by David Martin
Growler looked down with disappointment. “You dead cocksucker?”
20
Camel’s bed was no more than ten feet from where he and Annie stood exchanging a lemony kiss, and as he thought about making that ten-foot trip she had already decided neither to offer herself nor resist whatever overtures he made, Annie fully aware this was moral abdication but that’s the decision she’d made, to let Teddy decide.
After the kiss he embraced her and looked at the freckles spilt down the back of her neck. That summer fourteen years ago he played connect-the-dots on Annie with a ballpoint pen and promised he’d count them all before the summer was out but of course the count kept getting interrupted, and now Camel’s mind perversely flashed an image of Annie on all fours with her little white ass up in the air, that look she gave him when she turned back over one slender shoulder to watch what he was doing, he’d remember that look forever.
They were kissing a second time when the door from the hallway opened.
The silence was so heavily strained that the air in the room seemed to undergo a severe drop in pressure, then Annie spoke the man’s name with an almost insupportable sadness, “Paul,” while Camel’s attention snagged in two places, the first being Paul’s hand which held a butcher knife, the second was the countertop right next to where Paul stood … and upon which Camel had left all three of his side arms.
21
Scratching at the insides of his forearms as he watched Kenny Norton’s battered ribcage for signs of movement Growler desperately needed another few lines to stop himself from completely unraveling … Norton’s at peace now but what about me? Growler was still suffering, still didn’t know why he was betrayed, who had the elephant, the pictures, really it was too massively unfair. Growler’s addled mind trying to figure what he should do next, find Elizabeth’s address, Kenny said he had it, then go back to Cul-De-Sac and take a shower, change into some nice clothes, impress Elizabeth before I do everything to her I intended to do to Kenny here if the sissy hadn’t just given up and died on me.
Which was when Norton took a sudden big gasp as if just then remembering to breathe, Growler witnessing this with big teeth smiling. “Come on Kenny, let’s go to the kitchen.” He tried to drag his old friend by the ponytail but Norton was like dead weight and as Growler continued pulling it seemed the ponytail might actually break away … Growler finally changing tactics, holding Norton under the arms to pull-drag him through the living room, trailing red on white carpet, then across the dining alcove and into the small kitchen where blood leaked onto the surgically clean white tile floor … Norton all the while making little sounds from deep within his chest cavity: low groans, groggy moans, soft growling.
Going through Norton’s kitchen drawers Growler found a new clothesline still in the package but no heavy meat cleaver like the one the Raineys had in their kitchen.
“Where do you keep the knives?” Growler asked of the supine Norton who didn’t respond and earned a light kick in the back of the head which made him say, “Ohh,” like a gentle exclamation from a troubling dream.
Growler found an aluminum-bladed butcher knife and used it to cut the clothesline.
Bringing in a straightbacked chair from the alcove Growler stripped the blood-stained robe from Norton then lifted him onto the chair and steadied him there with one hand while with the other he looped line around Norton’s neck, tying the free end to the handle of the false drawer in front of the kitchen sink. Growler fastened Norton’s ankles and wrists to the chair, also tied cord around the man’s waist and cinched it tightly to the back of the chair to keep him from sliding off.
After filling a four-quart stainless-steel pot Growler threw cold water in Norton’s face causing a sharp intake of breath that also inhaled blood, Norton gagging and choking until Growler raised the back of the chair and tipped him forward. When Norton stopped coughing, Growler poured another gallon of cold water over him, Norton’s blood diluted into pink streams that ran down his chin and neck, his chest and belly, into his furry groin.
“Why’d you lie at my trial?”
Norton’s head lolled as if lacking muscle tone to keep it upright. Growler slapped him until he came around, head up and eyes open to see what horror came next … Growler screaming about elephants and betrayals.
Norton coughed, spat out another tooth … when his tongue went exploring alien spaces that familiar teeth had so recently occupied he made a face like a man tasting something rank in his dinner.
