Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (35 page)

“Just bored,” Amy said, bracing herself for another possible hit.

“Sure you are,” Arty said with a cluck of the tongue. “But you needn’t worry …”

Amy heard Arty move towards the front of the room. She heard clicks and whirrs—the sounds of some kind of technology.

Arty removed her blindfold. Amy found herself in a room that was nearly bare. The room contained one tall halogen lamp, one window (that, in the dark of night beyond, only served to cruelly reflect her binds), one table, and most significantly, one tripod supporting an elaborate video camera pointing directly at her, a small circle glowing red on its casing, indicating the camera was live and running.

Arty stepped in front of the camera. He and Amy locked eyes for the first time in months. Arty smiled from ear to ear; Amy could not fight a mask of hatred.

Arty’s smile shortened into a satisfied smirk. “… it’s going to be show time very soon.”

Chapter 74

Patrick switched off his headlights and rolled to a slow stop at the rendezvous point a hundred yards from the perimeter of Crescent Lake. Before clicking off his lights he had spotted three unmarked cars. Patrick was pleased Allegheny hadn’t arrived in cruisers; they may have been granted first dibs in taking Arty and his brood down, but it seemed the Feds were still calling the shots.

Agent Miller approached Patrick as he exited the Highlander. It was dark, but Patrick could still make the agent out fairly well. The rest of the car doors behind the agent began opening—federal agents and members of the Allegheny County Police Department filed out, eight in all, geared to the nines in vests and weapons. The officers from Allegheny County were constantly popping, checking, then slamming the clips back home on their Berettas as they paced and twitched like men having to take a piss.

Cowboys,
Patrick thought. He didn’t blame them though. They weren’t here for points or accolades. They wanted vengeance. Same as him. Same as Arty and his family.
Jesus. Today, kids, we’re going to learn about something called a theme.

“How you doing?” Miller asked Patrick.

“Scared. Worried.”

Miller patted Patrick’s shoulder once. “We’ll have the place surrounded, but we’ll be out of sight. When you get near—”

“Way out of sight,” Patrick interrupted. “He said they have eyes everywhere. If they spot you …”

“That was likely a bluff. And even if they do have some type of surveillance they
won’t
spot us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m sure,” Miller said.

Patrick dropped his head and took a breath. “Okay. I’m going to head towards the lake. Cabin eight.”

“We’ll be close behind, on foot.”

“Stay away from my break lights,” Patrick said. “If I hit them and they light one of your faces—”

“We know what we’re doing, Patrick.” Miller patted his shoulder again. “This will all be over soon; you’ll see.”

Patrick nodded, entered the Highlander, and began a slow drive down the gravel road leading into Crescent Lake.

*

Arty’s radio crackled. A deep male voice came through. “Got a car approaching, son.”

Arty brought the radio to his mouth. “Make?”

“It’s an SUV.” A pause, and then: “Highlander. Toyota Highlander.”

“That’s him,” Arty said. “Is he alone?”

“Can’t tell yet. Looks like he’s about to pull into the driveway.”

Arty glanced down at Amy and pulled the radio away from his mouth. “Excited?”

Amy was holding her breath; she said nothing.

Arty smiled and brought the radio back to his lips. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“He’s alone. No kids.”

Amy gasped relief. Arty glanced down at her again and said: “We were expecting that. We’ll find them soon enough.”

Amy glared up at him with murder in her eyes. He winked at her.

“Any police?” Arty asked.

“None so far. He’s heading towards the front door.”

*

Patrick stood outside the front door of cabin number eight bordering Crescent Lake. Memories came at him unrelenting, each one staying long enough to burn before the next.

He closed his eyes. That only made it worse. He opened them. Shook his head. Slapped his face. Stomped his feet.

Go inside.
Do it now.

Patrick turned the handle on the front door. He did not see the shadows of two Allegheny County officers creeping up close behind.

*

Arty’s radio crackled. “He’s at the front door.”

“Copy that,” Arty said. He licked his lips and readied himself.

