Authors: Header
“Ya
did
!”
Travis slammed his big knuckly fist fight smack-dab inta her forehead, and her little lights went right out. then, pickup still rumblin’, he tied her up but good, gagged her, and stuffed her curvy skinny body down inta the footwell. Next thing he knowed, he was carryin’ her in like a sack of farm feed inta Grandpap’s work room, and took ta settin’ her down on the big cherrywood table Grandpap made boots on.
“One of them dirt-eatin’ blondie Reids!” Grandpap exalted. “Good job, Travis! Now tie her down on the table and git them silly, whory clothes off her.”
Travis saw and didn’t even have ta be tolt, ‘cos there was eye-hooks screwed inta each corner’a the table. Little Iree was still out fer the count, so Travis cut her ropes and tied her right back down to the table, on her back, and her head hangin’ over the table edge.
“What I do next, Grandpap?”
Grandpap tittered, stroked his whiskers, and wheeled right up ta the table. In one crabbed hand, though, he gripped the power drill, which were fitted with a 3-inch hole saw.
“Travis, it’s sorta like anything, anything takes practice, ya know. Like Thomas down the roadside bar? that ol’ coot kin play the washboard just as pretty as you please, and Conga Powers, boy, he kin git ta pickin’ the banja like nobody’s business. Know why, son?”
The calculative powerhouse that was Travis’ mind ticked right away. “Practice?” he guessed.
“S’right, boy. Practice. And as far as cuttin’ open a splittail’s coconut goes, I gots a lotta practice, I kin tell ya. Me an’ yer daddy, see — and God rest his soul — we’se got ta be the best head-humpers from here ta New Orleens.”
And with that fine testimony Grandpap squeezed the drill’s trigger, paused, then applied it to the top of Iree Reid’s purdy blond head.
Made quite a racket, it did, an’ travis’ nose twitched at the smell’a burnin’ hair’n bone, but it weren’t another few more seconds ‘fore Grandpap set down the drill.
“Yessir, a good ‘un,” he declared, and wheeled right up, inspectin’ his job. “See that, Travis? What I done, see, is I cut me a perfect hole in the top’a her noggin. See?”
Travis leaned over, squinting. “Yeah, Grandpap. I see.” And he also seed the perfect circle’a bone still wedged in the hole-saw. “So what’s now?”
“Just ya watch.”
Travis, curious as he were, just clammed up and watched Grandpap, very adroitly now, push Iree’s blonde hair back, to show the fresh-cut hole more clear. Blood was drippin’ a little onta the floor.
Then Grandpap picked up a knife.
“What’cha — what’cha gonna do with that, Grandpap?”
Watch, boy. Gotta make a slit, fer yer pecker.”
Later it would occur to Travis that this made sense. The knife was just yer typical steak knife, ‘bout eight inches long an’ one inch wide, and Grandpap, with the same surprise expertise, stuck that baby right inta that hole in Iree’s skull, slittin’ hisself a nice li’l slot. But, boy, once that knife were retracted, out gushed the blood mixed with somethin’ that looked watery — CSF or cerebral spinal fluid, but a big dumb animal like Travis wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout that - and it was then that Travis seed just how the floor at the base of the work table got ta be so rotted. All that blood over the years, pumpin’ outa gals’ heads, and the stuff just lay there, turned the wood soft, an’ went ta rot.
“Get’cher bone up, boy,” Grandpap said, wheeling back to watch and unfastening his trousers hisself. “Get ‘er up and stick it in. Have yerself yer first head-humpin’.”
Travis didn't knowed quite what he thought about this at first. Fuckin' a gal's brain? He dropped trow and jacked hisself a tad, thinkin' 'bout some of the honeys he seed in the girlie mags in the joint. An' once his dog was up an' barkin' he stepped up to Iree's motionless head at the edge of the table and paused.
"Come on, boy. What's wrong witch' ya? Ya got yerself a header here, boy. Better'n any pussy ya ever stuck yer bone in."
The implication was clear, a'corse: Travis were meant to put his hard dick inta Iree Reid's head an' hump it. Relucterant at first, he did so, but it weren't long 'fore he got the feelin's.
"Aw. shee-it, Grandpap," his throat gusted. "This is mighty fine, mighty fine, indeedy."
