The Drowning Game (22 page)

Mitch reappeared wearing a blue wool jacket and a matching cap. He had a utility belt on with a flashlight, a huge brass key ring, and a small-­caliber pistol.

“I'll be back around six-­thirty
A.M.
,” he said, glancing again at his watch. “You kids get some sleep.” He kept his eyes on Petty, but his hands looked like they didn't know what to do with themselves. Finally he shoved them in his pockets and turned to the door. “Guess I'll be going. Good night.”

Mitch closed the door behind him, and Petty sat staring, an unfocused look in her eyes. I hoped her shell shock would wear off by tomorrow so she could find out what she needed to know and we could leave.

“You okay?” I said to her.

She shrugged. “Would you help me find a real bandage for my shoulder?”

We walked down the hall. Bathroom on the right, guest room on the left, master past the bathroom. I went in the bathroom, turned on the light then opened the linen closet, where I found a first-­aid kit with some large Band-­Aids, cotton, and disinfectant spray.

Petty pulled off her hoodie and the towel came off with it, starting the wound bleeding all over again.

“Great,” she said. “I'll just bleed all over my dad's bathroom.”

I squirted disinfectant on the cotton, swabbed the ragged cut and placed the big Band-­Aid over it.

“Would you mind sleeping in Mitch's room?” she said. “It feels a little weird to me.”

I was relieved she felt the same way I did.

“Absolutely,” I said.

While she used the bathroom to get ready for bed, I stowed the bloody towel in my Walmart bag, switched my stuff to Mitch's room and hers to the guest room. Then I snooped around a little. The guest room was dusty but looked like it had never been used—­the bedspread pristine, still with the creases from the package it had come in.

I checked out the rest of the house, and when I returned to the living room, a thought hit me. There were no pictures on the walls. No landscapes or paintings, or portraits or plaques. I walked around once more to be sure, but all the walls were perfectly bare.

This struck me as odd, but I realized something else bothered me more. Mitch had never answered Petty when she'd asked where her mother was.

 

Chapter 25

Friday

I
DIDN'T KNOW
where I was. I tried to position things in my mind so that I was in my room in Kansas, but it was all wrong. Was I in Motel 9? And then I remembered. I was in my father's house in the Colorado mountains, six hundred miles from my prison.

In the house my mother had lived in.

As I lay staring at the ceiling, I remembered that Mitch hadn't answered my questions about Mom. It must mean she was dead or had left him. It had been foolish to get my hopes up. Now I had to bundle all my hopes and pin them on Mitch. Maybe he had some other children—­some siblings for me, maybe some other grandparents. Maybe I'd still get to have some sort of family. I had to focus on that.

But for a little while I let myself imagine my mom cooking breakfast in the cabin's little kitchen. I imagined her waking me up for school. I imagined us watching
Offender NYC
together and eating popcorn. This lovely daydream was interrupted by the fact that, try as I might, I couldn't picture her with Mitch. I immediately felt guilty at this thought, because I'd only recently been able to picture her at all. Mom must have loved him, and I was the result.

I sat up and looked out the window. Sunrise was a ways off, but I could make out mountains and trees. I smelled wood and pine in the sweet, clean air. It was chilly in the room, but I liked it. Not like Kansas, where your sheets and towels never feel quite dry. Maybe I wouldn't go back to Kansas at all. Maybe I'd stay here with Mitch for a while. I could cook and clean for him like I did for Michael Rhones. I could make a home for us.

But that was a crazy thought. I'd only just met him.

Maybe he could get me a job at the mine, or maybe there was a shop down in Paiute where I could work, waiting on tourists. Maybe I'd make friends with some of the local girls. Maybe I'd go to movies and shop in the supermarket.

Did I really think Mitch would just invite me to move in with him? Did he believe I was his blood? Maybe we should get a DNA test to confirm our relationship so he wouldn't think I wanted anything from him. I needed to find out about my mom, but did I want more than that? What exactly did I want from Mitch?

I knew what I needed—­more time. But Dekker needed to go back, and the pressure to find out everything I could as quickly as possible was giving me vapor lock.

Plus how would Mitch react to all the drama surrounding me? The theft and murder warrants? The commitment papers Mr. Dooley had so thoughtfully drawn up? If Mitch knew everything . . . anybody in his right mind wouldn't want me to stay. He'd be afraid I'd kill him too.

I walked to the bathroom, closed the door and checked the shower and the closet before using the toilet. A clock sat on the vanity, saying five-­fifty. Mitch would be getting off work in ten minutes, and then he'd be home. Realizing this, I had an overwhelming urge to wake Dekker up and talk to him.

