Bad Games (22 page)

“And even though Serial Killer Stanley may have been raised by good-old-loving mom—and whack-job dad was out of the picture from day one—the kid
still
has daddy’s naughty genes, which explains why little Stanley used to like to torture animals and start fires when he was an aspiring psycho.

“And of course more case studies would follow to support this theory, making you go, ‘Hmmmmm…that makes damn good sense too.’”

Arty then jumped to his feet, suddenly and remarkably excited.

“And when I stopped and took all of this in—the countless case studies; the countless theories; the fact that there
is
no definitive answer—and I digested it, it made me feel like my brother and I were so…special. We were something that actually
breaks
the rules of nature and nurture.
Exceptions
to the rules.” He looked as if he might squeal before his next comment. “And there are
two
of us! Not
one
exception, but
two
! What are the odds? I mean really, what are the
fucking odds?
We had perfect parents and a perfect environment. Mom and Dad never beat us, or raped us, or neglected us. Hell, we were never even grounded. If anything, they were
too
nice.”

Arty walked back to the wall he had leapt from and leaned against it. He scratched his head and cleared his throat before continuing.

“So we weren’t
born
to bad people and we weren’t
raised
by bad people. But
it
was there.
It
was always there.
It
was…” He stopped for a moment, took a sharp intake of breath, seemingly overwhelmed by his own admiration. He shook his head quickly. Regrouped.

“After Dad died our school shrink tried to analyze us. Find out why Jim and I were in denial about the whole thing. Why we refused to show emotion and mourn and weep and sniffle and sulk and blah-fucking-blah-blah.

“But I guess it was safe to say that it was after Dad’s passing that we knew there was something different about us. We couldn’t quite put our finger on it, but we sensed it. Sensed something remarkable.
Exceptions to the rules.
” He whispered the phrase now, as if it appreciated in value whenever spoken.

His posture then changed. He straightened up. “And Mom? Mom’s our anchor. Our blessed anchor that keeps us from drifting into a place we could probably never come back from. Without her innocence and love to keep us grounded I couldn’t even
begin
to imagine how far my brother and I could drift.” He then frowned and instantly added, “Don’t get me wrong; we
have
the discipline; we
have
the control. We’ve proved that countless times. But Mom…she just sews it up tight; makes it perfect…”

Arty trailed off again with that last word. There was a moment of silence where subtle sounds were loud. Sniffles from Amy’s nose. Heavy, labored breathing from Patrick. The muffled, unmistakable voices from the children below.

Arty eventually blinked and came back. “We get no pleasure out of just killing. Hell, we didn’t even want to kill that old couple you were hanging out with back at the lake. We just kind of…
had
to.” He walked over to Amy. “You see this…” He wiped her tears with two fingers and gazed at the wet pads of his fingertips. “This is what we truly love.” Arty stuck both fingers in his mouth and sucked gently. When he pulled them out he licked his lips and said, “And we’ve never regretted a single day in our lives.”

July 1986

Marsh Creek State Park

Downingtown, PA

Sam Fannelli cut the engine on the small fishing boat and used the oars to guide him and his two sons into the spot he was aiming for.

“What do you think, boys? This good?” Sam’s thinning brow was already beaded with sweat as he put a hand up to shield the sun.

Arty and Jim looked out across the giant body of water that was Marsh Creek— smooth green water held together by a strong perimeter of trees and more trees.

“Will we be able to catch fish here?” Jim asked.

“I hope so,” Sam replied. He stood, causing the boat to sway and both boys to grip the sides of the boat. “Should have brought a baseball cap,” he said, bringing his hand over his eyes again before looking off in all directions. “Still, it looks like we’ve got a nice stretch to ourselves. I had a feeling it would be more peaceful on a weekday. You boys are lucky you’ve got such an awesome dad who takes a day off work to go fishing with his boys.”

Arty rolled his eyes. Sam caught it and laughed at his son. “Oh, I see—fifth-graders are too cool to hang out with their old man? How ’bout you Jimmy? Are third-graders too cool to go fishing with their dad?”

