Special warning: Some animal cruelty. Those with weak stomachs may want to skim over the two paragraphs before the scene switches to Fenton and Frank.
Joe had lost track of the days a long time ago. He hadn't been allowed outside since he had been brought here and his once golden skin was now almost pale. He had circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and he had been without food for so long, he had lost a considerable amount of weight.
His captors had repeated the bathing ritual every day. And afterwards, he always received one goblet of wine and one grape. Just enough to keep him alive. The guards never spoke to him, but occasionally he caught drifts of conversation from outside his prison. He heard enough to know he was going to be a sacrifice at some major rite.
He shivered just thinking about it. He had heard things about cults like this on television. Talk shows mostly; the kind you didn't really believe. You just listened because it sounded interesting. If he ever did get out of here, he swore he would never put down another talk show, no matter how absurd it seemed.
Joe wiped a lone tear away from his eye as he realized he may never have the chance to put a talk show down, or anything for that matter, even if he was rescued. For eight days, Joe had been the recipient of injections into his throat every other day. Then the shots stopped. But his voice still hadn't returned. He wondered if his vocal chords were permanently damaged.
'But it doesn't matter,' Joe thought angrily. 'I'm never going to get out of here alive anyway.' His captors had been diligent. Always there were two men in the cell with him, neither speaking to him or trying to communicate in any way. He was constantly surrounded by people and yet he had never been so alone in his life.
He had all but given up hope of being rescued. Surely if his dad or brother knew he was in trouble, they would have been there by now. Joe was startled out of his reviere by his cell's door being opened. He had already undergone the daily ritual of bathing and wine. A visitor afterwards was unheard of. He looked at the intruder. 'Bailey Wyndham,' Joe recognized the man, his anger coming forth anew. He leapt from the bed and flew at the man, fists flailing. But his arms were grabbed by the guards and Joe was forced back to a sitting position on the bed; an easy feat considering his weakened condition.
Joe glared at Bailey. Bailey smiled at Joe. 'What I wouldn't give to wipe that smile off his face,' Joe thought.
"It is time," Bailey said, looking Joe in the eyes. "Are you ready, little one?" Joe tried to struggle free, but it was useless. What little energy he had stored up had been used trying to attack Bailey when he had entered.
Joe was led out of the cell and down the tunnel to the bathing area. 'Again?' he wondered, confused. This hadn't happened before. He was de-robed and put in the barrel. There seemed to be even more people present this time than ever before. He recognized some of them. Scowling at Francessca, for he could no longer think of her as Franc, he wondered why he had been such an easy mark for her. It occurred to him that had his brother been more supportive of him, less hostile even, he never would have done more for Franc than a simple paint job. But because he had been hurting, he had put a lot of time and effort into killing the pain and the only way he knew to do that had been to keep busy. Francessca had seemed like a blessing in disguise.
'Some blessing!' he thought bitterly. 'She's my executioner so to speak.'
Joe was made to stand and the soap was rinsed off. He was given a new robe to wear and escorted, not back to his cell as he had thought would happen, but where he hadn't been since his captivity began....outside.
An altar had been prepared and Joe was seated in the middle. Four men stood around Joe, their eyes on him continously, as all but three men sat on the hard ground. Two of the men stood to Joe's left side while the third man...Bailey...left. He returned momentarily with a goat. The goat was brought to stand beside Joe. A red-cheeked man began chanting some words and the audience repeated these words with reverence. Joe looked on fearfully as the man accepted a long knife from Red. He said a few more words, made the sign of an inverted cross and plunged the knife into the goat. He sliced down the animal's chest and pulled out with his left hand, the heart of the animal.
Lifting the heart into the air for the congregation to view, he chanted a few more words, then came to stand over Joe, the heart still in his hand. He returned the knife to Red and took the heart in both hands. He squeezed it, causing blood to fall from the heart onto Joe's head. Joe tried to move away, but his four bodyguards held him fast while the goat's blood dripped onto his head and slid down his face and onto the robe. Finally, the ordeal was over and Joe was led back to his cell, still covered in the blood of the goat.
