Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (25 page)

It couldn’t be her. No way.

“Nothing,” Patrick said, shaking his head, handing the phone back to Lucas. “She reminded of someone I recently met.”

“You met her?”

“No, no. The woman I met lived in Harrisburg. She was at my father-in-law’s funeral. Besides the woman I met had dark hair and dark eyes. They just look a lot alike I guess.”

Lucas said, “Well, if you ever do run into her, steer clear. The girl is bad news.”

Chapter 52

Amy was heading out for the night with friends. Patrick told her not to drive home drunk. She punched him in the chest and told him he was hilarious.

An hour later the doorbell rang. Dr. Bogan wore a pleasant smile as Patrick invited him in and took his coat.

“I really appreciate you coming, Dr. Bogan. I know this isn’t usually the norm.”

Dr. Bogan waved away Patrick’s comment. “Not a problem.”

They left the foyer and entered the den. “Can I get you a drink?” Patrick asked. “We’ve got scotch, gin—”

“I don’t suppose you have any V8 Juice?” Dr. Bogan asked.

“I …” Patrick turned towards the kitchen. “I’m not sure. Let me check.” Patrick hurried towards the kitchen and checked the fridge, hoping to spot Dr. Bogan’s request. No luck. He checked the pantry. A large bottle stood tall and unopened. Nobody in their house drank V8, but there it was. Sadly, Patrick thought, this plastic bottle of vegetable juice might be the only pleasant surprise he’d had all week. “Eureka,” he called into the den. “It’s warm. Do you want ice?”

Dr. Bogan, who had been puttering around the den, fingering books on shelves and smiling at family photos, said he would.

Patrick returned to the den with a tall glass of V8 with ice. “You don’t mind if I fix myself a drink, do you?” Patrick asked.

“Of course not.”

Patrick opened the liquor cabinet adjacent to their largest book case, poured himself a Glenlivet neat, and motioned for Dr. Bogan to sit anywhere he wished. Dr. Bogan took the chair next to the sofa. Patrick took the sofa.

“Cheers,” Patrick said.

Dr. Bogan smiled with his eyes and clinked Patrick’s glass.

They sipped, sighed, then sunk into their seats.

Patrick had explained everything to Dr. Bogan over the phone, even his paranoid fears that in some inexplicable way, Arty Fannelli was responsible for recent events. Initially he had no intentions of briefing Dr. Bogan over the phone, but at the time it felt necessary, perhaps trying to convince Bogan to show in case the good doctor thought it best otherwise.

Despite the briefing and the obvious subject at hand, Patrick felt he should begin by wading into the shallow end. “Caleb is doing great,” he said. “Better than great. He looks forward to your visits.”

Dr. Bogan set his V8 on the coffee table. “Tell me about you,” he said.

Patrick smiled. He should have known small talk was off the curriculum with Dr. Bogan.

*

“What you’re suggesting is somewhat fantastic, Patrick,” Dr. Bogan said.

“I know—I don’t see how it could be possible either. Christ, I even called Pittsburgh this morning to see if he was still locked up.”

D.r Bogan accommodated him. “And is he?”

Patrick smiled. “Yes.”

Bogan returned the smile and sipped from his second glass of V8.

“It’s just this whole thing—everything that’s happened after Crescent Lake—it’s something
he
would do.”

“The sabotage of your account?” Dr. Bogan said.

“No. Well, yes, but …” Patrick gave a frustrated sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing: before everything got really bad at Crescent Lake, there was all this … bad luck. I mean it’s all hindsight now, and I’ve been trying desperately not to kill myself over it, but we should have left that goddamned place
long
before everything went to hell. You see, that’s how they worked, him and his brother, they played
games.
They probably could have killed us whenever they wanted to—Christ, from the day we first arrived there for all I know. But they toyed with us. Even when they had us captive they still …” Patrick clenched his fist. “They still had to have their fun, still had to play their little games.

“Before we even met them they were already planning, had already chosen us. And they were
smart.
Apparently they’d been doing this shit forever. They play little tricks and set little traps. They make you doubt yourself; chalk everything up to bad luck. Every-single-little-thing that happened—and again, I’m talking before we were tied up, before shit got
real
bad—was planned by them. From the moment I met the bastard at the gas station, their game had already begun. It just grew and grew from there, and before my stupid ego accepted the fact that this was
not
just bad luck, that these were
not
freak occurrences, it was too late. They had us.” Patrick drained his second scotch. “They fucking had us.”

