Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (9 page)

Every time Patrick had selected west during that brief stretch of turnpike with only two options (and there
had
been a few times since the tragedy, all business-related, which thankfully took him no further than a hundred miles or so), it was absurd to suggest that the memories of Crescent Lake would not come flooding back.

Except it was not the brutal details of his family’s ordeal that he remembered most when he chose west. It was not the horrors of watching his children tormented, the knowing that his wife was being sexually assaulted while he remained bound and helpless in the next room, that she was eventually shot and almost taken from him. It was not the horrors of transforming into the monster he had become in order to protect his family: stabbing a man over and over in hopes of reducing him to shreds of tissue and bone (and that, God damn it, was
exactly
what he’d been thinking at the time). Nor was it biting the nose off another man before repeatedly shooting him in the face until the chamber clicked empty and the man was deader than dead. Not the painful, physical rehabilitation in the hospital, or worse still, the mental rehabilitation once they returned home.

It was the
hope
Patrick remembered. He remembered—as clear as he remembered this morning—the hope he had for his family before their weekend trip to the lake months ago. He’d hoped the weather would be nice. Hoped his wife would transcend relaxation during the time away. Hoped his kids would never want to leave. Hoped it would be the perfect weekend with a family he loved more than he ever imagined possible. He hoped it would be a memory they would never forget …

Oh, Mr. Irony
, he thought,
you can be so fucking cruel sometimes.

“You’re quiet.” Amy said.

Patrick took his eyes off the road for a second and smiled at her. “I’m good. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He knew she knew. But he deflected anyway. And when she didn’t push, he loved her even more.

“Wondering if you’re prepared to play goalie once your dad starts shooting drinks my way,” he said.

Amy laughed. “I could be Ron Hextall and my dad would still get a few past me.”

Patrick threw her a curious glance. “How do you know who Ron Hextall is?”

“An ex. He was a big hockey nut. Almost as much as my dad. He even tried out for the Hershey Bears.”

Patrick grunted.

“Didn’t make it though,” she said.

“Couldn’t cut it, huh?” Patrick said with some satisfaction.

Amy flashed a cheeky smirk. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that—he was an amazing athlete … rugged … hot.” Her smirk spread to a grin. “Mmmm, I haven’t thought about
him
in awhile—”

Patrick grabbed her knee and she screamed.

Both kids leaned forward in their child seats. Carrie asked: “What?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said. “Mommy’s just trying to make Daddy jealous.”

“Mommy
did
make Daddy jealous,” Amy said.

“
Anyway …
” Patrick said, getting back on track, “I hope you’re prepared to play some solid defense for me this evening.”

“Oh stop. You know my dad’s idea of male bonding is booze.”

“And that’s fine, I’ll watch him drink all night. Doesn’t mean I have to match him drink for drink though.”

Amy’s grin returned. “Oh yes it does. And God help you if there’s a Bears game on tonight.”

“You just want me hung over in the morning so you can make my life miserable.”

“Correct.”

Patrick went to grab her knee again. She saw it coming and dodged. “Too slow.”

Patrick placed his hand back on the wheel. “Fine—then you’re driving home tomorrow while I sleep.”

She shrugged cheerfully. “Okay.”

“You suck. Don’t expect any later tonight if your dad gets me loaded.”

Amy glanced in the back seat. Both kids were oblivious to their father’s implication. She faced front again. “Fine by me.” She then whispered: “
It’s creepy doing it at my parents’ anyway.
”

“So what did you do in high school?”

“Oh, so now you
want
to talk about my exes?” She sighed and gazed dreamily towards the roof. “Let’s see … who to think about first?”

This time her knee had nowhere to hide.

Chapter 16

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Bob and Audrey Corcoran had company from out of town. The Toyota Highlander parked in their driveway told you that. In this neighborhood, the SUV was an exchange student in a proud classroom of names like Ford, Chevy, and Dodge.

