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Subject: "Southern Hospitality" by Rhett Dreams, 8/10 [mf, crime drama]
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Date: 2 Mar 1997 21:38:13 GMT
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SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
by Rhett Dreams (c. 1996)
Chapter Seven (continued)
Myers pulled the Explorer off the highway and into the
service station, the third they'd hit so far.
"Shit, Gene, look!" said Starling, and his eyes followed
to where she was pointing, to the sign above the two bays.
"PB," she said excitedly, "Price Brother's!"
"This is it," he said, cutting the ignition.
"I'll take this one," he said quietly, motioning with his
head to indicate the attendant who was approaching the Ford.
"You check inside... and be careful."
"Got it," she said and opened her door. She walked
quickly to the building, her eyes darting back and forth between
the bays and the office while her hand freed her gun from it's
holster at her hip. She heard behind her the quiet but firm voice
of Myers talking to the attendant, identifying himself as an FBI
agent.
Starling backed though the office door and swung her
gun forward, held in both hands, covering the room. Her glance
found nothing and she moved quickly through the door that led
to the service bays, her eyes scanning quickly, finding nothing
but two cars, there hoods up. There was one more door to
check and she found a small room behind the office filled with
auto parts, then went outside. She circled the building but
found only two tow trucks parked out back, and two small,
vacant bath rooms.
By the time she returned to the Ford, Myers had
handcuffed the attendant and placed him in the back seat of the
Explorer.
"I read him his rights," he said. "Tells me he's been
working here only a month. Works for Ward and Sam Price---
the Price Brothers of the sign."
"Does he know where they are?"
"Sam Price usually works days, he tells me. Ward
nights. Sam got a call earlier this morning and left, maybe an
hour and a half ago. The kid figures he might have gone home,
but he doesn't know. I've got the address."
Myers reached into the car and pulled out the radio,
"Myers calling Quinn. Come in please."
"Quinn here, over," came the voice of their colleague.
"I'm calling from in front of the Price Brothers Service
and Towing near the town of Wade, Mississippi. That's pee as
in Paul, Price, and bee as in Betty, Brothers. Over."
"Got it, Gene. Sounds like a hit. Over."
Myers asked Quinn to call the County Sheriff and arrange
for a search warrant for the home of the missing brothers, then
suggested he radio the other two teams and tell them to meet
him at the house. They arrived at the home of the Price
brothers ten minutes later, the kid in the back seat given them
directions.
Gun's out, they approached the door, and knocked.
"They ain't home," came a voice from a distance away.
They turned and noticed an elderly black lady on the porch of
the house across the street.
"I'll take her," said Starling, placing her gun back in it's
holster under her jacket and crossing the street.
"Agent Starling, ma'am. FBI." She held up her badge as
she climbed the stairs to the front porch.
"No kidding?" said the woman, staring from the badge to
her face. "Tiny little thing like you?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Starling, smiling. "Did you say the
Prices left?"
"Sure did, girl. They loaded a bunch of suitcases in their
truck and drove off."
"When was that?"
"I don't know 'xactly. Maybe forty minutes ago. 'Round
then, I figure."
"Do you know where they were going? Did they say?"
She shook her head. "Those boys don't tell me nuttin',
no ma'am."
Starling noticed a police cruiser pull into the Price
brothers' driveway and excused herself, heading back down the
stairs and across the street.
The deputy was talking to Myers when she caught up
with them, explaining that they had heard from Agent Price and
that a warrant would be here in ten or twenty minutes.
- o -
Lecter heard heavy footsteps above him, on deck, just
after he found the second explosive that the sheriff had planted.
He satisfied himself that the timer on the bomb presented him
no immediate danger, and then positioned himself next to the
door to the main cabin, and waited, his knife ready.
He let the first man enter and pass undisturbed, then
stepped behind the second man and drove his knife into his
back. Ward Price's mouth shot open in a silent scream as he
felt the searing pain in his back. The razor sharp blade cut
through his body like butter, piercing his kidney and driving a
hole in his large intestine. It was not a fatal wound, Lecter
knew, but it would hurt like hell and immobilize the man. By the
time Sam's brain registered the expulsion of breath from his
brother behind him, and turned to investigate the thud made
when Ward dropped the two suitcases he was carrying, Lector
had withdrawn his knife from Ward's back and was upon him.
