Avery carried Joe into the graveyard and laid him down near a cross. "Sorry, lamb," he apologized to the unconscious youth. "I forgot to bring a shovel," he said, pulling off his belt. He bent down and lifted Joe's hands above his head. Wrapping them around the base of the cross, he used his belt to tie Joe's hands together.
"You just stay right here," he told Joe, smiling. "I'll be back in no time to dig your grave."
Sheriff Dixon returned an hour and a half later with the pictures from the film Frank had found. "Maybe you'd better sit down before you look at these," he told the Hardys, who were waiting outside after having finished talking with Ms. Meyer.
Frank swallowed and sat down. How bad is it? he wondered, his thoughts echoing those of his father who sat stone-faced beside him.
The sheriff handed the pictures to Mr. Hardy and Frank looked at them with his father. The first two were pictures of Joe hanging on the cross at the sacrificial ritual. There were two more pictures of Joe's rescue, six pictures of Joe in the hospital, and the rest were of Joe on a bed with various stages of a tattoo being imprinted on him.
"He's one sick son of a bitch," Sheriff Dixon commented on Joe's captor.
Mr. Hardy told Sheriff Dixon what they had learned from talking with Mrs.Myer. He promised to alert the authorities in surrounding towns and bid the Hardys goodbye--allowing them to take the photographs and give them to Chief Collig.
Mr. Hardy and Frank headed back to Bayport, neither of them talking. They pulled off the interstate and headed down the street toward town.
"Stop!" Frank shouted, sitting up straight and turning his head to stare out the back window.
"What is it?" Mr. Hardy demanded, doing as Frank had commanded.
"In front of the hardware store," Frank told him. "A black Chevette."
Joe gave a silent groan and opened his eyes. He shivered in the chilly night air and looked to see where he was. The ambiance of the darkened cemetery caused him to shiver again.
He tried to move his arms but found they were tied together although his feet remained free. He twisted his wrists a bit and, although he couldn't see from the position he was in, knew it was a belt securing them.
Here we go again, thought Joe, trying to slip his wrists from the leather.
Mr. Hardy pulled next to the store and let Frank get out before turning the car around. He was going to park beside the black Chevette. Frank reached the entrance to the hardware store and opened the door. Frank gave a silent groan as a bell dinged, announcing his presence. He stood still, his eyes searching the store from left to right, seeking movement.
"Can I help you?" asked a man almost six inches shorter than Frank's own six foot one, as he came from the aisle at Frank's right.
"Where is the man who owns the black Chevette outside?" Frank asked. He didn't see anyone in the store but this man.
"That's mine," the clerk declared, his green eyes clouding over. "Was it hit?"
"No, nothing like that," Frank denied with a single shake of his head. "I'm looking for a man, my height, early forties with hazel eyes and a gold tooth. He was last seen driving a car like yours."
"Sorry, I haven't seen anyone like that," the man told Frank. "And as for black Chevettes, well, I've only seen one other recently."
"Where?" Frank demanded.
"At Hampton's Garage off of Highway 94," the clerk answered. "Seems to me, though, it wasn't there the last time I drove by," he added, his forehead creased thoughtfully.
"Thank you," Frank said as he saw his father sneak in the store through the back. "You've been a tremendous help." Frank looked over at his dad. "We can go now," he said.
The proprietor turned and looked at Mr. Hardy. "I didn't hear you come in," he apologized.
"He came in with me," Frank said, explaining why the bell had only rang once.
After Frank and Mr. Hardy had returned to their car, Frank told his dad about the garage where the clerk had seen the other black Chevette. The two decided to check out the garage.
By the time Joe had managed to work his wrists free, he was panting. It had been a long time since his captor had given him anything to drink and even the wine had done nothing but to help perpetuate his unquenchable thirst.
Too weak form his most recent ordeal coupled with his last one, he hadn't the energy to even try to stand. Instead, he began crawling toward the cemetery's exit. He knew exactly where he was. His father's parents were buried here.
He had almost reached the gate when a pair of size eleven shoes came to a stop in front of his face. Joe looked up then fell onto his stomach, laying his head on the ground. Why does it always have to be so hard? he wondered as his captor stepped to the side, lifted one of Joe's legs and dragged him back into the depths of the graveyard, past the cross where he had been tied and all the way to the twin tombstones which marked the graves of his grandparents.
