Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (34 page)

“That’s a little better,” the pretty woman said. “Felt like I was talking to a dummy.” And then letting out a quick laugh she added: “I meant a mannequin dummy. Not an
idiot
dummy.” She took a quick drag from her cigarette and blew it away from Amy. “Although I do wonder if you
are
a dummy. Going to that spa was very, very stupid. You got a lot of people killed. And there will be more to come of course.”

Amy’s guilt became fear. She mourned Lana and Christopher’s death, felt impossibly guilty. But the thought of more to come, this woman reading her inner manuscript as though it was printed out in front of her. Previous, comforting thoughts of vengeance, no matter how far they nudged her towards the teetering edge of that abyss, were suddenly losing their appeal, as if that dark side she embraced as an extreme coping mechanism was somehow nullified in the presence of someone else who knew all too well about the benefits of wearing the evil skin. Except this woman did not
wear
anything. She had never taken it off.

Everything but fear was now gone. And Amy’s eyes showed it. She shut them like a child willing away the image of the boogeyman standing at the foot of her bed.

The pretty woman saw it all. Amy could
feel
the woman tasting her pain and fear, sipping it as though it were the finest of wines. If this had been Arty or Jim she would have flown into a rage, struggled and spat, fought like an animal, just as she’d done months ago. What was it about this woman that froze her spirit with an icy grip of dread?

“I’m Monica by the way,” the pretty woman said. “We never
were
formally introduced. Tell me, is Patrick good in bed?”

Amy’s eyes snapped open. She looked hard at Monica.

“Does he have a nice cock?”

A flutter of anger managed to stir. Amy stared at Monica intently.

“He’s a very good looking man, Amy. And I can’t help but remember the way he kept looking at me at your father’s funeral.”

The anger grew.

“I mean it was a funeral for Christ’s sake. Yet he couldn’t show any discretion could he? I caught him staring at my tits more than once. Even my ass as I was walking away. I wonder if he was thinking about fucking me.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette and continued, the smoke fluttering out her mouth and nose while she spoke. “Have you guys fucked since the funeral? I’m sure you have; it was months ago. How much do you want to bet he thought about me at least
once
while you were doing it? Men can be like that sometimes, especially after years of marriage. They pump away forever like some poor fool on the handle of a dry well. But then, just when all seems lost, they flash on an image—a snippet of porn, a supermodel … a hot piece of ass they saw recently at their father-in-law’s funeral …” She smirked, deliberately letting it singe for a moment. “And then
woosh!
That well gushes forth as though it had never seen a dry day in its life. And you smile, right? Satisfied? Relieved? As though
you
were the one that got him off.” She exhaled in Amy’s face. “You know, I wonder … under the right circumstances … I wonder if I could get Patrick to fuck
me.
I think I could. I can be very persuasive you know. Although by now I’m sure you’ve probably figured that out.” Another drag, another smirk, another exhale in the face. “The only question is: would you want to watch?”

Amy yelled into her gag, jerked against her binds, eyes narrow and fierce. Monica smiled and seemed to drink it in differently than before. Fear and pain had been a sip of fine wine. Anger and rage was a belt of strong whiskey—hot and rough and good.

Amy cursed herself for giving the bitch the satisfaction.

Monica took a final drag of her cigarette and crushed it out on the floor of the van. “Time to go night night again.” She reached forward and pulled the blindfold up and over Amy’s eyes, patted her on top of the head and said, “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Chapter 72

They were an hour away. Dusk was almost gone. Patrick called Domino.

“Go, brother,” Domino said.

“About an hour to go, give or take.”

“Yeah.”

“Would I sound like the world’s biggest pussy if I said I was scared?”

“You’d sound like the world’s biggest
liar
if you said you weren’t. Fear is good—it’s natural. If you don’t feel some measure of fear then you’re a sociopath.”

“So these assholes don’t feel fear?”

“They can feel pain.”

“You always know just what to say.”

“And I love ya back.”

Patrick gave a soft chuckle.

