Highway from Hell
Chapter Six
Joe awoke slowly, his head pounding, his eyes heavy and his chest hurting. He forced his eyes open and found himself lying on a twin bed in a dark room witht he shade pulled down on the window. He sat up slowly, his stomach starting to bubble. He saw a waste can lined with a grocery bag by the bed and had barely taken hold of it before he started hurling.
Someone in the next room must have heard him becasue the bedroom door opened and a large muscular man came inside. He took one look at Joe and left the room. When he returned, he held a wet washcloth and a can of cola. He waited until Joe had finished retching, then gave him the cloth and cola and left with the waste can. He returned a few moments later with the waste can freshly relined. Joe had sank back onto the bed almost as soon as he had finished throwing up, taking one sip of cola before setting it on the nightstand. Now he lay there with the wet cloth over his eyes.
"Hi Joe," he heard the deep baritone of his host. Joe moved the cloth and looked at the man. He had long wavy brown hair which had been put back into a pony tail. His muscles rippled beneath the skin-tight pale yellow tee shirt he wore, and he was staring down at Joe with pale blue eyes. "You've been out for three days," the man said.
"Who..." Joe swallowed, his mouth not seeming to work properly. "Who are you?" he finally managed to ask in a hoarse whisper.
"I'm Trey," he told Joe, sitting his six foot frame down on the bed by Joe's legs. "I'm a friend of Ken's," he introduced himself.
Joe gave a slight nod, a wave of nausea threatening to erupt again. "What happened?" he asked. "How did I get here?"
"After you OD'ed, Ken decided to make it easy on you," Trey told him. "Now your folks won't bother looking for you because they think you are dead."
"What?" Joe demanded in disbelief. "How did he pull that off?"
"Ken told them you were dead and then got a guy at the funeral home who owed him a favor to give your folks someone's ashes and tell them they were yours," Trey explained.
"Cool," Joe said, although he now felt sicker than ever inside.
"I'll let you get some rest," Trey said. "If you need anything just yell," he added, standing up.
"Where..." Joe started to ask where he was but Trey cut him off.
"Where's your fix?" Trey guessed at what Joe wanted to ask. "No worries," he assured Joe. "I'll bring you a fix. But," he added, looking at Joe with a stern expression,"no more backjack." Joe recognized the term which meant injecting the heroin. "From now on, you only get it one way. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Joe managed to say before once more making a grab for the waste can.
Frank sat at home, restlessly drumming his fingers on the end table beside him. He had been released from the foundation that morning with no idea of who had tried to kill Joe. And no one had heard from Joe in three days. He quit drumming his fingers and picked up a magazine from the table. He opened it and turned two pages then tossed it back onto the table. He was waiting for his father to come downstairs and tell him what he had learned from the DEA.
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he went to answer it. Standing there were two of his best friends. Plump, blond, seventeen year old Chet Morton and blond, beefy, eighteen year old Biff Hooper. "Hi," Frank said, moving aside to let them come in.
"Well, where's Joe?" Chet demanded. The last Biff and Chet had heard, Joe was admitted to the foundation and was supposed to have been released yesterday.
Frank sighed, his face covered in worry. "You guys better take a seat," he said. He then told them everything which had happened since Joe's rescue from his kidnappers.
"So, how can we help?" Chet asked, his brown eyes filled with concern.
"You can't," Frank told him. "This is way too dangerous."
"We know how dangerous it is," Biff said quietly from his chair. "But we also know if it were one of us in trouble, nothing would stop you or Joe from helping us. Granted," he continued, "we don't have the skills or experience you and Joe possess, but we have helped you two enough to know what we're doing."
"But..." Frank started to argue, but couldn't get another word in.
"But nothing!" Biff shouted at Frank. "Joe is one of my best friends!"
"And mine!" put in Chet.
"And we are going to help," Biff finished.
"Not this time," Frank insisted. "Your parents would never allow it."
Chet frowned. His sister, Iola, had been killed when a terrorist had planted a bomb in Frank's and Joe's car. He swallowed and looked Frank in the eyes. "I'll make them," he vowed.
Fenton came downstairs in time to catch Chet's last words. "Make who what?" he asked.
"Chet and Biff want to help," Frank told his father.
Fenton shook his head. "Not..." he began, but Biff cut him off.
"Frank's already read us the lecture, Sir," Biff told him. "If we can get our parents to agree, will you let us help?"
Fenton looked at Frank and then at Chet's and Biff's determined faces. "All right," he said finally. "But I get to speak with your parents."
"Agreed," Biff and Chet said at the same time.
"Let me fill you in before you call your parents because I have a lead I need to follow up on Ken," Fenton said, sitting down in a chair. The three boys took seats and listened to what he had to say.
"Ken lives in the Rolling Hills district, but when he was an addict, he hung out on Gragg Street. I've rented you apartment 219 in the Sullivan Apartment Complex on Gragg Street. It's a rough neighborhood, so you have to stay on guard at all times," Fenton warned.
