Bad Games (17 page)

“That sheriff is fucking useless,” Patrick said. “If you ask me he probably didn’t even go inside the damn place. Probably just peeked in a few windows.”

Lorraine walked carefully towards the kitchen table as though she was a bit drunk, grabbing at nearby things for balance. She sat gingerly, took a long breath, wiped her face. Her skin was near white.

“Lorraine, are you alright?” Amy asked.

She closed her eyes and nodded. She kept them closed when she replied, “Yes—I’m just very scared.”

Amy walked over and put a hand on Lorraine’s shoulder. Lorraine rested her own hand on top of Amy’s and squeezed it. Amy looked at Patrick. “What do we do? Do we call the sheriff again?”

Patrick scoffed, his jeer for the sheriff and not for the intent of belittling his wife’s suggestion. “Are you joking? At this point I don’t even think he’d show up if we did.” He started towards the kitchen. Placed the rifle on the counter and ran both hands under the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. Finished, he grabbed the gun again and faced both women. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “You two are going stay here. You’re going to turn off the lights; keep the doors and windows locked; and stay out of sight. I’m going—”

“No!” Amy screamed. “You’re not going anywhere! You’re not—”

“
Shut up!
” he yelled. There was a twinge of guilt for his outburst, but now was not the time for tact. He would apologize later. And there
would
be a later.

Patrick spoke his next words slowly and methodically. “I am going to the Blocker’s house. I will have the gun with me. I am going to search
every
inch
of that house. If I find
anything,
I will deal with it. If Norm and the kids come back, you tell Norm what’s been going on, and
all of you
stay locked up tight until I return.”

Amy’s attempt at controlling her tears had failed. They were flowing freely now, her voice wet and strained. “And if you don’t return?” she said.

Patrick looked at his wife with desperate intensity. “I’m going to return.”

Amy cried harder. Lorraine stood and hugged her, then looked over her shoulder at Patrick. “I’m not too sure this is wise, Patrick,” she said. “If these men are as dangerous as they seem…”

Patrick’s gaze was unflinching. “Well then think about this, Lorraine: what if these dangerous men have got a hold of
your
husband and
our
children? What do you suggest we do? Sit here and wait? Excuse me, but fuck that.”

The moment after Patrick kissed his wife, hugged Lorraine, and walked out the front door armed with a loaded rifle, the two women sprang into action. They did exactly as Patrick had said: locked every window and door, turned off all lights, then hurried to Norman and Lorraine’s bedroom where they both took a spot on the floor, against the wall, out of plain sight, knees bent to the chest, arms wrapped tight around them, not daring to speak for the first few minutes they sat huddled together.

“What do we do if Norm and the kids show up?” Amy eventually whispered.

“What do you mean?” Lorraine’s whisper was even softer.

“Does he have a key, or will we have to get up and let him in?”

“He has a key,” she said. “But I’m sure he’d think it odd if I locked the door. I never lock the front door.”

A short pause.

“I’m scared,” Amy said. “I want my babies to be okay.” And then quickly, she added, “Norm too of course.”

Lorraine smiled. “I know, sweetheart.” She wrapped her arm around Amy and pulled her in tight. “We just have to do as Patrick said. We need to stay out of sight and wait for him to return.”

“Oh God, but what if—”

Lorraine squeezed Amy’s shoulder hard, cutting her off. “Stop thinking like that. We have to stay positive. We need to be strong.”

“I am positive; I am strong.” She stopped, her eyes, lit only by moonlight, re-living something dark.

“But those men…they’ve been following us. Watching us. They know—”

Lorraine squeezed harder. “Stop it, Amy. We need to keep quiet for now and listen for Patrick and Norm. Focus on it, okay? Focus.
We are
going to see my husband and your family very soon.
We are
. I promise. Just focus on that and be strong, sweetheart, okay?”

Patrick held the rifle vertically, hidden along the length of his body as he walked towards the Blocker’s cabin. The last thing he wanted was a nosy neighbor reporting a strange man walking the perimeter of the lake with a rifle in hand, looking as though he meant to shoot anything that blinked. Or maybe he
did
want that. It might be the only way for the sheriff to show his face again. No—the dumb bastard would probably shoot him by mistake.

