Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (2 page)

For the moment, this one looked to be no different. Same bullshit drama in front of a cabin. A man reported this time, one with a bad toupee and capped teeth. He carried on as though auditioning for a Hollywood role.

Four murdered … two men responsible … brothers … one of the brothers eventually killed in an act of self-defense … the other brother critically wounded and in custody.

Her casual interest was waning.

The reporter disappeared, and Monica was finally rewarded with a brief shot of a large black body bag being carried out of a cabin and into an ambulance.

She rolled her eyes. Painfully unfulfilling. She took another drag of her cigarette and blew perfect smoke rings.

Toupee returned for a brief moment to provide new details about the naughty brothers. And then, for the first time, their pictures—side by side headshots that took up the whole screen.

Monica sprang upright, the remote falling from her hand, the battery casing breaking open as it hit the rug. She leaned forward and gawked at the screen. The brother on the left—the one they’d declared dead. He looked exactly like her.

The finished cigarette burned her fingers and she cursed and dropped it. She quickly stubbed it out with her toe, pocketed the butt, pushed off the bed and rushed close to the screen. A lock of her thick, dark hair came free from her ponytail and fell over one eye. She slapped it away from her face as though it were a bug.

The other brother, the one that was still alive and in custody, there was a resemblance there as well. And then she heard the word and her open mouth gaped wider.

Adopted.

Both brothers had been adopted. The pictures disappeared and she snatched at the screen as though she might be able to bring them back.

Toupee stood in front of a lake now. More cabins rimmed the corners of the screen. If he had been auditioning for a Hollywood role before, he was now trying to take home the Oscar with his dramatic recap:
“Once again, an idyllic autumn getaway becomes a nightmare for an innocent family, as two psychotic brothers subjected these unfortunate people to unspeakable horrors for their own sick amusement …”

A photo of the family’s cabin, and then of an isolated house where apparently further atrocities took place.

“
… the family survived the brothers’ wrath, even fighting back and taking the life of one of the sadistic brothers in a heroic display of self-defense …”

A solitary picture of the deceased brother now—the one that looked like her. Monica touched the screen, caressed his face.

“
The same cannot be said for the four victims here at Crescent Lake, whose lives were brutally snuffed out for unknowingly playing the role of obstacles in the sick games
the brothers were orchestrating …”

A repeat shot of the same black body bag being taken out of a cabin and into an ambulance. Her fingers fell from the screen, dropped to her side.

“
Ironically, it would later be known that one of the survivors of that night of horror was actually the adoptive mother of the two sadistic brothers. A widow, this elder woman, whose name is being withheld, was tragically unaware of the evil she was raising until it was too late. She too proved to be an obstacle, and is now in critical condition…”

Toupee on his own again, in front of the lake, pouring it on.

“
What compels men to do such things? How does one develop the urge and ability to torture an innocent family for their own enjoyment? To slaughter four people without pity? Attempt to take the life of their own adoptive mother who, along with her now deceased husband, lovingly took these boys into their lives out of the pure goodness of their hearts … ?”

The side by side headshots leapt forward again as the commentary continued. She caressed the screen with both hands this time, one for each.

She knew. All those questions they were asking. The whys? The hows? She knew why. She knew how.
God
how she knew.

Monica rushed towards her leather bag, fished out her cell, dialed.

A male voice picked up on the first ring. “Code in.”

“Neco. 8122765,” she said.

“Waiting for voice authentication … clear. Everything okay?”

“Fine. You can send the cleaner in an hour. I want you to check something for me first.”

*

Monica “Neco” Kemp hung up after ten minutes then dialed a second number. It rang twice.

“What’s up, baby girl?” A male voice, deep and powerful.

“I found them.”

Chapter 2

The Western Pennsylvania Hospital

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Two days later

“Hey, Fannelli, are your hands clean?”

Arty Fannelli ignored the officer. He’d learned over the past week that the officers assigned to him for the night shift could be chatty, and not in a
how ’bout them Steelers?
way. Day shift weren’t exactly benevolent watch dogs either, but at least they kept their noses in magazines most of the time.

“Hey!” The officer snapped his fingers. “Earth to stupid! Are your hands clean?”

“I’ve heard that one before, asshole; I’m not holding your dick for you while you piss. And don’t call me Fannelli …” Then, to himself more than the officer: “I don’t
have
a last name.”

The officer stood and kicked the base of Arty’s bed, rocking it. “You better watch who you’re calling asshole,
Fannelli.
Wouldn’t want another ‘accident’ now, would we?”

The officer strolled towards the bathroom, eyes fixed on Arty the whole way. He left the bathroom door open, dropped his pants, and slapped his bare ass for Arty while he took a leak.

The hospital room door swung open, a nurse entered, and the officer quickly hiked up his pants. Arty smirked when he saw a quarter-sized stain on the front of the officer’s trousers. The officer caught the smirk and heightened his previous threat with a glare.

“Medication time,” the nurse said.

The officer grunted, took his seat next to the hospital bed, and lifted a
Sports Illustrated
up to his face.

The nurse gave Arty his medication and did a quick check of his wounds. She was sure and methodical, neither rude nor friendly, despite her patient. Days ago, Arty would have made a lewd comment to the attractive nurse. However, recent knowledge about who Arty and his late brother truly were had changed all that, and the energy for such juvenile comments grew depleted; rage had siphoned it all.

“How’s your pain?” she asked.

Arty just nodded and the nurse left.

The officer put his magazine down. “Let me ask you something, Fannelli. I heard that a
woman
kicked your brother’s ass. Is that true?” His grin was huge. “I heard she stabbed him in the fucking balls with one of those metal nail files.” The officer grabbed his own pair and winced. “What kind of pussy would let a woman do that to him?”

