7/9 [crime drama, mf, nc, not pc]
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
by Rhett Dreams (c. 1996)
Warning: This fictitious story is decidedly NOT politically correct and is
intended for mature readers.
Chapter Seven
Sam Price took the call from the Trent shortly after ten that morning,
about fifteen minutes before Myers and Starling exited the Interstate and
stopped at the first gas station they found, forty miles west of Price
Brother's Service and Towing. He was instantly on edge when he heard the tone
of his partners voice. Normally the Sheriff was maddeningly calm but this time
he was clearly distressed.
"Yeah, okay Trent," he said in response to the Sheriffs urgent request
that he and his brother meet him at their house up the hill. "But what is it
that's so important?"
"I'll tell you and Ward when I see you. Ten minutes." The phone went
dead. Sam told his mechanic to watch for customers and before leaving the
station for home. He found his brother eating breakfast, and told him of
Trent's call and imminent arrival.
"We'll hear him out," said the elder brother, turning and retrieving a
gun from a drawer behind him, and placing it in his lap under the table. "But
we know Trent killed ol' Tom and I want to be ready."
Trent arrived a few minutes later, and Sam let him in. He refused Ward's
offer of coffee and sat down at the table, starting immediately.
"Those fuck-ups in Jackson must have kept records," he said, putting just
the right amount of fear in his voice. He wanted his partners scared.
"Something that tied each of your delivers together or to the people we
snatched."
"Shit!" said Sam. Ward Price just stared at his partner while his hand
slid into his lap and gripped the gun.
"The Feds have to be searching this area, maybe Harrison county as well,
but they're sure to investigate you guys, and we don't know what they have."
"What would you suggest we do, Trent?" asked Ward Price, rapidly losing
his calm.
"I'm getting the fuck outta here," he said, his voice strained. "I'd
suggest you two do the same."
Ward Price rubbed his free hand across the rubble on his chin, thinking
fast. They had some money, almost $120,000, in cash hidden in their basement.
Another thirty G's in the bank. That wouldn't take them far, he knew, but if
Trent himself was bailing out that meant that things were getting bad very
quickly.
"We could take the boat," his brother said.
"And go where?" said Trent, disguising his pleasure.
"Mexico," said Ward. "We could take some extra gas and make it all the
way to Corpus Christi... refuel and be in Mexican waters in two days. I know a
guy in Tampico who would help us, maybe get us new IDs and help us set up
something new."
"What about you, Sheriff?" asked Sam.
"I figure Canada's my best bet," he lied. "Soon as I leave here I'm
headin' to N'Orleans to catch a flight to Chicago, and from there to
Montreal... maybe the Maritimes. I'm sure as shit not waiting around for the
Feds."
"Sam, go down to the bank and git our money, all of it. I'll pack the,
um, other stuff we'll need and we will leave for the marina in forty minutes."
Trent shook their hands, wished them luck, and left. He dropped his
cruiser off at home and took his pick-up truck, already loaded with the
supplies he needed for the next part of his plan, and drove to the marina. He
carried a large satchel as he strolled down the long pier until he reached the
berth that held the thirty-eight foot ship owned by his partners. He'd been
out fishing with Ward and Sam several times, and knew where they hid the extra
key to the cabin. He let himself in and went to work. He made his way down and
aft, into the rear-most compartment of the vessel. The first portion of
plastic explosive, about the size of a paperback book, was placed as far as he
could reach through the access panel into the engine compartment, and was stuck
to the outside wall. He set the timer at four hours, then waited for the
second hand of his watch to reach the top before pressing the switch that
activated the bomb.
The second charge was much smaller, the size of a matchbox, and this one
he placed behind the radio in the bridge. He checked his watch and set the
second timer to 3:55, and waited for the second hand to sweep around before
activating the device.
He had decided against a single, larger amount of plastique, because he
didn't want the ship to blow into thousands of pieces of debris. The floating
remains might be discovered by the Coast Guard and they would likely conclude
that someone had rigged the ship to explode. This would quickly lead the
Bureau back to the question of accomplices.
Instead, when the smaller charges he had used went off, within seconds of
one another, the water would rush into the stern of the ship, and the heavy
twin diesels would quickly take the ship down to the bottom of the gulf. The
radio would be disabled, of course, and within a minute or so the Price
brothers, and their ship, would be buried under two or three hundred feet of
water.
Trent left the boat fourteen minutes after arriving, locked the cabin and
walked purposely down the long pier toward his truck.
He didn't notice the eyes that followed his retreat. On another boat,
berthed across the pier from the Price ship, stood a fiftyish man, his face and
hairless skull deeply tanned from the sun. The intense, intelligent eyes that
followed the Sheriffs form noticed that the satchel was swinging easier now in
the lawman's hand, much lighter than it was on his walk up the pier.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had noticed the lawman
before he'd come a hundred feet up the pier. He continued what he was doing,
kneeling and polishing the brass railing, his eyes watching him stroll closer,
his hand tightening on the knife in his free hand. He felt sure that he wasn't
the lawman's target -- if they ever traced him they'd come for him with an army
-- but he felt more comfortable knowing that the finely-honed six inches of
steel was ready.
His eyes noticed the patch of the lawman's arm, near the shoulder, and
his eyes caught the words "Sheriff" and "Jackson County". After the sheriff
had entered the other ship, Lecter went inside his cabin and watched through
binoculars at the ship sixty feet away. The sheriff went below for several
minutes before returning to the bridge. Lecter watched him approach the wheel
and then duck out of sight for a minute or two. Then his head reappeared, he
left the bridge, locked the door, and returned the key to it's original hiding
place.
Five minutes after Trent had gone, Lecter entered the cabin and found, a
few minutes later, the strange calling card that the sheriff had left. He
noted the time remaining on the bomb and they went below to search the lower
cabins.
"Could this one be yours, Clarice Starling?" he asked himself, recalling
the news item that mentioned her name and the case she was working.
- o -
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 "P" as in Paul, Price, and "B" 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 supenoa 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.
"Your 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.