Chapter Seventeen

Bo had gone to bed earlier than he usually did, planning on an early day in the morning. So he’d been sound asleep when the sound of his ringing cell phone woke him. He grabbed it from beside his bed, unplugged it, and looked at the screen. What he saw brought him fully awake and set his heart pounding. The call was from Ron Brady.

“Joe’s missing!” Ron practically shouted into the phone when Bo picked up.

“What do you mean?” Bo asked as he quickly began to dress.

“He’s gone. He wouldn’t stay at my house, but then he called and said he’d changed his mind,” Ron said. He went on to explain how they’d tried calling him but got no answer. “Joe’s overnight bag is in his truck, but we don’t know where Joe is. We checked the house, but he’s not in there.”

“Are you at your place or at Joe’s right now?”

“Joe’s. I’m parked right behind his truck.”

“Okay. Stay put and keep your eyes peeled. Where are Melia and Nattie?”

“They’re with me,” Ron responded.

“Okay. That’s good. I’m on my way.”

When Bo arrived at Joe’s house, Ron and the girls piled out of his truck. “Hey, guys,” Bo said in greeting. “I need to look around. How did you guys get inside the house?”

“The back door,” Ron said.

“Okay, I’m going to have a look around outside, and then I’ll go in,” Bo said.

“We’ll follow you,” Melia said.

“No, it might be best if you waited in the truck,” Bo countered. “I need to try to find some evidence.”

“Like what?” Melia asked.

“I don’t know right now, but I’ll know it if I see it.” He tried to grin at her but fell short.

He waited until they were all back in Ron’s truck and then, with a very bright flashlight, slowly approached Joe’s old pickup. He checked out the passenger side first. Joe’s duffle bag was on the seat like Ron had told him. The little bit of snow from the previous night had pretty much melted, but he looked for tracks around the truck anyway. He found nothing obvious. He slowly circled around the front to the driver’s side. What he saw there made his heart jump. He bent down and looked closer.

Blood! There was no question about it. It looked like it had pooled there. He took some pictures with his cell phone, and then, with gloved hands, he opened the door. There was no blood inside the truck. He stepped back and called for backup to help him process the scene.

When he rejoined Ron and the girls at Ron’s truck, Ron rolled the window down. “What did you see on the ground there and in the truck?”

“We’ll talk about it later. I have my partner coming to give me a hand here. I need to make sure I find and record everything that matters,” Bo said as calmly as he could, although inside his gut was churning.

“Bo, please tell us what you saw,” Melia said. Before he could respond, she continued, “Is it blood?”

Bo hesitated briefly, thinking that would upset them more, but then he realized they were already worried sick. They knew that what he found probably wouldn’t make it any worse for them or not much worse at least. “It could be blood, but I hope not.”

“It is blood,” Melia said. “I know it is. How much is there?”

“Not a lot. Let’s hope Joe’s not hurt badly,” he said. Then he addressed Nattie. “Tell me again what Lucas drives.”

“It’s a Nissan pickup,” she said.

“Color?” he asked.

“Black. It has some scratches on it and some dents.”

“Any other body damage?” Bo asked.

She was shaking—more with fear, Bo thought, than from the cold air coming in through Ron’s open window.

“I’m trying to think,” Nattie said, her voice breaking. “I’m pretty sure one of the taillights is broken.”

“Which side of the truck?”

Nattie thought for a minute. “I think it’s the left. Do you think he took Joe?”

“I have to consider it,” Bo said. “You told me that you think he killed Emil, and if so, he might want to harm Joe in some way.” He was thoughtful for a moment and then he added, “Whoever killed Emil wants Joe to go to prison for it.”

“That would be something I can see Lucas doing,” she said bitterly while rubbing her eyes.

“This is going to take us some time,” Bo said. “Why don’t you guys go back to the farm and stay inside with the doors locked. I’ll come talk to you when Jim and I are finished here.”

After arriving at the farmhouse, the three of them went inside. “Why don’t you girls go to bed and I’ll stay here in the recliner,” Ron suggested. “I don’t think we’re in any danger now, but I’d like to stay where I can see the door. I can wake you when Bo comes.”

“Nattie, I think I’ll just lie on the sofa. You go to bed,” Melia said.

“I want to stay with you guys. There are two recliners. I’ll sit in the other one if that’s okay,” Nattie said.