Arty looked away and said nothing. This only spurred the officer on.

“Why’d you shoot your mother, Fannelli? Was she kicking your ass too?”

“She’s not my real mother,” Arty said to the wall.

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that at the time, did you?” The officer started to chuckle as he spoke. “You thought she was your
real
mama. That was your whole big thing you kept babbling about when you got here, wasn’t it? You and your douche bag brother were
born
to nice people? Raised in their
loving
home? Yet both of you turned out to be psycho fruitcakes, so you thought that somehow made you special? Nature versus nurture and all that bullshit?”

“Shut up.”

The officer’s chuckling grew to soft laughter; he struggled finishing his sentences whole. “What … what was it you called yourselves? Exceptions … exceptions to the rule?”

“
Shut up.
”

“You thought … you thought you were gonna be placed in some cushy hospital so shrinks could study how
diabolically unique
you were? Like you were fucking Hannibal Lecter or something?” The officer put a hand to his mouth to stem further laughter. “So really … why did you shoot your mother, Fannelli?”

“She’s
not
my real mother.”

The officer continued, his laughter now back to periodic chuckling. “I know, I know …” He then shook his head, disappointed yet still amused, as if hearing about a great party he was forced to miss: “
God
, how I wish I could’ve been here when you found out. Your face must have been fucking gold.” He grinned. “But still—when you shot her, you thought she
was
your real mother. So what gives, Fannelli? Oh wait … you were ‘freeing her,’ weren’t you? Isn’t that what you told everyone? Poor mom’s suffering from dementia, and you think it best to ‘free her’ with a bullet to the chest?”

Arty said nothing, kept his eyes on the wall.

“What really happened, Fannelli? Did mommy find out what you and your naughty brother were up to, and take a paddle to ya? Did you end up having to fend off an old lady with a gun like the pussy you are? Come on Fannelli, tell the truth.”

“I told you not to call me Fannelli.”

“Right, right,” he mocked. “Such a touchy issue with you. So what
should
I call you then, Fannelli?”

Arty finally looked at the officer. “I don’t know. What’s the name of the guy your wife is currently fucking?”

The officer leapt from his seat and punched Arty in the face.

*

Monica Kemp put on a modest pair of horn rims with fake lenses, strolled into the Western Pennsylvania Hospital, and headed towards the east wing.

Her attire for a registered nurse was spot-on: navy blue scrubs, ID badge, sneakers, hair pulled tight into a bun, fingernails clipped short, stethoscope around the neck. But these tangibles, while crucial, weren’t the deal-sealers that made her innocuous to the staff. It was her trained intangibles. She knew when to smile and when to look away. Who to speak to and who to avoid. And, in case of emergency, when to become a phantom and vanish. Most people spend their lives trying to be noticed. Monica Kemp was a master at being invisible.

Her contacts had told her everything she needed to know. What floor he was on, shift rounding, medication schedules, and of course, where his adoptive mother was being treated.

Maria Fannelli’s wounds that night had been critical. Sharing a hospital with the son who had tried to kill her was irrelevant to the EMTs on the scene—proximity was crucial if her life was to be saved. The nearby Western Pennsylvania Hospital would have no choice but to house
both
Arthur and Maria Fannelli.

And that was just fine by Monica. Two birds, one stone.

*

Arty held one hand over his throbbing eye.

“You’re lucky that’s all you got … fucking wise-ass.” The officer hoisted his belt and puffed out his chest.

The door opened again, and the officer took his seat and picked up the
Sports Illustrated.

“Medication time,” the nurse said, making her way to Arty’s bedside.

The officer put down the magazine. “Huh?”

The nurse kept her back to the officer and repeated: “Medication time.”

“He just got his medication a half hour ago.”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder, barely giving a profile. “I have a STAT order from the doctor for a UTI.”

“A
what
?”

“UTI—urinary tract infection.”

The officer shrugged and picked his magazine back up.

The nurse handed Arty a small piece of tissue paper. “Take this.”

Arty didn’t look at the nurse. He just frowned and took the tissue paper from her hand. There was writing on it, small but clear. The nurse removed her horn rims as Arty read:

Read this quietly and know that what I write is true. People will suffer for your misfortune. I swear this to you on the same blood that runs through our veins. I am your sister. And before long we will have exacted a vengeance of unthinkable horror onto those who dared cross our family.

Be patient, big brother; our time will come.

Faithfully yours,

Monica

Arty’s frown was now sardonic. This note. A lame attempt at humor from the nursing staff no doubt. He finally looked up at the nurse, keen on crumpling the tissue paper, tossing it in her face, telling her to fuck off. Except what he saw robbed his lungs of even a gasp.

Arty was looking at his own flesh and blood. Of this he was surer than the pulse that now hammered his chest. This woman could have been his dead brother’s twin.

His breath returning, Arty went to speak, but Monica placed a hand over his mouth, took the delicate paper from him, and placed it gently between his lips.

“Come on, take it,” she said, handing him a glass of water. “It’s for your own good.”

Arty quickly chewed the tissue paper and chased it down with the glass of water.

Monica smiled, leaned in to fluff his pillow, whispered:
“I’ll be on the telemetry unit in a few moments.
I believe Maria Fannelli is being cared for there. How would you like me to handle that?”
She stood upright and stared at him.

Arty smiled genuinely for the first time in days. Monica smiled back, nodded once, and then left the room.

Arty began whistling a tune.

“Shut the fuck up,” the officer said.

Arty smiled genuinely again. “Yes, sir.”

*

As she exited, Monica winked at the young officer seated outside her brother’s room. He blushed, smiled sheepishly, and quickly looked away.

Fish in a fucking barrel
, she thought, putting the horn rims back on and heading towards the telemetry unit.

*