Jim shook his head no.

“Well one out of two ain’t bad,” Sam said. “Trust me, Arty. You’re gonna enjoy this more than you do blowing things up on that Nintendo of yours.”

“I’m having fun, Dad,” Arty said without a smile.

“Good,” Sam said. He was smiling enough for both of them. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you boys crack yourselves a soda from the cooler, and I’ll bait our hooks for us.”

The boys were now shirtless save for the orange life jackets strapped to their torsos. The parts of their shoulders that were exposed had reddened considerably from the relentless sun.

Empty soda cans and potato chip packets were scattered about the wet wooden floor of the boat, and all three fishing rods were cast and left floating nibble-less for the past two hours.

“Should we go somewhere else, Dad?” Jim asked.

Sam propped his rod up along the edge of the boat and slid over to where his youngest son was sitting.

“We can if you like,” he said. “But catching fish isn’t really the point is it?”

Jim looked blankly at his father.

“Well the point is to spend time together. Father and sons. Male bonding stuff in the great outdoors and all that. Living in the city, we don’t get to do this kind of stuff too often. I thought it would be a nice change of pace.” He put his arm around Jim and squeezed, then turned and smiled at Arty.

Arty smiled back because it felt like the thing to do.

“I love you boys you know.”

“We love you too, Dad.”

Sam Fannelli then slapped both hands down onto his thighs and said, “Well! Having said that, I think we’ve been doing the ‘great outdoors thing’ long enough, don’t you? What do you say we pack it in and head back to the city for a late lunch full of grease?”

Jim’s eyes lit up. “Yeah.”

“Sound good, Arty?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Arty said.

Sam clapped his hands together. “Let’s do it.”

Jim bent to pull his fishing pole free from the wooden plank he’d nestled it under, but gave up after a few tugs and grunts.

“Stuck?” Sam asked.

Jim gave it one more useless tug then glanced at his father. “Yeah.”

Sam removed his life jacket and got down on both knees to get a good look beneath the plank. “You got it jammed in here pretty good, pal,” he said.

After a few jerks and grunts of his own, Sam managed to wrench the pole free from beneath the plank, nearly tumbling backwards from the effort. “Eureka,” he breathed.

Sam got back to his feet and stretched his back before noticing his rod twitching at the opposite end of the boat. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, I think I’ve got one!”

Sam’s enthusiasm launched him towards the rod before consideration for the boat’s stability under his sudden shift in weight had a chance to register. Before he could even make an attempt to right himself, he’d plunged face first into the lake.

When Sam Fannelli gasped to the surface, the look of panic on his face was exceptional. He was a man who had been raised in the city his whole life. A man who had never had a single swimming lesson in all his forty-seven years.

And a man who had just recently removed his life jacket.

“Boys!” he coughed, spitting out green water. “Boys,
help
me
!”

When Sam had fallen overboard his momentum had pushed the boat back several feet. In Sam’s condition, it may as well have been a mile.

Both Jim and Arty were on their feet, balancing themselves on different sides of the boat. Their expressions were equal to that of their father—fear and panic.

Sam went under for a second then fought to surface again. Between sputtered gasps he cried, “
ARTHUR! THE OAR! THE OAR!!!
”

Arty spun, grabbed the long wooden oar along the edge of the boat’s floor, whipped back around, looked at Jim…and then froze. His younger brother’s expression was different now. It had gone from fear and panic to something else entirely.

And it only took Arty a few seconds to recognize that his younger brother was trying his absolute hardest not to laugh.

Arty, oar still firm in both hands, looked away from Jim and towards his drowning father. Sam Fannelli was bobbing up and down, choking wildly when he surfaced, eyes impossibly wide with fright.

Arty looked back at his brother again. Jim had succumbed to full-on laughter now, his father’s dread a feather tickling his bare feet.

Arty didn’t join his brother in laughter just yet. Instead he extended the oar out to his father, touched the top of his head with it, and pushed him under.

What the two brothers witnessed next caused them both to fall backwards into the boat where they laughed until their stomachs cramped and their cheeks ached.

