John Locke - Box

“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.”

“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.

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.”

“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!”

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.