Bad Games (9 page)

“Did that get it?” the man with the shaved head asked.

“Nope. Still on there,” the man with the welt replied.

“Better try again.”

The man with the welt took hold of the broken finger and now jerked it to its right. No crack this time, just a grinding noise like popcorn kernels being munched. The large man’s cries were long drawn-out moans now, the pain shockingly worse than before.

“Anything?” the man with the shaved head asked.

“
Still
nothing,” the man with the welt complained.

The man with the shaved head huffed, stood up, and exited the room. He returned moments later carrying a large kitchen knife, a good portion of it coated in dark, wet red. The big man’s eyes widened when he saw the bloodied knife.

“Ah, don’t worry about her, big fella,” the man with the shaved head said. He looked at the knife as he spoke, rotating it back and forth in his hand, studying it. “We made it fairly quick. Still, a pig like that’s gonna take a lot of sticking before she eventually stops squealing, yeah?” He laughed and shook his head without a trace of sympathy. “Poor fat slut was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man with the shaved head handed the kitchen knife down to the man with the welt who was still squatting in front of the big man, his calm, almost lazy eyes never leaving the big man’s panicked, unblinking pair. His confident smirk never waning. The same confident smirk he’d flashed at the large man before exiting the bar after the fight. Admittedly, that smirk had caused the large man a brief hint of concern as they left the scene. Now it terrified him.

“Okay,” the man with the welt announced. He took firm hold of the twisted ring finger in one hand, and tapped the flat of the blade against the big man’s forehead with the other, clucking his tongue with each tap like a metronome. “Let’s see if we can’t get that scary ring off once and for all.”

Patrick and Amy were awake but still in bed. The sun had just come up.

“How’d you sleep?” Patrick asked.

Amy was resting her head on his chest while he stroked her hair. She waited a few seconds before responding. “About as well as I could given the circumstances. How about you?”

“Okay I guess,” he said.

What followed was a brief silence Patrick utilized to prepare for what he felt was the inevitable question to come.

“You
don’t
believe me do you?” she asked. Her head was still on his chest, her query was soft.

Patrick hadn’t dared voice any of his skepticism last night; his wife’s rage would have made arguing his case nigh on impossible. But now, after some sleep, and a chance to reflect without a condescending local sheriff to answer to, Patrick felt that maybe his wife would be a bit more receptive to what he had to say.

“I’ll never doubt you, baby,” he said. “You tell me the earth is flat and the moon is made of cheese, and I’ll stand up in court and swear under oath that my wife is telling the absolute truth.” He heard her laugh softly through her nose, her head still resting on his chest. “And I still don’t doubt that you saw something in that window.” He took a breath, ready to take the leap. “But I do know a few things. I know that what happened at Giant with that perverted asshole was a big deal, and that it upset you big time. I know that we had a bunch of drinks over at Norm and Lorraine’s. I know that sometimes the dark can play tricks on our eyes. And I know that since we’ve been up here we’ve experienced an odd incident or two to say the fucking least.”

Another small laugh through her nose. She wasn’t angry yet. That was good. Proceed.

“Am I saying you’re lying? Of course not. I believe you saw what you say you saw. However, I think it’s possible that maybe,
maybe
, your eyes were just having a little fun with you last night.”

Patrick braced himself, expecting his wife to launch herself off of his chest and begin her attack. To his surprise (and relief) she did not. She didn’t even flinch. She just sighed deeply and said, “I could have
sworn…
”

Patrick stroked her hair some more, his hand then moving down to her neck where he began kneading it.

“Again, baby, I don’t doubt you saw something. I truly don’t. When I was about eleven I saw
Friday the 13
^th
Part 2
.”

She lifted her head off his chest. “What?”

“Let me finish,” he said.

She dropped her head back down.

“This was the one before Jason—the killer—”

“Yeah, I know who Jason is.”

He tweaked her ear lobe. “
Anyway…
this is the one before Jason started wearing the hockey mask. Instead he wore a burlap sack over his head with only one eye hole—something I found a
hell
of a lot creepier than a hockey mask. It reminded me of the hood
The Elephant Man
wore over his head—another film that gave me the willies when I was a kid because I couldn’t appreciate what a great movie it was at the time. As a kid all I saw was some horribly deformed man wearing a scary hood. And the fact that it was a true story certainly didn’t help matters as far as I was concerned.

