Chapter 6: Family Reunion

Ma put down the telephone receiver and smiled a hard, cruel, smile. Her two sons, Patrick and Spike, looked up hopefully from where they sat slumped over the kitchen table. It was early morning, an hour before dawn. They had been awake all night. Ever since Katrina Outhwaite had escaped from the room with the big brass bed, they had been frantically searching the roads north and south of the Butcher's pig-farm, without success.

"That was the, Sheriff Bud Jansen," she said. "The kid made it to the outskirts of Butchersville. She fell into his arms. She told him everything she knew. He vowed to investigate. He assured the kid, that if only a half of what she had told him was true, 'he would see Ma Butcher and her boys behind bars for the rest of their lives.'"

She grinned broadly, "Christ knows how the evil bastard kept a straight face."

"Who did she get a lift from?" asked Spike.

"Lorry driver, Bud says, driving a Mac diesel, towing a big trailer."

"Cheesus..." began Patrick, jumping up and stamping. "I knew that old mother-fucker was lying. She must have been on the floor of the cab when he pointed the shotgun at me. She would have spilt her guts to him too. What happened to him?"

"He's dead," said Ma."Seems he tried to fuck with her in the layby and got his head blown off along with two young punks from the town. Bud says not to worry, Deputy Sherman is looking after things."

"That faggot! I don't know how Bud can stand to have that slimy queer around all the time," said Spike.

"Don't be a fool. Without Deputy Sherman, Bud wouldn't last a week in office. Not with his taste for teenage tush. Sherman fixes things. Fixes them so they stay fixed," snapped Ma. "You don't have to like the s.o.b. but you gotta respect him."

In the cellar, Mark Outhwaite sat on the narrow bed, to which he was chained, and regarded his second wife, Helen, coldly. She was suspended, by her wrists, from a pulley attached to the ceiling. Her feet barely reached the ground. She could sometimes ease the pain in her arms by standing tip-toed on the stone floor of their prison. She was wearing a transparent nightdress, cum-stained and torn. Mark couldn't help her, even if he'd wanted to.

"Katrina must have got away. It's been so long since the mad bitch was last here," Mark said.

"If Katrina has," groaned Helen, "I hope she gets help before the Butchers decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence."

"You mean, kill us?" said Mark, shivering. "Do you know how they do it?"

"Does it matter? Dead is dead."

"I mean dispose of the bodies. The Butchers have been abducting people and using them," he waved an arm to indicate the well-established torture chamber and the small cells off it, "for years. And no one suspects them."

"The mad bitch explained that. They lay a false trail in a big city. God, how I hurt!" Helen groaned.

"Spike, that young man you take such pleasure in being fucked by, told me yesterday how they do it. How they get rid of their victims when they get tired of 'playing' with them," whined Mark, spitefully.

Helen stared at her husband. "I don't enjoy being fucked, violently and in public, by Spike or any other rapist. I've done what I had to do to protect your daughter to the best of my ability. Don't complain," she croaked.

"We were working in the piggery. Me, Pigboy and Spike. Spike wanted to frighten me. He succeeded. Don't you want to know what he said?"

"So, tell me."

"They've got a proper, certified, slaughterhouse at the back of the piggery. Every week or so they kill up to ten pigs. Your friend, Spike, calls it 'slaughterday'."

"A bit poetic for Spike."

"They sell prime pork to one of the big food wholesalers. The ears and feet and other bits go to a pet-food manufacturer. The blood is sold to a firm of sausage makers. Nothing is wasted. What little is left is ground up very small and then kiln dried, then it's ground again into a fine, grey, powder. It is sold as blood and bone fertilizer."

"My God!" Helen gasped.

"Spike boasted the mixture would defy analysis. The slaughterhouse is cleaned and sterilized. Ma Butcher can make us disappear without a trace."

Helen sighed.

