Depraved (7 page)

Abby wasn’t the sort to let her conscience bother her too awful much most times. Her first concern in all things was always herself. There were times when it was necessary to appear selfless, especially when it came to family matters, and so she was frequently forced to perform and behave in ways that went against her secret beliefs and desires. In earlier years, this hadn’t been much of a problem. She’d been so certain her life would unfold in a particular manner. Get knocked up soon after hitting her childbearing years. Have a baby. Get knocked up again. Repeat until she was too old and fat to do it anymore. Until, she thought with the usual pang, she’d become a new incarnation of her mother, a matriarch, head of the Maynard clan and heir to a legacy of truly storied proportions.

Abby grimaced.

Yeah. Queen Shit of Shit City.

It seemed so shabby a thing to have coveted now, but once upon a time she’d actually looked forward to assuming her mother’s role in the community. The Maynard name still meant something, even so many years after the arrest and subsequent electric-chair death of Evan Maynard, whose Prohibition-era trafficking of illegal hooch had netted the family a sizable fortune. Much of that money was still around, hidden in secret caches all over Hopkins Bend and the surrounding area.
Including Dandridge, where no one went anymore. The location of some of those caches went to the grave with Evan, who’d personally executed seven men he’d suspected were federal-government informants.

Abby, however, knew the location of at least one of the caches. She thought of the money she’d seen and experienced the usual little shiver of greed mixed with a sense of creeping dread. She’d counted it once. More than fifty thousand dollars in tightly curled wads of very old currency. She’d discovered the jug by accident two or three summers back, happening across the sealed Mason jar while poking around in the cellar’s darkest corners during one of Ma’s absences. It’d been so tempting to take the money and run from Hopkins Bend. But fear and doubt kept her from acting on the impulse. The money was so old. And it was a bright, shiny new world out there. Things were done differently out there now. Those ancient bills would draw attention, maybe cause her all manner of unexpected difficulty.

So she’d stayed put.

And now here she was, taking a stroll through the woods in an effort to clear her head of mental clutter so she could think straight. To consider whether she was truly ready to betray her family in the most profound way possible. But the question of whether she could do this wasn’t what was nagging at her conscience.

No. Hell, no.

Instead, she felt bad about having lied to the dinner. She’d told it she would help it escape. And maybe she would. But maybe not. She’d conveyed a certainty she didn’t feel. She hadn’t made a final decision about what to do. But it didn’t need to know that yet.

Michelle,
she thought.

Her name is Michelle Runyon.

A woman. A human being with a God-given name.

Not a
thing.

So strange to think that way. Abby had participated in every holiday feast for as long as she could remember. She’d always done her part, without hesitation and without squeamishness. And why not? It was just the way things were in Hopkins Bend. The way they’d always been. Growing up immersed in the traditions,you learned to think of the outsiders as nonhuman. As disposable. And, yes, as things. It wasn’t too hard to pinpoint exactly when her thinking in this regard had begun to change. She guessed it had started last summer, with that boy, one of the Maynards’ three contributions to that year’s feast. The others had been his parents. The deaths of the adults failed to move her. But the boy was different. The Maynards had never taken one so young. He had only been twelve. She knew this because the boy’s mother had screamed the words over and over in the last moments before Carol Maynard slit her throat:
He’s only twelve! He’s only twelve!

But Ma was unmoved.

She slit the boy’s belly open with a large carving knife as he bucked in his chains and unleashed the high, shrill scream that haunted Abby’s nightmares for months.

So, yes.

It had probably started then.

Abby shivered and shunted the uncomfortable memories aside as her thoughts returned to the matter of Michelle Runyon. It wasn’t hard to figure why she was entertaining thoughts of escaping Hopkins Bend with the woman. She was beautiful and fiercely intelligent. She projected an amazing strength, even gagged and chained to the rafter. Had this quality been absent, Abby might well have resigned herself to nothing more than deriving some small pleasure from molesting the woman. She’d always gotten a kick out of that. Doing things to them
when they were powerless to stop her. She’d reveled in the way the warm human flesh trembled beneath her touch. But with Michelle it was different. She wanted something more. A special kind of intimacy. A wrong kind, by the local standards. And so now she wondered what Michelle thought of her.

Abby snorted.

She kicked a rock and sent it skidding into a bush.

