The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  “I’ve got a gun,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Mitch said, smiling at me. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down, young lady.”

  I wondered how Detective Deirdre Walsh would react to this, being told she couldn’t do something. She wouldn’t put up with it, that was for sure. But I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t afford to upset Mitch. This was familiar territory. I’d had to walk on eggshells around Michael Rhones those last years of his life to keep him from giving me the silent treatment.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Instead, why don’t you get prettied up for dinner while I’m asleep.”

  “Prettied up?”

  “You know. Put on your makeup and do something with that hair. That’s not your natural color, is it?”

  My hands tugged at my hair, the hair that Roxanne had been so complimentary about.

  “We’ll want to dye it back,” he said. “I’ll bet you could actually be sort of attractive if you did yourself up.”

  “I don’t wear makeup.”

  He looked away. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Mitch said.

  What did it explain? I suddenly felt awkward and unattractive, although that word had never been part of my vocabulary until this moment.

  “I’m going to try to sleep now. But first, come give your dad a hug.” Mitch held his arms out.

  I forced myself to walk to him and let him pull me into his arms again. He rubbed his huge hands up and down my back, stopping just short of my butt.

  “Mmmm,” he said into the top of my head. “I just want to eat you up.”

  I stood there, not wanting to think about why I needed to breathe through my mouth when he was near. He finally let me go.

  He blinked at me. “Do you think you’ll ever warm up to me?” His tone was petulant, whiny, and it made my skin crawl.

  “I think it’s going to take a little longer than eighteen hours,” I said, forcing a smile, wishing he’d leave already.

  He brushed the tip of my nose with his knuckles and said, “You have no idea how badly you hurt ­people, do you?”

  I almost looked behind me to see who he was talking to. Ever since he came into the bathroom, I’d had the sense that it wasn’t really me.

  He smiled sadly, went into his bedroom and closed the door.

  I felt stung and guilty all at the same time. Conflicting emotions swirled through my brain, making it feel swollen. I needed to run to calm down. As soon as I could assume Mitch was asleep, I didn’t care what he’d said, I was going running. He needed to understand I was an adult and I could take care of myself.

  I walked resolutely back to the guest room and sat on the floor next to my Walmart bag. Out the window, high in the sky above the pines that stood guard, the clouds rolled in. They weren’t as dark or threatening as the Kansas tornado clouds, but thick and gray, blotting out the sun. I hoped I could get in a few miles before the snow started falling, because I hated running in the snow.

  I opened the plastic bag and dug through my clothes. I reflexively reached inside my hoodie for my gun, even though I knew it wasn’t there. I hadn’t put on my holster that morning, because I’d been afraid that Mitch would see it and think I was here to rob him.

  But it wasn’t on the floor or under the bed.

  Baby Glock was gone.

  Dekker had promised he wouldn’t steal anything more from me, but he couldn’t help himself.

  This thought froze me where I sat.

  Dekker would never take my gun, I was sure of it. He knew I needed it to feel safe. And if he didn’t take it . . .

  Silently, I stood, walked lightly to the front door and turned the knob.

  Nothing happened.

  I twisted and rattled it, but nothing. I couldn’t get the door open. I walked to the back door and tried it—­same thing. Although I tried to convince myself there was some problem with the doorknobs, I knew better. There were dead bolts on both doors that unlocked only with a key, inside and out.

  My scalp prickled and my stomach dropped. I was locked in. Just like at home.

  THREE CARS SEPARATED me from Randy King’s red truck. I wished I knew Mitch’s phone number so I could call and warn them that Randy was on his way. Why hadn’t I thought to write it down before I left? Because I was in such a hurry to get to rock god stardom, that was why. I cursed myself as I tailgated the SUV in front of me.

  One by one the three cars turned off the road until I was right behind Randy’s pickup. But now I didn’t know what to do. Honk and flash my lights? Smash into the back end of the truck to get him to stop? I had no weapon, so what good would that do? Randy had his gun, and I was sure he had more ammo than the clip Petty had taken from him.

  Still, I followed him up to the access road, where he pulled over, got out, and climbed the embankment toward the cabin.

  I felt faint and breathless. As soon as he was out of sight, I counted to three and hurled myself out of the car, running up the slope and throwing my shoulder at Randy’s knees, knocking him to the ground. My surprise at having accomplished this energized me. I got up and flung myself on top of him, trying in vain to pin his arms. And then what?

  Randy managed to draw the pistol out of his pants and I grabbed for it. He twisted my arm painfully, forcing a grunt from me. So I concentrated on pinning his shooting arm to the ground with both hands. Randy was much denser than I was, and it was like trying to fight bags of wet clay.

  He lifted his other hand and slapped me in the face, which was both humiliating and painful. What exactly was I going to accomplish here? I tried to punch him in the face but he easily blocked me, then just as easily shoved me off him.

  “Stop it,” he said. “Listen to me, you stupid bastard. You didn’t read all the letters, did you?”