It was the look of absolute horror on the face of a father who had suddenly realized that his two sons meant to drown him for their own amusement.

“Maybe it’s time Carrie and Caleb met Uncle Jim?” Jim asked.

Arty looked at Amy and Patrick first, smiled, then faced his brother. “I think that’s a great idea.” He turned back to the couple and pushed the television stand a useless half-inch closer, clicked it back on, winked and said, “Want to make sure you guys have a great view. I contemplated giving you some popcorn but…” He pointed to their gags, their binds. “Probably wouldn’t have worked out too well.”

“Arty?” Jim called from the door.

“Patience, my brother. Patience.”

The two brothers left the room, shutting the door softly behind them. When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs Arty took Jim by the arm and pulled him close. “Carrie, the little girl, can be a pain in the ass,” he whispered. “She already made Mom doubt some things. Try and steer clear from her. Dote over the little boy more often if you can. He’s a good kid. Quiet and harmless.”

Jim nodded and Arty let go of his arm. The two brothers walked through the den and into the family room.

“Look who I found,” Arty announced to the room, his mother in particular.

“James!” Maria cried. She nudged Caleb gently to one side and stood up to approach her son.

Jim hugged his mother hard and kissed her on the cheek. He held her by the face when he asked, “How you doing, Mom?”

She nodded fast, patting his shoulder with the same speed of her nods. “I’m good, I’m good. How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m doing just fine, Mom.”

Maria patted her son’s shoulder again then returned to the sofa with Caleb back at her feet. “Oh this is so wonderful—everyone here like this. Sit, James, sit.”

Jim went to take a seat, but was instantly questioned by Carrie before he had a chance to settle.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Jim glanced over at Arty. Arty returned the glance with raised eyebrows and a
See what I mean?
expression.

Maria’s stint with earlier doubts had left her self-conscious, and she seemed to feign indifference to Carrie’s question towards Jim. Arty spotted it all the same and took control. “This is Uncle Jim,” he said.

“Where are Mommy and Daddy?” Carrie asked him again.

Her confident manner seemed to amuse Jim as he smirked at the little girl’s grit. Still, he ignored her and followed his brother’s advice by leaving his chair and stepping over to Caleb. He loomed down over the little boy at his mother’s feet. “How’s my big man doing?”

Caleb craned his neck as far back as it would go in order to take Jim in. His mouth hung open in a tiny O, cookie crumbs still flecked around the sides.

“Fine,” he said softly.

“Fine?
Just
fine? You look better than fine to me, my man. You look strong enough to fly!”

Caleb continued staring, seemingly unsure whether he should be excited or completely freaked out.

“Have you ever flown before?” Jim asked.

Caleb shook his head, his mouth still dangling open, his eyes still looking through the top of his head.

“You
haven’t
? Well what do you say we get going then, pilot Caleb?”

Jim bent over, scooped up Caleb, and swung him over one shoulder like a man carrying a log. Caleb’s body was rigid, but Jim’s enthusiasm seemed to pique the little boy’s interest enough to keep him in the game a little longer before crying out.

“Okay, pilot Caleb,” Jim began. “Hold your arms out straight like Superman.”

Caleb did.

“Good. Now…” Jim grinned. “Are you ready?”

Caleb nodded hesitantly.

“Come on, pilot Caleb. I said,
are you ready?
”

Caleb nodded again, stronger this time, but still with a hint of doubt.

“Well then let’s get ready for takeoff…”

“Be careful, James,” Maria said.

“Here we go…3…2…1…
BLAST OFF!
”

Jim raced throughout the family room with Caleb over his shoulder, the man making wild airplane sounds that changed pitch every time they dipped, rose, and swooped around a corner.

Caleb’s uncertainty became a thing of the past; the boy giggled wildly with each sudden spin and buzz throughout the room.

The occupants of the entire family room lit up as they watched Jim with Caleb. Maria looked on in absolute delight; Carrie was close to asking for a turn herself; and Arty wished more than anything that he could be upstairs to see the expression on Patrick and Amy’s faces as they watched.