Travis held her dead head, humpin' it, his dog-stiff plumbin' in an out Iree Reid's still-warm brain. At first he thought it might be like jackin', in that he'd have ta think 'bout the girlie mags, and the gals he poled 'fore he went ta the joint, or some of the butts he slammed whiles he was in stir. No, Travis weren't queer, but when ya pulled 11 years in the county slam, ya made considerations. Ever so often, Travis'd get ta thinkin' and suddenly he'd be hornier'n a field dog. So he'd find hisself one of the bitches (Bitches, fer those'a ya that don't know, were what skinny boys was called in the slam, and they was mostly always ready, willin', an able ta spread their cheeks fer a pack of smokes or a li'l protection. And anyways, Travis helped hisself many a time, not that he were queer, mind ya, as has already been preevcrissly stated. He'd just think about Kari Ann Wells' slick hot box whiles he's was doin' it, er some other gal he dicked was back when, an' he'd come just dandy.) But there weren't no need fer this now.
I'se havin' me a header! I'se humpin' a gal's brain
, he thought.
An' it feels GOOD...
"Hump that head, boy.
Hump it
!" Grandpap goaded on from his wheelchair. "Give her brains a good squirt of yer jizz!"
And this Travis did 'bout a second later, huffin' an' puffin' an' humpin' away till the feelins' built up so bad, there were no turnin' back. He grunted then moaned long an' hard an' shot a gusher of his peckersnot deep inta the middle of Iree Reid's head.
An' ya know what?
It felt better'n any pussy he ever did hump, and any buttholes too. Fer shore. Travis, blushing and outa breath, stepped back an' let his limp bone slide outa the warm hole.
"Shee-it, Grandpap. you were right. Head-humpin's a kick!"
"Told ya so, boy," Grandpap obliged. He was jackin' hisself whiles he' was watchin', and had already creamed his belt buckle with a li'l spurt of his old man juice.
"Ain't nothin' like a good header, Travis. No one been doin' it out these parts fer awhiles, but it's high time we'se get back ta the old ways. We'se gonna have ourselfs a head-humpin’ most any chance we git, yessir! An’ lemme tell ya somethin’, son. Yer daddy’d be damned proud knowin’ you just spewed a load of yer peckersnot in that blammed Reid girl’s head!”
........
Cummings
'
mind fell aswarm with thoughts. First off, Kath, of course—run down all the time, lethargic, sick. But she still had a smile for him every night, didn't she? Then some harder things, like Spaz, and this dope peddler Dutch. He knew it wasn't exactly conduct becoming of a federal agent, but what else could he do? He needed the money. It wasn't like he was robbing banks, for Christ's sake, or taking down old ladies on Crotchet Lane for their social security.
I'm going to knock over a drug dealer, for crying out loud...
These guys sold crack to kindergarten kids. They put 13-year-olds out onto the street to turn tricks. They didn't give a shit about the kids, so why should Cummings give a shit about them? He'd be doing the world a service.
And as long as nobody found out...
He'd just turned off State Route 154 when he saw the lights. Flashing
red and blue
lights. Croll's field, up past the dell. Cummings veered his federal unmarked up the incline, then stopped. A state police cruiser sat there, lights thrumming. Russell County was unchartered—no municipal departments and no county police either—couldn't afford it. The state responded to any major case.
Crickets tremoloed through the dell when Cummings got out. It was hot, humid. A full moon lazed over the treetops.
"Cummings, ATF," he announced. Though in his field uniform, he also flashed his leather-clad badge and ID as he approached the lean, whitewalled state trooper bending over a—
A dead body
. Cummings noticed at once.
"Need any assist?"
The trooper rose and walked over, shaking his head. His face looked blanched as he lit a cigarette. "Thanks, but no. This one's over."
"What've you got?"
"Sig 64." the trooper recited. "White female, looks about 20. Dead for a few hours, looks like to me. I was heading back to my HQ for shiftchange, and there she was lying right there in my lights."
"What's the C.O.D.?"
"Blunt trauma to the head, it looks like."
"And it looks like she wasn't killed on site." Cummings remarked, shining his Streamlight on the corpus delectus. A pretty girl, young. Cutoff jeans and a halter lay aside. Pretty blond hair too. But he could see the hole in her head, and he could see a suspicious lack of blood-saturation on the ground.