Growler scratched at one forearm then the other, trying to keep his mind straight. “Kenny, did you see the pictures Hope took … who was in them?”
Norton shook his head slowly back and forth.
“Did she take pictures the day she was killed?”
Norton at a loss for words.
“Unless you give me some answers I’m going to cut off your head, is that clear?”
Norton indicated it was, then tried to form words with his mangled mouth. “Gopth … the gopth toll me to lie.”
“Why?” Lawrence Rainey also claimed he’d been instructed to lie at the trial but why … were the cops protecting Growler’s uncle, had J.L. killed Hope? It made sense … Growler being convicted of Hope’s murder is what enabled J. L. Penner to inherit Hope’s share of Cul-De-Sac. But Growler had run through this conspiracy theory in prison, and while Uncle Penny could’ve bribed the cops, could’ve leaned on the Raineys to perjure themselves, how did he coerce Kenny … Kenny hated J.L., Kenny was not only Growler’s best friend but also his partner in a scam that could’ve netted them three million dollars. Kenny’s betrayal was the part that didn’t make sense.
“How’d they get to you?” Growler asked as he stepped behind the chair and pulled on the rope loop around Norton’s neck causing the man’s hands to try jerking upward in protection but those hands were tied down and all Norton could do was struggle wildly in the chair as Growler pulled more and more tightly, the rope cutting off supplies to lungs and brain.
He finally let go leaving Norton gasping for air as Growler came around in front of the chair. “I want you to see something.” He kept the leather jacket and red shirt on but dropped his pants.
Norton gasped from having been choked and from what Growler was showing him.
Satisfied with this reaction Growler pulled up his pants. “Now you know who you’re dealing with.” He went searching again through the kitchen drawers coming up with a pair of pliers that he carried over to Norton and clamped onto that gold-loop earring. “You still play the guitar?” When he didn’t get an answer Growler jerked lightly on the earring and Norton nodded yes, yes. “Where?”
Norton looked to his left.
“Where asshole?” Jerking the earring again.
“Claw-thet, claw-thet!”
“Closet?”
Norton nodded. With one quick downward tug Growler ripped the earring out, tearing Norton’s earlobe in half and producing from the man a high keening wail that was more an expression of wretchedness than pain.
In the utility closet Growler removed the guitar’s high E string, then used a little saw that was hanging on the wall to cut off two eight-inch pieces of broom handle. He wrapped each end of the guitar string around the middle of each length of broom handle … he’d seen this done in prison and it made a good garrote—you formed a loop in the wire, slipped it over someone’s head, then pulled real hard in opposite directions.
He came out of the closet and held the garrote in front of Kenny Norton’s ruined face. “Might be a tight fit.” Growler stepped behind him. “As the actress said to the bishop.”
The loop went around Norton’s neck just above the clothesline still in place.
“You were my best friend,” Growler said as he got a good grip on the two sections of broomhandle.
Norton nodded an enthusiastic agreement. “I wahth, I wahth Donny.”
Growler went into a crouch to improve leverage. “And you know I didn’t kill Hope because I was with you
when she was murdered.”
“I know.”
Growler flexed his biceps, readying himself. “And you sold me out.”
“They were going to arreth me!”
“For what?”
“A boy …”
“What?”
Norton’s face twisted into contorted expressions, he wanted to explain but ended up mewling pleas for mercy.
Growler cursed him then jerked hard in opposite directions on the lengths of broomhandle, Norton trying to scream but unable to force sound past his constricting throat, Growler pulling harder, arm muscles straining as the tightening wire sliced flesh like a blade.
Norton’s tongue expanded like a grotesque fat slug that had been stuffed into his mouth but was now sticking out from his lips to escape.
Growler pulled harder, the wire sinking out of sight into Norton’s neck, terrified eyes bulging, their threadlike blood vessels bursting.
Growler spread his legs, bent his head, pulled all the harder.
