“I know.”
I finished my cigarette and flicked it out the window. I drove silently for several minutes, thinking about all the possible reasons two men with as little in common as Dooley and Randy King would be hunting an awkward, isolated, grieving girl, and couldn’t come up with anything. If she’d killed someone or robbed a bank, they would have flat--out said so. And actually, the cops would be the ones out searching. My sense of injustice was ruffled, so I turned my head toward Petty and said, “You can put the gun away. I’ll take you to Salina. But then I want you out of my truck. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re mixed up in, but I don’t need it. My life is starting to turn around, and I don’t need any drama to fuck it up. Okay?”
“Okay,” Petty said.
“Good.”
Another fifteen minutes went by before I spoke again. “You burglarized Dooley’s office, didn’t you? That’s what it is, right?”
But if that’s what it was, why was Randy King involved?
“No.”
“What’s all that shit in your bag? You didn’t go into his office with it.”
Petty sighed. “Things that belonged to my dad.”
Weirdness on top of weirdness. “Why did Dooley have them?”
“Long story,” Petty said.
“WHERE IS THIS pawnshop?” Dekker asked as we drove into Salina an hour later.
I gave him the address. I kept an eagle eye out, because I didn’t know whether he was going to drive me straight to the police station. But he pulled into the parking lot of a corrugated tin--shed--type building with the sign NICK'S PAWNSHOP on the front. I was disappointed. I’d hoped for a pawnshop like those I’d seen on TV. A storefront in an old New York City brick building with the crisscrossed bars over the windows. This building stood alone and seemed fairly new. It also looked so flimsy it would crumple if you leaned on it too hard.
“Can you help me get some stuff out of my suitcase back there?” I asked. “I need to pawn it.”
“So you said.”
“Will you help me?”
“Why not,” Dekker said. It was not said kindly, more like he didn’t really mean it. But then he smiled. It was going to take me a while to decipher what different tones of voice and facial expressions meant in the real world. I wished I had a chart or something.
We got out of the truck. I felt stiff and slow after all the stress of the afternoon. I unzipped the suitcase and surveyed my dad’s and my guns. It was the story of my life in firearms.
“Holy shit,” Dekker said, stepping backward with his hands in the air. “So your dad really was survivalist guy, huh? A John Bircher?”
“Dad always said it was a dangerous world,” I said. I carefully considered what I wanted to sell and what I would need to keep and use. “Which do you think will bring the most money?”
Dekker kept his hands up and said, “I don’t know shit about guns.”
Finally, I chose the 9mm Sig Sauer P226, the Stoeger Double Defense shotgun, the Bushmaster AR--15, and the AK--47. I’d packed each with its registration papers. I left the Winchester rifle, the Mossberg 590 Mariner, and the Weatherby SA--459 TR.
“What about the one you got in your holster?” Dekker said. “You gonna sell that one?”
“No,” I said. “That was the last thing my dad ever gave me.”
“Just a sentimental fool, wasn’t he?”
Dekker picked up the AK and the AR and held them like they might explode spontaneously. He went to the door and held it open for me, but I shook my head. He shrugged and went in. I followed, back to the wall, found the exits, located the security cameras, evaluated the threat level. The building had the smell of old dust. I pictured in my mind the kind of guy who would be behind the counter—-a short, round Italian guy with a cigar in the corner of his mouth wearing a Hawaiian shirt. I was of course disappointed again. The guy behind the counter was tall and thin and very white, like most -people in Kansas, and he was wearing a blue button--down shirt.
Dekker laid the guns carefully on top of the glass. I set the dump diamond ring next to them and pulled out the black jewelry box with my engagement ring. I was happy to be rid of the thing—-it felt dirty and evil. If I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d use it for target practice.
I set the ring box on top of the Bushmaster.
Dekker raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
I reached inside my pocket and felt my mom’s silver necklace chain. No way would I pawn this, even if it were worth anything.
The clerk surveyed the collection of stuff, looked up at Dekker and then at me. “Shotgun wedding?”
“That’s a rifle, not a shotgun,” I said. “There’s a difference. See, a rifle has a—-”
Dekker burst out laughing. I turned to him, confused, and then saw the clerk was laughing too. He gathered up the gun papers and the rings.
“Take a look around. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through a doorway.
“Did Randy King give you those rings?”
“One of them,” I said. “The other I found at the dump.”
“So . . . you’re a runaway bride, is that it?”