“And so now you think this bad luck—everything you’ve experienced since you’ve returned from Crescent Lake—is
not
bad luck,” Dr. Bogan said. “That it’s Arthur Fannelli managing to orchestrate some type of
new
game from behind bars in Pittsburgh.”

“Ignoring my gut last time got a knife rammed in it,” Patrick said. “I almost lost my family. I won’t—it’s
not
going to happen again.”

Dr. Bogan stood and began wandering around the den as he spoke. “The blown account does raise cause for concern. But the dog? Your father-in-law?”

“
And
Amy’s drunk driving after her father’s
drunk-driving-death.
” Patrick added.

Dr. Bogan shot a curious look over his shoulder. “Grief, followed by bad judgment?”

“See that’s just it, Dr. Bogan. It doesn’t seem possible, it doesn’t make sense. But after what I’ve been through, after being up close and personal with this psychopath, I can now—without a fucking doubt—tell you this: It
can
make sense. It
can
be possible.” Patrick stared at his empty glass. “I just don’t know how.”

Dr. Bogan began fingering the books on Patrick’s shelves again. “A fan perhaps?”

“What?”

“It’s a sad truth that serial killers have an enormous fan base. Perhaps Arthur Fannelli is pulling the strings of some admiring puppet on the outside.”

Patrick was stunned. He feared Dr. Bogan was doubting him, filing him under paranoia as ninety-nine percent of other shrinks likely would have. But now he gratefully remembered why Dr. Bogan was not like ninety-nine percent of other shrinks, why he’d called him in the first place. The man had no preconceived notions. He did not jump to textbook conclusions. He eliminated the impossible, and whatever remained, however improbable, would likely be the truth. A modern day Sherlock Holmes … who drank V8.

“I never thought of that,” Patrick said. “Jesus Christ, I never even
thought
of that.”

Dr. Bogan continued puttering around the den as he spoke. “Many serial killers have copycats,” he added. “A sick homage to their idols.”

Patrick hopped to his feet. “Well that must be it then! He’s got some crazy fan who—”

Dr. Bogan held up a hand, then kindly waved Patrick back into his seat. “It’s a possibility, Patrick, that’s all. We know someone ruined your presentation, that’s irrefutable. But the other occurrences? To make them look like bad luck and accidents? That would take a significant degree of cunning. I question whether the type who would deify a character of Arthur Fannelli’s ilk would be capable of such feats.”

“Well like you said yourself—what if Arty’s pulling the strings?
Telling
the guy what to do?”

“Well then that brings us to the issue of communiqué. How would Arty be pulling these strings? I would be shocked if all his incoming and outgoing mail wasn’t thoroughly scrutinized.”

“Maybe Arty paid off one of the officers. I’ve read about corrupt guards helping prisoners. They do all kinds of crazy shit for them. Even help them escape.”

Dr. Bogan nodded. “Possible.”

Patrick felt a queer sense of excitement, like a detective on the verge of cracking a case. “So what can we do?”

Dr. Bogan picked up the guest book from Bob’s funeral. Audrey Lambert did not want the book; its reminder would have forced sincere grief, popped her little bubble-world of repression. So Amy had taken it.

Dr. Bogan smiled at the larger-than-life photo of Bob Corcoran on the cover of the guest book. “Well we can contact the prison again,” he said as he began leafing through the book. “Ask if any mail has seemed out of the ordinary.”

“Should we call now?”

Dr. Bogan flipped another page. “I think it can wait until morning.”

“The trial is this Monday.”

“He’s not going anywhere, Patrick.”

“But if we find something, we can use it—his insanity plea won’t stand a chance.”

“Most insanity pleas don’t stand a chance anyway.” Dr. Bogan flipped another page of endless signatures. “Your father-in-law was a popular man.”

Patrick felt a twinge of irritation at Dr. Bogan’s diversion; he wanted to stay on topic. “I know, but listen, if we call now—”

Dr. Bogan said: “
Stop.
”

Patrick thought Dr. Bogan was somehow reprimanding him for his incessant questioning. Yet the doctor’s eyes remained on the guest book, his index finger marking something.

