J.M.J.

Chapter II

Stranded

It took a few moments of staring in stupefied surprise before Joe realized he needed to act. Tyler Hereford was one of the few people who always made Joe uncomfortable when he was around him. It wasn't really Tyler's fault; actually, Tyler was a nice guy. The problem was that Tyler was dating Iola Morton, now that Joe and Iola had broken up. To make matters worse, Iola had asked the two of them to talk to each other and to try to come to some kind of understanding, but Joe had been putting it off now for almost two months. Every time he happened to see Tyler, he was reminded of what he would inevitably have to do, but that a part of him was trying to put off.

That didn't matter right now, though. Right now, all that mattered was that Tyler was injured and needed help.

"What should we do, Dad?" Frank asked. "Should we try putting him in our car and getting him to town?"

Fenton bit his lip thoughtfully. "I don't know. He could have back or neck injuries. We shouldn't move him until we know for sure."

"We don't have a lot of choice," Joe pointed out. "It would take too long and be too risky to leave him here and try to get to town, or at least to where we have cell reception, and then the ambulance would have to get all the way out here."

"Whether we can take that risk or not depends on how serious his injuries are," Fenton replied. "None of us have the medical knowledge to assess that."

"Well, we've got to do something," Frank said. "It looks like he's passed out again. It wasn't that far back that my phone had reception. Maybe if we went back up there, we could get a call out."

Fenton nodded. "That sounds like the best plan. Joe, you'd better stay here with him. I'll get you both some blankets. I'll go with Frank in case he has some trouble."

He retrieved two blankets from the trunk, as well as Joe's bag with his extra clothes in it. Then he and Frank headed back up the road, hopeful that their errand would only take a few minutes. Frank watched his phone constantly for the moment that it would register that there was cell reception, but it seemed that they had gone much farther than they should have and it still registered nothing.

Then the car slipped on the treacherous surface of the road. Fenton tried to steer and brake, but the road was too slick for it to make any difference. Fortunately, they were going slowly, but even then the car slid off the pavement and buried itself in a snowdrift.

For a moment, Fenton and Frank sat there, saying nothing. Then Frank said, "Great. Now we're stuck."

"Maybe we can push it out," Fenton suggested.

He and Frank worked at that with no success and finally had to give up to crawl back into the car and warm up. Neither of them liked to admit it, but the situation was grim. Not only could they not call for help for Tyler, but they themselves were stuck until the storm let up and help would find them.

"I hope Joe's all right," Fenton commented, turning up the heat a little.

"I guess this wasn't such a good idea after all," Frank said. He glanced out the window at the snow swirling through the darkness. "The storm can't keep up too much longer, though."

"I doubt anyone will come past before morning regardless," Fenton replied.

Frank swallowed, but he replied as cheerfully as he could, "We'll be fine. And Joe will be fine. He knows how to deal with situations like this."

Time dragged by frustratingly slowly. Fenton kept the engine idling so that they could keep the heater on, and so they were comfortable enough, though they couldn't help thinking about Joe and Tyler and wondering how they were faring.

"Dad," Frank said suddenly, "could I talk to you about something?"

"Sure," Fenton replied. "What is it?"

Frank took a breath. "Do you think I'm making a mistake? About the forensics, I mean."

It took Fenton a moment to answer. They had talked this over several times, and Frank had seemed to be pleased with his decision. There must be something still bothering him, though, for him to be bringing it up again. "No, of course not. Why would it be a mistake?"

"Maybe because of why I'm doing it," Frank replied. He could feel his emotions rising and was fighting against them. He had to face this thing logically. "After what happened with Enrico… after I killed him…" He swallowed hard. "I just can't face it. I still am awake at night, seeing the whole thing over and over again in my head. It's been almost two months, and it still is following me everywhere. So, I… Do you think… I don't know."

"Frank." Fenton placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "You're not going to get over this in two months. Not in two years. I've been through this, too. Oh, sure, during all my police training, they tried to prepare me for it as well as they could, but you can't really be prepared for something like that."

"How did you learn to live with it?" Frank asked.

"I don't know," Fenton admitted. "I guess by not thinking about it too much."

"Isn't that the same as running away, trying to hide?"

"No," Fenton told him. "There's nothing to hide from. Right now, you feel like everything's changed. That nothing can or should be the way it was."

"But it's not the same, Dad," Frank insisted.

"In some ways, maybe," Fenton conceded, "but in a lot of ways, it is. Right now, you're thinking of yourself as a killer. You're not."

"I killed a man," Frank faltered. "That's what a killer is."

"You didn't kill him," Fenton said. "That man killed himself."

"Dad," Frank protested.

"It's true. I wanted to know exactly what had happened, but I didn't want to make you tell me if you didn't want to. Joe can't remember any of it clearly, so I called George Fayne and asked her to tell me all about it."

"Then you know I killed him," Frank replied.

"From what she told me, it sounds like Enrico wanted you to kill him," Fenton said. "He knew the game was up and the best he could possibly hope for was life in jail. He would have rather died than that, so he forced you to shoot. It happens a lot, actually. A criminal doesn't have the guts to face their punishment, but they also still have that inborn taboo against killing themselves, so they take the easiest and most cowardly way out: forcing the officer or whoever has them cornered into killing them."

"I doesn't change the fact that that's what I did."

"You didn't have a choice," Fenton told him again. "Well, you did have a choice. Your other option was to let him kill Joe and, if you didn't shoot him then, probably kill you and George, too. You made the right choice."

"Then why does it feel so wrong?" Frank asked.

"I think you know why. You're a good man, Frank, and I'm proud of you."

The reassurance calmed some of Frank's fears and guilt, but one loomed as large as ever. "Thanks, Dad. Do… do you think my son or daughter could ever be proud of me after this? How am I going to face them, knowing what I've done?"

"I thought the same thing," Fenton replied. "I thought, especially after I killed Cliff Moriare and it turns out he wasn't even armed, I thought there was no way you and Joe would ever understand. I thought I'd have to wait for you to grow up before you'd understand it, but I was wrong. You did understand everything except for why I had so little confidence in you. Don't worry, Frank. Your kids will see, too."

"But, Dad, it's easy with you," Frank protested. "I don't see how I could be even half as great a dad as you are."

Fenton chuckled. "You'll need to set your bar higher than that. But don't worry, Frank, you're going to do just fine."

Frank still had his doubts, but his father's words helped. Maybe, just maybe, it would be all right after all, in time.