Bad Games (31 page)

“And she said that she was unable to have children.”

Arty said nothing.

“Did you catch that bit?” Amy asked. “I’m pretty sure she only said it the one time, but she
did
say it.”

“Like I said,” Arty began, nostrils flared, “she is sick

and—”

“The thing is, Arty, dementia can be strangely ironic,” Amy interrupted. “You forget some things, and then you remember others—usually things from the past.”

“
I know that.
”

“That’s why your mother was calling to your father. She had regressed back to a time when she believed he was still alive.”

“You said that already, bitch.”

“She regressed back to a time when she and her husband had just found out that she was
unable to have children.
”

Arty laughed. “So what am I? A fucking mirage?”

Amy smiled and looked at Patrick. Patrick smiled back, turned to Arty and said, “No, you’re very real. But you’re also very adopted. You
and
Jim.”

Arty laughed again. “You two reek of it.”

Patrick smirked, looked over at Henry. “Detective?”

Henry nodded. “It’s true, Fannelli. Your mother’s attending physician was able to get hold of all her medical records dating back several years. A fibroid tumor was found in her uterus when she was twenty. Apparently the tumor was huge. Her uterus was removed as a result.”

Amy took over. “Your mother, while not necessarily past her prime, was no spring chicken when she—” Amy held up both hands and mimed quotation marks “—
gave birth to you
. I mean, nowadays thirty-six doesn’t seem too old to have your first child. But over thirty years ago? People were poppin’ out two or three before they even
reached
thirty. Why would such loving, nurturing parents like yours wait so long to have children? Makes you wonder doesn’t it?”

Arty shook his head. “This is bullshit. I would have known. My brother and I would have found out somehow.”

“Different time, Fannelli,” Henry said. “We’re talking the 70’s here. Adoption practices were a bit more lax back then. You
could
adopt at a young age and keep it a secret from anyone and everyone—including you and your brother.”

Arty stuttered. “I would have…remembered.”

Amy chuckled. “Doubtful.”

Arty’s breaths grew short and shallow. “I’m two years older than Jim. I would have at
least
been two.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to chuckle. “Right. And we all remember so much at the ripe old age of two, don’t we? Hell, I’ll even give you four. Can you remember anything from when you were
four
, Arty?”

Arty pulled at his cuffs again, a clang instead of a clink this time. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me Jim isn’t my real brother either, right?”

“No, no,” Henry said, “I’m fairly certain he is. There’s a minuscule chance your parents adopted two American children from two separate families. I’d bet good money Jim is your biological brother.”

“Do you know what all of this means, Arty?” Amy asked.

Arty didn’t reply.

“It means that you and your brother aren’t really the unique individuals you think you are. You
were
raised by loving parents…but you
weren’t
born to them.”

Arty said nothing. Patrick took over.

“Did you ever read
The Bad Seed
, Arty?” Patrick asked. “It was a fantastic book that came out in the mid-fifties. Written by a guy named William March. They made it into a play and a movie. The movie was damn good too, except for the fact that they changed the original ending. It wasn’t really their fault though; their hands were kind of tied. You see at the time they had to comply with the Motion Picture Production Code, meaning the ending had to be morally acceptable; the bad guys weren’t allowed to win, so to speak.

“Still, the movie was good enough to be nominated for an Academy Award. Patty McCormack was downright creepy as the little girl. You and your stupid brother
wish
you could be as creepy as that little girl.”

Arty stayed quiet. He just glared at the couple—a mix of hate and confusion.

“I’m getting ahead of myself though. Let me give you the synopsis, okay? Basically the book is about this adorable, seemingly perfect eight-year-old girl who is actually downright evil. The little girl is a total sociopath who can flash her blue eyes and pearly whites one minute, and then kill a fellow classmate the next in order to get a penmanship medal she felt she deserved.

“The loving mother begins to suspect something is wrong with her child, and fears she may have inherited her nasty old grandmother’s evil genes. You see, Arty, it turns out that grandma was quite the notorious serial killer in her day, and poor old loving mom fears that her innocent little daughter might have inherited those awful, awful genes.” Patrick smiled. “Do you see where I’m heading with this, Arthur?”

