Box. Part 16

"I didn't say your last name was Renfro, you dumb s.h.i.+t."

Faith and I look at each other.

Cletus c.o.c.ks his gun.

His companion says, "Wait. Get his money first."

"Why? It'll be easier to go through his pockets when he's dead."

"You might get blood on your clothes. Ever seen CSI?"

"Of course I have. I aint' stupid."

"Then get the money first."

"You get his money. I'll hold the gun on him."

While they're sorting out who's going to do what, Faith flings something at them that explodes into a giant ball of smoke.

They scream, cover their eyes, and fall to the floor, shrieking.

What the f.u.c.k?

The gun hits the floor, discharges, and shoots the woman in the leg. Blood spews from her wound like water from a sprinkler head, which tells me the bullet lacerated her blood vessels. She'll be dead within a minute. Faith makes a move for the gun, but the woman finds it first, and starts shooting blindly, while writhing in pain, until she's out of bullets.

Five shots, five direct hits.

All into Cletus's body.

Faith and I look at each other again.

"I'm not cleanin' this mess up by myself," she says.

"WHAT THE f.u.c.k 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 gla.s.s dust."

"What's ghost pepper?"

"Extract of Naga Jolokia chili peppers."

"I'm not sure you're p.r.o.nouncing 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 a.s.sa.s.sin, 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 gla.s.s to the mix? And soot?

Holy s.h.i.+t!

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 gla.s.s dust?" I ask.

"A friend of mine works nine hours a week at the gla.s.s factory, polis.h.i.+n' gla.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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."