The Drowning Game (21 page)

Randy sat staring in horror, gasping as if he'd been underwater for a long time. He wiped his face with his sleeve and gaped at Petty.

R
ANDY FOUND HIS
voice at last. “See? She's crazy.”

I felt light-­headed and nauseated, but we had to get out of there and make sure Randy didn't follow us.

“It doesn't matter what you think,” I said to him. “You're not going to remember any of this anyway.”

I wound up—­using all the power in my hips for force—­and punched through his temple with my right fist, knocking the hat from his head and the consciousness from his mind. He dropped over on his side.

Dekker stood staring, his mouth fallen open. “You killed him,” he said.

“He'll be fine. Let's go.”

I withdrew the .357 from Dekker's jeans and laid it on the pillow next to Randy's head.

“Don't we want to take that?” Dekker said.

“I'm not stealing the guy's gun,” I said. “That wouldn't be right.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I'm starting to think I never had it in the first place,” I said.

T
HE SUN WAS
setting as we drove west. Along the sides of the highway, massive red rocks were strewn about like a giant's carelessly discarded Legos.

“Petty,” Dekker said, his eyes on the road.

“Yes?” I was busy applying pressure to my shoulder, which felt hot and sore, and really itched now that it had mostly stopped bleeding.

“I'm only going to ask this one time,” he said, his voice chapped, whether from recent trauma or fear, I didn't know. “Did you kill Charlie Moshen? Michael Rhones? Your mom's husband?”

The shadowy boulders started to look like giant, angry faces in the dark.

“What difference does it make?” I said.

“Did you?”

I didn't answer. We were silent for a long while, driving up and up into the mountains.

“I'm wondering,” I said, “if you're thinking hard about that hundred thousand dollars.”

More silence.

“I remember that day,” Dekker said.

At first I thought he meant the day my dad died. But then he went on.

“I remember the day it happened. It was around Halloween, I remember, because the sky was dark and there were construction-­paper pumpkins and Kleenex ghosts in the school halls. I remember Justin's face when he came back to school.”

“Let me explain,” I said. I couldn't bear to think of that horrible day, to remember my terror, what it had felt like to be attacked and forced to maim another human being.

It was as if he hadn't heard me. “I remember every Halloween from then on we all talked about you, about how you were cursed and lived in a haunted house. Everyone had a Petty Moshen story. You were an urban legend. You were the boogeyman. We all talked about how you tried to break into our houses at night to kill us.”

I'd never had any sense of myself outside of my house and the dump. I'd never realized the town knew what I was—­a mentally ill freak.

“I was feeling like we'd kind of gotten to know each other over past ­couple of days, but I've been sitting here thinking back over our conversations, and I realize it was always me talking. I don't know what you think about anything, I don't know who you are at all, so I don't know what to believe about what Randy said.”

“I guess I'm not sure either.”

Dekker groaned, clearly frustrated. He didn't say anything for a moment. “That doesn't make me feel better.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to answer my question.”

I turned back to the window. “It doesn't matter.”

We drove in silence, endless headlights cutting bright streamers into the dark. I grieved for the trust that had been shattered on both sides. My heart felt like it was shredding itself because something had been lost. Randy King had taken it. I wanted to talk to my friend about how scared I was about meeting my real dad, but I didn't think he could hear me anymore.

Between two mountains, we came over a rise into a flat valley cut in half by a glittering river.

I had cotton mouth, and I wished I'd thought to bring some of our bottled water. I wished Randy had showed up earlier in the day so we wouldn't be sneaking up on Mitchell Bellandini after dark like this. I rubbed my sweating palms on my jeans. What if he wasn't interested in meeting me? What if he was like my other dad?

Dekker missed the turnoff and we had to double back. Then we took a steep dirt road to the top of a hill that overlooked the valley. We almost didn't see the little cabin all by its lonesome back there in the midst of the pine forest. There was a light on inside though.

I was afraid I was going to be sick. Plus we were now at a higher elevation, which had me gasping for air again.

