Bad Games (27 page)

And just as the stranger was about to repeat her threat, a man with dark hair and dark eyes appeared in the doorway, holding a gun to a little boy’s head.

“Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican stand-off, yeah?” Arty said.

Amy did not expect this. She envisioned Arty sprinting down the stairs the second he looked at the television. She envisioned him helpless and begging for his mother’s life. Instead it appeared as though he was able to keep his wits about him, present his own ace in the guise of her son.

“Let my family go and I won’t kill her,” Amy said.

Arty pressed the gun barrel of the six-shooter into Caleb’s temple and cocked the trigger. “You kill her and I kill him.”

Amy came close to dropping the knife. The sight of her son with a cocked and loaded gun to his head nearly caused her to lose her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to take Caleb into her arms and somehow whisk him far away from the nightmare.

“Mommy,” Caleb said. His brown eyes were wide and glassy. Amy absorbed his fear and it all but drained her.

“Mommy’s here, baby.”

Arty’s free hand released its grip on Caleb’s shoulder. He patted the boy gently on the arm. “There, you see, Caleb? You’ve got nothing to worry about. Mommy’s here. Now go on over to her.” The little boy turned and looked up at Arty. “Go on,” Arty insisted.

Caleb took a step toward his mother and Arty instantly snatched him back by the arm, causing the boy to stumble and fall at Arty’s feet.

Arty laughed and pulled Caleb upright.

Caleb started to cry. Arty made an
awww
face at Amy, pretended to knuckle away a tear of his own.

Amy felt close to insanity. She wanted the man in front of her dead. No—she wanted him killed, and she wanted to be the one to do it. No apprehension, no struggle with morality. Dead. Killed. By her.

“You won’t win,” Amy said through clenched teeth. “I won’t
let
you win. I swear on my very soul that my family will live through this and that you’ll rot in hell.”

Arty looked as if he hadn’t heard her. “I saw what you did to Jim,” he said. “It was upsetting. Upsetting, but I have to admit, a little exhilarating too. We’ve never had the game taken to this level before. I think it will be that much sweeter in the end, don’t you?”

“It’ll be sweet when you’re dead.”

Arty chuckled. “When I’m
dead
? What exactly were you planning to do? Kill everyone in the house? I thought you were just trying to make a deal here; trying to save your family.”

Amy was flustered. It was her move, and she didn’t know how to play it. She could only keep spitting threats and pray Arty would back down first. “Arty, I’m telling you one last time, and I am
not fucking kidding
, I will cut your mother’s throat from ear to ear unless you let my family go.”

Arty studied her. He did not appear concerned in the slightest. “Nah,” he eventually said, waving a dismissive hand at her, “you won’t do anything. It’s not in you.”

“I just stuck a nail file into your brother’s ball sack. I think it’s in me to cut an old lady’s throat.”

Patrick didn’t know what was going on downstairs. What he
did
know was that Arty had left the room, taking Caleb with him, and that his brother Jim had not taken his place for a while now. That left him and Carrie alone.

“
Cawee,
” Patrick garbled through his gag. “
Cawee, helt Danny.
”

Carrie stayed curled into a ball in the corner of the room.

“
Cawee!”

The little girl twitched and finally looked at her father. She blinked several times before focusing in on his face.

“
Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag.
”

Carrie stood to her feet but remained in the corner.

“
Cawee, helt Danny wit hi gag!
” He prayed she understood him.

She walked towards her father and touched his knee. Patrick smiled with his eyes and said, “
Honey, helt Danny hake hi gag ott.
”

She reached up to his face and pulled at Patrick’s gag. His daughter’s hand on his cheek brought on an instant stream of tears. Less than an hour ago he was sure he would never experience her touch again.

“Good, honey, good,” he said the second the gag was pulled down to his neck. “You need to do one more thing though, honey. Do you think you can do that? Can you do one more thing for Daddy?”

She nodded, her expression still projecting the glazed look of emptiness it previously held. This concerned Patrick, but wasn’t something he could afford to ruminate over now. At least his daughter was
acting
, and at this point in time, her ability to take action, despite a lifeless demeanor, was most vital.

