“Listen. I’m going to make this easy for you. You bring Petty to me, I’ll give you a share of the insurance policy. I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars.”
I inhaled sharply. For a split second I let myself imagine what it might be like to have that kind of money. To go back to college. To blend in with the rich kids. I shook my head, as if to dislodge the idea from it. I couldn’t possibly even entertain the idea of betraying Petty like that. Except I already had.
And maybe it was truly the best thing for her . . .
“If she’s so dangerous, how come her dad let her work at the dump? With a shotgun in her booth?”
“It wasn’t loaded, numb--nuts. Charlie let her think it was. As long as she wasn’t around -people that much, she was okay. He kept her locked up so she wouldn’t hurt anyone else. And look what it got him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw the coroner’s report. Her dad didn’t die of a heart attack. Someone held a pillow over his face. He was smothered to death.”
“BULLSHIT,” DEKKER SAID, sounding even more uncertain.
“Dooley’s planning for her to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. I’m guessing you know about the sealed envelope that Petty stole from Dooley’s office. There’s a report in there from a psychiatrist that says she’s a paranoid schizophrenic.”
That’s what I had feared was in that envelope. After that day at the dump, a lady had come to the house and we’d sat out front while she asked me all kinds of questions. Things like did I hear voices, and did I think that everyone was out to get me. She’d written my answers on a clipboard and then went away. I’d never heard any more about it.
But Randy’s words: Delusional. Paranoid. Suspicious. Odd.
That was me.
“He’s appointing me as her guardian,” Randy continued. “She’ll spend some time in the nuthouse, but we’ll get her the medication she needs, and then she’ll come home with me.”
I’d dreamed of killing Dad thousands of times. Of waiting until he fell asleep and taking a pillow and slowly lowering it over his face. Of getting comfortable with holding it down, with waiting until he started to fight. Of not being surprised when he didn’t.
Of imagining my life outside of his house.
Did I really only imagine it? Or had I killed the man I’d thought was my father? The man who trained me to kill?
How had I let myself believe in the last few days that I deserved to be around normal -people?
Maybe Michael Rhones and Randy King knew what was best for me. Maybe I didn’t.
Because I didn’t know whether I had done the things he said I’d done, whether I was what he said I was. I felt like I was falling, tumbling through space, with nothing and no one to catch me. I’d seen shows about -people who couldn’t tell the difference between what happened on television and what happened in the real world. And now this thought spiraled in on itself. Had I watched so many crime shows that I could no longer distinguish between what I’d seen on TV and what I’d done?
Not knowing made me desperate to get up to Paiute, to meet my biological father and discover the truth about myself and my past. To find out if my mother was up there with him. If I could just look them in the eye, somehow I would know the truth about everything.
“I’m getting tired of all this talking,” Randy said. “I’ve been driving all day. Now you’re going to tell me where she is.”
There was silence, and I pictured Dekker mouthing the words, She’s under there, and pointing at the bed. But instead he said, “I’m not going to tell you.”
Above me the box springs sagged as Randy added his weight to Dekker’s. I heard struggling, grunting, fists making contact with flesh.
I had to get out of there, get up to Paiute now. I unholstered Baby Glock as I rolled out from under the bed, and saw Randy’s hands fastened around my friend’s neck, Dekker’s eyes bulging and limbs flailing ineffectually like a beetle on its back. His helplessness enraged me. I pulled back the slide on my gun and pushed the barrel against Randy’s temple. Somehow his Stetson remained on his sweaty head.
“Get off him,” I said. “I’m crazy. I will shoot you.” I hated the fact I was using the exact same words I’d said to Dekker a few days ago. But the slack surprise on Randy’s face as he loosened his grip on Dekker’s neck gave me a thrill. Dekker pushed him off and straightened, panting and gagging.
“I know you’ve got your hand cannon,” I said. “Put it on the nightstand.”
Randy glared at me and pulled the .357 Magnum out of his pocket. He laid it on the nightstand. I picked it up and ejected the clip, which I pocketed.
Dekker’s nose and mouth were bleeding and he had a knot on his forehead. The skin on his neck was bright pink.
“Get up,” I said to him.
Dekker rolled off the bed, wiping blood from his face, and Randy tried to stand.
“Not you, Randy. You stay where you are.”
He did.
“You all right, Dekker?”
Dekker nodded, his hands bloody, his face smeary and swollen.
“Petty,” Randy said.