Domino said, “Call the Feds about twenty miles out and give them the rendezvous point.”

“What if they jump the gun before I can get there?”

“Make it crystal-fucking-clear that if they do, she’s dead. The Feds don’t have a big enough shovel to get themselves out of a mess like that.”

“And Allegheny County? Cowboys?”

“Promise them first dibs on the assholes; all you care about is your wife’s safety. They’ll get their chance to come in, guns blazing.”

“And then it’s on.”

“And then it’s on, my friend.”

Chapter 73

Amy heard the back door of the van open again. No greeting this time, just purposeful grunts as her chair was swung around and pulled back on its hind legs before being dragged backwards. More grunts as her chair was lifted out of the van with one swift movement and lowered to the ground.

She sensed only one person behind the effort—likely the father, the big man; he had hoisted her
and
the chair out of the van without much of a struggle. She remembered Arty as lean, not the type of build to perform such a laborious act on his own. Besides, and she knew this in her gut, if it had been Arty, he would not have been able to resist the urge to speak. To mock. To
play.
The father remained quiet. Even when he tilted her chair back again and loaded her onto what Amy could only guess was a dolly—she felt herself being wheeled backwards seconds later—the father still never spoke.

Monica had mocked. Pushed Amy’s buttons to keep the game ablaze.

Arty would have certainly said worse. Maybe even hit her.

The father said nothing. All business apparently. Amy began to wonder if this was more frightening: to resist the urge to toy with the helpless prey. To be so focused and disciplined that the objective would never be compromised by even the most harmless of subtleties until the package arrived safely.

Amy felt the dolly slow to a stop. Heard a door open. Felt the dolly bounce twice as it was lifted upward over two small stairs. The cold outdoor air lingered on her skin as a door slammed behind her, shutting out the world. Soon, her once-frosty cheeks flushed to the warmth of indoors. She smelled old wood and dust. And before she was titled back once more to be wheeled towards her captor’s destination, the father finally spoke—the package safely delivered, the objective completed—the time for celebration to begin.

“Welcome back, bitch,” he said. “You ready to have some fun?”

*

Amy sat alone in silence, the binds on her hands and ankles still strong and stubborn, affording no slack, the gag taking away any articulation from her voice, the blindfold robbing her sight. Smell and sound were her only available senses, and every now and then she thought she heard breathing, someone watching.

Something in the room shifted. Amy cocked her blind head to one side, held her breath. Someone
was
in the room. And she knew who it was. She felt it.

Amy spoke, desperate to manage Arty’s name around the gag that stretched her mouth. It came out better than she’d hoped.

Her gag was pulled out and down to her neck. Still blind, Amy said, “Hi, Arty.”

“Hi, Amy. Long time.”

*

Patrick was twenty miles from Crescent Lake. He picked up his cell, hit the speed dial he’d programmed earlier, asked to speak to agent Chris Miller when it picked up on the second ring.

*

“Are you comfortable?” Arty asked Amy.

“Yes, thank you,” Amy said in the most contemptuous tone she could summon.

Arty slapped her hard. The shock was magnified by the fact that she couldn’t see it coming, and the black screen of the blindfold flashed small bursts of purple light as she struggled to keep her head upright.

“That was an appetizer … for Jim. A
weak
appetizer. We’ll be having more. Drinks too. Then the main course. Dessert. Coffee. After-dinner drinks—”

“Oh shut up,” Amy said. “It’s old. Your whole shtick is
old.
Christ, any kid with half a brain could come up with a better sequel.”

Arty slapped her again. She expected it this time, and the shock was lessened—no less painful, but lessened.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Amy. This is not a sequel—merely a continuation.”

“Tomato, tom
a
to.”

She heard Arty laugh. “You really think you’re quite the spitfire don’t you? Already accepted your fate, yes?”

“Something like that.”

“And Patrick?”

Amy’s heart jumped. She prayed it didn’t show on her face. “What about him?”

“Have you accepted his fate as well? He’s on his way you know. Him
and
your kids.”

