by John Locke
“Throw the gun toward the house and I’ll see what I can do about your leg,” I say.
“You’ll kill me.”
“He won’t kill you,” Willow says. “He’s a doctor. He took an oath. He has to help you. It’s the law.”
She runs to Cameron’s side.
“That true?” Bobby says. “About the oath”
I sigh. “I’m afraid so.”
“Hurry, Dr. Box!” Willow shouts. “Cameron needs you!”
From somewhere behind me, Cameron hears her name and starts moaning.
To Bobby I say, “Throw the gun away and I’ll help you.”
“You swear?”
“Often.”
He throws the gun twenty feet away and moves his hand so I can see the wound.
As I approach he says, “Oh, my God!”
“It hurts, huh?”
“Yeah, sure, but what the hell is that stink?”
“I think you know.”
“ I did that?”
“You did.”
I’m moving slowly, as if crossing a minefield. Stepping carefully, doing my best to avoid the pools of excrement he’s left in the dirt. But there’s no avoiding the smell. It’s drifting with me, toward Bobby.
“Oh, man!” he says. “That ain’t right.” He shakes his head and repeats, “That ain’t right.”
“No it ain’t.”
“You’ve got no medicine,” he says.
Now that I’m beside him, I take a knee, which causes me to gasp in pain as my ribs shift.
“Smells terrible, don’t it?” he says.
Bobby’s given himself a nine-inch flesh wound. Bullet went in shallow, cut a gully a quarter inch deep, exited cleanly, without hitting the knee.
“You’re in luck,” I say, removing the plastic baggie from my pocket.
“What’s that, Willow’s nutmeg?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s a coagulant. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much.”
A look of sadness crosses his face as he looks at the nutmeg.
“You fucked my girlfriend, didn’t you?”
I pause. Then say, “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you do that?”
I sigh. “Because I’m an asshole.”
He nods.
I say, “If it makes you feel any better, she hated every minute of it, and only did it for the money.”
“I believe that,” he says. “She’s a good girl. I love her.”
Feeling charitable, I say, “She was probably going to use the money to buy you something special.”
“I wish. Truth is she’s been trying to sneak money into another account for the past two months, to pay for the cancer treatments.”
“Cancer treatments?”
He chuckles despite the pain. “But I put a stop to that shit,” he says. “Or so I thought.”
I pour the entire packet of nutmeg into the palm of my hand and work it deep into Bobby’s cut, packing it.
“Damn!” he shouts. “That hurts like hell!”
“All done,” I say. “Now press both hands tightly against the wound to keep it from bleeding. You okay?”
He nods.
“I’ll be back as soon as I check on Cameron.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The one thing you want to know about nutmeg is you never apply it to an open wound. I don’t care who you are, the smallest amount of nutmeg in your bloodstream will kill you quickly.
How quickly?
Cameron and Willow are only twenty yards away.
Bobby will be dead before I reach them.
21
Cameron’s been shot in the back. She’s out cold, lying on her side, her head in Willow’s lap.
“Is Bobby okay?” Willow asks.
“He’s resting quietly.”
I take a knee and wince for the second time in two minutes, wedge my fingers in the hole in her blouse the bullet created, and tear it open enough to check the wound in her shoulder.
“How bad’s your cancer?”
She frowns. “Who told you about that, Bobby?”
“I’m a doctor. I’m trained to notice the slightest symptoms.”
“Really? Then what type of cancer do I have?”
“Breast.”
“Guess again.”
I prod the area around the entrance wound. “Leukemia.”
“You really suck at this. Are you even a doctor?”
“I’m a world-renowned surgeon.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” she says.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I ask.
“Why? You need to call a real surgeon?”
I smile. “I like you.”
“Bobby’s got my cell phone,” she says. “But it doesn’t work out here.”
“How’d Cameron get this far from the car?”
“She made a run for it. That’s why he shot her.”
“Nice guy you hooked up with.”
“Spare me the lecture, Dr. Asshole.”
“Okay.”
“Dr. Breaking and Entering.”
“Thank you.”
“Doctor Identity Theft. Doctor Crook.”
“Got it. So who taught Bobby how to shoot?”
“What do you mean?”
“He hit Cameron in the shoulder, and missed me from twelve feet away.”
Willow glances at my face. “Who taught you how to fight?”
“I did all right.”
“You think?”
“If you look closely, you’ll see a bruise and a cut on Bobby’s mouth.”
“Cameron did that.”
“She did?”
“You look like Bobby’s punching bag. Why’s there so much blood?”
“On my face?”
“On Cameron’s back, dumb ass.”
“Well, she’s been shot, for one thing.”
“That’s your professional opinion?”
“I really do like you,” I say. “Maybe I can help with your cancer.”
