Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (6 page)

Why didn’t you pull it into the garage? Was it because the kids were crying? Yeah, I think so. You and Amy wanted to stop the car as soon as possible so you could carry them inside, isn’t that right? Poor little Carrie and Caleb. I guess tonight’s session with the new therapist upset them?

The porch lights clicked on and the front door opened. She watched eagerly.

Oscar.

The Border terrier exploded out of the front door and began his perfunctory laps around the front of the house, satisfying every conceivable olfactory sense before he would eventually reappear on the front lawn to do his business.

Always the same routine right, Oscar?
She looked away for a moment and took in the surroundings of suburbia: rows of colossal homes, smooth black driveways stretching on forever, flawless lawns, hedges, flower beds; fences tall, sturdy, and safe, indulging the residents’ superfluous paranoia. She wondered which species was more mundane, humans or canines.

She heard the front door close and she turned. Patrick stood barefoot on the front porch in a pair of Penn State sweatpants and a white tee. His arms were folded to keep warm.

And there he is. Hate to admit it, but he
is
handsome. Wonder if I could get him to fuck me before I kill him … or get him to fuck me
while
I’m killing him … or get him to fuck me while I’m killing him while
Amy watches
…

She felt the familiar tingle warming below.

Patrick called for Oscar.

The terrier finally reappeared, nose dragging the lawn, finding the ideal spot to do his thing. She looked at the wagging stump where his tail used to be and wondered which one of her brothers had cut it off. The Lamberts didn’t know, and therefore Dr. Stone didn’t know.
Mind like a sieve, that idiot head-shrinker—writes every single nugget down. Didn’t surprise me though; her filing system was an archaic joke.

Oscar lifted a leg.

So it’s just a pee is it? Lucky Patrick—nothing to clean up, and no reason to walk on the freezing lawn in your bare feet. But please do me one favor, will you, handsome? Please leave the Highlander in the driveway tonight. Just this once?

Tucked away in the shadows, Monica Kemp watched Oscar dart back inside. She watched Patrick close the door, the porch lights go out, the downstairs lights click off one by one, and then, with a disciplined patience that fought off the eagerness that beckoned, watched the final light from the bedroom window disappear. Patrick and Amy had gone to bed, and Patrick would not be putting the car in the garage tonight.

Monica smiled. “Thank you, handsome.”

Chapter 8

The lights in the bedroom were off, but Patrick and Amy weren’t sleeping. They lay next to one another, flat on their backs and staring at the dark ceiling as though it might begin to flash answers.

“I thought we were making progress,” Amy said.

Patrick kept his eyes on the ceiling. “We
are
… Dr. Bogan said—”

“Did you
hear
what Carrie said to Caleb? I’ve never felt so helpless.”

“Her nightmares are nothing new. Dr. Stone said they would eventually fade. What we need to do now is try and explain to Carrie
why
Caleb did what he did, help her understand the way Dr. Bogan helped us understand.”

“Maybe Carrie should talk to Dr. Bogan. Maybe he could explain it to her.”

“Don’t you think it would be better if she heard it from her own parents?”

Amy didn’t reply.

Patrick rolled towards her. She spooned into him, and he kissed the back of her head. “We
are
getting better. Dr. Bogan’s words were an absolute relief—no question—but you and I both know our son; we know in our hearts that he didn’t pull that prank maliciously. We just needed clarification … and that’s what we got tonight.” He kissed her head again.

“I just want it all to be over,” she said.

“It
is
over. You think Jim’s coming back to life? You think Arty’s going anywhere?”

“What about the trial?”

“What about it? I don’t care what kind of insanity plea his scumbag lawyer tries. It won’t amount to shit.”

“I just don’t want to have to re-live it all over again.”

Patrick squeezed his wife. “It’s not gonna be a picnic. But if we can survive what we’ve survived, then we can definitely endure its memory.”

She sighed deep, his arm around her rising and falling. “I guess.”

He rolled her over so she faced him. “Let’s look at it from a different point of view. Let’s look at it as the final ‘fuck you.’”