“
Except …
”

“What?”

“… it appears our hero brought the police with him after all.”

Arty looked down at Amy and grinned. “Well—I guess your hubby doesn’t love you as much as you thought.” He put her gag back on.

*

Patrick opened the front door and walked into the den. He did not survey his surroundings. He did not survey them because the enormous television perched high up on its stand in the middle of the room captured every bit of his attention.

Amy was on that TV screen. The scene was a horrific memory come back to life—his wife bound and gagged and helpless in a chair, Arty next to her, grinning, back in charge. Patrick stared, his mouth gaping.

“I told you you’d see her again,” Arty said. He stroked Amy’s hair as he spoke. She violently recoiled away from each stroke. “You can speak if you like. There’s a mic; I can hear you.”

Anger had not hit Patrick’s face yet; it was still shock. “What is this?” he said. “You said you wanted us both. You wanted … you wanted a reunion.”

“Oh I do. Or should I say:
I did.
But I had to test you first, Patrick. And guess what?” He made a boo-hoo face. “You failed.”

“
What?
I did exactly what you said! You son of a bitch, I did exactly what you said!”

“Did you? Where are the kids?”

Patrick swallowed hard. He looked away and said, “They’re in the car.”

Arty made the sound of a game show buzzer. “That’s a lie. I imagine you’re not much of a poker player.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving now. “You knew I wasn’t going to bring them, Arty. You
knew
that.”

Arty closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I suppose I did.” He left Amy’s side and approached the camera, his face now taking up the screen. “But what about the
fuzz
? The
pigs
? The
coppers
?”

“What about them?”

Arty tilted his head to one side, pursed his lips and said, “Come on, Patrick. I told you we would know if they came with you.”

“There
are
no cops,” he said fast and desperate. “I swear, I swear.”

“
I swear, I swear,
” Arty mocked. “You might want to peek over you shoulder, honest Abe.”

Patrick spun. Two Allegheny County Police Officers were behind him, guns drawn, eyes stuck on the television, confused.

“
No!
” Patrick screamed at the officers. “
GODDAMNIT, NO!
”

Patrick spun back towards the television. “Arty, please! Just listen to me!”

Arty shook a finger and made a
tsk, tsk
sound. “Shame. You know, despite my hatred for you, Patrick, there was always a little bit of respect. I thought you had balls. Honor.” He shook his head. “You’re pathetic … and your wife is as good as dead.”

“
NO! NO, WAIT! YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Arty waved goodbye, stepped away from the camera, and let an image of a sobbing Amy in plain view for a few intentional seconds before the screen went black.

Patrick kicked the television over and roared. The front door burst open and the remaining officers and agents flooded in. Patrick screamed and spat insults at them. Punched holes in the walls. Kicked a table over and stomped it until it was in pieces. No officer or agent dared intervene. Not even Agent Miller.

Patrick let loose one more almighty roar and then ran out of cabin number eight on Crescent Lake like a maniac into the night.

Chapter 75

Patrick sprinted through the woods. Branches smacked and stung his face but did not bother him; the pain fueled his charge. It was dark, and at times he doubted his footing, but he knew he was headed in the right direction. If he took a spill, fuck it. He would bounce right back up no matter what the damage and keep on going.

Twenty yards ahead he began to make out the road, and the idling car that was waiting.

*

An Allegheny County Officer approached Agent Miller following a thorough sweep of the cabin. “Nothing,” the officer said. “Just the TV and some surveillance equipment.”

Miller looked at the ground, kicked over a stone and cursed under his breath.

The officer said, “Look, we may have jumped the gun a little, but she wasn’t even in there. The sick bastard was playing games. He was gonna kill her no matter what. If she
was
there, we might have been able to save her.”

Miller looked away and sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Try and explain that to Mr. Lambert.”

The officer looked in all directions. “Where is he?”

Chapter 76

Patrick sat in the passenger seat. Dan Briggs sped through the back roads of western Pennsylvania as if he’d lived there his whole life. They were almost there.

