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  “The plan was to shove somethin’ up his tailpipe. He’ll drive his car a few miles, you follow from a distance, his engine shuts down, you pull over, rob him, shoot him, and drive on.”

  “I know. But he could be in this bitch’s house all day.”

  “So?”

  “It’s hot, and our air conditioner’s broke. And we’ve got customers waitin’ on product we ain’t even cooked yet.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Bust through the door and start shootin’.”

  “Kill ’em both?”

  “She might have some money, too. That’d make it look like a real robbery.”

  “What about the neighbors?”

  “She lives out in the boondocks. Leeds Road. It’s like, a mile to the nearest neighbor.”

  “Sound carries in the country. Especially gunshots.”

  “Yeah, but the neighbors ain’t there.”

  “You checked?”

  “Their farm’s all boarded up. Got a sign on it.”

  “If she’s all alone in the boondocks, she’s probably got a shotgun or somethin’.”

  “She wouldn’t be holdin’ a shotgun while visitin’ with the doctor. More likely, they’re fuckin’. We can bust in there, kill ’em both, get the cash.”

  He pauses. “Wait a minute.”

  “What now?”

  “He just come runnin’ out the house.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said he’s runnin’?”

  “He’s at the car. Doin’ somethin’ in the trunk.”

  “Can he see you?”

  “Naw. He seems upset.”

  There’s another pause. Darrell says, “What’s he doin’?”

  “Runnin’ back in the house.”

  “Is he carryin’ somethin’?”

  “If he is, it’s small.”

  Darrell laughs. “It’s small all right. Just like his dick.”

  “You seen his dick?”

  “No, you dumb shit. I’m just sayin’ he probably ran out to the car to grab a condom.”

  “He’s gonna fuck her?”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  “So we can bust through the door, surprise ’em, shoot ’em while they’re fuckin’?”

  “Yeah. Shoot ’em right there in the bed. Or wherever they’re fuckin’.”

  “I hope they’re fuckin’.”

  Darrell says, “Me too.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll make your job easier, and I’ll enjoy seein’ the look on Trudy’s face when she hears her precious doctor got shot while fuckin’ another woman.”

  “What if they ain’t fuckin’? Can I still bust through the door and kill him?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. But if he’s not lyin’ down on the bed, be sure to sit him in a chair before you shoot him.”

  “Sit him down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “You ever shot a man, point blank before?”

  “I’ve shot at ’em, from inside the truck.”

  “Well, it ain’t the same thing. A man thinks he’s about to be shot might jump outta the way, or throw somethin’ at you or do all sorts of crazy things. You get him sat down, it limits his movement. It also contains the blood spatter. Sit him down, then shoot him. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Say it.”

  “I’ll sit him down, then shoot him.”

  “Don’t miss.”

  “I’ve got six shots.”

  “Save a couple for the woman.”

  “If I run out of bullets, I’ll beat her to death.”

  “You like the idea of leavin’ evidence at the crime scene?”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “The kind you leave when you beat someone to death.”

  “No.”

  “Then shoot her. From a distance.”

  “How far?”

  Darrell sighs. “You think it’s possible she’s got two chairs in her livin’ room?”

  Cletus looks up at the house. “Yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Sit her down, just like you’re doin’ with the doctor. Then shoot her, too.”

  “Sit ’em both down at the same time?”

  “If possible.”

  “Then shoot ’em from a distance?”

  “Yeah. But not too far, or you’ll miss.”

  “How’s ten feet sound?”

  “That’s fine. Call me when you’re done. And don’t steal any jewelry or personal items that can be traced back. Just cash. Nothin’ else.”

  “What about the shotgun?”

  “No guns, no stereos, wallets, purses, credit cards…wait. I’m not gonna give you a list of what not to steal. Just don’t steal anythin’ ’cept the cash they got in their pockets.”

  “Got it.”

  “Anythin’ else?” Darrell says.

  “Yeah,” Cletus says, winking at Renfro.

  “What?”

  “Enjoy your shit!”

  “Fuck you!”

  29

  Dr. Gideon Box.

  It’s not that I don’t trust Faith Hemphill, I just want to hedge my bet because the best intentions can go out the window when detectives swarm a crime scene. So I drive nine miles toward civilization, find a truck stop with shower facilities, and use them. Then I change clothes and brush my teeth twice and use mouthwash till it makes my eyes water. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this experience, puking up a dead seahorse has a negative effect on your breath.

  After cleaning up, I enter the truck stop restaurant, order a sandwich, and make sure I’m seen.

  Then I drive to Faith Hemphill’s house and pretend I’ve just shown up for our date.

  Of course, the cops try to move me along before I can even park the car.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Move along, buddy. This is a crime scene.”