Mr. Hardy and Frank arrived at Hampton's Garage almost an hour later. No Chevette, black or otherwise. They exited the vehicle and looked around the garage. "Look, they have a twenty-four hour tow number," Frank said, pointing to the side of a tow truck which sat in the lot. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the numbers as his father used his own to call the police.
It was almost one a.m. when the police and the garage owner arrived. The owner, Jake Hampton, admitted to selling a black Chevette to a man answering Avery's descrtiption. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he said he would take his chances on the condition. He mentioned something about getting a car from a garage a few years back and felt he got a better deal than at a dealership," Jake informed them.
"Makes sense," said Officer Moran. "The Chief traced the car we found earlier to a garage in East Bridge. Looks like he may obtain all of his vehicles this way. We'll alert all the garages in this and surrounding counties to be on the lookout for Avery," he ended.
Mr. Hardy thanked him and the garage owner for being so helpful, then he and Frank went home for some much needed rest.
"Al..most...done, little lamb," Avery said to Joe as he pushed out another pile of dirt.
Avery had sat Joe near his grandfather's grave and had him watch as a few feet of dirt had been dug from the top of it.
Joe had no idea what his captor had planned for him and he was rapidly reaching the point where he didn't care. He just wanted it to be over, even if it meant he had to die.
Avery tossed the shovel aside and pulled a flask from his pocket and opened it. "Time for dinner," he told Joe, holding the flask up to Joe's mouth and forcing the wine down his throat.
Joe coughed once, then sat quietly, anxious to get whatever he had planned over with but terrified of what it might be.
"Beddy-bye time," Avery said with a smile, closing the flask and returning it to his pocket before bending back down. He rolled Joe into the shallow grave he had dug on top of Marshall Hardy's grave.
Joe looked up into his captor's face in fear; his breath coming out in short gasps as tears fell from his eyes. "No, please, no," he begged, although no sound made it's way from Joe's throat.
As Joe lay helpless, Avery grabbed the shovel and began covering Joe with dirt. When he had finished, Joe could not move. His legs, arms, even his ears, eyes and mouth had been covered with dirt. Only his nostrils remained free of earth in order to breathe in the night air.
"You just stay right here," he told Joe, smiling. "I'll be back in no time to dig your grave."
Sheriff Dixon returned an hour and a half later with the pictures from the film Frank had found. "Maybe you'd better sit down before you look at these," he told the Hardys, who were waiting outside after having finished talking with Ms. Meyer.
Frank swallowed and sat down. How bad is it? he wondered, his thoughts echoing those of his father who sat stone-faced beside him.
The sheriff handed the pictures to Mr. Hardy and Frank looked at them with his father. The first two were pictures of Joe hanging on the cross at the sacrificial ritual. There were two more pictures of Joe's rescue, six pictures of Joe in the hospital, and the rest were of Joe on a bed with various stages of a tattoo being imprinted on him.
"He's one sick son of a bitch," Sheriff Dixon commented on Joe's captor.
Mr. Hardy told Sheriff Dixon what they had learned from talking with Mrs.Myer. He promised to alert the authorities in surrounding towns and bid the Hardys goodbye--allowing them to take the photographs and give them to Chief Collig.
Mr. Hardy and Frank headed back to Bayport, neither of them talking. They pulled off the interstate and headed down the street toward town.
"Stop!" Frank shouted, sitting up straight and turning his head to stare out the back window.
"What is it?" Mr. Hardy demanded, doing as Frank had commanded.
"In front of the hardware store," Frank told him. "A black Chevette."
Joe gave a silent groan and opened his eyes. He shivered in the chilly night air and looked to see where he was. The ambiance of the darkened cemetery caused him to shiver again.
He tried to move his arms but found they were tied together although his feet remained free. He twisted his wrists a bit and, although he couldn't see from the position he was in, knew it was a belt securing them.
Here we go again, thought Joe, trying to slip his wrists from the leather.
Mr. Hardy pulled next to the store and let Frank get out before turning the car around. He was going to park beside the black Chevette. Frank reached the entrance to the hardware store and opened the door. Frank gave a silent groan as a bell dinged, announcing his presence. He stood still, his eyes searching the store from left to right, seeking movement.