You know what she thinks.

And she guessed that was true enough. She didn’t doubt that Michelle saw her as a monster. After all, she’d experienced the brunt of Abby’s always-boiling inner rage on more than one occasion. She could only hope her long, soul-baring recitation of the facts of her life could begin to turn the woman’s opinion of her around. She remembered how some of the hardness had drained from Michelle’s face as she’d listened to her story. And maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she felt she’d detected a glint of something like pity in her eyes toward the end. She didn’t doubt the woman now felt at least some sympathy for Abby, knowing the things she’d endured in her life. What she didn’t know was whether that sympathy would translate into a true willingness to help her transition into a new kind of life somewhere else. Michelle had pledged to do this. But it could be the woman was lying. Someone in her position might say anything, promise anything, to get out of that position.

She’d been walking for a while, long enough for the sun to have begun its long descent toward the horizon. She glanced up through the trees. It was still bright out. Would still be bright for another hour or two. She stopped and turned around, standing still for a moment. She looked at the trees around her. Scanned the undergrowth. It would all look the same to an outsider, an unchanging landscape of typical Southern wilderness.
But Abby knew these woods intimately. She could tell her approximate location and distance from home with nothing more than a glance at a familiar grouping of trees. Right now she reckoned she’d come almost a mile from the main Maynard cabin. As she stood there, she heard a distant crack of a rifle. It did not concern her. The hunters in this area were skilled and careful. She considered heading in the direction of the gunshot to see who was doing the shooting. It had to be one of the Crawford men, coming from that way. Could even be Mitch Crawford. She’d fucked Mitch a time or two. Maybe he’d be up for some action now. That could be just what she needed. A good, aggressive outdoor fuck. It would clear her mind, maybe be the thing to give her the courage to run or get these crazy ideas out of her head once and for all.

She took a few steps in that direction and stopped.

She’d heard something

She stood stock-still. Held her breath. Strained her ears. The sound came again. A grunt. An animalistic sound. But human. And now there was something else. A whimper. Something in the timbre of the latter suggested the source was female. She stood still for a few more moments, listening, knowing she was hearing the sounds of rutting. She turned her head to the left and saw a large thicket. The sounds were coming from the other side of the bushes. She stepped out of her sandals and moved slowly, carefully, in that direction. She reached the thicket, and then, lifting the hem of her white cotton dress, she dropped to her hands and knees, then down to her belly, and began to crawl into the thicket. She slithered between the thin and brittle branches, moving over leaves and rocks as smoothly as a snake. When she reached the other side of the thicket, she stopped, rose to her hands and knees again, and peered through branches
and an obscuring cover of leaves at the couple fucking on the forest floor. Doing the very thing she’d been thinking of doing with Mitch Crawford. She became aware again of an aching, itchy horniness that had taken root within her earlier in the day and had only intensified in the hours since.

A large, muscular man with a broad, powerful back lay astride a nude woman. They were turned away from her, the man’s feet pointing toward the thicket. The woman’s shapely sun-browned legs were spread wide and reaching for the sky. The woman writhed, and her fingers dug into the man’s shoulders as he thrust against her. Abby’s breath grew short as she watched the man’s taut, naked buttocks ride up and down. Her nipples hardened against the fabric of her dress. She reached beneath the hem of her dress and slipped a finger between her legs, felt the already-abundant moisture there. She touched her clit and bit down on a moan of her own. And a crazy thought entered her head—maybe the couple wouldn’t mind another partner joining in? But before she could act on the impulse, she heard the woman cry out.

“Yes! Yes!”

Abby’s breath caught in her throat.

She knew that voice.

It was Laura, her younger sister.

She jerked her hand away from her clit and just managed to choke back a sudden surge of nausea. The disgust she felt wasn’t only because she’d become aroused while watching her baby sister fuck. That was some of it, yes, but the much larger factor was the realization of who she was fucking. She’d known there was something…not quite right about the man from the moment she’d spotted the couple. Though he was obviously young, there wasn’t a hair on his head. However, she’d only been mildly curious about this until the moment he’d arched
his back high and wrenched his head far to the side in a moment of apparently extraordinary ecstasy.

Abby’s stomach lurched again.

Dear God!

