Edward Lee (12 page)

After all, he still had over all that money in his trunk.

Out of here.

He didn't even take a final look around. He left the VCR; surely Straker wasn't the only state narc who'd seen the surveillance tape. So he got into his car and drove.

Take the Route to 23. Best to stay off the intestate. They'd have an A
ΡΒ
out on his car soon, so he'd have to steal something quick, and abduct the owner so the car wouldn't be reported stolen. Who knew? But—

What am I doing?
He decelerated, then pulled a U.

Kath...

He couldn't just disappear. He owed her an explanation, at least. And the money? He'd leave her half, to keep her on her feet and pay her pharmacy bills. Hell, even half of the cash. U.S. greenbacks, would last a long time in Mexico. But it wasn't just that—

I've got to
— Suddenly Cummings, a cold-blooded murderer, a
cop
killer, was in tears.

I've got to see her one last time...

In one afternoon he'd destroyed his entire life. And the only
good
thing that remained in that life was Kath.
My God What have I done?

There could be no point in deliberating regrets, no logic in reconsideration. It was a cruel world, and sometimes people had to do cruel things. Ripping off the money, killing Dutch and Spaz? It was either that or live in squalor, weighed down by Kath's medical bills. They both deserved better than that. All he wanted was enough to get by. It was the chance he had to take, and the whole thing went sour. From the beginning, he'd never had a choice.

Dust followed him up the gravel road to his house. He skidded to a halt. In a waking nightmare, he saw a house full of State SWAT and DEA tac men, waiting for him, waiting for the cop killer. But the house was pin-drop silent when he entered. No shadows in wait.

Gym bag in tow, he walked down the dim hall to the bedroom. She was probably resting, worn out by the fatigue of her illness. What would she say? How would she react? Cummings brushed aside tears, his hand on the doorknob. Disgusted with him? Appalled?
All that and more,
he realized.

He could just leave half of the money, then drive away, call her later. Anything not to have to face her with what he'd done. But that wouldn't work, either. By then the state would be tracing any incoming calls. He'd be caught.

Be a man, you asshole. Go in, wake her up, and tell her.

The gym bag felt as heavy as a bag full of body parts, or dead babies. The door stood slightly ajar. But just before he could open it, he heard - “Yeah, like that."

Kath's voice.

She must he on the phone,
he discerned, Then paranoia kicked in. Had the state called her? Were they talking to her right now, rubbing the revelation in her face that her husband was a murderer? But no, that couldn't be. Her voice sounded normal, even enlivened.

"Want more?"

Cummings' brow furrowed. Then he heard another voice.

A man's.

"Yeah, cut me another line."

Cummings peeked in the gap, and that was when the rest of his world collapsed.

Kath lay naked on the bed, spread-legged and grinning. She was giggling as a naked man—Dr. Seymour, no less—inhaled lines of cocaine off her belly, simultaneously rubbing the furred plot of her sex.

"Where do you get this good blow, Jimmy?" she asked.

The pharmacist leaned up, wiped white power off his nose. "I got my sources." Then he chuckled, his finger still in the groove of Kath's vagina. "Bet your husband'd shit a brick if he knew."

Kath laughed. Her sweaty face looked aglow in untold delights. "Are you kidding? He'd kill us both!"

"It's amazing how stupid he is, though." Now the man was rubbing her breasts, so nonchalant. "Just keeps forking over the cash week after week, and never suspects a thing."

"I'm a good actress, Jimmy. The asshole still thinks I'm so sick I'm about to die. And he believes it all because I show him those phony doctor slips and drug prescriptions you give me. He thinks I'm using all that money for medicine!"

"Yeah, well this is some fine medicine," the man said, shaking the bag of white powder.

"And he just got a raise!"

They both laughed like jackals. Kath's breasts bobbing. Cummings could only stand there and watch, as if annodized, as if the truth had reverted him to a six-foot block of cement.

"Come on, let's do it again," Kath purred, cupping the man's genitals. "Stew doesn't get home till six."

"Christ, Kath! I done come in ya twice already. Give a guy a chance to get it up again!"

"You'll get it up." she assured, "and when you do, I want it up the ass."

"Aw, shit, aw, Christ, honey, you sure know how to suck a cock."

What the universe was now treating Cummings to, of course, was the witness of his wife performing expert fellatio on this Jimmy, the town general practitioner, who lay back in Cummings bed with his eyes closed.

And, next—

The swamp rat slopped.

When the doctor opened his eyes, though. Cummings' gun was in his face. The face drained. The mouth opened to speak.

BAM!

Kath's head rose, her naked body bucked. She screamed. Jimmy's head emptied glistening brains on the pillow.

"Stew!" Kath shrieked, turning in a blur of flesh. "I—"

BAM! BAM!

She lay back howling.

"Just to make sure you don't go anywhere," Cummings said, reholstering his Smith. No, he hadn't killed her. He'd blown out her kneecaps.

Then he walked out of the house and put the gym bag back in the trunk.

Yes, it was a cruel world indeed, and it was about to get a little bit crueller.

From the trunk he retrieved the box he'd taken out of the old man's cottage, the box containing the evidence: the power drill, the knife, and the hole-saw bit.

Cummings' gaze turned to the sky. It was a beautiful day. He lit a Lucky, dragged, and let the smoke eddy from his mouth. Then he grabbed the box.

It was a short walk back to the house.