The Drowning Game (5 page)

Was this supposed to make me feel better?

“Your dad knew what he was doing. He's right about Randy. Randy's a good man. You can trust him. He'll take care of you. And you wouldn't believe how many men die without giving any thought at all to what their families will do. Your dad provided for you in an unbelievably generous way. You should count yourself lucky. Now, listen. You really embarrassed yourself there. You need to do what you can to make it up to Randy, you really do. You need to apologize and be sweet to him.”

That was not going to happen. Over his dead body. Or mine.

I still didn't move, and I could feel his frustration mounting.

“You'll see, Petty. Everything's going to be okay. It'll all work out.”

He touched my chair and I understood I was to stand and walk out the front door and into Randy's pickup truck. Which I did. I had brain freeze because I couldn't let myself think about what had just happened.

It was a good three miles before the shock wore off and I started to notice things, like the nice leather interior of the Dodge, and the soft country music on the stereo, which didn't sound tinny like the radio in Dad's Silverado. And then I noticed, in my peripheral vision, Randy sneaking glances at me. I thought about bleating at him again, but my throat hurt from the first time.

To his credit, he didn't try to talk to me at all the whole way home, just chewed on that big ridiculous mustache of his and periodically spit tobacco juice into the brushed metal container.

When he pulled up in front of my house, he put the truck in park and cleared his throat. I reached for the door handle, but he pressed the door lock button, which shot me straight to DEFCON 2. I launched myself at the window, knowing it was useless, that auto glass doesn't break easily. I grunted and slammed into the window again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Randy shouted.

I yanked on the door handle repeatedly, once I determined a dislocated shoulder was more likely than a broken window.

“Knock it off! Stop it!”

I didn't.

“All right.” He unlocked the door just as I was pulling at the handle and I tumbled out of the truck and onto the ground. The dogs came running. I looked up and saw Randy frantically pulling on the passenger door to keep them out.

I ran for the front door of my house.

Randy's voice shouted through the barely open window. “It's what your dad wanted! I'll be back, and you'd better be ready to talk.”

The dogs leapt at his truck, trying to get at him, and he sprayed gravel gunning it out onto the county road. They chased him for fifty yards then loped back to me.

I led them into the house and threw myself on the couch. I banged my fists into the sofa cushions, trying to beat back the sense of betrayal I felt. My dad had sold me like one of Detective Deirdre Walsh's fellow detectives sold her out to a local drug kingpin, and got her shot and nearly killed. Sold her out for an envelope stuffed with cash.

Kind of like the sealed envelope that was now in Mr. Dooley's possession. The Cousin Rose my dad had referred to in his video will was a character in a book called
Rose-­tinted Glass
I'd found at the dump. I'd read it, keeping it hidden in my room, but Dad had found it during one of his surprise inspections. He'd given me the silent treatment for days after that, and then he'd read it himself. He sat me down when he was done and told me he was glad I'd read it because it could teach me about obedience and the price of defiance.

In the book, Cousin Rose was the high-­spirited, rebellious daughter of a powerful and wealthy New England family. In order to prevent Rose from embarrassing her family and jeopardizing her father's Senate bid, Rose's stepmother convinced a judge to have Rose committed to the state mental hospital.

If I didn't marry Randy, there was something in that envelope that would persuade a judge to lock me up. So the question was . . . what was it?

And how am I going to get my hands on it?

 

Chapter 6

Saturday

I
WAS OUT
back practicing knife throwing before work when the dogs tore around to the front of the house, barking. The road we live on gets very little traffic other than propane delivery trucks, so I stood and listened. A diesel engine rumbled toward the house.

The dogs' barking got more frantic as the vehicle approached. I slung the Winchester's strap over my shoulder, went into the house and looked out the front window. Randy King's red Dodge Ram pulled into the drive and sat idling. He saw me and I ducked. Sweat sprang up on my forehead as I crouched by the window, and Randy tapped his horn. I looked out the window again. He was pointing at the dogs. I crouched again, wondering if he would leave if I ignored him. The bellowing truck horn answered my question. I stood and went out the front door, the Winchester still over my shoulder.

The dogs barked nonstop. Randy pointed at them again. I sighed.

“Sarx. Tesla. Off. Come.”

