The Drowning Game (4 page)

 

Chapter 5

Friday

O
N THE FIFTEEN-­MILE
drive to Saw Pole after the funeral, I kept my eyes down or aimed at the window because I didn't want Randy to think I was interested in conversation. I was feeling as charged as a frayed electrical wire, edgy and nervous. I scratched at the bump on my left shoulder and couldn't stop thinking about Dad being lowered into the ground and dirt thrown on top of his coffin.

Randy spat tobacco juice into a brushed-­metal container at regular intervals. The sloppy sound of it, the moist
ptoo,
unraveled my nerves further. After another endless night in the dark, empty house, during which the dogs had started at every little noise, and the strain of the funeral and now the will reading, I imagined opening my mouth and screaming until I passed out.

The Dodge came to a stop in front of a limestone building on the corner that housed Mr. Keith Dooley's law office. Saw Pole's main street was soupy with mud because the town didn't have the money for asphalt. Dad told me that back during its heyday the town had paved streets. But when family farms went into foreclosure and the oil wells dried up, so had town funds. The streets were never repaved.

I saw a few other cars parked on Main Street, which is a slow-­down point on the two-­lane state highway that cuts through town. There are signs pointing every direction, but it's as if an invisible electric fence encircles the town, and the only way out is to die. There's a little post office, a grocery store, the Farmers National Bank, a beauty parlor called Clips and Curls for Guys and Girls, and a restaurant with the name The Cozy Corner Café. I'd never been inside of any of these businesses, only seen them through car windows. To me they were just facades on the set of a not-­very-­interesting small-­town soap opera.

Randy switched off the truck, but I needed to sit for a moment to psych myself up to get out. So I did what I normally did when I was afraid, and that was to recite the opening to
Offender NYC
, which is actually the title on a black screen with several voices saying the NYCPD's oath: “I do solemnly swear to uphold the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of New York, and that I will faithfully discharge my duties as a police officer with the New York City Police Department to the best of my ability, so help me God.”

I recited very quietly with my face to the window, but Randy heard me.

“Are you praying or something?” he asked me.

I didn't answer, but got out of the truck and strode toward the office building, with Randy jogging to catch up. I knew the only way I'd get through the will reading would be to pretend Deirdre was at my elbow, my personal bodyguard, along with Detective Mandy Quirke, as if we'd just attended Captain Barrigan's funeral after he was killed in the first episode of season nine.

I opened the door and Randy tried to take it from me, tried to get me to go in first. But I held on until he got the hint to go on in, which he did with a sigh. I followed and located all the exits. OODA Loop activated. Two doors, one front, one back. Six windows. A staircase. The outer room had a conference table with six chairs. The actual office was at the back of the building, thirty feet from where I stood. Although I sensed no physical threat, something tripped my inner alarm. Was it because I was so overtired and overemotional? Or was it something else?

One of the men I'd seen at the funeral stood up from a desk in that inner office. His face had skin the texture of oatmeal and he wore a powder-­blue suit. His squarish wire-­rimmed glasses accentuated the rectangular shape of his large forehead. The glasses kept sliding down his nose, so the tops of the frames bisected his colorless eyes and he had to tip his head back to look at me.

“Hello, Petty,” he said. “I don't know if you remember me or not. I'm Keith Dooley. I met you when you were not but yay high.” He held his hand palm down at hip level.

I had no recollection of him before the funeral, but he'd obviously known the younger me. Hearing him describe what I didn't remember made me feel like a ghost, watching events and ­people from an alternate lifetime that never happened to me. He waited for me to respond, but I didn't.

“We'll be watching the video out there,” Mr. Dooley said. “Let me grab a few things.”

Video? What kind of video would we be watching? Randy sat down at the conference table, but I remained standing, taking in the lawyer's outer office. It was dim and musty. Through the door to the inner office, I saw that Mr. Dooley's desk was U-­shaped and mounded with bulging file folders, documents, and different colored papers spilling out. How could he find anything in there?