Ron looked back and forth between the girls with concern. He forced a smile that he didn’t feel. “That will be fine,” he said as he sank into his recliner and set his pistol on the table next to it. “I’ll honestly feel better knowing you two are close. But first, I think we need to have a prayer together. Do you mind if we do that, Nattie?”

“I’d like that,” she said. “Joe needs God’s help. So do we.”

After their prayer and when all three were settled, Ron tried to relax, but his mind was going a mile a minute. He had grown to love Joe as if he were his own son. Yes, the boy had made mistakes, but he was essentially a fine young man. And he was intent on overcoming his faults, just like Ron was intent on overcoming his own. No one is perfect, he thought. We could all do better.

Tears wet his eyes as he thought of Joe. If he was alive, and deep down Ron could only hope that he was, Ron wanted him to come back. He needed him, not only because of the farm work that he could no longer do himself but simply because he and his granddaughter both liked having the young fellow around. He was good company for Melia, whose life had been hard with all the problems her mother had had, and those hardships had gotten worse after her mother’s suicide. She seemed happy here with Ron and Joe. He knew she would be shattered if Joe did not return to them.

He rubbed the moisture from his eyes and closed them. He wished his heart were stronger. He’d like to be out there helping the police look for Joe, but he knew that was not possible. In fact, he’d overdone it already. He needed rest and plenty of it. He hoped he could go to sleep but knew it would take him a while. He shuddered. What was Joe going through? Was he strong enough to make it through whatever was happening to him? Ron could only pray that Joe was alive and enduring whatever he had to endure.

Joe had no idea where he was. He’d been unconscious for who knew how long. He was tightly bound, blindfolded, and lying on something hard and cold. He couldn’t see anything, and the blindfold was so tight it hurt his eyes. He ached all over, especially on the side of his head, and his face hurt from where his attacker had hit him, causing his nose to bleed. Who was this guy? Why was he so intent on causing Joe so much misery? Oh, how he wished he had never been as foolish as to get caught up in using marijuana. If he died, that would be the root cause of his death. It would have been his own fault.

Frankly, he feared that this person did not intend to let him live. That dark thought made him think of Ron and Melia. They cared about him. His disappearing like this would cause them a great deal of anguish. He even feared for Ron’s life. How much stress could his weak heart take? If Ron died, what would happen to Melia?

He squirmed uncomfortably and tugged at the rope that held his hands behind his back. He tried to kick despite the ropes that held his feet bound. When he tried to get his feet beneath him, he couldn’t do it despite not being tied to anything. For a moment, he would get partway up and then tumble back down, causing pain to jolt through his entire body.

He struggled in vain against his restraints. They were tied tightly, and he was beginning to feel his hands and feet go numb. How long could he endure the pain? He didn’t even know how long he’d been here, wherever here was, or how long it had been since he’d been attacked while getting in his truck to go to Ron’s.

He finally quit struggling and tried to think back to what he last remembered, to assemble the details in his mind the best he could. He’d driven home from Ron’s. He remembered that, and he regretted not staying as Ron and Melia had asked him to. He’d thought he was tough and that he’d be okay. How stupid was that?

Instead of continuing to heap incriminations on himself, he put his mind to work on what had happened to him. He’d pulled into the driveway by his house. He remembered doing that. He also recalled going to his house and putting his guns away. Then he recalled his change of mind about staying by himself and how he’d packed a few things in his bag. All those things were clear in his mind . . . he continued to think.

After reviewing what he could remember, he wondered if that man was intent on him being accused again of Emil’s death. He didn’t know why he thought that, but after all that had happened with the notes, the assault in the jail, and so on, he had to think it was a possibility.

He felt very tired, but despite that, he still struggled against his bonds. It did him no good. After a few minutes, he quit and faded away again.

Bo was fairly certain that nothing inside Joe’s house had been disturbed. “He was met with violence right here at his truck when he was ready to go to the farm,” he told his partner, Deputy Jim Grizzel, who had arrived at Joe’s place only a couple of minutes earlier.

“Look at this, Jim. There are spots of blood on the ground but none in the truck. What worries me is that some of the spots have been smeared. Was Joe knocked out somehow right outside his truck and then was he pulled through the bloody spots?”

The two officers studied the ground as other officers stood back and observed. “He was dragged this way,” Bo said.

