Joe still couldn't move, but now he couldn't see, hear, or breathe either.

The brothers were sprawled in the back of the van, their hands and ankles bound tightly together, black cloth bags bound around their necks, making it difficult to squeeze air down their throats.

"Bring him," the man known as the Reaper had said, cocking back his gun. "Or I'll shoot him through."

Frank had carried Joe outside to the waiting navy mini-van, saying nothing except a quick whisper of reassurance.

"It'll be all right," he murmured to his still paralyzed younger brother, "I know how to handle him. Just stay calm."

Stay calm stay calm stay calm Joe chanted in his mind as he tested his legs and arms, fingers and toes and found nothing.

Frank! I know you're here but where? Where are we going? Is this our last night together? Or will we face eternity side-by-side? That only seems fair…we've done everything else as a team…

Joe struggled to move again, and still finding no strength whimpered involuntarily.

Then someone pressed against him, easing to his side, warming his shivering body.

Frank.

His brother was beside him, telling him without words that he was there.

They stayed that way, their bodies together as the car wound its way over a bumpy back road and drew to a stop. A moment later Joe's hair was seized, but as he was pulled from the truck his last sense—smell—finally came through for him.

We're by the bay—we have to be. I smell the salt. But where are we down here? Why are we here?

Moments later he was hurled to a cold stone floor and left. He tested his muscles; still, they refused to yield.

 Frank where are you Dad please find us Mom we're in so much trouble Vanessa I love you Aunt Gertrude please someone anyone help it wasn't supposed to be this way we stayed out of it so it wouldn't be this way…

He heard the pounding of footsteps, and then Frank was beside him again, and the blindfolds and gags were removed. They were in a basement—white stucco surrounded them from all sides, and a series of lights hung from wires on the ceiling.

"Wait," the man said softly. "Make no sound, although no one will hear you."

He crossed the room and opened a door Joe could only hear, than disappeared.

"Can you move?" Frank whispered.

Joe simply stared at him, fighting tears of frustration and growing horror. He remembered the pictures of the victims—gore and blood and terror. And he remembered the pain.

Help us. God help us.

"Don't worry," the elder Hardy murmured. "I can handle him. I will handle him. Joe, as soon as you can move again, run. No matter what's happening to me. Go for help. Do not come after me, no matter what you hear. Understand?"

What? Leave him? I would never—

"All right," the voice called. Calm, soothing, relaxed. It sent chills down the younger Hardy's frozen muscles. The Reaper came back into Joe's line of vision, bearing a knife resembling a scythe; his signature weapon, true to his name. "Who wants to go first?"

"Look," Frank said quickly, his voice higher and more nervous than Joe had ever heard before, "I don't know who you are, or what's going on. My brother and father investigate often, but I don't have anything to do with it. So if this has something to do with a case, you should just leave me out of it. Please—I don't know anything."

If the younger Hardy could have, he would have gasped. This was not Frank—the strong, unbeatable, unshakeable brother Joe had known and admired his whole life. This was someone small, young, afraid…

Or was it?

I know how to handle him.   

Frank, what are you doing?

The Reaper smiled; a gentle, easy smile.

"Well," he said softly, moving toward the elder Hardy, "Let's take a walk then."