The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  I was startled by a tap on the window. I turned and saw a large man standing there. Adrenaline flooded my system. The man didn’t smile, but motioned for me to roll the window down. I reached into my hoodie and put my hand on Baby Glock. I shook my head at him. He made the motion again.

  Where was Dekker?

  The man tapped again.

  I rolled the window down about an inch.

  “Hey, gal, your seat belt’s caught in the door.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and walked away. I saw my seat belt was indeed trapped in the door. Dekker was on his way out of the store, his hat tipped low over his eyes, walking casually toward the truck. I took my hand off my gun, opened my door and yanked the seat belt inside. Then I slid down in the seat, my heart flopping around in my chest at the thought of being recognized, of being caught and arrested—­and then sent back to Randy.

  Dekker got in.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Uncle Curt says we should drive over to Council Grove Lake and the Neosho Park recreation area off Lake Road. There’s a loop there, and he says we need to leave the truck. He’ll come get us.”

  “Lake?” I said. “Why a lake?” Even the thought of being so close to a large body of water spooked me, as if the water would sense me there and erupt out of its banks and drown me, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “Nobody will be out there this time of year,” he said, “so there’s no chance of us being spotted.”

  Pulling off Lake Road and toward the lake itself, I could see the spiky skeletons of tall poplars and expansive oaks ringing the lake. The water sparkled, in constant dark motion, making my heart race in a way that running from the cops never would.

  The roads and parking lots were deserted. We didn’t see a single vehicle. He drove off road and pulled the truck behind the tree line so we couldn’t be seen from the parking lot. The clock on the dashboard said 12:44.

  Dekker shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it up. Then he said, “I’ll do this outside if it bugs you.”

  “It does.”

  He made an irritated noise and got out of the truck. I watched the lit end of his cigarette glow as it arced through the air to and from his mouth, but the dark water kept drawing my eyes. Dekker finally tossed his cigarette away and got back in the cab.

  “Chilly out there,” he said. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. Within a few minutes Dekker was snoring softly against his window. My OODA Loop and I kept watch.

  About an hour later I heard a rumbling and looked out the back window. A vehicle with its lights off rolled slowly into the empty parking lot, then stopped a distance away. Dekker jumped when I nudged him.

  “What’s up?” he said, then yawned and stretched.

  I pointed out the back window.

  “That’s him,” Dekker said.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “Who else is it going to be this time of night with the lights off? Cops don’t drive rag-­top Jeeps and sneak up on ­people.”

  He opened his door and walked across the grass to the edge of the lot where the Jeep sat. I watched out the back window and saw a man with long hair get out of the driver’s side and throw his arms around Dekker. When he let go, the passenger side door opened and a thin figure in a Unabomber hoodie jumped out, ran at Dekker and jumped on his back.

  An ambush!

  My stomach heaved and I reached for Baby Glock. But then the figure hopped off him and Dekker turned to embrace it. I heard a loud female voice. It was a girl. She walked quickly toward me. My breath quickened and I kept my hand on my gun.

  Dekker trotted to catch up and stopped her. He put his arm around her, bent his head and talked for a while, probably explaining about the weird girl in the truck. The long-­haired man joined the powwow and listened to Dekker’s monologue.

  Then the three of them came at me again, slower this time.

  “Come on out here, Petty,” Dekker said. “I want you to meet my Uncle Curt and Cousin Roxanne.”

  While I knew I wouldn’t be any safer in the truck, probably less so in fact, I couldn’t make myself open the door. I stared at the two unfamiliar smiling faces for so long their grins started to fade. I blew out hard, trying to steady myself. Dekker opened my door.

  “Roxanimal, Uncle Curt, this is Petty,” Dekker said.

  “Petty,” Curt said.

  I couldn’t look at him.

  The girl said, “Hi—­let’s start over. My name is Roxanne—­like the song. Dekker’s the animal.” She had short maraschino cherry–colored hair and smelled like vanilla.

  He slugged her, not hard, because I could tell he liked her.

  Dekker got closer to me and said, “I’m serious. We’re safe with Uncle Curt.”

  I had my blade on my bra and my Glock in my holster, and that was all the safety I truly believed in. But there was something about this man. Maybe it was how different he seemed from Dad—­unguarded, peaceful but strong. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t sad or angry. I wanted to believe the smile in Curt’s bright blue eyes.

  Dekker got my suitcase out of the truck and I carried the bag with my treasures over my shoulder.

  Curt and Roxanne led us to the Jeep, where two dogs waited, dancing on the backseat. There was a white, chesty bulldog that made sounds like a wet cough and a little fluffy dog that barked beside him. Roxanne never stopped talking, and everything she said was punctuated with exclamation points, although I was so jumbled the words might as well have been in French.

  Uncle Curt made sweeping motions at the dogs. “Back up, fellas,” he said. “Make room for Petty and Dekker.”

  I couldn’t seem to make myself get in the Jeep. I didn’t know these ­people. There were too many of them, too close to me. Dekker got in and scooted over to make room for me by pulling the fluffy dog onto his lap. Curt still stood at the passenger door, waiting for me to get in, his hand on the door frame.