I went into the hall and turned the master bedroom doorknob slowly before pushing the door open. Dekker was sprawled on the bed, and I looked at him for a while—­his unruly dyed black hair, his big Adam's apple, his long fingers. I remembered the dream I'd had at the motel, about Dekker and me kissing. Maybe it was just hormones, but I couldn't help feeling attracted to him at this moment. It was gratitude too. He'd put up with a lot of crap from me this past week. He'd let me into his world but never made me feel like a freak. Well, hardly ever.

His eyes opened, focused exactly on me. I started.

“How long you been standing there?”

“Awhile,” I said.

He sat up and scratched his head. “Petty, you know you're not supposed to talk to me right when I wake up.” Dekker swiveled toward me and put his socked feet on the floor. “Holy shit, it's cold,” he said. “You suppose it ever gets warm up here?”

I shrugged.

He sat blinking. “What time is it?”

“It's almost six.”

“Mitch will be coming home soon.”

“Yes.” I wanted to talk to Dekker about all the things I was feeling, but I didn't have the words.

“It's kind of hard to believe we actually did what we said we were going to do,” he said. “Other than you kidnapping me at gunpoint, and me finding out you actually killed Michael Rhones and everything, this has been a pretty amazing road trip.”

I didn't say anything, stung by Dekker's words, remembering how he'd characterized me the day before—­the boogeyman. I couldn't help grimacing.

“That was a joke, Petty,” Dekker said. “You need to start getting used to that sort of thing. I don't really believe you killed your dad. Or, the guy you thought was your dad. The guy who raised you.”

Even though I now knew Michael Rhones—­Charlie Moshen—­was not my father, I felt a pang in my stomach. He was the only dad I'd ever known. He was the one who'd trained me to disarm the old man with a shotgun in Salina. He was the one who'd taught me how to knock someone out with a punch to the temple. He was the one, as Dekker said, who'd raised me. That counted for something, no matter how crazy he was, no matter how strange.

“Dekker,” I said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done for me. How grateful I am that you're my friend.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. This was the first time I'd said anything so personal, and it felt as strange to me as it looked like it felt to him. But being around his family, even for such a short time, had shown me how friends act toward one another.

“Even though I had to kidnap you to make you my friend,” I added.

He laughed. “There you go,” he said. He reached for his jeans and pulled them on. “You might get the hang of this joke thing yet.”

Of course, I hadn't been joking. Not at all.

“I'm starving,” he said. “Let's go see what's in the fridge.”

After we ate cereal, we washed our dishes by hand since there was no dishwasher. While Dekker showered, I looked around to see if there were any magazines or books, but I found none. I wished for the one I'd left behind with my suitcase and guns.

A weathered red Ford Taurus drove up and parked in front of the house, and the dog barked. I didn't see how you could keep a dog outside with how cold it got up here, but he obviously wasn't allowed in the cabin. Through the window, I saw Mitch get out of the car and walk to the house with the dog close behind. My palms got sweaty again, waiting for Mitch to unlock the door, and I couldn't figure out why. Was I afraid he was going to reject me? Ask me to leave? That this trip had all been for nothing? Or was it just because I didn't know him at all?

He came in, closed the door behind him. “Good morning,” he said.

I gripped the arms of the rocking chair, my heart pounding. I wished Dekker would come out of the bathroom already.

“Where is your friend?”

“He's taking a shower,” I said.

“Good,” he said, sitting on the couch. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”

My hands got clammier and I rocked a little faster.

“I certainly appreciate his bringing you to me.” Mitch didn't look directly at me. He jabbed up his glasses. “I'd like to repay him. He told me about the show coming up.”

For a second I didn't know what he was talking about but then I remembered Dekker's drumming job in Kansas City.

“I'd like to see that he makes it back in time to rehearse, but I'd also like us to have more time together.” Mitch reached out and took hold of my chair arm, halting the rocking motion. I had to force myself not to brace my feet and push against his restraining grip.

“Okay,” I said, moving my hand that was nearest to his to my lap.

He fixed me with an intent gaze. “But I think he's hesitant to leave you here. He's willing to miss the show just to make sure you're safe—­and I appreciate that about him—­but I think if you tell him he can go ahead and leave, he'll understand that you're okay staying here by yourself.” With every emphasized word he jerked the chair a tiny bit closer. “What do you think?”

I didn't think I was ready for that. But when would I be?

“How will I get back there?” I said. Even though earlier I'd been thinking about living here with Mitch, the reality of it made me nervous. I reached up to scratch the bump on my shoulder and dug into the injury by accident, forgetting the bump had been replaced by a laceration. It hurt.

