The Hardy Boys characters were created by the Stratmeyer Syndicate and are currently owned by Simon&Schuster. This fic contains spoilers for the Hardy Boys Casefiles series, specfically books #1 Dead on Target and #80 Dead of Night.
Perceptions
The trees that gave Elm Street its name had already turned and dropped their leaves. The temperature was mild, allowing Fenton to crank down the window and enjoy the cool breeze. The recent rain had left a musty smell in the air, the smell of decay. Once, fall had given Bayport a quaint air, but now the bare trees and blowing, rotting leaves just emphasized the sad, slow deterioration of the town. What had once seemed like the ideal place to raise two children now seemed cold and barren to Fenton's eye.
Perhaps it was just Fenton's mood that was coloring the landscape in such dreary tones. Just as Bayport had grown and hardened, so had his two boys. No, not boys. Young men.
Laura had called. His wife had sounded tired, resigned in a way that no mere cold could cause. Although she hadn't said it, he knew there had been trouble at home.
A father should be running home to punish his teenage sons for throwing a rowdy party, or totaling the family car. He shouldn't be wondering if they had gone off running to parts unknown to help some poor soul. He shouldn't be terrified that it was their last case catching up with them.
Fenton steered his boxy black Crown Victoria past Phillips Park on the corner of Lane Street. In his mind, he could still clearly see his eldest tugging at the handle of a wagon, nearly as long as he was tall. His brother, long locks of blond hair fluttering in the wind, laughed and cheered as the wagon began slowly moving forward, oblivious to his father's discreetly placed foot pushing the wagon's rear as they walked the two blocks home.
He drove past the Victorian house that had housed his family for so many years. The old oak tree at the end of the drive that had once hosted the old tire swing that the boys had wheeled and connived him into hanging had fallen in the fierce storm that had hammered Bayport no more than two years ago, taking the memories of childhood laughter with it. The boys' black van sat in the driveway. Another foreboding reminder of how they had grown. He didn't stop.
The quiet neighborhood quickly slipped by, giving way to the narrow brick streets of the downtown district, what had once been Bayport's commercial hub. Fenton steered the large car carefully through the streets, eyes scanning the rusting cars that lined the street. Once, he thought he saw a silhouette in a driver's seat, a baseball cap pulled low, hand under a bag sitting on the dashboard. Fenton's left knuckles turned white as he gripped the top of the steering wheel, his right hand inching under his jacket, but no, a second glance in his mirror illuminated a harried young woman, grabbing for her purse as she hurriedly tried to pry a toddler from the comfort of his car seat. Years of suspicion had taught Fenton too many bad habits, but those habits had kept him alive. Habits that he had taught his sons from an early age, may he be forever damned. But they were alive.
With a high-pitched squeak and the chatter of a gear change, Fenton maneuvered the Crown Vic into a parking spot along side the back of an aging brick building. Gulls cried as they fought over the remains of someone's carelessly discarded lunch and newspapers fluttered and rolled past the car as he climbed out. He reached in back for his briefcase and the tattered coat. As he tugged it on, his wedding ring caught on the loose button on the right sleeve, causing a faint smile to grace Fenton's handsome but weathered features. The coat had been a present from Laura the day after he had told her he planned to hand in his badge and strike out on his own, his young family in tow. After all, every good private detective had his own trench coat and fedora.
Ernie's Diner completed the ensemble. A little bell chimed as Fenton opened the battered screen door to the rear of the restaurant. Behind the counter, Ruth looked up and gave Fenton a frown. The fading sunlight hid the wrinkles surrounding her tired, mascara-laden eyes, momentarily reminding him of the younger, perkier woman who had once ran the busy little counter, trading barbs with the jovial Ernie. She placed a cup of black coffee and the local newspaper in front of Fenton before he had even sat down, and then disappeared into the back. She knew why he was here, had never objected, just given him his usual with a smile and bit of friendly gossip. She still did; the coffee and the Bayport Times the same as they ever were, but the friendly chatter had disappeared with her husband. He took a sip of the coffee and winced as the searing, bitter liquid hit the back of his throat.