“The guy’s car must have been somewhere where Joe hadn’t been likely to see it,” Jim reasoned. “Then he dragged Joe behind his truck. The kidnapper must have left him here on the ground while he got his car from wherever he parked it and brought it here. Then Joe was put in the guy’s car and driven away,” Jim concluded.

“The bottom line is Joe could be anywhere by now,” Bo said bleakly.

“Either badly hurt or even dead,” Jim said.

“Either is possible, I’m afraid,” Bo responded. “I don’t even know where to start looking for him. I guess since nothing else comes to mind, perhaps we should return to the homes of the suspects we’ve identified, not that I expect that will help us much.”

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Jim agreed. “Should we start at Soto’s house or Bayle’s?”

“Whichever is closest. I don’t think we can do much more here. I’ll have a couple of the uniformed officers wait for the wrecker to pick up Joe’s truck. I’m having it taken in so we can go over it with a fine-tooth comb,” Bo explained. Then he remembered promising Ron and the girls that he’d come see them when he finished at the house. It was the middle of the night, but a promise was a promise. “We need to stop by Ron Brady’s place first, Jim.”

“And what do we tell them?” Jim asked.

“The truth, I guess. It doesn’t look good for Joe,” Bo said, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of a gloved hand.

A sound awoke Joe. It could have been a door opening. A cold breeze chilled his already freezing body. Then a door slammed, the cold breeze stopped, and footsteps approached. Was this going to be the end? The footsteps stopped, and the toe of a boot poked at his side. The same gruff voice he recalled when he’d been hit in the face said, “Wake up, you idiot. There’s something you need to do.”

What could that possibly be? In his current condition and state of bondage, there was not anything he could do. Joe said nothing for he had nothing to say. “Sit up,” the voice commanded, accompanied by another not-so-gentle prod in his ribs.

He squirmed, but there was no way he could sit up, bound as he was.

“You can’t do anything right, can you?” his tormenter said.

Joe finally managed to speak. “What did I ever do to you?” he asked, having a hard time getting the words out.

“You were born!” his tormenter growled. Then his growl turned to a low laugh, an evil sound if Joe had ever heard one. “And you just happened to be handy when I needed someone to put the blame on for Emil’s untimely death.”

“Why did you kill him?” Joe asked.

“You should just as well get it through your head right now, stupid. You killed him, and you are going to admit it.”

“You know I didn’t,” Joe said.

The boot connected again, but this time, it wasn’t a prod. Joe was kicked hard, and he felt some ribs crack. He cried out in pain.

“Shut up, you pansy! And sit up like I told you to.”

“I . . . c-can’t,” Joe whimpered, ashamed that he wasn’t able to speak boldly.

“Then I guess I’ll have to sit you up,” Emil’s killer, and now Joe’s mortal enemy, said. The man reached down, grabbed Joe by his bound arms, and lifted him clear off the floor. Then he kicked his feet forward and sat him back on the floor. The pain in his arms and shoulders was excruciating, and despite his best efforts not to, Joe screamed again.

“Shut up!” he was told by the angry voice. If only he wasn’t blindfolded . . . Once again a boot connected—this time with his back—and it sent him sprawling on the floor. “I didn’t say you could lie down again. Now I’ll have to just lift you once more.” He did, and it wasn’t gently. The pain was almost more than Joe could stand, but somehow he managed to shut his scream off before it left his mouth.

He fought to stay conscious. His tormentor pulled him across the floor and propped him against a wall. Joe started to slip to one side only to get slapped soundly on his face. He fought back a whimper and put all his energy, what little was left, in avoiding toppling over.

Some time passed, and he began to feel marginally better. He was aware of the man standing next to him saying nothing for several more minutes. Finally, he spoke again. “I need you to write something, Joe.”

Joe didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say.

The man spoke again. “I have a pen and some paper. I am going to hand them to you, and you will write what I tell you to.”

“I can’t use my hands, and I can’t see,” Joe said, his whole body shuddering with the effort of speaking.

“I’ll loosen your hands long enough for you to write the note. And I’ll take off the blindfold. Don’t even attempt to look at me, Joe, or I’ll do more than bash you with my pistol; I’ll shoot you in the leg.”

“But I didn’t do it,” Joe protested again.

“Yes, you did, and your confession will clinch it.”

“If I sign it, then what happens to me?” Joe asked, fearing the answer.

His abductor laughed. “That remains to be seen. But one thing is for sure; I’ll be in the clear, and that’s all that matters.”