- Hardy Residence (Joe) -
As Joe traversed Elm Street and saw what he knew to be his father's study in the distance, lit, warmer than he was, and inviting, he was surprised to taste salt from the wet trickling into his panting mouth. He didn't realize he was crying until he had stepped onto their front porch. Not sparing time to shake the rain off himself, he rang the bell, pressed himself against the door as his knees were threatening to give way, and slowly raised a fist to rap on the door. Footsteps, and then the door swung open.
The sight of his father standing there, although uncharacteristically disheveled, deep-eyed, and somewhat stooped, was so great a promise of safety, love, and comfort, that Joe might have collapsed in relief had not his father quickly stepped forward to embrace him. Joe attempted returning the same ferocity, the same sentiment-tried to get his arms around Fenton-but gave up in exhaustion and simply let himself be held.
"Dad..." he choked. He couldn't tell if his father replied or sobbed or both, but when Fenton finally stepped back without letting go, he realized his father was indeed crying. "Dad," Joe said, realizing he would be losing his father's attention in less than a moment. "Dad!"
But Fenton couldn't spare Joe another minute; he had, after all, two sons.
It pained Joe to see his father's eyes quickly sweep the space behind and beside him, the porch, the path leading up to it, the street... before finally settling on Joe again. Wizened eyes gazed at his son with doubt and surety, but Fenton could only bear to voice the former.
"Joe, your brother...? Frank?"
"He's... He and I were separated, Dad. I... I don't know where he is." Joe could feel the tingling in his eyes intensify, felt the tears stream down his face to join their sisters in the puddle at his feet.
"I don't understand; the two of you left together—"
"I know, Dad… I'll explain everything inside."
- Elsewhere (Frank) -
Frank forced his eyes open. He hadn't wanted to wake so soon and have to acknowledge the bruises and sores that had his body trembling with persistent pain. His mind strayed to the inevitable as flashbacks of hours earlier came and flooded him with terror and disbelief. He couldn't believe that was over… couldn't believe he had actually, somehow, survived it.
He shook his head inwardly to ward off such thoughts and focused instead on the ticking of the large, ornate clock in his newest prison. The same wall that hosted the clock was lined with shelves littered with trophies, books, and small comic figurines. And, Frank knew, four-year-old dust. He had seen the printed name on the door as he had been dragged in earlier. Kenneth. Kenneth, who had died four years ago. Kenneth, whose life he was being forced to continue living. Kenneth. Kenneth. Kenneth. The name was still chanted in his head, a litany, as a small part of him readily and desperately surrendered to Doyle's imposition. Not Doyle. Dad, said-small-part corrected. A larger part of him had him shaking his head. No. Never, he argued. Fenton's face, frustrated but comfortingly familiar, floated before his mind's eye. It was the last he had seen of his father, and it hurt him to know that they had separated on such bitter terms. What hurt even more was what Frank had had to admit to since… that he had willingly traded in his identity for that of a madman's deceased fourteen-year-old son. He could argue, in his defense, that he had done it only to fool Doyle with success. He could argue that he was buying time for his escape. He could argue that it was a small sacrifice to make in the face of such painful and… electrifying… consequences. But deep down, and even that small part of him would admit, it all amounted to one thing: weakness.
He was weak. He hadn't endured the pain without having given in even just a little. And cue the tears, yet another part of him mocked as his vision blurred. Frank cleared his throat, unconsciously fisting the blankets of the bed he was earlier laid upon, as he struggled not to further indulge in weakness by crying.
Especially when they were watching, he added, glancing at the blinking red light situated in one corner of the room. Looking around tiredly, it surprised him how much the room comforted him, even in his present situation. The movie posters on the wall, the model planes that patrolled the ceiling, and the familiarity in what book titles he could read from where he lay, reminded him much of his own childhood. Not that that was too long ago, Frank chided.
Then the door was swinging open and Frank found himself tensing as Doyle entered the room.
- Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe) -
"We snuck out through Frank's window," Joe began as father and son sat in Fenton's study. "We biked to the bus stop, rode over to Doyle's neighborhood—we weren't going to do anything more than observe." He looked up at his father, eyes wet. "I promised him."
"It's not your fault, Joe. You know your brother would never do anything he wouldn't want to—not to mention, you can get pretty persuasive," Fenton reassured him, putting a hand on his son's trembling shoulder. Concern struck him immediately. "Joe, we should continue this after you wash up and change into something dry, warm."
Joe shook his head, his breath violent and his voice wavering.
"No, I might forget everything again. I don't— I don't want to forget again!" Fenton couldn't entirely make sense of what Joe was saying and, for the moment, pulled his son in for a hug. Joe didn't feel his father's fingers gripping his shoulders, hear his father's soothing voice, feel his father pull him into a tight hug until he heard his father mumble Frank's name.
"Frank needs us, needs you, to be okay first, Joe. We will get him back."
"My fault, Dad. If I hadn't insisted…"
"Get that hot shower, young man; wash that ridiculous idea out of your head. You are not to blame. If anything, I shouldn't have tried to edge you two out of the investigation…"
"Stop it, Dad," Joe sniffed, trying to smile a little. "Starting to sound like you could use a hot shower, too." Fenton returned the smile shakily, unconvinced, but seeing the exhaustion in his son's expression could not bring himself to push the matter further.
"You're right, I just might. Playing the blame game won't help anyone."
"Dad, where's Mom?" Joe pulled away from his father to look around, for a moment looking every bit as vulnerable as the child Fenton knew he no longer was… no longer could be.
"She's at grandma's," he answered. "On my insistence, of course. She wanted to be here for you, but I…"
Joe nodded understandingly.
"I won't be long," he said, standing up slowly. He looked at his father pointedly before leaving the room. "And I won't forget anything."
Still confused about the statement, but knowing Joe needed the comfort of a hot shower—and perhaps later Fenton could steer him into bed for, at the very least, a nap—more than he needed the discomfort of an interrogation on recent events, he nodded assuredly.
"Joe… I know you won't, son. I know you won't."
- Elsewhere (Frank) -
Frank pulled out of the grips of the two men angrily. The two stepped back in relief, not wanting to add to the matching bruises they had on their faces from the youth's struggling. Doyle held up the syringe, making sure it was empty before tucking it into his breast pocket. Not a word had been spoken since Doyle and his thugs had entered the room and proceeded to dose him with something, and Frank was more than happy to keep things that way. With his luck, however, Doyle would likely want to play mind games when the drug was most effective—not that that meant much in relation to the Hardy boy's willfulness.
The man waved the two musclemen out and turned his attention to Frank, who was eyeing him with quiet ferocity.
"Kenneth," Doyle said tentatively, hoping futilely for the hostility in those brown eyes to die down. It did not.
Frank couldn't find his voice for a moment after hearing the name. He had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be someone else now; the small-surrendered-part of him pinched himself in reproach.
"Kenneth," Doyle repeated, it was obvious now that he was expecting an answer… the right answer. Every fiber of Frank's being save one was screaming out snide remarks, comments that would jab at the man's pride and pomp, words to uphold the famous Hardy grit and have Aunt Gertrude's toes curling in on themselves with their crudeness. But the one fiber protested, conjuring images of his ordeal and setting his body's throbbing to a frequency painful enough to mar logic, reason, pride, and ignite a flight response. Frank couldn't trust himself to speak, or make a choice with his vision fading in and out of focus, his body creaking, his ears having suffered the constant hum of silence, and with the mere knowledge that something foreign was running through his veins was pitting him against himself.
"Kenneth!" Doyle snapped Frank out of his reverie, one he never realized he was in until that moment.
"W-what n-now…?" the youth managed to ease out. His fingers were tingling in his left arm and he realized he was sitting on it. With agonizing slowness, he shifted his body right to free it, all the while glaring at the man sitting at the foot of his bed.
