Bad Games (33 page)

Chicago, Illinois

Autumn, 2008

Although the interior of the house was black with night, Monica could have slinked her way upstairs and into their bedrooms eyes closed. She had been in their home—alone—several times already. Her job demanded this kind of tactile homework. She had to be perfect. Always. But it was never a burden. She loved her job. It was why she was so good.

Monica never cared to know the reasons behind her assignments unless they were critical to the job. Reasons meant little to her. It could be a terrorist hiding in suburbia, or a school teacher having an affair. She didn’t care. It was the work itself she prized. Her first solo assignment at nineteen was carried out with the exactness of a veteran—her hand never shook, her movements never second-guessed.

At the top of the landing, Monica made an immediate right into the boy’s bedroom. He was a freshman in high school. Five-foot nine. Scruffy brown hair. Skinny. She’d studied him on his way home from soccer practice. Every day after school until five. He walked home.

Monica now stood over his sleeping body and withdrew a pistol from her leather bag. Teenagers were always so easy. They slept like the dead. The boy snored deeply, his mouth ajar. She smirked at the opportunity and placed the suppressor of her Glock into his mouth. The boy never opened his eyes, even when the two quiet thumps bounced his head and turned the back of his pillow red.

Mom and dad were down the hall. She didn’t have to hurry with this one, and that was just fine by her. Quite often a job would require a quick in and out with little time to savor and enjoy. But with this one, she could (and would) secure the situation, and then take her time.

She glided into the master bedroom, hung at the foot of the bed, watched their sleeping silhouettes. She felt the familiar tingle flutter its way down her spine until it made a pit-stop in her belly, swirling hot and bad, waiting for the chance to continue its exquisite journey south.

Monica had once read that Adolph Hitler would often ejaculate while delivering passionate speeches to his minions. A crazy notion to most, but she understood the moment she’d read it. She desired sex as often (she assumed) as most women did, but achieving orgasm was near impossible no matter how earnest the man’s efforts may have been. But when an assignment like tonight’s allowed her to take her time? She was able to explode with ecstasy—multiple times.

One poor fellow unknowingly volunteered to be her first successful effort at sexual gratification when Monica was only twenty-two. The young man was not an assignment, just another random penis stepping up to the plate in hopes of hitting it out of the park. Unfortunately, the man, despite his efforts, could not even manage a bunt, and in a desperate attempt for fulfillment, Monica—she on top; he still inside her—reached for one of her instruments (always hidden close by), and slashed his throat.

Staring down at disbelieving eyes, a mouth gurgling red, and frantic clawing at a throat that no longer worked, she came instantly.

Future sexual encounters of the same nature occurred, but they were infrequent. More sport than anything else. The job satiated her appetite with far greater satisfaction.

And so now, just as the female subject (40; dirty-blonde hair; five-foot two; Pilates at twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays)
lifted her head off the pillow to likely obey the blind suspicion subjects sometimes had—the suspicion they were being watched—she did not receive two quick bullets like her son had. Instead she got a lightning-quick injection to the side of the neck that put her back into a deep sleep. The husband (42; brown hair; five-foot ten; work hours eight to six; happy hour with colleagues on Wednesdays and Fridays from six to eight) barely stirred, even when he received an injection of his own.

Monica left the sedated couple, entered their bathroom and hit the light. Her reflection in the stretch of mirror above the dual sinks was exceptionally kind: dark, seductive eyes, full lips, healthy dark hair that usually bounced at the shoulder (now pulled back tight for job efficiency), and a body that defied the majority by being slim and tight in the usual trouble spots; full and firm in the oft-desired.

These physical gifts were accentuated—and coveted by every female eye she passed—by a powerful and sophisticated aura, product of conditioning from years in the most elite of boarding schools. If she were wearing a power suit instead of the unassuming but apt attire needed for her current assignment, she could easily pass for a seven-figure knockout parading down Wall Street.

Monica placed her leather bag on the sink, glanced into the bedroom at the couple, and felt the familiar tingle begin its feathery dance down her body. Now she would take her time.

Monica sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deep, she glanced over her shoulder, searching for the remote. It was on the nightstand next to the wife’s corpse.

She stood, strolled past the chair that held the husband’s bound and mangled body, flicked an ash on his scalp, picked up the remote from the nightstand, and returned to her spot at the foot of the bed.

