“You’ll need to drive fast, then,” Uncle Curt said, “so you can get back in time.”
“It’s one thing to rescue her from the bus station,” I said. “It’s a whole other level of commitment to drive all the way to fucking Detroit, Michigan.”
“It’s an eleven--hour drive,” Uncle Curt said. “Nothing to it.”
My patience snapped. “Here’s a fun fact that I haven’t told you, because I wanted to protect her, but this girl actually forced me at gunpoint to drive her to Salina.”
“She—-what?”
“Yeah. And then we got chased by the cops, because she took that stuff from Dooley’s office. So I think I’ve already gone above and beyond for her.”
“Wow,” Uncle Curt said. “How desperate would you have to be to do something like that? Poor girl.”
“Poor girl? What about poor Dekker? I’m the one who could have been shot, who had to abandon my truck, who’s wanted by the law through no fault of my own, and for what?” I turned to walk back to the Jeep, but Uncle Curt caught my elbow and yanked me backward, almost knocking me off my feet.
“So you’re just going to walk away, is that the plan? Going to be a selfish coward bastard like . . .”
“My dad. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” I snatched my arm back, my face hot with embarrassment, and I hated Uncle Curt at that moment.
“I didn’t have to say it,” he said. “When your mom got sick—-”
I turned away, but he got in front of me. “You’re going to listen to this,” he said. “When your mom got sick I promised her I’d keep an eye on you, make sure you grew up right in spite of that son--of--a--bitch of a fucked--up dad. I’m sorry. I can’t let you off the hook. I can’t let you desert that poor girl.”
I didn’t move. I mirrored Uncle Curt’s crossed--arm posture and tried not to appear shaky.
“All right, then,” Uncle Curt said. “That’s how you want to play it, you’ll have to find your own way back to your truck, and when we get to the house, so help me, I’m calling the cops on you.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“Look. You don’t know Randy King and Keith Dooley the way I do. They want Petty’s money, and they will do anything to get it. And I do mean anything.”
He was as serious as I’ve ever seen him.
“I don’t understand why you’re being such an asshole about this,” he said. “This isn’t about the band or making it big or anything like that. Tell me what’s going on.”
I hated that he could see right through me. I hated that I couldn’t hide from him. He knew me too well.
I looked down at my feet. “I’m like Charlie Brown,” I said. “Everything I touch turns to shit. This is serious, grown--up business. It’s this girl’s life. What if I fuck it up?”
“You won’t,” Uncle Curt said, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “Because you’re not your dad. I have the feeling that this may just be the most important thing you ever do. And you won’t regret it.”
Chapter 15
CURT AND DEKKER got back in the Jeep.
“Dekker would love to accompany you,” Curt said. “So that’s settled. We all need to get home and get some sleep because you’ve got a long drive ahead of you tomorrow.”
It was three--thirty in the morning when we got to Wamego and Curt’s farmhouse, which was in the middle of a cornfield in the middle of nowhere.
Curt pulled the Jeep up to the barn and told Roxanne to open the doors for him.
“Dekker, you gonna sit there or be a gentleman and help me?” Roxanne said.
He groaned but got out with her and each of them swung a barn door open. Curt pulled the Jeep into the barn as lights came on.
The dogs both leaned on me; they were so friendly and silly it made me nervous. They were nothing like my dogs, and if someone attacked us, they’d be worthless. Dekker opened the passenger door and they hopped out before trotting over to separate dog beds and flopping down.
Aside from the beams, the inside of the barn didn’t look like a barn at all. The floor was painted, textured concrete, and the walls were covered with vivid paintings. One--quarter of the barn was an art studio, but the rest housed some classic cars, parked in two parallel diagonal rows.
Curt switched off the Jeep, pulled the barn doors shut behind it and locked them.
“Aunt Rita asleep?” Dekker said.
“She’s in Houston on a job interview.”
While they were talking, I studied the paintings on the walls, and ended up in front of one that was three--quarters finished, sitting on an easel. It was a massive canvas depicting a little girl running through a wheat field toward a giant rising moon. I smelled Roxanne’s vanilla scent, felt her appear at my side, and took a step away automatically.
“I’m so excited for him to finish this one,” she said, her eyes on the painting.
“Who?” I said.
“My dad.”
“Your dad painted this?”
“All of them,” Roxanne said, waving her arm at the colorful canvases around the room. “He’s been doing this my whole life. Other dads play golf. Mine makes art.”