Dekker pulled the car over to the side of the dirt road, which was twenty feet below the cabin. “Are you ready?”

“I guess,” I said.

We found a place to climb up, and as soon as our heads cleared the embankment, brilliant light flooded the yard and a big black dog came tearing out of the darkness, followed quickly by the black silhouette of a man with a rifle.

“Who the hell's in my yard at nine o'clock at night? Show yourself or I'll blow your head off.”

 

Chapter 24

O
H
,
YEAH
, I thought. That's definitely her dad.

Petty and I held our hands in the air, trying to simultaneously shield our eyes from the blinding lights. I froze so the dog wouldn't attack us, but Petty kept making some sort of signal with her right hand.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “What are you doing?”

“It's the hand signal for sit,” Petty said. “But this dog hasn't been trained at all.”

It was all over the place, snapping at us with a menacing bark.

“Dekker,” Petty said. “Don't make eye contact with the dog, and don't smile. Okay?”

“No problem,” I said.

“Who's out there?” the man on the porch yelled.

I wasn't sure what to say.
This girl is the product of your affair with her mother twenty-­two years ago
?

“Could you put the gun down?” I said.

“Not until you tell me who you are and what you're doing here in the middle of the night.”

“Mr. Bellandini?” I said.

“Who the hell wants to know?”

“Did you know Marianne Rhones?”

Silence.

“You get the hell out of here, you damn kids! Out! I'm giving you until the count of three!”

“Mr. Bellandini, let me explain,” I said, one hand still in the air and the other blocking the light. “This girl here is Marianne's daughter.”

A pause. “What did you say?”

“This is Anne Marie Rhones.”

The rifle clattered to the wooden porch.

“Your daughter.”

Mr. Bellandini rocked on his feet, then his knees buckled and he sank to the porch beside the gun. “
My
. . . what? How . . . I don't understand what—­”

“Michael Rhones took Anne Marie and moved to Kansas and changed both their names. He raised her as his own and never told her about you. We don't want anything from you. She just wanted to meet you. Michael passed away a ­couple of days ago, and we found all this out by reading his letters to Marianne.”

“His . . . ?”

“Right,” I said. “Michael sent her a ton of love letters. Like a hundred and fifty of them.”

“Is she here?” Petty said.

“Marianne?” The shadowed form on the porch covered its face with its hands. The dog ran to his side and sniffed him.

“Yes,” Petty said.

I felt a little choked up, in spite of all the shit that had gone down between me and Petty in the last two days.

“Can she—­can you uncover your face?”

Petty dropped her hands to her sides and squinted at the dark figure.

“Oh, my God,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You could be Marianne.”

“Is she here?” Petty's voice was vehement.

The noises coming from the porch sounded like Mr. Bellandini was trying not to cry and failing.

Petty took a step backward, and I wondered if she was going to bolt.

“Where is my mom?” she asked.

“I've searched for years,” he said. “I never stopped.” He wiped his face and hoisted himself up.

“For my mom?” Petty said.

His hands dropped to his sides. “What?” he said.

Nothing anyone was saying made any sense at all at this point. I could not imagine how the stress of this situation must feel to these two ­people.

Petty's breath hitched and she started to fall. I caught her before she hit the ground.

“Please,” Mr. Bellandini said. “Bring her inside.”

I led Petty up to the porch and Mr. Bellandini held the door open for us. He was even taller than me—­around six-­foot-­five maybe. I was still a little blinded from the klieg lights outside, so it took a minute to adjust. The cabin was rustic, a little dingy, but better by far than Motel 9.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Bellandini said. “I think I'm in shock.” He pointed in Petty's direction. “Her too. Let me get her a glass of water.”

I helped Petty sit on a green couch. She had a dazed, faraway look in her eyes, and my heart broke for her. She seemed smaller now, deflated.

Mr. Bellandini returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, which he held out to Petty. His hands were huge, the backs of them covered in black hair.

Petty didn't move, just stared, so I took the water for her.

