Box

27

“What the fuck was in that smoke thing you threw at them?”

“My home-made blindin’ powder.”

“Where was it?”

“I just killed two people,” she says. “Who were about to kill us.”

“So?”

“So this is what you want to know? Where I keep my powder?”

“Yes.”

“In my dress.”

“Where in your dress?”

“In the back.”

She turns around and shows me a pocket in the back of her dress. I’m a little concerned to see another packet in there.

“What sort of person carries around bags of powder that can blind people?”

“The sort who lives in the middle of nowhere and has a business to protect.”

“Have you ever used it before?”

“Not the permanent one.”

“What does that mean?”

“I make two kinds of powder. Bad and worse.”

“What’s in the worse one?”

“Soot, seeds and dust.”

I give her a look. “I don’t think so.”

She smiles. Then says, “That’s all it is. Soot, seeds and dust. Ask me what kind.”

“What kind?”

“One-third soot from a wood fire, one-third ground up ghost pepper seeds, one-third glass dust.”

“What’s ghost pepper?”

“Extract of Naga Jolokia chili peppers.”

“I’m not sure you’re pronouncing that correctly.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Not really. You get those around here?”

“I buy ’em from a customer runs the Fire Festival in Albuquerque.”

“The Fire Festival?”

“It’s an annual chili pepper event.”

According to Callie Carpenter, the assassin, Naga Jolokia is one of the hottest chili peppers in the world. When distilled into a powder it registers two million plus on the Scoville heat index, which makes it more potent than the pepper spray used by police. But when you add ground glass to the mix? And soot?

Holy shit!

Those components attack not only the eyes, but the lungs as well. Faith’s little smoke bomb could have killed both intruders on its own.

“How would one go about obtaining a supply of glass dust?” I ask.

“A friend of mine works nine hours a week at the glass factory, polishin’ glass with a belt sander. He collects it, meets me twice a month, we trade dust.”

“Dust,” I say.

She grins.

“We trade spit, too, if you want to know. And other bodily fluids.”

“I should probably go,” I say.

“You’re my witness, doctor.”

“Seriously? Because this looks like a simple case of breaking and entering.”

“I’d prefer to have a witness.”

“But I’d do you more harm than good. I’ve already been in trouble with the Clayton, Kentucky police department.”

“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.