“It’s Sawyer, for cripe’s sake.” I frown and cross my arms atop my knees. “At least I’ve got an icon worth emulating, Sheriff Staake. Who are your heroes?” I completely, 100 percent hate him now. A few hours ago, he failed my Breathalyzer test for me. I thought his red face was some weird lingering sunburn, but I guess he’s just constantly intoxicated.
Staake makes a sound between hmmph and pfft.
“Diane Sawyer is gorgeous,” Bart says, smiling.
I raise my eyebrows. “She is.”
“Both of you shut up,” Staake yaps. “Bushman, have you decided on a phone call?”
“Dom.” I pretend to be engaged with my SAT flash cards. “That’s my father.” I give Staake the number, which he writes down. “You sure gave me long enough to think about it.”
“That’s right.” Staake nods so hard his hair shakes. “And I can give you lots longer, if I want, because I’m in charge.” He takes a step closer to my cell. “You know, Bushman, no matter who you get in here, we’ve got enough to keep you, so you’re probably gonna have to spend the night. You and Bart can have a slumber party.” He crosses his arms and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Hell! You and your dad might have to take out a loan after I’m done with you, between all the fines and the lawyer’s fees.”
I fan the SAT cards in front of my face to hide my expression. I didn’t realize that this would turn into tickets and payments. I guess I was imagining something more along the lines of a slap on the wrist and community service. My misdemeanors feel a lot like Ralph’s mail-order figurines all of a sudden. I sigh, trying to appear calm while I imagine Mom’s life insurance money going up in flames.
“Leave her alone,” says Bart sadly. But when Staake snaps at him to shut up, he begins to cry, then obediently flops onto his cot facing the wall. Pretty soon he’s snoring.
Staake crosses his arms. “You need help, Bushman, you know that?”
“I’m not crazy,” I yell. Then I don’t know what else to do so I flip the cot mattress on the floor and kick it. It’s a pretty stiff performance, but I’m tired and I used up all my tantrum energy on Libby. “Like, I don’t know if you knew, but there’s kind of a murder case going on, so you really shouldn’t be so proud of yourself for wasting time on me.”
“No time wasted at all.” Staake beams. “The murder is all settled, see, and you’re the only thing left to worry about.”
I’ve got to pee so badly. I hop around trying to hold it. “I want to call my dad, right now,” I say, trying to sound brave. Staake laughs.
“Where is she? Where’s my baby?” I can hear Dom’s voice from all the way down here. He sounds hysterical. Unluckily, I am right in the middle of peeing when I hear his footsteps coming round the corner. I’ve fashioned a little tent around me by wearing my coat backward.
“Oh geeze,” Dom says when he sees me. “Oh, Kippy Bushman.” You know things are bad when Dom uses both my real names, and isn’t calling me Big Tooth or some such.
“Dom, some privacy here.”
He turns away and as he does, he sees Bart begin to stir on his bed. “Don’t you look at her, Bart!” Dom snaps. “Don’t you dare!” I’ve never heard him talk to people this way. Bart immediately starts weeping himself to sleep again, and while Dom issues embarrassed apologies, I shake off and flush, pull up my pants, and put my coat on right.
“Okay, it’s fine now,” I say.
“It is not fine!” Dom spins around. His face is pale and sweaty. “Your tickets are going to be astronomical, Kippy!” He shoves his arms through the bars of my cell and wiggles his fingers at me. “Come,” he says sternly. “Hug.” Dom’s big thing is that discipline should always be paired with equal amounts of love. Still, he sounds like a gorilla.
“Some of the stuff I actually did,” I tell him quickly. “But the DUI thing is one hundred percent false.” I tell him about the Breathalyzer test. “He’s a drunk, Dom, you’ve got to believe me.”
Dom nods. “I believe you, I believe you,” he says, but I can tell he’s not really listening. He wiggles his fingers at me faster, and I walk toward him, sighing. The minute I’m within arm’s reach he grabs me by the shoulders, yanking me against the cold metal for a hug. For a split second I’m reminded of Colt.
“What the heck is going on here, Kippy Bushman, hey?” He holds me out away from him, looks into my eyes, and gives me a little shake. “I call up Jim Steele thinking he’ll help you, because the guy helps everybody for a price, and he says he wants nothing to do with you—says you’ll know exactly what he means. What the heck is that, hey?” When Dom gets mad, his Wisconsin accent gets thicker.
“I can explain,” I say dumbly. At this point I feel like I’ve been saying that my whole life. “After the funeral, I started thinking.” I tell him about Sheriff Staake being out to get Colt, about Mrs. Klitch’s death being a murder, not a suicide, and about Jim Steele being Ruth’s lover. I outline the local corruption and disgraceful investigation standards. “It’s up to me to fix this or else that psycho lawyer is just off hiding in a bush someplace, waiting for the next victim,” I blurt. “I have to do this—ask Davey—don’t you see, it’s kind of like we can save her just by solving this?”
“So Davey’s in on this.” Dom’s grip loosens. He’s barely holding on to me now. “I should have known.”
“I should have told you sooner,” I offer.
It’s quiet for a second except for Bart’s snoring. Then, finally, Dom shakes his head, looking very, very sad, and lets go of me. “You’re not well, honey,” he says.
This isn’t the answer I was looking for, but before I can say anything, he storms off. At first I think he’s left me, and immediately begin to cry. Bart turns his face toward me from his mattress, and he starts crying, too.
He stops abruptly, squinting at me. “You look like your mom did.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, scared now. I’ve always been afraid to be too much like her.
For a second there’s shouting upstairs—it’s Dom, though I can’t tell what he’s saying. I hear footsteps on the stairs again and wipe my face. Dom lopes toward me, shaking his head and closing up his wallet.
“What happened?” I haven’t even seen a judge, which means there isn’t any bail—so why would Dom be giving money to Sheriff Staake? “Dom, you didn’t give him any lucre, did you?”
Dom cocks his head at me, looking confused and exhausted.
“It’s an SAT word,” I explain. “It means, like, dishonest pirate money. Bribes.”
“It’s called negotiation, Kippy.” Dom runs his hand through his hair, and I can hear someone coming down behind him, the jangling of keys. “We’re getting you out of here.”
In the car, Dom turns on smooth jazz, and when I try to change the station, he bats my hand away. “You need to relax, Kippy Bushman.” He breathes in deeply, gesturing like he wants me to imitate him. “We’re relaxing now.”
I flop back in my seat and crack open the two-gallon plastic baggie they put my stuff in, reaching for my cell phone. “So do I not have any charges on me now? You lucred them and it’s all, like, over, or something?”
Dom turns up the volume a little and grabs for his own cell phone, which has started vibrating in the car’s unused ashtray. “Hi, Ralph?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, don’t talk to me.” I flip open my phone and start texting Davey: Weirdest day ever . . . can you come over? Dom won’t like it, but he won’t say much if Davey just shows up.