“You sure you don’t want to hang around town a little longer?” I call out to him.
He turns, sees me grinnin’, and smiles.
Then says, “Trudy, it’s been an honor hanging out with you.”
“Have a good life, Dr. Box.”
“You too, Trudy.”
He opens the door, walks through it, closes it behind him.
I stare at the door a while, hopin’ it’ll suddenly open.
But he’s gone.
I start to cry, which makes Clem nervous.
He says, “I can stand outside the door if you like.”
I nod.
18
Clem heads for the door, reaches for the handle, then stops and says, “You’re better off without him, Trudy.”
I cry some more.
“He’s old and weird. You’re young and beautiful.”
He starts to leave again, then pauses to say, “And somethin’ else, if you don’t mind my sayin’. It ain’t right the way that man ejaculates. Our first thought was a half-dozen baboons had a contest to see who could make the biggest mess, and the answer was, all of them. My personal opinion? There’s witchery in it.”
I cry harder, and he finally gives up and leaves the room.
Now I can finally read the note Dr. Box passed me when he leaned over to kiss me goodbye just now.
He’d used his body to block Clem’s view, and placed a small, folded up piece of paper in my hand that was heavier than it should be.
I open it, and a small key falls out.
I smile through my tears.
It’s the key to Daddy’s handcuffs. He must have stolen them from Daddy when he went back in the barn to get his money and cell phone.
The note gives a phone number with a two-one-two area code. Then says, Trudy, I’d run off with you in a heartbeat if I thought you wanted me half as much as you just want to get away. But you can do better than me and we both know it. Last night when I cuffed you to the fence you asked if you could trust me. You can. When you’re feeling up to it, call this number and speak to Robert Bothwell, my private banker. I’ve instructed Robert to wire ten thousand dollars into your personal account every month for the next two years. Now you have a big choice to make: you can finally get out of town, or you can buy your own monster truck! Love, Gideon. PS: I’ll never forget our wild and crazy night!
19
Dr. Gideon Box.
Putting the Starbucks County Hospital in my rear-view mirror, I work my way to the four-lane highway that leads to Ralston, Kentucky.
I’m not breaking the law.
Sheriff Carson Boyd left me a text message, saying I could go on about my business. It read: I spoke to your boss in NYC, Mr. Luce. He says you’re easy to find if I need you. Plus I want you the hell out of my town. So go on about your business. Somewhere else.
So that’s what I’m doing.
Taking my business to Ralston, Kentucky, to meet Faith Hemphill.
What can I tell you about Faith you don’t already know?
Very little.
I barely know the woman.
It’s a two-hour drive, so let’s start with what I’ve learned from the dating site.
If her profile’s accurate she’s my age, forty-two, recently divorced, with a daughter in college. She lives on a ranch. If the photos she posted are actually her, she’s attractive, or was at the time they were taken. She’s a custom saddle-maker, which sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I mean, she works with leather, right?
Riding crops?
Bondage collars?
That’s sexy, isn’t it?
I’m not sure. But it’s an angle to explore.
I try to picture her naked, on all fours. I’m riding her, whacking her fanny with a riding crop.
Wait.
Riding her?
I’m having trouble with the mental image.
I can’t picture how to hump her and smack her ass at the same time. I’m not sure it works anatomically. And anyway, I don’t like the idea of hitting a woman.
I know what you’re thinking.
I didn’t have any problem hitting Trudy last night.
Good point.
I’ll admit there was something amazing about beating Trudy up last night. I think it had to do with her insisting that I hit her, and knowing I had to hit her, and the certain knowledge that hitting her would benefit both of us. It’s like the world’s biggest taboo, hitting a woman, but we both knew it had to be done.
It was like getting a free pass.
I have no doubt that given the opportunity, Darrell would have beaten her half to death. Or all the way to death, since he was furious about the divorce, and the judge’s ruling, and the thought of losing Trudy forever. At the very least he would have done serious, and possibly permanent, damage to her face, nose, eyes, or teeth.
But I ran him over before he had time to do that.
Then I punched Trudy’s face and torso.
Hit her hard and often.
Big man, right?
I did it the safest way possible, but feel weird reporting it wasn’t half as unpleasant as I would have expected. Maybe it’s because beating her up solved all our problems. It kept me out of jail. Ensured her divorce would sail through the court system. Allows her to get a restraining order against Darrell. Puts him in line for a jail term, which could very well save his life.
You think I’m stretching things saying that beating Trudy could save Darrell’s life?
Think about it.
What type of life expectancy does Darrell have in the meth business? This guy’s a Grim Reaper trifecta: a meth cooker, meth dealer, and meth addict all rolled into one.
I try singing it out loud, in my car: I beat a girl and I li-iked it!
Katy Perry, eat your heart out.
All jokes aside, I didn’t enjoy it, and I’d never do it again.
But it wasn’t that bad.
For me, anyway.
I drive another twenty minutes and decide I really miss Trudy. And not just because she let me beat her up.
I miss her.
Why did I give her all that money after knowing her a single night?
Because I’m a nice guy?
No.
Because I feel guilty for beating her up?
Partly.
But if I’m being honest, the main reason I gave her all that money is because I can.
It’s chump change to me.
Go ahead and hate me for saying that.
Elvis was known for giving women Cadillacs just for being pretty. Does that make him a great guy?
It does?
Well I’m not a great guy. I just think Trudy’s a great girl who deserves a break.
What I’m saying, I was extremely wealthy before one of the world’s richest men paid me a hundred million dollars to perform an unauthorized surgery on his girlfriend. How much is a hundred million bucks? The interest alone pays me a hundred grand a week!
I’d like to see you try to spend that much money without doing something nice for someone along the way.
Of course, by removing Trudy’s money issues, I’ve removed the only reason why she could possibly be interested in me. So I go back to visualizing Faith Hemphill naked on all fours. This time she’s wearing one of her custom-made saddles on her back. I expect (and hope) I’m too big to ride her and switch her ass with a riding crop, so I visualize someone smaller doing it.
A few months ago I met a midget, a dwarf, and an elf at a government facility near Bedford, Virginia.
At least I think Charlie’s an elf.
I picture Charlie riding Faith Hemphill, switching her ass with a half-sized riding crop.
“Giddyup!” he shouts. He whacks her rear flank. “Trot!” Whack! “Canter!” Whack!
I shake away the image. It’s doing nothing for me.
My mind drifts back to Trudy Lake. She was all bruised up, in the hospital bed, telling me what a wonderful girlfriend she’d be.
I believe her.
I had an eighteen-year-old girlfriend a few months ago.
Well, that’s a stretch.
She wasn’t my girlfriend, I was paying her for sex.