  I HEARD SHOUTING out in the yard. I turned on the sofa and peered out the window, and to my astonishment, Randy King and Dekker wrestled there.

  I screamed and pounded on the window. “Randy! Let him go!”

  Randy straddled Dekker, one hand squeezing Dekker’s throat and the other pressing his Magnum against Dekker’s forehead. Randy’s mouth was moving, his face blazing furious red.

  And then I heard the gunshot.

  Randy’s face went slack, and it appeared he realized what he’d done. And then he pitched over to the side, off of Dekker.

  I pounded on the window, screaming, and through it I watched Mitch dash out of the house, a smoking rifle in his hands. I hadn’t heard him come into the room, or open the door, or fire the rifle out of it.

  Randy lay on his back, his legs at odd angles. His shirt had a ragged bloody hole in it.

  I don’t know how I got there, but suddenly I was in the front yard too.

  Dekker bore down against Randy’s bullet wound with bloody hands.

  “Call an ambulance,” he said to Mitch. “Quick.”

  Mitch stood staring, still gripping the rifle. He set it down on the porch.

  “Mitch,” Dekker said.

  “He would have killed you,” Mitch said, calm and stoic.

  “Call an ambulance! Now!”

  “I don’t have a phone.” Mitch was serene, almost in a trance, and it chilled me.

  I couldn’t stop staring at Dekker’s hands.

  “I’ll have to drive him down the mountain, then,” Dekker said.

  Randy moaned. His voice was full of blood, octaves lower than normal—­a wounded animal’s voice. “In my truck,” he said.

  “You don’t know where the hospital is,” Mitch said to Dekker. “I’ll take him. You two stay here. I’ll send the police up. You have to tell them Randy was attacking you, Dekker.”

  “Pack in my truck,” Randy said.

 
; “Hold on, Randy,” Dekker said. “Mitch is going to take you to the hospital. Just hold on.”

  Randy worked his mouth like a goldfish out of its bowl. Blood appeared on his mustache, and I knew this was a very bad sign.

  He gasped for air, his eyes gazing at the sky, unfocused, unblinking.

  I looked at Dekker and he shook his head, his lips set in a grim line. He pulled one hand away from Randy’s side and swiped at his own forehead, leaving a red slash there in the sweat.

  “Give me your keys,” Mitch said.

  Dekker pulled them out of his pocket and tossed them to Mitch, who ran down the embankment and reappeared driving the Buick. He hopped out, the motor still running, and opened the vehicle’s back door.

  “You take his feet,” Dekker said to me.

  Dekker took Randy’s hands and placed them on the gunshot wound, but his strength was gone and they fell away. I looked into Randy’s eyes, but it was as if his spirit was receding deep inside and would soon dissipate altogether.

  We lifted Randy, and Dekker crouched low, backing into the car. He laid Randy’s head on the seat and I bent Randy’s knees.

  I saw he’d voided his bladder when he was shot, and for some crazy reason I felt embarrassed for him. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t find my voice. So I backed out of the door and Mitch closed it.

  “How far is the hospital?” Dekker asked.

  “About eighteen miles. Stay at the house. I’ll send the police,” Mitch said. Then he lunged at me and pinned my arms to my sides in a big bear hug. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

  He nuzzled my ear and his wet lips slid over my cheek. I broke his grip and stepped back, disconcerted. He got in the Buick and drove down to the road.

  THE FIRST FLAKES of snow fell. I watched Petty hold out a bloody hand to catch them.

  “That was a little . . . weird,” I said. “I know we’re all freaked out, but he’s your . . . dad.”

  Before I could look away, her eyes met mine. To my surprise, she charged at me and clung on, her arms around my waist, her face buried in my chest.

  “I’m sorry, Petty,” I said. “I shouldn’t have left. I never should have left. I’m sorry.”

  We held onto each other as the snow floated down around us in large fat clusters.

  I let go and wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve.

  Where Randy had lain, no snow accumulated thanks to the lingering warmth of him, like a chalk outline.

  Randy. He’d said . . .

  “Petty,” I said, as we went back into the cabin, “Randy said something weird when we were fighting out front. He said, ‘You didn’t read all the letters.’ ”

  Petty sat on the sofa and stared quizzically at me. “How would he know about . . . wait. Did you read them all? All the ones in your stack?”

  “I read most of them,” I said. “I guess I stopped reading when I realized Charlie Moshen wasn’t your dad.”

  “So there were some letters you didn’t read.” No longer rattled by the shooting, she was alert and focused.

  I prickled. “I guess I’m just the guy who always lets you down, so—­”

  “No, that’s not it,” Petty said. “Why would it matter that you didn’t read all the letters? And how would Randy know that?”

  My puzzlement over this deflated my indignation. “Before Mitch took him away, Randy said, ‘Pack in my truck.’ ”

  “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.

  DEKKER 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. BELLANDINI NOT GUILTY, 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: MICHAEL RHONES, TODDLER DAUGHTER REPORTED MISSING; BELLANDINI QUESTIONED.

  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 BELLANDINI NOT GUILTY.

  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.