“I'll just put you on a plane when you're ready,” he said with a smile, his tiny eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I don't want to lose you again.”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Well, you need to put others before yourself sometimes, don't you agree?”

I nodded slowly, trying to discern why his words made me anxious. What he said was the truth, but I couldn't help but feel accused somehow.

“When he comes out of the bathroom,” Mitch said, “why don't you tell him I'm taking you all on a tour of the mine. And then you can tell him you want to spend some alone time with dear old dad, and he should go on back without you.”

I wished I could talk to Dekker about this alone, but I didn't know when we'd get the chance. I didn't say anything. Mitch gave my hand a squeeze, patted it and rose from the couch. I fought the desire to wipe my hand off. His was spongy and moist, nothing like Michael Rhones's callused ones.

“I'm going to make some coffee.” He smiled at me and went in the kitchen.

I didn't really care about seeing a mine, but if it was important to him, it was important to me. I knew from TV that ­people liked to show other ­people stuff as a way of explaining themselves, what they liked, what made them who they were. I wanted to know who he was because he was my father. I just needed to get used to him.

M
ITCH HAD A
cup of coffee waiting for me when I came out of the bathroom. I sat next to him on the couch.

“So tell me,” he said. “How did Michael Rhones die?”

“He had a heart attack,” Petty said.

“Heart attack,” Mitch said, shaking his head. “So young. So sad. But it's brought you to me, so it's not all bad, is it?”

It seemed to me then that maybe Petty had inherited some of her social awkwardness from Mitch, because who would say such a thing? I decided to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Why don't you tell Mitch about Randy King and all that?” I said to Petty.

She told him about the forced betrothal, but she didn't mention how much money there was. She also didn't mention the arrest warrants or any other unpleasantness. As she talked, Mitch's eyes went flat and his expression hardened.

“That bastard,” Mitch said. “That coldhearted, manipulative bastard.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That's Randy.”

“I meant Michael,” Mitch said.

To my confusion, I was strangely offended by this little outburst. “Michael thought he was taking care of Petty,” I said. “I think your . . . relationship with Marianne drove him completely over the edge.”

The look Mitch shot in my direction chilled me. But he brightened again when his eyes focused on Petty. “We'll make sure this Randy King doesn't bother you.” Mitch stood and drained his coffee cup. “Are you ready to see the mine?”

We followed Mitch out to his Taurus, where he clipped dark protective lenses over his glasses. Petty surprised me by getting in the front seat. She was obviously determined to try harder today. But there was no legroom in back, and I had to wedge my knees in behind the passenger seat.

Mitch drove the dirt road west. “Every once in a while I get to give tours of the mine, so I'm going to give you my whole spiel. Is that all right?”

“Sure,” I said. Honestly, I was more interested in how he ended up in this solitary job, living alone, collecting Precious Moments. But I didn't want to be rude. I figured we'd get to all that eventually.

He cleared his throat. “The Black Star mine opened in 1869. Over a million tons of pyrite were taken out of the mountain before it closed in 1963.”

“What's pyrite used for?” Petty said.

Mitch's head jerked toward her, apparently pleased that she'd formed an entire sentence. “Lots of things.”

“Gunpowder, for one,” I said. “Paper production. Crystal radios before vacuum tubes. Now it's used in lithium batteries and solar panels and jewelry.”

Mitch's tired face clouded in the mirror, and I berated myself for stealing his tour-­guide thunder.

“Why'd they close the mine down, then?” Petty asked Mitch.

He didn't answer for a minute, and I wondered if he was waiting for me to answer this question. I remained silent.

“Because of nineteenth-­century mining practices,” Mitch said, “the whole mountainside is contaminated. Now it's a ghost mine.”

He drove us up switchbacks lined with towering pine and aspen trees. I saw no other houses or cabins, and few cars, just massive boulders breaking up the forest. The sky was a deep blue and the sun bright. At the top of the pass there was an expanse of level unwooded land, where Mitch pulled off and stopped the car. “You ready?'

“Sure,” Petty said. We got out. There were some old, rusty buildings and piles of crushed rock, as if they'd just stopped mining that morning.

“Over there is where the original opening was,” Mitch said, pointing. “In those days miners used a technique called longwall mining. It was all picks and shovels, digging into the earth and making rooms. They put timbers in there to prevent cave-­ins. Miners at the turn of the century worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. They were paid three-­fifty a day, and children who sorted the ore were paid fifty cents a day.”

I tried to imagine what it must have been like to be a kid back then, not going to school, working in a dark hole day after day for just fifty cents. Petty appeared to be contemplating this too.