“Just fix my friend, okay?”
“Okay.”
I rip Cameron’s blouse enough to check her chest for an exit wound. There isn’t one, but there is a little ridge protruding slightly from her skin that tells me the bullet came within a hair of getting out on its own. I touch it with my finger, and Cameron gasps.
“Bobby’s gun’s a piece of shit,” I say.
“How bad is she?” Willow asks.
“It looks worse than it is.”
“Will she live?”
“Yes.”
“Will she be able to dance?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Seriously?”
“I mean, she couldn’t dance before,” I say. “This won’t change things.”
“I heard that,” Cameron says, through gritted teeth.
“She’s in a lot of pain,” Willow says.
“She should be. A molten bullet ripped through the meat of her shoulder at approximately 385 miles per second, leaving a channel of boiling, bloody tissue in its wake. Her body’s trying to bring the temperature of that bullet down to 98.6 degrees. As it transfers heat to the surrounding blood and tissue, the result is exactly what you’d expect.”
“What’s that?”
“Pain.”
“What can we do?”
“There’s a small leather handle on the floor of the trunk that accesses the spare tire compartment. My medical bag’s in there. If you bring it to me, I can fix her up. There’s some bedding in there, too. Are the sheets clean?”
“Yes. And the pillow cases and bedspread.”
“Bring the bedspread.”
“Okay.”
Willow gets up and sprints to the car.
Then screams bloody murder.
For a moment I figure she’s found Bobby’s dead body.
Then
I realize she’s screaming for a completely different reason.
22
I get to my feet and turn to find two men holding a gun on Willow. When she stops screaming, they start.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” one of them shouts.
They see her look at me and the other guy yells, “Sir? Stay right where you are, and don’t move a muscle. I may not look like it, but I know how to use this gun.”
He’s right. He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks like a conjoined twin.
“You,” the first twin says to Willow. “Put that shit back in the trunk and go stand beside the battered husband.”
“My friend’s been shot,” she says. “That’s Dr. Box. This is his medical bag. He needs it to help my friend.”
“Fuck your friend!” the first one says.
“Oh, stop being such a Clint Eastwood,” the second twin says. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Willow.”
“Your full name, dear.”
“Willow Breeland.”
“Nice to meet you, Willow. I’m Charlie, and this is-”
“Don’t tell him our names, you moron!” the first twin says.
“Oh, like she needs our names to identify us?” Charlie says. “She can’t just say, ‘the Siamese twins held a gun on me?’ Because there are too many of us shuffling around the greater Dayton area?”
Willow suddenly notices Bobby, lying dead in the dirt, ten feet behind the twins.
And shrieks.
The twins angle their bodies to see what she’s looking at, and Charlie says, “Omigod! Look at that penis! It looks like the space shuttle!”
“He’s dead,” the first twin says.
“If he is, he’s got petrified wood for a penis. Omigod, I made a joke! He’s got a petrified woodie!”
They shuffle to Bobby’s body for a closer look while keeping an eye on me and the gun on Willow.
“Well pardon me!” Charlie says to me. “What are you doing?”
“Pissing,” I say. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you’re pissing,” he agrees.
“Who’s this?” the first twin asks Willow.
“My boyfriend, Bobby.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Charlie says.
“He was a piece of shit. I hated him,” she says.
“Men!” Charlie says. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”
“I can live without him.”
“You go, girl!”
“Who shot him?” the first twin says.
“He shot himself.”
“Then where’s the gun?”
She points toward the house. “He threw it over there after running out of bullets.”
“One of those bullets hit the window of our van,” he says. “It caused me to run off the road. We blew a tire and hit a tree.”
“I’m sorry,” Willow says.
“Why’s he naked?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long dick is what it is,” Charlie says, giggling. “By the way, this is my brother, Carlos.”
“I can’t believe you told her my name!” Carlos says.
They shuffle ten feet closer to me and notice Cameron on the ground.
“He shot her, too?” Carlos asks.
“He did,” I say. “And I need to get the bullet out of her shoulder before it does further damage.”
Charlie angles his head toward Willow and says, “You can take the bag to the doctor, honey.”
Willow rushes to my side and hands me the medical bag. She looks at my eyes and says, “Can you even see?”
“I could perform this surgery with my eyes closed.”
It’s a true statement, and a good thing, since my eyes are so swollen, I’m looking through slits the width of spaghetti noodles.
I give Cameron a shot of morphine and use my scissors to remove half her blouse. It takes less than five minutes to cut out the bullet, clean the wound, and stitch her up. When I’m finished, Willow wraps the blanket around her.
Behind us, the twins are laughing.
“For the love of God,” Willow says.
“What now?”
“They’re playing ring toss.”
I turn around to see them standing a short distance from Bobby, trying to toss necklaces onto his enormously erect penis.