They reluctantly gave a few last barks over their shoulders and came to me. Randy cracked his window.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

“No,” I said.

“We need to talk.”

I knew this was true. I'd thought of nothing else since yesterday. I was in the process of formulating a plan to get that envelope from Mr. Dooley and escape the life Dad had mapped out for me, but I couldn't avoid Randy forever.

I opened the garage door, put the dogs inside and closed it.

Randy switched off the Ram and stepped out. He smoothed his mustache.

I moved the Winchester strap to my other shoulder.

“Listen,” he said. “I wanted to come by and explain a ­couple of things to you. And I brought you something.” He turned and pulled out a large bouquet of flowers in a cone of floral paper. He held them out toward me.

I didn't move.

“For you.” His mustache twitched.

Sweat rolled down the side of my face and it tickled, but I still didn't move.

“Can we sit down?”

“Can if you want,” I said, pointing at the misshapen Adirondack chairs my dad had made out of some dump-­scavenged wood.

He walked over to one of the chairs and lowered himself into it. It creaked. He took off his Stetson and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Hot one, huh?”

I nodded.

He put his hat back on and laid the flowers on the ground next to his chair.

“Petty, I wanted to tell you how this all came about. This will and everything. I take it your dad never mentioned the . . . our . . . his will to you.”

Why would he include me in my wedding plans?

“I met your dad about ten years ago at the Quivera Gun Club in Salina, though we'd been neighbors for eight years. Anyway, he's—­was kinda like you, not real talkative, you know, but a serious, right-­minded guy.” Randy coughed. “You understand what I mean by right-­minded?”

I shrugged.

“A Second Amendment kind of guy. I was the one who sponsored his membership to the Kansas State Militia.”

I didn't care.

He squinted up at me. “Would you mind sitting down? I admire your defensive posture, but I'm not the enemy.”

But he was.

Although marrying Randy would be the path of least resistance, the dreams I'd had for myself would die with Dad. When I thought about going out into the world alone, the fear nearly convinced me to go along with his wishes.

Almost, but not quite.

Because something just beyond my reach was coming into focus. What was Dad's goal for this arrangement? To keep me caged. And what did that make me? Livestock.

That kind of thinking was not normal. That was not how a father was supposed to think of his daughter. Didn't that prove Dad had no idea what was right for me? And if he was wrong about that . . . maybe he was wrong about how dangerous the world was too.

Maybe he was wrong that I couldn't navigate the world on my own.

This idea exploded in my brain and showered sparks, lighting everything up, and I knew Randy was wrong too. He
was
the enemy. He was the one standing in the way of my freedom.

I stood there a moment longer, then moved the other chair farther away from him and sat down, laying the shotgun across my knees.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I was getting a crick looking up at you.” He smiled at me. At least, I think he did. It was hard to tell with that mustache in the way.

I didn't smile back.

“So anyway, when you turned eighteen, your dad told me about his plans for you. I didn't think too much about it, because he wasn't an old guy by any means. But I agreed, because he was absolutely set on making sure you were taken care of for the rest of your life. I want you to know, though, he didn't say nothing about the insurance policy.”

I spat on the ground.

“Cross my heart,” he said, actually drawing an X on his chest with his finger. “I was as shocked as you. But that's how serious Charlie was about protecting you, and he knew I had the same values as him.” He cleared his throat again and gazed up at the sky. “All this to say I don't expect it to be your typical marriage. It would be a straight-­up business deal. I house you, clothe you and feed you, and I control the money. But I'll buy you anything you want. We could even build a house that has two sides to it—­one for you and one for me. Of course, your side would have to be locked up, but you're used to that.”

I
was
used to that. It was familiar and safe and easy. But it wasn't normal.

So Dad and Randy had planned everything out for me. Years ago. I still wouldn't have any say in my own life. I was going to be a militia man's “wife,” and that was all.

I stood. “I have to go to work.”

Randy didn't move, just gazed up at me from under his Stetson. “No you don't.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, gripping the rifle.

Randy dug a cell phone out of his pocket and held it out to me. “No, you don't. Ask Dooley. He'll tell you all about it.”

