The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  What I needed was an impartial assessment from someone I trusted who didn’t have these confused and possessive feelings about Petty.

  “Hey,” I said in a low voice, even though I heard the box fan turn on in Mitch’s room. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come to Kansas City with me, see the concert, and then we’ll pick up Uncle Curt and Aunt Rita, and they can come back here with us.”

  “Why would we do that?” Petty asked.

  “I don’t feel right about leaving you here alone.”

  “Actually, I think maybe you ought to go on home without me.” She didn’t look at me as she said this.

  I was taken aback. “But I have a ­couple of days before I need to be in KC. I don’t mind hanging around.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “But didn’t you notice he doesn’t have a TV? How would you survive?” I looked at my hands. “And the truth is, you don’t know anything about this guy.”

  “I know he’s my father,” Petty said. “What else do I need to know?”

  “Where’s he from? Does he have any family? Did he go to college?” I gulped. “Does he have a police record?”

  “You have a police record, and I’ve been hanging around with you for a week.”

  I slumped.

  More gently, Petty said, “It’s going to take a little time to find all this stuff out.”

  “I’d think you’d want to know a little more about him before you decide you’re going to move in here.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to move in,” Petty said. “But I want to understand why my dad—­why Michael Rhones—­was the way he was. I want to understand why I’m the way I am.”

  I glanced toward the hall and lowered my voice. “No, I get that. But I can’t help feeling that there’s something he’s not telling us.” I hadn’t known I felt this until it was out of my mouth.

  She frowned at me. “I’m sure there’s plenty he hasn’t told us. We’ve been here less than twenty-­four hours.”

  “I guess it’s just me,” I said, realizing I was losing the argument, “but don’t you kind of wonder . . . what kind of a man . . . goes after another man’s wife?”

  ­“People marry the wrong ­people all the time,” Petty said. “Your mom did.”

  It was as if she’d slapped me across the face. “Thanks, Petty.”

  Mitch’s bedroom door opened and he stepped out into the hall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  Petty’s face went a deep shade of red. I felt as if we’d been caught smoking crack or making a pipe bomb.

  How had Mitch heard us with his box fan going? He must have been standing right behind his door, listening. I felt a pang of unease.

  “Anne Marie, of course your friend is going to be worried. He’s right. You don’t know anything about me. But think about it, Dekker. You two show up in the middle of the night unannounced and come in here claiming that this girl is my daughter. You could be robbers or worse, but I opened my home to you. I didn’t question you. I trusted you, and I don’t think asking you to trust me in return is asking too much.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, feeling chastened. He was right. I’d met plenty of slightly odd ­people in my life. I was even related to some. I was just feeling possessive of Petty. “We’ve been through a lot in the last few days.”

  “But having said that, you were right about something else. There is something I haven’t told you. And I suppose I should go ahead and tell you now. I won’t be able to sleep unless I do.” He sat on the rocking chair and stared down at his hands, which he wrung together. “Your mother didn’t die in a house fire.”

  My heart seemed to stop in my chest.

  Petty sat straight and alert. “She didn’t?”

  “Your mother was murdered. By Michael Rhones.”

  Chapter 26

  “MURDERED,” I SAID, the word reverberating in my ears.

  Tears ran down Mitch’s face behind his glasses. “He also tried to—­tried to . . .”

  “What?” But I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  Mitch wiped his eyes, stood and went to the mantel, moving the figurines around. “He came to our house to take Marianne away while I was at work, and she wouldn’t go. So he held you underwater in the tub until you almost drowned and she agreed to go with him.”

  I couldn’t breathe. My mom, the woman I’d never known, had sacrificed herself for me. It had been my life or hers. Suddenly I was on my back staring at the misshapen, shifting bathroom ceiling, trying to breathe, unable to because someone was holding me underwater. My dream was no dream. It had really happened. And now I could make out the face. It was Michael Rhones, and he was pushing down on me with huge hands, smiling down at me as if we were playing a game, saying something I couldn’t make out, trying to make me inhale. Death was coming for me. And his name was Michael Rhones. My mother had chosen to die rather than let me die.

  My mom was dead because of me.

  A high, shrill siren of a noise filled the cabin. It was coming from my mouth, pouring forth like a volcano, and I couldn’t stop it. And then I was sobbing, my face to the ceiling.

  I don’t know how long this lasted, but it seemed to go on for a very long time. All the despair and grief of my stolen life streamed out of my mouth and eyes and nose, and everything and everyone around me disappeared until I could cry no more.

  I got up and staggered to the bathroom. Weirdly, understanding my drowning dream, where it had come from, made me feel better. And the truth was, it wasn’t that surprising Michael Rhones had killed my mother, after all the other crazy things he’d done. It actually made a lot of sense. I blew my nose, then splashed cold water on my face and used the toilet.

  Back out in the living room, Dekker was saying, “So he killed her and took Petty and changed their names and disappeared.”

  Mitch nodded.

  I reseated myself on the sofa.

  “Why didn’t Michael just divorce her?” Dekker asked.