It was one of the Kincher men. One of the younger ones. He had a very prominent forehead, a nose that looked made of putty, and one large eye. At least half of the latest generation of adult Kinchers had been born with just one. His body was otherwise a work of art. Hard and thick with muscle. Sculpted and perfect. But the large head and facial deformities ruined the appeal of the body. Or at least it did for Abby. Laura seemed to have a differing opinion. As Abby struggled to keep her gorge down, Laura’s ecstatic cries became unintelligible, gibbering squeals. She grabbed the man’s buttocks, urged him to thrust harder still, a command he obliged with enthusiasm.

Abby couldn’t take it anymore.

She slithered back through the thicket,emerged standing to swipe dirt and leaves from her dress. But the disturbing tableau wouldn’t leave her mind. She kept seeing her sister’s legs twisting in the air. Kept seeing her slender fingers digging into the Kincher man’s back. And worst of all was the memory of the man’s face, twisted in an expression she guessed was ecstasy, but that somehow only made him look more horrible. Like more of an abomination.

The Garner Blight.

The phrase, as well as its relevance to the coming holiday feast, sent a chill through her as she found her sandals and slipped them on. It was something she didn’t allow herself to think about much. Few ever spoke his name aloud, except during holiday season. He was the real power in these parts. Even Evan Maynard had bowed to him, and had supplied the required summer offerings every year.

Garner.

Her stomach twisted again.

She tried to shove the name out of her mind, fearing he would come to her if she consciously thought it too many times. It was said he would. Abby didn’t know whether she believed it, but she did know she did not wish to find out.

Think of something else!
her mind screamed at her.

She did.

She thought of her finger on her clit as she watched Laura fuck the Kincher man.

She gagged.

Dropped to her knees and pitched forward as the sickness came lurching out of her. Sweat broke over her brow, and her teeth chattered between spasms. She was so sick she never heard the sound of approaching feet, didn’t realize anyone was there until she saw their shadows.

She turned and looked up at them.

Laura’s leering smile was one of the ugliest things she’d ever seen. “Hi, sister. Been watching us? Enjoy the fucking show?”

They were still nude.

The Kincher man’s cock was still erect, wet and dripping. Abby stared at it with a helpless fascination. She shook her head.“N-no. I was…I was…”

Laura snorted. “Oh, I know what you were doing. Guess I don’t blame ya none. Wanted to see how to do it right, maybe learn somethin’. Ain’t that right?”

Abby started to stand up.“I’m going home.”

Laura shook her head. “Not yet.” She dug an elbow into the Kincher man’s ribs.“Get her.”

Abby turned to run.

But the man was too fast. Was on her after just a few strides. Then he was riding her down to the ground. Flipping her over. Lifting her dress and sliding between
her legs, his hardness instantly finding that still-wet place.

Then plunging in.

Abby screamed.

She screamed and screamed.

And between the screams, she could hear her sister’s mocking laughter.

Abby closed her eyes, held on, and waited for it to end.

Turned out there was more to Hopkins Bend than the general store and endless acres of lush wilderness. A drive of less than ten minutes took them out of the woods and into a developed area that was at least vaguely recognizable as something resembling civilization. They passed houses and double-wide trailers, passed a business that rented heavy construction equipment, and then entered an area that was clearly the town’s main drag. In fact, the street’s name was Main Street. Megan sat up and scanned both sides of the street, looking for something, anything, to give her some small shred of hope. She saw a hardware store and a small grocery store. A pawnshop and the office of an insurance agent. A used-car dealership’s parking lot drew her attention. She saw the usual array of affordable compacts. Newish Saturns and Hyundais. Accords and Subarus. All to be expected. But it was the shiny late-model foreign number that made her gaze linger. It was all sleek lines and dramatic curves. She thought it might be some model of Ferrari or Lamborghini. But that was
ridiculous. Surely no one in Hopkins Bend could afford a six-figure luxury sports car.

Unless…

The sheriff’s deputy chuckled.“I see you checkin’ out that Lambo. Kind of a funny coo-inky-dink.”

“What do you mean?”

Another chuckle. “That ID you found? The Lambo belongs to her. Or did, until the Maynards got hold of her.”

Megan frowned. “Isn’t that risky? Selling vehicles belonging to known missing persons?”