I didn't understand what he was telling me, so I didn't answer, just stood there staring. He opened the phone and pushed some buttons then held it out to me again. I felt a chill of fear, as if he were handing me a live grenade. I heard a voice coming out of the phone but still I didn't take it. Randy frowned and held it to his ear.

“Hey, Dooley, it's Randy. You need to tell Petty about her job.” He held the phone out again. This time I took it and put it to my ear.

“Petty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I'm glad Randy called, because I need to go over a few pieces of business with you. Your situation is fairly complex. I certainly hope you appreciate everything I'm doing on your behalf, young lady!”

I kind of got the feeling he was expecting me to thank him, but I said, “I don't have time to talk right now. I've got to get to work.”

“You don't have to worry about that anymore. I've called your boss to let him know.”

“Let him know what?” My blood felt cold inside me. Randy appeared to be smiling underneath his mustache.

“That you're no longer a dump employee. Randy went and got your things—­he's probably got them with him right now.”

“But I don't want to—­”

“And if you need a ride anywhere, Randy said he'd give it to you. You don't need to worry about a thing.”

“I don't want to quit working. And I don't want any rides from Randy.”

“Already done. You can just relax. Lot of ladies would kill to be in your shoes, you know that?”

I closed my eyes. “You said I had thirty days to think about it.”

“But what is there to think about? It's no contest.”

A phrase I'd heard over and over again in TV courtroom dramas had been trying to rise from my subconscious since yesterday, and now it did. I turned my back to Randy and whispered, “How do I contest the will?”

I heard the Adirondack chair groan behind me as Randy stood. I didn't know if he'd heard me or not. I didn't look back at him.

Mr. Dooley cleared his throat again. “You don't want to do that,” he said. “It would be expensive, it could take years and you have nothing to live on in the meantime. That's not a viable option.”

I turned to face Randy, who was glaring at me. I glared back.

“I'd like to do it anyway,” I said.

There was a pause. “As your lawyer, I have to advise against it.”

I gulped. “Then I'll get another lawyer.”

Mr. Dooley laughed. “You need money for another lawyer. You don't have any, and I don't have time to argue about this anymore. Understood?”

I said nothing.

He put on a more jovial tone. “Petty, you've got a million dollars coming to you if you'll just follow your dad's wishes. That insurance policy is money in the bank.”

Money in the bank.

I gasped.

“What is it? Petty?” Mr. Dooley was still talking, but I pressed the end button on the phone and tossed it to Randy, who almost didn't catch it.

“You got some stuff of mine?” I said, walking toward the Ram.

He followed me to his truck, pulled a box out of the bed and put it in my hands.

“Mr. Dooley said you'd give me rides if I needed them,” I said. “I need a ride into Saw Pole.”

“You going to scream or try to bust my window again?” he said.

“I'm gonna put this stuff inside first,” I said, ignoring him. “Get in the truck so I can let the dogs out.”

I ran the box inside then went upstairs to get my state ID. I locked up the house and opened the garage door. The dogs came tearing out and attacked the truck. Randy cracked open his window and yelled, “Get them off my rig!”

I counted to five before I made the signal for “off” and they obeyed. Then I got in the truck and buckled myself in. I studied the buttons on my armrest to see if there was a way to keep him from locking me in and saw I could lock and unlock the doors myself. He pulled onto the county road. I stared out the window. He turned up the country music station. I daydreamed until he said something I didn't quite catch, then looked in his direction.

He turned down the radio. “I said, you should go to the beauty parlor. They could show you how to do yourself up. You'd be a lot prettier if you wore makeup.”

I shrugged and turned my face to the window. He didn't talk anymore. When we hit the Saw Pole city limits, I sat up and said, “Can you take me to the Farmers National Bank?”

He parked in front of the bank. “I'll wait here.”

I'd never gone into a building that wasn't my house by myself. I wondered if there was an armed guard inside like I'd seen on TV. I opened the door, edged inside with my back to the wall. Found the exits. No armed guard. Two tellers. One customer at a window. I waited against the wall until the unoccupied teller called out to me, “Can I help you?”

Filled with resolve, I pushed myself off from the wall and ran to the counter. I pulled out my Kansas state identification card and gave it to the teller, a girl in a navy blue suit and a flouncy pink blouse.

“I have a savings account here, and I'd like to close it out.”