Richie turns away, and Rudy motions me to be quiet. "Buddy, you're driving. Richie, shotgun. I'm in the back. Let's go."
I fire up the car and ease out my driveway before switching on the headlights. As Rudy directs me where to go, I try to make eye contact with Richie. But he's looking out the passenger window.
"Where are you taking us?" I ask.
"Shut up."
We take I-71 toward Cincinnati about thirty miles and get off at Exit 31. We bypass the small town of Talmadge, and work our way deep into the countryside. After passing a dozen nondescript dirt roads, Rudy says, "Turn left at the next one."
"Are you planning to kill us?" I say.
"Yes."
"What?"
"If you keep talking, I will. Jesus, do you ever shut up?"
I turn where he said to, and we're in the middle of a hay field that's taller than our car. The road is nothing more than two tire tracks heading God knows where.
Throughout the trip, Richie has said nothing, hasn't even looked in my direction. A chilling thought strikes me.
I push his arm to get his attention. "Richie, are you in this with Rudy?"
Rudy's fist crashes into the back of my head, causing me to jerk the car off the road, into the hay field. The tires are spinning, fighting for traction.
Rudy says, "I told you to shut up, asshole. Now get back on the road, or I'll make the next punch hurt."
Was he kidding me? The first punch hurt like hell! I wouldn't be able to handle a harder one. My eyes are crossed so badly I can barely get back on the tire tracks. Once there, I keep drifting to the right. Each time I do, Rudy cuffs the side of my head to get me back on course.
He guides me to a thick stand of bushes and trees and tells me to put the car in park and surrender the keys. I do, and he pops the trunk and tells us to get out. Now Rudy's holding a flashlight, which he uses to motion us behind the car. Once there, he comes up behind us and points the flashlight into the trunk, and we see a thick, black plastic bag with a thick seam of sealing tape around the center. He's put one bag over the torso, the other over the feet, and taped them together in the middle.
"You want to open it to make sure it's him?"
"No, I'm good."
Rudy chuckles. "All right, one of you on each end. Lift him out and let's go."
Richie and I can barely budge Oglethorpe. Employing a series of grunts and tugs and whatever leverage is available, we manage to get him to the edge of the trunk, where we pull so hard he crashes to the ground. It's frosty cold outside, and I think how hard the ground must be, and seriously doubt Richie and I will have the strength to dig a proper grave if we ever get the body where it's supposed to go.
Rudy surprises me by cutting an opening at one end of the bag and exposing Oglethorpe's feet. He shows his experience, saying, "There's rope in the trunk. Tie his ankles together and drag him."
We tie his feet together and I ask, "Where to?"
"You lead, I'll walk behind you."
"How will we know where to go?"
He aims the flashlight toward a small break in the bushes. "Follow the bouncing ball."
Richie and I begin the task of pulling Mr. Oglethorpe through the bushes. This turns out to be much easier than I anticipated, and within minutes Rudy says, "Okay, that's far enough."
Chapter 24
I can see from the light Rudy's flashlight gives off that we've entered a small clearing. Rudy is moving around in it, looking for something. Suddenly a wide beam of light flashes, and I realize he's turned on an electric lantern. There are three others next to it. He turns them on, and carries them far enough to illuminate a twenty foot square that includes a large tree. Next to the tree is a mound of dirt with two shovels propped against it, and next to that is a deep hole, the size of a grave.
"Okay guys," Rudy says. "It's show time."
We see his flashlight on our faces and realize he's aiming a video camera at us. I shout, "We're doing this against our will!"
Rudy laughs and says, "Yell all you want. There's no sound, dipshit. Now remove the plastic and let me get a close up of his face."
We do as we're told, and yes, it's definitely Oglethorpe.
"All right, now drag him to the edge of the grave, then take the rope off his feet and give it to me."
We do what he says. Then he nods at the hole in the ground.
"Dump him in and fill it with dirt."
Even though the hard work has been done for us, it takes longer than I'd have thought to fill a six-foot grave with dirt. By the time we're finished, we're huffing so hard we can barely catch our breath. We look up and see the video camera still recording, only now it's on a tripod. Rudy can't hold it because he's got two sets of handcuffs in one hand and a gun in the other. And he's pointing the gun at us.
"That's good enough," he says. "Now put the shovels down and come over here."
Richie and I exchange a glance, then do as we're told. Rudy says, "Lie face down. Put your hands behind your backs."
When we're in position, he handcuffs us and tells us to stand.
Richie and I are not athletic. He might be less athletic than me, but it's a moot point because neither of us can get to our feet. Here we are, rolling, grunting and flopping around, making no headway at all.
"Can you believe this shit?" Rudy says.
"Where did you find these guys?"
Richie and I freeze where we are, startled to hear a second voice. Suddenly someone hoists Richie to his feet and there are more lights being placed around the tree. I angle myself to where I can see a young man and woman standing to the left of the tree with another gangster. The woman is sobbing quietly. Rudy is standing to the right of the tree, and there's a goon behind Richie, the one that pulled him to his feet. My eyes go back to Rudy, remembering the rope we tossed him a few minutes earlier. He's made a hangman's noose from it and looped it over the low-slung branch of the tree.
Richie is visibly shaken. Not by the noose, but by the couple standing before him. He screams, "What are you doing? This was never discussed! This was never part of the deal!" The goon behind him stuffs a ball in Richie's mouth and wraps tape around his head to hold it in place. Richie is still screaming, but his words are muffled and garbled. The gangster pushes Richie several feet forward, directly in front of the couple. The goon standing with the couple says, "This is him."
Richie screams something and shakes his head from side to side as if shouting "No!" His eyes are wide with terror.
The young man's face is twisted with rage. He says, "Are you absolutely certain?"
"One hundred percent."
The young man looks at me and says, "Who's he?"
Rudy says, "He's not involved. But this one, Richie, he's your guy."
The young man stares at Richie. "Do you have proof?"
Rudy walks over to the couple and hands them an envelope. "I found these in his desk drawer."
Richie screams and shakes his head again.
The young man and woman open the envelope and look at the photographs. I have no idea what they're seeing, but as the photos fall to the ground, the man lunges at Richie, who lets out a yelp and tries to run away. But Goon Number Two, the one behind Richie, grabs him and holds him while the young man punches his face again and again. I have no idea what's going on, and I'm still on the ground, but I try to work my way over to them. Goon Number One, standing next to the woman, points a gun at me and tells me to stay put.
When Richie's body goes slack, the young man finally stops hitting him. Then he falls to his knees and sobs. The woman puts her hand on his shoulder. Ten second later, Richie starts coming to. The young woman walks up to him, slaps him hard, and spits in his face. Then Goon Two walks Richie over to the noose and slips it around his neck. Richie's face is so full of blood it's hard to make out his facial features. Rudy tightens the rope to the point that Richie is standing on tiptoes to keep from being strangled. At this moment, God help me, an old joke goes through my depraved mind, and I hear my internal voice ask if maybe one of Richie's wishes was to be well hung.