"How are you feeling?" Doyle asked him, ignoring the attitude and, to Frank's dismay, looking every bit the concerned father that he imagined himself to be. Frank's frustration about his situation intensified. Doubt he really cares how I feel. He really wants to ask, 'how are you thinking?' He wants me to Think different. Think that I am not who I am. That's what he wants isn't it? That's why he won't let me go home. I want to go home… I just want to go home. But… you are home, remember? He just wants to know if you're okay. Tell him you're okay. Tell him. Tell Dad you're okay. Don't want him to worry. Frank opened his mouth to reply, but his thoughts were doing the talking for him at the moment.
"Kenneth…" Doyle was eyeing him curiously.
He keeps calling me that. Tell him to stop calling me that. NO! Remember the last time you did that? Don't you remember? It doesn't matter what I remember, just that I don't forget. Don't forget who? My parents. Laura and Fenton. Don't forget who? Joe. Who? Joe, my brother. Joe. Who? Don't forget who?I just want to go home. You are home, remember?Remember? Mom, Dad, Joe. No, don't remember that. Them. It hurts. Remember? They hurt. Remember that. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his lips together, and calmed his breathing, which had involuntarily grown rapid and hoarse.
When he opened them, Doyle was watching him expectantly.
"Kenneth, son, how are you feeling?" Leaning forward in what Frank now believed to be genuine concern, albeit for what exactly he wasn't sure, he placed a warm hand on Frank's bent knee.
The touch was unnerving to say the least, and a shudder ran through the youth. His heart pounding, he finally shook his head. Breathing deep to keep from stuttering too much, his body tingling with a morbid anxiety, his mind reeling with the effects of the drug, Frank Hardy shook his head again and looked Doyle in the eye. He smiled as wide as he could, held it for as long as he could, and licked his chapped lips to say, "My name is-s Frank Hardy. And I'm feeling p-peachy, thank you ver-ry much for asking." And then the pain overtook him again, rearranging his smile into something between a smirk and a wince. As he said the words, Doyle's face metamorphosed from one filled with parental concern, to one stony and frustrated.
"The drug is supposed to put you into a suggestive haze. I do not understand why it refuses to work with you," Doyle muttered through clenched teeth, punctuating his words by tightening his grip on Frank's knee until the boy almost cried out in agony.
Frank struggled to lean forward to pry the man's hand off of his suffering joint, but Doyle sped up the process and yanked the boy forward by his shirt collar.
"Why are you fighting it? Why do you insist on—"
"B-because this is wr-wrong!" Frank hissed, his hands gripping the ones bunching his shirt. "And you kn-know it!"
Doyle's only reaction was to shake the boy.
"It is not fair. Not right! Why did it work on all those other children…? Why can't I have my son back? I've given others—"
"No, y-you took b-before you ever g-gave!" The two occupants of the room might as well have been one, almost nose to nose, and staring each other so far into the center of their eyes that Frank's nausea was starting to overwhelm even the aches and bruises that were already plaguing him. Fighting the threatening bile in his throat, he went on. "Y-you t-take ch-children f-from their h-homes! F-from their f-families! Y-you drug them, f-feed them n-new l-lives, a-a-nd t-then ha-hand them-m over t-to c-complete s-st-strangers. All f-for m-money." Frank resisted giving in to the urge to vomit all over the man that continued to hold him, but the look in Doyle's eyes…
A moment later revealed Doyle was thinking not too far along the same lines Frank was. He growled as he thrust the boy backward. Frank managed to keep himself from slamming into the headboard, but couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise.
"Your eyes," Doyle said, standing up quickly. Frank eyed him guardedly, rubbing his neck slowly where the shirt had been tightened.
"They're the wrong color."
To anyone's ears, the words formed a statement. To Frank's, they were as ominous as the renewed gleam of determination in the man's eyes.
- Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe) -
Joe rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He was in the living room dressed for sleep. He vaguely remembered showering the night before as his father suggested, but he could not recall ever making his way back downstairs—he'd almost fallen asleep in the shower, and was surprised he had had the energy to climb stairs. Joe heard bustling and clinking in the kitchen and went to investigate. Sure enough, Fenton was preparing some coffee and hot chocolate.
"Good evening," Fenton said softly, seeing his son trying to blink away lingering lures of sleep. Joe strained as he eyed the clock, then let out a low whistle.
"Wow, did I just…?"
"Yeah, you did. Slept almost an entire day straight, albeit somewhat restlessly," Fenton told him. "I'm very glad for it, anyhow, God knows you needed the break. Plus it'll help you remember things better."
The words had Joe stiffen and he very slowly curled his hand around the mug his father handed him.
"Yeah, I think it did," he answered quietly. "I was afraid I'd forget something…"
Fenton had debated probing and prodding his son about the issue of "forgetting" all night and decided it'd be better to let Joe come out with in on his own.
"So what happened that night after we had our argument…"
Joe told him how he crept into his brother's room and how they had both snuck out of the house from there, but as he spoke of the events after they arrived at Doyle's residence, he would pause several times with a disconcerted look on his face before continuing.
"It's okay, Joe. Take your time," Fenton said gently, rubbing Joe's shoulder comfortingly. Joe's frustration only spiked as he shrugged his father off and stood up abruptly, shaking his head furiously.
"No, we don't have time. Frank! He doesn't have time! We need to find him, and I can't remember everything that happened that night," Joe growled. "Ever since that house, ever since—" He stopped, seeing the hurt look that his father was trying, and failing, to hide.
"I'm sorry, dad…" he said softly, sitting down again. "I just… I can't let myself be coddled right now. Not with Frank missing. Not with what I had been living as…"
"Joe, let's back up a bit. What happened when you got to the house?"
"That's the thing, I don't really remember much," Joe sighed frustratingly. "I remember seeing the police car stationed across the street from the house. I remember it was cold out and wishing I'd worn an extra layer." He shivered involuntarily at the memory. "I remember Frank… No. Wait. The police car! It was empty!
"We moved to check it out, and next thing I knew we were talking to Doyle."
"And what did he say?"
"I can't remember all the details, gah! This is so frustrating!" Joe wanted to slam his fist into something.
"Son, what happened that you can remember?"
"…Doyle laughing. I remember that as clearly as I see you right now. He was laughing at us because… he saw Frank and… I think I remember him saying he expected us but he didn't expect—Frank, that doesn't make any sense. I don't think—"
"Trust your gut, Joe, your feeling. I want you to concentrate hard on that night, will it back to you, replay it in your mind's eye… slowly…"
Eighteen days ago
"Where are the police?" Joe mused in a whisper as his brother peered further into the gloom of the police car. Frank shook his head in response.
"Not here," he replied. Joe rolled his eyes impatiently; trust Frank to state the obvious.
"Okay, so where are they?" he repeated.
"Maybe they saw something that warranted entering the house? Looking around? Coffee break?"
"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?"
"Alright, so I'm speculating a little, but its way past my work hours, not to mention my bedtime—so sue me!" hissed Frank.
Joe knew there was no arguing with Frank when he was cranky so he quickly made to focus his brother's ire elsewhere.
"Why don't we check the house?" Immediately after saying the words, Joe was wishing he could take it back.
"Seriously? I thought we'd agreed we'd only 'observe.'" His brother said tiredly, sighing and running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, but extenuating circumstances call for—"
"Boy do you push the right buttons… every time, Joe, every time."
"I'm just saying—"
"No, we're leaving. We'll call the station, ask for them to send another car around to check, but we, are, leaving." With that, Frank pushed himself up and away from the car. Joe followed suit, intent on keeping quiet for the rest of the night, but then froze when the sound of laughter and footsteps reached him.