Holding two suitcases himself, the younger Price was
defenseless against the attack that followed so quickly. The
first swipe of Lectors knife very nearly severed his head from
his shoulders, and would have been fatal by itself had the mad
man bothered to wait a minute. But when Sam Price fell
backwards on the bed Lecter followed, driving his knife just
under the bottom rib and into the dying man's chest cavity. The
butchery that followed was clinical in its efficiency, the knife
making a complete circle of the man's abdomen. By the time
Lector finished his gruesome work, the bed was covered with
blood and the corpse of Sam price lay open as if in a sick
parody of a crudely performed autopsy.
Lecter turned away from the bloody mess on the bed and
found Ward Price on his knees, one hand reaching behind him,
his eyes wide and his mouth agape at the bloody horror on the
bed. The doctor moved leisurely over to the elder Price,
kneeling next to him before wiping his knife clean on the man's
jacket.
"He died quickly," said Lector in a reasonable tone that
belied the violence of his brutal attack. "Less pain, really, than
what you're feeling right now. What I can do in your case,
however, is open you up while you're still alive so you will feel
every cut. Trust me when I say I can keep you alive for hours,
looking much like your friend on the bed. On the other hand,
you can answer all my questions promptly and truthfully and
you'll save yourself all that pain."
Fifteen minutes later, Lector was up in the bridge starting
the engines of the ship. An experienced seaman himself, of
late, he had no difficult programming the automatic pilot on a
course that would take the ship southwest between off-shore
islands and out to the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. He set the
throttle on full before jumping off into the water away from the
pier and any prying eyes. He swam submerged, under the
ship's wake and another twenty yards further, until he was
under the pier. He came up for air and then swam back to his
ship while the Price boat motored away, its occupants quite
dead and missing some parts.
The warm salt water washed the blood from his body as
he swam, and when he emerged and climbed up onto his own
boat he looked like a man who had taken a quick dip to cool
himself off. The only incongruous part of his appearance was
the leather satchel in one hand containing, among other things,
a little over $150,000 in cash.
Sheriff Trent arrived at the Price home a little after noon,
bringing with him the search warrant. The Price's driveway and
the road in front of their house was starting to resemble a
police department parking lot. In addition to Trent's cruiser and
two others belonging to his deputies, there was a State Police
cruiser, Myers' Explorer and a FBI sedan.
Trent made his way up to the front of the house and
introduced himself quickly to the four FBI agents. He kept his
face courteous and professional when he shook the hand of
Agent Clarice Starling. In his mind, however, he was thinking
how much he'd like to strangle the fucking bitch who was
responsible for screwing up his plans.
"Let's do it," he said, holding up the warrant.
A quick search of the house didn't find much, but the
thinned drawers and closets suggested that the Price brothers
had fled. Trent allowed the search to go on for a few minutes
before finding Starling.
"We've issued an APB on them, Agent Starling, but I
suspect they've gone to their boat and out to sea."
"They have a boat? Where?"
"Down at the marina, 'bout fifteen minutes from here. It's
a big sucker. I'll be happy to take you there."
"Shit!" Starling said. "Let me find Agent Myers, Sheriff."
Trent led the way in his cruiser and Myers followed.
Trent stopped abruptly in the Marina parking lot and hopped out
of his car.
"That's their truck," he said to Myers through the Ford's
open window. "How about one of you check the Marina office
and the other come with me out the pier."
Starling opened her door and got out. "I'll go with the
Sheriff, Gene."
"Be careful," said Myers.
Hannibal Lecter watched from inside his boat as Clarice
Starling and the Sheriff jogged up the pier to the berth that used
to hold the Price's boat.
