Depraved Page 6

  The summer sun was hot on her skin. Sweat beaded on her brow. She pulled up her hair and arranged it in a loose knot at the back of her head. She was glad for the thin, breathable fabric of the skimpy halter she’d worn, but wished she’d put on shorts this morning instead of the tight jeans that felt so constricting now. She mopped sweat from her brow with the back of a hand and wiped the moisture on the jeans. She wished for a knife or a pair of scissors. She could duck into the woods and strip out of the jeans to cut off the legs, turn them into shorts. What a relief that would be. Then she thought of other things she might do with a knife or scissors and her thoughts darkened. She imagined slitting the throat of the fat man with a knife. Pictured herself plunging the scissor blades into his eyes. She could almost taste his blood, almost hear his screams. The violent fantasies triggered a reflexive sense of repulsion, but this was short-lived. She summoned the images again, and this time they stoked her anger and added fuel to her determination to find and free Pete.

  She kept walking.

  In a few minutes she noted the sun glinting off something some twenty yards ahead. She couldn’t immediately discern what it was. Her curiosity piqued, she quickened her step and soon paused to pick up the object.

  Frowning, she turned it over in her hands. “Huh. Weird.”

  It was a piece of a woman’s wallet, made of lime green leather, with a removable section that included sleeves for credit cards and a clear plastic frame for a driver’s license. The wallet contained a platinum Visa card and a license for a woman named Michelle Runyon. Michelle was pretty, with long, glossy, dark hair, pouting lips, and cheekbones a Vogue model would kill for. She was from Philadelphia. The ID gave her height as five feet seven and her weight as one twenty. She had brown eyes, and her date of birth was 7-11-1983.

  Two years older than me.

  Megan stared at the picture of the beautiful young woman and felt a fresh sense of dread as she wondered what had become of Michelle. She looked back the way she’d come. Maybe Michelle had stopped at the Hopkins Bend General Store. And maybe those horrible men just hadn’t been able to stop themselves. After all, how often would anyone who looked like Michelle show up here? So maybe they’d taken her. And maybe she’d chucked her wallet out the window of their dirty old van as they’d taken her to the same place they’d just taken Pete. An act of desperation. Maybe someone who could help her would find it someday? And if she couldn’t be helped, maybe her body could be found and given a proper burial. Megan shuddered as she thought about it. The theory felt right to her on a primal level. She was convinced it was close to what had happened.

  She examined the wallet a little more closely. It was coated in dust, but did not appear to have endured the ravages of time and weather. Her thumb traced the edge of Michelle’s delicate jawline.

  “I’ll find you if I can, Michelle. You and Pete.”

  As she stared at the woman’s lovely image, something disturbing began to flutter around the edges of her consciousness. She frowned, struggling to get a hold on whatever it was. And then she had it. Her eyes widened. She looked at Michelle’s image and thought of her own driver’s license.

  Soon the men who’d taken Pete would find her purse in the Jetta and see her license photo.

  They would realize Pete had not been traveling alone.

  They would be coming back this way.

  Soon.

  And fast.

  The sound of an approaching car made her jump. She scanned the road ahead and didn’t see anything. The noise grew louder and she realized it was coming from behind her. She turned and her heart leaped with joy at the sight of the slowing law vehicle.

  She sniffled.“Oh, thank God.”

  She shoved Michelle’s ID and wallet into her rear pocket as the car pulled up alongside her. The emblem on the door identified the vehicle as belonging to the Hopkins Bend Sheriff’s Department. A door opened on the other side of the car. A man in a tan uniform stepped out and stared across the roof at her. He was stocky and just shy of six feet. Glasses with reflective lenses covered his eyes. A brown hat sat atop his head. He had a thick, salt-and-pepper mustache. A toothpick jutted from a corner of his mouth.

  He spat the toothpick out and said,“Trouble, miss?”

  Megan opened her mouth to tell the man about what had happened to Pete, but a rush of emotion surged within her and she choked on the first word. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized the extent to which she’d been holding everything in. Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks as she struggled to speak.

