Thanks very much as usual for taking time to comment or review.

Things have been a little tough lately and I thank you for your patience. My family will also be moving to another home next month, so life will be interesting, I think.

I can only hope this chapter is okay. Please enjoy and have a Merry Christmas.

A/N: I was scanning Yahoo Maps trying to find a suitable location for this scene. I got to Philadelphia, and then there was this river and a city called Camden. Somehow I kept thinking of Gotham city Batman and Morgan Freeman. I would like to say, while the city and location is real, everything else is made up and totally fictitious. Thank you.


WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

Chapter Eight

-o-

The front office of the Camden Police Station in New Jersey, though large and airy, felt dark and dreary. It was not hard to imagine how grand this room would have looked as it was in its glory days perhaps five or six decades ago. Those days were clearly gone. Old and heavy wooden tables covered with unidentifiable stains or over laden with thick dusty files covered the badly scratched wooden floor. Dust and cobwebs graced the high ceilings, almost obliterating the intricate ceiling art that spoke of another age and another time. Every morning, the sun rays that filtered through the dirty glass windows were tainted a dull yellow. It was half past eight in the morning, and the few night shift officers were just preparing to drag their weary body home. Those coming in to replace their comrades looked little better, each holding on to a cup of steaming hot caffeine meant to keep them functioning for the rest of the day. It was clear that this particular police station was severely under-staffed, and a far cry from the clean and modern facilities available to the Bayport Police Officers.

There was a soft creaking sound. Fenton Hardy was feeling restless and trying hard to find a comfortable sitting position on the old hard bench. His elder son was equally restless, pacing to and fro in the tiny waiting area and glancing up at the clock every now and then. He knew what was gnawing ruthlessly at the back of Frank's mind: Andrew had Joe for almost eleven weeks now.

Fenton allowed himself a moment of fear and helplessness before willing those useless emotions aside. He needed to keep an objective mind if he were to have any chance of getting Joe back alive. Unfortunately, Andrew clearly had the upper hand at the moment. The Bayport PD forensic team went over the entire Apartment Unit 16 E of Atlantic Views several times. The fingerprints and DNA evidence screamed loudly of who was there. As expected, Andrew left absolutely no clue as to where he took Joe, or what the details of the next stage of his plans were. He, Frank, the FBI, and the Bayport Police Department questioned all the neighbors about the mysterious Mr. Edwin, who appeared to be a loner and looked nothing like Andrew Kempton. However, the portrait artist and criminal profiler pointed out that Mr. Edwin shared similar height, build, and facial features, indicating the use of a simple yet smart disguise. They also found out that Mr. Edwin owned and drove a dark green Chevy and the parking attendant of Atlantic Views even provided a license number. It was later discovered that the Chevy was stolen from another state, according to the engine serial number, and that the license number was a fake. Using pictures gathered from traffic violation cameras and some lucky witnesses, they eventually found the dark green Chevy abandoned in the underground parking lot at the JFK International Airport. Security cameras showed the car had been left there for eleven weeks. None of the airport staff recalled seeing anyone looking like Andrew Kempton or Mr. Edwin.

Fenton sighed tiredly. Sure, he and Frank checked all outgoing flights. But they both knew that Andrew could have taken a cab, a bus, a train, or even simply walked away in a brand new disguise. The investigation hits another dead end.

And then last night, Fenton received a phone call from an old friend, the current head of the New Jersey Police Department. Two bodies were found over the last three days in Camden, a large city of almost seventy thousand located along the Delaware River just across from Philly. From the evidence, it was clear that the Kemptons surfaced in Camden. A third victim was kidnapped the previous afternoon, the only teenage daughter of a fairly prominent local entrepreneur. Given that time was running out, would Fenton be interested in going down to help with the investigation? The entrepreneur was a good friend, and the local detective would be instructed to give his full cooperation. Fenton immediately contacted his personal pilot and friend, Jack Wayne, and arranged for the earliest possible flight into Camden the very next morning.

So here they were in Camden, waiting rather impatiently for the detective, a Mr. S. Freeman, to arrive.

"Mr. Hardy? I'm Detective Sean Freeman."

Detective Freeman was a tall tired looking well build African American in his late fifties who spoke in a deep gruffly voice.

"Fenton Hardy. This is my son, Frank. Thanks for agreeing to meet with us."

Detective Freeman eyed them for a short moment before simply gesturing for them to follow. "We have been instructed to give you our full cooperation, Mr. Hardy. My office is small and a little messy, but we'll have more privacy there."

Fenton knew then that Detective Freeman was not given a choice on this matter.

The detective's office was small and cramp. The old tag on the creaky door read: Sean Freeman, CSI Detective First Grade. The cabinets and shelves staggered under the weight of numerous files, looking like they were going to collapse at any moment. This man clearly earned his title with a lifetime of commitment.

"We have limited resources, Mr. Hardy. But we've been instructed to put this particular case as our top priority…" Sean waved his hand to stop Fenton from interrupting. "Do not misunderstand. We are so short staffed I will always appreciate any help sent my way. There are way too many unsolved cases here. I assure you I will help in every way I can. I just want to be honest about the reality of how much resources I can devote to this case. The foremost priority here for me is always the safety of the victim."

