The Drowning Game (20 page)

“One moment, please,” the recording said.

Petty sat clutching a pillow and staring at me.

A live person came on the line. “Spell the name for me,” the operator said.

I did and heard clacking computer keys. I held my breath.

“There's a Mitchell Bellandini in Paiute, Colorado, but no phone number,” the operator said. “But his address is 33 Timbervale, Paiute, Colorado. May I help you with anything else, sir?”

I couldn't speak.

“Sir?”

“No other Bellandinis in Colorado?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you spell the town name?”

She spelled it and asked again if there was anything else she could help with.

“No,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

I hung up the phone and wrote the name and address on a pad of paper before I forgot it.

“That's your dad's address,” I said.

“My dad,” she said, staring at the paper. Her eyes welled up and ran over.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for her.

Petty pulled away and covered her face with her hands. “Don't,” she said.

“I'll just get the map out of the car so we can figure out how to get to Paiute,” I said, and went outside to give her some time alone.

I walked around for about ten minutes then knocked before reentering.

Petty was squatting by the fridge next to my folded pajamas, and suddenly I knew she'd found her mother's necklace. My stomach seemed to collapse in on itself.

She turned her head and I saw the look of betrayal on her face. She stood and held up the necklace.

“Where'd you find it?” I said, stalling for time, the map clutched in my sweaty fist. I had to think of a plausible explanation.

“Right here,” Petty said, her voice crackling with anger. “In your pajamas.”

“How did that get in there?” I said. “You must have bent over and it—­”

“It didn't fall off my neck. It's clasped. You took it.”

I could think of nothing to say.

“Why would you take the only thing of my mom's I own?”

“I wasn't going to keep it forever,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

She stared at me, as if trying to divine from my face the answers I couldn't verbalize. Then she put the necklace on.

“Keep your hands off my stuff.” She went in the bathroom and closed the door.

I went and leaned my head against the door. “I'm sorry, Petty,” I said.

She didn't answer.

“Listen,” I said. I had to tell her the truth, or most of it, anyway. “I need to tell you something.”

It was silent in the bathroom. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and plunged in.

“I didn't leave college because I ran out of money,” I said. “I was asked to leave because I got caught stealing stuff from the other guys in my hall at the dorm.”

She opened the door, causing me to lose my balance and stumble toward her.

“What?” she said, her face red.

“That's right,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I mostly blame it on the dead mom and the asshole dad. But the truth is, I was pissed at all these guys who had so much money, so much stuff—­laptops and iPads and iPhones, expensive clothes and great cars—­and I had shit. I figured they wouldn't miss little things, and if they did, they could run out and buy five more.”

“So they kicked you out of college.”

I nodded. “Yeah. And I also used to be in this band called Disregard the 9 and I stole stuff from my bandmates too.” I explained about the upcoming band gig in Kansas City, which was why I'd been reluctant to bring her to Denver.

“Didn't you like your bandmates?” she asked.

“Well, yeah, but—­well, I sometimes steal stuff when I'm stressed out. Like now.” But I couldn't admit to her that this was not exactly what was going on here.

“That's messed up,” Petty said.

“I know. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm really sorry.”

“You said you stole from the guys in your dorm because they had better stuff than you.”

“I know, but—­”

“I'm not one of those rich guys,” Petty said. “I don't have
anything
but this necklace.”

“I told you—­I'm totally stressed out and—­”

“When I'm stressed out, I run,” Petty said. “You might want to try it. Of course, you'd have to quit smoking.”

Maybe it was the crack about smoking. Maybe it was getting caught doing something stupid and careless and preventable. Whatever the cause, I snapped. “When have you
ever
been stressed out? What would you have to be stressed out about? Because you can't find an
Offender
episode on TV? Because somebody accidentally made eye contact with you at the dump? You don't know anything about stress! You've never lived in the real world, never had to deal with . . .”

I ran out of gas as Petty's expression became icy steel and she walked toward me. I backed up until I hit the wall.

