The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  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 bl
ood. 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.

  The road snaked away, a river of asphalt in the dim reflected light. Here came the Taurus. Mitch had reversed direction and was headed west now. I crouched and watched the car drive past.

  Dekker was in the backseat, his face pressed grotesquely against the window. I couldn’t tell if it was the weird light, but his face appeared to be bloody.

  Where was Mitch taking him?

  But then I knew.

  To the mine. To the tailings pond, one of the deepest in North America.

  Chapter 29

  I THOUGHT I must have the flu, my head hurt so much, and that my mom was driving me to the doctor in the middle of the night during a snowstorm. The cool of the window glass felt good, but it did nothing for the strain I felt in my shoulders and the sharp pain in my wrists. My nose itched. I tried to scratch it but found I couldn’t move my arms.

  As my eyes focused, I knew I wasn’t going to wake up from this nightmare, safe and cozy in my own bed. This nightmare was real, and it was not going to end well.

  I was in the backseat of Mitch Bellandini’s Ford Taurus.

  And my head didn’t hurt because of the flu. It hurt because Mitch had hit me over the head then tied my hands together behind my back so tightly my fingers were numb and tingling.

  Where was Mitch taking me? Where was Petty?

  I tried to remember what had happened. I remembered running through the pines and out to the paved road, the relief I’d felt when I got there. I remembered hearing a car drive up behind me then swerving into my path on the shoulder. But that’s all I remembered.

  Now, Mitch was driving slowly uphill on snow-­slicked switchbacks. Finally, the Taurus slowed and turned off the road. Fear flooded my system, and I was afraid I might piss myself or worse, every part of me felt so loose.

  I had to get the car door open and jump out—­and I’d have to do it with my mouth. I got my teeth on the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. I could see there was no lock on the front passenger door either. While I’d been able to open the car door earlier when we toured the mine, I hadn’t noticed there were child locks on the damn doors, unlockable only from the driver’s seat.

  No way to get out, just like the cabin.

  Terror shrilled down my spine.

  The car stopped and the ignition switched off. The driver’s side door opened, and I felt the car rise as Mitch got out. The door closed and I heard him walking around the car. I quickly moved away from the door so I wouldn’t pitch headfirst out. I closed my eyes. If I pretended to still be unconscious, maybe I could run once Mitch pulled me from the car. I didn’t believe he would shoot me inside the Taurus, because that would leave evidence. He was too smart for that, and I hoped that would work in my favor.

  HOW WOULD I ever catch up? I couldn’t compete with a car, but I had to try. So now I really ran. My best time for a mile was 5:37. But that was on a treadmill at low altitude. I’d have to beat that and then some if Dekker was going to live.

  And I would have to do it going uphill in the snow at ten thousand feet above sea level.

  The words inside the silver box around my neck bubbled up into my consciousness. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary. I let them repeat in my head as I ran, spurring me on.

  My eyes watered unceasingly. I kept my elbows in, back straight—­I pretended Dad was timing me and shouting instructions. Knees up! Tuck your butt in!

  My sinuses burned. My lungs felt like they were collapsing, my calf muscles like they were being shaved from my bones. But I ran, because Dekker’s life depended on it. My clothes were wet inside and out, sweat and snow conspiring to throw me into hypothermia the moment I stopped running. But I couldn’t dwell on that. All I could think about was getting to Dekker and a phone.

  The tall pines that lined the road had gathered snow, now just white flashes as I ran past them. My quads knotted and cramped.

  Every third breath or so made me feel as if I would overinflate and explode, because I couldn’t wring enough oxygen out of this air. But I kept on. Switchback to switchback. The only sounds were my ragged gasps for breath and my shoes pounding the pavement.

  Pain exploded in my left leg as part of my left calf muscle ripped loose. The sensation made lights sparkle in front of my eyes, but I couldn’t stop. Not now.

  Dizziness rose as the Black Star mine, dark and dead, swelled up in the near distance.

  I HOOKED MY right foot under the seat in front of me as the car door opened and a whoosh of cold air filled the Taurus. Mitch grabbed my shoulders, tipped me sideways and tried to lift me out of the car, but made an exasperated sound when he couldn’t. When he bent to dislodge my foot from under the front seat, I tensed and brought my opposite knee up, hitting him in the face.

