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  She focuses harder. “Where’s Ethel?”

  She searches the tank. “Ethel?”

  She looks at me. “Where’s Ethel?”

  “I don’t know. She was here a minute ago,” I say, trying to be funny.

  “You think that’s funny?” she snaps.

  I shrug.

  “Oh!” she says. “Thank God! There she is, behind the seaweed. See her?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Ain’t she glorious?”

  “Stunning!” I say, though I can’t tell one from another.

  “This one’s Betty, this one’s…oh, my goodness!”

  “What now?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  She turns to me again.

  “Elizabeth hardly ever comes to this neighborhood!”

  “Fascinating,” I say.

  “You know what I think?” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think she likes you.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She smiles, then changes the subject. “Guess how much these tanks and seahorses are worth?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Guess.”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t ask you what you think I invested. I asked what you think they’re worth. These are all mine. I started with a hundred. Each individual horse was hand-picked from a reputable breeder.”

  “Hand picked?”

  “Yes, of course. They’re registered.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. The cheapest horse in these tanks would sell for eighty dollars. And the tanks run a thousand dollars each.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “In that case they must be worth-” I try to do the math. “Seventy-five thousand dollars?”

  “Closer to eighty-five.”

  “So, you raise them and sell them for a profit?”

  “I never sell my babies till they die.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll tell you more about that in a minute.”

  “Are they hard to keep alive? Hard to care for?”

  She gives me a look. “Are babies hard to keep alive? Are babies hard to care for?”

  “Human babies?”

  “Yes, I’m asking you about human babies.”

  “I’ll go out on a limb and say yes, human babies are hard to care for.”

  “You’re damn right they are!” she says. “And seahorses are far more fragile than human babies.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re susceptible to disease and bacteria. And they can’t be left alone, even for a day.”

  “That sort of describes human babies too, doesn’t it?”

  “Are you serious? Human babies can be left alone for days in a temperature-controlled environment.”

  “You know this from personal experience?”

  “I do. I used to run a daycare. But that was in a different life. These days I never leave my horses for more than four hours at a time. If you want to take me out, give me notice, and have me back in four hours.”

  “Glad you told me.”

  “If I’m gone they won’t eat. If they go twenty-four hours without eating, they die.”

  “Ever thought about getting an automatic feeder?”

  She snorts. “You don’t know shit about seahorses, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would you use an automatic feeder for a baby?”

  “A human baby? My gut reaction is no.”

  “Damn right. And automatic feeders don’t work for seahorses, either.”

  “Because?”

  She frowns. “Are you for real? Automatic feeders? For seahorses?”

  “I feel stupid for suggesting it.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ll learn. Wait till you start scrapin’ ’em!”

  I look at my watch. “Oh, shit!” I say.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I had no idea it was almost noon! Darn!”

  “Don’t even think about leavin’,” she says.

  25

  Faith Hemphill says I can’t leave? That’s a bad sign, don’t you think?

  “Why can’t I think about leaving?” I say.

  “I haven’t finished introducin’ you to my horses yet! And you sure as hell don’t want to miss what happens after the introductions!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you familiar with Chinese herbology?”

  “Shockingly, no.”

  “What sort of doctor are you?”

  “A real one.”

  “Well, for your information, Doctor Smart Ass, dried seahorses are one of the most potent aphrodisiacs in the world.”

  “Do tell.”

  “When my horses die, I hold formal funerals. After the ceremonies I dry them and grind them into powder and sell the powder for a hundred dollars an ounce. Plus postage.”

  “To whom?”

  “People on the internet.”

  “You’re telling me there are people who actually pay money for dried seahorse powder?”

  “I make nearly fifty grand a year from the powder alone.”

  “I thought you were a saddle-maker.”

  “I am. I make saddles for seahorses.”

  “Shut…up!”

  “It’s true! Afterward, if you want, I can show you my workshop.”

  “Afterward? After what, exactly?”

  She winks. “Let’s just say my gentlemen friends come from miles around just to drink my home-made lemonade.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’ll take forty-five minutes to introduce you to my horses. By then you’ll have the most ragin’ hard-on you ever experienced in your natural-born life!”

  “You drugged my lemonade?”

  She looks shocked.

  “Drugged? No, of course not! I enhanced it. Think of Viagra…on steroids!”

  “You put a dead, ground-up, dried seahorse in my lemonade?”

  “I sure did!” she says proudly. “And not just any seahorse, mind you. That was Wilbur, one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Wilbur?”

  “That’s right. And see these?” She grins and points at her smile.

  “What, your teeth?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about them?”

  “They come out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh no? Well, you will!” she says, looking at my crotch, licking her lips.

