Bad Games (3 page)

A short, unmistakably Italian woman approached the family. “Hello, four it is?” she asked in broken English.

“Yes, four,” Patrick said.

“A booth, if possible,” Amy added.

The woman smiled, nodded, and then led the family towards an open booth, their route passing by a large candy display near the cash register. Carrie instantly zeroed in on it, and did not hesitate to mention her find once they were seated.

“They have candy here,” she announced.

Caleb’s eyes brightened, only to dim after Amy said, “No candy.”

Carrie was not giving up so easily. “Why not?”

“Because it rots your teeth.”

Carrie turned to her father. “Daddy, can I—”

“Whoa, whoa, are you trying to get Daddy in trouble with Mommy? Mommy said no candy. Sorry, kiddo.”

Carrie let loose her patented huff and turned away from both parents. Patrick glanced to his left and gave Amy a wink. She returned a tired roll of the eyes and ran both hands through her thick auburn hair, pulling tight at the peak of her grip. Patrick rubbed her leg under the table.

“So,” Patrick began, leaning towards his kids, “we’re getting anchovies on our pizza right?”

The kids gazed back in horror.

Patrick was in the restroom with Caleb while Amy stood by the register, paying. Carrie was tight to her side, eyes stuck on the candy display inches from her face.

“Please, Mommy?” she asked.

Amy handed the cashier two twenties then glanced down at her daughter with a stern face. “I said no. End of discussion.”

The cashier, a man whose appearance and thick accent suggested he was no less Italian than the hostess, asked, “Do you have change?”

Amy looked at the total again. If she gave the man thirty-five cents she could get back an even five. Stuffing her wallet into her mouth, she mumbled, “
I think so,
” and began digging into her back pocket with a concerted effort.

After retrieving a runaway dime, Amy eventually handed the cashier thirty-five cents. The cashier smiled at her struggle, then handed her back a wrinkled five. Amy tucked the bill into her wallet just as Patrick and Caleb returned.

“Where’s Carrie?” Patrick asked, looking at his wife’s knees.

Amy spun. Carrie was gone. “Carrie!” she called out.

“Your daughter?” the cashier asked.

“
Yes
,” Amy nearly yelled. “Where did she go?”

“She is out there.” The man pointed towards the entrance where the back of Carrie was visible through the glass door. She appeared to be talking to someone just out of view.

Amy bolted for the door. Patrick quickly scooped up Caleb and followed his wife. With one foot barely out of the restaurant, Amy seized her daughter’s arm, pulling her off balance and nearly to the floor. Carrie’s eyes bounced wide with shock, her mouth falling open…revealing a blue tongue.

Amy looked down into her daughter’s hand, and spotted a large blue lollipop held tight in her fist. Amy’s anger for her daughter’s negligence was stalled with confusion. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

Carrie said nothing, her head down.

“Carrie Lambert, where did you get that candy? Did you
steal
that from the restaurant?”

Carrie’s head shot up; she looked her mother in the eye. “No, Mommy, I didn’t steal, I swear. A man gave it to me. We traded.”

Now it was Amy’s mouth that fell open. Her next question was obvious, but she balked for a moment. Her daughter’s words made no sense. “What do you mean
traded
? What man?”

Patrick, still holding Caleb tight to his chest, noticed something. “Where’s your doll?” he asked.

Carrie looked up at her father. “That’s what I traded.”

Patrick frowned, confused.

Amy’s expression was an easier read. She was livid.

“You traded
Josie
to a man for a piece of
candy
?” she said. “To who? What man?”

“Whoa,” Patrick said. “That’s a coincidence.” His attention was now off his daughter and further out into the parking lot. Amy’s eyes left Carrie’s and followed her husband’s.

The entire family stood silent, staring at the same white Pontiac they’d seen over an hour ago. Arty was behind the wheel, a big grin on full display as he waved to the four of them.

Carrie pointed her little finger towards the exiting Pontiac and said, “To him.”

Arty pulled the Pontiac into the big driveway and stopped halfway. Exiting the car with Carrie’s doll in hand, he took a good long look at the house in front of him. It was perfect, so isolated and serene. Not a hint of worry for miles.