  “He said if he couldn’t have her, no one could,” Mitch said, moving the mantel figurines to their original positions before turning toward us. “Michael framed me for the murder. He planted evidence and I was put on trial in Denver.”

  Nothing surprised me anymore.

  “I was acquitted. That’s a matter of public record, but it ruined my life. Not only because Marianne was gone, but because I’ve been hounded by the press since. I moved to this cabin to escape it all, but the teenagers up here like to dare each other to ‘touch the murderer’s house.’ ”

  “That’s why you came out with a rifle,” Dekker said.

  Mitch went on as if he hadn’t heard. “The media turned me into a monster. It was hell. Of course, all this happened before the Internet, so your mom didn’t know Michael had a history of stalking women. He’d been in prison for raping and disfiguring a woman he was obsessed with. This was in another state—­Ohio, I think—­and he had several aliases. I don’t even know if Rhones was his real name.”

  He came toward me in two long strides, fell to his knees and grabbed mine, making me jump. “Someone like him, Petty, doesn’t kill just once. And he doesn’t rape just once, so . . . I have to know, Petty. Did he . . . ?”

  Dekker’s head whipped toward me.

  “Did he . . . what?” I said, barely able to get the words out.

  “Did he violate you? Did he have sex with you?” Spit flew from his mouth as he said “sex” and it landed on my cheek.

  I shoved Mitch’s hands off my knees and got to my feet. “No!” I said. “He never touched me.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes—­I’ve read quite a bit about the subject—­when children are molested, they suppress the memory. They bury it, but it sometimes comes out in dreams. They become withdrawn and introverted and depressed.”

 
Dekker looked at me as if I were roadkill. Horrified. Disgusted. Probably thinking to himself, That describes Petty to a T.

  I paced. “I’d remember,” I said. “I know I would.”

  “No,” Mitch said. “You might not. Michael was a violent, sadistic rapist and murderer. When the authorities found Marianne’s body, it was mutilated. He’d cut off her—­”

  “Stop,” Dekker said. “Don’t. Don’t say it. Stop.”

  He’d cut off her what?

  “She needs to hear this.”

  Dekker rose, trembling, and stood between me and Mitch. “No, she doesn’t.”

  Mitch frowned at Dekker, gave him a flat stare for a moment, then his face cleared.

  “Of course, you’re right. I apologize. You’re absolutely right.” He sat back in the rocking chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve carried this burden by myself for eighteen years, and I guess I’d hoped we could carry it together. But it was selfish of me.”

  Dekker and I sat on the sofa. Mitch gave me a pointed look that I couldn’t figure out. It was as if he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what.

  Then his shoulders dropped. “I’m so tired. I’m going to go to sleep now. We’ll talk more when I get up.” He leaned over me and kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder. Then he turned to Dekker. “I don’t know when you were planning to leave, but there’s snow in the forecast, and we get snowed in up here pretty good.”

  Dekker looked at me, and I shrugged.

  I’d told him he should leave, just like Mitch had suggested. But I didn’t want him to go. I felt—­what was the word?—­safe with him, and I couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t know how to shoot a gun, or how to fight, and he sure couldn’t run. What did it mean?

  Mitch hadn’t made a move toward his bedroom.

  “So be off with you, then!” he said to Dekker with a forced laugh.

  “All right,” Dekker said. He gave me a blank look and went into the guest room.

  Mitch turned to me and gave me a big grin and the okay sign with his hand.

  I was paralyzed between my desire to have Dekker stay and my desire to please my father. I felt so raw after finding out that Michael Rhones had tried to kill me, I’d wanted to talk it through with Dekker while Mitch was asleep. Now I wouldn’t have a chance to do that, and it made me feel unsteady.

  Dekker came back out of the guest room with his Walmart bag full of stuff. Since Mitch was standing right there, I tried to use my face to tell him that I didn’t want him to go.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Dekker said.

  Mitch watched my face.

  “Sure,” I said, angry at myself for wanting to leave with Dekker, because I wasn’t being fair to my dad. It was all just too much.

  Dekker pulled the car keys out of his pocket and studied them. “Well,” he said. “I guess this is goodbye.”

  Mitch stuck out his hand to Dekker. They shook hands, and Mitch said, “I can’t thank you enough, young man.”

  “I’ll be back,” Dekker said, surprising me. “I’ve got to bring your car back to you.”

  My disappointment at his reason for returning embarrassed me. “You can keep the car. I can’t drive, remember?”

  His face fell.

  I stood up and we stared at each other for a moment, my kissing dream filling my head. I had to look away from him.

  “Hey,” he said. “Can I borrow some money? I’ll need gas and I’d like to get a new shirt for the show.”

  I pulled my money from my back pocket and counted a thousand dollars, leaving myself five hundred. I held it out to him.

  “I don’t need that much,” he said.

  “Take it,” I said. “Have a good show. I wish I could see it. I’ll bet you’re going to be great.”

  He took the money out of my hand and put it in his pocket. “You gonna be okay?”

  Mitch held open the front door.

  I stuck my hand out to Dekker. He took it in both of his. I looked into his brown eyes and I started to shake. He pulled me toward him and it felt like my bones were melting.

