The Drowning Game by L.S. Hawker
Chapter 1
Wednesday
SIRENS AND THE scent of strange men drove Sarx and Tesla into a frenzy of barking and pacing as they tried to keep the intruders off our property without the aid of a fence. Two police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance were parked on the other side of the dirt road. The huddled cops and firemen kept looking at the house.
Dad’s iPhone rang and went on ringing. I couldn’t make myself answer it. I knew it was the cops outside calling to get me to open the front door, but asking me to allow a group of strangers inside seemed like asking a pig to fly a jet. I had no training or experience to guide me. I longed to get the AK--47 out of the basement gun safe, even though it would be me against a half--dozen trained law men.
“Petty Moshen.” An electric megaphone amplified the man’s voice outside.
The dogs howled at the sound of it, intensifying further the tremor that possessed my entire body. I hadn’t shaken like this since the night Dad left me out on the prairie in a whiteout blizzard to hone my sense of direction.
“Petty, call off the dogs.”
I couldn’t do it.
“I’m going to dial up your father’s cell phone again, and I want you to answer it.”
Closing my eyes, I concentrated, imagining those words coming out of my dad’s mouth, in his voice. The iPhone vibrated. I pretended it was my dad, picked it up, hit the answer button and pressed it to my ear.
“This is Sheriff Bloch,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “We have to come in and talk to you about your dad.”
I cleared my throat again. “I need to do something first,” I said, and thumbed the end button. I headed down to the basement.
Downstairs, I got on the treadmill, cranked up the speed to ten miles an hour and ran for five minutes, flat--out, balls to the wall. This is what Detective Deirdre Walsh, my favorite character on TV’s Offender NYC, always did when emotions overwhelmed her. No one besides me and my dad had ever come into our house before, so I needed to steady myself.
I jumped off and took the stairs two at a time, breathing hard, sweating, my legs burning, but steadier. I popped a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth. Then I walked straight to the front door the way Detective Walsh would—-fearlessly, in charge, all business. I flung the door open and shouted, “Sarx! Tesla! Off! Come!”
They both immediately glanced over their shoulders and came loping toward me. I noticed another vehicle had joined the gauntlet on the other side of the road, a brand--new tricked--out red Dodge Ram 4x4 pickup truck. Randy King, wearing a buff--colored Stetson, plaid shirt, Lee’s, and cowboy boots, leaned against it. All I could see of his face was a black walrus mustache. He was the man my dad had instructed me to call if anything ever happened to him. I’d seen Randy only a -couple of times but never actually talked to him until today.
The dogs sat in front of me, panting, worried, whimpering. I reached down and scratched their ears, thankful that Dad had trained them like he had. I straightened and led them to the one--car garage attached to the left side of the house. They sat again as I raised the door and signaled them inside. They did not like this one bit—-they whined and jittered—-but they obeyed my command to stay. I lowered the door and turned to face the invasion.
As if I’d disabled an invisible force field, all the men came forward at once: the paramedics and firemen carrying their gear boxes, the cops’ hands hovering over their sidearms. I couldn’t look any of them in the eye, but I felt them staring at me as if I were an exotic zoo animal or a serial killer.
The man who had to be the sheriff walked right up to me, and I stepped back palming the blade I keep clipped to my bra at all times. I knew it was unwise to reach into my hoodie, even just to touch the Baby Glock in my shoulder holster.
“Petty?” he said.
“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on the clump of yellow, poisonous prairie ragwort at my feet.
“I’m Sheriff Bloch. Would you show us in, please?”
“Yes sir,” I said, turning and walking up the front steps. I pushed open the screen and went in, standing aside to let in the phalanx of strange men. My breathing got shallow and the shaking started up. My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my face, and the bump on my left shoulder—-scar tissue from a childhood injury—-itched like crazy. It always did when I was nervous.
The EMTs came in after the sheriff.
“Where is he?” one of them asked. I pointed behind me to the right, up the stairs. They trooped up there carrying their cases. The house felt too tight, as if there wasn’t enough air for all these -people.
Sheriff Bloch and a deputy walked into the living room. Both of them turned, looking around the room, empty except for the grandfather clock in the corner. The old thing had quit working many years before, so it was always three--seventeen in this house.