It was impossible for Amy to hide it now. “My husband would never bring our children.”

“I suspect you’re right. He said he was, but I didn’t believe him. Doesn’t really matter much anyway—after we’re done with you and lover boy we
will
find Carrie and Caleb. And I’ll take my time with them.”

Amy’s rage put a momentary hold on her tongue. All she could do was clench her teeth and snort like a bull.

“I also told Patrick no police. Told him that if we spot them—and we will if they come—you’re dead. I mean you’re gonna die anyway, but I at least promised him a chance to see you before you die. Before you
both
die. You see I really want it to be like old times. But if we spot the police? The only thing he’ll see when he gets here is your corpse. And believe me, sweetums, I’ll do a
serious
number on you. He’ll have to identify you by the scar over your tit from where I shot you.” He laughed.

Amy said, “And when we kill
you,
they’ll identify you by the scars on your stomach and chest from where my husband fucked you with a knife.”

The third slap knocked her unconscious.

*

“
Please
remember to hold at the rendezvous point,” Patrick said to Agent Miller. “He said if they spot
any
police whatsoever she was dead.”

“We’ll hold,” Miller said.

“Tell Allegheny County the same.”

“Already did.”

“I’m sure they’re jumpy after losing men during the court transfer,” Patrick said. “Tell them they can have first dibs on the assholes, I don’t care. I just want my wife to be safe, alright?
Nobody can go in before me.
”

“They won’t, Patrick.”

Patrick sighed deep into the phone. “Okay. I should be there in about five minutes.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

*

Amy came to, disoriented. For a moment she forgot where she was, until Arty’s words brought it all back with painful clarity.

“And she’s back,” Arty said. “Welcome back, Amy.”

Amy shook her head, trying to clear it.

“Turned out the lights on that last one, didn’t I?” he asked.

“Yes, Arty. You should be very proud of your ability to knock a blind woman unconscious. What a stud you are.”

“I guess maybe you need another, huh?”

“Is that your plan? To keep hitting me all night? I remember you being more creative,” she said.

“Oh no …
oh no
—there’s so much more planned, Amy. The hitting? Just getting carried away I suppose. Your smart mouth makes it all but impossible to resist.”

“Would you rather I had a dumb mouth?”

“You see? There you go again—so pleased with yourself in the face of adversity. Perhaps our last encounter was a good thing. It seems to have really toughened you up.”

“I agree,” Amy said. “Sticking a nail file in your brother’s little balls
was
very cathartic. Watching my husband blow his head off was even better. Thanks for that.”

She heard Arty take a sharp intake of breath, controlling his anger. “Now that
really
deserves another crack upside your cunting head.” Another deep breath. “But I won’t. I won’t because I need you conscious for when Patrick arrives. It won’t be long now. I’ve dreamed of this day, Amy. I’ll admit that for a time I had given up and lost hope. But when my sister contacted me, told me who she was, who my
real
father was.” Amy heard him sigh contently. “I knew I would have my vengeance soon—I just needed to be patient. And I knew that
while
I was being patient, my father and sister were picking up right where Jim and I had left off. And
God damn
were they good. Dead dog? Patrick’s job? Dead dad … ?” He paused as though getting ready to give a punch line. “
Being at the actual funeral and signing the fucking guest book?
” Arty started laughing hard. He tried to continue but had to pause a few times until his laughter finally subsided. “Monica told me she even got you to drive home wasted one night … right after your father’s drunk driving ‘accident.’ That is
absolute-fucking-gold.
” He started to laugh hard again, yet managed to finish with: “I’d cut my fucking thumb off right now if I could have seen the look on Patrick’s face when that happened.”

Arty’s words weren’t a revelation for Amy. Had she heard them immediately following each incident, especially her father’s death, they would have carried the impact of a bullet. Now it was all in the “no shit” column. Amy’s face reflected that.

“Abstaining are we?” There was more than just goading in Arty’s tone; there was a faint sense of frustration.