  I shifted from foot to foot.

  “Dekker told you our girls are all about your age, right?” Curt said. “Chloe’s twenty-­four, and Rox and Layla are twenty.”

  “Oh,” I said, not looking at him.

  “I guess what I’m trying to tell you is, if you want to be safe, be in a car with a man who’s raised three daughters. That’s all I’m saying. You’re safe with us.”

  Roxanne stared at me and my face burned.

  “Get in, Petty,” Dekker said.

  “Yeah. Get in and tell me why you were named Petty,” Curt said. “Which is, by the way, maybe the coolest name I’ve ever heard.” He walked around the Jeep to the driver’s side, got in and closed the door.

  My face got hotter. He was asking me about myself, something no one had ever done before. I’d seen ­people talk to each other like this in movies and on TV, but I didn’t believe anyone did this in real life. Dekker had asked me questions, but they were more about my circumstances than about me. I couldn’t get my mouth to work.

  The bulldog sat on the seat, smiling up at me, panting, waiting for me to get in so he could get acquainted. His face was so funny and full of anticipation—­what I needed to break down my paranoia. I climbed in the back and let him investigate me. He smelled Sarx and Tesla on my pants. I wondered if they were going crazy trying to guard the house without me there.

  Curt started up the Jeep. “Rox wouldn’t let me leave her at home,” he said, rocketing down the road toward the highway.

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said. “I was supposed to go to Padre for spring break, but I figured driving with Dad to pick up a ­couple of fugitives from justice would be much more fun.”

  Dekker smacked the back of her seat.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I meant ‘little lost lambs.’ Not fugitives.” She smiled back at me. She wore a lot of black eyeliner around eyes th
at were the same color as her dad’s. “We brought provisions,” she said, producing two bottles of water and a bag of Cheetos. I’d never actually eaten them, but I’d seen about a thousand commercials for them over the years. She passed the snacks back to us.

  I opened my water bottle and drank it down without stopping. Dekker dug into the Cheetos. The bulldog leaned hard into me, and I rubbed his head. He made these funny wet grunting sounds and worked his jowls like he had something important to say but couldn’t quite get it out.

  Dekker pointed at the lump of fur in his lap and said, “This is Bob. The bulldog is China Cat Sunflower.”

  “After the Grateful Dead song,” Curt said over his shoulder.

  Dekker smiled and shook his head.

  “Okay,” Curt said. “Let’s have the story. Out with it, nephew. I want to know what I’m dealing with here.”

  Dekker told him about Dad’s will and Randy King and Mr. Dooley. Roxanne kept interrupting until Dekker told her to shut up. She did, but she wasn’t happy about it. Throughout the story, she turned in her seat and gave me horrified looks. It took me a little while to understand that Roxanne was outraged on my behalf. Unlike Ashley, Roxanne was interested in what I had to say. I wondered what it would be like to have a friend like this.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Curt said. “Randy King? I don’t know if Dekker told you or not, but I grew up outside of Niobe, and I knew Randy. He’s about ten years younger than me, but he’s too old for you, girl. Is that even legal, or are you just pulling my lariat?”

  “Her dad was—­no offense, Petty—­fucking crazy,” Dekker said.

  Then he recounted how I’d kidnapped him—­although he didn’t use that word—­and about the bus station, and Ashley, and the cops. He left out the part about me pulling a gun on him. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to spare me or himself.

  “So what you stole from Dooley’s office should be yours anyway, right?” Roxanne said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why didn’t your dad want you to have the photo album?” Curt asked. “Are there pictures of him in lingerie, or what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He always told me there weren’t any pictures. But I found a photo of my mom in a box and it led me to the album.”

  “So you two can’t go to the cops until we get you a lawyer,” Curt said. “You want to get as far from Keith Dooley as possible. He and I went to school together in Niobe, so I’ve known him most of my life too. When my buddy Bill’s grandpa passed away, Dooley handled the estate. He handled it so much, in fact, nobody in the family got a dime.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Dekker said.

  “No, that’s a fact. Dooley sits on estates and says he can’t get in touch with any of the heirs, and his ‘expenses’ bleed off the money a little at a time until everything’s gone. So I’m telling you, if Dooley’s this interested in getting you to marry that guy, there’s some scratch in it for him. He wouldn’t have called the cops on you otherwise, not for going into his unlocked office to get a photo album and some letters.”

  All this talking had the opposite effect on me that it usually had. I felt more relaxed than I had since this adventure began. I’d never been in a group discussion before, and it made me long for a real family of my own. These ­people genuinely liked each other, listened to each other, respected each other. I yearned to be part of a family like this.

  “So, my point is,” Curt said, “we gotta get you a decent lawyer.”

  “I can’t afford one,” I said. “I’ve got twenty-­four hundred dollars, but I have to live on that for as long as I can.”

  “You’re in luck,” Curt said. “It so happens one of my best friends is a lawyer in Topeka. I’ll give him a call first thing.”

  “Uncle George,” Roxanne said, fist in the air. She turned around in her seat and said, “When I was little I always used to tell ­people he was my favorite uncle, which didn’t sit very well with the ones who were actually related to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t pay him.”