  “I don’t think so!” I shout.

  I turn and bolt out the door, run to my car, dig the ipecac syrup from my medical bag.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Most doctors frown on using ipecac to induce vomiting these days.

  True, but that’s because most people want to vomit after ingesting a known poison. Ipecac doesn’t work for most poisons. But if you’re in Crab Crotch, Kentucky, and want to get dried, dead seahorse out of your stomach in a hurry, ipecac’s the choice I’d recommend.

  Unfortunately, it takes up to twenty minutes to work, so I grab a small plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide, rush back into Faith’s house, and mix it in a cup of lukewarm water. Then I puke my guts into her toilet. When I open the door, Faith is standing there, hands-on-hips, with a sour expression on her face.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” she demands.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Looks like you puked Wilbur into the toilet.”

  “That’s exactly what I did. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You’re feeding people seahorses? Are you insane?”

  “You got a problem with seahorses? Because if you do, we’re not gonna get along.”

  “Are you aware seven million people in the continental United States are allergic to shellfish?”

  She frowns. “Seahorses are fish. Not shellfish. Look it u
p.”

  “They eat shellfish. Then they die. Then you serve them to people.”

  “No one’s died on me yet.”

  “How do you know? You sell the powder online. Five hundred ounces a year! You’ve probably killed dozens of people!”

  “That’s ridiculous. The FDA would’ve been all over my ass if that happened.”

  “Have you ever heard of vibrio vulnificus?”

  “No, but if it has anythin’ to do with my vulva, you’re shit out of luck unless you get on my good side, and quick. Because you’re killin’ my mood faster than herpes in the bean dip.”

  “Vibrio is bacteria found in seawater.”

  “Good thing I ain’t sellin’ seawater!”

  “Seahorses are notorious for carrying vibrio.”

  “Oh, pooh.”

  “Pooh?”

  “I’m notorious for carryin’ a gun,” she says. “But that don’t mean it’s loaded.”

  Suddenly the front door explodes from its hinges and crashes to the floor.

  A man and woman enter.

  Shockingly, I recognize them.

  They were on the side of the road earlier, trying to flag me down.

  What I didn’t see the first time around is the gun.

  26

  “What happened to the baby?” I ask.

  “We ate it!” the man says. “How’s that for an answer?”

  “Sadly, it was on my short list of probable responses,” I say.

  “Heard you felt up the homecomin’ queen,” the woman says.

  I wonder how it’s possible that sixteen hours ago I felt up a waitress in Clayton, Kentucky, and it’s already common knowledge in Ralston, two hours away.

  “You felt up another woman?” Faith says. “You told me your car broke down!”

  “Did he tell you he ran over a man and tried to run off with his wife?” the man says.

  Faith looks at me.

  “Get out of my house,” she says. “We’re through!”

  “Neither of you are goin’ anywhere,” the woman says. “Except in a pine box.”

  The man picks the door up and props it against the frame to block the view from the road. Not that anyone would be driving this remote stretch of road in the first place.

  “Sit down,” he says.

  I frown. “Why?”

  “So I can shoot you, you dumb shit.”

  “Look,” I say. “I realize I didn’t stop to help you a few minutes ago. But don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “Am I, motherfucker?”

  “It’s just an observation,” I say.

  “Shoot him where he stands, Cletus,” the woman says.

  He turns on her.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Sorry. But when you kill ’em it won’t matter I used your real name.”

  “What if I was just plannin’ to scare ’em, and steal their money?”

  “I didn’t say your last name was Renfro, you dumb shit.”

  Faith and I look at each other.

  Cletus cocks his gun.

  His companion says, “Wait. Get his money first.”

  “Why? It’ll be easier to go through his pockets when he’s dead.”

  “You might get blood on your clothes. Ever seen CSI?”

  “Of course I have. I aint’ stupid.”

  “Then get the money first.”

  “You get his money. I’ll hold the gun on him.”

  While they’re sorting out who’s going to do what, Faith flings something at them that explodes into a giant ball of smoke.

  They scream, cover their eyes, and fall to the floor, shrieking.

  What the fuck?

  The gun hits the floor, discharges, and shoots the woman in the leg. Blood spews from her wound like water from a sprinkler head, which tells me the bullet lacerated her blood vessels. She’ll be dead within a minute. Faith makes a move for the gun, but the woman finds it first, and starts shooting blindly, while writhing in pain, until she’s out of bullets.

  Five shots, five direct hits.

  All into Cletus’s body.

  Faith and I look at each other again.

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  27

  “What the fuck was in that smoke thing you threw at them?”

  “My home-made blindin’ powder.”

  “Where was it?”

