by John Locke
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.”
“You’re saying cousins often fall in love and get married in Wilford County?”
“Well, of course they do!”
He shakes his head again.
I say, “You want to go ahead and paint a big red letter on my forehead, or do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
He waves for me to continue, so I say, “No one knew about me and Darrell’s relationship, and one afternoon when I was sixteen we ran off and
got married and never told anyone. It was a stupid thing to do, more like a joke, you know?”
“This might surprise you,” Dr. Box says, “but no. None of this makes any sense to me.”
“Well, anyway, we didn’t tell anyone. We kept livin’ with our parents, kept goin’ to school, actin’ like cousins. Him, cookin’ crystal meth with his friends. Me, workin’ part-time at the restaurant. After high school I switched to full time. Aunt Lori got sicker and sicker, and one day her number came up.”
“She died?”
“No. She played the lottery. She won four hundred thousand dollars, and took the quarter-million cash option.”
Dr. Box shakes his head again and says, “This sounds like a B movie on TV.”
“The killer bee movie?” I say. “’Cause that one scared the shit out of me!”
“Please,” he says. “Tell your story.”
“Well, a week after gettin’ the money, Lori dies, and Darrell inherits the money. And that’s when we tell everyone we’re married.”
“That had to be a shock to your mother.”
“It was. She hung herself.”
“She-what? Hung herself? To death?”
“Yup. But not with the rope Daddy used on you.”
“That’s a relief,” he says. Then adds, “Hey, I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks. It was tough on us at the time, not knowin’ why she did it.”
“When was this?”
“Five months ago.”
We’re quiet a minute. Then I say, “So anyway, me and Darrell got a small apartment, and he squandered his inheritance on a monster truck and lab equipment for his meth business. Two months later, a lawyer showed up with legal papers. He sat us all down and told us the family secret.”
“That you and Darrell are brother and sister.”
“Right.”
“What was your reaction?”
“I moved back in with my dad, got a blood test, filed for divorce.”
“And Darrell?”
“He refused to sign the papers.”
“And the blood test?”
“He refused to take one.”
“So what happened?”
“We got lawyers. A judge finally ordered him to take a blood test.” “When did you get the results?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“And here we are?” he says.
“Yup. Here we are.”
Dr. Box looks like he swallowed a bad hot dog.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m having a hard time picturing you and Darrell.”
“In what way?”
“To be honest? Sexually.”
“You’re still hung up on us bein’ kinfolk?”
“I’m odd that way. Are you aware you just asked if I was hung up on that issue?’”
“It’s just an expression, Gideon.”
“So is hanging around. And brotherly love. But in this town those expressions take on a whole different meaning.”
I frown at him.
He says, “Even if I could erase the mental image in my head, I find it hard to believe you ever found Darrell attractive.”
“Why’s that?”
“His size. Shape. Features. Attitude. Complete lack of intelligence.”
He turns his palms upward, frustrated. Seekin’ an explanation.
I say, “When you’re fourteen years old, comin’ of age in a small town, proximity is more apt to turn a girl’s head than looks, charm, or brainpower.”
We look at each other a long moment.
Dr. Box looks sad. Like an old man with heart trouble turnin’ down the Tuesday night all-you-can-eat steak special. He wants the steak, but thinks it’s bad for him.
I’ve seen that sad steak look in a man’s eyes before.
I say, “You’re gonna leave, aren’t you.”
He nods.
“You’re not gonna take me with you.”
He sighs. “No.”
“Why not?”
He shakes his head and gestures at the room in general, but his meanin’ is clear. It’s all too much for him.
“I know I look like hell right now, but my face will heal. And when it does I’ll be pretty for you for a lot of years. You don’t know me that well, but I’ll make you a wonderful girlfriend. I can cook, sew, take care of kids and critters. I’m fun when I’m not banged up, and not opposed to grantin’ sexual favors. And those favors will belong only to you, Gideon.”
“Trudy-”
“I’ll be polite to your friends. I won’t complain if you drink or stay out at night, long as you treat me with respect.”
“I’ll marry you, Trudy!” the policeman shouts out from the back of the room.
“Mind your own business, Clem!” I scold. Then turn my focus back to Dr. Box. “I see good inside you, Gideon. I’ll make you happy.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”
I put on a brave face and sigh.
We look at each other a minute, and I say, “I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You too.”
He leans over, kisses my cheek, then starts to leave.