Arty said, “Shut up.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know about this classic, Arty, what with all your ‘research’ and all. I would have told you about it before, but I didn’t have much of a chance.” He turned to Amy. “Why is that you think, baby?”

Amy scratched her head, her eyebrows scrunched, lips pursed. Then everything popped, and her eyes were bright and wide, her mouth an O. “You were being gagged and tortured at the time, honey. You couldn’t have!”

Patrick slapped his forehead. “That’s right. Why didn’t
you
tell him about it then, baby?”

Amy gave her husband a silly look and sang, “
Honey
...I was being gagged and tortured too.”

Patrick slapped his forehead again. “Duh!”

Arty yelled, “
Shut up!
”

“You remember your little spiel about
Serial Killer Stanley?
” Patrick said. “That’s what you called him, right?
Stanley?
” He looked to Amy again.

“Yeah, I think that was it,” Amy said. “Although I kind of liked
The Three Stooges
reference better. Found it more amusing.”

“Yeah, I did too. I like the Stooges. Again, I would have told you and your brother that, but…” Patrick wrapped an imaginary gag around his mouth and head, made his lips disappear, then splayed his hands with a helpless shrug.

Amy laughed.

“Henry, I want these fucks out of here now. I have rights; this is beyond fucking absurd.”

Detective Henry pretended to look out the window. Patrick was sure he saw him smirking.

“Let’s not get off track,” Patrick continued. “It’s contagious, this lecturing stuff. I can see why you and Jim felt the need to bore us for so long with how cool you thought you were.”

“Henry!”

Patrick continued. “Sorry, sorry…let’s get back to our buddy Stanley. So! Arty…you said Serial Killer Stanley was a serial killer because he came from a long line of serial killers, yes? Those were your words, if I’m not mistaken.” Patrick’s haughty delivery was the equal of a prosecutor to an ignorant defendant.

“
Shut the fuck up!
”

“Did you know
The Bad Seed
was based on a true story? That there really was a serial killer grandma that had an eight-year-old, serial killer granddaughter?”

This was a lie, but Patrick hardly cared. He was having too much fun. “I guess the point I’m trying to make here, Arthur, is that in this case—in
your
case—it looks like
heredity
was the winner. Hey, you know what I just thought? What if your
real
father’s name was actually Stanley? How fucking funny would that be?”

Amy laughed again.

“So you know what I’m thinking here, Arty?” Patrick said. “I think—no—I
bet
. I bet my newly saved life that your biological parents, the
real
people responsible for bringing you into this world, were just as sick and fucked up as you and your brother are.” Patrick quickly corrected himself, “Oh, sorry…as
you
are. Guess I’d have to say
were
if I’m talking about Jim, yeah?”

Arty finally spoke in a tone below a shout, though it clearly held no guarantees it would remain as such; his face was near purple with rage, veins bulged his neck and forehead, looking as if they might split the skin. “You don’t know that. You don’t know that for sure.”

Amy shrugged. “You’re right. Nobody does—including you. We might be able to find out though. Do some digging maybe? If we
really
tried I’m sure we could come up with something.” She looked at Detective Henry. He raised both eyebrows and nodded in agreement. Amy continued.

“But I don’t think you want us to do that, do you, Arty? In fact, I don’t think
we
would want to do it either. I think it’s best if we just let it fester inside that rotted head of yours. Because deep down I think you know the truth. We
all
know the truth. And if you’ll forgive the pun…that
seed
we just planted? That
seed
that’s gonna keep on growing and growing…? That’s enough for us. That seed will put a smile on the face of my husband and I for the rest of our very long lives.”

Patrick took another step closer towards the bed. He wanted to hammer the point home. “So enjoy your time in prison, Arty. I wouldn’t hold my breath on waiting for any budding shrinks to come look you up. Especially not after my wife and I make certain that everyone knows the
true
origins of the ‘infamous’ Fannelli brothers.”

Patrick began guiding Amy towards the door. Before exiting he looked at Arty, smirked and added, “Maybe Amy and I will send you a card on Mother’s Day.”

Detective Henry barked a laugh, instantly covered his mouth and said, “Ah shit. Come on.” He ushered the Lamberts out of the room.