Dr. Bogan’s expression rarely changed; it was always calm and assured. Pleasant was the closest he came to excitement, and anger did not exist. His expression now was different, something Patrick had yet to see in the man. It crackled with intensity and focus. Dr. Bogan handed Patrick the open guest book and pointed to a name:

A. Fannelli.

Patrick lifted his eyes off the page and locked them with Bogan’s. Patrick got it now, the doctor’s new expression: Holmes had found his improbable truth.

Patrick said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

*

Amy was pleased to see Dr. Bogan’s car still in their driveway when she came home. She hoped the doctor’s long stay was a sign that things were going well, that he was helping Patrick in ways she felt she couldn’t.

Amy pulled into the garage and hit the automatic door. It hummed shut behind her. She entered the mudroom and only had time to remove one shoe before Patrick rushed forward and shoved the guest book into her face.

*

“I knew it,” Patrick said. “I fucking
knew
it. Same thing at Crescent Lake, Amy. Same exact thing.”

Patrick and Amy were on the sofa. Dr. Bogan was back in his chair.

“All this bad luck—it was impossible,” Patrick added.

Amy kept her eyes on the signature in the guest book. “I don’t get it. How?”

“We think it’s a fan. Someone Arthur Fannelli is manipulating on the outside,” Dr. Bogan said.

“But
how
?” Amy asked again.

“Well, that’s the mystery,” Dr. Bogan said.

“But that signature in the guest book proves that
someone
was at your dad’s funeral,” Patrick said.

Amy considered everything. “Maybe it was a sick joke. Someone with a very bad sense of humor.”

“Come on, Amy. It was your father’s
funeral.
I don’t care how messed-up your sense of humor is, nobody’s gonna do something like that. Whoever wrote that knew what they were doing. Even more unsettling—knew exactly where we’d be that day.”

“So then why didn’t he do anything?” Amy said. “If he knew where we were, why didn’t he try and hurt us after the funeral?”

“Because it’s all a fucking game!” Patrick yelled. “Why didn’t they kill us straight away at Crescent Lake? You know how that son of a bitch works!”

Amy’s pulse quickened. “So is this signature a sign of more to come? Do we have to worry about someone else now?”

Dr. Bogan looked at Patrick. “I think we should call Allegheny County. Ask about fan mail. See if anything out of the ordinary has stood out.”

“Don’t you think they would have contacted us?” Amy asked.

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Bogan said.

Patrick said, “I’m calling right now.”

*

Patrick snapped his phone shut, reentered the den shaking his head. “They said nothing out of the ordinary, all things considered. Said the only thing that had them scratching their heads was a sympathy card.”

“A what?”

“A sympathy card addressed to Arty. No return address. Consideration for the passing of Mae’s father.”

Amy fell momentarily silent.

Patrick reiterated: “The jail said that was the only item that stood apart from the rest of the sick fan-mail he gets.”

Dr. Bogan suddenly stood. The Holmes expression was back. “I wonder if the smug bastard had the audacity to spell it with a
y
.”

Patrick said, “Huh?”

Amy locked eyes with Dr. Bogan, became his Watson. “I’m May.”

Dr. Bogan nodded. “Indeed you are.” He looked at Patrick. “May is an anagram for Amy. Either way you spell it—M-a-e, or M-a-y—the message is still very clear. The sympathy card was telling Arthur Fannelli that Amy’s father was dead.”

*

Patrick slammed the phone down onto its receiver. He had phoned the Allegheny County Police again, explaining their discoveries, and then phoned the local police explaining the same, demanding protection for his family. The Allegheny County Police assured Patrick that Arthur Fannelli had no outgoing mail. Was even denied internet access. That ruled out any prompting on Arty’s end. The Allegheny County Police surmised that the “fan” had simply heard of Bob Corcoran’s unfortunate accident and reached out to Arty in some ambiguous way to inform him. The local police agreed with the Allegheny County Police, but still agreed to investigate and send a cruiser by periodically to check up on the Lamberts. It could not be ignored that a crazed fan was out there somewhere, and that the Lamberts could be in some type of danger. This held little comfort.