"Yeah, 10-to-1 some redneck did her somewhere eles, then dumped her here. County coroner's on the way. I gotta wait till he gets here to secure the crime scene."
"Right. Good luck. Guess I'll be on my way."
"Thanks for stopping by to check it out. Shit, man, out here in the boonies — we appreciate it."
Tell me about it
, Cummings thought. "Later." Then he tromped back to his unmarked and headed home.
........
"Shee-it," Cummings heard next morning when he entered the FO. The Russell Counly
Β
ATF Field Office was actually a 72-toot trailer located behind the bingo hall in Larchmont, and the hearty "Shee-it" had been uttered by Peerce. How a man the likes of Peerce had ever been promoted to Special Agent in Charge was beyond Cummings.
I'se from around these here parts, Cummings,
Peerce had bragged more than once.
I knows these folk up here, hows they think, hows they act, and I'se right good at sniffin' 'em out.
Jesus. The job of this illustrious three-man squad, of course, was to deter the manufacture of unliscensed alcoholic beverages — namely corn liquor — and to furthur deter its unauthorized distribution and sale. In a county where unemployment topped 40 percent, moonshine was big business. It was also, for whatever reason, illegal.
"what are you shee-ittin' about?" Cummings queried upon entrance. He set down his DOR log, his gunbelt heavy on his hip.
"Fuckin' state cops just wired us this 64." Peerce testily waved the fax, one side of his mouth boluslike from the eternal wad of chewing tabacco. "Some cracker girl from Luntville. 'FYI' it says. 'Please file and note.'"
A 64 was a death report relative to suspected homicide. Frowning Cummings took the fax and read it.
FM:
VSP/VIOLENT CRIMES UNIT
TO:
SAC/BAFT FO RUSSELL COUNTY/IMMEDIATE
RECEIVING OFFICE:
FYI, PLEASE NOTE AND FILE VIA FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT COOPERATION ORDER. SHOULD RELEVANT INFORMATION BE BROUGHT TO YOUR ATTENTION, IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY VSP HQ
SUBJECT:
REID, IREE, A. W/F DOB: 2 AUG 79 HAIR: BLD EYES: BR WT: 116 - VICTIM (DECEASED)
The date of file was late last evening. "Oh. yeah." Cummings offered "State trooper found her in a field just off the Route; I talked to the guy. Said he saw her just lying there, was waiting for the M.E." Peerce made no reply, crow's feet around his eyes. Then Cummings read on.
PROFILING AND CONSULTATION:
VICTIM FOUND DEAD VIA UNUSUAL CRANIAL INSULT, A 3-INCH OCULUS, APPARENTLY INFLICTED BY A POWER TOOL MANMADE LATERAL RENT APPROX. 6 INCHES DEEP INTO CENTRAL SULCUS AND OCCIPITAL POLE OF THE BRAIN, PROBABLY INFLICTED WITH A KITCHEN-TYPE KNIFE WITH A DOWNWARD SERRATED EDGE.
NOTE:
FURTHER AUTOPSY DIAGNOSIS REVEALS A PECULIAR ASPIRATION OF HUMAN SEMINAL FLUID IN PROXIMITY TO THE INSULT.
Cummings' vision cruxed down on the stark fax paper. He'd seen plenty of strange state police wires in his time, but
—
What in God's name is this?
'
he pondered.
"Cain't believe it. A fuckin' header."
Cummings glanced up. "What?"
Peerce was leaning over to retrieve his spit-cup. His previous comment had been more of a mutter to himself than something he's said directly to Cummings. "I thought you were supposed to be gatherin' intelligence on McKully's stills?"
"Yeah," Cummings answered. "I got most of them tagged and marked: be ready to bust them any day. But what was that you said? Something about a
header
? What's a header?"
Peerce sat down behind his dented, federal-gray desk, chawing fiercely as the sudden glint came to his eyes. "So how come you ain't out there now? It's tax dollars payin' your salary, ain't it? Don't be worryin' about no damn death report from the state cops. It's there 64 so let 'em handle it. Shee-it McKully's probably just shipped out another truckload of 'shine while's you been standin' here jackin' your jaw."