Speaking of said dumb bastard, Patrick had no difficulty recalling the sheriff’s words and did not even try to enter the Blocker’s cabin through their front door. Instead he immediately headed around back and started for the cellar.

Two heavy wooden doors lay on a slight angle up from the ground. Patrick bent over and tugged at them. They opened with a slow creak like something out of a horror film, and despite his focus, he could not help but snort at the appropriateness of it all.

Patrick took slow crunchy steps down each bug- and leaf-encrusted stair until his nose was inches from the steel door that led inside the cellar. He found out (but had no time to swallow any pride) that the sheriff had indeed been correct. The cellar door was unlocked.

With the rifle held firm in his right hand, Patrick gripped the knob on the cellar door with his left and turned it slowly. He eased the door open and stepped into darkness. It smelled of dust and mold. A damp chill found Patrick’s skin immediately. He shuddered involuntarily and used his free arm to rub the other in a bid for warmth.

Eyes wide, Patrick was desperate to adjust to the blackness that was enveloping him with each step. He knew that in time his vision would become accustomed to the dark, but his anxiety and fortitude did not afford him any patience. His goal for now was to locate some source of light, and he immediately cursed himself for allowing his bravado to override a more efficient game plan back at the Mitchell’s. If he’d allowed his common sense to get a word in, he might have remembered a flashlight.

Lorraine and Amy had not moved. They remained huddled together in the dark, moonlight from the window their only source of light. They prayed they would soon hear the jingle of Norm’s keys in the lock, or Patrick’s fist rapping on the door followed by the echo of his voice, assuring them that he was okay and to let him inside.

They listened hard. They heard an owl’s incessant hoot. They heard tree branches crackle, each one a possible footstep. They heard the occasional gust of wind palm the glass of the bedroom window, rattling the frame. And that was all they heard. There was no jingling of Norm’s keys. No knock on the door, the echo of Patrick’s voice following. And each moment that passed without those hopeful sounds their unrelenting fear grew deeper.

Patrick had fumbled blindly throughout the cellar like a one-armed mummy, the rifle still tight to his side. He had managed to locate the railing of the staircase but questioned whether or not he should ascend without a credible source of light. Suppose it was equally dark upstairs? If his attackers were up there waiting, their eyes would be well adjusted; he would be a sitting duck.

He had done his best to peruse the surrounding areas of the cellar, and with the exception of some damp boxes, many spider webs, and a wall of tools, he had found no flashlight. Not even a lighter or a box of matches. His only choice was obvious, and it was as unwelcome as any. He would have to climb the stairs in darkness.

Patrick gripped the railing with his left and steadied the rifle with his right. He was hesitant on his first step for fear of the wood giving out a groan under his weight. If his attackers
were
behind the door above, waiting, he would need every conceivable advantage. He would need the element of surprise. Old wooden steps that complained with each foot you placed on them would be akin to announcing your arrival.

He placed his toes gingerly on the first step, pushed on it, then allowed his heel to come down. No creak. He put his full weight on that one foot and then tried the other. Still no creak. Stair number one had passed the test.

Stair number two would get the same treatment—one foot, toes first, and then the heel. When silence was the reward, the second foot would get its turn.

Stairs three through thirteen all proved worthy to their first two counterparts and passed each delicate test with muffled brilliance. Fourteen was Patrick’s final hurdle. It was all that stood between him and the door leading into the Blocker’s home.

He decided, on the spot, to bypass fourteen entirely. Instead he would brace his right foot on twelve, his left on thirteen, and keep the rifle fixed on the door the whole time. He would then lean forward with his left hand, turn the handle, and push the door open with as much strength as he could muster from his angled positioned. The moment
asshole number one
appeared in the doorway, he would be primed and ready—a solid, stable position to gain the upper hand. Or if worse came to worst, blow their heads clean off their fucking shoulders.

