Bad Games (23 page)

Patrick and Amy sat next to one another in their holding room, unable to take their eyes off the television. They watched in helpless horror as a psychopath raced around a room with their four-year-old son over his shoulder.

There was no sound on the television, but they could hear Jim’s hooting and their son’s faint giggles from below.

At one point Jim and Caleb went off camera, leaving the family room to go elsewhere. It was only seconds later before the couple realized that the sounds of the man and their child were becoming more distinct, and they were in fact, climbing the stairs towards the very room they were being held captive in.

They could hear Jim’s heavy footsteps pounding up the wooden stairs towards them. They could hear their son’s giggles rising. And before long, they could hear Jim’s voice right outside the bedroom door.

“
What do you say, pilot Caleb? Should we venture inside?
”

The excruciating irony the couple felt just then was surreal:

They did not want their son to enter the room. Did not want him to see his Mommy and Daddy battered and helpless. Did not want him to see that they could not protect him, could not save him from the boogeyman.

And yet it was only the boogeyman
himself
who had the ability to make that wish come true. That realization was an explosive punch to the sternum that stole their breath and gave them no other option but to sit and hope for a madman to obey their deepest wish.

“
No!
” Caleb’s little voice echoed, the sound of it making tears instantly pour from Amy’s eyes. “
Downstairs! Go back downstairs!
”

“
You sure?
” Jim asked, and Patrick was certain the man was grinning fangs with fire-red eyes at the door when he spoke.

“
Yeah! Yeah!
”

“
Okay, pilot Caleb, you’re the boss. Hold on!
”

The voices and thumps started to fade, and as they watched Jim and their son eventually reappear on the TV screen, husband and wife regretfully thanked the boogeyman.

They did another quick loop around the family room before Jim flew Caleb right up to his mother’s bookshelf. Jim stuck Caleb’s face close to a row of books. “There’s a secret camera in the bookshelf, pilot Caleb! Wave to the secret camera! Wave to the secret camera, pilot Caleb!”

And there was a secret camera. A small, portable camera that Arty had installed deep into the shelf earlier that day.

Caleb couldn’t see it.
Nobody
could see it. But it was there. And the little boy waved and smiled. Carrie jumped up onto the arm of the sofa, and, following her brother’s lead, gave a hearty wave and a smile into the “secret camera” as well.

“Kisses!” Jim grinned. “Blow
kisses
into the camera!”

Carrie immediately did, blowing several of them, posing like a movie star. Caleb balked.

“Come on, pal,” Jim said, “I’ll do one first.” Jim puckered up and brought his lips as close to the hidden lens as possible. Both kids then giggled as Jim added an exaggerated wink for the benefit of his audience above.

Caleb finally gave in and blew a kiss at the secret camera before giggling and turning away.

Upstairs, the silent movie Patrick and Amy were watching had turned the explosive punch to the sternum into a shotgun blast.

Maria Fannelli held a look of both contentment and fatigue. She had her boys and her grandchildren with her, but it was late.

“You getting sleepy, Ma?” Jim called to her, Caleb sitting on his lap in the big recliner.

“A little,” she admitted. “I’m okay though.” She reached over and stroked an equally tired-looking Carrie’s hair.

“You
do
look tired, Ma,” Arty said. He was leaning against the bookshelf that held the secret camera.

“Oh, but I’m not ready to go to sleep just yet,” she said. “I don’t get moments like this too often.”

“I know you don’t, Ma, but we did get a late start.” Arty pointed at Carrie and Caleb. “And the kids are looking a bit sleepy too; it’s past their bed time.”

Caleb jumped in Jim’s lap. “I’m not tired!”

Jim gave him a squeeze on the shoulder and said, “Good for you, champ.”

Carrie’s eyes drooped, yet still she asked the question that had been her theme throughout the night. “When are my Mommy and Daddy coming?”

Arty shook his head, smiled and said, “You are one insistent piece of work, kiddo.” He walked to the sofa, squatted down so he was eye-level with her, and said, “Why don’t we go find out what’s keeping them?”

