The Drowning Game (25 page)

“What does that mean?” Petty said.

“Maybe I ought to go down and see.”

I ran out of the house and down the hill. When I reached the Ram, the door was unlocked and I got in the driver's seat. A fancy spit container was in one of the cup holders next to a bottle of Mountain Dew. He'll never see the inside of the truck again, I thought, and then chided myself. Randy needed to live if for no other reason than to go to jail.

Sure enough, on the passenger seat sat a rust-­colored backpack. I nabbed it and carried it up to the cabin.

By the time I returned, Randy's outline in the yard was filled with snow, as if he'd never been there at all.

D
EKKER RETURNED WITH
a rust-­colored backpack, breathless and flushed. He unzipped the pack and pulled out several sheets of copy paper.

I watched his eyes track back and forth as he read.

Then his face turned as white as the thick snow falling outside the window. He looked up and the stack spilled from his hands, a cascade of paper littering the floor. His mouth moved but nothing came out.

“What is it, Dekker?”

A thin high sound came from his throat. Syllables poured out but I couldn't understand them because his lips weren't moving. Sound but no meaning. His pupils were pinpricks.

“What?” I said.

Finally, the noises resolved into words. “Michael Rhones didn't write those letters.”

The blood seemed to evaporate from my veins.

“Who did, then?”

But I already knew.

 

Chapter 28

I
PITCHED FORWARD
onto my knees and scrabbled like a crab toward the papers on the floor. I read the first one I saw, dated that day.

09:27
A.M.

FAX transmission

To: Motel guest Dekker Sachs, Room 5, Motel 9

From: Curt Dekker

DEKKER! As soon as you get this, call me IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT GO TO PAIUTE. Mitchell Bellandini is NOT Petty's dad. See attached. COME HOME NOW!

“Randy must have stopped by the office at Motel 9 to see if the front desk guy knew where we were going,” Dekker said, taking the paper from my hand.

“This is a trick,” I said. “Randy obviously wrote this to—­”

“Petty, listen to your instincts. You're not wrong about Mitch. You think there's something weird about him too, I know you do. A dad doesn't kiss a daughter the way Mitch kissed you. He doesn't call her by her mom's name.”

“But maybe—­”

“Here,” Dekker said, shoving another piece of paper at me. It was a photocopy of a
Denver Post
article from eighteen years ago. B
ELLANDINI
N
OT
G
UILTY
,
the headline read.

Three days of deliberations in the murder trial of Mitchell Bellandini, accused of killing coworker Marianne Rhones, concluded today when the jury returned a verdict of not guilty.

Michael Rhones, Mrs. Rhones's husband, reported her missing on January 12 of last year. Mr. Rhones told police he suspected Mitchell Bellandini of Arvada of kidnapping his wife. He produced letters implicating Bellandini. According to Mr. Rhones, before they were a ­couple, his wife had briefly dated Bellandini, who subsequently stalked her for three and a half years until she disappeared.

The Rhoneses and Bellandini were coworkers at the accounting firm of Bendel and Bendel. Mr. Rhones alleged that Bellandini broke into their home more than once, although he was never charged. Marianne filed for a protection order against Bellandini.

“What didn't come out at trial, but should have, is [Bellandini's] history of stalking and an Ohio rape conviction in the 1980s,” Mr. Rhones said. “He served time at the Ohio State Penitentiary before moving to Colorado.”

No body has been recovered, and this key piece of evidence is the main factor in Bellandini's acquittal.

Another article, dated three months after the last one, had a headline that read: M
ICHAEL
R
HONES,
T
ODDLER
D
AUGHTER
R
EPORTED
M
ISSING;
B
ELLANDINI
Q
UESTIONED
.

Michael Rhones and his three-­year-­old daughter, Anne Marie Rhones, were reported missing Saturday by Scott Rhones, Michael's brother. . .

Pictures that I recognized from my grandmother's photo album of Michael Rhones and me as a toddler accompanied the article.

“When we first got here,” Dekker said, “Mitch didn't offer any information. We fed him information about you. We told him who you were, who we
assumed
he was.”

I thought back to the signature on the letters I'd taken from Mr. Dooley's office. “I'm so stupid,” I said. “M is for Mitch.” I wanted to scream. This mistake, fueled by my desperation for a new family, could end up costing us everything.

Dekker rolled his eyes. “I'm just as stupid,” he said. “I didn't put it together either. Which means that Michael Rhones didn't kill your mom. Mitch did.”