  The man came around the car and took her into his arms. She fell against him and sobbed into his jacket. He patted her back and said,“There, there. It’s gonna be okay. You get it out.”

  Megan regained some semblance of control. She scolded herself. Right now Pete needed help, not tears. She broke the man’s embrace and moved back a step. She swiped at her eyes and said,“I’m okay.”

  He folded his arms and stared at her. “Start from the beginning.” He smiled.“When you’re ready.”

  Megan heaved a big breath, psyched herself up, and told him everything she could remember about the incident at the general store. The man lifted a hand and stroked his chin as she talked.

  When she was finished, he nodded and said, “You’re talkin’ about the Preston boys.”

  Megan shrugged.“I don’t know their names. Just what they did. You sound like you know them. Any idea where they might have taken Pete?”

  The man unfolded his arms and grinned. “Well, ma’am. Here’s the thing. The Preston boys have a first-rate reputation in these parts. I don’t for a minute believe they’d do what you’re sayin’ they done.”

  Megan gaped at him.“Wh-what?”

  “Matter of fact, it sounds kinda like crazy talk to me. Are you on drugs?”

  Megan made a sound of disbelief.“Oh…my…God. Are you serious?”

  The man’s expression turned hard.“Dead serious.” He placed a hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “I’m gonna need you to turn around and brace your hands against the roof of the vehicle while I pat you down.”

  Megan took an instinctive, unconscious step backward. “You can’t—”

  The man yanked his pistol from the holster and aimed it at her in a rigid, two-handed stance. His voice lashed out at her. “DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN! TURN AROUND AND BRACE YOUR HANDS AGAINST THE ROOF OF THE VEHICLE! NOW!”

  Shaking, Megan did as she was told. Tears filled her eyes again.

  What else could she do?

  Oh, God. Please help me.

  The man stepped into position behind her and knelt. His rough hands patted their way up the length of one leg and then up the other. He then stood and slipped a hand between her legs. His fingers flexed and pushed hard against her. She sniffled. More tears came. He pushed his crotch against her upthrust ass and she felt his bulging erection. Megan’s whole body shook. She couldn’t believe this was happening. This man was an agent of the law. He was supposed to be helping her. Instead he was…assaulting her. The man’s fingers pushed more insistently against her vagina a time or two before slipping away to roam over the front of her body. His hands cupped each of her breasts in turn, squeezing them roughly.

  Then he abruptly pushed away from her.

  His fingers plucked something from her pocket.

  Megan gulped.

  The wallet.

  Before she could even begin to contemplate what he would make of that, he was wrenching her hands up behind her back and slapping on handcuffs.

  He leaned into her again, whispered in her ear. “I’ve got you now, bitch. Got you good. That woman’s been missing for weeks. I’m arresting you for suspicion of kidnapping and murder.”

  Megan opened her mouth to protest, but he shut her up with a swat to the back of the head. He opened the back of the cruiser and shoved her inside. After he threw the door shut, he lit up a cigarette and took his time about getting back behind the wheel.

  When he was in the c
ar again, he turned in his seat and grinned at her. “Don’t you worry none about those federal and state charges, little lady.” He chuckled. “Out here, we believe the local law knows best.”

  He laughed again and blew cigarette smoke at her through the security screen. Then he settled himself behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and did a three-point turn in the middle of the road.

  Megan fell sideways on the seat, felt the warm leather press against her wet cheek as still more tears came.

  The car drove back in the direction from which it had come.

  Toward the sheriff’s office, maybe.

  Away from Pete.

  Megan closed her eyes and wondered if this nightmare would ever end.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pete Miller was having a nightmare. Something to do with zombies chasing him through a cemetery at night. And there was someone running ahead of him. A girl. She had a kind of goth or punk look. And she was topless. It was like a scene straight out of a Z-grade horror flick on late-night cable. But the weird thing was how very real it felt. He could almost smell the stink of the rotting corpses struggling to catch up with him. And he even knew the girl’s name. Melinda. She was hot as hell, but she was a stone-cold crazy bitch. The tone of the dream shifted subtly. He realized he was one of the zombies. Melinda had killed him. And now he was chasing her, burning with a primal need to rip flesh from her body with his teeth.