Crossing her legs, she took a second drag, leaned back on her elbows, and blew a long stream into the air. She tweaked the toes of the dead woman next to her, then clicked on the television.

The news was replaying a top story from a few days ago. The incident had caught her attention the night it aired, and she had given it a brief glance. Multiple murders in the sticks of western, Pennsylvania. A place called Crescent Lake. Torture. Sick games. Something out of a movie, they had said.

Now they apparently had the whole story.

She turned up the volume and looked on with the casual eye of an athlete watching their own sport. She hoped this local station had the balls to air recordings of the aftermath. The breaking report she had witnessed days ago on assignment in New York had given her nothing but a woman with a bad dye-job, blabbering in front of a cabin in Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania.

For the moment this one looked to be no different. Same bullshit drama in front of a cabin. A man reported this time, one with a bad toupee and capped teeth. He carried on as though auditioning for a Hollywood role.

Four murdered…two men responsible…brothers…one of the brothers eventually killed in an act of self-defense…the other brother critically wounded and in custody.

Her casual interest was waning.

The reporter disappeared, and Monica was finally rewarded with a brief shot of a large black body bag being carried out of a cabin and into an ambulance.

She rolled her eyes. Painfully unfulfilling. She took another drag of her cigarette and blew perfect smoke rings.

Toupee returned for a brief moment to provide new details about the naughty brothers. And then, for the first time, their pictures—side by side headshots that took up the whole screen.

Monica sprang upright, the remote falling from her hand, the battery casing breaking open as it hit the rug. She leaned forward and gawked at the screen. The brother on the left—the one they’d declared dead. He looked exactly like her.

The finished cigarette burned her fingers and she cursed and dropped it. She quickly stubbed it out with her toe, pocketed the butt, pushed off the bed and rushed close to the screen. A lock of her thick, dark hair came free from her ponytail and fell over one eye. She slapped it away from her face as though it were a bug.

The other brother, the one that was still alive and in custody, there was a resemblance there as well. And then she heard the word and her open mouth gaped wider.

Adopted.

Both brothers had been adopted. The pictures disappeared and she snatched at the screen as though she might be able to bring them back.

Toupee stood in front of a lake now. More cabins rimmed the corners of the screen. If he had been auditioning for a Hollywood role before, he was now trying to take home the Oscar with his dramatic recap:

“
Once again, an idyllic autumn getaway becomes a nightmare for an innocent family, as two psychotic brothers subjected these unfortunate people to unspeakable horrors for their own sick amusement…”

A photo of the family’s cabin, and then of an isolated house where apparently further atrocities took place.

“…
the family survived the brothers’ wrath, even fighting back and taking the life of one of the sadistic brothers in a heroic display of self-defense…”

A solitary picture of the deceased brother now—the one that looked like her. Monica touched the screen, caressed his face.

“
The same cannot be said for the four victims here at Crescent Lake, whose lives were brutally snuffed out for unknowingly playing the role of obstacles in the sick games
the brothers were orchestrating…”

A repeat shot of the same black body bag being taken out of a cabin and into an ambulance. Her fingers fell from the screen, dropped to her side.

“
Ironically, it would later be known that one of the survivors of that night of horror was actually the adoptive mother of the two sadistic brothers. A widow, this elder woman, whose name is being withheld, was tragically unaware of the evil she was raising until it was too late. She too proved to be an obstacle, and is now in critical condition…”

Toupee on his own again, in front of the lake, pouring it on.

“
What compels men to do such things? How does one develop the urge and ability to torture an innocent family for their own enjoyment? To slaughter four people without pity? Attempt to take the life of their own adoptive mother who, along with her now deceased husband, lovingly took these boys into their lives out of the pure goodness of their hearts…?”

The side-by-side headshots leapt forward again as the commentary continued. Monica caressed the screen with both hands this time, one for each.

She knew. All those questions they were asking. The whys? The hows? She knew why. She knew how.
God
how she knew.

Monica rushed towards her leather bag, fished out her cell, dialed.

A male voice picked up on the first ring. “Code in.”

“Neco. 8122765,” she said.

“Waiting for voice authentication…clear. Everything okay?”

“Fine. You can send the cleaner in an hour. I want you to check something for me first.”

Monica “Neco” Kemp hung up after ten minutes then dialed a second number. It rang twice.

“What’s up, baby girl?” A male voice, deep and powerful.

“I found them.”