The last few weeks in such a place had been more than he could have ever hoped for, adding many delightful bonuses to the game. New material had been happily introduced without neighbor concern; any screams managing to echo their way outside would have far too much ground to cover before falling on curious ears.

It would be sad to leave such a house. But Arty was no dummy. He knew that the game had time limits, and that planned time limits were the key to successful transitions.

But all was not lost. Yes, they were leaving, however they would be moving on to something Arty believed held far more potential.

Embracing the tingle he’d bathed in earlier, Arty wasted little time unlocking the front door and hurrying up the carpeted stairs. At the top of the landing, to his immediate right, was a bedroom door. It was closed.

“You better not still be asleep.”

Arty turned the knob slowly, paused, then exploded into the room with a bang. His brother Jim jerked upright from a king-sized bed.

“Lazy bastard,” Arty smirked.

Upon recognizing his brother, Jim frowned and let out the breath he’d stifled from the sudden intrusion. “The fuck, man?” He flopped back down onto his pillow and started wiping sleep from his eyes.

The second Jim’s torso was horizontal again, Arty got a good look at the entire bed. He was not pleased. “What the hell is this?”

Jim went to answer but his voice cracked from sleep. He coughed, snorted, then sat upright again, his bare back resting against the headboard. He ran his hand back and forth over his shaved-bald head and looked at his brother through puffy eyes.

“What?” he finally said.

Arty kept his eyes locked on his brother while he eased into the room, eventually standing firm at the foot of the bed.

On Arty’s left was Jim, his torso still upright against the headboard, his lower half covered in blankets.

Next to Jim was a woman, uncovered and stark naked. She was also bound and gagged. The woman was not struggling, whimpering, or even moving, but she was alive. She just lay in a fetal ball away from Jim, her glazed eyes hopeless and defeated like a mental patient doped to the gills, staring out a hospital window.

“What the hell did you bring her up here for?” Arty asked.

Jim looked irritated. “Because every woman in this hick town is a fucking pig.” He motioned to the bound woman next to him. “I miss hot city bitches like this. Thank God these two yuppie fucks decided to build a second home out here in Mayberry.” Jim reached to his right and grabbed his cigarettes from the nightstand. He lit one and inhaled deep.

“You took a big risk, Jim. What if the husband put up a fight?”

Jim laughed, choking on his recent drag. “Come on Arty, you know he wasn’t gonna try anything. We practically broke that pussy from day one.” He sighed, flicked a stray ash off his chest. “I miss Philly.”

Arty thought of their mother, their sole reason for being in the western part of the state. “Get over it,” he said.

Jim grunted.

“Yeah, well, whether your dick likes it or not, this is the way it is.”

“I guess,” Jim said. “But the way Mom’s been lately, we could have probably moved her ten fucking feet from the old house and told her she was here…probably wouldn’t have known the difference.”

Arty banged the base of the bed with his knee, rocking it. “She’s not that bad yet, dickhead. Show some respect.”

Jim hung his head and took a short guilty drag from his smoke. “You’re right, my bad.”

Arty and Jim had moved their mother to western Pennsylvania when her condition was demonstrating more off days than on. Her wish was to live her remaining years near her place of birth, and despite the boys’ initial reluctance, they weren’t about to deprive their ailing mother of such a wish. No way.

“Anyway,” Arty began, “we’d been pushing our luck around Philly lately. We’re needles in a haystack out here. It’s perfect for now.”

Jim exhaled both pessimism and smoke. “Yeah, perfect if we can continue to find people like these two to play with.”

Arty’s lips nearly split from the grin that spread over his face. “Well I might just have some wonderful news for you then, little brother.”

Jim’s pessimism dipped, his black eyes flickering hope. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” Arty tossed Josie onto the bed. Jim stuck the cigarette between his lips and picked Carrie’s doll up with both hands.

“
My, oh, my, oh, my,
” Jim said out of the corner of his mouth, cigarette bouncing with each word.

“I met the husband. He’s a sturdy guy; they won’t break easy.”

“Awesome. The wife?” Jim asked.

“Very nice. Hot.”

Jim grinned. He held the doll up and wiggled it at Arty. “How many kids?”

“Two—boy and a girl.”

“How old?”

“Four and six.”

“Lots of potential.”

“Indeed.”

