Bad Games

PARTICIPATION IS NOT AN OPTION...

The Lambert Family is heading to Crescent Lake, a rural cabin community in western Pennsylvania, for an idyllic weekend getaway. Some fishing, some barbecue, some games...

The Fannelli brothers are heading to Crescent Lake too. Some stalking, some kidnapping, some murder,
definitely
 some games...though not necessarily the type of games the Lamberts had in mind.

But it doesn't matter. The Lamberts are going to play whether they like it or not.

An intense psychological thriller,
Bad Games
 has the dark, mind-bending chills of
The Bad Seed
 combined with the primal, fish-out-of-water dread of
Deliverance
.

So let Jeff Menapace's highly anticipated novel keep you up all night as it delves into the mystery of nature versus nurture when comprehending the evil in man, along with the will and determination an innocent family must summon to fight back against horrific odds.

Early autumn, 2008

Patrick was fairly certain the white Pontiac was following them. Nothing to be too alarmed about on a country road with few detours, but still, he had that feeling.

When the Pontiac passed his silver Highlander at the first sign of a dotted lane, Patrick looked left. The driver looked back—longer than necessary.

Asshole.

And yet, a few miles later, it was the same white Pontiac that made Patrick stop for gas. Had the car not been parked next to one of the pumps at the battered station, Patrick would have driven past without even tapping the breaks. The place looked barren.

Will there be a confrontation with this guy if I stop?

Nah. There were no horns honked. No middle fingers given. Not even a tough-guy scowl during the long glance. The man simply passed him on a country road—and Patrick
had
been driving slowly. Alone, his right foot was usually a lead boot on the accelerator, but with his family in the car, Patrick was an old man behind the wheel. Besides, they needed gas. Who knew when they’d come upon another station out here?

He turned in and took the only other pump in front of the Pontiac. The metal tank was a beaten rectangle. It offered two grades: REGUL R and PR MIUM—vowels, Patrick mused, apparently being the preferred meal of the elements around here. He chose PR MIUM and began filling the Highlander.

And that was when he first met the man with the white Pontiac.

“A Penn State man huh?”

Patrick looked over his shoulder. The man sat smiling on the hood of his car, the pump’s black hose winding out of the Pontiac’s tank like a stubborn snake latched to a meal beyond its means. The man had apparently flipped the metal latch beneath the handle to keep the pump running hands-free. Patrick fingered the latch on his own handle, wondering why he hadn’t thought to do the same himself. He carried on squeezing anyway.

“Excuse me?” Patrick said.

“Your license plate,” the man pointed.

The Pennsylvania plates on the Highlander read that the owner was an alumnus of Penn State. Patrick often forgot he had them. “Oh,” he finally said with an even smile. “Yeah—class of ’92. You go there?”

The man pushed off his hood and stood upright. Patrick guessed him at just under six feet with a slender but sturdy build. His pallid complexion was in contrast to the charcoal eyes that were fixed beneath a full head of black, messy hair—the result of little sleep and no comb, or perhaps the latest fashion trend. Likely, a mussed, unkempt look was the latest style; Patrick wouldn’t have had a clue. At thirty-eight and with a family, he was admittedly as up to date on fashion trends as he was on who Paris Hilton was currently dating.

“Sure did—class of ’98,” the man said. “I guess that would put about six years between us, yeah? No chance of ever crossing paths.”

Patrick gave a nod and added, “Well with the size of Penn State, we could have graduated the same year and still never met.”

The man laughed. “Very true.”

Yes—his initial assumption had been correct; there was no confrontation here. Quite the opposite, in fact. Yet it still didn’t deter Patrick from willing the inevitable click from either of their pumps to come sooner than later. Small talk was a hemorrhoid to him.

Patrick looked through the rear-side window of his SUV and made eye contact with his wife, Amy. She gave a quick flick of the head towards the stranger, the curious frown on her face asking who and what. Patrick replied with a subtle roll of his eyes. Amy returned a sympathetic roll of her own, blew him a kiss, and then turned her attention back to their two children in the backseat.

“So do you still visit from time to time?” the man asked.

Patrick shook his head. “Not really. I used to try and make a football game every once in a while, but with a family now, it’s kind of tough.”

The man pecked forward and looked through the rear window of the Highlander. Amy could be seen leaning over the front seat, entertaining the two kids. She looked up and caught the man’s eye. He stared back, holding his gaze.