"Be careful of that one, Clarice," he said out loud, then
returned below deck to finish preparing his lunch. The
sweetbreads would be quite a treat for him after a steady diet of
fish, crabs and shrimp. And the previous owners of what he
was now sauteing, the pancreas and thymus glands that he'd
carved out of the Price brothers, would certainly not miss them.
- o -
By the time the Coast Guard was notified of the fugitives'
attempt to escape, the Price boat was sixty miles into
international waters, traveling south at an unvarying speed of
thirty-five knots. The Coast Guard's initial search was westerly,
along the gulf coast, which was consistent with the an escape
route toward Mexico. Later in the afternoon they widened the
search, sending helicopters south and east.
The Price boat, however, was resting on the bottom of
the gulf when one of the Coast Guard choppers finally passed
overhead. The few pieces of debris floating across a few
hundred yards from where it had sunk were not big enough to
be noticed by the pilot, flying at a thousand feet, his eyes
searching the horizon for something vastly larger.
The afternoon and early evening was spent interviewing
neighbors, other boat owners and searching the Price's service
station and home. Late in the day, Myers sent the other two
teams of agents back to N'Orleans to check on phone records
from both places and to sort through the boxes full of papers
and correspondence they found. He and Starling would stay
the night and would be at the bank by eight the next morning
with a subpoena for the Price's bank account records.
In the Sheriff s conference room that had become the
center of all this activity, Trent, Myers and Starling sat
discussing the case. It was early evening.
"They can't outrun the Coast Guard," Trent said. "We'll
have em' back before morning, I expect."
"Maybe," said Starling. "But it's been five, maybe six
hours since they took off, and we have nothing."
"How 'bout I take y'all out for dinner," suggested Trent
after a few moments of silence. "We can leave the number with
the night watch in case anything breaks."
Myers and Starling followed Trent to the restaurant. As
he drove, Trent reviewed his escape plan. He'd arranged with
his brother to pick up the cash at nine, in the privacy of his
brother's office. He'd be packed and ready to leave. The flight
out of N'Orleans left for New York at 11:40. He'd take a cab
from Kennedy into Manhattan, then another to the Newark
airport. His flight to Miami left at eight. From Miami he'd board
a flight to the Cayman Islands the next day.
- o -
"I can't imagine the Price brothers acted alone," said
Starling over coffee. They'd each ordered the restaurants
specialty, catfish, which was excellent.
"I knew them only casually," lied Trent, "but I'd have to
agree. They were smart enough, and didn't have a moral bone
between the two of them. But they were local boys, if you know
what I mean. I can't see them knowing how to deal with sellin'
a dozen women and men, if your guess is right."
"Have there been any local MPs that fit the same
pattern?" asked Myers.
"There ain't but a couple of cars in the entire county that
would fit in the same price range as the ones you're taking
about. Nothing that I can remember that's unsolved, involving a
young and pretty girl, or a guy even."
"We did have a case last week," continued the sheriff.
"Young black girl, daughter of the Baptist minister. She was
abducted by a local guy, raped and killed. Bad case. I tracked
the perp, a local man, and he panicked, tried to shoot me. He's
dead now."
"Any way your perp could be linked to the Price's?"
asked Starling.
"It's possible, I suppose, but jes' barely. The Prices
we're, um, how should I say it, not real fond of colored folks.
The perp, ol' Tom Webber, was as black as they come."
"Where'd this happen?" asked Myers. "Where did
Webber take the girl?"
"To the Heinz farm," said Trent, unconcerned about the
direction of the conversation now that both Tom and the Price
boys were gone. "Tom was the caretaker there, looked after
the abandoned house and lived in a trailer on the property. He
brought her into the basement of the house and raped the poor
girl."
"Any signs that he'd brought other victims there?"
"We can double check the forensic report in the morning,
but all I recall it showing was blood traces consistent with the
girl, and a few little hair fibers that matched Tom's and the girl's.
Of course, I have to admit that we were operating under the
assumption that this was a single case, not knowing about all
your MPs."
"Can we go there? To this farm?" asked Starling.
"Tonight?"
"Why not?"
Clarice Starling's last question echoed in Trent's mind as
he led the FBI agents toward the Heinz farm.