She poked me in the chest. “I never knew my mother. I was kidnapped by her husband. I've been locked in my bedroom every night for my whole life. I almost died of the flu because my dad wouldn't take me to a doctor. I've been assaulted at the dump and had to fight for my life. I was attacked by Randy King. I'm on the run from the law. And now I'm having to drag a whiny
boy
along with me so I can find my real father. So don't tell me I don't know about stress, you sheltered, spoiled brat!”

She yelled the last part and slugged me hard in the arm. It hurt.

A voice shouted from inside the motel. “Shut the fuck up!”

“
You
shut up!” Petty shouted back.

I stood rubbing my arm, wishing I could redo the last thirty minutes, realizing that she was right. I was a sheltered, spoiled brat.

“Petty, I'm sorry. I won't take anything of yours ever again.”

“If you do? I'm going to do more than slug you.” She touched the knife beneath her shirt.

My nose twitched but didn't say anything. The air in the room seemed chillier now. Her wall of suspicion had returned, and I'd built it for her. I'd blown it.

“Petty . . .” I said.

She ignored me, walked to the couch and lay down with her back to me.

I
'D THOUGHT
D
EKKER
was my friend, but now I didn't know anymore. Although my dad—­or the man I'd thought was my dad—­had been silent and sullen the last years of his life, he'd been solid, dependable, always there.

I wanted to talk to Deirdre Walsh. I wanted her to be real and to be my true friend. But the picture of Deirdre in my mind morphed into Roxanne. Roxanne and her cherry-­pink hair, her big, black-­rimmed eyes. Roxanne, who didn't want anything from me. She was my friend. She'd said so, and I believed her. I held on to that picture of Roxanne in my head with all my strength, and I felt a little better.

I sat up on the couch. Dekker started, sitting there on the bed, like I was going to jump up and cut him.

“So we're going to Paiute first thing tomorrow, right?” I said.

“Yes,” Dekker said. “Whenever you want.”

“Do you mind if I turn on the TV?” I said.

“No,” Dekker said. “Do you want me to go get you a snack or something? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Just say the word.”

He was trying to make it up to me. It didn't exactly excuse what he'd done, but it seemed to me he really was sorry. Hearing about the rock show in Kansas City changed something inside me. That was the reason he hadn't wanted to bring me to Denver, not because he didn't like me. This revelation loosened the tension in my jaw and chest, giving way to relief, which made me want to forgive him. Eventually. For now I figured he could squirm a little so he'd know his behavior was unacceptable.

“Maybe we could go get some ice cream in a little bit,” I said.

“Sure,” he said in an eager voice. “I think I saw a Dairy Queen not too far from here.”

I sat on the chair and faced the television. He flicked on the remote and handed it to me. I channel surfed, not really seeing the TV, thinking about my baby pictures and my real name. Anne Marie Rhones. Maybe when I found my real dad, I'd change my name back. Anne Marie Bellandini. It sounded exotic, like the name of someone who traveled a lot and wore big hats. I pictured my new name, my new family, my new home, my new life—­maybe in Paiute, Colorado.

I woke with a start. I must have nodded off. The motion and sound on the TV remained the same, Dekker's position in the chair hadn't changed. But my OODA Loop activated. Something was different. I listened. Glanced quickly around.

Someone was outside the door.

I jumped off the bed, startling Dekker. “What the—­”

I held my finger to my lips and grabbed onto my knife, listening for sounds beyond the room, sounds hidden by TV noise.

Fright stiffened Dekker's shoulders as he stared at me. An urgent knock at the door jangled his limbs.

“Gas leak,” shouted a familiar voice. “We need everybody out in the parking lot immediately.”

I shook my head at Dekker but he leapt to the door as if he couldn't see me.

“The water and now the gas,” Dekker said. “A real palace I picked out for us, huh?”

In my mind I shouted
NO!
but he reached for the doorknob as I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. I heard the knob turn just as the door was kicked inward. The sounds of Dekker straining to close the door were drowned out by the voice on the other side.

“Open this door, you son of a bitch!” Someone repeatedly threw himself against the door. It slammed against the wall and there was scuffling.