“The what?”

“
The final fuck you.
We already fought those crazy bastards at their own game, and we won, right?”

Amy nodded into her pillow.

“Well then let’s not take the stand and show fear or anguish over remembering what happened. You know Arty. You know the kind of sicko he is. He’d love that. It would be the same as congratulating the opposition and telling them what worthy opponents they were. No—we got the last laugh at the hospital when we told the prick he was adopted, and we’re gonna get the last laugh
again.
Let’s get up on the stand, stick our chests out, and look the son of a bitch right in the eye as we give our testimony. We’re not gonna congratulate our opponent, we’re gonna shove our victory right down his goddamned throat. We’ll even wink at the piece of shit while we’re doing it.”

She laughed.

“We won, baby,” he said. “We won the war. But no war comes without casualties. Right now we’re nursing ours … but I’ll be damned if we’re gonna let Arty-fucking-Fannelli know that.”

She laughed again and kissed him. “I love you.”

He stroked her scarred breast: A raised pink circle the size of a nickel was all that remained months after surgery. “This can be your badge of honor,” he said.

“I think you’re stroking my badge a little too long. It’s becoming inappropriate.”

“Just admiring it.”

“I heard you’ve got one of your own,” she said. Amy brought her hand under the sheet, and ran her fingers over the scar on Patrick’s stomach. “I must say, your badge is rather impressive too.” Her hand continued creeping further south.

Patrick’s hand had since left her badge and began sliding south as well.

“The final fuck you, huh?” she said.

“The final fuck you,” he repeated.

“I like that.”

Patrick’s hand reached its destination first. “I like
you,
” he said, slipping an innocent finger in.

Amy moaned lightly. Her hand then reached
its
destination. “Mmm … I like
this
,” she said as she took hold of him and began stroking.

For the first time since Crescent Lake, Amy and Patrick had great sex.

Chapter 9

Patrick woke up before the alarm. He rolled gently and switched it off.

“What time is it?” Amy’s voice was soft, barely a whisper. She didn’t dare wake the kids. She would savor the calm before the morning storm that was a school day.

“Six.” Patrick’s voice was equally soft. He feared the storm as well.

Amy cuddled close to him and buried her lips into his shoulder. She mumbled: “I would give anything to be able to lie in bed with you all day.”

He cuddled back and kissed her forehead. “That would be amazing.”

Her mouth left his shoulder and started kissing the side of his chest. “I’m still tingling from last night.”

“It
was
good wasn’t it?”

She rolled over and traced her tongue from his nipple to his belly button. “What time do we have to get up?”

He smirked. “I’m already up.”

“I practically gave you that one. No points.”

“Fair enough.”

“What time?”

“6:30.”

She hovered over his naked groin, her mouth centimeters away. He felt her hot breath on him. She gave his engorged head a flick of her tongue and he all but came right then. 6:30? He’d be lucky to last until 6:02.

“Plenty of time,” she said.

Patrick thought about this weekend’s Sixers game for the first few minutes until he was able to gain some control.

*

7 a.m. The morning storm.

Patrick dressing, drinking coffee, and eating a protein bar simultaneously. Amy’s voice echoing from the floor below, arguing with Carrie about finishing her breakfast, pitching the empty threat that if she missed the bus she was staying home. Carrie’s squeaky voice arguing right back. Caleb silent as always.

Dressed, caffeinated, and full of protein, Patrick headed downstairs. He kissed both kids seated at the kitchen table.

Amy approached him, got close and fixed his tie. “We’ll talk to Carrie tonight?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You thinking about your presentation?”

He was—until Amy mentioned tonight’s conversation with Carrie. “Nah, not really.”

“You’ve still got a couple months,” she said.

“I know. I’m good.”

She kissed him. “I know you’ll kick some ass when it’s time. You always do.”

He smiled. “What about you? What’s on your agenda today?”

“After I drop Caleb off, I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to unload the rest of that software.” She made a dreadful face and added: “Might have to make some cold calls.”