The other patrons, what few there were, glanced at him but their eyes held no interest and continued on to more important things. The human mind was a funny thing. It refused to believe the shy, slim young girl that had grown up down the block could help plan a bank robbery and yearn for her father's death or that the rosy-cheeked, freckled young man that helped carry the groceries could claim the lives of three innocent women. Or that two fresh-faced, teenage boys could possibly be a threat to a world-wide terrorist organization. The only thing that to the human mind was what a person saw and which neatly labeled drawer that person filed that information. The man in the suit who chomped cigars was successful. The elderly woman in the purple scarf was weak and defenseless. The dark skinned youth didn't belong in the neighborhood. It didn't matter that the suit covered the crimson splatter of blood, the woman practiced karate every morning for an hour, and the young man delivered groceries to pay his way through college. It just mattered what people believed.
Fenton, during his years on the New York Police Force, had learned to see beyond the perceptions in to the truth that lay beneath. His years as a private detective had taught him to use those perceptions to his advantage. The detective in his trench coat and fedora in the dusty greasy spoon was a known quantity. His clients came prepared to pay a fee for his service for a case that was surely simple enough for the simple detective to handle. And surely the gumshoe wouldn't notice his client's deep dark secrets, that the hat concealed a pair of knowing eyes, that the coat obscured a physique that was more used to running down fugitives than chomping down doughnuts. It was good to be underestimated, even if his own sons thought themselves cleverer. The bland man that sat down next to Fenton obviously had found comfort in the same misconceptions.
He had gray hair cut neither military short nor popularly long. The man wore a grey suit, the type of straight cut that fit better than a cheap off the rack suit but offered no clue as to whether it had been tailored and easily concealed the shoulder holster Fenton knew to be present. His features were utterly unmemorable. A completely average man, who was completely invisible to those that allowed their perceptions to mistakenly fool them into believing he was completely harmless. Fenton had long ago learned that the bland government agent was anything but harmless.
The gray man reached for the paper, searching the headlines. As he opened the paper, he nodded a greeting to Fenton. "Fenton," he said, in a bland voice that matched his appearance.
"Arthur," Fenton returned his voice low. He tapped his ring against the small coffee mug, betraying just enough impatience to let the man know that he was in no mood for pleasantries.
The bell on the front door jingled, signaling the departure of the couple that had up to know occupied the back booth. Arthur took advantage of the solitude. "They've been taken to Fort Dix and will remain for interrogation. They shouldn't present any more problems for your family."
Fenton took another sip of his coffee, allowing him collect his thoughts. It was so easy for Arthur Gray, the spy without a real name, to tell him that the bad guys were locked up, his family safe. To him, it was another victory with two more terrorists locked behind bars. The ruthless Assassins were infamous for committing suicide rather than allowing themselves to be captured, which meant opportunities to interrogate them were rare. It was even rarer for one to survive long enough to face trial, which was what had landed Fenton's family into this mess. "What about the Brubaker Trial? You and I both know those two were sent to keep my sons from testifying."
The Gray Man, as he was most often known, rustled his paper, flipping the page to display a particular paragraph of news. "The Brubaker Trial will begin next Monday, at which time two of my men will escort your boys to New York to testify."
"You can cancel the escort," Fenton replied with forced cheer in his voice. "I've promised Laura that I'd take the family for a big dinner in New York as soon as her bout of flu has passed. She's had a horrible week, what with that bumbling kidnapping for ransom while she was sick and all. I'll pretend to ignore their escape to the court house while I take Laura shopping."
Gray's voice took an icy tone. "It isn't easy to explain away the kidnap and attempted murder of three women by terrorists hell bent on discrediting and torturing two teenage boys who trample the countryside indiscriminately, but I try." He set down his paper and met Fenton's eyes. "You should allow my men to protect your boys. After all, you did such a swell job protecting them before."
Freed from its box hidden in the dark recesses of his mind, the vivid nightmare replayed before his eyes. The simple threat, no different from the hundred he had received before. The frantic phone call. The smoldering, twisted wreckage of the yellow car that had once belonged to his sons. The heat seared pavement. His own panic and fear that gave way to the cries of pain and sorrow of his youngest, who mourned the loss of the girl that he had loved. The words were like a sucker punch to Fenton's gut, but he ignored the bait and allowed none of the pain to show, keeping his stony expression. "You will inform my sons of the danger that remains as long as they intend to testify but you will allow me to accompany them from a far. They will protect each other and I will protect them. There is no need for guards who doubtless could be traitors themselves. After all, we know how good you are at spotting imposters."