Mr. Dooley rolled a metal cart out of his office. On top of it were a TV and a VCR. He positioned the cart at one end of the table, plugged the machines' electrical cords into a wall outlet and switched them both on.

“We all ready?” Mr. Dooley said. He held up a VHS tape for us to see before sliding it into the top-­loading VCR.

The tape rolled, and the image shimmied and dipped. The picture stopped bucking, and Dad came into the frame and sat in his recliner in front of the camera. I inhaled sharply, stunned by a sudden rush of emotion, seeing him. I was so glad at that moment he'd taught me how to not cry.

Obviously he'd been setting the video camera on a tripod but couldn't get it into the position he wanted it in and then gave up. Consequently, we only occasionally saw his mouth. Mostly we saw the top third of his face.

“Petty,” my dad said, “this is your dad.” He cleared his throat. “Today is your eighteenth birthday, and I'm making this video will. I've also typed it up and had it notarized.”

Mr. Dooley held up a file folder, and I took that to mean the written will was inside it.

“I know you realize I'm not going to be around forever to take care of you. I've tried my best to keep you safe all your life. I've taught you everything I know. And I've done my best to be a good father. I know I didn't always succeed but I didn't have your mom around to help me out.”

I found myself sitting up straighter, trying to see the bottom half of his face.

“I know you got tired of me telling you that we live in an extremely dangerous world. In Saw Pole, you're about as safe as you can be on this earth, and I want to make sure you stay here. That's why I bought a million-­dollar life insurance policy today.”

It took me a moment to realize he was speaking literally. My jaw sagged.

A million dollars?

“You're the sole beneficiary, Petty, but there are conditions. And you know I'm only doing this because it's for your own good.”

Randy sat straighter in his chair and gave me a sideways glance.

“In order to get the money, Petty, you're going to have to marry Randy King—­if he's alive and still single.”

He said it casually, as if telling me I needed to remember to feed the dogs. My head jerked, almost involuntarily, toward Randy. He stared back at me, emotionless. It was clear he'd already known what was coming and hadn't said a word about it. Nausea dribbled into my stomach.

“And if he's not, you'll have to join the Dominican Sisters order in Bison, Kansas, and live and serve with them for twenty years after my death . . .”

I lunged forward and hit the pause button. Then I looked from Randy to Mr. Dooley and opened my mouth. A loud sound like the bleating of a wounded sheep came out, and I couldn't stop for quite a while.

It was the sound of all my treasured hopes and dreams disappearing down the drain.

This was worse than drowning. Worse than having no mother. Worse than living with a silent crazy father. I wouldn't be free after all. I wouldn't have the normal life I'd planned.

The silence that followed was broken only by the sounds of both men's ragged breathing. Randy held his hands over his ears.

“What the hell was that?” he said.

“Now now,” Mr. Dooley said.

Marry Randy King? I'd never even been alone with a man other than my father until two days before. Never been kissed. Marriage meant sex, and my dad had talked endlessly about rape and how to avoid it. And now he had sold me out for a lifetime of it.

I had to think. Was it possible to just refuse the money? If I did, I would no longer have anywhere to live. I couldn't drive. I had no skills, no friends, no family. Where would I go? What would I do?

How could Dad do this to me? How?

“I'm not . . .” I said. “I'm not . . .”

“Do you need some water?” Mr. Dooley asked.

“I do solemnly swear,” I shouted suddenly, “to uphold the Constitution of the United States!”

I only got to the second line before Randy let loose an ear-­splitting whistle and I stopped talking.

“Are you crazy?” he said to me.

I closed my eyes and whispered the rest of the oath to myself.

“Let's everybody take it easy,” Mr. Dooley said. “I know this is a shock, Petty. You've been through a lot in the last few days. But let's go ahead and see what else your dad had to say. All right?”

I couldn't answer.

Mr. Dooley stood cracking his knuckles, watching me. He glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “Petty, I have a four o'clock appointment. Is it okay if we go on with the tape?” He hit play on the VCR.

