurgling with mouthwash, spitting, running the sink a final time. Here he comes.

Patrick stepped out of the bathroom and joined her under the covers. He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling.
Wait for it,
Amy thought.

“So what’s up?” he asked.

Amy paused a moment, then laid the open book flat to her chest and turned towards him as though she had just been interrupted in the middle of an engrossing scene.

“What?”

“You can put the book away now, Amy. I doubt you can even focus on the damn words.”

She loved him, but for a split second she wanted to whip the book down onto his face for knowing her as well as he did. Instead she tossed it to the floor.

“Why are you making a big deal out of a few martinis?” she asked.

He rolled to one side and faced her. “You know it’s not that—I offered to make you another one.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“I want to know why you blanked my offer. I want to know why you’re pissed at me.”

“I’m not pissed at you.”

“Then what? I offer to make dinner, make you another drink, and then offer you a
foot massage
and you turn it down? Then you go and make your
own
drink and wander off to watch TV? What am I to think?”

“Well
don’t
think, okay? For once, just don’t think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just don’t … overanalyze everything so much.”

“Amy, I … fine, I’ll admit, I tend to overanalyze sometimes, but come on … even a caveman would be biting his fingernails over this.”

Amy thought of the Geico commercials with the prejudice towards cavemen, and before she could stop herself, her drunken mouth let out a giggle.

Patrick frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She forced her smile down. It surfaced again for a second, and then she pressed her hand to her face and got it back down for good.

There was a long, very awkward pause.

“So are we going to talk or not?” he asked.

Now she rolled to him and they faced one another.

“Patrick, I swear there’s nothing wrong, okay? I’m not mad at you. I don’t know why I did what I did.” She shrugged a shoulder when she added: “I wanted a drink. A
strong
drink, you know? I was edgy and feeling a bit down. I was thinking about all the bullshit we’ve been through this past year, and then I was thinking about Dad.

“Your offer was very sweet, and you know ninety-nine times out of a hundred I would have gladly taken you up on it. But tonight I just, I don’t know … I wanted to be left alone I guess. Maybe it’s a part of grieving.” She rubbed his shoulder and looked sincere when she added: “Baby, I swear I’m not mad. Please leave it at that. I just needed some alone time. I know that’s unusual for me, but tonight I needed it. That’s all. I still love you as much—
more
—than I ever did. I swear everything’s okay.”