Fenton stood, intending the reminder of how often the government spy had been duped only to be rescued by his boys to be his parting shot, but Gray grabbed his arm. "You should tell your boys," he said simply, before releasing Fenton and gathering his belongings.
After tossing a few coins on the counter, they departed via separate doors, with Fenton returning to his car parked in the back. A cool breeze blew off the bay, causing Fenton to pull up his collar. But the chill in his gut could not be warmed. Fenton may have won the right to protect his sons in this battle, but Gray's parting shot had reminded him that he was loosing the war.
He absently shoved his key into the lock and opened his car door, carelessly throwing his briefcase in back. He should tell them. The car turned over as he thumbed the ignition and then rumbled to life. He should have told them that day.
A master of perception and deduction, Fenton had excelled as a private detective and had developed a worldwide reputation, which attracted lucrative cases. But the part of Fenton that had enjoyed walking a beat back in New York still favored the complex, less-illustrious cases from the government that offered him the chance to serve public, just as he had done decades ago. So when a potential presidential candidate noted for stirring speeches on stamping out terrorism had asked Fenton to head his security team, Fenton had been unable to refuse the case that had sent his family spiraling into darkness and that had propelled his boys into adulthood. He hadn't told his family about the case, not wishing for them to worry. He hadn't told his boys about the threats he had received, confident he could handle it alone. Instead, he watched as a car bomb meant to kill his boys, meant to destroy him, instead killed a young woman and changed his youngest forever.
He vowed to bring the responsible parties to justice but he had focused so hard on catching his quarry that he failed to perceive that the fire had forged his boys into men. It was only later, when he had seen his youngest with blood on his hands, an international terrorist dead at his feet, did Fenton realize that he could only watch from a far as his young men followed his example, disregarding their own safety for the safety and happiness of others.
Distracted by his thoughts, Fenton hardly noticed that he had pulled into his garage. One of the boy's old motorcycles was parked in the far corner, the rear wheel and engine laying on the floor. His boys had once enjoyed zipping up and down Shore Road on those bikes, laughing with the breeze running through their hair as they chased their friend Chet Morton's old jalopy. Now their transportation of choice was the black Kevlar-paneled van, a grateful gift to replace the yellow sedan lost to the same bomb that had claimed Iola Morton's life.
The TV in the living room was on, bright colors flickering hypnotically as a singer with a large, fluffy perm belted out a fast-paced tune to the notes of an electronic synthesizer. Joe, Fenton's youngest, lay on the floor; his blond head pillowed one of afghans his aunt Gertrude had knitted. His blue eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, a rare commodity until the recent arrival of Vanessa Bender in his son's life. On the couch lay his eldest, looking like a younger version of Fenton himself. It took a moment for him to realize that Frank was awake, watching him. "Everything, okay Dad?" he asked quietly.
"Fine, son," Fenton answered. "I just came home early to check up on your mother."
"She's fine, Dad. We got her back safe." Frank's words were full of confidence, but Fenton could see the flicker of his boy in that face that was so often wise before its time.
"I'm sure you did, son." He patting his son's feet reassuringly, glad he could still offer this small comfort. "Say, what do you think about a little family trip on Monday? You and your brother can explore New York while I take your mother shopping. We'll all meet up for diner and maybe catch a football game."
Frank's mouth had opened slightly to object to the Monday excursion, but had closed as soon as he realized that he and his brother could still work in their court date. Fenton could tell that the grin that replaced the worried look was genuine. "Sounds great, Dad."
"We'll discuss it in the morning. Don't stay up too late." Fenton left the room, but he could see from the corner of his eye Frank nudge his brother awake, probably eager to tell him about the perfect opportunity their father had presented them. Tiredly, he climbed the stairs up to his room, careful not to wake Laura, who was most likely asleep.
He had never told his sons that he knew of their work against the Assassins or of how Arthur Gray had asked his permission before sending them on that first assignment to France. They liked to think that Fenton had no idea that their cases had long ago exceeded the simple thefts and courier runs he often sent their way. They liked to let their parents believe that they were safe, at least as safe as they'd ever be hunting down criminals. Like their father, they liked to believe that they were protecting their family. Although they had come close last night, unlike their father they had yet to experience the pain when that perception was ripped away. And that was one perception Fenton had no intention of correcting.
The end.