“You sure you don’t want to hang around town a little longer?” I call out to him.
He turns, sees me grinnin’, and smiles.
Then says, “Trudy, it’s been an honor hanging out with you.”
“Have a good life, Dr. Box.”
“You too, Trudy.”
He opens the door, walks through it, closes it behind him.
I stare at the door a while, hopin’ it’ll suddenly open.
But he’s gone.
I start to cry, which makes Clem nervous.
He says, “I can stand outside the door if you like.”
I nod.
18
Clem heads for the door, reaches for the handle, then stops and says, “You’re better off without him, Trudy.”
I cry some more.
“He’s old and weird. You’re young and beautiful.”
He starts to leave again, then pauses to say, “And somethin’ else, if you don’t mind my sayin’. It ain’t right the way that man ejaculates. Our first thought was a half-dozen baboons had a contest to see who could make the biggest mess, and the answer was, all of them. My personal opinion? There’s witchery in it.”
I cry harder, and he finally gives up and leaves the room.
Now I can finally read the note Dr. Box passed me when he leaned over to kiss me goodbye just now.
He’d used his body to block Clem’s view, and placed a small, folded up piece of paper in my hand that was heavier than it should be.
I open it, and a small key falls out.
I smile through my tears.
It’s the key to Daddy’s handcuffs. He must have stolen them from Daddy when he went back in the barn to get his money and cell phone.
The note gives a phone number with a two-one-two area code. Then says, Trudy, I’d run off with you in a heartbeat if I thought you wanted me half as much as you just want to get away. But you can do better than me and we both know it. Last night when I cuffed you to the fence you asked if you could trust me. You can. When you’re feeling up to it, call this number and speak to Robert Bothwell, my private banker. I’ve instructed Robert to wire ten thousand dollars into your personal account every month for the next two years. Now you have a big choice to make: you can finally get out of town, or you can buy your own monster truck! Love, Gideon. PS: I’ll never forget our wild and crazy night!
19
Dr. Gideon Box.
Putting the Starbucks County Hospital in my rear-view mirror, I work my way to the four-lane highway that leads to Ralston, Kentucky.
I’m not breaking the law.
Sheriff Carson Boyd left me a text message, saying I could go on about my business. It read: I spoke to your boss in NYC, Mr. Luce. He says you’re easy to find if I need you. Plus I want you the hell out of my town. So go on about your
business. Somewhere else.
So that’s what I’m doing.
Taking my business to Ralston, Kentucky, to meet Faith Hemphill.
What can I tell you about Faith you don’t already know?
Very little.
I barely know the woman.
It’s a two-hour drive, so let’s start with what I’ve learned from the dating site.
If her profile’s accurate she’s my age, forty-two, recently divorced, with a daughter in college. She lives on a ranch. If the photos she posted are actually her, she’s attractive, or was at the time they were taken. She’s a custom saddle-maker, which sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I mean, she works with leather, right?
Riding crops?
Bondage collars?
That’s sexy, isn’t it?
I’m not sure. But it’s an angle to explore.
I try to picture her naked, on all fours. I’m riding her, whacking her fanny with a riding crop.
Wait.
Riding her?
I’m having trouble with the mental image.
I can’t picture how to hump her and smack her ass at the same time. I’m not sure it works anatomically. And anyway, I don’t like the idea of hitting a woman.
I know what you’re thinking.
I didn’t have any problem hitting Trudy last night.
Good point.
I’ll admit there was something amazing about beating Trudy up last night. I think it had to do with her insisting that I hit her, and knowing I had to hit her, and the certain knowledge that hitting her would benefit both of us. It’s like the world’s biggest taboo, hitting a woman, but we both knew it had to be done.
It was like getting a free pass.
I have no doubt that given the opportunity, Darrell would have beaten her half to death. Or all the way to death, since he was furious about the divorce, and the judge’s ruling, and the thought of losing Trudy forever. At the very least he would have done serious, and possibly permanent, damage to her face, nose, eyes, or teeth.
But I ran him over before he had time to do that.
Then I punched Trudy’s face and torso.
Hit her hard and often.
Big man, right?
I did it the safest way possible, but feel weird reporting it wasn’t half as unpleasant as I would have expected. Maybe it’s because beating her up solved all our problems. It kept me out of jail. Ensured her divorce would sail through the court system. Allows her to get a restraining order against Darrell. Puts him in line for a jail term, which could very well save his life.