  “Is this Faith Hemphill’s house?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Gideon Box. I’m supposed to be meeting her. Is she okay?”

  “Pull over there and park,” he says, pointing to a vacant spot on the road.

  He follows me there, takes a pen from his pocket, opens his notebook, and says, “Let’s hear your story.”

  I give him my name, address, phone number, show him my driver’s license, and tell him about my email correspondence with Faith. Tell him I’m here for our date.

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  “I called yesterday and told her I’d try, but I wasn’t sure I could make it.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “Cold feet. Fear of rejection. You know.”

  He frowns. “You’ve seen her photos?”

  I show him the photos I downloaded on my cell phone.

  “That ain’t her,” he says. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about rejection. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  He leads me to the side of the house where Faith is being questioned by a couple of detectives. When she sees me she raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

  “You know this man?” my police escort asks.

  “You’re Dr. Box,” she says.

  “I made it after all!” I say. “Is this a bad time?”

  The detectives, the cop, and Faith all look at each other and start laughing. Then Faith says, “You missed all the excitement.”

  “What happened?”

  She looks at the detectives. They nod. She says, “Two meth dealers broke into my house. I threw some powder in their eyes and they shot each other to death.”

  I stare at her without speaking.

  “Some date, huh, Doctor?” my cop says.

  “You should probably go,” Faith says.

  “Nice meeting you,” I say.

  “Maybe we can try again another time,” she says.

  The cop escorts me back to my car.

  “You don’t look so good,” he says.

 
“Huh?”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  I nod.

  “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, Doc.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just sayin’, she ain’t the only starfish in the sea.”

  I wonder if he’s using these analogies because they’re common expressions or because of Faith’s seahorse collection.

  He says, “Listen, Doc. If you’re into chubby girls, I’ve got a sister you should meet. She’s been workin’ on herself.”

  “In what way?”

  “She’s lost fifty-five pounds, fixed up her hair and wardrobe, even bleached her mustache.”

  “Her mustache?”

  He looks around to make sure no one else can hear him. Then says, “That ain’t the only thing she bleached!”

  He winks at me, then leans in again and whispers, “She bleached her asshole! You ever heard of such a thing?”

  I shake my head.

  “I were you, I’d check that out!”

  “Because?”

  “It’s as white as a lily,” he says.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  He winks.

  Have I fallen so far that a small town cop thinks I’d be interested in a chubby girl with a mustache who’s so proud of bleaching her rectum she showed it to her brother?

  “She sounds charming,” I say. “But I might need a little more time. I’m not sure I’m ready to date yet.”

  He nods. “Can’t say I blame you.”

  I drive away quite pleased with myself. I’d told Sheriff Carson Boyd I was heading here to meet Faith Hemphill. If word got back to him I showed up around the time two people were shot to death he might think it a bigger coincidence than it was.

  I pull over to the side of the road and check my cell to see if Trudy’s called.

  She hasn’t.

  I call her, but get no answer.

  While I’ve got the phone out, I pull up a photo of Zander Evans, and fire up the GPS to see how long it might take to drive to Paducah.

  Then I view another photo of Zander Evans, and think, Why not?

  30

  Zander Evans is the youngest and prettiest of the three dating site women, and the most determined to have me visit. She promised me “a hell of a good time” if I ever came to town, and punctuated it with a big “Woohoo!” I think women who write “Woohoo!” are more likely to give oral, don’t you? I mean, you can’t even say the word without making a circle with your mouth.

  Zander said we’d hit the riverbank, listen to music, drink wine, make out, “and see what develops.” Normally I’d be all over that, but I wanted to visit Faith first, since she lived the furthest away. Then hit Paducah, and finish up in Logan with Renee Williams, whom I consider to be a sure thing.

  Fifteen minutes of driving gets me to a place where I have to make a decision. Straight ahead takes me to Starbucks.

  Left leads to Paducah.

  Do I literally stay on the straight and narrow and hope for a future with Trudy? Or veer left for a river romp with Zander?

  I turn left.

  Then feel guilty enough to pull over and call her again. But again, there’s no answer. Now I wonder if she’s okay, so I call the hospital and use my best doctor voice to confer with one of the nurses, who tells me Trudy’s fine, she’s just groggy from the pain meds. So I’m thinking I could drive two hours and sit in Trudy’s room all afternoon and she might not even know it, or I can hop over to Paducah to see if Zander Evans still wants to take me to the riverbank.

  Faith looked nothing like her photos. But I know for a fact that Zander does, because we Skyped.

  She even did a little dance for me.

  Thinking about that dance makes me want to speed up. But I fight the urge. It’s only forty miles to Paducah, and I’d rather not have to deal with any more small-town cops, or hear about their sisters.