“Good, honey. Daddy’s very proud of you so far.” He then spoke slow and concise. “Now, what I want you to do next, is to take one of the knives out from the wall behind Daddy. Can you do that? Can you take one of the knives out of the wall?”

She nodded.

“Good girl. Do it now then, sweetie.”

Carrie reached past her father’s shoulder and clamped her little hand around the handle on one of the knives sticking out of the dry wall. She tugged once, twice, and then a third before the knife squeaked free causing her to stumble backwards, nearly falling over.

“That’s my baby girl,” Patrick said. He could feel his stomach swirling with adrenaline, his brow beginning to dampen; he expected Arty or Jim to appear at the door at any moment and pounce on his daughter. The thought terrified him and brought a quick and desperate tone to his voice. “Carrie, you need to cut Daddy free as quickly as possible. Do you see how Daddy’s forearms are tied to the arms of the chair? All I need you to do is cut one of them free. I can do the rest once you cut one of them free. Can you do that? Can you cut one of Daddy’s arms free?”

“So what are we gonna do here, Amy?” Arty asked. “Are you really prepared to commit
murder
? Here, in front of your son?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh I’m quite sure you could kill me or Jim…” He pointed at his mother. “But an innocent old woman like this?”

“If it hurts
you
I can.”

“No you can’t—you’re trying to bluff. You had this all worked out in your head already, didn’t you? You thought I’d see my mother with a knife to her throat and break down, give you whatever you wanted, right?” He pressed the gun barrel harder into Caleb’s head, causing the boy to whimper louder. “But I’m not a fucking idiot, Amy. And I don’t think the way you do. That’s what makes me who I am. It’s what has enabled me to survive as long as I have. That and the love of the woman you’ve got a knife pressed to.

“So, do you really think I’d let you bluff me into taking my freedom away while placing a knife to the throat of the most important person in my life? I won’t let that happen, Amy. And I don’t panic. Ever. That’s why this little prick I’m holding here has a gun to his head. And it’s also why I’m certain that I’d lose no sleep whatsoever after putting a bullet through his tiny skull.”

Amy’s chest hitched as she inhaled quickly, the image painted by Arty’s words nearly crippling her.

“But you?” Arty continued. “Killing a sweet old lady? It’s downright laughable. Someone like you would end up in therapy the rest of their life. Become an addict or a drunk. Maybe even off yourself once the grief sunk its claws in deep enough. How ironic would that last one be?” He grinned.

Amy’s body shook, her eyes filmed with hot tears of rage and frustration. He was reading her inner dialogue near verbatim and filling her head with doubts. She tried desperately to shut them out, but the more he spoke the more his words dented the armor shielding her psyche.
Could
she kill an innocent woman? Maybe.
Would
it be something that affected the remainder of her life? Yes, of course it would. But then again, everything that’s occurred these last couple of days would affect the rest of her life. Now was not the time for self-doubt. She had bluffed and it had failed. What lay in front of her now left no other options. Her baby’s life was on the line. Her family’s.

The self-doubt had to be crushed. Arty’s words would need to be treated as fuel to her fire. She would, and
could
, go through with it if need be.

She repeated this mantra over and over in her head until it drowned out any negative thoughts that might cause her to balk. It was for her son. It was for her family. She would kill ten innocent women if it meant getting her family to safety. This innocent woman was an object. An obstacle. An obstacle that may have to be eliminated in order to save her son and family.

She repeated it again; she needed to objectify this woman’s throat beneath her blade:

She is an obstacle. And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.

And then again, tears of frustration drying up in the presence of her newfound defiance, her brow becoming furrowed with a purpose:

She is an obstacle. And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.

“She’s an obstacle,” she said aloud. Her voice was solid. She didn’t blink. “And I will eliminate that obstacle if it means saving my son and family.”

Arty stared at her, his expression different now. Amy believed she had convinced him of her sincerity, of her will and inability to break. And just as he was about to retort with something Amy hoped was acquiescent, Maria Fannelli spoke:

“Young man, I’m not sure who you are, or what it is that you want, but if that little boy is this woman’s child, then I urge you to put that gun away and release him to her before I call the police.”

