A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Drumboy100, KDesai, Wendylouwho10 & MoonlightGypsy for the reviews & comments!
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San Francisco: June 1978
"So this is your payback for Nancy," Frank had said to Kris, as he pulled his jacket tighter against the chill. "Us helping you on your ghost hunts."
"Could be worse," Joe had muttered. "We could be out on Alcatraz."
They'd parked far down Sacramento Street and were now hiking up the steep hill towards the church mission house. It was late afternoon and chilly, even though it was after Midsummer. Both Frank and Joe wore sweatshirts and jackets; their little tagalong, Kris, was in her usual long-sleeved gray t-shirt, but other than that, didn't seem to notice the cold.
"I don't hunt ghosts." A duffle bag slung over one shoulder, Kris had glared back at them. "Not like that."
"Same difference," Frank had countered. "Someone mentions ghosts, and our little Tagalong has to check it out. If me or Joe died, you'd be setting up a Ouija board by the coffin, I swear."
Shaking her head, Kris went up the steps and knocked on the door.
With its dark brick, the building looked more at home in antique photographs than on the streets of San Francisco; it was out of place among the modern adobe buildings surrounding it. It had felt old and solid in a way that its neighbors didn't, a sense of weight, age, and patience. A bronzed sign engraved with old-fashioned block letters hung over the door: "Occidental Board, Christian Mission House."
"Look at the windows," Joe had murmured.
The usual church-building windows: thin and rectangular, inset deep in the brick, Victorian stained glass in religious themes…but then Frank had noticed something odd.
Each window had two circular emblems set on the lower casement, one red, one gold, in elegant Chinese script.
Then the door had opened. A chunky, buzz-cut Asian woman in a 'Niners shirt had stood there, frowning when she saw the brothers.
"Don't mind them, Clara," Kris had said. "They're just here to make sure I take my migraine meds."
Frank scowled. Granted, he and Joe were still learning, but to be blown off like that…
Not here. Not in front of a stranger.
They'd been led through a hallway smelling of old varnish and wood to an old oak door tucked under the stairs. The door had been decorated with the same red and gold charms, with a metal sign reading "DANGER: DO NOT ENTER" bolted to the top panel.
Clara had unlocked the door in a jingle of metal, handed the keys to Kris, then had vanished upstairs without a word.
"That's friendly," Frank had said.
"Tell me about it," Joe had said. "You'd think she'd at least say hi to us friendly neighborhood Ghost Busters."
Kris had only gestured them ahead of her down the stairs, shutting the door behind her. Despite the sign, the basement had been comfortable, if somewhat dark and smelling of old stone: shag carpet, vinyl beanbags, metal folding chairs and tables stacked against one wall, a bulletin board with flyers stapled to it. The room looked just like the Methodist community room back home in Bayport; nothing seemed to warrant the "Danger" sign at all.
"This place is haunted?" Frank had said.
Setting the duffle down, Kris had settled into an arms-crossed glare. "Both of you need to learn tact. There's stories going around that kids were assaulted down here by one of the directors. So no, they're not exactly friendly at the moment."
"We didn't know," Frank had said, glaring back.
"And this place dates back before turn of the century. The woman who owned it back then used it to help Chinese women escape slavery."
"Slavery? Here?" Joe had said, with a startled look at Frank. "But —"
"Immigration laws at that time banned Chinese women. So girls got brought here illegally and forced into prostitution to 'pay' for their passage. The mission rescued them and hid them down here." Rooting through the duffle bag, Kris had pulled out jarred candles. "During the big earthquake, this place caught fire, and the women hiding down here burned to death."
"Take it easy, Tag," Frank had said. "We didn't know any of that. Don't get angry at us."
"This isn't about knowing. It's about attitude. The people who ask for help like this — they're scared. They don't need you making fun of them!"
"Tag…"
"And we're not those stupid Ghost Busters. Ghosts are people. They died horribly, and now they're stuck, and they're even more scared." Kris set the candles down in a circle. "Think about that. Think about dying and re-living that death over and over — or worse."
Frank could imagine it. He'd seen those deaths, in New Orleans. Joe had nearly been one of those mutilated bodies; his scars bore witness to that.
"And those red and gold things? Those are to keep the ghosts here. So you've not only got dead people trapped in gods-know-what, you've got living people trying to keep them that way."