Mr. Hardy came to a stop in front of the Wyndham's house. "Joe did a good job on the roof," Frank said, getting out and looking at the place. He felt as if he should have been there to help Joe. Had he been with Joe, taken him to the train instead of attending the airshow, Joe would probably not be missing now. 'Why did I have to insist he take care of himself?' Frank berated himself. 'I'm his big brother. He's my responsibility. I'm so sorry I let you down, Joe. I never will again,' he vowed silently, praying he got the opportunity to prove it.
They walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A minute passed and no one answered. Mr. Hardy pushed the bell again. No answer. He knocked loudly on the door. Still, no one opened the door. "I'll check around back," Frank said, taking off. He walked around the house, arriving at the pool. He checked the patio door. It slid open.
"Anyone home?" Frank called out, entering the house. Frank called out a few more times as he made his way to the front door and opened it up for his father. Coming inside, Mr. Hardy suggested they split up and search the place. Perhaps they could find a clue as to where the owners were.
Frank went upstairs and looked around. What he saw gave him a chill. One of the bedrooms had drawers open and cosmetic items lay scattered on the floor. It looked like someone had been in a hurry to leave the premises. He checked out another bedroom. This one was neatly organized. He opened the closet and some of the drawers. The only items there were a couple of robes and some empty boxes...ones, which could have accommodated the robes.
Frank ran downstairs to his dad. "You won't believe the upstairs," he told his father. Mr. Hardy had experienced a shock of his own. He had found a stack of bills lying on the livingroom table. He held them in his hands, his face white as Frank came to a standstill in front of him.
"These bills are all for this month," Mr. Hardy told Frank. "They are for only one month with services to be discontinued at the end per an original agreement."
"Figures," Frank said. "Francessca was living here alone. Only her room had any clothes that I could see. Dad, she set Joe up."
Joe had lost track of the days a long time ago. He hadn't been allowed outside since he had been brought here and his once golden skin was now almost pale. He had circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and he had been without food for so long, he had lost a considerable amount of weight.
His captors had repeated the bathing ritual every day. And afterwards, he always received one goblet of wine and one grape. Just enough to keep him alive. The guards never spoke to him, but occasionally he caught drifts of conversation from outside his prison. He heard enough to know he was going to be a sacrifice at some major rite.
He shivered just thinking about it. He had heard things about cults like this on television. Talk shows mostly; the kind you didn't really believe. You just listened because it sounded interesting. If he ever did get out of here, he swore he would never put down another talk show, no matter how absurd it seemed.
Joe wiped a lone tear away from his eye as he realized he may never have the chance to put a talk show down, or anything for that matter, even if he was rescued. For eight days, Joe had been the recipient of injections into his throat every other day. Then the shots stopped. But his voice still hadn't returned. He wondered if his vocal chords were permanently damaged.
'But it doesn't matter,' Joe thought angrily. 'I'm never going to get out of here alive anyway.' His captors had been diligent. Always there were two men in the cell with him, neither speaking to him or trying to communicate in any way. He was constantly surrounded by people and yet he had never been so alone in his life.
He had all but given up hope of being rescued. Surely if his dad or brother knew he was in trouble, they would have been there by now. Joe was startled out of his reviere by his cell's door being opened. He had already undergone the daily ritual of bathing and wine. A visitor afterwards was unheard of. He looked at the intruder. 'Bailey Wyndham,' Joe recognized the man, his anger coming forth anew. He leapt from the bed and flew at the man, fists flailing. But his arms were grabbed by the guards and Joe was forced back to a sitting position on the bed; an easy feat considering his weakened condition.
Joe glared at Bailey. Bailey smiled at Joe. 'What I wouldn't give to wipe that smile off his face,' Joe thought.