  “All right you two, break it up, break it up.” Mitch made a karate-­chop motion between us.

  Dekker let go of my hand, turned to the door and picked up his Walmart sack. Mitch held the door open for him once more.

  “Goodbye, now,” he said.

  “Goodbye, Petty,” Dekker said over his shoulder. And then he went out the door.

  AS SOON AS the cabin disappeared from my rearview mirror, I lit a cigarette and inhaled. What a relief to be able to smoke in the car! No more nagging about how bad it was for me, about how she was in such better shape than me. No more drama.

  Still, I felt low-­level trepidation at leaving, because I could tell Petty wasn’t ready for me to go yet. But Mitch had been more than eager to push me out the door. In fact, he’d taken on the father role pretty quickly after meeting Petty, as if he’d been waiting to do it for a long time.

  I turned on the radio and flipped the dial until a station came in semiclear. It was playing an Autopsyturvy tune. I pounded the steering wheel, letting out a shout of exultation, then I drummed along with the song.

  But the farther I got from the cabin, the less excited I became at the prospect of rejoining the band. It was the reverse of what I expected. But I’d made a commitment, and I needed to honor it. So why did I feel so lousy?

  The problem was pretty much everything reminded me of Petty.

  I hit Leadville about a half hour later. My fuel was near E, so I drove into a Conoco and paid for a tank of gas with the cash Petty had given me. It was cooler out than it had been earlier, the sky filled with low, gray clouds. While the pump clicked and whooshed, I went inside to use the restroom and buy some junk food. There were a few ­people in line ahead of me, so I glanced at the newspaper on the rack in front of the counter.

  AURORA RAPIST GETS FIFTEEN YEARS, a headline read.

  A rapist like Michael Rhones. Petty had lived in a house with a rapist and a murderer for eighteen years, the man who’d tried to drown her. I wondered if what Mitch had said about kids who were molested—­that they couldn’t remember the abuse—­was true. I wondered if Michael Rhones had raped Petty.

  Even as the idea entered my head, I punted it right back out again. Petty was suspicious and paranoid, but she didn’t exhibit the anxiety and depression that I’d seen in the two girls I’d known who’d been raped. Petty was a trained, fierce warrior, not a PTSD sufferer. She was a female Jason Bourne. I smiled at the thought.

  I tried to pull my mind back to Kansas City and Disregard the 9 and Autopsyturvy, but one of the semi drivers in line was wearing a cap like Ray’s, the poor dumb trucker bastard who’d thought Petty was a hooker. I grinned at the memory now, how Petty had put that guy in his place.

  I hoped she’d be okay. I missed her.

  I walked out the door just in time to see a flash of red traveling west.

  It was a Dodge Ram pickup truck with Kansas plates.

  Chapter 27

  I HAD SPENT much of my life alone—­out at the dump, in the old farmhouse, when Dad was uncommunicative. But I’d never felt loneliness like what I felt when Dekker drove away.

  I decided I’d go for a run out on the dirt roads. It would make me feel better. It always did. I went to the bathroom first, and as I was rising from the toilet, Mitch walked in. Instead of turning around and walking out apologizing, he stood in the doorway.

  “Take your time,” he said, keeping his eyes on me.

  I struggled to get my pants up, my face burning, and flushed the toilet.

  When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Don’t be embarrassed. We’re family.”

  I wanted to tell him that he needed to knock before busting in the bathroom, but this was his house. I was a vi
sitor. Plus I’d walked into Dekker’s room this morning without knocking, so maybe this was normal.

  “So I was thinking,” Mitch said, cheery. “After my nap, I’ll run into town and get us some steaks and a bottle of wine, some candles, have a nice dinner. I’ll cook for you and we can really get to know each other now that the boy is gone.”

  Every muscle in my body was rigid with awkwardness and humiliation. The bathroom felt close and too warm, but Mitch was gripping the doorjambs with both hands.

  “I’ll get out of here so you can use the bathroom,” I said.

  Mitch didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a moment, deep in thought.

  I walked toward him, assuming he’d back through the doorway and let me out. Instead, he shifted his hips, keeping his hands on the jambs, and left a narrow space for me to squeeze through.

  I tried to exit the bathroom but he caught me in his arms.

  “Oh, Marianne,” he said, holding me tight. He kissed the top of my head repeatedly, and I stood frozen to the spot before I pressed my wrists together, bent my knees and slipped his grip. His face clouded over.

  “Mitch, you need to understand something,” I said, breathless, in the same coaxing tone I’d always used when Michael Rhones was agitated. “I’m not used to ­people touching me, not at all. I need a little time to get used to everything. And I’ve told you. My name is Petty. It’s not Anne Marie, and it’s definitely not Marianne.”

  The hurt on his face tugged at my conscience.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Mitch said. “I guess it’s too much to hope for that you’d love me the way I love you.” He hung his head, his hands dangling loose.

  Even though we were related by blood, it seemed strange for him to say he loved me. “I don’t know you yet,” I said. “Maybe you ought to take your nap and I’ll go for a run. Then we’ll both feel better.”

  His head snapped up. “I told you no. And that’s that.”