  The van bounced through a pothole, and Pete woke up.

  The vivid nightmare images stayed with him for a few moments, temporarily blotting out bleak reality. He felt he could slip back into that world for real, with just a little concentration. It was a very odd and unsettling sensation. Then he became aware of the loud rumbling of the old van’s engine. Someone was sitting on his back, keeping him pinned to the floor. Couldn’t be the fat man, or he wouldn’t be able to breathe. This had to be one of the scrawny card players.

  His eyes widened.

  It all came back, every horrible moment of it. The shotgun aimed at his belly. The card players wrestling him to the floor. The heavy boot on his back. The painful crash of the shotgun’s stock against the back of his head. And then the blackness. Flashing images and sensations as he slipped in and out of consciousness, usually only for a few grim seconds at a time. No longer in the store proper, but in a back room stuffed with crates and boxes. His body bent over one of the crates. His pants hauled down. The fat man on top of him. Grunting. Shoving. Cursing. The other man laughing. The blackness mercifully taking him away again. And now here, fully awake again in the back of a smelly old van, being taken God only knew where. The stark truth of it all hit him with brutal force. These men were going to kill him. They were going to do some unspeakably ugly things to him, probably, and then they were going to fucking kill him.

  He suddenly longed for a return to the world of the zombie nightmare.

  Or, no. Not there.

  Where he really wanted to be was in the Jetta with Megan, riding fast away from this place. He wanted to go back in time and decide against taking the detour that would take them through Hopkins Bend. The detour would only have saved them an hour, and what was the hurry anyway? He liked spending time with Megan. Liked being alone with her. It was always better when it was just the two of them, with no one else around. She made him feel good about himself. Being in her presence made the world feel like a more interesting place. Vital and vibrant. Full of possibility, with a new adventure or fun revelation always just around the corner. The world was a duller place when she wasn’t around. A grimmer place.

  Oh, Megan.

  He couldn’t bear the idea that he’d seen her for the last time. Or heard her sweet voice for the last time. Kissed her for the last time. The notion filled him with a bottomless despair. But a more pragmatic part of him hoped it was so anyway. This part of him knew the only way he’d ever see her again would be if these monsters returned to the general store to grab her, too. And that idea tore at his heart, made him feel as if an abyss had opened within his soul.

  He was helpless to stop the sob that lurched out of his throat.

  The man sitting on his back shifted and said, “I think the boy’s wakin’ up, Gil.”

  Pete didn’t recognize the voice. Had to be one of the card players.

  He twisted his head and looked up at the man.“Where are you taking me?”

  The man’s thin, wormy lips stretched and curled, revealing teeth stained dark yellow by decades of smoking, some of them black with untreated cavities. He held a length of rusted pipe in his hands. Pete assumed the man would rap the back of his head with it if he caused trouble.“Ain’t none of your concern.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  The man’s lips stretched even thinner as he snickered. “Oh, you’re gonna be beggin’, boy. That’s for damn sure.”

  Someone else laughed. Something in the timbre of the sound sent a cold finger of dread down Pete’s spine.

  The fat man.

  Gil, this one had called him.

  The laugh came from the front of the van. Pete couldn’t see the asshole, but he assumed the fat fucking pig of a rapist was driving. So where was the third man?

  Gil made that phlegmy, throat-clearing sound Pete recalled from the general store.“We’re almost there.”

  The van slowed and made a left turn. Gil tapped the gas pedal and the van picked up speed again, but now the vehicle jounced and shuddered in a more pronounced way. Something about the sound of the tires was different, too. Pete decided they were on a dirt road now. Great. Even deeper into the sticks. Even if Megan did manage to get away and alert the authorities, his body was never going to be found.

