Edward Lee - Succubi

The dispatcher was yelling over the air: “Ten three! All units ten three! Ten three, ten three, ten three!”

A crystal clear silence filled the void, which seemed anticipatory and vivid. Then: “Duke Belluxi, Erik Tharp, this is Chief Lawrence Mulligan of the Luntville Police Department.” The slight drawl sounded easy, almost chummy. “I want you boys to come to your senses. Give it up. Give us your location.”

“We’re at your mama’s house, Chief. Where’d you think?” Duke said, then made some more pig noises. “Looks like we’re going to have to wait, though. See, there’s a big line going all the way around the house, starting at the bedroom. Course, good poon like your mama’s is always worth waitin’ for, don’t ya think?”

“I want you fellas to know that every available state and local police car in this county is heading your way from every direction. You got a world of hurt bearin’ down on your asses, boys.”

Duke bubbled laughter. “Say, Chief, your wife’s the one with the really big titties who blows every guy in town for free, ain’t she? Think maybe she’d tongue my balls if I asked her nice?”

All this time during Duke’s profane fun, Erik had been fishtailing deeper and deeper into the back roads.

“You’re askin’ for serious trouble, boys,” Mulligan was saying. “You don’t want my men to catch ya on the run. Now be reasonable.”

“Shag my balls, Chief,” Duke answered. “How’s that for reasonable? Say, I heard your daughters do the football team. That true?”

“Listen to me, son. It’s goddamn impossible for you all to get away. Pull that car over right now, give us your location, and give yourselves up. You all have my personal guarantee that you won’t be harmed.”

“I got a better idea, Chief.” Duke chuckled. “You give me your mama’s location, and I’ll give you my personal guarantee that I’ll diddle her poon like your daddy never dreamed.”

Duke then repeated his rendition of pig noises into the microphone.

Erik turned off the radio.

“Say, buddy, you’re whippin’ this car around these turns like a regular Mariano Mandretti.” Duke dug into some more Twinkies, and burped. “And how do you like that no dick chief? Thinks we’re just gonna give up, just like that. Fucker would kill us in less time than it takes me to shake the piss off my pecker.”

Duke had that right, however uneloquently. Most cops down here thought the U.S. Constitution was a ship from the War of 1812. They’d shoot first and ask questions next month.

The network of back roads would hide them for a while but not forever. Unless they got an inconspicuous car, it was only a matter of time before somebody spotted them.

“We need a new car,” he said. “Now.”

“Way out here in the sticks, there ain’t nothing,” Duke observed. “We need a shopping center, grocery store, something like that.”

“I don’t think there are any this far in.”

Abruptly, Duke peered forward. “Well, looky there.”

Erik saw it.

“Tell me God ain’t on our side,” Duke said.

The road wound down through the woods. Up ahead was a one lane truss bridge which crossed a deep creek.

Parked off the side was a white van.

It was one of those custom jobs, cursive pinstriping, multiple coats of lacquer, Keystone mags. And lower, a guy and a girl sat at the creekside with fishing rods.

“We’re taking them with us, Duke, right? You’re not going to kill them, right?”

“No sweat, buddy. I swear on my daddy’s grave. From here on I don’t kill nobody.”

Erik pulled over. The two kids looked up the crest. Duke fiddled with some switches until the flashing red and blues popped on. “This is the police,” he barked out the window. “You two get on up here.”

The girl looked questioningly to her boyfriend. She wore white shorts, flip flops, and a maroon bikini top. The guy wore overalls. They both looked in their late teens.

“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all day.”

They rose and began to move forward. Duke fiddled with the LECCO on the console, which secured a Remington 870P. The lock was designed to prevent unauthorized removal of the weapon when the officer was out of the car and the keys weren’t in the ignition. Unfortunately, now the keys were in the ignition, and all it took was the press of a little button to remove the shotgun. Duke promptly racked a round of 12 gauge into the chamber.

“Duke—”

“Don’t worry, buddy. I ain’t gonna kill ’em. But we sure as shit ain’t gonna get their van by pointing our fingers at ’em.”

The two kids loped up the hill, approached the passenger side.

“Whuh what seems to be th the problem, sir?” the guy asked.

“The problem is this, son,” Duke explained. “We’re not really cops, we’re escaped mental patients. And we need a new set of wheels real bad.” He stuck the shotgun out the window, aiming at the kid’s head. “Now, that van there, it looks mighty nice.”

The girl’s face paled instantly. A light yellow wet spot appeared at the crotch of her pretty white shorts.

“Please don’t kill us,” the boy pleaded.

“Relax, kid. Just throw me the keys.”

“The keys are in it, sir.”

“Why, that’s just daaaaaandy, son,” Duke falsettoed, then squeezed the Remington’s trigger.

The boy’s head blew to pulpy bits. A plop of brains splashed in the creek.

“Goddamn it, Duke!” Erik shouted, and pounded the dash. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

Duke grinned. “That’s right, buddy. I swore on my daddy’s grave. Thing is, my daddy ain’t dead.”

The girl had fainted right away. The boy lay splayed on his back, his arms extended. He looked like a headless referee signaling a touchdown.

“Get them both in the van,” Erik said, now weary with disgust.

Duke stuffed the last Twinkie in his face and got out. He threw their things in the van as Erik pulled the patrol car as deeply into the woods as he could. Then he checked the trunk. A box contained shotgun and pistol cartridges, a Second Chance bulletproof vest, several flashlights, and some flares. Erik took the whole box and put it in the van.

“Hurry up!” he shouted.

Duke scratched his head over the fallen boy, whose own head was gone from the jaw up. A few cerebral arteries hung like scraps from what was left of the ruptured cranial vault. “Can’t we leave the dude?” Duke asked. “Seems silly to drive around with a dead fella.”

Erik jumped in the van and started it up. “Duke, how many times do I have to tell you? When we leave bodies, we leave clues. If the cops find a body, they’ll ID it, run the name through MVA, and then they’ll know what we’re driving. Drag ’em both in here and let’s get going!”

Duke complied, hauling the kid to the van by overall straps. He paused to chuckle. “That’s the third head I blowed off since we been out. Think that’s some sort of record? Three blowed off heads in a day?”

“Come on!”

Duke dumped the boy in back, then dragged over the unconscious girl and did the same. He slammed the rear doors closed.

Erik backed the van up, shifted, and took off down the road. He headed south.

«« — »»

Eleven minutes later, two Luntville units and a state police pursuit car, heading south on Governor Bridge road, slammed on their brakes in succession, just past the old truss bridge by the fishing dell. They’d all seen it at once, the rear end of a patrol car sticking out of the woods. The car bore the stencil along the back fender: 208.

At first it looked like it might’ve crashed. This prospect pleased one of the officers very much. His name was Lawrence Mulligan, chief of the Luntville Police Department. Yes, it looked like they’d been driving too fast over the bridge, lost control, and plowed into the woods. Aw, please, God, let it be so. Let ’em be sittin’ in front with their heads busted open.