Edward Lee (7 page)

But he
could
solve the head-humping murders, couldn't he? It was his
duty.

He'd put in for countless evidence scans and records checks with the state police. He knew it would take time, but Stewart Cummings was a patient man, and, they said, patience was a virtue. So, he'd wait. And in the meantime, he'd drive his unmarked federal police car, with Spaz as his guide, to various "points." his trunk loaded with controlled, dangerous substances, mainly of the white powder variety. He'd unload his shit, in other words, and take his grease, to keep afloat in a rocky world and provide his wife the necessary monies for her innumerable medications. And on the side, he would vigorously investigate what he now thought of as The Russell County Head-Humping Murders.

Slow but sure, leads were made, but a bit more quickly, Kath's maladies worsened. She couldn't even attempt to get out of bed before noon, whereupon she'll drive to the doctor's, then drive to the local pharmacist's, procure her meds, and just get sicker and sicker. Acute Temporal Pneumonia, the doctor's diagnosis continued to affirm, with symptoms of related seasonal affect disorder and acute hypoglycemia. Kath's love for Cummings, though, never waned. He could see it in her eyes, he could sense it in her aura, and Cummings knew that one day soon, she would be better and their lives together would resume as they'd dreamed. They dreamed the same dreams most couples did. These, after all, were Cummings' promises to her. A crew of children, a white picket fence and a two-car garage, a collie in the yard. He would give her all of these things, once she was recovered.

And until then—

I'm doing okay,
he realized.
I'm covered.

Though Kath's doctor and pharmaceutical bills went up, so did Cummings' pad. Soon he was pulling $1500 a month for driving Dutch's points, not to mention the continued peanuts for covering the transport routes for Spaz's hooch supplier. Cummings was paying for all of Kath's meds, plus the everyday bills, plus putting a little away into savings. And there was one thing he avowed to himself.

When Kath gets better, I stop.

Cummings actually believed this, and maybe it was even true. But he remembered his priorities, as well as his golden rule: Cops On The Take- Always Get Caught. Which was why, as he'd previously planned, he would seize any "special" opportunity, and maybe have the chance to put enough in CDs to cover Kath's medical expenses just in interest. Then he'd be clean and wouldn't have to worry. And there was another thing: whenever he and Spaz delivered product to a point, they carried back a bag full of cash. Ten thousand, fifteen, one time
thirty-five.
Cummings wasn't stupid. Eventually, he knew, he'd sufficiently gain enough of Dutch's trust to drop point on a
really big
score. Then—

I'm made in the fuckin' shade, brother...

But the headers carried on. A dozen became two dozen, then three. They were finding the bodies on the shoulder of Route 154. for God's sake, and in culverts and ravines, in wide open fields, all over the place. Same m.o. each time. Same perps.

Cummings' judicial curiosity smoldered. This was his sideline, all right. He was going to solve the head-humping murders if it took everything he had.

And then, one day, he got a break...

........

"Hump that head, boy.
Hump
it!"

Travis pumped away, this time on Betty Sue Morgan, whose pappy had once sniped sheep from Travis' own Dad. She was sweet an' young, with flowin' clean red hair and a
nice
set of milkers on her. Purdy cooze too, but Travis, by now, weren't interested much in cooze. Best pussy in the land weren't nearly as good as a nice hot brain.

"Aw, shee-it. Grandpap!" Travis postulated. "My bone's so hard it feels like it's gonna
bust!”

"Then let it bust, son! Bust a nut right'n'side 'er head!"

And this Travis did, almost as if on command, squirtin' a good-sized pecker-loogie right inta the soft pulp'a Betty Sue Morgan's warm gray matter. It was a fine nut, it was, an' a generous one. 'Fact, Travis' jizz felt like a coupla big worms beltin' out his peckerhole.