The woman in bed sighed deep through her nose then resumed her trance. Both men looked at her.

“Jesus, man,” Arty said. “She hasn’t bathed in over three fucking weeks.”

“I know that,” Jim said. “I threw her in the tub first. Scrubbed that ass until it squeaked.”

Arty hung his head and shook it, fighting off a smile. “You’re a sick man.”

Jim took a final drag of his cigarette then crushed it out on the nightstand. “So where are they?”

“In a cabin. Place called Crescent Lake. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it?”

Jim shrugged. “If you’ve never heard of it, then how the hell would I?”

“Well I asked around. I’m thinking we can venture out there in an hour or so. Sneak around a little and get our bearings.”

“Are we gonna take the cabin for a bit when we’re done?”

“I don’t know, I doubt it,” Arty said. “The husband mentioned it was a
community
of cabins, or something like that. It might be too risky. Plus they’re only gonna be up for the weekend. Who knows who’ll pop in after.”

Jim nodded, yawned, and rubbed the remainder of sleep from his right eye. “Alright, so what’s the next move?”

“Well first things first. We need to get the hell out of here. If we want to do this next one right, we need to start moving.”

Jim rolled over towards the naked woman. He slapped her hard on her bare bottom, a section of the pale flesh instantly glowing red in the shape of Jim’s hand. She hardly flinched. “So should I assume we’re dealing with her and her hubby
right now
?”

Arty nodded. “Yeah. We’re not killing them though.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because we only kill if it’s necessary…or part of the game. It’s neither.”

“We’ve done it before.”

“And?”

“I think it’s necessary.”

“I don’t.”

Jim frowned. “They’ll ID us, Arty. Jesus, they saw our faces every time we fed the fuckers. This bitch could ID my
dick
if she wanted to.”

“Yeah, well that last one is your problem. Still, we can fix it so they can’t ID us.”

“Yeah, I know we can—by killing them.”

“No.”

Jim snorted. “How then?”

“Stand up,” Arty said.

“What?”

“Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Just stand up.”

Jim kicked off the blankets and stood. He was just under six-feet with a powerful physique that he owed mostly to good genetics as opposed to hours in the gym. He was also very naked.

“Jesus,” Arty said, the second he got an eyeful.

Jim made no attempt to cover himself. He just splayed his arms. “What?”

Arty hung his head again, shaking it slowly, biting his tongue. He did not want to encourage his brother’s lewd, and often risky, behavior, but found it damn hard not to laugh at his audacity once in awhile.

Jim scratched his naked groin and asked, “So how do we fix it so they can’t ID us?”

Arty raised his head, took a step forward, and jabbed his fingers into his brother’s eyes.

There was a wet squelching sound, and Jim dropped to his knees, grabbing his face with both hands. “
What the fuck?!
”

Arty instantly held up four fingers and said, “How many fingers am I holding up? Jim! How many fingers am I holding up?”

Jim made several attempts at looking up at his brother, trying to focus, each attempt heightening the pain, his head whipping away from Arty’s hand every time as though it flashed a beam of white light. He finally gave up and tucked his chin into his chest, rubbing furiously around his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“You see what I’m getting at?” Arty asked.

“Yeah…I get it,” Jim said. He rubbed his eyes some more then launched himself upward, driving his right fist deep into his brother’s gut. Arty doubled over instantly, and now it was his turn to drop to his knees.

Jim hopped up and danced over his brother, laughing hysterically, his genitalia flopping left and right. Through his pain Arty still managed to witness the unsightly phallic jig occurring overhead, and although his breath had left him, he could not resist an attempt at a laugh.

“
Sick…fuck…
”

Jim continued his dance around the room, eventually leaping onto the woman, gyrating on top of her still-fetal body while hooting and hollering like a horny chimp.

Arty got to his feet, holding his stomach, wheezing out more chuckles as he watched his brother carry on, his gyrating atop the woman stopping, changing to the missionary position as he began miming wild intercourse, his hooting louder with each imaginary thrust. “Get over here, dickhead,” he said.

Jim hopped off the woman and sauntered over to his brother. He walked with an exaggerated strut, like a cowboy entering a saloon. His eyes were rimmed red from Arty’s recent attack, but it hardly seemed to bother him now. He was grinning like a kid.