“But
Friday the 13
^th
? Scared the absolute shit out of me. Jason wasn’t some misunderstood deformed guy like John Merrick, who was as gentle as a kitten. Jason was a ruthless killer who was fucking people up with pitchforks and machetes and whatever the hell else he could lay his hands on. It was as if some evil prick who had access to my young mind had said: ‘Hmmm…little Patrick is scared of The Elephant Man. Problem is, the Elephant Man is a nice guy. How ’bout we make a movie with a guy that looks
just like
The Elephant Man,
but
, let’s have him be some homicidal lunatic instead. And oh yeah, let’s also make it so the crazy bastard can’t be killed.’”

Amy gave a short, genuine laugh. Patrick smiled and waited a beat before continuing.

“So to put it mildly,
Friday the 13
^th
Part 2
freaked me the hell out. And you know what, baby? I would have sworn on my mother’s life that every now and then I would wake up in the middle of the night and see that burlap sack with the one eye-hole staring back at me through my bedroom window, sometimes even at the foot of my bed. Even when I closed my eyes tight and opened them, he was still there. And as absolutely terrified as I was, something deep down told me he
wasn’t
there. Something told me that my eyes were just using that incredibly annoying ability they have to make us see something we just flat-out don’t want to see.”

Patrick finished his spiel by moving his hand from Amy’s neck to her shoulders. Her position on Patrick’s chest never changed and her breathing never quickened. He continued massaging her shoulders. After a good minute Amy sighed and said, “I love you.”

Patrick brought his hand back to her neck, gave it a gentle squeeze. “And I love ya back.”

“I’d turn around kiss you if it wasn’t for your morning breath,” she said.

“Oh, and your morning breath is an ocean breeze?”

Amy smiled and began drawing circles with her index finger on Patrick’s bare stomach. “Should we go over and get the kids?”

“Nah. Norm said he and Lorraine would bring them over. Let’s enjoy a little more solitude while we can.”

“We could put a movie on if you want,” she said, taking her hand off his chest and pointing to the VCR and television in the far corner of the room. “Do you want me to see if my family has a copy of
Friday the 13
^th
Part 2
? You know, the one where Jason wears the burlap sack with the one eye hole just like
The Elephant Man
did? Do you know that one, baby? Not the one with the hockey mask, the one with the burlap—”

Patrick clawed her ribs and she screamed.

“Who’s ready to go fishing?” Patrick asked his brood.

Caleb looked delighted, Carrie looked mildly amused, and Amy looked repulsed.

“I’m not putting any worms on a hook. And we’re not keeping anything we catch,” Amy said.

“But what if we catch a beauty? It could be our dinner,” Patrick said.

Amy closed her eyes and shook her head. “First of all, I prefer my fish to be served to me on a plate, in a restaurant, thank you very much. I am not about to bring one of those smelly things into our cabin and gut it myself.”

“I’ll gut it. It’ll be—”

“
Second
, I doubt there is anything living in that man-made lake that can even remotely pass as being edible.”

Caleb looked up at his father. Patrick looked back down and rubbed the top of his head. “Don’t listen to her, champ. We’re gonna catch a million of ’em.”

“A million of
what
is the question,” Amy said.

“Can Oscar come?” Carrie piped in.

“Sure, why not?” Patrick said. “I’m fairly certain
he’ll
eat anything we catch. He’s like a fuzzy garbage disposal.”

Carrie burst out laughing. Patrick leaned over and kissed the top of her head. He then asked, “Who’s coming to the bait shop with me?”

“Me!” Caleb yelled.

Carrie shook her head. “I want to play with Oscar some more.”

Patrick looked at Amy. “Do you mind staying here with her, honey?”

“Not at all. You go buy your slimy worms. Besides I want to make some final arrangements with Lorraine and Norm.” She looked at Carrie and Caleb. “Are you guys excited to go to the movies with the Mitchells tonight?”

Both kids nodded.

