Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (29 page)

Dan Briggs? A combination of all of the above. Five-ten, one-eighty, negative-point-negative percent body fat, and a veteran’s thousand-yard stare that Patrick felt was menacingly accentuated by his shaved-bald head. Perhaps it reminded him of Jim Fannelli? No.
Hell
no. To even compare someone on Domino’s team to a sick bastard like Jim Fannelli was flat-out disrespectful.

Domino dipped his torso to one side, his eyes aimed at Amy knees, a playful smile on the corner of his mouth. “And who’s that I see hiding behind Mommy’s legs?”

Caleb poked his head out from behind Amy’s legs for a split second before snapping back out of sight like a timid pet.

Domino dropped to one knee. He spoke in a nurturing tone that could have added nanny to his already astounding resume. “Come on out, little man. I won’t bite.”

Caleb poked his head out again. Amy reached down and stroked his fuzzy brown hair. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said.

Caleb stepped out from behind his mother’s legs. Domino extended his hand. “My name’s Domino. Your Mommy and Daddy are two of my best friends in the whole world. You think you and I can be friends too?”

Caleb stared at Domino’s hand. It was roughly the size of Caleb’s head, and Caleb seemed to have no trouble processing that fact. He stayed frozen.

What Domino did next reminded Patrick of the amazing people on television who seemed to charm and handle the deadliest of snakes without so much as a hiss. Domino simply reached out, took Caleb’s hand into his, shook it softly, and then Patrick watched as Caleb succumbed to one of the warmest smiles he’d seen his son produce in quite some time.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Caleb,” Domino said. Still on one knee, Domino pointed over his shoulder. “Those are my friends, Christopher and Dan.”

Briggs and Allan both smiled and waved. Caleb waved back.

Carrie had disappeared upstairs the moment everyone entered the house, despite Amy’s objection. One of the agents assured Amy she would follow her, and so Carrie was absent during the initial get-to-know-yas. Now, she had inched her way down the stairs and was perched on the fourth step, watching from a distance, but not so far that she would go unnoticed. Especially since Caleb had been introduced ahead of her, God forbid.

“And who’s that pretty girl I see over there on the stairs?” Domino said, now smiling in Carrie’s direction.

“Come on down, honey. Say hello,” Amy said.

Carrie shook her head and stayed put. She held a stuffed animal, a dog, in her hands, and she seemed content on using the toy as a pacifier in her uncertain state, consistently rubbing its ears, tugging its tail.

“Who you got there?” Domino asked. “Does it have a name?”

“It’s not real,” Carrie said. “My real dog died.”

Amy dropped her head; Patrick rubbed her back.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Domino said. “I had a dog once too.”

Carrie flopped her bottom onto the third step. “Did he die?” she asked.

Domino nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“What was his name?”

“Major. What was the name of yours?”

Carrie hit the second step. “Oscar.”

“Like Oscar from
Sesame Street
?”

Carrie’s face lit up. “Yes! I called him that because he was all smelly and dirty like Oscar the Grouch when we found him.”

Domino’s heavy laughter filled the room.

Carrie skipped the first step altogether, hit the landing, and walked right up to Domino. “Oscar and Major are probably playing together at Rainbow Bridge,” she said.

Domino glanced at both Amy and Patrick who returned a
we’ll tell you later
look.

“I bet they are,” Domino said, “I bet they are.” He held out a hand. “I’m Domino. Do you remember me? I met you when you were very young.”

“Domino like the pizza?” Carrie asked, taking his hand and ignoring his question.

Domino smiled. “Just like the pizza.”

“I like Pizza Hut better.” Carrie pulled her stuffed animal to her chest and headed off towards the den without another word.

Patrick rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Amy said, “Yup—that’s our daughter.”

Domino started laughing again.

Chapter 60

West Virginia

One Month Later

Monica Kemp zipped up her bag. It had been a month since Arty had escaped custody. Eyes would still be there, but they wouldn’t be everywhere. Monica and John felt enough time had gone by to start gathering more intel—patterns, routine, gifted opportunities.

