Bad Games

33



The moment after Patrick kissed his wife, hugged Lorraine, and walked out the front door armed with a loaded rifle, the two women sprang into action. They did exactly as Patrick had said: locked every window and door, turned off all lights, then hurried to Norman and Lorraine’s bedroom where they both took a spot on the floor, against the wall, out of plain sight, knees bent to the chest, arms wrapped tight around them, not daring to speak for the first few minutes they sat huddled together.

“What do we do if Norm and the kids show up?” Amy eventually whispered.

“What do you mean?” Lorraine’s whisper was even softer.

“Does he have a key, or will we have to get up and let him in?”

“He has a key,” she said. “But I’m sure he’d think it odd if I locked the door. I never lock the front door.”

A short pause.

“I’m scared,” Amy said. “I want my babies to be okay.” And then quickly, she added, “Norm too of course.”

Lorraine smiled. “I know, sweetheart.” She wrapped her arm around Amy and pulled her in tight. “We just have to do as Patrick said. We need to stay out of sight and wait for him to return.”

“Oh God, but what if—”

Lorraine squeezed Amy’s shoulder hard, cutting her off. “Stop thinking like that. We have to stay positive. We need to be strong.”

“I am positive; I am strong.” She stopped, her eyes, lit only by moonlight, re-living something dark.

“But those men…they’ve been following us. Watching us. They know—”

Lorraine squeezed harder. “Stop it, Amy. We need to keep quiet for now and listen for Patrick and Norm. Focus on it, okay? Focus. We are going to see my husband and your family very soon. We are. I promise. Just focus on that and be strong, sweetheart, okay?”



* * *



Patrick held the rifle vertically, hidden along the length of his body as he walked towards the Blocker’s cabin. The last thing he wanted was a nosy neighbor reporting a strange man walking the perimeter of the lake with a rifle in hand, looking as though he meant to shoot anything that blinked. Or maybe he did want that. It might be the only way for the sheriff to show his face again. No—the dumb bastard would probably shoot him by mistake.

Speaking of said dumb bastard, Patrick had no difficulty recalling the sheriff’s words and did not even try to enter the Blocker’s cabin through their front door. Instead he immediately headed around back and started for the cellar.

Two heavy wooden doors lay on a slight angle up from the ground. Patrick bent over and tugged at them. They opened with a slow creak like something out of a horror film, and despite his focus, he could not help but snort at the appropriateness of it all.

Patrick took slow crunchy steps down each bug- and leaf-encrusted stair until his nose was inches from the steel door that led inside the cellar. He found out (but had no time to swallow any pride) that the sheriff had indeed been correct. The cellar door was unlocked.

With the rifle held firm in his right hand, Patrick gripped the knob on the cellar door with his left and turned it slowly. He eased the door open and stepped into darkness. It smelled of dust and mold. A damp chill found Patrick’s skin immediately. He shuddered involuntarily and used his free arm to rub the other in a bid for warmth.

Eyes wide, Patrick was desperate to adjust to the blackness that was enveloping him with each step. He knew that in time his vision would become accustomed to the dark, but his anxiety and fortitude did not afford him any patience. His goal for now was to locate some source of light, and he immediately cursed himself for allowing his bravado to override a more efficient game plan back at the Mitchell’s. If he’d allowed his common sense to get a word in, he might have remembered a flashlight.



* * *



Lorraine and Amy had not moved. They remained huddled together in the dark, moonlight from the window their only source of light. They prayed they would soon hear the jingle of Norm’s keys in the lock, or Patrick’s fist rapping on the door followed by the echo of his voice, assuring them that he was okay and to let him inside.

They listened hard. They heard an owl’s incessant hoot. They heard tree branches crackle, each one a possible footstep. They heard the occasional gust of wind palm the glass of the bedroom window, rattling the frame. And that was all they heard. There was no jingling of Norm’s keys. No knock on the door, the echo of Patrick’s voice following. And each moment that passed without those hopeful sounds their unrelenting fear grew deeper.



* * *



Patrick had fumbled blindly throughout the cellar like a one-armed mummy, the rifle still tight to his side. He had managed to locate the railing of the staircase but questioned whether or not he should ascend without a credible source of light. Suppose it was equally dark upstairs? If his attackers were up there waiting, their eyes would be well adjusted; he would be a sitting duck.

He had done his best to peruse the surrounding areas of the cellar, and with the exception of some damp boxes, many spider webs, and a wall of tools, he had found no flashlight. Not even a lighter or a box of matches. His only choice was obvious, and it was as unwelcome as any. He would have to climb the stairs in darkness.

Patrick gripped the railing with his left and steadied the rifle with his right. He was hesitant on his first step for fear of the wood giving out a groan under his weight. If his attackers were behind the door above, waiting, he would need every conceivable advantage. He would need the element of surprise. Old wooden steps that complained with each foot you placed on them would be akin to announcing your arrival.

He placed his toes gingerly on the first step, pushed on it, then allowed his heel to come down. No creak. He put his full weight on that one foot and then tried the other. Still no creak. Stair number one had passed the test.

Stair number two would get the same treatment—one foot, toes first, and then the heel. When silence was the reward, the second foot would get its turn.

Stairs three through thirteen all proved worthy to their first two counterparts and passed each delicate test with muffled brilliance. Fourteen was Patrick’s final hurdle. It was all that stood between him and the door leading into the Blocker’s home.

He decided, on the spot, to bypass fourteen entirely. Instead he would brace his right foot on twelve, his left on thirteen, and keep the rifle fixed on the door the whole time. He would then lean forward with his left hand, turn the handle, and push the door open with as much strength as he could muster from his angled positioned. The moment a*shole number one appeared in the doorway, he would be primed and ready—a solid, stable position to gain the upper hand. Or if worse came to worst, blow their heads clean off their f*cking shoulders.

Patrick’s right foot stepped gingerly back to twelve, his left taking a firm spot on thirteen. Rifle gripped tight in his right, his left hand stretched slowly towards the knob until his fingertips grazed the brass. Another small lean and he was there. He gripped the knob and turned slowly. When he could turn no more, Patrick held his breath, steadied the rifle, and shoved open the door.

It was dark upstairs. Not as dark as the cellar, but dark. Patrick gripped the rifle with both hands now. His heart pounded in his ears. He wanted to shout, to taunt his enemies into appearing in that doorway so this could be done. Let their brazen silhouettes appear even for a second and I’ll blow a goddamn hole in them, he thought.

And then step number ten creaked behind him. Patrick spun into a white light, his vision instantly gone. Two hefty blows followed: one to the groin when he raised his arm to shield his eyes, a second to the back of the head when he doubled over. Patrick slid down steps twelve through one face-first.