Patrick’s right foot stepped gingerly back to twelve, his left taking a firm spot on thirteen. Rifle gripped tight in his right, his left hand stretched slowly towards the knob until his fingertips grazed the brass. Another small lean and he was there. He gripped the knob and turned slowly. When he could turn no more, Patrick held his breath, steadied the rifle, and shoved open the door.

It was dark upstairs. Not as dark as the cellar, but dark. Patrick gripped the rifle with both hands now. His heart pounded in his ears. He wanted to shout, to taunt his enemies into appearing in that doorway so this could be done. Let their brazen silhouettes appear even for a second and I’ll blow a goddamn hole in them, he thought.

And then step number ten creaked behind him. Patrick spun into a white light, his vision instantly gone. Two hefty blows followed: one to the groin when he raised his arm to shield his eyes, a second to the back of the head when he doubled over. Patrick slid down steps twelve through one face-first.

Amy Lambert and Lorraine Mitchell were both close to experiencing a full-body cramp. The tight bundles they’d wrapped themselves into had been taut throughout their wait, however the jingle of Norman Mitchell’s keys in the front door, or the knock and call from a safely-returned Patrick had yet to occur, so the two women had no such intentions of relocating just yet. Fear kept them rooted tight.

“I need to pee,” Amy whispered.

Their conversations thus far had been shared worry and desperate reassurances things would work themselves out, reassurances they prayed they would one day reminisce about: Norman
was
actually with the kids and just happened to be behind schedule. Patrick searched the Blocker house and found nothing. Or better yet, Patrick searched the Blocker house, found Arty and the man with the shaved head, and kicked the living crap out of both of them before they were hauled off to jail.

“I know, sweetie,” Lorraine whispered back. “I need to go too.”

“Should we try?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Dammit,” Amy said. “I’m scared and I have to pee. Great combination.”

“At least we haven’t been drinking.”

“Patrick and I were earlier.”

The mention of her husband’s name conjured up his image. At the restaurant, smiling adoringly at her from across the table. Now her kids, laughing and playing with Oscar behind the cabin. Now Oscar. Likely dead. Patrick holding the rifle, his expression of frantic conviction contagious. The man with the shaved head on the porch, pointing a gun, taunting Patrick. Arty appearing, holding the doll, waving its arm, smirking at them. The possibility that these men had her babies…

“This can’t be real,” she said. “This…” The grim images flashed again. “This can’t be real.”

Lorraine’s face turned equally somber. Amy continued.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake from a dream at any moment, you know? I mean this is the kind of stuff that you see in the movies, not real life.”

“In the movies the good guys always win,” Lorraine said.

Amy glanced at Lorraine, then looked away when she said, “It depends on what movie you’re watching.”

Lorraine didn’t reply.

Amy looked out the bedroom window. The moon was full and strong. She stared up at it as she spoke. “You see stuff in the media about all these horrible things going on all over the world. You see people murdering for something as ridiculous as a pair of shoes. You see the constant violence and struggles in the Middle East, and it’s tragic and horrible, but there’s still a sense of righteousness over there, a belief in what they’re doing. The result is terrible and violent, but the
motive
is there. Even the man who murders for shoes has a motive. No matter how ludicrously asinine, he still has a motive. He wants the shoes.”

“Amy—”

“You see that’s just it, Lorraine. A motive. There’s no motive here. No reason for this to be happening. These men…they’re having fun with us. Playing with us like it’s some kind of game. That’s not a motive, is it?”

Amy took her eyes off the moon and looked at Lorraine. She didn’t want a response from her neighbor, just an ear so she could vent. But Lorraine responded anyway. And the response frightened Amy.

“Maybe having no motive
is
their motive. They torment others because they enjoy it. Nothing more.”

Amy fell silent. She saw despair in Lorraine’s eyes and she immediately touched the woman’s knee and rubbed it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought all this crap up. I guess in some weird way it’s therapeutic for me to talk about it. In retrospect I guess it’s kind of like talking about all the gory details of your impending surgery before they slice you open, huh?”