“Got everything?” John asked.

“Almost.” Monica walked across the hotel room towards the dresser and checked her Canon and its 600 mm-
f
/4 lens. She lifted the camera towards father and brother and said, “Could get a close-up of Saturn with this baby.”

“Do I even want to know how much it cost?” John asked.

“Not if you want to feel good about yourself.”

“Funny girl.”

“You sure you shouldn’t be going with her?” Arty said to John.

“She’s better at the whole surveillance thing than I am. Don’t have the patience for it. Besides—I gotta organize the new van. If all goes well today, it’d be nice to have it sooner than later.”

Arty glanced at Monica, then back to John. “What if ‘sooner’ does happen? What if she needs help?”

Monica smirked at her father who smirked back.

“You’re still getting to know the family, son,” John said. He then pointed at Monica who was now adjusting the suppressor on her beloved Glock. “That lethal bitch is one daughter I’ll never have to worry about.”

Chapter 61

A month had passed. A quiet month. At first it was good. At first there were hints and (loose) hopes that Arty and
whoever
had vanished for good.

The FBI continued their search but had found nothing thus far. Domino’s security had been top-notch; the Lamberts were never alone. This was comforting for awhile, but once that first quiet month rolled over into a second, and once it seemed as though they had ordered takeout from every conceivable restaurant in Pennsylvania, and had rented every movie ever made, Amy started to become irritable.

They were not
complete
prisoners in the house—there were supervised leaves. They’d had dinner at their friends’ house one night, however Amy suspected the Browns were uncomfortable most of the evening, and she didn’t blame them one bit. Two imposing bodyguards shadowing Patrick and Amy throughout the night? The awful possibility that the
bad guys
could show up and catch the Browns in the line of fire, not unlike the Mitchells at Crescent Lake? The Browns knew all about the unfortunate Mitchells and their untimely demise—that is, their grisly murder.

So that had been the one and only dinner invite thus far. There were brief morning trips to the park with the kids—both Carrie and Caleb were being home-schooled for the time-being—and occasionally, if she begged, Domino himself would escort Amy to a small strip mall up the road—the enormous King of Prussia Mall a mere five minutes away was out of the question.

“I need to get out,” Amy eventually said to Patrick as they sat at the kitchen table with morning coffee. Domino had taken his mug and gone to the den to do some work on his laptop. Briggs and Allan were at the park with the kids.

“Out?” Patrick said after a sip. “Out where?”

Amy waved an arm across the kitchen. “Of here. I need to get out of here.”

“You want Domino to take you to the park to meet up with the kids?”

“No—I want to go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

“I don’t know, just …” Amy ran both hands through her hair, trying to keep cool, refusing to snap at her blameless husband.

“Baby, what are you—”

At the peak of stroking her hair, Amy intentionally pulled upwards and let go, dark strands falling down over her face. “Look at my hair,” she blurted, cutting Patrick off. She wiped the hair out of her face, took the pads of her fingers and tugged down on the skin beneath both eyes. “Look at my eyes, my face.”

Patrick did. He then shrugged. Amy knew what he was thinking, and on any other day, in any other time, she would have loved him for it. Today, it only served to irritate her further. She did
not
want to hear that he found her beautiful no matter how many split ends that frizzed her locks needed trimming. No matter how many roots were reclaiming their gray. No matter how many dark circles were gathering beneath her eyes, clogged pores circling her nose. She did not want to hear it because today, God damn it, she would never believe it. She felt awful. Felt she
looked
awful. Looked like some bag-lady sleeping on a vent near Market Street Station. A man would never understand this—the need for a woman to look and feel like a woman. A man, if society allowed it, would likely march around in sweats and a stained tee, seven days a week, shaving only when his face itched too much, showering only when his odor became a nose-sore to even himself. A man would live in his man-cave with his DVDs, his beer, his porn, his junk-food, and lose track of time. Forget the day, the month, maybe even the year if the supplies were aplenty.