“Are they taking us to dinner too?” Carrie asked.

“Yup. Dinner and a movie. Sounds better than the plans your father and I have. We’re just doing dinner.”

Carrie laughed. Caleb offered his mother and father to come along to the movie. Patrick and Amy exchanged an
our-son-is-so-freaking-adorable
look, and took turns telling him how thoughtful he was to consider them, but, regrettably, they would have to decline.

“Alright, brother-man,” Patrick said to his son. “You ready to go buy some worms?”

For a brief moment Patrick wished his four-year-old son could read for all the wrong reasons: along the road’s edge, leading into the white-graveled lot of the bait shop, a signpost stood tall, announcing one large and crudely painted word to all who drove by.

BAIT.

He couldn’t resist saying it anyway. “Think this is the place?”

Father and son locked eyes in the rearview mirror. Caleb shrugged at his father, wide-eyed and innocent.

Patrick smiled back. “Nevermind, buddy. This is the place.”

Caleb leaned forward in his child seat in order to get a solid look at the bait shop. Patrick pulled left into the gravel lot, glanced back and caught his son’s curious expression. He appeared to be taking his father’s sarcastic joke quite literally; Patrick felt sure Caleb’s wary brow was declaring that this didn’t look like any store
he
had ever seen, Dad.

The place was a weathered one-story home that doubled as a bait shop. A white wooden porch led to a screen-door entrance. On either side of that screen door were two cloudy windows, each displaying an array of lures that dangled and glimmered from fishing line above the window’s pane like tiny puppets with jewelry.

To the right of the entrance a rusted porch swing designed for two—likely capable of holding none—swayed lightly from side to side, each sway giving out a metallic groan, as if warning all it would not be held responsible for those crazy enough to deem it fit for sittin’ and, God forbid, swingin’.

Patrick had expected nothing less from such a place. In fact he’d counted on it. He loved these rustic mom-and-pop spots, and it was the precise reason they were visiting Crescent Lake as opposed to being stretched out on a sandy beach somewhere, sipping margaritas.

The screen door screeched metal against metal as father and son entered. The interior of the shop had a sharp smell of burnt wood and heavy dust that immediately made Patrick feel like picking his nose. He looked down and spotted Caleb already going at it. “Digging for gold?” he asked his son. Caleb yanked his hand away from his face and shook his head. Patrick smiled and bopped him on the top of the head.

The layout of the shop was basic. To the right were three rows of shelves that held all things fishing, and to the left was a wooden counter top. Behind it stood an old man who Patrick guessed to be at least eighty. He was short, thin, stoop-shouldered, and wrinkled from head to toe. His head was covered with an old baseball cap decorated with fishing lures. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of thick glasses that doubled the size of his green eyes.

Yup, Patrick would have been disappointed with anything less—or actually, more.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the shopkeeper announced. His voice was loud and clear despite his fragile appearance. The magnified green eyes were warm and pleasant.

“Good afternoon to you too,” Patrick replied.

The shopkeeper leaned over the counter and looked at Caleb. “Hello down there, young man.”

Caleb immediately clamped onto Patrick’s leg. The old man laughed.

“Name’s Edgar,” the elder said, extending his hand. “I’m hoping you folks are aiming to do a little fishing today, ’cause I’m afraid I’m all outta surf boards.”

Patrick laughed and took the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Edgar. And yes, my son and I aim to do a little fishing today.” He looked down at his son, still wrapped to his father’s thigh like a koala to a tree. “Isn’t that right, brother-man?”

Caleb looked up and nodded, not ready to commit to a smile just yet.

“So is it some fishing poles you’ll be needing?” Edgar asked. “My selection isn’t too great I’m afraid, but any one of ’em will get the job done.”

“No, no,” Patrick said. “We’ve got poles. All we need is some—”

“Bait!” Edgar said.

Patrick touched the tip of his nose and smiled. “You got it, Edgar.”

Edgar turned his back to father and son and shuffled down the length of the wooden counter. Just near the wall’s end a large rectangular cooler hummed and lay length-wise along the floor. It reminded Patrick of something you’d find in an old thrift shop, carrying an array of ice cream bars.