"Joe!" Hearing the tone of voice his brother was using, Joe immediately stepped up next to him as several figures emerged from the surrounding night.
"Stay close," Frank whispered. Joe couldn't help a small part of him rebel at his brother's sudden protectiveness; he could certainly take care of himself.
"Well, well, well…" one of the figures stepped forward, ahead of the others, obviously in charge. When he was close enough for the brothers to scan his facial features in the moonlight, they recognized him instantly.
"Doyle." Joe said simply.
"Hardy Boys. Figured you would come and wrap up this little case on your own," said the man in front of them. Joe almost missed the barely perceptible nod the man gave the others surrounding the brothers. It was only Frank's quick shove that saved Joe from being immediately bear hugged by the thug behind him. Joe could see well enough in the moonlight to fight off his attackers for a while, but he knew he could never hold up for long—not with this many and certainly not all at once. For the most part the men weren't trying to hurt him, only restrain him, and he took full advantage of their caution. Shadows came at him at all sides, sometimes grabbing him around the waist, but he threw them off with some effort, and was managing the dodge the slower and more burly of the silhouettes. The fight demanded his full attention. He hadn't even had the chance to spare his brother a glance, when a buzzing sound caught his attention. Whirling to face the direction he knew his brother to be in, he almost screamed at the sight that met him. Frank was sprawled on his stomach and he was convulsing. It only took Joe seconds to trace the culprit; a man, whose general shape was all he could make out, held something in the shape of a gun, and pointed it out toward his brother.
"Frank—" but before Joe could take more than two steps in Frank's direction, someone had grabbed him from behind, quickly followed by another pair of hands, and then another, until Joe was anchored in place. "Frank!" Desperately, he willed his brother to get up. Then it struck him. Convulsing. Gun. Taser! Addressing the man, Joe screamed angrily, "Stop it! You're killing him!" Frank stopped flailing about on the ground when the man finally lowered the weapon. Another figure came forward, the leader, Doyle. He knelt down and slowly turned the downed Hardy on his side. As Joe struggled, he strained as well to catch some of what was whispered a few feet away from him, but to no avail. The tones were hushed, but he could tell they were also surprised and purposeful.
At last, Doyle stood up and spoke louder. "Make sure they don't know where the other is. I want them as far apart from each other as you can put them. It's best they be dealt with separately. And put Tom on this one."
He prodded Frank's prone body with his foot, and Joe wanted to wring the man's neck right then and there.
"Let me go! Frank! Come on, buddy, wake up," Joe yelled. He felt the hands pulling at him, dragging him backward, away from— "FRANK!"
There was no response. Only the sound of bruised men bending forward to pick the unconscious youth up off the ground.
"…I remember thinking, at least we put up a good fight. But that was it. That was the one positive thing I could think of. We didn't have back up. We wouldn't have each other. We couldn't expect you to be after us until morning, by which time we would be too far away, not to mention in separate locations…"
"I was so down, Dad, I can't even explain it. Its no wonder it didn't take much to brainwash me, or whatever it was they did—condition me to think that I was James, who played football and was a complete klutz too. Who had parents who had fake smiles, who tried not to wince when they called me honey, who would lock me in every night, who lied about the injections they'd give—God, Dad, just thinking about what I've been through—what the hell could they be putting Frank through?"
"I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so, so, sorry," Joe collapsed into his father's embrace, both emotionally spent and mentally exhausted.
"We will get back what's ours, Joe," said Fenton through lips tightened, speaking for the first time ssince Joe took his advice in remembering what happened. "We'll bring him back to us, and they will pay for ever thinking they could mess with my family and get away with it."
A/N: I know it's slow going, detailed, and most chapters are very filler-chapter-ish, but this story does have an ending. Thank you for the support (all you alert-ers and favorit-ers) especially my reviewers: bhar, ForeveraWriteratHeart, Mara jade chase!