Fun and Games

“Isn’t she beautiful, Charlie? We found all her movies and photos and torn-out magazine pages in that duffel bag you carry around with you all the time. Admit it. You love to look at her, and, wow, you finally have her here now, in the flesh, right in front of you. To do with as you please.”

The bag. Oh God, they still had his bag, not the one with the stupid T-shirt and jeans, but the real one, the important one, the one he swore to keep with him at all times. The one he’d lost anyway.

“Go ahead, Charlie. Get closer. You know she wants it. She’s practically begging for it. Look at her.”

They arranged his body so that he straddled hers. His body was at once tingly and partially numb, but he could still feel her naked form beneath him. Her skinny, tired, bandaged, cut body.

“Only maybe she doesn’t want you. Maybe you’ve read the signs wrong. You totally want to fuck her, but she’s repulsed by you. Wouldn’t want you even if you paid her. Even if you threatened to kill her.”

They forced his arms up, then placed his thick, scarred hands around her throat. Carefully, they arranged his fingers around her pretty throat. He could see a vein throbbing there, and her throat working hard to swallow. There was a fleeting terror in her eyes, like she’d realized what they were going to do before Hardie did.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re the kind of guy who can’t get it up, no matter how badly you want it. You try to get yourself all worked up, but in the end it’s an exercise in futility, you’re just too out of shape to make it happen.”

The men in the gloves paused for a moment to change positions; Hardie could feel them adjusting around him, like puppeteers struggling behind a black felt curtain. Pay no attention. Keep your eye on the maniac on top of the beautiful naked actress.

“She got you so mad, you thought to yourself—well, then, yeah. Fuck it. I will kill her. Squeeze the life out of her stuck-up obnoxious face.”

Gloved fingers pressed down on Hardie’s numb, useless fingers. Gloved thumbs guided his naked thumbs to the middle of her soft throat and then pressed down hard, joined by the rest of his fingers, tightening around her neck like a vise. Hardie tried to push back, but there was nothing for his mind to seize control of; his hands weren’t talking to him right now. They were busy acting. Choking Lane Madden to death in this crazy psychotic fucked-up fantasy version of real life.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Charlie? Choke that bitch out. Go on. Break her little scrawny neck.”

As they pushed Hardie’s hands down, something shot out from under the pillow and ping-ponged across the carpet.

“Ooh, what was that, Charlie? A secret weapon, maybe?”

Hardie felt one of his puppet masters leave to retrieve the mystery object. He must have handed it to his boss, because she said:

“Now, this is interesting….Vicodin, prescribed to… oh, to you, Charlie. I suppose it’s painful being a hero. But what was this doing under the pillow? Did you put it there, or did the actress? I think it was her, wasn’t it, Charlie?”

Hardie looked down at Lane. Her eyes were filled with still tears. After a moment, his puppet master rejoined the group on the bed and pressed Hardie’s hands down again, squeezing Lane’s throat. She blinked. Tried to look away. She couldn’t do anything.

“Wait, I get it now. Your girl took your pills and hid them under the pillow. Now, why would she do that? Maybe because she’d rather swallow a fistful of pills than spend another second with you?”

Lane’s legs twitched. Her stomach heaved, and her head started to move slightly, from the left to the right, from the left to the right, just a few millimeters. Hardie felt her hips jolt beneath him. She was trying, God, she was trying.

“But we can’t have that. No no no. We don’t want a suicidal actress. We want an actress who was cut down in her prime. Choked to death by a man who lusted after her. Murdered by you, Charlie.”

Hardie wanted to open his useless mouth and tell Lane he was trying, too, that everything was going to be okay, he wasn’t going to let them do this. But he was. Strangling her. Murdering her. And there was nothing he could do about it, because his body was no longer his own.

Percentage of murder victims killed by someone they know: fifty-eight.

Only now, in these desperate moments as the capillaries burst in her face and in her eyes, did Lane Madden realize that punishment had come for her after all. Over the past three years she’d ping-ponged between despair and hope, damnation and redemption, wondering where she’d land.

She wanted to tell Charlie: It’s not your fault. You couldn’t help this. This was my war. You just wandered into it. It’s not your fault.

She wanted to tell the Hunters: I’m sorry I didn’t tell the truth. I prolonged your suffering because of my own self-interest and greed and narcissism.

She wanted to tell the world: I’m not this person you thought I became. I’m really not, it’s not me, it’s not me…

And then, at the last possible moment, it came to her.

This wasn’t about her.

This was about the family at that address.

She had to let Charlie know, she had to tell him, because there was no one else who could do anything about it but Charlie…

Save them, she tried to will her mouth to say, struggling to make her jaw move and her lips form the words, one last line to run, her final performance, God, please let Charlie understand what I’m trying to tell him…

Save them.

They continued pressing down on his hands until her body was still. One of the gloved hands freed itself to feel her wrist for a pulse, then slid over her eyelids, forcing them shut. They guided Hardie back to a corner of the room, then eased him down into a sitting position. Something sharp poked at one of his ass cheeks, but he figured that was the least of his worries. The taller of the two men slid a syringe out of a zippered case. Hardie recognized him now. He was the second intruder, the one who had Tasered him, then crawled backward out of the Lowenbruck house. The tall, vicious one, he thought he’d sent flying off the top of a mountain. Now he caught Hardie eyeing the syringe.

“Oh, don’t worry, big guy. We’re not going to kill you.”

“Oh, no,” Topless said. “After all, you’re Unkillable Chuck. I guess we finally learned our lesson about you. No, we’ve got something else in mind.”

Hardie struggled to make his mouth work. He thought he managed to sputter out a couple of syllables—

“I… I’ll…”

—but he wasn’t sure until Topless responded.

“You’ll what? You’ll talk—is that it? About what? What proof do you have? You have nothing, Charlie. Absolutely nothing.”

She gave a curt nod. The tall one slid the needle into his arm, but Hardie didn’t feel it. He could hardly feel anything, except maybe the burning ingot of rage in his brain.

“This is just to keep you comfortable,” Tallboy said.

“And before you do open your mouth,” Topless continued, “I’d keep Kendra and Charlie Jr. in mind.”

As he passed into total paralysis, Hardie couldn’t stop staring at Lane’s lifeless body. Her eyes, still slightly open. One eye staring at him. The one he’d punched. Accusing him, blankly. Why couldn’t you save me? What have you been doing for the past three years except taking up space, breathing other people’s air, consuming natural resources? You not only failed to save your partner’s family—you got them all killed. It was even worse with me. You actually killed me. With your own hands.

You happy, Charlie?

You happy you let all of this happen?