Shifting uneasily, Frank had glanced up towards the basement door at the top of the stairs. He'd always been skeptical of the spooky stuff, but when he'd been a kid, the idea of ghosts had scared him witless. Ghosts were monsters, ghosts saw everything you did, ghosts were out to get you…
Kris had looked up in time to see Frank's glance. "You can leave. I'm not forcing you to do this."
"And if we do?" Ghosts or not, Frank wasn't about to run like a scared kid and leave Tag here to face whatever it was alone.
"Then I'll have to wait for when Josh is free." Kris had pulled one of the beanbags into the circle of candles. "I don't do this without someone watching my back."
"Then you need to calm down," Frank had said evenly. "I don't like being treated like an idiot. And I really don't like being lectured on attitude by someone being even more rude than we were. Got it?"
Her back stiffened. Kris had stopped, staring down at one of the candles.
"Easy, Frank," Joe had said softly.
But Kris's hands were clenching and unclenching…and then she'd grabbed up the duffle and tried to shove past Frank to the stairs — but he had blocked her, unmoving and unmovable.
"Running away's for cowards, Tagalong." Frank had laid a hand on her shoulder. More gently, "I know you're having a rough time with Vão and Rafe, but don't take it out on us, okay? Truce?"
Still not looking at him, Kris had wiped at her face, but nodded. "Truce," she'd whispered.
"There's business, Blade." Frank tried to imitate Joshua's stern, no-nonsense tone; Kris only gave him that look, and Frank smiled. "Get to it, Tagalong. You're supposed to be teaching us greenhorns."
"Um…yeah." Her voice cracked; she swallowed, head bowed. "Sorry."
She'd gone back to rooting in the duffle bag and pulling out the rest of the candles, a large abalone shell, and a bundle of white sage; she'd been muttering under her breath, and from her body language, it looked as if she was talking to someone and trying to disguise it. Joe had been looking around the basement, but Frank hadn't been about to ask what he was seeing.
The Sight wasn't a Gift Frank wanted, ever.
Kris set a notebook and pen in front of Joe. "Um…here. Write down any info you pick up. Especially if it's names." Kris tossed a second notebook to Frank. "And after I'm 'back', get on my case for the same thing, big brother — any names I can remember."
Frank had settled into a lean against the wall by the foot of the stairs, watching as Joe and Kris lit the candles. Kris led Joe through casting a formal protective circle — ritual magic that combined mystic Christianity and Kris's version of Wicca — ending with both drawing their k-bars and laying the blades on the floor in front of them. Frank was to keep a physical eye on the whole thing: keeping out anyone who tried to come downstairs and (as Kris put it) whacking Kris or Joe with a metaphorical baseball bat if they showed any signs of physical distress.
Kris had settled into a bean bag and tranced-out, eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep. From his vantage point by the stairs, Frank had watched his brother. At first…nothing. But then the candle flames flared up into long, thin points that stretched easily a foot above the wicks…
…and Joe had been reacting to something Frank couldn't see.
"Joe?" Frank had said.
Joe had steepled his hands in front of his face, breathing through them. "She can't be more than five."
Frank had eased down next to his brother, just outside the circle. He didn't dare reach in — that could break the protections. "Easy, brother. It's in the past. Remember that."
"It's just…they're all so young…" But then Joe's gaze had fixed on something else — something small.
Something moving closer.
Of anything his brother could have done, that had spooked Frank the most. "Joe…"
Closing his eyes, Joe had taken a deep breath…then, slowly, held out his hands, palm up.
Frank had watched as Joe continued to hold his hands out…then, just as slowly, folded his hands together.
It was an image that Frank would remember: his brother surrounded by candlelight, his hands gently cupping something between them — something precious that he would never let go…
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NYC: August 1978
They'd called Aunt Gertrude the next morning.
Frank had left the hotel room. He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't take the silence, the blank staring, Dad's sudden obsession with every detail of the defection process…
…Joe's duffle bag sitting by the bureau.
Frank didn't want to even think of calling Mar, or Kris, or…dear God…Jamie. Mar had been — still was — Frank and Joe's foster-mother in all ways that counted; Kris, Mar's adopted daughter, was Frank and Joe's unofficial "kid sister" and little tagalong. And Jamie, Joe's girlfriend.
Frank couldn't face it, not at all. But he'd have to, at some point.
Just not now.