“Poor thing,” Mr. Bellandini said. He had thick lips that covered small teeth. His black hair was wavy, and he wore gold-­rimmed glasses with chunky lenses that miniaturized his eyes, making them look almost artificial. The contrast between the tiny eyes and teeth, and the giant proportions of the rest of him, was striking. There was absolutely no resemblance between father and daughter that I could see.

He let out a big breath and sat down in a chair. “I always knew we'd be reunited one day,” he said. “I knew that nothing could keep us apart.” He stared at his hands. “How did you find me?”

“It's kind of a long, convoluted story,” I said, “but the upshot is we found Petty's grandmother in a nursing home in Denver.”

He sat forward again, the expression on his face sharp, as if I'd said something insulting.

“You know she has Alzheimer's,” I said.

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Bellandini said, casting his eyes downward again. “Jeannie.”

Hearing him say that name had the same effect on me as biting on tinfoil with a metal filling. A painful shock jolted through me, because it was all true. This was Petty's father.

Shit just got real.

Mr. Bellandini did not look at Petty, but I could tell he wanted to. Maybe he believed she was a mirage he could only see out of the corner of his eye. It must have seemed like a dream to him.

“So . . . Jeannie couldn't have told you where I was, am I correct? With her condition, she didn't remember me. Did she?” Mr. Bellandini snuck a glance at Petty then looked back at his hands.

“She remembered your last name, that's all,” I said. “She only remembers that something sad happened, not that—­well, that Petty is your daughter, and not Michael Rhones's.”

Mr. Bellandini let out another big gust of breath. “Well. Yes. It's probably better for Jeannie that she doesn't remember.” His eyes only briefly met mine, and then they flitted up.

I felt Petty's body shake violently beside me. I turned to her and saw that her face and eyes were a deep shade of red, as if she'd been holding her breath this entire time.

Mr. Bellandini noticed too.

“Is she all right?” He rose from his chair.

Petty shrank back. He was so large and overwhelming, I understood this involuntary reaction.

The big man now stared openly at his stolen daughter. “Where have you been all these years?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Petty of course needed time to adapt to these new circumstances before she'd be able to talk or even process what was going on. It would be like the slow rise from the ocean floor to avoid getting the bends.

“Kansas, sir,” I said.

“Call me Mitch,” he said, sitting back down. “And who are you?”

I introduced myself.

“And you're her . . .”

I didn't know this man, and it was obviously an emotional moment, but he sounded wary.

Embarrassment heated my face. “Her friend, sir. I'm just her friend.”

Mitch shifted his gaze to Petty and said, “Is that true?”

She nodded.

“And how old are you now?”

She cleared her throat. “Twenty-­one.”

“That seems right. She was about three the last time I saw her.”

Before Michael Rhones whisked her away.

Mitch was still staring at her, looking her up and down. “You're taller than she was.”

Petty squirmed under the scrutiny.

“But of course you are,” he said, with a big smile. “I'm your dad! You're just a chip off the old block.” He chuckled, although it sounded a little forced. He must not have any other kids, because the words
I'm your dad
seemed unnatural coming from him.

“Well,” I said. “We're sorry for coming here so late, but circumstances kind of forced us to. Would it be all right if we came back tomorrow and spent some more time with you?”

“You have a place to stay?” Mitch said. “You know ­people up here?”

“No sir,” I said.

Mitch decisively rapped both arms of the chair. “You'll sleep here. Dekker, you take the guest room, and you can have my bed, Marianne. Anne Marie, I mean.”

“My name is Petty,” she said, in a tiny voice, startling me.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bellandini said.

“I'd never even heard that other name until today,” she said, her voice stronger. “My name is Petty.”

Mitch snorted. “Petty. That's not a name. It's an adjective.”

I was shocked by this pronouncement, and his casual denigration of Petty's name irked me.

Petty bristled. “It's my
name
,” she said, sounding like herself again.

“Oh, well,” Mitch said. “My apologies. In any event, you'll stay here.”