"Your turn, Grandpap." he said, and, as were the case ever-time now, he picked his grandpappy up under the arms and held him up. Grandpap humped away, he did, railin' an' rejoicin' as his bone were shuckin' hilt-deep in an' outa Betty's purdy head. And when Grandpap gave her his squirt, he cried, as he yoo-sherally did now, heaped with gratitude fer what his one an' only grandson were doin' fer him. Helpin' ta retrieve his younger days, he were. And what greater gift could a grandson give his grandpappy, huh?

An' once that final load'a dickjuice were fired straight up inta Betty Sue's head. Travis, sated as a tom cat after etin' a mouse, hauled her purdy dead ass out the truck, and droved oft' ta dump her. A'corse, purdy as she were, Travis' bone was hard agin 'fore he ever made it out ta the Route, so's he hadda pull over, an' thought he'd give her poon a last shot'a the salt fer good measure. Humped her dead pussy hard, he did, and fer a long time, but it were nothin', so's then he took a good hock 'tween her buttcheeks and humped her cornhole—but still... nothin‘. Just weren't nearly as good, 'n fact, as humpin' her head, no sir. So' that's what Travis did next, lay her flat out on the hood'a the truck, an' stuck his root right back inner head. Humped her so hard, 'n fact, there's was milk spurtin' out her big creamy tits, on account of she just dropped a li'l white trash crumb-snatcher a few months back, he'd heard, and once Travis were done pourin' his last nut inta her head, he'd worked up quite a thirst, he did, so's he shook the last drops outa his cock, then he leant over and took a good long suck off those great rib melons'a hers, and had hisself a
fine
drink'a milk. Tasted kinda sweet and still warm, it did, and it were probably a full quart he sucked out of 'em by the time he were done. Her tits looked smaller, comes ta think of it. once he were through, 'bout plain-ass sucked 'em dry. Then he dumped her dead ass off by a big pin oak tree offa Tick Neck Road.

Yeah, head-humpin', that were it. Nothin’ better ta relieve the stresses of day-ta-day life, no sir. Get a fella off just dandy it did. And it were only fittin‘, on account'a these gals, and a coupla time fellas, were all kin ta folk who done his Daddy wrong. So Travis, driving back down the Route under a high moon, an' peepers makin’ a ruckus from the trees, had hisself a moment of self actualization.

A eye fer an eye was what the Bible said, and that could be interpreted as meanin' it was alls right ta head-hump a neighbor who done ya wrong. So's by head-humpin'. Travis rightly figured, by squirtin' his daily big load inna gal's head and havin' hisself a dandy nut, he were also follerin' the word of the Lord, doin' a service ta Chris-cher-anity. Ain't that right? Was a mighty great God who'd smile on those fer humpin' heads, yes sir!

But as he droved the pickup back to the cottage. Travis got ta thinkin'. This last month 'er two. he'd pretty much got back at all those who screwed his dear dead Daddy over. Gots back at the Reids an' the Kinneys an' the Waiters an’ the Shoals an' the Smits an' Gawd knowed who else. Weren't many left ta have a header with, ’n fact. But that last nut in Belly Sue's head still left him tinglin', an' just thinkin' 'bout it got him another stiffer right quick, so's he unzipped whiles he were drivin', he did, an'jacked hisself off a last nut an' wiped the watery come off on his shirt, an' then he got back ta thinkin'.

I gots ta know,
he truly did declare to hisself, the high moon in his eyes, and his mind a'swayin'.
I gots ta!

Yes sir. I got's ta have me a talk with Grandpappy...

........

Kath was remorseful, crying. "Oh, honey, I just can't stand myself!"

"Sweetheart," Cummings implored, next to her in bed.

"I'm just so
run down
all the time... "

"It's that acute pneumonia, honey. Dr. Seymour wrote it all down on the diagnosis. It'll pass. Eventually all those medications will take care of it. Don't worry darling. You'll get better."

"That's not what I mean." Kath sniffled. "I'm just such a crummy wife to you—"

"Don't say that. Kath!"

