Fun and Games

30

Did I ask you to be his psychiatrist?

No. I asked you to fucking kill him.

—Ralph Fiennes, In Bruges

PSYCHO PHIL handed over the keys with a trembling hand. He said they would open a black van parked out back, over a fence and between houses, right on Moorpark. Tank full of gas. Please God don’t kill me. The two of them were supposed to leave the Hunters dead and go out there and fade into the Los Angeles night and please God don’t kill me.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Hardie said. “I want you alive so you can talk to a friend of mine.”

Deke, right this very moment (hopefully) was flying across the whole country just to be here. Deke was still their only chance, their light at the end of the tunnel.

“I can’t, you don’t understand… they’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll kill you and make it look like an accident. Really horrible. I feel for you, brother. I really do.”

Hardie dragged Psycho Phil into the middle of the room and told Jonathan to do the same with Psycho Sis. Dark blood smeared across the buff-colored carpet. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself trapped in yet another house, with faceless killers swarming about everywhere. They needed to get out of here. Like right fucking now. Hardie kept Psycho Phil’s gun and handed the Glocks to Jonathan, told him to give his wife one of them.

“They’re still loaded with plenty of bullets. You or your wife see somebody you don’t know, squeeze until they drop.”

Jonathan nodded quickly and handed his wife a Glock. She looked down at it with not so much fear as grim determination, as if steeling herself. You know what, her face seemed to say, if it comes down to it, I could point this fucking thing at somebody and shoot.

Still holding the .38 in his right hand, Hardie fished the stolen handcuffs from the back waistband of his jeans with his left. His plan was to run the handcuffs through a support pole in the middle of the Hunters’ entertainment center and then click them around the right wrist of Psycho Bro and the left wrist of Sis. What a sight he must be. Dirty pants and stolen shirt and no shoes, pretending to do real actual police work. Hey kids, meet Hobo Cop. He rides the rails! He carries a bindle! He solves crimes!

Jonathan Hunter, meanwhile, was holding his smartphone up in the air like he was offering a sacrifice to God. “My cell,” he said. “I can’t get a signal.”

“They can jam the signal. And don’t bother trying the landline. They’ve probably cut it.”

“They?”

Hardie almost smiled. Just this morning he’d been thinking the same thing. They? Who the fuck is They? But there was no time to convert Jonathan Hunter to the Church of the All-Powerful and Immortal THEY. He needed the Hunter family to survive, and to know the truth.

Hardie slid open one of the glass doors leading to the back yard. This being California, of course there was a pool. Modest, but still. Plastic Adirondack chairs were scattered on the grass, along with an assortment of inflatable pool toys. He had to make it across the yard, to the fence, and out to the other side of the block. But did They have anything out there in the way of backup? Were they watching to make sure the Psycho Twins got out safe and sound?

The moment was so fucking familiar—the realization, the horror, the feeling that everything was happening right in this very second and there was no time to think, to react, to act—

C’mon Nate, let’s move let’s move let’s move, out the front, my car’s out there, we’ve got time…

Evelyn Hunter, meanwhile, had her two kids under her arms and was looking at her husband with wild desperation. “We can’t call anybody?”

Hardie had to tell Hunter the truth. Before it was too late. He took Hunter’s arm and leaned in close.

“Lane Madden wanted me to tell you how sorry she was about what happened to Kevin.”

Jonathan’s face—totally ashen. Just at the mention of his boy’s name. “What… what did you say?”

“She was a passenger in the car that hit your son.”

“Who was driving?”

And then Hardie said the name of the man behind the wheel—the Blond Viking God. Hunter ran through a rapid-fire series of emotions within seconds—disbelief, confusion, anger, grief.

“I saw it on the Web, Lane Madden is the one who—”

“—who died this afternoon. I was with her, and she told me everything. This is why she was killed. The same people are trying to kill you, to cover it up. To make sure no one ever finds out.”

Invisible wheels turned behind Jonathan Hunter’s eyes, and then he moaned out loud. “The show,” he said.

“Huh?”

And then his eyes lit up.

“The show. They forced me to run that show about those two. Oh, those bastards. They told me it was because of ratings, but that’s bullshit, I should have known it was bullshit. They forced me to do that show on those animals—”

and with that, he gestured at the shot and bleeding people on the living room carpet

“—to give them an excuse to come after my family.”