I heard Dekker gargle, as if someone held his throat.

“Where is she, you little bastard?”

It was the voice of Randy King.

 

Chapter 23

I
STARED INTO
the furious face of Randy King, who slammed the door shut before throwing me onto the bed, knocking the wind out of me.

How did Randy find us? It wasn't possible.

“Where is she?” Both of Randy's fists were balled up and ready to rumble.

“Who?” I said. I hated how high my voice sounded. I tried and failed to pull it into a lower register. “It's just me here.”

“Bullshit! The old man in the office said there was a tall boy and a skinny girl in here.” Randy strode to the bathroom and threw the door open.

A plausible explanation popped into my head.

“All right, I had Ashley Heussner in here,” I said. I sat up slowly so as not to attract another body throw. “But she took off with some meth dealer, I guess.” I tried to put on a companionably masculine
Women, huh?
face, but it probably looked more like constipation.

“Bullshit. Where's Petty?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Don't you lie to me, boy.”

“I put her on a bus to Detroit.”

Randy sneered at me then walked over to the dresser and began opening and closing drawers. I knew it was just a matter of time before he bent over and looked under the bed. He pulled a pair of panties out of Petty's drawer. “These yours?”

“I told you. Ashley was here. She left all her stuff.”

I hoped Petty couldn't get at her gun. I wasn't sure what she'd do, cornered like this so close to her goal.

Randy paced, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head. Finally he sat on the couch, and I willed him not to look down.

“Tell me where she is, and everything will be all right,” Randy said, obviously switching gears to Good Cop. “Dooley can get the charges against you dismissed. He seriously can do it. Tell me where Petty is. I'm doing you a favor, because you don't know what you're dealing with here.”

He was right about that. I couldn't speak, because I was afraid I was going to puke.

Randy's eyes narrowed. “Listen,” he said. “It's like I told you the other day. Petty is very disturbed.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don't give a shit if you do. I'm telling you as a courtesy.”

“Get out of my room,” I said.

Randy walked to the edge of the bed and bent down, his face within an inch of mine. He drew a very large pistol out of his jacket pocket. “Or you'll what? Call the cops? Go ahead.” He smiled.

I tried not to blink. I held Randy's stare until I couldn't anymore.

“That's what I thought,” Randy said. He sat back on the couch and put his gun back in his pocket.

I was sure he'd only pulled it out to make me aware of its presence.

“We can help each other out here,” Randy said. “And we can help Petty in the process. See, Dooley is working on drawing up commitment papers right now. She needs to be in a mental hospital, and I'm going to see that she gets there.”

“Is that a joke?” I said. “You can't do that.”

“Watch me. I got the law on my side. You got shit.”

My voice shook. “I don't know why Petty's dad picked a douche like you to—­”

“Douche? I'm a respected man in Niobe County. I'm an Elk and a Lion. I'm a great guy. Everybody knows it. And you're nothing, a thief and a liar. A grocery boy. You're a fugitive, and so is she.”

I said nothing.

“Why do you think her dad kept her locked up all those years, huh? Did you ever stop to think about it?”

I couldn't help myself. “Because her dad was crazy.”

“Because he was crazy?” Randy said, “Or is she?”

This was a twist. She was odd, no question. But crazy?

“She almost got put in the mental ward after she tried to kill Justin Pencey at the dump.”

“She didn't try to kill him,” I said. “She was defending herself. Justin and those kids ambushed her.”

“Right,” Randy said. “That's the official story, but nobody attacked her. Those kids went out there to dump something, and for no reason at all
she
attacked
them
. Put Justin in the hospital, if you'll recall. Dooley and Charlie concocted that story, and Charlie had to pay those kids and their parents off to go along with it.”

That couldn't be true . . . could it? I knew what kind of an asshole Justin Pencey was. He'd brag about having sex with girls after they passed out from drinking too much. He tormented smaller boys in the school locker room. I'd always figured he'd deserved the ass-­kicking that he'd received from Petty, that he'd provoked her or even snuck up on her in her little dump guard shack. But she was a volatile person with some weird ideas. Who knew what was really true?