"Frank, you're going in as Tony," he continued. "When you got home, you caved in and started using again and your father kicked you out." He looked at Frank and his expression softened a little. "Get some rest," he ordered. "I'll be back with your key and some cash for you. Until then, stay here. This may be your only chance for any real rest until we get Joe back."
Frank nodded as Fenton stood up. "Chet, Biff," Fenton said to them and they looked at him expectantly. "If you change your minds, no one will blame you. This is a very dangerous case. Several people have already died and there is a vast fortune at stake to these men."
"Not to mention the lives of the kids they are destroying," Biff replied. "I'm in," he insisted.
"Me too," Chet affirmed.
After Fenton had left, Chet looked over at Biff. "Are you sure your folks will let you?" he asked.
"My brother died of an overdose three years ago," Biff reminded Chet. "Dad would pretty much do anything to get even one dealer out of business."
Chet and Biff left the Hardy home to go and talk to their parents. Frank went upstairs to his room pausing at the doorway of his parents' room. His mother was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow, and looking at a photo album. He couls see pictures of Joe and himself when they were uounger as she turned a page. Her eyes were red, but dry. Not wanting to set her off crying again, he went on down the hall to his room.
He tried to rest, but his thoughts kept returning to Joe. He got up and went into Joe's room. His mother had cleaned the place up and the bed had been made. Even Joe's comics were stacked neatly on his desk. Frank grinned, knowing the neatness would disappear a few minutes after Joe got home. Frank sat down on Joe's bed and picked up the top comic. He flipped a couple of pages and lay back on the bed, wondering how Joe could get so excited about a guy who could shoot webs. Soon, he was fast asleep.
Joe walked into the living room after having slept fitfully for a couple of hours. His bloodshot eyes were fully dilated again and he had put on a pair of sunglasses which had been lying on a chest in the bedroom.
The living room was packed. There were two guys sitting on the couch smoking a joint. The smell of burnt rope assaulted Joe's nostrils as he closed the bedroom door behind him. He looked around for Trey or Ken, but neither came into view. To his left were three guys and two girls talking, each holding a beer. On his right was a guy sitting at the bar, a coffee straw in hand and white powder, cocaine, Joe thought, in front of him. The guy put the straw to his nostril and bent over the powder.
Joe walked, a bit unsteadily, toward the entry to the kitchen but before he reached it, a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. The glasses went flying off his face and bounced into the kitchen as the tip of a switchblade was laid against the base of his throat.
"Joe Hardy," snarled the drunken man. His face was covered in a couple day's growth of beard and his black hair was oily and in need of a wash.
"That's me," Joe said calmly.
"You're dead," the drunk stated as his wrist holding the knife jerked.
Chapter Six
Joe awoke slowly, his head pounding, his eyes heavy and his chest hurting. He forced his eyes open and found himself lying on a twin bed in a dark room witht he shade pulled down on the window. He sat up slowly, his stomach starting to bubble. He saw a waste can lined with a grocery bag by the bed and had barely taken hold of it before he started hurling.
Someone in the next room must have heard him becasue the bedroom door opened and a large muscular man came inside. He took one look at Joe and left the room. When he returned, he held a wet washcloth and a can of cola. He waited until Joe had finished retching, then gave him the cloth and cola and left with the waste can. He returned a few moments later with the waste can freshly relined. Joe had sank back onto the bed almost as soon as he had finished throwing up, taking one sip of cola before setting it on the nightstand. Now he lay there with the wet cloth over his eyes.
"Hi Joe," he heard the deep baritone of his host. Joe moved the cloth and looked at the man. He had long wavy brown hair which had been put back into a pony tail. His muscles rippled beneath the skin-tight pale yellow tee shirt he wore, and he was staring down at Joe with pale blue eyes. "You've been out for three days," the man said.
"Who..." Joe swallowed, his mouth not seeming to work properly. "Who are you?" he finally managed to ask in a hoarse whisper.
"I'm Trey," he told Joe, sitting his six foot frame down on the bed by Joe's legs. "I'm a friend of Ken's," he introduced himself.
Joe gave a slight nod, a wave of nausea threatening to erupt again. "What happened?" he asked. "How did I get here?"
"After you OD'ed, Ken decided to make it easy on you," Trey told him. "Now your folks won't bother looking for you because they think you are dead."
"What?" Joe demanded in disbelief. "How did he pull that off?"
"Ken told them you were dead and then got a guy at the funeral home who owed him a favor to give your folks someone's ashes and tell them they were yours," Trey explained.
"Cool," Joe said, although he now felt sicker than ever inside.
"I'll let you get some rest," Trey said. "If you need anything just yell," he added, standing up.
"Where..." Joe started to ask where he was but Trey cut him off.
"Where's your fix?" Trey guessed at what Joe wanted to ask. "No worries," he assured Joe. "I'll bring you a fix. But," he added, looking at Joe with a stern expression,"no more backjack." Joe recognized the term which meant injecting the heroin. "From now on, you only get it one way. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Joe managed to say before once more making a grab for the waste can.