The silver Highlander headed east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike towards Valley Forge. The sunglasses Patrick wore shielded both the sun and the bruising that was still evident around his eyes.

Amy was next to him in the passenger seat, her hand on his knee throughout the entire trip. She gave it a little squeeze.

Patrick glanced at her and smiled. “What?”

She smiled back, took a deep breath. “It’s just nice to know you’re there.”

He took her hand off his knee, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. “You’ll never get rid of me, baby.”

“I hope not.” She shifted her torso slightly and winced.

“You alright?”

She gingerly patted the right side of her chest. “Still sore.”

He kissed her hand again. “That’s to be expected. Doctor said it would take awhile.”

“How about you?” she asked.

He let go of her hand and touched his stomach. “Still sore. Who would have ever thought two suburbanites like us would be shot
and
stabbed?”

She chuckled softly. “Not me.”

“At least we’ll have cool scars.”

“I don’t want a cool scar, thank you. A big pink hole over my right boob—I’ll be quite the stunner in a bikini.”

“Thank God he didn’t shoot you
in
the boob.”

Amy shook her head. “My husband: a man of priorities.”

He smiled and winked at her. She put her hand back on his knee and gave it another little squeeze.

“Well hey, how do you think Oscar feels?” he asked. “Poor little guy got his tail sliced off. How you doin’ back there pal?” Patrick reached behind him and stuck his fingers through the metal grate of the pet carrier in the back seat.

Oscar instantly licked his fingers and wagged his stump.

“He should have been a cat,” Amy said. “Nine lives and all.”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t get,” Patrick said. “Those sickos had no trouble taking the lives of all those people, yet when it came to a dog…”

Amy shrugged. “Not part of their stupid little game I guess. I won’t even pretend to understand.”

Patrick grunted.

Amy reached back and let Oscar have a lick of her fingers as well. “I still can’t believe they found the bugger. I can’t wait to see the look on Carrie’s face when we get him home. I’m praying it helps speed up the healing process.”

Patrick sighed. “Yeah.”

The symbol of a gasoline handle was lit on the Highlander’s dashboard. Patrick paused before exiting the car and turned to his wife. “You want anything?”

“Something to drink please.”

“Coke?”

“Fine.”

Patrick exited the SUV and began pumping his gas. When he finished he went inside the mini-mart to pay. As he exited with a bottle of Coke in hand, he noticed a man filling his black Volkswagen behind the Highlander. The pump was running hands-free, and the man was leaning against the hood of his Volkswagen, both arms folded, staring at the rear of Patrick’s car.

“You go to Penn State?” the man asked when Patrick arrived. He was a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a white sweatshirt. He was smiling pleasantly when he asked the question.

Patrick said nothing. He walked around his SUV, opened the passenger door, and gave Amy her Coke. She pulled the door shut, and Patrick pressed on it afterwards to ensure it was shut properly. He then calmly walked over to the smiling man and launched him clear across the hood of his Volkswagen with a thunderous right hook.

Patrick got back into the driver’s seat of the Highlander and looked at his now wide-eyed wife. He shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, baby.”

After a few months, the Lamberts were finally ready to entertain. Nothing big—just a few friends over for dinner and drinks.

The “subject” was carefully avoided at first, almost to an awkward degree, making conversation hollow and generic. But as the drinks continued, and the mood lightened, it was all but impossible for someone not to take that first plunge.

Long-time friends, Jamie and Alexis Brown, were those first two.

“So how are you two coping?” Jamie asked. “I mean really.”

The remaining couple, Tom and Jane Jenkins, shared an uncertain glance.

“I think we’ve crossed the last big hurdle,” Patrick said after he and Amy shared their own uncertain glance.

With the exception of police and close family, the couple had not shared any details about their ordeal at Crescent Lake to anyone, yet knew it would ultimately surface one day and need to be addressed. They had even rehearsed what should and should
not
be divulged. The gist of the tragedy had already been learned (how could it not after the media coverage it had received), but it was the
details
that were shaky ground. A vague synopsis of the goings-on could be discussed, but gruesome particulars (Patrick biting off a nose; Amy jamming a nail file into a man’s balls; et al) were better left locked away in a vault that even the Lamberts struggled to open.