Norton’s face turned a dark violent red as he thrashed around so hysterically that he and the chair would’ve fallen over had Growler not been keeping them upright. Norton’s neck produced a collar of bright blood, the skin below the wire almost normal in color but above the wire his flesh had turned a deep purple approaching black.
Growler kept pulling, a stream of urine suddenly shooting straight up from Norton’s penis, the abnormally high pressure driving that urine stream all the way to the kitchen ceiling.
The wire had cut carotid arteries and jugular veins, blood everywhere, the kitchen a slaughterhouse, the floor slick. As Growler looked down over Norton’s bare shoulder he saw the man’s penis twitch in spasms before ejecting a single stringlike length of semen that twisted in flight before landing curled like a question mark in the blood, piss, and water on the kitchen floor.
By the time Norton shit himself, his head was already leaning lazily to the side, the wire cutting its way through to spine.
With the lengths of broomhandle farther apart Growler found it difficult to keep up the pressure but when the wire slipped into the cartilage disk between two vertebrae, when Growler braced himself and jerked hard one last time, the spine and its cord were neatly severed and Norton’s head rolled down one shoulder before going into a free fall hitting the kitchen floor with a heavy thump-thud like a ponytailed bowling ball.
Face up.
Incredibly, Norton’s mouth slowly opened, getting wider and wider. Growler watched fascinated … as if that decapitated head were about to tell him secrets of elephants and betrayals … but when the mouth opened wide enough for a scream it just stayed like that, silent and gaping.
Standing there sweating, breathing hard, looking down at Norton’s open-mouthed, open-eyed expression staring back up from the floor Growler submerged deep inside himself searching for regret or guilt … finding none, he unzipped his pants but then suffered a paralyzing case of bladder shyness and had to concentrate very hard to overcome it.
22
Paul Milton saw the guns too and before Camel could react Milton exchanged his butcher knife for the pistol closest to him, that little five-shot .22 magnum, a revolver barely larger than a derringer but deadly enough at close range. He pointed it at Annie, at Camel, then back at Annie … the worst type of person in the world you want pointing a weapon at you, someone who’s frantic, confused, hurt … Paul’s face battered like he’d been in a car wreck, Annie more shocked by her husband’s condition than embarrassed to have been caught by him. “What’s happened to you?” she asked.
“Something terrible,” he said. Unspeakable, he meant.
Camel felt sick to his stomach from the stupidity of what he’d done, leaving his weapons on the counter like that … so totally out of character for him to be careless with firearms, showing off like a teenager for Annie.
And now he faced a man with a gun. Camel knew the standard operating procedure … talk to the guy, put him at ease, ask what he wants, show you’re not a threat. But Camel thought it might be more effective simply to walk over there and gently take the gun away, do it now before the guy gets a taste of control and starts liking it … he obviously isn’t familiar with firearms, Camel could tell by the way he gripped that .22 like he was worried it might explode on its own … just walk over there and take it out of his hand, he’ll probably feel relieved to be rid of it. Of course if Camel’s wrong he gets shot.
Without announcing his intention or looking at the man directly, Camel started in Paul’s direction.
“Stop.”
Camel didn’t.
“STOP!” Paul raised the .22 and squeezed on the trigger causing the hammer to pull back.
Camel stopped. “That’s a double-action revolver,” he said. “No spur on the hammer, no safety … it fires just by pulling back far enough on the trigger.”
Paul had no idea what he was talking about, still holding the trigger in that about-to-fire position.
“All I’m saying is, you want to shoot me, that’s one thing … but if you haven’t made up your mind yet, well then you’re about to shoot me by accident if you don’t ease off on that trigger.”
After a torturous pause the trigger finger relaxed allowing the hammer to reseat itself and Camel to take a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“I’m her husband,” Paul said more nervous than indignant.
Camel had already figured that part out.
“Paul,” Annie asked again, “what in God’s name happened to you?”