"Why not, Clarice fuckin' bitch whore Starling," he said
as he drove. "Because there's always the risk that you'll end up
like the others."
Trent had been almost giddy all evening, at least once
the time came and went for the explosion on the Price boat,
without a sighting by the Coast Guard. He had relished the
time spent with Myers and Starling, before and over dinner. He
knew that several days from now, after his mysterious
disappearance, they'd come to the realization that they had
dined with the man they sought so badly.
It felt good knowing that he'd fooled the smart-ass bitch.
Part of him wished for more... to see the cunt's face when she
learned that he had led her astray at every turn. As he pulled in
front of the Heinz house his cock stiffened involuntarily, this the
scene of so many memorable fucks.
The idea never fully formed in the lawman's mind until
after he had showed the agents through Tom's trailer and from
there into the house. As they descended down the narrow
stairs and into the dark basement, Trent's flashlight leading the
way, he smelled her perfume and his cock twitched anew. He
was feeling invincible and the idea of strapping Clarice Starling
onto the barrel and raping her entered his mind and, despite all
the obvious risks, it just wouldn't let go.
He found the light switch and turned it on, shielding his
eyes from the sudden brightness of the overhead light.
"Jesus," muttered Starling a few moments later as she
walked over to look at the strange, ominous bondage
contraption in the middle of the room.
Trent watched carefully as Myers checked out the room,
his right hand gently opening the leather strap covering his gun.
"Take a look at this, Clarice," said Myers, now against
the far wall, pointing to the hooks drilled into the thick
foundation.
When the gun went off a few moments later it sounded
like a cannon in the confined space of the basement. Starling
flinched but very quickly her training took over and she turned
toward the source of the blast, crouching as she moved, her
hand diving into her jacket for her gun. All this happened
before Myer's heavy body hit the concrete floor.
"Don't try it, bitch!"
Starling froze, her eyes focusing on the form of Sheriff
Trent, ten feet away, his smoking gun pointed directly at her.
She eased her hand out, her fingers spread in supplication, and
turned her eyes left, her heart aching at the sight of her friend
and lover in a heap on the floor. She turned back to the
approaching form of Paul Trent, her brain registering the
implications of what he'd done and why, her eyes reflecting her
hatred.
"Yes, ma'am, Agent Starling. The piece o' shit Price
brothers didn't act alone."
"It was you," said Starling slowly, stating the obvious,
"who abducted Beth and the others."
"Beth? Oh, the blond cunt. You knew her?"
When Starling nodded, Trent's mouth curled into an evil
grin. "That cunt's probably taking eight or ten cocks a day by
now, most of them up her slut ass. She was a virgin there,
Agent Clarice fuckin' Starling, before I had her. Your friend
Beth squirmed like a stuck pig when I fucked her fine ass. Boy,
that cunt was good piece o'---"
Starling timed her kick at just that moment, spinning
toward the sheriff and flashing her leg out in the movement that
she'd practiced so often in the Agency Karate studio. She'd
either strike his gun hand or, if he moved his hand out of the
way, the kick would get his kidney and she'd follow it up with a
hand strike. She could then go for her gun and blast him.
But he was expecting the move. Instead of turning away
he turned into the kick and brought his revolver down hard on
her ankle. The sound of the ankle breaking was followed by
a sharp cry from Starling. In a heap on the floor, she felt his
gun pressing into her neck while his hand reached inside her
jacket and removed her gun.
"Here's how it's gonna go," he said after stepping back
from the girl. "You're gonna strip, Starling, right now. You
decline my invitation, or try anything else, I shoot you. First one
kneecap, then the next."
She pushed herself up, leaning against the wall as she
rose, keeping all of her weight off the broken ankle. He had
backed eight feet away, and she knew that it would be
impossible to try anything now, even if she had use of both
legs. Resigned, but hoping another opportunity would present
itself, she awkwardly removed her jacket and the now-empty
shoulder holster beneath. She looked away from the grinning
face of Trent while she removed her blouse, bra and skirt. The
skirt slid down her bare legs and into a heap on the floor, and
she had to hop on one leg to get free of it, and almost fell.
