In the Gingerbread House with Candyman
By Jolly
Chapter 2
THE CANDYMAN
"Fenton… Fenton…" A familiar voice prompted him.
He opened his bloodshot eyes. It took a moment to focus on the man standing before him. It was Henry Kennett; the FBI agent in charge of Frank's kidnapping case, and also Joe's. He looked at the living room clock. It said 9pm. They had been waiting for the last 72 hours, but no one had contacted them. Just like in Joe's case.
"No one made contact," Henry said gently. "It's been 72 hours, Fenton. We have to pack up. You know the protocol."
Fenton stared uncomprehendingly at Henry. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other three agents packing up all the gadgetry. But he could not find the strength to process the information and understand its meanings. He was too tired. He could not remember when he last slept, or eaten, for the matter.
Suddenly, there was a steaming hot cup of thick filtered coffee in his hands. He took a gulp and burnt his throat. He winced in pain. He turned and saw Sam. Good old trusty Sam Radley. Fenton smiled a little smile. It was all he could manage. He could always depend on Sam, his partner, to do the necessary things. Re-energized by the coffee, he forced his thoughts back to the present. Both his sons were missing; Joe for a eleven days, and Frank for three days. No contact was made, no ransom demanded. There were no clues, except for two halves of a gingerbread man. And he had no idea what that was suppose to mean. What was the message that he was supposed to decipher?
No, Fenton amended. They had some small details. It might seem inconsequential now, but might become an important link later when combined with other findings.
Joe never came home from school, and later his driver's license was found atop his motorbike in the school car park together with the bottom half of a gingerbread man. Frank was running some errands at the bank for Laura when he went missing. The boys' van was found abandoned along Shore Road. Frank's driver's license was left on the driver's seat, together with the top half of the gingerbread man.
There had been no signs of struggle, there were no fingerprints, and there were no witnesses. Fenton found the absence of any signs of struggles disturbing, for he was sure neither Frank nor Joe would simply let themselves be taken without a fight. And while neither exactly vanished in broad daylight, it was not under the dark cover of night either. He thought the lack of witnesses to both incidents … uncanny, since neither the school car park nor Shore Road could be termed isolated in the late afternoon.
"Fenton, if you could come down to the FBI office tomorrow, maybe we can go over what we have, and try to create a potential list of suspects…" Henry was saying to him.
The voice was sympathetic, the tone gentle. They both knew they had nothing to go on. They had run a check on all potential suspects when Joe disappeared, and none were anywhere near Bayport during the time of the incident.
The father in him wanted to beg, 'no, please, stay, and help me…'
The detective held back – he knew the protocol and understood the need to stay calm and collected.
The father won out. His sons' lives and safety were at stake here. There was no room for pride, only the desire to be able to see his sons safely back home again. And now, he had no idea who took them, why they were taken, and if they were even alive still. The unknown was always far more terrifying than the known. For if he had but a single lead, he would be working on it. And the work itself was a distraction. So for now, he would be the father, and let those who would have more objectivity in this case handle it. For a while anyway, until he could regroup and seize that single tiny lead he needed.
Fenton's mouth opened, but before the words formed, there were two sharp raps on the front door.
Everyone turned their attention towards that sound. The FBI agents made themselves scarce. Henry took his position by the TV where he could get a clear view of the door. He gave Fenton a curt nod, signaling that it was okay to open the door.
Fenton reached for the door and opened it, making sure his body in no way obstructed the vision of the hidden FBI agent.
The person standing across the threshold was The Gray Man. Behind him was Maxwell Kendall, Fenton's best friend since high school, and the current head of the FBI.
The Gray Man was the head of a little known but elite counter-terrorism unit known as the Network. They were part of the FBI, but had security clearance and access to resources far above most of the standard FBI agents. Fenton had worked with Gray only a handful of times and only at the request of Maxwell, his best friend. It was no secret that he himself could have been up there too, if he had chosen the same career path as his friend. But he did not like the tradeoffs and sacrifices that were made sometimes that were necessitated by the political nature of such bureaucratic positions. Hence he chose the simpler and much happier life as a private detective. And he had been successful in his chosen vocation, building a reputation of international standing.
No, he was not happy to see The Gray Man at all. It reminded him too much of the last time he worked with them, managing the security of potential presidential elect Senator Walker. His sons almost died. But it was Joe who paid the highest price, for it was his girlfriend, Iola Morton, who had died in their place. Iola died in Joe's place.
But, why was Max here?
Having them both here at his house at this time was bad news. He wondered if his sons' disappearance had anything to do with the Assassins terrorist group. Just as quickly, he rejected that idea. If it were the Assassins, then only The Gray Man would be here.
Fenton could feel his guts clench in fear.
Then anger. It was denial and Fenton knew it. The mind could not handle the possibility of a potentially bad outcome, and had rigged itself to believe in other more acceptable alternatives. So his mind raged, even as his heart knew, his best friend would never do that to him.
'They could not possibly want me to help out again. I told them that the last time was it. No more Network cases. And not now, not when my sons need me so desperately,' Fenton muttered angrily to himself as he allowed the two into his living room.
"What do you want?" Fenton gritted out, his tone hostile, as soon as everyone settled into the living room. "Unless you are here to help me find my sons, we have nothing to talk about."
Max and Gray exchanged a look, and they held it for a long while before finally turning back to face him. Fenton could literally feel a hand tighten around his guts, giving it a painful squeeze. Something was very wrong, he now knew without a doubt. The four FBI agents sat around them, as bidden to do by Max.
It was only then he noticed that Gray was a little pale and off the kilter. That was just not possible. What would rattle The Gray Man so? Fenton could have sworn from his experience that Gray was amoral when it came to fulfilling his responsibilities for The Network. That man had nerves of steel and a heart made of rock if he had one to start with.
Then Fenton realized his own hands were trembling, his palms sweaty.
"Fenton," Gray asked a little hesitantly, "Do you remember The Candyman?"
'The candyman … the candyman …' Fenton racked his brain and came up with naught. The Gray Man must have noted his blank expression.
"You were among the eight civilian private investigators hired by the state to help bring him down," Gray prompted him.
Slowly, a feathery wisp of a long forgotten memory teased the edge of his mind. A melody started to play. Then the floodgates opened, and the unwanted images rushed in. He paled. He remembered. Oh he remembered. It was one of the strangest cases he ever handled. Strange was the word he'd forced himself to use whenever he referred to that case, though there were other far more accurate and appropriate words. Like evil.
Even now he hesitated to use those words. And over time, he even managed to bury that case and all its strange details deep in the recesses of his mind
But it could not be. The Candyman was dead. There was no way he could have lived. There was no way he could have escaped. There was no way he could have lived. No way…
'He's dead. And no one can come back from the dead, no one can,' Fenton told himself.
Then an unbidden thought slipped through his normally rational mind, 'Can he?'
And the strains of a song that he never ever wanted to hear again started to reverberate through his head:
The Candyman
Oh the Candyman can…
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