Carrie’s droopy eyes lifted and she hopped off the sofa.

Arty held up a hand. “Give me a second first, kiddo. Why don’t you play with Josie?”

Carrie turned towards the doll that had been lying beside her on the sofa. She picked it up and began whispering to it.

Arty went to an antique wooden desk in the far corner of the room and pulled a white iPod from one of its drawers.

“Mom?” he said. “Why don’t you listen to your sounds for awhile? Jim and I are going to go do something with the kids for a bit.”

Maria took the iPod from her son and gave the device a look of resentment. “Oh Arthur, I’ll fall asleep.”

“The sounds are good for you, Mom, you know that. Jim can get you one of your pills.” Arty turned and looked at his brother. Jim immediately picked Caleb off his lap and went towards the kitchen.

“James, wait,” she called.

Jim was already in the kitchen; there were sounds of cabinets opening and a glass of water being filled.

Maria sulked. “Arthur, I really don’t want to go to sleep just yet.”

Jim returned with a pill in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He played his part. “We won’t let you sleep through the night, Mom. Promise.”

Arty leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead. He then helped her out of the sofa and guided her towards the big recliner. “Just a little rest, that’s all,” he said.

Maria sat and Jim handed the pill and water to her. He too then leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead.

Maria placed the pill in her mouth and drank from the glass.

“Just for a little while, Ma,” Arty said again.

“You won’t leave before waking me?”

“No, of course not,” Jim said.

Arty took the iPod out of his mother’s lap and fiddled with a few buttons before handing it back to her. “I put the ocean sounds on. I know you like those.”

“They remind me of when your father and I would visit Avalon,” she said.

“I know they do, Ma.”

She nestled the headphones into her ears, leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Good?” Arty asked. His tone was very loud—for a reason.

Maria opened her eyes and pulled one of the headphones from her ear. “Did you say something, Arthur?” she asked.

“No, Ma,” Arty smiled. “Go back to your sounds. I love you.”

Maria plugged the earphone back into her ear, blew a kiss at her two sons, and waved to the two children standing by the family room’s entrance.

Both kids waved back—Caleb’s sincere, Carrie’s an impatient courtesy.

Maria smiled, leaned back in the recliner, and closed her eyes again.

Arty whispered to Jim,
“She won’t hear a thing.”

Both brothers turned away from their mother and approached Carrie and Caleb. Arty squatted down in front of the kids and asked, “Okay—you ready to go see what Mommy and Daddy are up to?”

Patrick and Amy Lambert watched Arty and Jim attend to their mother on the TV. They watched them move her to the recliner. Watched them give her a pill and a glass of water. Watched them give her the iPod. And they watched her wave to their children before leaning back and drifting off to sleep. One might have surveyed the scene as two sons doting over their elderly mother.

Patrick and Amy saw two sick men showcasing ulterior motives.

When the two men and their children left the family room—and the TV screen—the sounds that followed for the couple were akin to the executioner loading his rifle.

Heavy footsteps climbing wooden stairs.

Tiny footsteps climbing wooden stairs—their babies’ footsteps.

Closer now…

The footsteps stopped. Shadows slid back and forth beneath the bedroom door. A sudden knock to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut” followed by a voice, deep and friendly. “
Anybody home?
”

October 1986

Hamilton Elementary

Guidance and Counseling Office

Philadelphia, PA

Joanne Lynch, the school psychologist and guidance counselor at Hamilton Elementary, was young for her accomplishments at just over thirty, and was as passionate about her job as an artist to his craft.

Today she would be taking a shot at the Fannelli brothers. Three months ago their father died in a horrible boating accident in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. The reason Joanne Lynch was taking time after school hours to sit down and talk with these boys was because in the two months since they’d returned to Hamilton, the boys had exhibited no signs of children coping with the loss of a parent. No signs whatsoever.

This behavior concerned their teachers, and more notably, their mother. And it was only their mother’s concern that made the brothers agree to stay after school and listen to what this woman had to say.

“Can I get you boys a soda or something?” Joanne Lynch asked once the brothers were seated.