Patrick’s decision in choosing the Highlander had little to do with a lack of appreciation for American craftsmanship and more to do with providing conveniences for his family. The Highlander ticked three out of four on that ballot—tons of space, a smooth ride, safe (as far as SUVs go), but damned expensive. And yet he still bought it. Because he could. Patrick had had done well for himself thus far. So had Amy. Their combined income gave their family a comfortable life in a suburb that flaunted fine sushi and martinis with clever names.

And yet when they stepped out of their lavish suburb for journeys elsewhere, there wasn’t the slightest hint of unease. Both Patrick and Amy were raised in small blue collar towns throughout the state of Pennsylvania, and despite the amicable friendships formed back in that lavish suburb, which often involved outings at restaurants plentiful with sanctimonious patrons, assuredly there to be seen as opposed to dine, it was not uncommon for Amy and Patrick to go it alone in a quest to seek out less-stifling accommodations—a place that served a steak that wasn’t the size of a nickel, a place where you couldn’t give two shits about what you looked like, who you saw, and who saw you. Somewhere you could get drunk in public and receive
been there!
giggles from fellow patrons instead of rolled eyes and disgusted clucks of the tongue.

The Lamberts did not resent their luxuries back in Valley Forge; they had worked hard for them. The surrounding school districts were excellent too. Amy and Patrick were comfortable in
both
worlds; it was why they were soul mates. Their marriage wasn’t one that saw Patrick sitting on the sofa watching the game, farting and drinking beer while Amy pined to go out to extravagant restaurants and social events. She happily joined him on that sofa. Drank beer and farted with him.

And there were plenty of times when too many nights of sloth tugged at their social needs, and they would happily get dressed up and do the town. The fancy town—the type of town they often resented. It was all about moderation. One type of evening would help them appreciate the other, and vice versa.

So it was no chore to be nestled here in a cozy blue collar neighborhood just outside of Harrisburg. Patrick knew the booze would be poured down his neck the moment he entered, and Amy knew a part of him—despite his flimsy objections earlier—looked forward to it. She would likely let her hair down and have a few too. They all would. Except for Amy’s mother of course.

Mrs. Audrey Corcoran did not drink—that was her husband’s job. If there was one bit of resentment Amy had concerning her old stomping grounds, it was that the intangibles seemed to remain as traditional as the tangibles. Although never voiced, it was still presumed that the husband was the head of the house, and the wife, while not exactly on her hands and knees scrubbing floors with a pregnant belly, did not hide the fact that her primary purpose was to serve her husband. The husband made the money, the wife took care of him. That’s just how it was. Amy didn’t necessarily approve, and things were certainly not the same for her and Patrick, but she accepted it. She had no choice. Besides, her father was a good husband. A good father. Rough and stern at times, but good. He could scream and holler like hell, and his fuse could be just as short as the next man’s (especially after a few), but Amy could never recall him laying anything but a tongue-lashing on her mother, and the odd spank on the butt to her and her brother growing up.

Carrie and Caleb liked Grandma and Grandpa Corcoran. Not as much as Grandma and Grandpa Lambert, but this had nothing to do with personalities; it was simply a matter of location. The elder Lamberts lived in Conshohocken—a fifteen minute drive from Valley Forge. Harrisburg was an hour and a half away. The kids saw Grandma and Grandpa Lambert more often. Nearly once a week. It was why the elder Lamberts were called to pick the children up after the incident at Crescent Lake. Despite the cabin belonging to the Corcorans, comfort was the order of the day after such a tragedy, and Patrick and Amy had both decided on the spot that it would be better if Grandma and Grandpa Lambert were initially called. The Corcorans showed up the following day after a call from Amy, never once questioning why they hadn’t been contacted first. Amy had felt deep down that they understood, and she loved them for it.

Amy stood on the third and final step to her parent’s front door. Black iron railings sloped up from the ground and attached themselves to a white brick exterior. Two oval lanterns hung lit on opposing sides of the door. As a child Amy always thought they looked like giant fireflies. This evening was no different, and the nostalgia warmed her heart.

Patrick stood on the second step behind Amy, a hand on the shoulder of each child that flanked him. Carrie picked at a chip of black paint on one of the railings. Patrick tapped her hand and told her to stop. She did for a second, then continued. Caleb shook from a gust of wind and Patrick pulled him close and rubbed his shoulder.