  “I just killed two people,” she says. “Who were about to kill us.”

  “So?”

  “So this is what you want to know? Where I keep my powder?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my dress.”

  “Where in your dress?”

  “In the back.”

  She turns around and shows me a pocket in the back of her dress. I’m a little concerned to see another packet in there.

  “What sort of person carries around bags of powder that can blind people?”

  “The sort who lives in the middle of nowhere and has a business to protect.”

  “Have you ever used it before?”

  “Not the permanent one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I make two kinds of powder. Bad and worse.”

  “What’s in the worse one?”

  “Soot, seeds and dust.”

  I give her a look. “I don’t think so.”

  She smiles. Then says, “That’s all it is. Soot, seeds and dust. Ask me what kind.”

  “What kind?”

  “One-third soot from a wood fire, one-third ground up ghost pepper seeds, one-third glass dust.”

  “What’s ghost pepper?”

  “Extract of Naga Jolokia chili peppers.”

  “I’m not sure you’re pronouncing that correctly.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Not really. You get those around here?”

  “I buy ’em from a customer runs the Fire Festival in Albuquerque.”

  “The Fire Festival?”

  “It’s an annual chili pepper event.”

  According to Callie Carpenter, the assassin, Naga Jolokia is one of the hottest chili peppers in the world. When distilled into a powder it registers two million plus on the Scoville heat index, which makes it more potent than the pepper spray used by police. But when you add ground glass to the mix? And soot?

  Holy shit!

  Those components attack not only the eyes, but the lungs as well. Faith’s little smoke bomb could have killed both intruders on its own.

  “How would one go about obtaining a supply of glass dust?” I ask.

  “A friend of mine works nine hours a week at the glass factory, polishin’ glass with a belt sander. He collects it, meets me twice a month, we trade dust.”

  “Dust,” I say.

  She grins.

  “We trade spit, too, if you want to know. And other bodily fluids.”

  “I should probably go,” I say.

  “You’re my witness, doctor.”

  “Seriously? Because this looks like a simple case of breaking and entering.”

  “I’d prefer to have a witness.”

  “But I’d do you more harm than good. I’ve already been in trouble with the Clayton, Kentucky police department.”

  “For feelin’ up the homecomin’ queen?”

  “That, and running over her husband.”

  “You really tried to run off with her?”

  “I considered it, but things didn’t work out.”

  We look at the dead bodies a minute, then she says, “I’ll make you a deal. If you promise not to report me to the FDA, I’ll let you walk.”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “So?”

  “It’s my duty to report what you’re doing with this seahorse powder. It’s dangerous.”

  “I just saved your life!” she says.

  “I agree. Thank you.”

  “Don’t that give me a pass in your eyes?”

  “It’s a matter of ethics.”
r />   “Ethics,” she repeats.

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me somethin’, doctor.”

  “What?”

  “How many people could die from what I sell?”

  Before I respond, she adds, “Be honest.”

  “How many could die?” I say. “Or get sick?”

  “Die.”

  “Worldwide?”

  She nods.

  I think about it a few seconds. Then say, “A dozen a year. More or less.”

  “A dozen a year,” she snorts.

  “More or less.”

  “And how many are gonna die from smokin’ cigarettes?”

  “That’s hardly the same thing.”

  “Humor me.”

  “This year?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Worldwide?”

  She nods.

  “Six million.”

  “Six million?”

  “More or less.”

  “Uh huh. And how many will die because of doctor fuck ups?”

  “There’s no way to determine the world-wide statistics for death by medical error,” I say.

  “In America, then.”

  “Two hundred thousand. Possibly more.”

  “Not less?” she says, sarcastically.

  “What’s your point?”

  She says, “Do you really give a shit if my powder kills twelve people in the world this year?”

  I think about it.

  “Not really,” I say.

  28

  Cletus Renfro.

  Fifteen Minutes Earlier.

  “Did he leave?” Darrell says, answering his cell phone from his hospital bed.

  “Nope,” Cletus says. Then adds, “You takin’ a shit?”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like you’re takin’ a shit.”

  “I’m in pain you dumb bastard. This is what pain sounds like. I was fuckin’ run over!”

  “Still, the way you’re gruntin’ and all, you know what it sounds like? To me?”

  “Yeah. It sounds like I’m takin’ a shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now that we’ve worked that out, if Dr. Box is still in the house, why are you callin’?”

  “I was thinkin’ about changin’ the plan.”

  “Why? Didn’t you already clog his exhaust?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t got around to it yet. Plus, I’m tryin’ to think of somethin’ I have that’ll do the job. I was thinkin’ of usin’ my shirt, but I might need my shirt.”