"Can I help you?" asked a man almost six inches shorter than Frank's own six foot one, as he came from the aisle at Frank's right.
"Where is the man who owns the black Chevette outside?" Frank asked. He didn't see anyone in the store but this man.
"That's mine," the clerk declared, his green eyes clouding over. "Was it hit?"
"No, nothing like that," Frank denied with a single shake of his head. "I'm looking for a man, my height, early forties with hazel eyes and a gold tooth. He was last seen driving a car like yours."
"Sorry, I haven't seen anyone like that," the man told Frank. "And as for black Chevettes, well, I've only seen one other recently."
"Where?" Frank demanded.
"At Hampton's Garage off of Highway 94," the clerk answered. "Seems to me, though, it wasn't there the last time I drove by," he added, his forehead creased thoughtfully.
"Thank you," Frank said as he saw his father sneak in the store through the back. "You've been a tremendous help." Frank looked over at his dad. "We can go now," he said.
The proprietor turned and looked at Mr. Hardy. "I didn't hear you come in," he apologized.
"He came in with me," Frank said, explaining why the bell had only rang once.
After Frank and Mr. Hardy had returned to their car, Frank told his dad about the garage where the clerk had seen the other black Chevette. The two decided to check out the garage.
By the time Joe had managed to work his wrists free, he was panting. It had been a long time since his captor had given him anything to drink and even the wine had done nothing but to help perpetuate his unquenchable thirst.
Too weak form his most recent ordeal coupled with his last one, he hadn't the energy to even try to stand. Instead, he began crawling toward the cemetery's exit. He knew exactly where he was. His father's parents were buried here.
He had almost reached the gate when a pair of size eleven shoes came to a stop in front of his face. Joe looked up then fell onto his stomach, laying his head on the ground. Why does it always have to be so hard? he wondered as his captor stepped to the side, lifted one of Joe's legs and dragged him back into the depths of the graveyard, past the cross where he had been tied and all the way to the twin tombstones which marked the graves of his grandparents.
Mr. Hardy and Frank arrived at Hampton's Garage almost an hour later. No Chevette, black or otherwise. They exited the vehicle and looked around the garage. "Look, they have a twenty-four hour tow number," Frank said, pointing to the side of a tow truck which sat in the lot. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the numbers as his father used his own to call the police.
It was almost one a.m. when the police and the garage owner arrived. The owner, Jake Hampton, admitted to selling a black Chevette to a man answering Avery's descrtiption. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he said he would take his chances on the condition. He mentioned something about getting a car from a garage a few years back and felt he got a better deal than at a dealership," Jake informed them.
"Makes sense," said Officer Moran. "The Chief traced the car we found earlier to a garage in East Bridge. Looks like he may obtain all of his vehicles this way. We'll alert all the garages in this and surrounding counties to be on the lookout for Avery," he ended.
Mr. Hardy thanked him and the garage owner for being so helpful, then he and Frank went home for some much needed rest.
"Al..most...done, little lamb," Avery said to Joe as he pushed out another pile of dirt.
Avery had sat Joe near his grandfather's grave and had him watch as a few feet of dirt had been dug from the top of it.
Joe had no idea what his captor had planned for him and he was rapidly reaching the point where he didn't care. He just wanted it to be over, even if it meant he had to die.
Avery tossed the shovel aside and pulled a flask from his pocket and opened it. "Time for dinner," he told Joe, holding the flask up to Joe's mouth and forcing the wine down his throat.
Joe coughed once, then sat quietly, anxious to get whatever he had planned over with but terrified of what it might be.
"Beddy-bye time," Avery said with a smile, closing the flask and returning it to his pocket before bending back down. He rolled Joe into the shallow grave he had dug on top of Marshall Hardy's grave.
Joe looked up into his captor's face in fear; his breath coming out in short gasps as tears fell from his eyes. "No, please, no," he begged, although no sound made it's way from Joe's throat.
As Joe lay helpless, Avery grabbed the shovel and began covering Joe with dirt. When he had finished, Joe could not move. His legs, arms, even his ears, eyes and mouth had been covered with dirt. Only his nostrils remained free of earth in order to breathe in the night air.
