Rating: T (Teen) for violence and some language.
Summary: Don Lamb doesn't mind a little trouble in Neptune now and then. But one thing really bugs him: child abuse. Why? A look into Lamb's past. Spoilers: 2.07 ("Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner") and 3.14 ("Mars, Bars").
Author's Note: I do not have a beta, so all mistakes made in this story are mine. Also, the characters Frank, Miriam, and the unnamed deputy are mine. Reviews are always appreciated.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this fanfiction belong to Rob Thomas and his creative team at the CW/UPN. The story is my own creative work and my intention is to pay homage to the universe they created, not to profit from it. Frank, Miriam, and the unnamed deputy are of my creation, and cannot be used in any story without my consent. I also do not own, or am affiliated in any way with, Superman or NASCAR. Some direct dialogue was taken from episodes 2.07 ("Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner") and 3.14 ("Mars, Bars").
"Good evening. We're sorry to interrupt your dinner, but we've received an anonymous call, telling us that there has been, er, trouble at this residence."
"Excuse me? Trouble? Miriam, has someone broken into the house while I've been gone?"
"No honey. Honestly, officer, we have no idea what you're talking about. The caller must have been mistaken."
"Huh…Well, we will still investigate the house. We always act on our tips." The officer pushed past Frank Lamb and entered the house.
Frank looked harshly at Miriam, but did not object to the officer's inspection of the family room.
"Hey little fella. What are you doing there?" the officer asked a young boy in overalls and a sweatshirt.
The boy looked confused at why there was a stranger there, but answered, "I'm looking at a comic book."
"Superman, huh. What do you like about him?"
"He's strong and everyone trusts him and believes in him."
"Yeah. He is pretty trustworthy. He always saves the day; every person who needs help gets it." The officer looked closely at the boy's face, studying it, and then turned back to Frank and Miriam. "Inspection is over, I believe. Once again, I'm sorry for interrupting." With that, the officer walked swiftly back through the door, the radio in his car transmitting other deputies' voices reporting crime scenes.
"What was he doing here, Miriam? Who anonymously called? If it was you, I swear, I'll—"
"Frank, stop it! I didn't call. No one I know would have called. I honestly don't know…" she broke down in tears and slowly lowered herself into a hunch on the floor. "I don't know…"
Frank looked over at the young boy, still on the couch reading the comic book. He sighed, shook his head, and then slowly trudged up the stairs, having forgotten the dinner still on the dining room table.
"What did you say to me, boy???" Frank's voice was screeching. "I SAID WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME???"
"I said that your friends ARE a bunch of lazy drunks who watch NASCAR all day," he retorted indignantly.
The man trembled a bit, but not of fear. In one quick motion, he flung his arm at the left of the eleven-year-old boy's face, knocking him over onto the floor. "Don't you dare speak to me like that. You're lucky to have me." The boy looked up at him with utter disgust, and spit a mixture of blood and saliva onto his shoes, making his father turn the color purple. Frank kicked the boy's chest, and held him flat on the ground with his shoe. "I mean it. Not one word from you. You need to grow up and be respectful. Being ungrateful doesn't make you a man, it makes you a coward."
With that, he strode out of the room, leaving the boy to lay there in silence. The boy wanted to cry, but he stopped himself. He was going to be a man; and a strong one, too. Just not the kind of man his father was.
"Oh, honey," his mother said when she passed by the room and did a double take. "What did you say to him this time? You know he gets mad if you're disrespectful. You know the way it is, you're just asking for it…"
The boy looked up at Miriam and looked at her really hard. He didn't understand, and he knew he never would. He looked back down at the ground, and the woman patted his shoulder.
"Why don't you come with me into the kitchen?" She led him out of the room with a hand on his back. She started pulling out various items from drawers, and the boy smiled.
"What kind are you making?"
"Garlic. You like that don't you?"
"Sure do, Mom." He smiled, sat up on a stool, and watched his mother at work, smelling the familiar mixture of his blood and bread.
A knock came at the door while they were watching a movie. It had been particularly bad for the fifteen-year-old boy that day because he had forgotten to tell his father that he was staying after school for wrestling tryouts, and came home three hours late. The knocking persisted, and Miriam got up and opened the door to find a deputy glaring at her. "Ma'am, we have received an anonymous call that your son there has been having trouble at home. If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to you and your husband alone and have an inspection of your son's room." He walked upstairs, checking over his shoulder seeing that Frank and Miriam were following behind, reluctantly.
When they entered the boy's bedroom, the deputy shut the door. "We have been tipped off that child abuse has taken place in this household. This is a serious crime, and if said tip is true, then we intend to prosecute to the full extent of the law."
"Honestly, Deputy. No trouble has taken place here. We are not child abusers. We have a healthy, happy son."
Miriam nodded in agreement with her husband, but there was a strained look on her face. The deputy glanced at her, and understood immediately.
"All tips are looked into, and I would like to inspect this bedroom." He turned away without receiving acknowledgement from the couple. Looking in a clothes hamper, he found a light green shirt with blood stains on it. "Would you care to explain this? These stains are rather large."
"We do NOT abuse our son! He cut his finger while chopping up an apple, and used his shirt to stop the bleeding. It happened a few hours earlier, right Marion?"
Miriam nodded, but her eyes were downcast.
The deputy noted where her eyes were focused: on a rug. He glanced at Frank, and then bent down and lifted up the rug to reveal another massive blood stain. "Your son doesn't cut apples in his own bedroom, under the rug, does he?"
Anger gleamed in Frank's eye, but he kept quiet.
"This has become an official investigation. If the clues lead to where I think they will, you two will go to court. Social services will find a new home for your son. Don't even think about leaving town, for your household is now on our radar. Sheriff's department will question your entire family, and close relatives and friends. You two are now the prime and only suspects for the abuse of your son. Good night, sir."
Frank had pushed past his limit, and he exploded in rage: "You can't do that. I'm the victim here! You have no right to just come into my house and start poking around."
The deputy gave a final response: "Oh I can. You know what bugs me? Child abuse bugs me." With that, he turned on his heel and walked down the stairs, past the boy, and out of the house.
The boy stared after him, hoping for this miracle to work. He had heard everything his father had yelled at the deputy, and he sure as hell wouldn't forget it.
"I want them prosecuted to the full extent of the law. I'm not sure if they got anything or not, but even if they…What are you doing? You can't do that"
The sheriff looked at him harshly, but continued with brushing the clothes aside. "I'm the victim here! You have no right to just come into my house and start poking around," the indignant father continued. The sheriff looked into the hidden room, and then walked up to him.
"It's funny," he said, obviously not amused and dead serious. "I heard my father give that exact speech once." He glared at the man, and walked back to the patrol car.
Later that evening, he stayed parked in the shadows, watching the household, knowing he could finally put a stop to it, just like a deputy put a stop to his.
He could feel the crack in his head and the blood trickling out, but he could barely hear the gunshot. He had hoped Sacks would find him. He stared up at the ceiling, but he saw his mother above him instead, and felt her caress his cheek. He did not know Keith was right next to him, checking him for vital signs, and he did not hear him order Sacks to call an ambulance. All he saw was his mother, but he smelt something. The familiar smell that always came with his bloodshed. "I smell bread," Don Lamb haltingly spoke, and he closed his eyes, knowing that for once and for all, he would never smell bread again.