  All three dating-site women are on my speed dial, so I press Zander’s name, and she answers on the first ring.

  “Two-one-two area code!” she says. “It’s really you! Hi, Dr. Box!”

  “Call me Gideon.”

  “Okay, Gideon! What’s up?”

  “If you still want to see me, I’m not far from Paducah.”

  “No shit? How close are you?”

  “Forty minutes.”

  “Wow! Okay, I won’t complain about the short notice, but gosh, this is cutting it close! Okay, look, I’m going to hang up and get myself in order. You should’ve called sooner! Hey, Doc? I mean, Gideon?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you get to my exit, turn left. After a mile you’ll see a junk yard on the left side of the road. Pull into the entrance and give me a call. I’ll give you directions from there.”

  “You want me to park in a junk yard? Is it safe?”

  She laughs. “This isn’t New York, Gideon! The junk yard’s run by a sweet little old couple in their eighties. But you don’t have to turn in, just pull in the entrance and call me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I better hang up now. But Gideon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t wait to see you!”

  I don’t get that reaction very often. As you might imagine.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Really. I’m going to show you a great time today!”

  “I’m looking forward to it!”

  “You won’t be sorry. I’m in a great mood!”

  “Thanks, Zander.”

  “A great mood, Gideon! See you soon!”

  “You got it,” I say, quite pleased to have finally made a good decision when it comes to a female.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Something bad’s going to happen at the junk yard.

  How did you get to be so jaded?

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

  31

  Nothing bad happens at the junk yard. In fact, something great happens.

  Zander’s standing there, waiting for me!

  Looking…amazing!

  Not in Trudy’s league, mind you, but damn cute.

  Nice, tight body, decent face, great hair.

  She climbs in the front seat.

  “Nice watch,” she says.

  “Thanks. It’s a Piaget Altiplano.”

  “And it cost more than my house, didn’t it!”

  She’s carrying an enormous handbag that appears to be filled with clothes.

  “Are we spending the night somewhere?” I ask.

  “You never know!” she says, giving me a wink. Then says, “Can I kiss you real quick?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Because I want to!”

  “Seriously? That’s great! I just meant, what made you ask that?”

  “You know how first dates are. As a guy, you probably spend half the time wondering, ‘Should I kiss her? If so, when? After a couple drinks? After dinner? At the end of the date? In the car? At her doorstep?’ It’s a pain. You might not even get around to kissing me at all because you’re not sure if the moment or the mood’s right.”

  She’s right. I never know when to try to kiss someone on the first date. From the slaps alone it’s obvious I guess incorrectly most of the time.

  Zander says, “I want to get that part over with, so we can concentrate on the fun.”

  “Works for me,” I say.

  We kiss right there on the gravel entrance to the local junk yard.

  It’s an okay kiss. The kind I ’m used to.

  The fake kind.

  Again, Zander’s not in Trudy’s league. But how many women are?

  And how much can I really expect from a first kiss before the first date?

  I’m quite pleased to be kissed at all at this point, and the fact she wanted to start in with a kiss gives me high hopes for the date.

  “Where’s your car?” I say, looking around.

  “I
caught a ride,” she says.

  “Why?”

  She looks down.

  Says nothing.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a rich doctor from New York City. You live in a penthouse. You have a doorman!”

  “So?”

  “There aren’t any penthouses in Paducah.”

  “Of course not.”

  “No doormen.”

  “So?”

  “The truth is, I was ashamed to let you see where I live.”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “I’m sorry, Gideon. I just didn’t want you to judge me based on that.”

  “I would never do that.”

  “Well, maybe later, then.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She removes two jugs of wine from her handbag.

  “This isn’t what you’re used to, but it’ll loosen me up.”

  “Sounds perfect!”

  She says, “You’re probably wondering why I covered the wine with clothes.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, actually. But since you brought it up, tell me.”

  “McCracken County’s dry.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No alcohol. Paducah’s a wet city in a dry county.”

  “So alcohol is allowed?”

  “In the city. But if we venture past the city limits we’ll need to keep it hid.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “That’s Kentucky,” she says. “New York’s different, I bet.”

  “Very. In lots of ways. But there’s something charming about being in small town Kentucky.”

  “You are so full of shit!” she says, laughing.

  I smile.

  She says, “So, you still want to go to the riverbank, get to know each other better?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Me too. Can we make a quick stop along the way?”

  “Of course.”

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Something bad’s going to happen when we stop. That is what you’re thinking, right?

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

  32

  I’m in the car by myself.

  Nothing bad has happened.

  Zander has a girlfriend named Chris who works at the local bowling alley. She wanted to swing by, visit with Chris a minute.

  “Chris’s husband died recently,” she told me on the way here. “I’m going to invite her to come with us, if that’s okay with you.”