The frequent pregnancies, of course, were blamed on insensible male patients, and were expeditiously aborted via the crude surgical standards of the day. Things went as such for years, in complete ignorance of the authorities, and eventually warders of higher rank developed a knack for, shall we say, creative entrepreneurship. To serve the occasions when patients died, a cemetery was fashioned beyond the estate’s grounds, in a secluded dell, though it was later discerned, after much digging, that not a single cubic inch of earth had ever been turned beneath the countless dozens of gravestones. The bodies, in reality, were sold to out-of-the-way medical schools, and to increase the financial gain of the warders, some of the less manageable and more obscure patients were quickened along to their eventual passings, with the thoughtful assistance of garrotes, bars of soap in socks, and pharmaceutical overdoses. In the early forties, when the country’s involvement in World War II became un-disputable, human freight, for research purposes, became quite lucrative. A discreet lab facility at the Edgewood Arsenal, enthusiastic about germ warfare, paid top-dollar under the table for “lab specimens” of a particular nature, that nature being that they be delivered live to the facility. The warders of Wroxton Hall were all too eager to assist in the defense of their nation, and many times logged certain patients as “deceased” when they were in fact still among the living, only to transport them without reluctance to the open arms of the Edgewood Arsenal.
But this proved merely the icing on the cake. What went on on a daily basis at the hall was even more disturbing. Unruly patients were taken aside and disciplined by a coterie of “technicians” that would make the Inquisitors of the Holy Office look like the cast of Sesame Street. Of course, this was regarded instead as “behavioral therapy”; it was difficult to get out of line when one’s orbital lobe had been thoroughly routed by knitting-needle lobotomies administered up through the anterior eye socket. (Staff members, naturally, sterilized the knitting-needles before each application.) A less sophisticated manner of taming rowdy patients involved a simple tourniquet fashioned about the throat just under the jawline, which cut off blood-flow to the brain. The tourniquet was maintained for just a period of time to effect the level of brain damage desired to take some of the zing out of said patient. The relatively unsupervised staff, too, when they weren’t applying such contemporary behavioral therapies, were quite forthcoming in the application of sexual therapies. All manner of libidinous abuse was pursued at Wroxton Hall, no perversity ignored, and no orifice unplundered. Boys will be boys, after all. And since the induction of semen into fecund vaginal passages was known to result in pregnancies, Wroxton Hall became perhaps the most expeditious abortion clinic in history.
Certain patients however, upon expiration, and due to the extreme state of physical disrepair racked by decades of subhuman living conditions, were deemed not only sexually undesirable, but also unpurchasable by the buyers from the medical schools and the illustrious Edgewood Arsenal, but that did not mean that some profitable utility couldn’t be found for them. In other words, when the state investigators came, it was more than pork that was discovered in the briny stew that served as the patients’ daily food ration.
Shortly thereafter, Superintendant Flues died in prison of tertiary syphillis. Many of the hospital staff were either executed or incarcerated. Wroxton Hall was closed down, sealed shut, and gratefully forgotten.
Except by the local residents, who came to think of the hall as a curse and an embarrassment. Some residents, upon investigating the dank corridors of the hall firsthand, claimed that the edifice was abundantly haunted by the spirits of those who died there.
Not too long afterward, Wroxton Hall was anonymously set ablaze, its interior gutted, and its horrors wiped clean from memory…
The story seemed too trite to even consider; Vera scoffed and closed the ludicrous book. But her mind wandered to other things: questions? Why had Feldspar invited her to dinner? Did Chief Mulligan know something she didn’t? Could it really be possible that Feldspar and Magwyth Enterprises were involved in some sort of criminal activity? Vera was determined to find out.
— | — | —
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Zyra panted.
Phil Brooks gave the large, hanging nipples a pinch and grinned up at her. “I’ll bet ya do, baby. You been surprisin’ me all night.”
Zyra felt blissfully lost in herself. How many times had she come? Every so often she’d lose control, she’d do things that startled even her. It was the moment, she knew, and the spontaneity: the quick collision of passion, lust, curiosity, and a plethora of other feelings too intricate—or too dark—to even attempt to put a name to. Maybe it was love—not love for the grainy, over-muscled redneck who now lay exhausted beneath her—but love for herself, and all of the beautiful things she was capable of feeling. Feelings were truth, of a sort, an honest acknowledgement of who she really was in the scheme of things, in the blazing reality of the world. She’d bathed his entire body with her tongue, she’d drunk up his sweat. She’d sucked his testicles, nibbled his perenium, had let herself be sodomized by him, after which she’d immediately fellated him to orgasm. And this had only been the prelude to a very long and energizing evening.
I’m a pervert, she thought, and almost laughed. A pervert of truth. She caressed her own breasts and sighed.
They’d met Phil Brooks and his drunk, flirtatious girlfriend at the old pool hall off Furnace Branch Road. The Factotum had left instructions for them to bring in one more girl; this would be their last abduction for some time. Bar dogs, Zyra had concluded when they’d first entered. Some fat girls, some worn-out older women missing teeth. Not much to choose from. Then Phil Brooks and the girl walked in—Ellen was her name, Zyra thought. Blond hair with black roots, a flowery bracelet tattooed around her wrist, and over-applied makeup, but she was well-breasted, shapely, and seemed to have the type of spirit they were looking for. She and Zyra had got to chatting—Not much for brains, Zyra concluded; all she could talk about were pickup trucks and diets. Zyra had asked her about the Middle East, and Ellen had responded, “Oh, yeah, I have some relatives in Maryland and North Carolina.” Meanwhile, Lemi and Phil had taken to making wagers at the billiards table. “You win the next game,” Phil challenged, “and I lay fifty on ya, and if you lose, we swap squeeze. How ‘bout it, friend?” “You’re on,” Lemi said, and wasted no time in losing the game. They followed them back to their big SilverLine trailer, alone on its own lot back off an old logging trail. The big propane tank outside would provide a fiery finish…
They’d paired off at once. Zyra turned up the heat, way up. It should be hot for this, hot and sultry and damp, to parallel her mood. She left the lights on, as she frequently did. She wanted to see him—or she needed to—and she needed him to see her in every detail. Their bodies blazed in sweat for hours, through every offering of flesh, every configuration she could conceive. Phil was good for several bouts, which gratified her. It made her feel humble to the lot she’d been given in life, and to the Factotum, and to her lord. Where others had faltered and failed, Zyra had been given this holy and cyclic bliss. It was wonderful.