“Two to nothing!” Charlie squeals. “I’m winning!”
23
Willow hovers over Cameron while I walk over to the twins.
“Are you done already?” Charlie says.
“I’ve done what I can, but we need to get Cameron to a hospital. Unless you plan to shoot us.”
“We need a ride home,” Charlie says. “Right, Carlos?”
“Are you serious?” Carlos says. “You plan to show him where we live?”
“Try to remember. We’re Siamese twins. If Dr. Box wants to know where we live he could simply ask around. How many conjoined twins live in the area, do you think?”
Carlos says, “We held a gun on him!”
“So?”
“We played ring toss with a dead guy’s dick.”
“Well, who wouldn’t?” Charlie says.
Me, for one.
Charlie says, “Dr. Box, when you report these events to the police, are you going to mention us?”
“Not if you let us go. Assuming you can get your car off the property before the police show up.”
“Mom can change the tire. But our cell phone doesn’t work out here. We’ll need a ride home.”
“How far is that?”
“Less than eight miles. It’s not out of the way if you’re heading to Dayton.”
“Why would I go to Dayton?”
“That’s where the closest hospital is. You did say you were taking Cameron to the hospital, right?”
“I did.” I look at the car. “Can you guys fit in the back seat?”
Charlie says, “I don’t think there’s enough room for everyone. How about if I go with you and Carlos stays here?”
Carlos says, “You’re not funny, you know.”
The twins spend five minutes trying to climb in the back seat of the Mercedes, but it’s not working.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie says.
The brothers move out of our hearing and talk to each other a minute, then shuffle back.
“We’ve chosen to trust you,” Charlie says.
“How so?”
“You can take Cameron to the hospital. On the way, when you get a signal, call the phone number I’m going to give you. That’s our mom. Tell her where we are. She’ll come here, change our tire, and get our van started.”
“Your mom can do all that?”
“All that and more!” Charlie says.
“Sorry guys, but I can’t see well enough to drive.”
“Good point,” Charlie says.
Willow walks up and stands beside me.
“We need to get going,” she says.
Carlos says, “the Doc stays with us.”
“I can live with that,” Willow says, with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
“No,” I say. “I can’t trust Willow to go to the hospital or talk to the police, for reasons that would take too long to explain. Plus, I’m a doctor. It’s safer for Cameron if I’m with her, in case she goes into shock or starts convulsing.”
“He can’t drive, and I’m not staying here with you guys,” Willow says.
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse,” Charlie says, pointing the gun at me.
“Just a minute,” I say.
I motion for Willow to follow me a short distance. Then say, “I don’t suppose there’s a working phone in Maggie’s house.”
“I’m sure she canceled the phone service before moving out.”
“Can you get inside?”
“If the key’s where used to be.” She looks at Maggie’s house, then back at me. “Why?”
“If I slice the tissue beneath my
eyes I’ll be able to see well enough to make it to the nearest hospital. These guys seem relatively harmless. I think I can talk them into letting you stay in the house with the door locked until their mom shows up.”
“How do you expect me to get home?”
“I’ll come back to get you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I swear I will.”
“I can’t even trust you to take Cameron to the hospital,” she says.
“Why not?”
“She’s a gunshot victim. As soon as she’s admitted, the police will start asking questions. They’ll want to investigate the crime scene. Bobby’s here, I’m here-you’ll be in the hospital getting patched up, or in the interrogation room at the police station.”
“So?”
“I don’t like it.”
We look at each other a minute. Finally I say, “How did you and Cameron wind up with Chris Fowler’s bedspread?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Breaking and entering’s a felony.”
“As you should know.”
“True. But when you add theft?”
“Yeah?”
“All I’m saying, you might need to come up with a good explanation.”
“If I do, it’ll be better than your explanation of how Bobby died from a flesh wound.”
“Are you serious? The guy was on heroin, coke, and Black Stone powder. He beat me up, shot Cameron, and shot himself in the leg. That’s a lot of trauma to the system.”
“The coroner might wonder about the nutmeg.”
“Bobby must’ve done that on his own, to stop the bleeding.”
“That’s your story?”
“It is.”
“Then you’ve got problems,” Willow says.
“Why?”
“That theory won’t match my testimony. Or Cameron’s.”
“What are you, a lawyer?”
“No, but my father is.”
“What you’re saying, we’re at an impasse.”
“Looks like it,” Willow says.
“In that case I’ve got another idea,” I say.
“Tell me after I pee!”
With that, she walks to the porch of Maggie’s house, reaches behind one of the steps for the key, and uses it to gain entry. Moments later, she comes out, locks the door, replaces the key, and I tell her my plan for getting us all where we need to go at the same time.
“I like it,” she says.