Frank sat at home, restlessly drumming his fingers on the end table beside him. He had been released from the foundation that morning with no idea of who had tried to kill Joe. And no one had heard from Joe in three days. He quit drumming his fingers and picked up a magazine from the table. He opened it and turned two pages then tossed it back onto the table. He was waiting for his father to come downstairs and tell him what he had learned from the DEA.
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he went to answer it. Standing there were two of his best friends. Plump, blond, seventeen year old Chet Morton and blond, beefy, eighteen year old Biff Hooper. "Hi," Frank said, moving aside to let them come in.
"Well, where's Joe?" Chet demanded. The last Biff and Chet had heard, Joe was admitted to the foundation and was supposed to have been released yesterday.
Frank sighed, his face covered in worry. "You guys better take a seat," he said. He then told them everything which had happened since Joe's rescue from his kidnappers.
"So, how can we help?" Chet asked, his brown eyes filled with concern.
"You can't," Frank told him. "This is way too dangerous."
"We know how dangerous it is," Biff said quietly from his chair. "But we also know if it were one of us in trouble, nothing would stop you or Joe from helping us. Granted," he continued, "we don't have the skills or experience you and Joe possess, but we have helped you two enough to know what we're doing."
"But..." Frank started to argue, but couldn't get another word in.
"But nothing!" Biff shouted at Frank. "Joe is one of my best friends!"
"And mine!" put in Chet.
"And we are going to help," Biff finished.
"Not this time," Frank insisted. "Your parents would never allow it."
Chet frowned. His sister, Iola, had been killed when a terrorist had planted a bomb in Frank's and Joe's car. He swallowed and looked Frank in the eyes. "I'll make them," he vowed.
Fenton came downstairs in time to catch Chet's last words. "Make who what?" he asked.
"Chet and Biff want to help," Frank told his father.
Fenton shook his head. "Not..." he began, but Biff cut him off.
"Frank's already read us the lecture, Sir," Biff told him. "If we can get our parents to agree, will you let us help?"
Fenton looked at Frank and then at Chet's and Biff's determined faces. "All right," he said finally. "But I get to speak with your parents."
"Agreed," Biff and Chet said at the same time.
"Let me fill you in before you call your parents because I have a lead I need to follow up on Ken," Fenton said, sitting down in a chair. The three boys took seats and listened to what he had to say.
"Ken lives in the Rolling Hills district, but when he was an addict, he hung out on Gragg Street. I've rented you apartment 219 in the Sullivan Apartment Complex on Gragg Street. It's a rough neighborhood, so you have to stay on guard at all times," Fenton warned.
"Frank, you're going in as Tony," he continued. "When you got home, you caved in and started using again and your father kicked you out." He looked at Frank and his expression softened a little. "Get some rest," he ordered. "I'll be back with your key and some cash for you. Until then, stay here. This may be your only chance for any real rest until we get Joe back."
Frank nodded as Fenton stood up. "Chet, Biff," Fenton said to them and they looked at him expectantly. "If you change your minds, no one will blame you. This is a very dangerous case. Several people have already died and there is a vast fortune at stake to these men."
"Not to mention the lives of the kids they are destroying," Biff replied. "I'm in," he insisted.
"Me too," Chet affirmed.
After Fenton had left, Chet looked over at Biff. "Are you sure your folks will let you?" he asked.
"My brother died of an overdose three years ago," Biff reminded Chet. "Dad would pretty much do anything to get even one dealer out of business."
Chet and Biff left the Hardy home to go and talk to their parents. Frank went upstairs to his room pausing at the doorway of his parents' room. His mother was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow, and looking at a photo album. He couls see pictures of Joe and himself when they were uounger as she turned a page. Her eyes were red, but dry. Not wanting to set her off crying again, he went on down the hall to his room.
He tried to rest, but his thoughts kept returning to Joe. He got up and went into Joe's room. His mother had cleaned the place up and the bed had been made. Even Joe's comics were stacked neatly on his desk. Frank grinned, knowing the neatness would disappear a few minutes after Joe got home. Frank sat down on Joe's bed and picked up the top comic. He flipped a couple of pages and lay back on the bed, wondering how Joe could get so excited about a guy who could shoot webs. Soon, he was fast asleep.
Joe walked into the living room after having slept fitfully for a couple of hours. His bloodshot eyes were fully dilated again and he had put on a pair of sunglasses which had been lying on a chest in the bedroom.
The living room was packed. There were two guys sitting on the couch smoking a joint. The smell of burnt rope assaulted Joe's nostrils as he closed the bedroom door behind him. He looked around for Trey or Ken, but neither came into view. To his left were three guys and two girls talking, each holding a beer. On his right was a guy sitting at the bar, a coffee straw in hand and white powder, cocaine, Joe thought, in front of him. The guy put the straw to his nostril and bent over the powder.
Joe walked, a bit unsteadily, toward the entry to the kitchen but before he reached it, a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. The glasses went flying off his face and bounced into the kitchen as the tip of a switchblade was laid against the base of his throat.
"Joe Hardy," snarled the drunken man. His face was covered in a couple day's growth of beard and his black hair was oily and in need of a wash.
"That's me," Joe said calmly.
"You're dead," the drunk stated as his wrist holding the knife jerked.