"It is time," Bailey said, looking Joe in the eyes. "Are you ready, little one?" Joe tried to struggle free, but it was useless. What little energy he had stored up had been used trying to attack Bailey when he had entered.
Joe was led out of the cell and down the tunnel to the bathing area. 'Again?' he wondered, confused. This hadn't happened before. He was de-robed and put in the barrel. There seemed to be even more people present this time than ever before. He recognized some of them. Scowling at Francessca, for he could no longer think of her as Franc, he wondered why he had been such an easy mark for her. It occurred to him that had his brother been more supportive of him, less hostile even, he never would have done more for Franc than a simple paint job. But because he had been hurting, he had put a lot of time and effort into killing the pain and the only way he knew to do that had been to keep busy. Francessca had seemed like a blessing in disguise.
'Some blessing!' he thought bitterly. 'She's my executioner so to speak.'
Joe was made to stand and the soap was rinsed off. He was given a new robe to wear and escorted, not back to his cell as he had thought would happen, but where he hadn't been since his captivity began....outside.
An altar had been prepared and Joe was seated in the middle. Four men stood around Joe, their eyes on him continously, as all but three men sat on the hard ground. Two of the men stood to Joe's left side while the third man...Bailey...left. He returned momentarily with a goat. The goat was brought to stand beside Joe. A red-cheeked man began chanting some words and the audience repeated these words with reverence. Joe looked on fearfully as the man accepted a long knife from Red. He said a few more words, made the sign of an inverted cross and plunged the knife into the goat. He sliced down the animal's chest and pulled out with his left hand, the heart of the animal.
Lifting the heart into the air for the congregation to view, he chanted a few more words, then came to stand over Joe, the heart still in his hand. He returned the knife to Red and took the heart in both hands. He squeezed it, causing blood to fall from the heart onto Joe's head. Joe tried to move away, but his four bodyguards held him fast while the goat's blood dripped onto his head and slid down his face and onto the robe. Finally, the ordeal was over and Joe was led back to his cell, still covered in the blood of the goat.
Mr. Hardy came to a stop in front of the Wyndham's house. "Joe did a good job on the roof," Frank said, getting out and looking at the place. He felt as if he should have been there to help Joe. Had he been with Joe, taken him to the train instead of attending the airshow, Joe would probably not be missing now. 'Why did I have to insist he take care of himself?' Frank berated himself. 'I'm his big brother. He's my responsibility. I'm so sorry I let you down, Joe. I never will again,' he vowed silently, praying he got the opportunity to prove it.
They walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A minute passed and no one answered. Mr. Hardy pushed the bell again. No answer. He knocked loudly on the door. Still, no one opened the door. "I'll check around back," Frank said, taking off. He walked around the house, arriving at the pool. He checked the patio door. It slid open.
"Anyone home?" Frank called out, entering the house. Frank called out a few more times as he made his way to the front door and opened it up for his father. Coming inside, Mr. Hardy suggested they split up and search the place. Perhaps they could find a clue as to where the owners were.
Frank went upstairs and looked around. What he saw gave him a chill. One of the bedrooms had drawers open and cosmetic items lay scattered on the floor. It looked like someone had been in a hurry to leave the premises. He checked out another bedroom. This one was neatly organized. He opened the closet and some of the drawers. The only items there were a couple of robes and some empty boxes...ones, which could have accommodated the robes.
Frank ran downstairs to his dad. "You won't believe the upstairs," he told his father. Mr. Hardy had experienced a shock of his own. He had found a stack of bills lying on the livingroom table. He held them in his hands, his face white as Frank came to a standstill in front of him.
"These bills are all for this month," Mr. Hardy told Frank. "They are for only one month with services to be discontinued at the end per an original agreement."
"Figures," Frank said. "Francessca was living here alone. Only her room had any clothes that I could see. Dad, she set Joe up."