It suddenly dawns on Trudy he’s not moving.
“Oh God, Gideon! Oh, my God! I think you’ve killed him!”
We hurry over to him. I take a knee and check his vitals.
“He’ll live,” I say.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why isn’t he moving?”
“He’s moving in slow motion.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s suffered significant trauma. It’ll take a few more seconds for his brain to catch up. He’ll vocalize his feelings soon enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll hear him.”
“When?”
“Any second.”
She does. He starts screaming, crying, rolling around in pain.
“He’s hurt bad,” Trudy says.
“I won’t deny it.”
He rolls around some more, but he’s fussing about it less. His strength is failing. His energy winding down.
“It’s like watchin’ cheese slide off a cracker,” Trudy says. Then asks, “You sure he’ll live?”
“Yes. But it won’t be pretty.”
“He weren’t pretty to start with.”
“I’ll get the morphine.”
14
After sedating Darrell, I say, “That was weird, how he called you his woman.”
“He’s always been protective,” she says. “Of course, he’s a meth head, so that carries some blame for his disposition.”
“It also helps explain his delayed reaction to the pain.”
“He earned it,” she says. “He’s a first-class jerk.”
I look at her. “What now?” I say.
“Walk with me.”
She leads me fifty feet away from her noisy brother, and uses his truck to block any possible view he might have of us. The monster truck’s tail lights are casting a red glow on our faces and bodies.
“How bad is he, really?” she says. “Be honest.”
“It was pretty dark, he’s clothed, no way to make an accurate diagnosis.”
“Best guess.”
“Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, probable multiple fractures in both femurs, assorted bruises, cuts, possible concussion. We should call for an ambulance now.”
“No way. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“There’s a lot to be done.”
“Like what?”
“First, zip up your pants.”
“Okay.”
I zip them and say, “Check. Now what?”
“Now we’re gonna get Darrell’s work gloves out of his truck.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gonna put them on after you do the next thing.”
“Which is what?”
“You’re gonna give me a shot of morphine.”
“Why?”
“So it won’t hurt so much when you do the next thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Beat me up.”
“What?”
“You need to beat the shit out of me.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You saw him hit me, pull my hair.”
“So?”
“You’ve hurt him really bad. He’ll probably have permanent injuries.”
“I think he had it coming.”
“Me too, but he’s still gonna have you arrested.”
“What?”
“We’re rednecks, Gideon. He’ll press charges, hire an attorney, and sue you.”
“On what grounds?”
“He’ll say you ran him over for no reason. And Daddy’ll say you tried to molest me.”
“Daddy’s not going to say shit, because Daddy tried to hang me.”
“It’s your word against his.”
“And yours.”
“Yes, of course. But he’s the deputy sheriff.”
“I like our chances,” I say. “We can prove the rope brought the roof down. And I can feel the rope burns on my neck.”
“And I can see them, even in this light,” she says. “So you’re right, we’re probably okay with Daddy. But that won’t stop Darrell from pressing charges and suing you.”
“I get that. What I don’t understand is why you want me to beat you up.”
“We’ll have to say you ran over Darrell to save my life.”
“That’s the truth.”
“You know it and I know it. But sometimes the truth needs to be helped along.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the sheriff looks at Darrell, and then looks at this little swollen place on my cheek, he’s not gonna be convinced you had to run him over.”
“What you’re saying-”
“You’ve got two choices. Either beat the shit out of me and I’ll tell the sheriff Darrell did it, or we kill Darrell and haul ass out of town.”
I sigh. Then, for the third time in a half hour, trudge back to the car to fetch the morphine.
15
Trudy Lake.
“I’ve got some good news and bad,” Dr. Box says, after preparing the syringe.
“Bad news first,” I say.
“It takes a full thirty minutes for the morphine to take effect.”
“Shit.”
“I thought you should know.”
“We can’t wait thirty minutes to do this,” I say. “Please. Try not to hurt me too much, or ruin my face.”
He says, “I’m uniquely qualified to rough you up.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a surgeon. I understand how to cause the most bruising with the least possible tissue damage. You’ll want some heavy bruising, maximum swelling, profuse bleeding in areas that can be easily stitched by a qualified plastic surgeon.”
“Try not to sound so enthusiastic, okay?”
“Okay. But you’ve got to admit, doing this in the dark is an exhilarating challenge!”
When Dr. Box talks like that it creeps me out worse than the way he ejaculates.
“What’s the good news?” I ask.
“Good news is, by injecting you now, we’ll stay ahead of the pain. When the sheriff and EMS get here I can honestly say you received the injection the same time Darrell did.”
“Keep an eye out for Cletus and Renfo.”
“Who are they?”
“Darrell’s crackhead meth partner twins. If Darrell’s here, Cletus and Renfro can’t be far behind. Unless they’re stoned.”
“Is that likely?”
“It’s almost a certainty. But just in case.”
“Okay. Will do.”
She says, “Let’s do it. Give me the morphine.”
“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.