“Nah.” The deputy glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror.“Sam Brown, man who owns the place, only sells to locals. The place doubles as a chop shop. He’s got an understanding with the county clerk, gets fresh tags and registrations for every outsider’s car. Pretty sweet setup he’s got there, actually. If the Preston boys have your ride, it’s gonna end up there, too.”

“So you people have every possible angle covered.”

“You know it, honey.”

A sense of weary resignation settled over Megan as the deputy eased the cruiser to a stop at the street’s only traffic light. There was no way out of her predicament. No hope of escape or liberation. What was happening to her wasn’t an anomaly. In Hopkins Bend, outsiders were fair game. They were prey. It was embedded in the culture here, probably had been for generations.

“I guess you’re going to kill me.”

“Ain’t decided on that yet, girl. Hell, there’s all kinds of possibilities for a cute little thing like you.”

A shiver went through Megan at his words. The implications were obvious and troubling. She knew she was going to be raped. Repeatedly. And perhaps by multiple individuals. That was a horrible enough thing to contemplate. But rape wouldn’t be the end of it. She
imagined months or even years confined in a Hopkins Bend jail cell, an unofficial prisoner and slave of the local law. And all the while her family would never know what had become of her. The thought of the pain her mom and dad would go through made her eyes water.

“You people are animals.”

The deputy glanced at the rearview mirror again. “Now, honey, you know that’s out of line. I’m shocked to hear that kind of insensitivity from a big-city gal like you.” The deputy grinned. “Aren’t you people all into being politically correct? Don’t you know it’s wrong to judge other cultures?”

Megan grunted. “If by some miracle I get out of this backward backwoods pit of hell, I believe I’m going to be readjusting my thinking on a lot of issues.”

The deputy laughed, didn’t say anything.

The light turned green.

The cruiser moved through the intersection at a lazy pace and pulled into the parking lot of a small, official-looking building two blocks farther down the street. There was a flagpole flying the flags of the Confederate States of America and the state of Tennessee. Megan didn’t bother making a comment. It made total sense that a place like Hopkins Bend had chosen to simply ignore the outcome of the Civil War. At this point, she would be shocked if the locals didn’t still keep black people as slaves. The small parking lot was about half-full, with two more Sheriff’s Department cruisers facing the street at opposing angles and one civilian car, a Jetta that was a few years older than the one owned by Pete.

Formerly
owned by Pete.

The deputy pulled the cruiser into a space just to the left of the building’s front entrance. As the deputy parked and shut the engine off, the door opened and an elderly, gray-haired woman in a blue dress stepped outside. She
smiled and waved at the deputy as he stepped out of the cruiser. Then she came across the sidewalk and peered through a rear window at Megan.

“Oh, my. She’s just darling.”

The deputy smiled.“Ain’t she just?”

The driver’s-side door stood open. Megan heard them clear as a bell. It stood to reason the old woman would be able to hear her, too.

She drew in a deep breath.

This was probably going to be pointless.

But what the hell.

The effort would cost her nothing, and she had nothing to lose.

“Please help me. This man has arrested me illegally. He’s probably going to kill me. Or rape me. Or both.”

The old woman’s smile broadened.“Such a lovely face. So fresh. And such a clear complexion. Where did you find her, Hal?”

“Out on Old Fork Road.”

The corners of the old woman’s mouth drew down to convey disappointment. “Oh, darn. I was out that way earlier. Wish I had gotten to her first. I would so love to sit on that sweet face.”

The old woman licked her lips.

Megan’s stomach churned.

Oh, Christ…

Everyone here was just demented, even the sweet-looking little old ladies.

Hal laughed.“Maybe we can work something out. I’m keeping my options open with this one.”

The old woman smirked. “I bet she’d cost me a pretty penny.”

“You know it, Martha.”

The old woman and Hal turned away from her then and engaged in a bit of small talk. Inquiries about the
health of relatives and bland comments on the weather. At last they said their good-byes, and the old woman got into the Jetta and drove away.

Then Hal opened the back door and hauled her out of the cruiser. He kept a hand on one of her cuffed wrists and steered her toward the building’s front entrance. He leaned close against her, and his breath was warm against her ear as they pushed through the door into the building.

“Welcome to your new home, sweetheart.”