He stumbled into the hotel lobby and collapsed into one of the armchairs there, watching the people without seeing them. The lobby had a hospitality room, offering all-day coffee and bagels; there were several people in there now, talking over styrofoam cups. But he didn't want coffee or bagels. Frank wanted his brother back. He wanted to go back in time to stop the fluffy-haired hot-head before he'd stormed out of the hotel in that stupid huff of a temper tantrum. It'd just been a fight. Dad hadn't said anything they hadn't heard before, after all.
"Joe, why?" Frank breathed, head in his hands. Kris said emotions crossed the boundaries, that strong ties bound spirits to those left behind, that they still heard, felt, watched, and loved, even if you couldn't see them. Frank wasn't sure what to believe. He'd never seen Mom, after all. And his and Joe's ties were just as strong, if not stronger: brothers, best friends, almost like twins, for all that they were a year apart.
Frank wasn't Gifted. He was an inveterate, stubborn skeptic, even now. But Kris had proved to him, beyond any doubt, that spirits existed, that the after was real, though Frank had only seen that endless, frightening gray. Was that all there was, nothing but that gray, the in-between? Was Joe trapped out there, even now?
"Joe?" Frank laid his hands palm-up on his knees. Waiting…hoping. For something, anything, a touch, a punch to the shoulder, a laugh, any sign that his brother had heard, was still there…was still alive.
Nothing.
Joe could See like that: what the Association called Spirit-Sight, along with the mage-Gift and amp. Joe had always claimed to see spooky stuff, things that Frank never saw, yet never failed to tease Joe about: vampires in mirrors, ghosts in basements, fairies in the woods. Frank had ragged his brother about Stavlin and the Transylvania thing for months; even after the whole terrifying ordeal in New Orleans, Frank still teased Joe about that mirror in Stavlin's crypt.
Had teased.
"Joe, please," Frank whispered. "Anything. I'm here, brother. I'll believe you this time. I promise. Please."
He hadn't believed Joe about Mom. Joe had claimed to see her, but Frank hadn't, had called his brother a liar, then decided Joe had only imagined all of it. But Kris had confirmed that, too. Maybe when Frank got back to Bay Area, Kris could take him back out to that In-between. Maybe Frank could see, could speak, could apologize…
…could say goodbye.
God…God…God.
This wasn't helping. Not in a busy hotel lobby, anyway, not with people looking at him and wondering who the crying idiot sitting slumped on the couch in the corner was. He'd better move before the hotel security decided he was some freaked-out street person and booted him to the street. Frank started to push himself to his feet…and stopped.
Hammond had just entered the hotel and headed for the elevators.
That…that…arrogant…slimy…stiff-necked…he'd taken them to the morgue just yesterday, had hit them with that hard, cruel sucker-punch of Joe's body and death, and here that stiff-necked FBI suit dared to intrude on their grief, wanting Dad to just click along like a automaton and not think, not feel…
Hands clenched, eyes squeezed shut, Frank forced the anger down. He wasn't being fair. He wasn't being realistic. Hammond had set up whole defection, after all. Life went on, politics went on, and the Chinese scientist couldn't know what had happened. Making him give up his one chance at freedom wouldn't be right.
Frank watched. Hammond waited at the elevators, not paying any attention to his surroundings. He hadn't seen Frank.
Thinking about it…Hammond was FBI. Since when did the FBI handle defections?
It was odd that Hammond was involved with the defection, especially after tipping his hand so badly in the arson matter that past June, but Frank had put it down to both Hammond's and Dad's high-level connections. Hammond often passed Dad work both under and above the table, work that entailed many things the FBI didn't handle openly.
But this? Now?
…just in case you start wondering who you really work for…
And Frank had found that bug in Kris's room, back during the arson mess. Maybe the bug had just been to try to learn the truth of Nancy's disappearance…but…
Is this what you wanted? Frank had snarled at Hammond, anger flashing out through the daze of grief. Now no one else gets him, either…
There was no such thing as coincidence. The Blades ran on that; Frank'd had it pounded into his head. And here was Hammond, in the middle of a matter that his agency didn't normally handle, escorting Frank and Dad to the morgue, standing nearby as the blow was dealt, oozing fake condolence even as he kept control over the situation.
If Hammond was behind Joe's death, if Joe had died because the feds couldn't even think of one of Fenton's sons not working for them…
Hammond got onto the elevator, together with an elderly couple and a family with a crying baby.