There was something just beyond my consciousness demanding to be heard that I couldn't quite latch onto.

I picked up the article that said B
ELLANDINI
N
OT
G
UILTY
.

The subhead beneath it read:
Jury Cites Lack of Body, Evidence.

“The body was never recovered,” I said. “Mom's body was never . . .”

Dekker's eyes got big. “That's right. Mitch wanted to tell you what your mom's body looked like when the authorities found it, that's what he said.”

“But there was no body,” I said.

We stared at each other. Goose bumps raged up my arms and scalp. My heart beat like a hummingbird's wings.

“He said I could be Marianne,” I said, nausea rising in my throat.

“What?”

“When he first saw me. I thought he meant I looked like her. But now I think—­”

Dekker's eyes grew wider. “He was saying you could take her place. You could be his new . . .”

Horror at the real picture threatened to paralyze me. The very thing Dad had tried to prevent was on the verge of coming true.

“Mitch isn't my dad,” I said. “Is he.” It wasn't a question. I knew this to be the truth.

“We have to get out of here,” Dekker said. “Now.” He stood.

I gathered up the papers and started to put them in the backpack.

“Leave them,” Dekker said. “Leave the pack. Let's go.”

He was right. It didn't matter if Mitch knew we were on to him. I dropped everything and stood. A dog howled some distance away, and it was then that I realized Mitch's dog had disappeared. The dog hadn't come running when Randy showed up. The dog was gone. Dead probably.

My biological father, my real father, was Michael Rhones, who'd trained me to stay out of danger. I'd let my desire for a different family and a different life override all those years of training, the sacrifices my dad had made. I had destroyed all that in just a few short days. I'd betrayed him and myself, run toward the one place and person Dad had never wanted me to go. But I didn't have time to mourn right now.

I'd been ignoring my OODA Loop, but it kicked in now, picking up a car door opening slowly, quietly, down on the access road.

I touched Dekker's shoulder.

“What?” he said.

I held one finger to my lips and took his arm. I pulled him toward the front door. “He's coming,” I whispered. “He's going to try the front door. We can't go out the back because it's locked from the outside. We need to wedge something under this door to force him to go around to the back.” I hit the floor and crawled to the fireplace, removing the poker. I made it to the front door just as I heard a creak on the porch.

Dekker stood glancing around frantically, probably wondering how he could help. I motioned him over beside me.

The click of metal contacting metal, the key seeking entrance to the doorknob lock.

I took a few practice jabs before spearing the poker into the soft wood of the bottom doorjamb. It stuck a split second before Mitch got the door unlocked. He pushed on the door then made a surprised and exasperated noise when it didn't open.

I braced my back against it. Dekker did the same. Mitch threw all his considerable body weight against the door. Between me, Dekker, and the poker, it remained closed, but Mitch threw himself at it twice more.

Now he would go around to the back. At least I hoped he would.

Dekker's eyes were wide and frightened.

We had to time this right or we were going to run into the business end of Mitch's rifle. I held up my hand and pantomimed to Dekker pulling out the poker while he opened the door. He nodded.

I held up a fist and listened. Mitch was still there, listening too. Finally he walked to the edge of the porch and jumped down. Dekker lunged for the door but I stopped him. I counted silently to ten as Dekker twitched and fidgeted beside me. Then I made the “advance” motion, but Dekker frowned and threw his hands up, performed fake sign language to indicate he didn't understand, then shrugged furiously at me.

I didn't have time or the ability to explain what I wanted, so I drew the poker out of the jamb like King Arthur pulling Excalibur out of the rock. Dekker slowly opened the door and went through it. I followed and closed it.

We ran down the hill to the access road where Mitch had parked the Buick. Dekker carefully opened the driver's side door and slid into the seat. I went around the car and got in the passenger side. As my door clicked closed, relief flooded my body, making me feel rubbery and weak.

“Let's go,” I said, almost giddy. I fixed my eyes out the window, keeping a lookout for Mitch and his rifle. It took me a moment to realize we weren't moving, that the motor wasn't even running. I turned toward Dekker, who sat staring straight ahead.

“What are we waiting for?” I said.

“I gave the keys to Mitch,” he said. “Remember?”

The words hit me like a blast of January wind.

“Let's see if Randy's keys are in the truck,” I said.

“Even if they are,” Dekker said, still inert, “I locked the doors after I got the backpack.”

