Bad Games

67



Patrick and Amy were admitted to The Western Pennsylvania Hospital in Pittsburgh, some twenty odd miles from Crescent Lake. The doctor had initially tried to separate them, but Patrick’s glare changed his mind. They would be together, side by side as they healed, and never apart until they returned home.



* * *



Caleb and Carrie were already heading back to the Philadelphia area. Patrick’s parents had received a call by one of the homicide detectives from the Allegheny County Police, and he explained the situation. The elder Lamberts were out the door the second the phone was put back on its receiver.



* * *



When the police had initially arrived at Maria Fannelli’s house, Patrick was actually delighted to see his favorite sheriff walk through the front door. As the ambulance was busy attending to his family and the deceased, Patrick couldn’t help slipping in a snide remark as the sheriff stood quietly in the corner while the Allegheny County detectives, who had been called in to assist a situation of this magnitude, surveyed the scene.

“You believe us now, a*shole?” Patrick said.

Patrick was sure he saw one of the detectives smirk after his remark, and the sheriff just pulled his hat down over his brow, turned, and left without a word.



* * *



Both Patrick and Amy slept that first night in the hospital. They were heavily sedated after the doctor had attended to their wounds and neither one opened their eyes until well after noon the following day.

“Hi, baby,” Patrick said. His head was turned on his pillow, looking at his wife lying in the bed to his left. She looked weary but even more beautiful than he ever thought possible. There she was, her hair matted, face pale, tired eyes circled in blue, and an large white dressing covering the wound on her chest—and Patrick was simply mesmerized by her beauty. His soul mate had almost been taken from him. But now they were safe. They were safe and they had triumphed. And Patrick’s love for his wife became so suddenly intense it made his abdomen hurt. But in a good way. A good hurt.

Amy turned her head to the right. She smiled more with her eyes than she did her mouth. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Tired. You?”

“The same.”

“You think the kids are okay?”

Patrick nodded. “My parents probably have them locked inside an impenetrable fortress right now, giving them whatever they want. You know how they are.”

She said, “You think they’ll be okay?”

Patrick shared his wife’s worry and it showed on his face. “You mean in the long run…psychologically…”

Amy nodded against her pillow.

“Yeah. They’re young. The memories will fade in time.”

Amy looked at her husband in silence for a few seconds. Patrick wanted to think she was now experiencing the painful love and gratitude he was feeling. When she smiled with both her eyes and her mouth, he was sure of it.

“I love you so much, Patrick.”

“I love you too, baby.”

“You protected us just like you said you would.”

Patrick shook his head against his own pillow. “It was all of us. We protected each other.”

Amy rolled back to the center of the pillow and looked at the ceiling. After a brief pause she rolled back to her right and said, “Yeah, I guess we did. In a million years I never thought I’d be capable of sticking a nail file into a man’s balls.”

Patrick winced and hissed in a playful manner, cupping both hands over his groin. “Ouch,” he said. “I gotta say that’s pretty impressive, baby. As soon as we get home I’m getting rid of all the nail files in the house.”

She giggled softly. “We can get rid of the files as long as you promise not to bite off my nose.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to giggle. “Tasted like chicken.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “You didn’t swallow it, did you?”

Patrick could not help a full-on laugh. The stitches on his stomach instantly complained and he put a hand on them. “No, no, I was just kidding, baby. I didn’t swallow the guy’s nose.”

“If Oscar was there you know he would have,” she said.

They both laughed, both winced.

Patrick’s smile faded. He said, “Poor little guy.”

There was a long pause after that. Patrick looked at the ceiling, then to the wall to his right, then back to his left towards Amy. “Are we demonstrating some sort of defense mechanism right now you think?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are we really laughing about the barbaric things we did?” The realization was there, but its impact seemed diluted. He didn’t know why. “I killed two men.”

Amy rolled back to the center of her pillow and looked at the ceiling again. She didn’t roll back to face him when she replied, “Yeah, I guess we are…utilizing a defense mechanism. Maybe laughter after a traumatic episode like we experienced is normal. Part of the healing process.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe we just have sick senses of humor.”

Amy broke her gaze from the white ceiling tiles and looked at her husband with one eye. “You’re the one with the sick sense of humor.”

“You love my sense of humor.”

“You have your moments.”

“That had to be an accident.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t just willingly give me the cue to sing Edwin McCain again did you?”

“I actually like that song,” she said. “And you do realize that every time you sing it, you make it harder and harder to like, don’t you?”

“It’s too late now.”

“You have no respect for the wounded.”

“Here I go.”

“Please don’t.”

Patrick started singing.

Amy bit down a smile and looked away. “Dork.”