Megan was taken aback at how quaintly rustic the building was. Two small holding cells faced an open work area containing two metal desks and three tall filing cabinets. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. There were no computers in sight. An office was visible through an open door. She saw a man’s booted feet propped on a wooden desk. She heard a man’s voice emanating from the office and had the impression she was hearing one end of a phone conversation. Something about a holiday feast coming up this weekend. Strange. There were no major national holidays happening this weekend. Had to be some local thing. And she guessed the man in the office was the sheriff. She doubted there’d be any help from him.

Hal unlocked one of the cells and pushed her inside. He followed her in to remove the handcuffs. Then he turned her around and eyed her up and down, taking his time with it, gaze lingering at the swell of her hips and the thrust of her breasts. He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch, made an adjustment.

“Take your clothes off, bitch.”

Megan’s whole body trembled. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She’d known this was coming, but now that the moment was actually here, it was more than she could bear.

“Please…don’t do this…” She backed away from him, moving until she felt her legs touch the metal frame of the small cot set against the back wall. “I’m begging you. Please…”

Hal grinned. “Oh, good. You’re begging already. I always get off on that.” He gripped his zipper tab and began to slide it down. “I told you to take your clothes off. It’s gonna go a lot harder for you if you make me say it again.”

Megan’s fingers fumbled with the snap of her jeans. She had to do as he said. She knew he was right. He would make it worse for her. Worse than she could imagine. She forced her fingers to be still and at last was able to pop open the snap.

“Hold on now.” This was a new voice, male, deeper than Hal’s, rumbling with authority. “What’s happening here?”

The other man stepped into the cell, moved past Hal to get a better look at Megan. He did a quick appraisal and uttered a low whistle.“Lord, look at her.”

Hal nodded.“Yeah. I’d like to do a bit more than look, boss, if you get my drift.”

This man was the sheriff. Megan knew it without having to be told, but it was confirmed a moment later when he introduced himself as Sheriff Rich DeMars. DeMars was tall and stocky, maybe an inch or two over six feet, with a big gut that was out of proportion to the rest of him. A big beer drinker, she guessed. A string tie was knotted at the collar of his starched white shirt. A large, shiny badge was pinned to the shirt’s pocket. A Stetson hat sat atop his head. Basically, he looked like every northern person’s ultimate nightmare image of a small-town Southern sheriff. The only thing missing to complete the picture was a fat, smoldering stogie dangling from a corner of his mouth. Didn’t all corrupt
good old boys smoke cigars? She knew it was a notion gleaned from a lifetime of watching old TV shows and bad movies and therefore unconnected to anything like reality. She also knew these were some pretty inane things to be thinking in a situation as dire as this one. But she couldn’t help it. Her sanity was a fragile thing now, her thoughts careening from delirious absurdities to the bleakest moments of despair and back again.

DeMars shot Hal a smirk.“Maybe later, boy. And maybe not. I’m thinking we could get top dollar for this little number at the Sin Den.”

Megan swallowed hard, found her voice. “What is the Sin Den?”

DeMars smiled at her. “Strip joint. Local family owns it. Big place way out in the woods. You could do a lot worse than be a dancer-whore for the Prestons.”

Megan’s knees went weak. She dropped onto the cot and stared up at the sheriff, her eyes beseeching him. Pleading.“Please…I don’t want to be a…whore.”

DeMars chuckled.“I reckon you don’t.” He looked her over again, smirking the whole time, his eyes alight with greed and lust.“But, honey, it ain’t up to you.”

The big man steered a disappointed-looking Hal out of the cell.“Come on, ol’ buddy. I got a call to make. And don’t look so hangdog.” He chuckled again.“Hell, maybe I’ll let you have a go at her before we haul her out to the titty bar.”

Hal’s grin returned as he stared at her through the cell’s bars. “I like the sound of that. Can’t wait to bust my nut in that hot little cooze.”

Megan’s stomach twisted again.

She turned down on her side and stretched out across the cot, feeling its springs dig into her hip. She closed her eyes and tried to will the world away. She was tired. So very tired. Physically tired from the long car ride
and the walk down that lonely country road. Weary from worrying about Pete. And sick unto death of being appraised and discussed by the people of Hopkins Bend as if she were nothing more than a piece of meat.

The cell door clanged shut.

Megan didn’t hear it.

She had already slipped into the world of dreams.

Things were no better there.