The Drowning Game (26 page)

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.

H
OW 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.

T
HE 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 head thrumming and throbbing.

And then I heard a coyote howl in the distance.

Maybe not a coyote.

“Mitch! No!”

M
ITCH 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.”

Mitch didn't say anything, just stood gazing down at Dekker. I moved a little closer, the water now on both sides of me, only feet away.

“Let's get him out of here,” I said. “If you're planning on dumping him in the pond, I don't care how deep it is, they'll find him. Let's let him go. Then you and I will be together. Forever. You don't have to—­”

“You'll try to get away,” Mitch shouted.

“I'm here,” I said, holding my arms out, walking closer still. I tottered a little, feeling the pull of the water. I forced myself to look at him. “I came to you, remember? You didn't find me, I found you.”

Mitch blinked behind his frosted glasses.

“I've come home. If Dekker goes in the pond, he'll be between us forever.” I couldn't look at Dekker.

“He won't,” Mitch said, “because—­”

“Because I'll be dissolved within a ­couple of days,” Dekker said in a hoarse voice. “Remember how he said this is some of the most acidic water on earth? Pyrite plus oxygen plus water makes sulfuric acid.”

I didn't understand what he was saying. “Acid?”

“Don't go near it, whatever you do,” Dekker said.

My heart dropped to my feet. I was surrounded by acid, millions of gallons of it, and the ground beneath my feet seemed to ripple, to quake, threatening my balance.

Mitch smiled hopefully at me. “He'll just disappear,” he said. “As if he never existed to begin with.”

Like Randy.

“If you put him in there,” I said, edging nearer, “I'll have to go in after him. If you let him go, you and I will go back to your cabin and we'll be together.” I was shaking violently.

It seemed to me that one way or another, I was going to end up in that lake, and it was going to hurt. Badly.

“Your choice, Mitch,” I said. “He goes in, I go in.” I held my arms out. “Or you can come to me right now. Come to Marianne.”

Mitch's tiny eyes were unfocused, distant.

“Marianne?”

“Yes,” I said. “It's me. Hold me. I'm so cold.”

Mitch stepped over Dekker, his feet inches from the acid. I hoped Dekker had the presence of mind not to make any sudden moves, because if Mitch went in, at the very least Dekker would be splashed with acid and there would be no way to help him out here.

Mitch walked toward me. He still held my Glock. I kept my arms out toward him, locking eyes with him. I slid my arms around his waist inside his open jacket.

He groaned, an animal sound. “Wait,” he said, and moved away, settling the rifle strap over his shoulder. Then he wrapped his arms around my waist and bent down to kiss me on the lips.

 

Chapter 30

T
HE REVULSION
I felt as Mitch touched his lips to Petty's made me light-­headed. I couldn't feel my hands anymore, which were crushed beneath me on the hard snowy ground, but I had to get free somehow. I struggled to a sitting position but my dizziness remained. If I stood, would I be able to keep from falling over, possibly into the acid?

Suddenly, Petty reached for the rifle.

“No, Petty!” I shouted. Mitch was too big for her to overpower, no matter how much training she had.

They each clenched it with both hands, parallel to the ground. Petty suddenly let go, causing Mitch to stumble backward, then unleashed a mighty high kick, dislodging the rifle from his grasp. He was stunned, watching it fly and land with a
plop
in the pond. While Mitch was preoccupied, Petty turned and kicked his knees forward, dropping him onto them.

As he fell, he got hold of her ankle. She grunted and caught herself before her face hit the ground. Mitch grabbed the other ankle and flipped her onto her back, her left hand inches from the water.

He straddled her. “You lied to me.”

I rocked from side to side, trying to move forward, frantic to stop what was happening. I tried to pull my knees under me but only succeeded in moving closer to the acid.

“Get off and I'll go to your cabin with you,” Petty said.

“I'm not falling for your lies anymore. I'm not going to wait that long,” Mitch said. “I'm going to take you right here, and then you're mine for good.”