“They’re actors. This is all a performance. They planned this to the last detail.”

“Except for you.”

“Yeah. I guess—”

There was a loud noise. A bullet smacked into Hardie’s left arm, and then another hit the side of Hardie’s skull, which propelled his body through the plateglass sliding doors and down the stone steps leading to the backyard.

A.D.2 and Grip burst in through the door, with Grip going right, into the dining room, and A.D.2 charging full speed ahead down the hall. He saw Hardie, the stubborn old bastard, right away, so he aimed and fired. “Hardie’s down,” he muttered, then immediately moved to the left.

“Thank fuck,” Mann said through their earpieces.

There was much screaming and confusion—people running into the backyard, diving behind furniture. A.D.2 looked at Grip from across the hallway. Gesturing with their hands, they split the living room into two. Simple enough. A.D.2 would take the left, and Grip the right. Adults first, obviously. With the kids, they’d try to make it as clean as possible.

A.D.2 nodded.

Grip stepped into the living room, eager for a target.

As he fell, Hardie closed his eyes.

This was it, at long last:

Death.

He felt the burning hot/cool sensation throughout his brain, which he knew was strange, because the brain doesn’t have any nerve endings. Maybe what he was feeling was his soul departing, his life force ripping free from its physical prison.

Maybe it would all be over soon, and he’d be numb.

Maybe Lane would be there when he woke up, and she’d be patting his hand, telling him everything was over, he could rest now.

Right?

At least he told the truth.

The Hunters still had a chance…

No.

Of course he wasn’t dead yet. Sure, there was a bullet swimming around in his brain—he’d felt the impact, which was like a baseball bat to the side of his skull—and blood pouring out of his head, wet and hot, but he was still conscious, still alive. Because this was purgatory, and he still wasn’t finished atoning for his sins.

You were on the right track there, Chuck. You stopped those two fake crazies and set the record straight with the father about the hit-and-run. Really great stuff, Chuck. Much better than you sitting around drunk in your boxer briefs watching Jimmy Stewart movies. You’ve come a long way in a day.

But it’s not over yet.

Oh, no.

The family is still in trouble, so we’re not letting you off the hook that easily. You’re part of the bigger plan here. So open your eyes.

Hardie, against his better judgment, opened his eyes. He could still see. He could still breathe.

Now sit up.

You’ve got a gun in your hand, sit up and raise your arm.

No, God. I can’t sit up. I can’t move either arm. One is numb and the other feels like a bag of granola. The gun’s still in my hand but it might as well be my dick, because I can’t lift my arms to save my life.

This isn’t about your life. So sit the fuck up. I could make Lazarus rise from the dead, you think I can’t make you perform one measly situp?

God, please, that’s enough. Really. Send someone else down there. I’m through.

Sit up.

I can’t—

Sit up.

I—

Sit up.

So Hardie sat up.

A.D.2 was trying to decide if it was worth shooting through the couch, or if he should try to flush them out first. Because the father was obviously cowering behind the couch, no question about it. But the insides of the furniture might stop the bullet or, more likely, cause some weird ricochet effect, and it could get messy.

This was why A.D.2 didn’t see Hardie sit up, gun in hand. What clued him in was the tinkling of shattered glass falling from Hardie’s chest.

A.D.2 turned to see Hardie’s eyes glaring back up at him, and a blood-splattered face that now twisted into a wicked grin, and then there were three miniature explosions ripping through A.D.2’s body and he was floating in the air and the house tumbled around him and then, all too late, he remembered his gun, in his hand, which would have been really useful about two seconds ago.

Hardie heard the next one approaching long before he appeared in his field of vision. To Hardie, it seemed like he had a weird out-of-body thing going on, because it was all happening like slow motion. The second gunman was taking what seemed like forever to get to him, to his line of fire. And when he finally did, seemingly hours later, it wasn’t difficult at all to turn his wrist a few degrees and line up the shot. Two in the center of gravity. The first one exploded a lung, sent the gunman spinning, and the second shot really put the English on it, striking breastbone and knocking him backward through the air. But Hardie didn’t bother to see where he landed, because he was already collapsing backward himself, back onto the stairs.

There, God. Am I done yet? Can I come home now?