A/N: just on a side note, you folks have NO idea how much old Christmas music I listened to while finishing this tale. Let's just say iTunes made a lot of money off me this Christmas and I've got "Sleigh Ride" permanently embedded in my brain...but I did get a lot of great choral music & old 50s/60s Christmas music in return!

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Hearing those shrieks, the wonderful, awesome, killer sounds of scaredy-cat cheerleaders fleeing down the stairs, Joe had doubled over, laughing so hard he couldn't stand —

— then a hand had clapped a wet cloth over his mouth and nose. Joe gasped in shock and sudden terror, the sick-sweet stink burning his lungs with icy-cold as his hands and feet went numb. He kicked, twisted, and squirmed as he opened his mouth to yell and bite, but only inhaled more of the stinky sweet smell, and the man had him in too tight a grip. Something struck Joe's stomach — he gasped in again, and then everything faded out…

Joe came to in darkness, his stomach rolling, his chest heavy, cold, and sore. He was slung over something that jounced hard into his stomach over and over, his head hanging down. He pushed weakly against the person's back, trying to struggle upright, only for whoever-it-was to stop and shift into a braced lean, hauling Joe around and shoving him against rough bricks so hard that Joe's head cracked back. Joe yelped — but it only came out as a pathetic, weak gasp.

"Shut up," someone growled. The large, rough hands shook Joe hard, then one of those hands grabbed Joe by the throat, right under his chin and pulled him close. "Shut up or I'll drop you. You don't wanna get dropped." The man stank of Old Spice and his breath of cheap beer, but this close, Joe could see enough…

Randall Jones, Kris's father.

They were in a cramped, narrow shaft: barely wide enough for the big man to get through, brick on one side, thick wood beams and planks on the other, black metal spikes set in the brick. Joe's eyes had adjusted just enough to see faint light far, far down. Far enough to break bones if he hit, definitely — dizzy, sick, Joe clamped his mouth shut and swallowed hard, as a surge of nausea rolled up.

If you get grabbed, your only goal is to get away. Don't be quiet, yell and scream and run. Dad had drilled that into Joe's and Frank's heads. Joe swallowed again — better broken bones than whatever this man wanted. Someone had to hear, someone would! Joe sucked in a breath, opened his mouth, got out the start of a karate yell —

The man clapped that stinking wet cloth over Joe's mouth and nose again and mashed hard against Joe's face. Joe twisted, gagging, and tried to bite, only to be slammed back against the bricks again; his head cracked hard and he gasped in the sweet stink…and fell back into numb, cold blackness.

Slowly Joe woke again, groggy and sick, his chest feeling like it was full of ice cubes, his head aching. He lay on squishy, lumpy vinyl that crackled as he shifted — a beanbag. His wrists and legs were bound with duct-tape so tight that his hands and feet hurt, and just as Joe blinked up, a wad of cloth was shoved in his mouth and more duct tape sealed his mouth shut.

His head felt thick, foggy; Joe squinted, trying to clear his vision. A cramped, dimly-lit, wedge-shaped space — then a giant dark shape blocked the light, loomed over him, and crouched down.

Randall hit him, a sharp blow across Joe's face. "I warned you."

Joe choked against the gag. Then the giant hand gripped Joe's chin, forced his head to turn to one side, then the other.

"So they're trying to gyp me again," Randall growled, and the stench of beer on his breath nearly made Joe vomit. "Thought ol' Randy wouldn't catch on. Do what they want and don't complain, do all the work and do they even thank ol' Randy? No, not me. Me and that little harlot. She'll be good. You and her. They thought I wouldn't know 'bout you. Thought ol' Randy too stupid to see it." The man let go, and Joe fell back into the beanbag. "I'll show 'em. Ol' Randy'll show 'em."

Joe swallowed hard, again and again, trying not to retch and gag at the smell. His eyes had adjusted more, enough to see a few more details: the candle burning next to a transistor radio, both on a small, rickety table, along with a metal lockbox with a dented and wrenched-open lid. Several Bibles were stacked in a clumsy pile next to two more beanbags squished together and covered with a green polyester blanket. The floor was unfinished concrete; two of the walls were old rough stone with brick at the top, with the remaining wall of plywood plank framing, the spaces lined in brown paper that bulged and pink fiberglass insulation poking through the rips.

Above him, Joe could see metal spikes in the bricks, leading up a dark narrow shaft.

They had to be in the bookstore. They had to be. There couldn't be any way this man could've gotten out of the bookstore without someone seeing him, not with Charlie watching the ground floor…unless…unless…Randall had taken Charlie out…

No. No. Joe had heard Charlie bellowing at the cheerleaders. Joe sniffled, tasted blood in his mouth; his nose felt like it was trickling. His heart raced, pounding so loud in his ears that he couldn't hear anything else; the whole room swam around him. Think. He had to think. He had to get out of here, somehow.

Suddenly Randall grabbed him up, knocked Joe back against the bricks and stone; Joe choked back his scream. "Thinking you can put one over on ol' Randy? You and my whore daughter. I know what you've been doing with her. You and her. Both of you. You stink of it."

Joe wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to curl into a ball and wish all this was gone, to huddle under the blankets and hide. It wouldn't do any good. This man was a bully, a drunk, mean bully, and you never let the bullies know they'd gotten to you, ever. Clenching his jaw, Joe stared back into the man's eyes. He had to be Butch Cassidy staring down the gunmen, Michael Caine getting into his dogfighter…

"Look at you," the man sneered. "Think you're so brave. Your big cop daddy taught you that, I bet. Don't let 'em get to you. Oh, yeah, I know that one. Here's what you get for it…" His hand cracked across Joe's face again, then he dropped Joe back into the beanbag and kicked into Joe's stomach before Joe could draw his knees up to protect himself.

Choking in the gag, Joe retched, fighting to breathe; his chest felt tight. He was cold, and it all hurt, it hurt too much, he couldn't see, couldn't think…

Randall stumbled over to the rickety table, fumbled something out, then came back, fell to his knees beside Joe. Randall held something in his hands, and despite the pain, the burning in his chest, the nausea, Joe saw it: long, thin, silvery-glinting in the candlelight.

A hypodermic.

"Both of you," Randall said, grinning. "You and her. Get my little whore back and stick both of you. You'll do it and they'll never know who. They'll never know what hit 'em. They'll beg ol' Randy to come back then."

Shivering, sick, struggling not to cry, Joe didn't care. He wanted to go home. He wanted Frank, Dad, anybody.

Randall stumbled back to his feet, dropped the needle back on the table, then grabbed one of the Bibles from the stack, fumbled through it and laid it down by Joe's head, open to Revelations. Then Randall reached out a grimy hand, patted Joe's face. "Just lie there and be good. I'll be back."