I fought the despair that threatened to paralyze me. “We'll have to run for it, then,” I said.

“I can't.”

“You have to,” I said. “You have to go to Kansas City and be a big rock star.”

“I'm not kidding,” he said, turning his head toward me. “I won't make it.”

I slapped his face. Hard. “We have to go. Now.”

It was as if he'd been asleep, because he jumped and shook himself. I opened my door as quietly as I could and crouched behind the car. Dekker did the same, crawling around to squat beside me.

The sun's fading light seemed trapped in the frozen atmosphere. Snowflakes continued to fall thickly in the silent, windless air, muffling all noise so everything sounded closer than normal. At least our footprints had already almost been wiped out by the falling snow. I was grateful for that.

An outcropping of boulders sat to the east, and I signaled for Dekker to follow me to it. The protection was better there.

I pulled Dekker's head close to mine.

“I am going to run west, up the hill toward the mine, and find a telephone. Mitch's little office building must have one, and I'll call the cops.”

“But we're still wanted,” Dekker said.

“Listen,” I said. “Mitch is going to kill you. I'd rather go to jail than watch you die.”

Dekker nodded, his trembling lips pressed together.

“When I start off,” I continued, “I'm going to make a racket. Mitch will hear me, and he'll come after me. You know I'm fast. He won't catch me. When we're gone, you get down to the road and head straight east to Paiute, and don't stop. Just follow the road. Do not stop, no matter what.”

Dekker shook his head violently. “But he'll shoot you,” he whispered.

“No, he won't,” I said. “He wants me alive, remember? He wants me to take Mom's place. That's the whole point.” I let him go and turned toward the slow and quiet swish of the front door opening.

It sounded, in this silent storm, like Mitch was just feet from us when he shouted, “Randy's going to be fine,” startling us both. “I took him to the hospital in Leadville, and he's in surgery right now. Where are you?”

I breathed slowly into my sleeve so the vapor cloud wouldn't give away our position, and signaled for Dekker to do the same, but he was panting like a draft horse. I lifted his arm against his mouth.

Mitch was taking his time, because he knew these woods. He knew the snow and the altitude and the cold.

I got down to double-­knot my running shoes and pull up my socks, then stood.

Dekker leaned into me. “I need to tell you something,” he whispered.

“Tell me later,” I said, making sure my knife was secure on my bra, my thoughts already elsewhere. “We don't have time right now.”

He gripped my shoulders and drew me close.

“There might not be a later. I need to tell you right now. I stole your mom's necklace because I wanted to be a hero and find it because I can't do anything else for you. I'm sorry.”

In the midst of this wild crisis, his declaration filled me with joy. “There will be a later. That's a promise. There will be.”

The terror in his eyes broke my heart. “But—­”

I drew his face to mine and kissed him on the lips. Then I pressed my forehead to his and looked in his eyes. “I need to tell you something too,” I said. “I'm not crazy. And I didn't kill my dad.”

“I know,” he said.

“Thank you for everything,” I said. “Now go. This is not how it ends for you.”

I let go of him, pushed off and ran.

Making as much noise as possible, I purposely stepped on branches and panted loudly. My chest felt like it was in a vise, and the lack of oxygen made my leg muscles burn. But I ran as fast as I ever have in my life.

Look for a fixed point and memorize it.

Michael, my real dad, had told me this dozens of times when we practiced direction.

Mark it by the angle of the sun. Run to it then find your next point.

The sun was nearly gone now, but a fixed point loomed in the distance. I ran toward the barren and ruined mountain on which the Black Star mine sat. I knew if I ran straight, I would hit the mine, and hopefully a telephone. If there was no phone, I'd head east on the road, and then nothing could stop me. Except a gunshot.

The light faded, and suddenly, as if someone had dropped a curtain, it was night. But the snow had a glow all its own, and I could see. Which meant I could be seen.

The road was just a half mile in front of me. I couldn't run as fast on this forest ground, but I was going to make it to the road. Some low branches wrenched hair from the side of my head. I felt the cold of air on blood. Another branch snagged my pants, and another struck me full in the face, stunning me for a moment. But on I ran.

Silently, I thanked my father for making me run.

I glanced back to see if Mitch was following me. No Mitch.

The fading thrum of a car's engine—­likely Mitch's Taurus—­told me the car was heading away from me, which meant east. Was it really, or was this landscape playing audio tricks on me? I stopped and listened. A squeal of brakes. A shout.