To my horror, he pinned her arms with his knees and began unfastening his belt. I bucked, desperate to do something, anything. Was Mitch really going to do this here? Outside? In the cold and snow?

He leaned forward, trying to get his pants undone with one hand while pinning Petty with his opposite elbow. She wheeled her arms and legs, at once trying to pull her bra knife loose and get a punch in, but she had no leverage. He was so large and heavy it must have been like trying to fight a boulder.

“No! Stop!” I yelled. I'd never felt so helpless, so useless, in my life.

Mitch fumbled with his zipper. “I need to show you,” he said. “You are mine.”

I
T WAS A
trick of the light, maybe—­or the snowflakes in my eyes had warped my vision—­but suddenly I was in a bathtub with huge hands pinning me underwater.

And just like that it came to me.

Of course it hadn't been Michael Rhones who'd tried to drown me. It was Mitch and his huge hands. To get my mom to go with him. I saw it all now, heard it all. Mom screamed in the background, “Let her go! Let her go!”

“Let's play a
new
game,” Mitch was saying to two-­year-­old me. “Let's play the drowning game.”

P
ETTY STOPPED FIGHTING.

“No!” I yelled. “Petty, this is what your dad trained you for, all those years, your whole life.”

Mitch lifted his head and smiled victoriously at me.

“Petty,” I said. “This is the moment. This is your moment. Your mom couldn't stop him, but
you can
.”

Mitch licked his lips and turned his attention back to his fly. As he did, Petty thrust her hips upward, knocking him off balance. He scrambled to regain his stability, but he rolled forward onto his right shoulder, and then Petty was on top of him, one of his feet dangerously near the water.

Suddenly Petty let loose. And it was glorious to behold.

She drove her elbow into Mitch's nose. Fine droplets of blood burst outward, misting in the frozen air before Mitch covered his face with his hands. I'd seen fights before, and somehow the punches had always seemed restrained. Not this time. Petty pounded his face so fast and hard, I couldn't count the blows. One of the lenses of Mitch's glasses was suddenly gone, the frames bent.

But once Mitch recovered from the surprise of the broken nose, he was able to collar Petty's throat with both bloody hands and squeeze. She punched his elbows, but he wouldn't let go. Petty rose to her knees and threw her weight straight down into his midsection. As she forced the air out of him, his grip loosened on her throat. Then she punched him in the Adam's apple, and he made a loud
heeeeeeee
noise as he tried to inhale. She finally got hold of her bra knife and held it to his throat.

“I'm not going to kill you,” Petty said. “I'm taking you to the police. You're going to pay for what you did to my mother. Now get up.”

Mitch recovered enough to struggle to his feet. He shuffled toward her, his right hand covering his nose, blood dripping off his chin.

“Give me that knife, young lady,” he said through his hand.

“Walk back to the car,” she said to him.

Mitch turned toward the lake's shore and lifted his hands into the air. His pants fell down.

Petty bent and helped me to my feet then turned me around. Suddenly my hands were free, and I was grateful her knife hadn't ended up in the lake along with her gun. It was a few minutes before my arms started to work again, though not very well. I stuffed my bloody and ruined hands under my shirt into my armpits.

Still brandishing her knife at Mitch, Petty said, “Pull your pants up.”

He did.

“Wow,” I said. “You know what? You really are like Sarah Connor. Except without the crazy.”

Petty gave me a strangely pleased and surprised look, then smiled at me, that beautiful, dimpled smile.

I
KEPT THE
knife in Mitch's view as he yanked his pants up, zipped and buttoned them.

“Now walk toward the car.” He did as he was told, and I followed with Dekker close behind me. He was unsteady, and I was concerned he was going to tip over into the pond. My shredded left calf muscle screamed in pain as I limped.

“Where's Randy?” I said.

“I took him to the hospital,” Mitch said.

“No you didn't.”

“He's gone,” Mitch said, trudging toward the shore, holding his pants with one hand and his belt with the other. “He won't bother you anymore.”