“Did you ring the bell?” Patrick asked.

Amy glanced back at him with a “duh” face. “No, honey—I thought if we just waited out here in the freezing cold, they might eventually come out and greet us.” She rang the bell again.

A voice boomed behind the door. “
Who is it?
”

“Dad, open the door, it’s freezing.”

“
We don’t want any.
”

“
Dad!
”

A click of a lock, the sound of a chain sliding, and the door flew open, revealing a man who, if he ever decided to dye his brown beard white, could have doubled for Santa Claus without a hint of scrutiny. His nose was round and red, eyes bunched into slivers from full cheeks and a constant smile, and a frame short and thick with a belly seemingly in its third trimester. He was even wearing a red sweater.

Amy’s father barked out what seemed a triumphant laugh, then snatched his daughter into him. He kissed her cheek hard and rubbed his beard against it.

Amy pushed away and wiped her face as a child would. “I hate when you do that!”

He grinned and looked past her. “And who’s this big bugger you’ve got with you? He’s a handsome fella. Finally got rid of Patrick did you?”

Patrick laughed. “How you doing, Bob?”

“Gettin’ older and fatter.” Bob Corcoran then looked over the heads of both Carrie and Caleb, scanning east to west as though searching for something. “Funny,” he said, “I could have
sworn
I saw two little varmints with you when I opened the door.” He continued his ruse, searching aimlessly above them. “Guess they ran off. Shame too, ’cause we got cookies and hot chocolate inside.”

Carrie blurted out as though jabbed with a stick. “
Grandpa!
”

Bob made a startled face. “Who said that?”

“
Me!
” Carrie shrugged her father’s hand off her shoulder and joined Amy’s side on the third step.

“Oh, well there you are …” Bob bent forward and tapped Carrie’s nose with his finger. “Good thing I found you …” He stood upright and jiggled his big belly. “I woulda had to have eaten all the goodies myself!”

Carrie giggled, and Bob stroked her cheek before standing up and playing blind again. “Now I could have sworn there was another little varmint roaming around here. Where’d that one go?”

Caleb stayed tight to his father’s side but raised a hand. Bob honed in on him. “Ah ha! There he is!” He took a step down and clamped onto the top of Caleb’s head. “Guess I won’t be getting any cookies at all now that this big fella’s on board!”

“I’m big too!” Carrie piped up.

Bob jumped back a step, feigning shock, as though Carrie had suddenly grown a foot. “Darn right you are! I just hope our beds are big enough for you two monsters.”

“Dad?” Amy said. “May we
please
come in before we freeze to death?”

Bob Corcoran stepped away from the door, bowed and swept his hand majestically inside. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “After you, your highness.”

*

They all entered. Amy got a second hug (no beard this time), Carrie got hoisted up to the ceiling before her hug, Caleb got a firm “man’s handshake” that intentionally shook his whole body and made him giggle, and Patrick got a strong pat on the back followed by an offer for a bourbon. Patrick immediately glanced at Amy and she spun away, her grin visible on the back of her head.

Audrey Corcoran emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the green apron that covered her torso and knees. Her glasses, thick and outdated, magnified the light brown eyes she shared with her daughter. If you asked Patrick, that was the only resemblance between the two. Audrey was shorter, thicker, and her hair was curly and graying. Patrick did not think his motherin-law ugly, but she was not attractive—certainly no looker like his wife. Even in photos from years past when they were the same age, Amy buried her. And despite his friends’ good-natured ribbing, Patrick was certain that the old axiom they loved to drill him with (
“Check out the mother if you want to see what your wife will look like in thirty years!”
) was as false as the teeth he suspected Audrey Corcoran wore. Or so he prayed
.
Actually, maybe he
would
take that bourbon now, thank you, Bob.

Audrey Corcoran took her turn with hugs and kisses before switching all attention towards her grandchildren, guiding them into the kitchen where copious amounts of sugar were happily administered post-haste.