“Ewww … I’m sorry, baby.” He admired his wife’s work ethic. There was no
way
he could summon the discipline to work from home. Cold calls without a boss holding a gun to your head? Eff that.

“Be thankful you’re in advertising,” she said.

“I’ll be thankful when this presentation is done. Besides, our jobs aren’t so different.”

“No?”

“No—we’re both trying to sell something.”

“Oh, so then you wouldn’t mind helping me with some of those cold calls?”

He looked at his watch. “Gotta go.”

She laughed and smacked him on the chest. He kissed her, the kids at the kitchen table again, then headed towards the garage.

“Wait.”

He stopped and turned.

“We parked in the driveway, remember?”

“Oh—right.” He changed direction and went out the front door.

As he backed out, Patrick never noticed the big green puddle of antifreeze on the driveway.

Chapter 10

The morning storm had nearly passed. Only one more threat of resurgence loomed.

“I can see the bus!
Let’s go!
” Amy stood at the open front door, the flashing red and yellow lights of the school bus visible two blocks up.

Carrie hurried to the front door, backpack stuffed bigger than her torso making her sway, lunch box clattering against her knees.

“Gimme a kiss,” Amy said bending forward.

Carrie kissed her mother then hurried out the front door and onto the lawn. A furry bullet shot out after her, barking and moving at such a speed that it matched each stride she took with a full circle around her feet.

Amy smiled as she watched the Oscar the dog bid her daughter farewell for the day. It was their morning ritual.

The school bus arrived, slowing to a crawl before finally stopping. Its small stop-sign flapped open from its side like an octagonal fin, the flashing red and yellow igniting once again. The big rectangular doors folded open. Carrie gave Oscar a final pat, waved goodbye to her mother, and climbed aboard.

Amy waved to the bus driver, who waved back. She watched her daughter move from square window to square window along the bus’ length until she took a seat. The flashing lights clicked off, the small stop sign folded back flat, and with a slow rumble, the bus chugged forward until it eventually disappeared.

Amy whistled. “Oscar! You coming in or staying out?”

The dog’s head whipped towards his owner, then back towards an oncoming speed walker. A woman—gray sweats, blonde hair, glasses, headphones.

Oscar immediately approached the woman and jumped on her leg. Amy scolded Oscar from the front door, smiled and waved an apology to the woman. The woman smiled back, gave a reassuring wave that it was okay, then bent forward and began petting Oscar.

Amy called Oscar again, harsher this time, and the dog finally left the women in peace before charging off and out of sight to perform his usual inspections of the front half of the house.

Amy waited a tick, then called his name again (by now he would have usually appeared on the front lawn, paused to do his business, and then darted back inside for breakfast). When he didn’t reappear, Amy shrugged and shut the door, knowing darn well she would hear his incessant whine in less than two minutes.

*

Oscar was busy. He had found something very unusual at the top of the driveway. Something that smelled wonderful and tasted delicious. He lapped away at the green puddle, only pausing for a second to acknowledge the blonde speed walker in the gray sweats approach.

The speed walker had watched and waited from a distance for the Lambert’s front door to close. She knew Oscar would be enticed by the antifreeze. Knew Amy would eventually close the door on such a cold morning if the dog did not return right away. She also knew that she couldn’t rely on a puddle of antifreeze to do the job. Yes, it only took a few tablespoons to eventually kill a dog, but hopeful eventualities had never graced her syllabus—her job entailed acting certainties. Besides, the puddle’s role was not to kill. The puddle was more of a red herring. A red herring that would reek of exceptional guilt when all was said and done.

And so as Oscar lapped away happily at the green puddle, the blonde speed walker squatted down on the driveway, began petting him, looked in all directions, and then pulled a syringe from her pocket and stuck a needle filled with more antifreeze into the meat of Oscar’s scruff. The dog flinched and looked up for a split second, mildly annoyed, then resumed lapping. The speed walker patted Oscar on the head, put the syringe back in her pocket, and casually walked away.