Patrick’s cell phone rang. The caller ID was blocked, but he knew who it was—he was counting on it. Patrick flipped open his phone. “Hello?”

“Disappointment is an understatement here, Patrick.”

Patrick glanced at Briggs, nodded, then replied: “Where are you, Arty?”

“I gave you pretty simple directions. And yet you chose to let your wife die.”

“Fuck you. You were going to kill her anyway.”

“I wanted to play the game again. I wanted a reunion.”

“You’ve
been
playing the game, asshole. Or should I say, your family has been playing the game while you’ve been locked away. Living vicariously through them just isn’t the same thing though, is it?”

Brief silence. “Are you trying to mind-fuck me, Patrick? Unwise.”

“No mind-fuck. Just truth. I have no doubt you would have done the actual deed when the time came, but at the end of the day it would have left you empty inside, wouldn’t it?
Just
murder? No fun, no games?”

Arty laughed, but it sounded forced. “Who said no games? We had many, many things in store for you two.”

“Bullshit. You’re not invisible anymore, Arty. The FBI
dreams
about you. You’ve got to keep on the move. Your father and sister could plan and spend all the time they wanted. They
still
can. But not you. Nope—your days of fun and games ended the night my wife and I kicked the living shit out of you and your douche bag brother.”

Arty’s breathing was heavy on the other line. His tone was a modest attempt at controlling his anger. “For a man whose wife is sitting next to me helpless—”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Patrick interrupted. “Where’s the man who prided himself on being in constant control? It sounds like I’m getting to you.”

Briggs killed the lights on the Mustang and continued driving through night as deftly as he had before. They were less than a football field away now.

“I’m just talking truth here, Arty,” Patrick continued. “No need to get riled up. The simple fact is that your family was having all the fun. Sure, they’re loyal to you, and sure, they were going to let you be the one to finish Amy and me off—”

“Your kids too,” Arty blurted. “Don’t forget about your kids. We
will
find them ya know. New rules to the game. Your kids are dead.”

Patrick ignored the comment. “Face it, Arty, from here on out you’re nothing but a common killer who has to constantly keep on the move. A
common
killer. You love being considered common don’t you?” Patrick laughed.

Briggs slowed the Mustang to a stop. They exited. Briggs took lead as they kept their heads down and hurried to their mark on foot.

Arty’s attempt at controlling his anger was gone. He did not yell, but spoke with enunciated venom. “You are a very, very stupid man. Would you like to say goodbye to your wife before I torture her to death?”

Patrick glanced over at Domino and nodded. Domino raised his rifle and peered through the scope.

“No,” Patrick said. “I’ll tell her face to face.”

Domino squeezed his trigger four times. All four hits pierced the living room window and hit Arty in every one of his appendages—both arms, both legs. He collapsed instantly. Amy’s eyes went frantic with shock and confusion.

Briggs kicked in the back door of Maria Fannelli’s former residence—the place where the finalities of the Lamberts’ horrific ordeal had truly happened. The place Patrick knew they were taking his wife from the start.

Pistol raised, Briggs swung and spun throughout the downstairs interior of the home.

Domino headed upstairs.

Patrick entered the living room to greet Arty.

*

Arty lay on the floor screaming and writhing in pain. Patrick instantly went to his wife and knelt before her. He removed her gag, took hold of her face, and kissed her from her lips to her forehead with feverish relief.

“Listen to me,” Patrick said as he worked the last bind free, allowing Amy to get to her feet. “There’s a car outside …” He pressed the keys to the Mustang into her hand. “A black Mustang about twenty yards west from here. Get inside and drive—and
keep
driving.”

Amy looked in all directions. “Where are we?”

“We’re at his mother’s house. They tried to trick us.”

From the floor, Arty managed: “She’s not my mothe—”

Patrick lunged forward and punted Arty in the ribs. “Shut the
fuck
up!” He returned to Amy. “Go, baby. Leave now.”