Every last bind had been cut and Patrick was now free. He stared intently at the scene unfolding on the television screen, then ripped one of the knives from the dry wall. His adrenaline was at a fever pitch. His legs and arms shook. He studied the big knife clenched tight in his fist. The rage he was feeling was unparalleled, and nothing short of ramming the knife deep into Arty’s chest (repeatedly) would quench his thirst for vengeance.

“Carrie, you follow behind Daddy
quietly
okay? Be as quiet as you can but stay close to me. When we get downstairs I’ll show you where to hide, but until we get down there I want you to
stay close
and be
quiet
. Can you do that?”

Carrie nodded.

“Good girl. Daddy’s going to go get Mommy and Caleb and then we’re going to go home.”

“Are you going to hurt those bad men?”

Patrick glanced down warily at his daughter. She stared back up at him, the numb demeanor now gone, her eyes momentarily suppressing their innocence. Those eyes allowed Patrick to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

Carrie’s face became angry and righteous. “
Good,
” she said.

Arty looked at his mother in disbelief. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Maria Fannelli returned a bizarre look. “
Mom?
I don’t have any children, young man. And I’ll say it again: if that little boy is this woman’s son, then—”

“Mom, stop it.”

Maria frowned and snorted. “You can call me ‘mom’ all you like, but I can assure you; you’re not my son, mister. I’m unable to
have
children.”

Arty started breathing heavily. “Mom, you’re having one of your spells. You’re confused. It’s me, Arthur. And I
am
your son. You have
two
sons actually.
James
and
Arthur
.”

“One of my spells?”

Arty felt his face grow hot. He looked at Amy, furious that she was witnessing this. His mother had gotten worse this past year, no question. But she had never forgotten Arty and Jim before. Never.

“Yes, Mom, you have spells; you forget things.”

Maria shifted in her recliner, the knife still to her throat. “That’s absurd. Where’s Sam? I want to see my husband.”

Arty looked at Amy again. Her expression was one of interest. She could have easily gloated at Arty’s growing frustration over his mother’s dementia, but instead she seemed more curious than anything. This angered him all the same. He did not want his mother’s ailment to be the subject of her intrigue. He did not want her here at all. Arty could feel his uncanny ability to remain calm in the face of adversity waning.

“Sam—
my
father
—is dead, Mom. He passed away a long time ago.”

Maria went to sit up, but Amy pulled her back down and kept the knife tight to her throat. “Don’t move,” she said.

Maria tried to turn and make eye contact with Amy, but Amy would not allow it; she gripped the woman’s shoulder and pressed it back into the recliner, pinning her.

“
What is happening?!
” Maria yelled. Her face came alive with panic. “
Where is my husband?!
Who are you people?!
”

“Mom, stop it!”

“
I am not your mother! I don’t have any children
!”

“Mom, you’re confused! You’re sick and you get confused!”

“
Where is Sam
?
I want my husband
!
SAM!!!
”

“Your husband is dead, Mom. He died over twenty years ago. You have a sickness that makes you forget thing—”

“
No!
”

“I’m your son. My name is Arthur, and I’m your son.”

Maria Fannelli closed her eyes as if shutting out the world, refuting such wild claims.

“Mom,
please
…” Arty’s voice finally cracked. His anchor had forgotten him.

“Tough break, Arthur,” Amy said. “It sounds like she may need some medical attention…”

“
Mom…
”

“…and she’s not going to get it like this. Now—you let my family go, and I’ll let your mother go. After that, you can get her all the help she needs.”

Arty hung his head. The gun arm fell to his side. His grip on Caleb’s neck and shoulders, however, remained—a queer means of support perhaps.

His mother had forgotten him. In time her memory would likely return, but how soon until it happened again? And what if it
never
returned?

Amy had mocked him just now by calling him Arthur. She was enjoying this. She was reveling in his worst nightmare. This was not right.
He
was the one who gave the nightmares. He and Jim. Not her. Not anyone.