"I used to work for the 23rd Precinct with the New York City police department," Fenton responded, knowing Sean would understand what he meant.

"I assume your son Frank will be assisting you in this investigation?" Sean asked casually and Fenton felt his son tensed in his seat.

Fenton tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. Somehow, he knew Frank being a considered person, would accept and respect whatever Sean has to say.

"I always appreciate an extra hand and mind when it comes to solving crime. However, stay close to your father, watch your back, and be very careful. This is a very dangerous neighborhood," Sean continued in a light and self-depreciating tone. "We topped the national charts for the distinctive honor of being the "most dangerous city" based on crime statistics in five categories as set by the FBI: murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, and auto-theft."

Frank, surprised by Detective Freeman's easy acceptance of his involvement, acknowledged and thanked the detective for his advice.

"Here, you grow up quick or not at all," Sean answered wryly before turning dead serious as he starting passing the files from the box over to Fenton, and to Frank. "Here is all the information we have on the two victims so far. The first victim was a young homeless black girl from downtown. Her body was found four days ago lying across one of the bins in the city dump. The second victim was a street hooker in her mid-thirties her body left sprawled across a bench at a park as if she was merely sleeping."

Fenton nodded as he and Frank perused the crime scene photographs and the preliminary reports from the first officers on scene.

"Both women were tortured and raped before they were killed. DNA evidence collected from both bodies came from three males: Andrew Kempton, William Kempton…" Sean answered in a grave tone, and then turned to face Fenton directly before continuing in a softer and gentler tone. "… and Joseph Hardy."

That caught him and Frank off-guard.

"No! My brother would never…" Frank blurted out instinctively.

The note left behind in the Atlantic Views apartment played itself in Fenton's mind over and over.

But Andrew was wrong. Joe was his son, and would always be his son no matter what. He had no doubt Andrew could drug or terrify his sons or even himself into doing things they would not do normally. His foremost concern now was the psychological impact on Joe when his younger son realized what he had done. For Joe's sake, he hoped fervently that the forensics report was wrong. Forensic science was after all hardly an exact science. He turned to Frank who was staring at the report, his face pale and his lips drawn into a thin white line.

"First we get Joe back," he said to Frank.

Then they would face and work through all the problems as a family, both father and son agreed silently.

"I know about your younger son, and what Andrew Kempton threatened to do. This was also why I felt it unwise for you to be involved in this case…" Sean confessed. "But my superiors insisted."

"How bad is the material evidence?" Fenton asked.

"We know what a good lawyer can do, Mr. Hardy. The DNA evidence from the victims' nails came from the Kemptons, suggesting that Joseph was not directly involved in their abduction or restraining them. Unfortunately, traces of semen from all three males were found on and in the victims' body…"

Fenton nodded grimly, better to know all the ugly details now.

"Personally, I think the semen could be planted," Sean added, much to Fenton's surprise. "You can go through the finer details with Anna, our forensic pathologist later. But I think our priority is to find Diana Hunt. According to that cryptic note left behind by Andrew Kempton, Diana has only until the witching hour tonight. I was hoping your familiarity with Andrew's past might help give us a clue as to what he was thinking and planning."

Who could tell what goes on in a mad man's mind? Fenton wondered bleakly. But he never had the chance to read that cryptic note. Several hard and loud raps on the door got all their attention, and the door burst opened without warning. A young police officer stood at the door looking every flustered and excited.

"Sorry to intrude, Sir! The morning patrol just picked up Ms. Hunt near the old waterfront. She's currently undergoing treatment at the Camden State Hospital…"

-o-

"NO!"

Mr. Hunt's reaction was exactly what Frank expected.

"My daughter is traumatized enough…"

Frank understood the father's perspective, but he found it hard to accept. He clenched his fingers and forced himself to stay in the background as his father and Detective Freeman try to persuade the protective father to let them talk to his daughter. Diana was after all their best chance to find the Kempton's lair in Camden in the shortest possible time, and their only link to Joe at this point in time. There were several officers scouring the old waterfront area where Diana was first seen and picked up. That was one big and cluttered area. They would find the lair eventually, but by then they might be left with another cold trail. No, they need Diana's help…

A trained female officer and counselor, Detective Freeman wheedled. And she would be gentle and non-intrusive.

"No."

The father was proving unreasonably stubborn, Frank decided just as unreasonably. There was another victim to be rescue. And not just any other victim; his little brother! Frank took a step forward and prepared to beg…

"Dill…" A very agitated and worried woman called out. "It's Diana… she's very upset. She wants to speak to a police officer… "

Given the fact that she shared many similar features with the photograph of Diana Hunt, Frank supposed this woman is Mrs. Hunt.

"She doesn't have to do it now, dear. The police can wait…" Dillon Hunt began.

Mrs. Hunt cut in firmly. "Diana is sixteen. She's very upset. There's someone else there. She needs to talk to someone NOW. Turning to Detective Freeman, she added. "I prefer, no I insist on only ONE FEMALE officer."