"That's enough, cunt," said Trent, motioning with his gun
toward the center of the room and the bondage device.
Chapter Eight
Dressed only in panties, her ankle broken, Clarice
Starling hopped on her one good leg to reach the contraption in
the middle of the basement room. She was conscious that her
bare tits bounced up and down as she went. Sheriff Trent
approached her only after she had draped herself over the
barrel and he immediately strapped one of her hands in place. His
gun on her neck, he fastened the other hand and then forced
the small ledge up under her chin. Then he went behind her to
lock her good ankle in place. He knew it was completely
unnecessary to worry about the other ankle, which Starling held
gingerly off the ground. He got out a pen knife and began to
cut off her last article of clothing, the panties that hugged her
firm ass.
"You're not as good looking as your friend Beth," she
heard him say as he finished cutting away her panties. "But I'm
sure you'll give me every bit as good a fuck, eh, Starling."
"You're a sick man, Trent. You need help," she said, her
hopes fading.
"Help? Fucking you?" he said and then chuckled. She
heard his him loosening his belt behind her, and closed her
eyes in frustration.
"It was nice having ol' Tom fuck em' first. That boy was
hung like a horse. Your friend Beth came like a fire hose when
he fucked her."
Starling moaned to herself when she felt his hands on
her ass, and then his cock at her sex.
"Which hole should I use first, Clarice?" he taunted.
"Your slut cunt, or your tight little ass?"
When she didn't answer he spanked her, hard on the
ass.
"I don't give a shit, Trent!" she said. Her head was
trapped in this awkward position, and she couldn't turn more
than a half-inch left or right. Her view was of the far wall, and
to the left she could just make out the form of Gene Myers on
the floor. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Which hole, bitch?" he asked again, but had moved
around in front of her, and she tore her eyes off of Gene and
focused on the long cock that bobbed just to her right. She had
never seen a cock as long as the Trent's. It's was not as thick
as Gene's cock, but it looked impossible long to Starling.
"My mouth," she said between clenched teeth. "Why
don't you let me suck it, bastard!"
He laughed, cruelly, and stroked his cock inches away
from her. "I did that with Beth, y'know. I stuffed a donut gag
into her mouth so she couldn't bite down, and I fucked her
throat while Tom used her cunt. Maybe I'll let you experience
the same thing, later. We've got all night, bitch. I think I'll use
your cunt first. Then your ass. I'll save your mouth for last,
after my cock is nice and brown from your slut ass."
He disappeared from her view and Starling forced
herself to remain calm, to ignore her fear and the pain from her
ankle. She almost lost it, however, when she felt his hands on
her ass and his cock at her sex. She focused again on the
unmoving form of Gene Myers, drawing strength and courage
as the cock sought to enter her dry cunt.
"Well let's see if we can get you wet," she heard him say
and felt his cock pulled away only to be replaced by fingers.
They invading her sex, probing, teasing until her body
responded and released its natural lubricants onto his fingers.
"That's a good little slut," he said, working his fingers
around, spreading her fluids.
She felt his cock return and gritted her teeth as he
worked it into her sex, and drove in forward. The pain was
greatest when the head pushed up against her cervix She
forced the pain from her mind and was staring at Gene from the
corner of her eye when she saw one of his fingers twitch.
"He's alive!" she thought to herself, a flicker of hope
returning, then she winced in pain as Trent drove his cock to
the hilt in one brutal stroke. Her mind grasped hold of the only
chance she had, and Gene. Myers would have to regain
consciousness, retrieve his gun before Trent knew what was
happening, and shoot him. But if she could see Gene, if only
out of the corner of her eye, then surely Trent would notice if
the man recovered and moved.
"What a nice tight cunt you have, Starling," she heard
from behind she as he raped his cock in and out of her cunt.
She forced herself to think, and concluded that she'd have to
distract the sheriff in case Gene became conscious soon.
Later, she hoped, Trent might leave her alone while he
recovered and she could talk to Gene... try to rouse him.
