Box (6 page)

“I’VE GOT SOME good news and bad,” Dr. Box says, after preparing the syringe.

“Bad news first,” I say.

“It takes a full thirty minutes for the morphine to take effect.”

“Shit.”

“I thought you should know.”

“We can’t wait thirty minutes to do this,” I say. “Please. Try not to hurt me too much, or ruin my face.”

He says, “I’m uniquely qualified to rough you up.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m a surgeon. I understand how to cause the most bruising with the least possible tissue damage. You’ll want some heavy bruising, maximum swelling, profuse bleeding in areas that can be easily stitched by a qualified plastic surgeon.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic, okay?”

“Okay. But you’ve got to admit, doing this in the dark is an exhilarating challenge!”

When Dr. Box talks like that it creeps me out worse than the way he ejaculates.

“What’s the good news?” I ask.

“Good news is, by injecting you now, we’ll stay ahead of the pain. When the sheriff and EMS get here I can honestly say you received the injection the same time Darrell did.”

“Keep an eye out for Cletus and Renfo.”

“Who are they?”

“Darrell’s crackhead meth partner twins. If Darrell’s here, Cletus and Renfro can’t be far behind. Unless they’re stoned.”

“Is that likely?”

“It’s almost a certainty. But just in case.”

“Okay. Will do.”

She says, “Let’s do it. Give me the morphine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Turn around, bend over, pull your pants down.”

“What?”

“That’s how it’s done.”

“Bullshit!”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t inject Daddy or Darrell in the butt.”

“It’s the fastest, most direct way to administer morphine into the drug stream.”

“You’re lying through your teeth.”

“No. Seriously.”

“If you want this relationship to work, you’re gonna have to tell the truth.”

“I am?”

“Yes, of course. And not just once-in-a-while. Always.”

He pauses a minute, then says, “Okay, I’m lying. But how did you know?”

“I was a candy striper for two summers at county. No one got morphine shots in the ass.”

“True, because they used a drip.”

“Yes. In the arm. Because as any heroin addict knows, the crook of the arm is the most direct route to the pain centers.”

“That’s never been proven,” he says.

“Yes it has.”

“Not definitively.”

“Arm,” I say. “Not ass.”

He sighs, gives me the shot. In the crook of my arm. Then he kisses me on the lips.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.

He puts on Darrell’s work gloves, takes a step back, and starts punching my face. After a few hits I beg him to stop, but he tells me what I already know, that we’ve got to really sell it. It bothers me that he’s able to keep hitting me when I’m sobbing like this, but I guess it’s easier for him because he’s a doctor. I’m putting my trust in him not to fuck me up too badly.

But I can’t help but wonder if he’s enjoying it a little too much.

Finally he stops. Then he grabs me by the neck and throws me down. He helps me up, then carefully hits me in what he calls strategic places to cause bruising and swelling on my torso without breaking my ribs.

Then he does something that surprises me.

He walks over to Darrell, who’s unconscious, and makes his hands into fists. Then he slams Darrell’s hands into the gravel. He’s realized Darrell’s fists should look like they hit me more than once.

He comes back to me, puts his arm around me and gives me a hug. By now I’m in excruciating pain. I can’t stop crying.

“How much longer before the drugs kick in?”

“Nearly thirty minutes.”

“What?”

“I only started hitting you two minutes ago.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Seems longer, right?” he says. “I should call the ambulance now.”

He does, then calls the sheriff to report our version of what happened, so I can hear it from start to finish.

When he hangs up I say, “I’ve got some good and bad news for you.”

“Good news first,” he says.

“I’ve got your money.”

“What money?”

“Daddy picked your pocket. But I got it back for you by pretendin’ I needed it. It’s in my purse.”

“It is?”

“Yes, sir. The full thirty-six hundred.”

He checks his pockets and gives me a funny look.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he says, “but I had five grand in my other pocket in an envelope.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Gideon. Before the ambulance gets here, you should go through Daddy’s pockets.”

He takes the money from my purse and stuffs it in his medical bag. Then heads back into the barn to check Daddy’s pockets.