At least this is what Amy thought. And right now she thought it more than ever. Because, as Mr. John Gray so aptly put it,
men are from Mars, and women are from Venus.
And Amy had been on Mars long enough, thank you. She pined for a trip back to her home planet of Venus, if only for a few hours. She doubted Patrick or Domino (
or
any man
, her temporary bias insisted) would understand, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying.

“I need to get out,” she said again, disappointed something more articulate didn’t come out.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I wanna feel human again. A haircut, a facial … maybe even a massage.” She rubbed her neck. “My neck and back are a mess. I must have a million knots.”

“I can give you a massage.”

“No,” she said quickly, knowing he would reply as such. “I want a
good
massage.” And then feeling a slight hint of guilt, added: “A professional massage, honey. One with a table, and scented oils, and soft music. I want to see Lana at Image.”

Patrick sipped his coffee, taking it in, seemingly looking for the right response. “Domino would never allow that,” he eventually said.

“Why don’t we ask him?”

Patrick pushed his mug aside and leaned in. He dropped his voice, his expression stern. “Are you serious, Amy? Are you forgetting why we’re in this position in the first place?”

“It’s been over a month,” she said. “Nothing has happened.”

Patrick’s stern expression was teetering on anger. “
Are you kidding me?
Am I the only when who remembers what that sick bastard is capable of? Look how long he waited before he escaped.”

“He had no choice but to wait. He was in jail. And he needed help to escape.”

Patrick laughed incredulously. “Which proves my point even further. If he’s got help, he’s even
more
of a threat. And if he had help, why didn’t they break him out right away? Why wait so long?”

“Because whoever his help was, they obviously weren’t stupid enough to risk breaking into a jail loaded with police. They waited until he was transported, when their odds were better.”

“Exactly—they
waited.
”

“Because they had no choice,” Amy repeated.

Patrick gritted his teeth and breathed hard through his nose. He was shaking his head when he said, “I can’t believe this. A month ago you and I were on the
exact
same page. We
both
wanted Domino here. We
knew
Arty wasn’t going to run and hide. We
knew
he was going to be coming for us. Now you’re changing your tune just so you can get a massage?”

“And a facial,” she added with goading defiance.

“
Amy.
”

“I’m not changing tunes, Patrick. I know who we’re dealing with.”

“No you don’t,” Patrick said. “
None of us do.
We know Arty. But his help could be anyone. They could be fucking ninjas for all we know. If we start getting lazy, if we start assuming it’s all over and they’re gone for good, that’s when … that’s when—”

“He’s right.” Domino’s deep voice from the kitchen entrance turned both their heads. “I know what you’re feeling, Amy. But believe it or not, that first week we were here? That first week when you and Patrick slept maybe one out of every three nights? That was the time when you were safest. People like this—bad people,
smart
people—they don’t rush things. Patience is their best weapon. It’s when shit starts getting boring, when shit starts getting quiet, mundane—that’s when you need to be prepared, girl. Because that’s when these bad people
use
that patience. They’re not only biding their time, waiting for you to slip up, they’re also planning … preparing. Remember this: you’ve got many things in your life that can occupy your mind—your kids, your job, bills, your home, friends. These folks have only one. Vengeance. I’ve been there myself. And believe me, when it gets hold of you, nothing else matters.”

Domino’s words resonated (how could they not?), but Amy still saw no difference between a trip to the strip mall up the street and a trip to Image for a simple massage. Of course she would never forget who Arty was, or what their current situation was. She would remember Arty and Crescent Lake until the day she died.

“I am not asking for a weekend getaway,” she said. “I’m not even asking for a night out on the town. God knows I have been compliant to all the rules and parameters you’ve set, yes?”

Domino closed his eyes and nodded once.

“All I am asking for is a trip to a spa that happens to be five minutes away. I can take Christopher or Dan, or
both
with me. They can even be in the room while I’m being massaged. I’ll strip
naked
in front of them, I don’t care.”

Patrick made a face.