Box

29

Dr. Gideon Box.

It’s not that I don’t trust Faith Hemphill, I just want to hedge my bet because the best intentions can go out the window when detectives swarm a crime scene. So I drive nine miles toward civilization, find a truck stop with shower facilities, and use them. Then I change clothes and brush my teeth twice and use mouthwash till it makes my eyes water. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this experience, puking up a dead seahorse has a negative effect on your breath.

After cleaning up, I enter the truck stop restaurant, order a sandwich, and make sure I’m seen.

Then I drive to Faith Hemphill’s house and pretend I’ve just shown up for our date.

Of course, the cops try to move me along before I can even park the car.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Move along, buddy. This is a crime scene.”

“Is this Faith Hemphill’s house?”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Gideon Box. I’m supposed to be meeting her. Is she okay?”

“Pull over there and park,” he says, pointing to a vacant spot on the road.

He follows me there, takes a pen from his pocket, opens his notebook, and says, “Let’s hear your story.”

I give him my name, address, phone number, show him my driver’s license, and tell him about my email correspondence with Faith. Tell him I’m here for our date.

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“I called yesterday and told her I’d try, but I wasn’t sure I could make it.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “Cold feet. Fear of rejection. You know.”

He frowns. “You’ve seen her photos?”

I show him the photos I downloaded on my cell phone.

“That ain’t her,” he says. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about rejection. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

He leads me to the side of the house where Faith is being questioned by a couple of detectives. When she sees me she raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“You know this man?” my police escort asks.

“You’re Dr. Box,” she says.

“I made it after all!” I say. “Is this a bad time?”

The detectives, the cop, and Faith all look at each other and start laughing. Then Faith says, “You missed all the excitement.”

“What happened?”

She looks at the detectives. They nod. She says, “Two meth dealers broke into my house. I threw some powder in their eyes and they shot each other to death.”

I stare at her without speaking.

“Some date, huh, Doctor?” my cop says.

“You should probably go,” Faith says.

“Nice meeting you,” I say.

“Maybe we can try again another time,” she says.

The cop escorts me back to my car.

“You don’t look so good,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay to drive?”

I nod.

“There’s plenty of fish in the sea, Doc.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just sayin’, she ain’t the only starfish in the sea.”

I wonder if he’s using these analogies because they’re common expressions or because of Faith’s seahorse collection.

He says, “Listen, Doc. If you’re into chubby girls, I’ve got a sister you should meet. She’s been workin’ on herself.”

“In what way?”

“She’s lost fifty-five pounds, fixed up her hair and wardrobe, even bleached her mustache.”

“Her mustache?”

He looks around to make sure no one else can hear him. Then says, “That ain’t the only thing she bleached!”

He winks at me, then leans in again and whispers, “She bleached her asshole! You ever heard of such a thing?”

I shake my head.

“I were you, I’d check that out!”

“Because?”

“It’s as white as a lily,” he says.

“You’ve seen it?”

He winks.

Have I fallen so far that a small town cop thinks I’d be interested in a chubby girl with a mustache who’s so proud of bleaching her rectum she showed it to her brother?

“She sounds charming,” I say. “But I might need a little more time. I’m not sure I’m ready to date yet.”

He nods. “Can’t say I blame you.”

I drive away quite pleased with myself. I’d told Sheriff Carson Boyd I was heading here to meet Faith Hemphill. If word got back to him I showed up around the time two people were shot to death he might think it a bigger coincidence than it was.

I pull over to the side of the road and check my cell to see if Trudy’s called.

She hasn’t.

I call her, but get no answer.

While I’ve got the phone out, I pull up a photo of Zander Evans, and fire up the GPS to see how long it might take to drive to Paducah.

Then I view another photo of Zander Evans, and think, Why not?