He comes back out holdin’ the envelope up so I can see it. Then he says, “What’s the bad news?”

I sigh. “When the sheriff gets here, and the questions start flyin’, you might hear talk of a legal issue.”

“What type of legal issue?”

“It’s more of a technicality than an issue.”

“Does it affect you?”

“Partly.”

“Tell me about your legal technicality.”

“Well, don’t laugh, but legally…”

“Yes?”

“Darrell’s my husband.”

“What? Excuse me? What? Darrell’s your husband?”

“Technically.”

“You said he was your brother!”

“He is. Technically.”

“What? But you said…you said—”

“He’s my brother and my husband.”

Dr. Box jumps back like he’s come up on a snake. “I’ve heard of inbreeding before, but this—”

“Oh, relax,” I say. “There’s a perfectly simple explanation.”

“This I’ve got to hear,” he says.

I open my mouth to tell him, but then I pass out. Over the next few minutes I go in and out of consciousness. At one point I hear him yell, “I can’t understand you!”

I try to tell him I’m starting to fall in love with him, but the words seem to float into the air before they get to his ears. I feel like I’m a kid again, in my mother’s arms, and she’s rockin’ me to sleep. When I open my eyes I’m aware I’m lyin’ on my back on a bed, in an ambulance. There’s a guy sittin’ above me, talkin’ words I can’t make out.

When my head clears a bit, I say, “Where you takin’ me?”

“County hospital. You know where that is?”

“Starbucks, Kentucky.”

“You been there before? As a patient?”

“Six times.”

“Guess this makes seven, huh?”

“I guess it does.”

16.

Dr. Gideon Box.

THE COUNTY HOSPITAL at Starbucks must think they’re hosting a family reunion, admitting Trudy, Darrell, and Scooter at the same time for different reasons. I try to imagine the conversation among the emergency room staff at the front desk prior to admitting.

This one was beat up by her husband and brother. This one was run over by his sister and wife’s boyfriend. This one had a roof fall on him.

Crazy.

Sheriff Carson Boyd follows me to the Clayton police station to get a statement. Tells his dispatcher to run a check on me. Tells him to do an internet search for good measure.

Three hours later, he says, “Tell me about the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one we found in the console.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It takes another half-hour to convince him I know nothing about a letter, or who wrote it. Then he leaves the room a few minutes, comes back and says, “You ought to thank Trudy for writing that letter.”

“What letter?”

“Let’s don’t start that again,” he says. “Trudy wrote a letter while Scooter was interrogating you in the barn. Her letter corroborates your story, not hers.”

“She has a different story?”

“She and Scooter gave different accounts of the hangman’s noose we found on the floor, how the barn roof caved in, and how you may have acquired those rope burns around your neck.”

“She’s trying to protect her father, and he’s trying to protect his job.”

“Thanks Sherlock, but we’ll draw our own conclusions if it’s all the same to you.”

He follows me to the Dew Drop Inn and waits for me to check in. Then gives me a warning not to leave town.

“I’d like to check on Trudy,” I say.

“Did I just tell you not to leave town?”

“It’s twenty miles from here!”

“You’ll have to wait till tomorrow,” he says.

“Is she okay?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Her husband beat her up pretty badly.”

“Visiting hours start at eight. Seven if you’re family. Tell me you’re not a blood relative.”

I frown.

He says, “Tomorrow when you visit Trudy at the hospital?”

“Yeah?”

“There’ll be a police officer in the room.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Maybe not. But you’re a magnet for trouble like I’ve never seen.”

“You think?”

“Let’s review. You’re driving through town on the way to Ralston to hook up with a lady you met on the internet named Faith Hemphill.”

“That’s right.”

“You stop at Alice T’s for a bite to eat. After dinner you steal my deputy’s handcuffs and chain his daughter, our homecoming queen, to the fence behind the restaurant.”

“Yes.”

“And this was her idea.”

“That’s right.”

“Moments later my deputy catches you feeling up his daughter and somehow gets the impression you’re molesting her, so he knocks you unconscious.”

I nod.