She unclenched her teeth and closed her eyes. She
started slowly, letting small moans escape her mouth each time
he slammed his hips into her ass. She let the volume of her
moans increase slowly and moved her ass as best she could, in
small, assenting circles. Willing herself to get wetter, she
groaned now and took deep, audible breaths each time he
withdrew.
Trent noticed the sounds and the way her body was
responding to this fuck. He grinned and said, "Slut likes a good
fuck, huh?"
Starling's only response was to move her hips in slightly
bigger circles as he rutted into her, groaning now with every
brutal stroke.
"Huh, Starling," he repeated. "You enjoying this fuck?"
He slapped her ass quite hard when she remained silent,
then again.
"Yes!" she cried, her tone carrying the shame she
intended.
"I thought so... you sluts are all the same. High-minded
or rich, you cunts all need a good fuck to show your colors."
"Oh... Oh... Oh, my God," she chanted as he fucked her,
slamming his hips into her ass, his lips drawn back over his
teeth. She turned her eyes left and she allowed herself another
glance in Gene's direction. He remained in the same position
as the last time, unmoving.
Steeling herself, she concentrated on moving her ass
against Trent as much as the binds would allow, and tuned up
the volume of her act.
"Oh yes! Fuck me good... ahhhhh... that's good... ahhh,
so good," she cried and in her mind she was saying, "Please
Gene, wake up! Shoot this piece of shit!"
She felt Trent's cock suddenly miss a beat and then pull
out completely, at the same time she heard a surprised grunt
behind her, followed quickly by an inhuman scream. She heard
a body hit the floor and then the sickening sound of a knife
cutting through flesh, and of the release of gases from a
punctured body. She turned her head as far as it would go but
could see nothing.
"What's happening?" she cried. "Who's there?"
The voice that answered her a few seconds later
shocked her to the core.
"It's me, dear Clarice. Dr. Lecter."
"Dr. Lecter!" she said, recognizing his voice, a chill going
up her spine.
"Yes, Clarice. That was quite a performance you put on
for Sheriff Trent. I'm sure the stupid man actually believed you
were enjoying the rape."
"I was trying to... distract him and wake Gene, er, Agent
Myers."
"Hmmm. He's not dead?"
"No... could you... would you please check on him... help
him."
She waited for his response, and was surprised when
something was tossed over her head. A jacket, she decided.
Trent's.
"That's so you don't see my face. I've gone to a lot of
trouble to change my appearance, Agent Starling, to make it
more difficult for you or Jack Crawford to find me."
"How is Crawford?" he asked.
"Fine, about to retire," she said rapidly. "Would you
please check on him!"
She waited through several minutes, conscious that
Lecter had moved over in the direction of Myers.
"He important to you?" she heard Lecter say from across
the room.
"Yes," she said. "Very important."
"He can be saved," he said and Starling's heart leap at
the news. "But he'll bleed to death unless I help him, Clarice.
What's the quid pro quo?"
"I'll, um... I will agree not to say that you were here---"
"Clarice," he interrupted, his voice closer, "you were
about to lie and I thought we had a better relationship than that.
Don't you think Crawford will recognize my handiwork on the
good Sheriff?"
She thought a moment and said, "You could fuck me in
exchange for helping Gene."
"I could do that anyway, Clarice, There's not anything
you could do to stop me."
"You're not like Trent, Doctor Lecter," tried Clarice. "I
have nothing to offer you except my body. If you will help my
friend, I will offer myself willingly. Please, Doctor, save Gene!"
He left her for several minutes, tending to Gene's wound.
He announced his return by pulling the jacket off her head. She
felt his hands caress her ass, her thighs, and tentatively stroke
her sex.
"Please don't insult me by behaving like you did for
Trent," he said.
"I won't, Doctor. Will Gene live?"
"Yes. I'll unstrap one of your wrists just before I take my
leave. You can do the other, then your ankle, while I take off. If
you can manage getting upstairs, I'm sure you can call for an
ambulance from the patrol car outside. He'll live."
--
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