“Is Randy in the tailings pond?” I asked.

“Of course he is,” Dekker said.

“Is my mother in there?” I said.

Mitch said nothing, and I realized I already knew the answer. I looked out over the pond, the gallons of acid within it, and watched the snow disappear as it touched the surface. I was overwhelmed by a compulsion to join the snowflakes, to dissolve and blend with them and my mother, who had vanished into those depths so many years ago.

But I had to live. I had to see that this monster got what was coming to him.

When we got to the Taurus, I turned to open the back door and suddenly heard a choking sound and scuffling behind me.

I turned back around, and Mitch was strangling Dekker with his belt with one hand while struggling to pull Baby Glock out of his pocket with the other.

I let go of my knife and gave Mitch an elbow shot to the chin, forcing him to release Dekker, who fell to the ground. Then I kicked Mitch in the groin, just like my dad had taught me. He dropped to his knees, and my gun popped out of his hand. I jumped on top of him, landing punch after punch, breaking teeth and bone, his and mine, head butting his face over and over, never wanting to stop—­

thisisthesonofabitchwhokilledmymomandmademydadacrazymotherfucker

—­until I realized that Dekker was shouting in my ear and pulling me away.

I looked at my battered hands, my skull ringing, blood running down my face, and tasted it in my mouth. I hawked it back and spat it into Mitch's pulverized face. He panted and moaned, but didn't bother to wipe his face.

“You can't make me go with you,” he groaned.

I picked up Baby Glock, pulled back the slide and aimed it at his head.

“You're going to get in your car,” I said, “and we're going to drive you down to the hospital, where we're going to call the cops. And if you try to escape, if you try to run, I will shoot you, and I don't care if I go to jail for the rest of my life. My father, Michael Rhones . . .”

I could no longer speak.
My father
. I'd cursed him, even hated him, for most of my life, hated him for the endless drills and the training and the working out, his silences, his rules.

I'd asked myself
Why?
thousands of times, wondered endlessly why he'd raised me like he had. Somehow, he'd known this day would come, and he sacrificed his whole life to give me the tools he knew I'd need one day. Suddenly the love I'd felt for him as a little girl flooded me with such potency it nearly knocked me over.

I forced myself to stop crying and stood straight and tall as I faced the man who destroyed my family.

“Like Dekker said, Dad trained me for this moment. He trained me to kill. And I will kill you.”

“She will,” Dekker said.

“Get in the fucking car,” I said.

I
SAT IN
the front seat facing backward, my gun pointed at Mitch.

“You're just like your mother,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It's not a compliment. She was a—­”

“Did you not hear what she said?” Dekker asked him. He had to use the heels of his hands to drive because some of his fingers were broken and the skin looked gray. “You probably want to keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“You're going to prison,” I said to Mitch.

He tried to smile, his broken face looking like a watermelon dropped from the top of a ten-­story building. “But I'll get out,” he said. “No matter what you do, no matter where you go, I will find you.”

I held his gaze silently for a moment. “Oh,” I said, letting myself smile back at him. “You better hope to God you don't.”

He stopped smiling and looked out the window. He didn't utter another sound the rest of the way to the hospital.

Dekker laughed. “You are such a badass.”

He parked in front of the emergency room.

“You go on in,” I said. “I'll guard him until the cops get here.”

Dekker pointed to a black-­and-­white idling at the curb, exhaust fumes making clouds in the cold night. “They're already here.” He got out of the car and knocked on the cruiser's window.

Inside the ER, the lady at the admissions desk did a double take when she saw the three of us accompanied by the deputy.

“Car accident?” she asked, jumping to her feet and picking up the phone.

“No,” I said and pointed at Dekker. “He's got a head injury.” I pointed at Mitch. “This guy tried to rape me and kill both of us.”

Orderlies appeared and put Dekker into a wheelchair and wheeled him right in.

The admissions nurse said, “Are you all right?”

“No,” I said. Then I collapsed to the floor.