The office was blatantly inviting. Posters were wallpaper, most inspirational, a few showcasing the current teen celebrities being worshipped worldwide. Shelves held books in addition to popular toys—Transformers, a Cabbage Patch Doll, stuffed animals, games—strategically placed for all to see. A bowl of
good
candy (Joanne Lynch knew what the kids currently liked) was on her desk.
This is not a dull place
, the room pleaded.
This is a cool place, kids—a place you can “chill” and “rap” with me whenever you want
.

In front of Joanne Lynch’s desk were four cushy chairs positioned in a semicircle. Arty and Jim did not sit next to each other. They took a chair on each end of the half-circle so they could face one another. Arty had suggested this to Jim beforehand so that Jim could take cues from his older brother during the course of the session.

Jim looked at Arty as soon as the soda question was asked, and Arty shook his head with a subtlety that was invisible to anyone but Jim.

“No thank you,” Jim said.

Joanne looked at Arty. “Arthur?”

“
Arty
,” Arty said. Now, only one person on Earth was allowed to call him Arthur.

Joanne looked genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry.
Arty.
Would you like a soda?”

Arty shook his head slowly and said, “No thank you.”

Joanne smiled and took a seat behind her desk. She started to dig with a delicate blade. “So how does it feel to be back in the swing of things now?” she asked.

Both boys mumbled affirmative replies.

“Are you doing well in your classes?”

More hollow affirmatives.

“Arty, you’re the big man on campus now. A fifth grader. How are you liking it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Jim? How about you? You liking third grade?”

“Yeah.”

Joanne looked down at her desk and rubbed the nape of her neck. She was chipping at granite with a toothpick.

“Okay, boys…” She raised her head, breathed in. Time for a different approach. “I’m sure you know that your mother asked me to speak to you. And, well…that’s why we’re here. Your mother, and myself for that matter, are a little concerned about your behavior as of late.”

Arty frowned, and then Jim frowned.

“Were we bad?” Arty asked.

“No,
no.
” Joanne’s eyes widened, her hands waving in front of her. “My goodness no. You’ve both been fine. Please don’t think you’re in trouble here. In fact, the problem has been that you’ve been a little
too
fine…considering all you’ve been through.”

The brothers gave the woman a blank stare.

“Boys, you suffered a very serious loss, yet you’ve exhibited no signs of anguish or grieving whatsoever. You’re showing
classic
signs of denial and suppression—” Joanne quickly stopped, shook her head as though scolding herself, then repeated her words with more juvenile clarity. “What I mean is, you don’t seem to be bothered by your father’s death at all. Your mother and I think you might be holding it all in, and that maybe you’re afraid to let it out.”

Arty knew what to say. Even at the age of ten, he knew what this woman wanted to hear. He fed her. “I don’t think we understand.”

Joanne Lynch looked almost too eager to explain. “Well, you see, boys, it’s not uncommon for people—children especially—to hold very sad memories deep down inside so they can go on with their lives. It’s something called suppression.”

She paused a moment. When Arty realized she was gauging a response, he feigned interest and nodded understandingly. Joanne continued.

“I think witnessing your father’s death was so upsetting for you boys that you’ve almost pretended it never happened. You might even be thinking that your father may return someday.”

Arty envisioned his dead father reappearing on their doorstep, soaking wet and asking his sons why they decided to drown him with a large wooden oar. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

A minute of silence followed. Joanne Lynch had said her bit and seemed content to wait in that silence, perhaps hoping that tears would soon follow—a sure indicator that she had not only scratched the surface of the Fannelli boys, but made a sizeable crack to boot.

Arty knew the next move. He shot a quick glance at Jim that carried flared nostrils and a clenched jaw.
Do as I’m about to do, Jim
, it read.

And Jim took the cue perfectly. As soon as Arty dropped his head into his hands and started to cry, Jim did exactly the same.

Joanne Lynch hurried from behind her desk and pulled both boys in for the hug. As each boy took a shoulder, pretending to sob, they periodically exchanged goofy faces behind the woman’s back. Arty even pretended to squeeze Miss Lynch’s butt.