“You're so full of shit,” I said, but my confidence was wavering. Maybe Randy knew Petty was in the room, and he was saying all these things to provoke her. I hoped she wouldn't rise to the bait—­if that's what it was.

“Listen. I'm going to make this easy for you. You bring Petty to me, I'll give you a share of the insurance policy. I'll give you one hundred thousand dollars.”

I inhaled sharply. For a split second I let myself imagine what it might be like to have that kind of money. To go back to college. To blend in with the rich kids. I shook my head, as if to dislodge the idea from it. I couldn't possibly even entertain the idea of betraying Petty like that. Except I already had.

And maybe it was truly the best thing for her . . .

“If she's so dangerous, how come her dad let her work at the dump? With a shotgun in her booth?”

“It wasn't loaded, numb-­nuts. Charlie let her think it was. As long as she wasn't around ­people that much, she was okay. He kept her locked up so she wouldn't hurt anyone else. And look what it got him.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I saw the coroner's report. Her dad didn't die of a heart attack.
Someone
held a pillow over his face. He was smothered to death.”

“B
ULLSHIT,”
D
EKKER SAID,
sounding even more uncertain.

“Dooley's planning for her to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. I'm guessing you know about the sealed envelope that Petty stole from Dooley's office. There's a report in there from a psychiatrist that says she's a paranoid schizophrenic.”

That's what I had feared was in that envelope. After that day at the dump, a lady had come to the house and we'd sat out front while she asked me all kinds of questions. Things like did I hear voices, and did I think that everyone was out to get me. She'd written my answers on a clipboard and then went away. I'd never heard any more about it.

But Randy's words: Delusional. Paranoid. Suspicious. Odd.

That was me.

“He's appointing me as her guardian,” Randy continued. “She'll spend some time in the nuthouse, but we'll get her the medication she needs, and then she'll come home with me.”

I'd dreamed of killing Dad thousands of times. Of waiting until he fell asleep and taking a pillow and slowly lowering it over his face. Of getting comfortable with holding it down, with waiting until he started to fight. Of not being surprised when he didn't.

Of imagining my life outside of his house.

Did I really only imagine it? Or had I killed the man I'd thought was my father? The man who trained me to kill?

How had I let myself believe in the last few days that I deserved to be around normal ­people?

Maybe Michael Rhones and Randy King knew what was best for me. Maybe I didn't.

Because I didn't know whether I had done the things he said I'd done, whether I was what he said I was. I felt like I was falling, tumbling through space, with nothing and no one to catch me. I'd seen shows about ­people who couldn't tell the difference between what happened on television and what happened in the real world. And now this thought spiraled in on itself. Had I watched so many crime shows that I could no longer distinguish between what I'd seen on TV and what I'd done?

Not knowing made me desperate to get up to Paiute, to meet my biological father and discover the truth about myself and my past. To find out if my mother was up there with him. If I could just look them in the eye, somehow I would know the truth about everything.

“I'm getting tired of all this talking,” Randy said. “I've been driving all day. Now you're going to tell me where she is.”

There was silence, and I pictured Dekker mouthing the words,
She's under there,
and pointing at the bed. But instead he said, “I'm not going to tell you.”

Above me the box springs sagged as Randy added his weight to Dekker's. I heard struggling, grunting, fists making contact with flesh.

I had to get out of there, get up to Paiute now. I unholstered Baby Glock as I rolled out from under the bed, and saw Randy's hands fastened around my friend's neck, Dekker's eyes bulging and limbs flailing ineffectually like a beetle on its back. His helplessness enraged me. I pulled back the slide on my gun and pushed the barrel against Randy's temple. Somehow his Stetson remained on his sweaty head.

“Get off him,” I said. “I'm crazy. I will shoot you.” I hated the fact I was using the exact same words I'd said to Dekker a few days ago. But the slack surprise on Randy's face as he loosened his grip on Dekker's neck gave me a thrill. Dekker pushed him off and straightened, panting and gagging.

