John Locke - Box

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Turn around, bend over, pull your pants down.”

“What?”

“That’s how it’s done.”

“Bullshit!”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t inject Daddy or Darrell in the butt.”

“It’s the fastest, most direct way to administer morphine into the drug stream.”

“You’re lying through your teeth.”

“No. Seriously.”

“If you want this relationship to work, you’re gonna have to tell the truth.”

“I am?”

“Yes, of course. And not just once-in-a-while. Always.”

He pauses a minute, then says, “Okay, I’m lying. But how did you know?”

“I was a candy striper for two summers at county. No one got morphine shots in the ass.”

“True, because they used a drip.”

“Yes. In the arm. Because as any heroin addict knows, the crook of the arm is the most direct route to the pain centers.”

“That’s never been proven,” he says.

“Yes it has.”

“Not definitively.”

“Arm,” I say. “Not ass.”

He sighs, gives me the shot. In the crook of my arm. Then he kisses me on the lips.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.

He puts on Darrell’s work gloves, takes a step back, and starts punching my face. After a few hits I beg him to stop, but he tells me what I already know, that we’ve got to really sell it. It bothers me that he’s able to keep hitting me when I’m sobbing like this, but I guess it’s easier for him because he’s a doctor. I’m putting my trust in him not to fuck me up too badly.

But I can’t help but wonder if he’s enjoying it a little too much.

Finally he stops. Then he grabs me by the neck and throws me down. He helps me up, then carefully hits me in what he calls strategic places to cause bruising and swelling on my torso without breaking my ribs.

Then he does something that surprises me.

He walks over to Darrell, who’s unconscious, and makes his hands into fists. Then he slams Darrell’s hands into the gravel. He’s realized Darrell’s fists should look like they hit me more than once.

He comes back to me, puts his arm around me and gives me a hug. By now I’m in excruciating pain. I can’t stop crying.

“How much longer before the drugs kick in?”

“Nearly thirty minutes.”

“What?”

“I only started hitting you two minutes ago.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Seems longer, right?” he says. “I should call the ambulance now.”

He does, then calls the sheriff to report our version of what happened, so I can hear it from start to finish.

When he hangs up I say, “I’ve got some good and bad news for you.”

“Good news first,” he says.

“I’ve got your money.”

“What money?”

“Daddy picked your pocket. But I got it back for you by pretendin’ I needed it. It’s in my purse.”

“It is?”

“Yes, sir. The full thirty-six hundred.”

He checks his pockets and gives me a funny look.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he says, “but I had five grand in my other pocket in an envelope.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Gideon. Before the ambulance gets here, you should go through Daddy’s pockets.”

He takes the money from my purse and stuffs it in his medical bag. Then heads back into the barn to check Daddy’s pockets.

He comes back out holdin’ the envelope up so I can see it. Then he says, “What’s the bad news?”

I sigh. “When the sheriff gets here, and the questions start flyin’, you might hear talk of a legal issue.”

“What type of legal issue?”

“It’s more of a technicality than an issue.”

“Does it affect you?”

“Partly.”

“Tell me about your legal technicality.”

“Well, don’t laugh, but legally…”

“Yes?”

“Darrell’s my husband.”

“What? Excuse me? What? Darrell’s your husband?”

“Technically.”

“You said he was your brother!”

“He is. Technically.”

“What? But you said…you said-”

“He’s my brother and my husband.”

Dr. Box jumps back like he’s come up on a snake. “I’ve heard of inbreeding before, but this-”

“Oh, relax,” I say. “There’s a perfectly simple explanation.”

“This I’ve got to hear,” he says.

I open my mouth to tell him, but then I pass out. Over the next few minutes I go in and out of consciousness. At one point I hear him yell, “I can’t understand you!”

I try to tell him I’m starting to fall in love with him, but the words seem to float into the air before they get to his ears. I feel like I’m a kid again, in my mother’s arms, and she’s rockin’ me to sleep. When I open my eyes I’m aware I’m lyin’ on my back on a bed, in an ambulance. There’s a guy sittin’ above me, talkin’ words I can’t make out.

When my head clears a bit, I say, “Where you takin’ me?”

“County hospital. You know where that is?”

“Starbucks, Kentucky.”

“You been there before? As a patient?”

“Six times.”

“Guess this makes seven, huh?”

“I guess it does.”

Dr. Gideon Box.

The County hospital at Starbucks must think they’re hosting a family reunion, admitting Trudy, Darrell, and Scooter at the same time for different reasons. I try to imagine the conversation among the emergency room staff at the front desk prior to admitting.

This one was beat up by her husband and brother. This one was run over by his sister and wife’s boyfriend. This one had a roof fall on him.

Crazy.

Sheriff Carson Boyd follows me to the Clayton police station to get a statement. Tells his dispatcher to run a check on me. Tells him to do an internet search for good measure.

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.”