  The van lurched to a stop.

  Pete heard Gil wrench the gearshift and twist the key back in the ignition. The engine shut off, and for a moment all he heard was a twitter of birds through the van’s open windows. It was an almost peaceful moment, in a strange way. Then the van lurched again as Gil opened the door and shifted his great weight out from behind the steering wheel. A moment later the van’s rear doors came open, and bright sunlight made his eyes blink faster.

  Pete turned his head again and looked at Gil. The big man moved closer, and his bulk nearly blotted out the sun. The pump-action shotgun was in his hands again. “Let’s get this bitch out, Carl.”

  Carl stood up and knelt to grab a handful of Pete’s sweat-soaked shirt.“Up and at ’em, faggot.”

  Faggot.

  Huh.

  Kind of a strange choice of epithet, given what had been done to him at the general store.“Fuck you.”

  The pipe struck the back of Pete’s head hard enough to elicit a pained yelp. But even as he cried out, Pete realized the man had pulled the blow, striking him just hard enough to hurt and prod him forward without knocking him out again. He didn’t bother talking back again, knowing harder, angrier blows would follow. So he got shakily to his feet and allowed himself to be manhandled out of the van. Pete stood blinking in the sunlight, a hand held at his brow. Gil kept the shotgun trained on him as Carl let go of him long enough to shut the van’s doors. Then an end of the pipe jabbed against the small of his back.

  “This way, boy.”

  Pete sighed.

  And did as he was told.

  What else could he do?

  They walked around the van, and Pete saw a sprawling, ranch-style house. Surrounded by wilderness, it was the only house in sight. So much for screaming for help or hoping for an eventual rescue thanks to the prying eyes of a nosy neighbor. The pipe jabbed his back again, and the three of them walked toward the house. The front door opened, and an old woman with a warty, fairy-tale-witch face stepped out. She wore a dirty apron over cutoff shorts and a bra. Her legs bore traceries of varicose veins, and her heavily tattooed skin looked like rawhide.

  “Check it out, Ma.” Carl jabbed him with the pipe yet again.“Got us another outsider for the holiday feast.”

  Ma eyed Pete up and down, her gaze lingering on his crotch
long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then she snorted and said,“Put it out back with the other.”

  Pete frowned.

  It?

  The old hag disappeared back inside the house, but not before Pete got an eyeful of the faded tattoo that covered her back—an image of a large-breasted, nude woman astride a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

  Pete shivered.

  Jesus, these are some fucked-up fucking strange-ass people.

  For the first time, he wished they’d just killed him at the start.

  Another jab with the pipe got him moving again. They went around to the back of the house, and Pete saw a row of interlinked chain-link cages. Most functioned as dog pens. The dogs growled as they approached. Pete saw Dobermans, a Rottweiler, a pit bull, a German shepherd mix, and various other mutts. They all regarded him with wary, threatening expressions. These weren’t pets. They were vicious killing machines, no doubt kept and trained for blood sport. Pete had read news stories about such things.

  Oh, my God, he thought. They mean to feed me to these fucking animals.

  But Pete knew this was wrong when they reached the last pen. Another human being, naked and dirty, sat curled in a corner of the pen. A woman. Her arms were wrapped around her knees as she rocked and whimpered. She looked up at them as they approached, met Pete’s anxious gaze for a moment, then looked away.

  Carl fished keys from his pocket, unlocked the padlock on the pen, and grinned at Pete.“Get in, boy.”

  Pete just stared at the woman.

  She had a slender body and looked as if she might be pretty, but it was hard to tell because her hair was matted and she was covered in grime.

  Pete’s whole body shook.“No. Please. No. No.”

  He was whining now. Couldn’t help it.

  He heard a whiff of air, and then Carl’s pipe cracked against the back of a knee. Pete cried out and pitched forward, fell to his hands and knees. Gil stepped forward and kicked him hard in the ass with one of his heavy boots.