John Locke - Wish List

I turn to look at my wife. If the grave is for me, I’ll never see her again, and she’ll never know what happened to me. I wonder if I should leave a note of some kind. Then decide that’s a terrible idea. If they can grant impossible wishes they can certainly destroy Lissie’s life. I wonder if they’ll let her keep the money after I’m dead. It seems the decent thing to do, if they’re going to kill me. I wonder how long it will take her to find it.

I can’t leave her a note saying there’s money hidden in the garage. Knowing Lissie, she’d report it to the cops. I don’t know what to do about the money right now, so I decide to do nothing, except hope they won’t kill me.

I’m still standing there, looking out the window, thinking I should bring another set of clothes and sneakers, so I can change afterward. It wouldn’t be smart to drag dirt from the crime scene back into the house in the event something goes wrong.

Jesus, listen to me: crime scene!

I’m in way over my head.

It’s dark outside, but there’s a streetlight on the corner that offers enough light for me to make out the forms of two people dressed in black, emerging from Bill and Norma’s back yard. I watch them cross the street and walk down my driveway. The river of ice in my veins makes it hard for me to move, but I force my way out of the bedroom and close the door carefully, praying Lissie sleeps peacefully until my return. I get down the stairs as quietly as possible, and enter the garage, making sure to lock the door that leads from the garage to the house before acknowledging the two men who have just entered my garage.

The first one to get his mask off is Rudy. But you could have knocked me over with a feather when I see who the other guy is.

Chapter 23

“What the hell?”

The guy standing beside Rudy is Richie, my best friend in the world, with the possible exception of Mike. Richie’s usually pretty lively, but tonight he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“What’s going on here?” I ask.

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.