If it were a game of chicken, Amy would have lost. She was first to look away, quickly bringing her head back down towards the children as if caught staring at something taboo.

Seconds later, she glanced up again. The man’s eyes hadn’t shifted; he was still staring at her, his expression calm and curious, like a man entertaining a riddle. “Huh,” he said softly.

The man brought his attention back to Patrick, started smiling again. “Well, I can sympathize with you on that one, my friend.” He pointed a finger over his shoulder. “I’ve got two of my own.”

Patrick leaned his torso away from the car and looked through the windshield of the man’s Pontiac. He squinted through glass and glare to see two child seats in back, each one occupied by a dark, fuzzy little head sticking out of a blanket.

Patrick smiled. “How old?”

“One and one,” the man smirked, his expression one of blatant delight for the riddle to tantalize before hitting home.

Patrick got it immediately, but accommodated him anyway. “
Twins?
”

The man all but giggled. “Yup.”

“Whoa.”

The man was beaming now. “That’s what I said when I found out. Hit the lottery my wife likes to kid. Hasn’t been too bad though really; they’re good boys. What about you?”

“One boy, one girl,” Patrick said. “Four and six.”

The man said, “Nice.”

Patrick felt it was now his dutiful turn to initiate some sort of generic inquiry before one of the blessed clicks. “So I take it you haven’t made any recent visits to our alma matter then either?”

The man shook his head, a saddened dip on the corner of his mouth. “Nope. Could have made a detour and stopped for a quick visit on the way up here, but the wife was having none of it. Broke my heart.” He breathed in deep as though reliving a tragic event. And then, switchblade-quick, the smile was back. “Still, my wife’s family has a nice little cabin out here in the boonies. She thought it’d be a nice overdue getaway for the four of us. Shake off city life for a little while I guess. She’s there now with her folks, waiting for me and the kids.”

“You’re kidding,” Patrick said. “Where are you staying?”

“Middle of Nowhere, PA,” he joked. “Why?”

“Weird coincidence, that’s all. My family and I are pretty much doing that same exact thing. Made the trek all the way from the ’burbs of Philadelphia. My wife’s family even owns a cabin out here as well. Crescent Lake. You ever heard of it?”

The man’s handle clicked and the chipped-paint numbers on the old tank rolled to a stop. He turned and headed to the rear of his car, talking over his shoulder as he worked. “No, can’t say I have.” He lifted the handle from its hole and locked it home on the tank. “We’re from Philadelphia too—city, not ’burbs—so I’m pretty darn clueless around here.” Screwed the cap back on, and closed the hole’s lid. “In fact, to tell you the truth,” he headed back to his spot in front of his car, “I get more creeped out around places like this—way out in the country—than I would on a wrong turn in North Philly late at night.”

Patrick chuckled. “I know what you mean. Our cabin is in a small community surrounding the lake I mentioned. It’s nice and cozy, but it’s out there—lets your imagination get the best of you sometimes. Guess I’ve seen
Deliverance
one too many times yeah?”

The man smiled. “Good movie.”

Patrick nodded. “Good but disturbing.”

“Disturbing how?”

Patrick’s chin retracted. “You serious?”

The man said nothing, just waited for elaboration.

“That scene,” Patrick said. “That one scene? The one with Ned Beatty?”

“Oh right,” the man said. “Didn’t like it, huh?”

Patrick’s chin retracted again. “Did
you
?”

“Thought it was funny.”

“You got a sick sense of humor, man.” .

“You should meet my brother.”

Patrick smiled. “I think I’ll pass.”

The man put a hand over his heart and made a face is if wounded. “Ouch.”

Patrick quickly said, “Oh I didn’t mean any offense by it, man. It’s just that most people—guys especially—found that scene in the film pretty disturbing. Did for camping what
Jaws
did for swimming if you ask me.”

The man chuckled and stepped forward with his hand extended. “Well put. And no more of this ‘man’ stuff—call me Arty.”

Patrick’s handle clicked. He replaced it on the tank before taking the man’s hand. “Patrick.”

“That’s a heck of a grip you got there, Patrick. Did you
play
football for Penn State?”

In clothes, Patrick looked like a powerful man at six-three and well over two hundred pounds. However, the lines of definition that had sculpted his body in his youth had been systematically erased over the years thanks to children, work, and Krispy Kreme donuts. His once treasured six-pack stomach was now a smooth one-pack, but the bulk on his wide frame was still there, and modestly maintained by the occasional weight session in their furnished basement back home.