“I know you've got your hand cannon,” I said. “Put it on the nightstand.”

Randy glared at me and pulled the .357 Magnum out of his pocket. He laid it on the nightstand. I picked it up and ejected the clip, which I pocketed.

Dekker's nose and mouth were bleeding and he had a knot on his forehead. The skin on his neck was bright pink.

“Get up,” I said to him.

Dekker rolled off the bed, wiping blood from his face, and Randy tried to stand.

“Not you, Randy. You stay where you are.”

He did.

“You all right, Dekker?”

Dekker nodded, his hands bloody, his face smeary and swollen.

“Petty,” Randy said.

“Take this,” I said to Dekker, holding out the Magnum butt first. “Then get our things together. We're leaving.”

He took the gun, shoved it awkwardly into the waistband of his jeans, and started packing up.

“Petty, I'm talking to you,” Randy said.

I so wished I could take another shower after lying in the underbed filth, but it would have to wait. Dekker threw clothes and toiletries into the plastic Walmart shopping bags.

“Don't forget the stuff in the bathroom,” I said.

“Petty!” Randy shouted. “I promised your dad I'd take care of you. I'm not going to stop coming after you. I won't stop until I bring you home.”

I got in his face. “Randy, you didn't promise my dad anything. Because Charlie Moshen wasn't my real dad. In fact, his name wasn't Charlie Moshen. It was Michael Rhones. And you can go to hell along with him.”

“Well, whatever his name was, you knew him and what he was willing to do to keep you safe.”

What did that mean?

“He made it so he could find you if you were ever kidnapped. Trust me. I will find you
wherever
you go.” The smile on his face was insane—­triumphant and gleeful.

“What are you talking about?”

“That bump on your left shoulder. He told you that was scar tissue from a fall, right?”

My scalp began tingling, the blood in my veins rushing and expanding. How did Randy know about the itchy little bump on my left shoulder? I felt it with my right hand. It now seemed to throb under my touch.

Randy held up his iPhone. On the screen was a pulsing yellow dot on a map. “Your dad implanted a microchip under your skin. Got it from the vet. Works like a charm. So you can run, Petty, but I'll find you.”

I
COULD NOT
believe what I was hearing. Surely Randy was bluffing. The microchips for pets that I'd heard about were just for identification, they didn't have GPS capabilities—­that was science fiction stuff.

Petty stripped off her hoodie and stared at her own shoulder, her mouth open, horrified, as if it were covered in boils or slugs.

“You're full of shit,” I said to Randy, and my voice was shaky and hoarse. “The technology doesn't exist.”

“Fine,” he said. “How did I find you, then?”

A flash of light and movement in my peripheral vision drew my attention. Petty held a small knife on a clip in her hand, the same one she'd threatened Ray the truck driver with.

“You cut me and you're going to the nuthouse or jail,” Randy said. “Your choice.”

But Petty clearly had other ideas. She slashed the blade across her shoulder. The knife was sharp enough that it easily sank into the flesh.

“No!” I yelled, reaching for her, but it was too late.

Sweat ran down her face as she gouged into the skin of her shoulder with her fingers, which were now coated with her own blood.

The hole in her shoulder widened, skin and muscle tearing as she dug. I watched her teeth sink into her bottom lip until blood appeared as she grunted and gasped through her nose. I stopped breathing, watching this, unable to help, afraid I might throw up.

With a final push, Petty pinched her fingers into her shoulder and withdrew a capsule, not much larger than a grain of rice, from the ragged fissure she'd made. With her shaking, gore-­slicked hand, she held it out to me. But I couldn't move, I was so horrified by what she'd just done to herself.

“Flush this,” she said in a quivering, ghostly voice.

When I didn't take it from her, she seized my hand with hers and pressed the bloody microchip into my palm. I stifled my gag reflex and did as I was told, and even had the presence of mind to bring out a towel with me. Petty clutched it to her shoulder while I tied it clumsily in place. She pulled her hoodie on over it.