“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.