  “You won’t have to,” Curt said. “George owes me big-­time. Even if he didn’t, he’d take your case. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

  I didn’t believe a lawyer who’d never met me would take my case for free, but I didn’t say so.

  “He really is,” Roxanne said, as if reading my mind.

  “You were going to ride the bus to Detroit,” Curt said, changing the subject. “Why Detroit?”

  “That’s where my parents were from,” I said. “I want to find out about my mom. I have this weird feeling that—­” I stopped myself.

  “Feeling that what?” Curt said.

  I felt bashful because I’d only just met these ­people, and here I was, babbling on about my innermost thoughts.

  “This is definitely a tribe you can share weird feelings with,” Roxanne said. “Believe me. When I went off to college, I didn’t realize that ­people don’t usually just say what they think, or share their dreams, or confess stuff to each other like we do.”

  “Well,” I said, “I have this feeling my mom . . . might be alive. But I don’t have any evidence to back it up.”

  Curt and Roxanne glanced at each other.

  “So, either way, I want to know. I want to see if I have any extended family.” I said to Curt, “Could you drive me to a different bus station?”

  “Since you two are considered armed and dangerous, all the bus stations and airports are going to be on the lookout for you.”

  “Maybe we can stay at your place for a bit,” Dekker said.

  “Nope,” Curt said. “The cops will be out to the house by tomorrow. They’ll go to your grandma’s in Saw Pole too. Petty, I’m going to let you borrow one of my cars to drive to Detroit while my buddy George works things out for you here.”

  Why would this man do that? He’d only just met me. I didn’t say this. “But I can’t drive.”

  “I didn’t mean just you,” Curt said. “Dekker’s going with you.”

  Dekker stared at the back of his uncle’s head. “Yeah, no I’m not.”

  I sucked in my breath. While I wasn’t sure I wanted Dekker to go with me, his vehement reaction surprised me.

  “Yes, you are,” Curt said. “Like I said, the cops are going to be crawling all over our property, so you can’t stay with us, and where you gonna go? You need to get out of the state toot sweet until George gets things handled here.”

  “Uncle Curt,” Dekker said, “I have a potentially life-­changing opportunity coming up in eight days, and I—­”

  “You’ll be back in plenty of time,” Curt said.

  “What if I’m not? Like I said, this is potentially—­”

  “It’s hard for me to imagine any way I’d let this girl go to Detroit by herself.”

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said. “It’s a good thing Detroit isn’t, like, the most dangerous city in America, or anything.”

  Dekker pointed his finger at Roxanne. “You shut up.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said, trying to defuse the situation.

  “Trust me,” Dekker said. “She can.”

  “Dekker,” Curt said.

  “If you’re so worried about her,” Dekker said to Roxanne, “why don’t you go with her?”

  Curt pulled the Jeep to the shoulder of the highway and stopped. He got out and stuck his head in the door. “Dekker, can I have a word with you out here?”

  Dekker didn’t move.

  “Get out of the Jeep,” Curt said with a sharp finger snap. “Now.”

  Dekker groaned, pushed the driver’s seat forward and climbed out, closing the door behind him.

  Since it was so late and we were on a two-­lane highway, there was no traffic, and I was able to hear the sound of their voices, if not the words.

  Ro
xanne climbed into the backseat next to me and strained to see out the windshield to where her cousin and dad stood. I was able to pick out Curt’s words “selfish” and “that poor girl” and “so help me.” The only thing I heard from Dekker was a whiny tone of voice, and I wondered if I’d be better off without him.

  “Dekker can be such a d-­bag,” Roxanne whispered. “But Dad is unbelievably persuasive.” She turned her head toward me. “Wow. You have the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen. What do you use?”

  I leaned away from her. “What do you mean?”

  “Shampoo? Conditioner? Other product?”

  “Product?” I echoed stupidly. “Whatever’s on sale at the Saw Pole grocery store, I guess.”

  “Whatever’s on sale,” she said in a whisper and kept right on looking at me. “Amazing. Plus you don’t have a zit or a bump or a freckle anywhere. It’s just so wrong.”

  This made me happy, though I could not have said why.

  “LET ME EXPLAIN,” I said in a lowered voice.

  Self-­pity hardened like cement in my arms and legs as I stood with Uncle Curt on the soft shoulder of the road. The stars were bright overhead out here in East Bumblefuck Nowhere.

  I’d seen Uncle Curt mad maybe three times in my life, and because it was such a rare event, it was kind of terrifying. The old hippie stood with his arms crossed, his mouth in a rigid line. My sweat glands started up and I instantly felt clammy.

  “I’m listening,” Curt said.

  “I have the opportunity to get back in the band.”

  Although pleased surprise showed on Uncle Curt’s face, I could see it wasn’t enough to win his approval.

  “But it’s not just that. They’re—­we’re going to open for Autopsyturvy.”

  My uncle remained silent.

  “Autopsyturvy is a Kansas City band that just signed a major label—­”

  “I know who they are.” He said nothing else.

  “This could be the big break,” I said.

  “You’ll need to drive fast, then,” Uncle Curt said, “so you can get back in time.”