He raised his left hand to his face, blackened, bruised, broken. “You should’ve said what in hell happened to me,” Paul corrected her before looking again at Camel and repeating, this time with emphasis, “I’m her husband.”
Camel thought it odd Annie had married a man so slight and young … maybe Paul looked more substantial before he was injured and when he’s not suffering from lack of sleep and jealousy and rage. His white pants were dirty, work shirt heavily stained, the lenses of his rimless glasses filthy and the earpieces bent wildly out of shape, the right one didn’t even touch his ear, it pointed up and away from Paul’s head.
“I was afraid after last night,” Annie was saying to her husband. “I called you earlier remember? Explained I was here with Teddy? He used to be a policeman, Teddy’s an old friend of the family.”
Camel wished she wouldn’t use his first name … put some distance between us, refer to me by pronouns: this man, he, that guy there.
“You were kissing him,” Paul pointed out to his wife.
Annie said she could explain that though in fact she couldn’t, not to a husband.
“You gave him a blow job.” He wasn’t accustomed to using the words, saying them like a little boy practicing curses.
“No,” Annie insisted.
Paul swung the gun in her direction and pulled on the trigger.
“Hey,” Camel said quietly, causing the .22’s muzzle to come back toward him as he ran a set of calculations … someone unfamiliar with firearms and shooting a two-inch barrel could easily miss even at this close range, then the concussion and recoil might surprise him enough he wouldn’t be able to get off a quick second shot. Camel was about to rush Paul when Annie stepped toward her husband.
“Stay away from me,” Paul told her. “You just don’t care who you sleep with … fuck … do you … all a guy’s got to do is ask, isn’t that right?”
“I’ve never been unfaithful to you.”
His ruined eyes opened wide. “Giving this guy a blow job, that doesn’t count?”
“I didn’t—”
“LIES!” He was shaking now, a real case of the shivers, a shattered man, and although cuckold horns weren’t sprouting from his head you could tell by looking at him that he felt those horny roots spreading out through his brain like hot, living cancer.
“Paul,” Annie said, “whatever’s happened to you out at Cul-De-Sac is affecting your thinking, you’re imagining—”
“
Imagining I came in here and found you hugging and kissing him!” He turned toward Camel and spoke with funereal regret. “She gave you a blow job.”
“No,” Camel quietly replied, “that didn’t happen.”
“I know it did!”
“How do you know?” Annie asked. “Your friend with the horse teeth tell you?”
Paul started to explain about the golfer but instead he told Camel, “You know what my ambition was, before I met her, my ambition was to serve God … that’s right, go ahead and laugh.”
“I’m not going to laugh,” Camel said.
“You know what she called me once, she said I was hapless.”
Annie frowned, she didn’t remember it.
“Hapless,” Paul repeated … like a death sentence.
“Oh Paul—”
“Shut up!” His head shook so wildly the eyeglasses were dislodged and seemed about to fly from his face. “Too bad you didn’t come home tonight instead of giving out blow jobs, I could’ve made us rich … I sold my soul to make us rich.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The elephant.”
“The—”
“I found the elephant!”
“What is it?”
“It’s an elephant.”
She tossed her head, Annie was now more angry and frustrated than afraid. “Paul, what are you involved in?”
“I’m not involved in adultery.” When his glasses slipped again, he tried to push them up, then in a fit threw them to the floor. “I’ll kill everybody here!”
“You’re not going to kill anybody,” she told him.
“Why, because I’m hapless?”
“Oh Paul …”
He again aimed the muzzle at her face, again squeezed on the trigger … and each time Camel saw that hammer move it was like his heart stopped in anticipation. “I’m coming over there and getting my revolver back,” he said in an even voice, starting to do exactly that.
Sensing finally that Camel was serious, realizing a conclusion was about to be reached, Paul looked at Annie. “I don’t think I ever really told you how very sorry I am for losing all your money.”