Frank was up and moving. Elevator, out of the question. Better to take the stairs: they were only on fourth floor, after all. The delay would give Hammond a chance to get into their hotel room, so Frank could slip up to the door and listen without either Dad or Hammond realizing he was there.
I swear it, Joe, if he had anything to do with it, I'll bring him down.
"I'd appreciate some help, brother," Frank murmured as he slipped out of the stairwell door and into the empty fourth-floor hallway. The maid's cart was in the hallway: good. Frank grabbed a water-glass off it and unwrapped it, tossing the paper in the maid's trash bag.
His and Dad's door: closed. Hammond nowhere in sight, but Frank could hear unintelligible voices from inside their room.
Thinking about it — what did Frank think he'd hear? Hammond wouldn't tell Dad, "Yeah, I killed your son," after all. The man wasn't stupid.
Still…
Gently, Frank laid the open end of the glass against the door and set his ear against the other. His heart was pounding; if he was caught, he'd not only catch it from Dad, but he could get Dad in serious trouble with whomever else Hammond was working for.
"…for a walk," he heard Dad say: muffled, but clear. "He's not handling this well." A breathed God…, then, "Harry, get someone else for this. I'm not risking any more — I don't want —" Silence, a choked noise. "I don't want to lose Frank, too."
Closing his eyes, Frank breathed slow and deep to calm himself. He forced his hand to relax; if the glass scraped against the door, it'd be heard. Game over.
"You won't," Hammond said. "You have my word on that, Fenton."
Chair scraped against floor, a sudden violent shove. "I had your word before!"
Long, long silence. Someone blowing his nose. Choked-back gasps of someone struggling not to break down. Frank's hand was white-knuckled around the glass; he clenched his jaw, fighting back his own rage. Not now. Hold it down. Hold it steady. Stay calm.
"I'm sorry," Hammond said. "You have no idea how sorry." Silence, then, "I didn't want it to be this way."
"I know," Dad said, a bare whisper.
Dad knew? Knew what? And what had Hammond given his word about? But then Frank heard shuffling, someone in the room moving towards the door. He pulled the glass away, then knocked on the door himself. "Dad? I forgot my key."
Frank's voice was hoarse from all the crying he hadn't done and would not let himself do. There was a moment's pause, then someone fumbled at the door knob before it cracked open. Frank pushed it open just enough to slip through, then looked up, letting himself see Hammond.
Frank stared the man down, letting his rage show, that this…this…suit dared to intrude on their grief with his fake sympathy, when all Hammond wanted was to make sure the job would continue.
Hammond only pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then looked Frank over, his gaze resting on the water-glass in Frank's hand.
"Son, please," Dad said. "Don't blame Harry."
"It's the grief talking. I understand that." Hammond's gaze met Frank's. "You'll want to be careful of that anger. It'll lead you into trouble you may not want." Hammond turned, as if to go.
Two could play this game. "So what did you learn from the bug in Tag's room?"
Hesitation. Admission enough. Then the door closed behind Hammond, leaving Frank alone with Dad.
"Bug," Dad echoed.
But Frank had seen something fall out of Hammond's pocket when he'd taken out the cigarette pack: a crumpled bit of paper. Frank set the glass down next to the TV on the low bureau, then, casually — just dealing with trash, fiddling with minute details in an effort to stave off tears again — he picked the paper up.
"We found a bug in Tag's room, back in June." Interesting: Dad hadn't said that as a question. He'd just echoed what Frank said. Frank stuffed the paper in his jeans pocket, then turned to face his father. "When everyone was blaming us for Nancy's kidnapping."
"Like you're blaming Harry for Joe."
Not "like" at all. Frank and Joe hadn't had anything to do with Nancy being grabbed. But Frank stayed silent.
"I'm going to get us something to eat." Dad got to his feet. "Starving ourselves won't…" The words choked off on the unsaid won't bring Joe back. "Subs okay?"
Frank held back the automatic I'm not hungry. Dad was right. Starving wouldn't help Joe at all. "Yeah. Fine." Frank picked up the remote and flipped the TV on, paying no attention as Dad left.
Then, only then, did Frank pull the paper scrap back out, un-crumpling it and smoothing it against his thigh. It seemed to have been torn from another document, some type of medical record…and Frank's breath caught.
The typed letters Jo, what seemed to be a partial letter s, with the rest cut off at the edge of the rip. And on the back, an ink-stamp, barely legible:
East River Harbor.