"Pigboy does the slaughtering and butchering. He's a mute half-wit, says Spike, and an enthusiastic bisexual necrophiliac," added Mark.

Helen looked at her white-faced husband. "Well, let us hope your daughter can find the police before that happens to us," she said as cheerfully as she could. "I've always said I wanted my ashes strewn on the roses when I die, but not just yet."

Katrina was woken by a tall thin man wearing state police uniform and carrying a cup of tea. He smiled at the sleepy teenager and said, "Milk and two sugars?"

Katrina nodded her thanks and sat up in the narrow but comfortable bed before realising that she was naked. She hurriedly pulled up the top sheet to cover her breasts. The thin policeman smiled at her. "There's no need to panic, Katrina. I have no interest in little girls."

"I'm sorry," mumbled the young woman. "After what I've been through in the last few days, I..."

"I quite understand," interrupted the policeman. "I am Deputy Sherman. Get up when you have finished your tea. I'll cook breakfast, then we will talk about last night. Okay?"

Katrina nodded. Deputy Sherman indicated a small pile of neatly folded clothes. "Your dress is beyond cleaning. Those are the best we can manage at such short notice. A bit young for you perhaps, but..." he shrugged.

The teenager smiled. She had little experience of homosexual males but she thought Deputy Sherman was a sweet, thoughtful, man. When she had finished the tea she got up, showered, shampooed her hair and dressed in the clean outfit provided. The plaid skirt was very short and the plain white blouse rather tight across Katrina's well developed bosom. No bra or pants were provided. She hadn't worn calf length stockings and ankle-strap shoes since leaving school. At least, she thought, they have a heel.

Katrina wolfed her breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee. She was feeling better than she had since before her abduction. She was soon ready to answer the questions put by the Deputy Sheriff.

"I have a clear idea of what happened," said the Deputy Sherman. "You were given a lift by the driver of the truck and repaid him in kind..."

Katrina started to interrupt but the Deputy held up a pair of badly stained white cotton panties. "I recovered these from the cab. It is clear that you copulated more than once, both vaginally and anally. You sustained no injuries. I'm sure that the truck driver, not a young man, was happy with his reward."

"It wasn't like that," wailed Katrina.

"There were no injuries to the driver other than those caused by the hijacker's baseball bats. So we must presume you had consensual sex with the driver. You probably had little choice."

"None!" protested Katrina. "I had to get away from the Butcher's farm! The Sheriff..."

"Has that matter well in hand. You need have no fear that Ma Butcher and her sons will get everything they deserve." The deputy paused, "Everything. Now, back to what happened in the layby. The driver left the truck in order to relieve himself, right?"

"Yes. He handcuffed me to the bunk beforehand."

"The two youths rendered him unconscious before freeing you?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you shoot them?"

"They were going to rape me!"

The Deputy Sheriff moved around behind Katrina."What lovely soft hair you have. Do you mind if I comb and braid it?"

Katrina was surprised but answered, "N... No, I don't mind. But why?"

"It would help me think. You see," he said starting to comb Katrina's hair into two masses, "some would believe that blowing the heads off two young men who merely expressed an intention of fucking a truck-driver's whore - forgive my crude language, dear, but that's how the situation could be painted - was murder, or manslaughter at least."

Katrina went stiff with fright. "You can't charge me with manslaughter!" she cried.

"Keep still," said Deputy Sherman. "The fact is, Katrina, I can. But whether I do is up to the Sheriff. I can make it seem you were never at the layby. I can say that the truck-driver died defending his rig. I can say that he expired of his head wounds after he had killed the would-be hijackers with his shotgun." There was a long pause while Deputy Sherman concentrated on Katrina's hair. "There," he said holding up a sable plait fastened by a pink ribbon, " half done. Now for the other."

"But pretending I wasn't there would be wrong. It would be against the law."

"Yes. It would. But you would be escaping from any punishment for having killed two young men, murderous little thugs with their brains in their scrotums, though they were."