“I know this is unexpected,” Dad said. “It might feel unfair to you, but I have devoted my life to protecting you.” Dad pressed his lips together and he couldn't go on for a moment. “So I'm doing the only thing I can think of to continue protecting you after my death. Randy's a good man and he'll keep you safe. You can trust him. He runs a decent operation, he's well respected around the county, and he's a member in good standing with the Kansas State Militia.

“But if you don't marry Randy, you forfeit everything. It'll all revert to the trust, and it will all go to the sisters in Bison. If you marry and then divorce him, you forfeit the money and the house. It all goes to the sisters. You have thirty days from the time you see this videotape to make up your mind.”

He focused on the camera, and it was as if he was in the room, making eye contact from beyond the grave. “I was thinking the other day about Cousin Rose. Remember her?”

For a moment I couldn't grasp what he was saying, who he was talking about. I didn't have any cousins. All my relatives were dead. But then I understood. This was how he was going to lock me away forever, one way or another.

“I know you remember what happened to her, and you know
why
it happened to her. You don't have to be like her, not if you marry Randy. If you don't . . .” Dad held up a brown manila envelope to the camera. “I've given this sealed envelope to Keith Dooley.”

Mr. Dooley mirrored Dad's movements, raising the envelope in the air like a magician's assistant displaying the trick saw box. He pointed to the wax seal over the flap.

“If you don't marry Randy, Keith will open the envelope and then . . . you know what will happen. I don't want that to happen, and you don't either,” Dad said.

So even if I refused the money, I'd still be trapped. He'd thought of everything.

“But I know it won't come to that,” he continued. “I have faith in you, Petty. I know you'll do the right thing. I've instructed Keith to burn the envelope if you go through with the marriage. This is the only copy, so no one will ever know what's in it. Of course, I'm hoping you'll never actually see this video, or by the time you do, you're in your seventies and it doesn't matter anymore. I love you, Petty.”

The screen went black.

He didn't love me. He was transferring title, that was all. He'd spent my life teaching me to defend myself, to fight, and for what? Just to be locked away again. Forever.

I couldn't get a full breath, it was as if there were a cork in my throat.

I had a brief thought of slicing Randy and Mr. Dooley to bacon strips with my blade, allowed myself to imagine the blood spatter, but it only made me feel better for a moment. I knew my life was over now.

I started making the same sounds the dogs made when they were about to yak.

“You're not going to howl again, are you?” Randy said.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Dooley asked.

My stomach convulsed, forcing more embarrassing sounds from my mouth.

“Give her a paper bag or something, Dooley, will you?” Randy said, scooting his chair farther from mine. The way he said this let me know that it wasn't out of concern for me but out of concern for his boots.

I heard Mr. Dooley clear his throat again. “Petty,” he said, “I know this is a lot to take in.”

Randy tapped his fingers on his cowboy hat brim, and the sound magnified in my ears. I slumped forward and put my head in my hands. There was no movement in the room, only the sound of Randy's tapping fingers. He must have noticed it too because he stopped it.

“Do you know what's in that envelope?” Randy asked Mr. Dooley.

“Nope,” Mr. Dooley said, holding up his hands. “And I don't want to know.” He glanced at his watch again. “I'm not trying to throw you out, but my next appointment will be here soon, so . . .”

“We'll get out of your hair,” Randy said to him and stood.

“Could you drive me home, Mr. Dooley?” I whispered.

Mr. Dooley's face reddened. “I'm sorry. I can't. Randy will drive you.”

I hissed at Randy like an old barn cat. Both men started a little and glanced at each other.

The effort of not crying made my head feel like it was expanding, filling the room.

“Randy, would you wait outside for a minute? I want to have a word with Petty.”

Randy gave me a glance, pressed his hat down on his head and went out the door.

Mr. Dooley squatted down next to my chair but he didn't touch me. He seemed to know better. “Petty. This probably seems . . . wrong to you. But your dad had his reasons, and I believe he had your best interests at heart.”