  He grunted, wound up and threw a punch, but I turned my head and the blow glanced off my ear.

  “Get out of the car,” he said, pulling me by the hair.

  I fell out headfirst, driving rocks and gravel into my scalp, making my already aching head ring. Mitch closed the car door and yanked at the wrist restraints, which bit into my skin and forced a yelp from me.

  I SLOWED TO a limp at the crest of the hill, above the tailings pond. There sat the Taurus, parked and running, throwing billowy fumes into the air. I couldn’t swallow, my throat was so dry. I had to recover, and quick. My eyeballs felt as if they’d shrunk and my field of vision was narrowed almost to the point of blindness.

  I rubbed them and gasped for air, trying to determine if Mitch or Dekker were in the car. It appeared to be empty. Where were they? At the bottom of the slope, by the edge of the water, I saw two mounds of black, like two bears foraging slowly along the rocky ground. Was I hallucinating? But then I saw it was Mitch, dragging Dekker’s motionless body toward the deep lake.

  The only possible thing to do at that point was run down to the mine and the office building to find a phone, because there was no way I could go down to the lake. Even as exhausted as I was, the thought of being that close to the water petrified me. The few times I’d been anywhere near a river or lake, I’d felt this weird compulsion to throw myself in, ­coupled with a terror that I’d be knocked in, that I’d drown.

  I was frozen with indecision and wasting seconds standing there. But then Mitch began backing toward the finger of land that jutted out into the center of the pond, dragging Dekker, which snapped me back to the present. I had to do something. But by the time I got to a phone, Dekker would be drowned. I had no choice now. I had to go down there, down to the water.

  THE WET AND the cold enveloped me as Mitch dragged me out on the berm. I’d recovered enough to try to dig my heels in, to stop his progress, but the ground was frozen. I knew Mitch wanted to drop me off the tip of the berm where the contaminated water was deepest.

  In desperation, I twisted my body back and forth, attempting to somehow get on my feet and run.

  But Mitch stopped dragging me and forcibly threw me to the ground like a basketball. I had no way to stop my own downward momentum. My entire body weight dropped onto my bound hands, wringing a wail of pain from me. But I tried again to stand.

  Mitch pulled at a strap on his shoulder and I now saw it was attached to his rifle. He gripped it like a baseball bat and swung, smashing me in the skull.

  The next thing I knew, my face was covered in snowflakes, and Mitch was dragging me again, the rifle back in place over his shoulder, my h
ead thrumming and throbbing.

  And then I heard a coyote howl in the distance.

  Maybe not a coyote.

  “Mitch! No!”

  MITCH DIDN'T SEE me at first, but when he did, he straightened so fast he let go of Dekker’s head, which clunked on the ground.

  I screamed. “Mitch!”

  I was still panting but I limped toward them, feeling dizzy with the fear of running toward water, my left leg shrieking with pain every step I took. Mitch was so surprised to see me there that he stood motionless, staring with his mouth open. Now that I was close enough, I saw Dekker’s face was swollen, bloody, bluish.

  Terror chattered away in my brain, fear of the water, fear of Dekker’s death. Fear of my mother’s murderer raping me over and over again, for the rest of my life.

  But then something weird happened. I didn’t know if it was hypothermia, but all of a sudden my mind got quiet, and I knew what I was going to do.

  “How did you get up here?” Mitch said. “How did you do that?”

  I walked slowly toward him. The water beyond seemed to glow.

  “Nobody’s going to come between us,” Mitch said. “Not ever again.” He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and pointed it at Dekker’s head. Dekker wasn’t dead. Yet.

  I walked closer. I was at the edge of the berm. The only thing standing between me and them—­and the water—­was the FORBIDDEN sign.

  “Nobody’s going to come between us,” I said, limping around it, a rocket of pain shooting upward with each step. “That’s right. So let’s get him to his car so he can go back to Kansas.”

  “No,” Mitch said. “He might come back again. You want to be with him, don’t you?”

  “I don’t,” I said, walking out on to the berm, feeling faint, nausea pushing bile up my throat. “It’s you I want. Why do you think I was running west? I was running away from him.”