Box. Part 8

I jump out of the car and help Trudy to her feet.

"Are you okay?"

"I thought you ran out on me."

"I had a plan."

"You sure? Or did you improvise after-the-fact?"

"I'm sure."

"Thanks, Gideon. I always had a good feelin' about you."

I decide not to remind her we've known each other exactly two-and-a-half hours.

We follow the monster truck's headlights with our eyes until we see Darrell's body. He's lying in a heap, like a rag doll dropped from a great height. I note the distance from the car b.u.mper to Darrell is a full fifteen feet. I was probably going thirty miles an hour when I struck him.

It suddenly dawns on Trudy he's not moving.

"Oh G.o.d, Gideon! Oh, my G.o.d! 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."

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-cla.s.s 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, a.s.sorted 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 s.h.i.t 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 s.h.i.t, 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 sayinga""

"You've got two choices. Either beat the s.h.i.t out of me and I'll tell the sheriff Darrell did it, or we kill Darrell and haul a.s.s out of town."

I sigh. Then, for the third time in a half hour, trudge back to the car to fetch the morphine.

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."

"s.h.i.t."