“They drive you to Jake Thatcher’s barn. In the space of twenty minutes all the following happens: One. My deputy ties you to a chair. Two. Unties you. Three. Kicks you in the nuts. Four. Hangs you. Five. His daughter—our homecoming queen—willingly gives you a hand job while her father lies on the floor of the barn, unconscious, roof caved in, with a broken leg.”

“That’s right.”

“After the hand job, but before you call the ambulance, Trudy’s husband, Darrell, who’s also her brother, drives up, pulls Trudy from the car, and beats her up. As this is going on, you pretend to drive away, but suddenly back up and crash your car into Darrell, to save Trudy from further harm.”

“Exactly.”

“You check Darrell’s vital signs, administer morphine, and do the same for Trudy and Scooter.”

“Except that I gave Scooter the morphine twenty minutes earlier.”

“Before the hand job.”

“That’s right.”

“So before you drive into our sleepy little town, everything’s running smoothly. You stop to get a bite to eat, and two hours later three people are in the hospital.”

“I was also hung, don’t forget.”

He looks at my neck, then stares me down and says, “Don’t leave town till I say you can.”

“Other than visiting Trudy at the hospital?”

“Other than that,” he says.

17.

Trudy Lake.

“STOP INTERRUPTIN’ ME,” I tell Dr. Box. “My head hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but you’re not making any sense.”

“Then let me tell it like a story.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t interrupt me,” I say.

“Fine. Tell it.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Lucy and Lori were identical twins. So alike, even their parents couldn’t tell them apart.”

“Wait,” Dr. Box says. “Twins? They’re not related to Cletus and Renfro, are they?”

“Around here, we’re all pretty much related one way or other.”

“It would be fascinating to chart your family tree.”

“Johnny Appleseed couldn’t chart our family tree!”

I shake the cobwebs from my head and start in again.

“Lucy and Lori were identical twins.”

“You’ve said that three times already. And you’ve already told me Lucy was your mother.”

“Hush! I mean it! Or I’ll start over.”

“Sorry.”

“This ain’t an easy story to tell, you know.”

“I have no way of knowing that. You haven’t told me anything yet.”

I give him a look and start in a fourth time. “Twenty years ago, before I was born, Lucy, who later became my mom, was livin’ thirty miles away, in Rowena. Her twin sister Lori met a guy from Clayton, at a dance. His name was Will, and he worked nights at a convenience store. Lori and Will dated a couple of times, and Lori agreed to a third date, but took sick that day. Will had gone to a lot of trouble to take off work and borrow a car, and Lori didn’t have the heart to cancel the date, so she asked my mom to stand in for her. They were supposed to go to the movies, but wound up gettin’ drunk. One thing led to another, and my mom had sex with him.

“Did she tell your Aunt Lori?”

“Yes, of course. They told each other everything.”

“And Lori was okay with it?”

“She was disappointed, but it’s not like she and Will were in love or anything.”

“Go on.”

“All that week Lori got sicker and sicker. The next week Will got shot and killed durin’ a robbery at the store. A month later, mom discovered she was pregnant. Happened the same day Aunt Lori was diagnosed with cancer.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot to keep up with.”

“Wait till you hear the rest. Aunt Lori was dyin’, and wanted the joy of raisin’ a baby. Mom didn’t want the baby. So they traded names.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mom had the baby while pretendin’ to be Aunt Lori. When Darrell was born, she turned him over to be raised by Lori, and amazingly, Lori’s health improved. The next year Mom moved to Clayton, met Scooter. They got married and had me. When I was fourteen, Aunt Lori got sick again, and Mom moved her and Darrell into our home to take care of them.”

“How old was Darrell?”

“Sixteen.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“So anyway, Darrell and I spent a lot of time in the basement and back yard, and started developin’ feelin’s for each other.”

“You and your brother.”

“Yes, but at the time we thought he was my cousin.”

Dr. Box shakes his head in frustration. “And that would have been okay?”

“This ain’t New York, where eight million people walk the streets. This is Clayton, Kentucky, where there ain’t but a few hundred people my age in the whole county.”