He wasn't wasting any time taking control and telling everyone what to do. The thought of spending the night in that cabin helped me understand how Petty must have felt when faced with the prospect of sleeping at Ashley's place. Disoriented. Uneasy.

“We don't want to impose,” I said. “I'm sure there's a motel nearby.”

“Oh, no you don't,” Mitch said. “No daughter of mine is going to a motel with a boy!”

He gave a laugh, but I knew he was deadly serious. It would be a bad idea to tell him that we'd stayed in a motel together already.

“I work the night shift, so you can sleep while I'm gone. I'm a security guard at the old Black Star mine.” He glanced at his watch. “Let's go move your car up to the house and get your luggage.” To Petty, he said, “The bathroom's just down the hall if you want to freshen up.”

Petty shook her head. “I'm fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

I rose and followed Mitch out the door. The dog came running, but I realized this one wasn't like Sarx and Tesla. He didn't know how to attack; he was just an outside animal, aggressive and out of control. So I ignored him and sniffed the air—­which was filled with the scents of pine and wood smoke—­and gazed at the dark sky overhead. I'd never seen such brilliant stars. Once we hit the yard, they were drowned out by the blinding motion-­sensor lights.

I walked down the embankment to where we'd left the Buick on the access road, got in it and drove up to the front of the house where Mitch waited. I got out and opened the trunk to get our stuff from it, and handed a few of the Walmart bags to Mitch.

“Mr. Bellandini—­Mitch—­why did you come out of your house with a gun?”

Mitch paused for a minute in the alpine chill, the bright light behind him obscuring his features. “We've had a lot of vandalism and theft up here in the past year or so,” he said. “Had to buy a gun and a mean dog. ­People out creeping around in the middle of the night make you jumpy.” He set the bags on the ground. “So tell me. Are you a student? A working man?”

“I've been saving money to go back to school,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “What's your major?”

“Geology.”

“Geology! How would you like to tour the Black Star mine tomorrow?”

“That would be epic,” I said, and I meant it.

“So you're saving money to go back,” he said. “What do you do?”

This was Petty's dad I was talking to, so I didn't want to answer “delivery boy.” I wanted to sound more impressive.

“Well, actually,” I said, “I'm the drummer for a band and we're playing at a big show in Kansas City in about a week.”

“Really? So you'll need to leave soon?”

“Yes, sir.”

He tilted his head toward the sky before turning back toward me.

“Tell me something. Anne Marie seems a little . . .” He made circles in the air with his hands, seeming unable to reach for the right words.

“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”

I told Mitch a little about Petty's life in Kansas under lock and key. He frowned and nodded as I talked, as if this confirmed everything he knew about Michael Rhones.

“He could never love Marianne the way I did,” Mitch said. “He thought he owned her.”

“He was looney tunes,” I said. “His letters were totally obsessive and crazy.”

Mitch seemed to get taller, but I couldn't see his face with the light behind him. “Well, I'm sure they sound strange to an unintended audience. Imagine how personal love letters
you've
written would sound to Michael. Or to
me.
”

I couldn't decide if I was suddenly flooded with shame because I'd read letters that weren't addressed to me or because maybe Mitch sensed how I felt about Petty. Was it that obvious? The whole father-­daughter-­potential-­suitor dynamic hadn't occurred to me. I felt chastised, which pissed me off and intimidated me at the same time.

“I need to hear more,” he finally said, looking at his watch, “but it'll have to wait. Can't be late for work.” He picked the bags back up and walked toward the house.

I followed him up to the porch and into the cabin. Petty sat staring on the couch exactly where we'd left her, and I hoped she hadn't heard our conversation. I tailed Mitch down the hall to the bedrooms. Mitch switched on the light in what appeared to be the guest room and set down my bag, then led me to his own bedroom. I set down Petty's bag and left Mitch alone to get ready for work, joining mute Petty in the living room.

I walked to the fireplace mantel, on which some “Precious Moments” figurines were arranged, big-­eyed sad kids doing cheesily adorable things. This was more than a little weird. What bachelor collected Precious Moments? Creepy. Of course, maybe they'd been Marianne's.