"—I can't get up till noon, I can barely do the shopping or clean the house. I can't even make love to my husband!"

"Kath! Don't worry about it. You're sick."

"Yeah, but for how much longer? You work so hard for me, and I can’t do anything for you! One of these days—"

"What?”

She sniffled again, sobbing into the pillow. "One of these days you're going to leave me, and I wouldn't blame you!"

Cummings stroked her hair, rubbed her back. "Honey, honey. I'd
never
leave you. Never. I promise. You'll get better soon, and everything will be all right. In the meantime—"

Cummings’ darker half spoke up.
In the meantime, you greased pig, you'll carry coke for a dealer...

"In the meantime." he said, "I've got it covered. That raise—"

What raise, you lying asshole? The only raise you've ever gotten is from a coke peddler. Give yourself a slap on the hack, buddy. You're running product for the same people who sell crack to teeny-boppers...

"—that raise I got at work will take care of us fine. So don't worry."

She sniffled on, hitching under the covers. "You're so good to me. One day, I promise, I'll make it up to you, I swear." Then she feebly dragged the sheet up over her rump, and pulled up her nightgown. "
Υο
u can if you want I want you to, darling."

Cummings felt like a cad. Here was his wife, sick and despondent and crying, yet offering herself for his pleasure. He couldn't. Enticing as her backside looked, he
couldn't...

"Sweetheart, go to sleep now. There'll be plenty of time for that later, when you're better."

"You're such a wonderful man," she murmured, and then drifted off.

Cummings covered her up. then padded to the kitchen. Oh, yes, it had been a long time, his erection was proof. He stood in the dark, in front of the kitchen sink, and masturbated, shucking his penis like an ear of corn. He could imagine how he'd appear to any onlooker: A grown man, a
cop,
beating his meat over the sink. Nevertheless, he orgasmed rather quickly, ejaculated, then sighed. The lines
ο
f his semen lay like white slug trails in the bottom of the stainless-steel sink. He turned on the faucet, washed it all down the drain, like the gravy off of last night's Salisbury steak TV dinner...

For the whole time, though, he'd thought only of Kath. in her past days of beauty and voraciousness, and never of anyone else. Now that he was a "drug runner," many "opportunities" came his way. Junkies and shack hags and groupies, all hanging out at the drop-point, and all offered for his pleasure. Some of them weren't bad looking. They came with the trade.

But each time, Cummings declined, thinking of the real things in life, and his real promises. Driving point was one thing. Fucking junkie whores was another. He'd wait instead, sipping beer and smoking Lucky, while Spaz knocked the bottom out of them, his speedfreak face twitching...

He could’ve cried himself just then, that part of him which condemned what he was doing.

What else can I do!
he exclaimed.

No answer was forthcoming.

He went back to bed and lay in the dark, Kath asleep at his side. He gazed up into the abyssal darkness as though it were the face of every mystery of humankind The nightsounds—spring peepers, crickets, hoot owls— seemed to merge with the icy moonlight streaming in through the window, to form a
different
sound, a more subjective one, a sound that only his wide-open soul could hear. The sound of the deepest chasms, or of the highest places of the earth...

And still more sounds haunted him when he drifted off into fitful sleep. The sound of nightmares...

Jesus...

The sound of a power drill fitted with a three-inch hole-saw. The sound of muted screams, and of bone smoking under 2500-rpm steel teeth. The sound—

—yes!

The sound of faceless hayseeds, of anonymous backwoods rednecks, chuckling as—

—as—

Jesus Christ, get me out of this dream!

—as heads...

Were humped...

The sound was
evil.
The sound was
darkness,
the uttermost darkness of the human mind. What could be conceived of more dark than this?

Humping... heads?

And the sound descended, a funnel to hell, fricatives and sybilants and murmurings as black as anthracite, as black as the gaps in the molars of the devil, and as black as his thoughts—