That was how he, his father, and Detective Freeman ended up waiting impatiently outside Diana's Hunt private ward while a female officer cum counselor chatted with Diana. Her two parents watched over her like two lions. But they could hear part of Diana's agitatedly loud voice seeping through the almost closed door.

"I ran and ran… lots of turns… lost… a brand name "Maxwell" something painted onto the wall…"

Frank strained his ears and listened intently, as his Dad and Detective Freeman was. He was glad to see Detective Freeman already marking down several locations on a map.

Then…

"You have to find him…"

Frank's heart missed a beat. He could hear a deep indrawn breath from his father.

"… young man… blond… helped me…"

That had to be Joe! Frank thought.

"They wanted him to hurt me… he refused…"

Of course not! Joe would never hurt anyone!

"They hurt him. God, how they hurt him…"

Diana was getting more and more agitated; her words were coming faster and louder.

"I thought he gave in… I was so scared… he fake it… told me to run when he said run… run and never looked back…"

Frank waited with bated breath for Diana's next words. He felt both pride and fear for his little brother. It was the fear that won.

"I ran. God forgive me, I ran and never looked back… I think he tried to stop them from coming after me…"

The words were coming even faster now. So fast he could barely decipher them.

"…He shouted 'run' and then he screamed. Oh my god, I can still hear him screams. I can still hear his screams…"

And then Diana broke down and cried.

It was then that Frank realized his own face was already wet.

-o-

Andrew Kempton glared down at the quivering lump of flesh on the bloody and grimy cement floor. He was furious, so furious even William fidgeted nervously waiting for further instructions.

How dare Joseph defy him and spoil his master plan! He gave the broken body on the floor another vicious kick. The body did not respond. That broke Andrew out of his blind rage. He bent down and checked for the pulse. The boy was still alive.

Good! Andrew smiled as yet another plan formed in his mind. Joseph was turning out to be tougher but much more fun than he expected. Thank goodness he did not kill the boy in his rage. Andrew did a quick preliminary check on the boy. A badly bruised torso, and possibly several broken bones. No visible signs of abuse on parts of the body that could not be concealed by clothing, such as the face.

The smile grew wider. This situation was salvageable, Andrew thought as he started issuing instructions to William. First they needed to execute a getaway. He knew exactly how that could be done.

-o-o-0-o-o-

I am Joe.

That's all I need or want to remember. I do not want to know my family name. In fact, I will reject that name if I know.

My Dad, you see, is a psychopath. His name is Fenton. He enjoys hurting people. Eventually they all die. Maybe one or two did escape, but those were the lucky few, the outliers on any statistical chart. But my Dad calls himself an investigator; a highly qualified medical investigator. He did all sorts of terrible experiments; maimed and killed lots of people. He is well-paid for his efforts.

You might wonder: who would employ someone like my Dad?

Big respectable pharmaceutical companies… and several other much less reputable sources.

Inhumane human and animal testing was frowned upon today. Yet the affluent miracle cures for their illnesses. That is where my Dad fit into the big picture. He did terrible things in the name of pushing the medical frontier and helping people. But I know the truth. Dad enjoys hurting people. This is the perfect profession for him.

I have an elder brother. His name is Frank. He is my father's pride and joy. He is everything my Dad wants him to be. He is becoming as skilled as my Dad.

And I? I am a failure. That is why I am in the shape I am in now: half starved and half-dead.

They tried to mould me into what they are. I am ashamed to admit at one point in time I tried to become what they wanted me to be.

Then there was this girl. They wanted me to rape her and then operate on her. She was staring up at me with her pale blue eyes. I could not tear my gaze from terror in her eyes. I knew then I could not, no matter the cost to me.

It was because I remembered Mom. I hung on to her image, her love, her compassion, and her humanity with everything I had. You see, we might live in a mad, mad, world. But I am born sane. As my Mom told me when she was still alive, I always have a choice, because God gave me that capacity to choose.

So I choose to do the right thing.

I helped that girl escape. I hoped to God she escaped.

For I am not like them – I am like Mom. I am Joe. And I am not like… them.

Dad was so mad he near killed me. But he did not. He nursed me back to life but not to health. I am now his guinea pig for his medical experiments. I do not remember what my life used to be like. But I remember always being afraid and fearful. I am no longer fearful, not unless my Dad drugged me with one of his terror-inducing concoctions. I have looked Death in the eye and made my choice. Now, when not in pain, I know a peace of sorts.

I move restlessly. I seek a more comfortable position. The shackles about my wrist and ankles chafed at my skin. Just out of my reach was an array of sharp and deadly medical gears. I know all of them intimately.

Last week, I lost two little toes on my left foot. I almost lost my entire left leg. But as I told you, my Dad is highly skilled. He managed to save the whole of it – except for two little toes. My Dad and my brother were experimenting with 'new improved treatments' for severe cases of frostbite. I sat for hours and days with my legs buried in huge tubs filled with salted ice. My poor legs were frozen and thawed many times over. Did you know that the key treatments we have for severe frostbites came from the Japanese experiments on the prisoners of war way back in World War Two?

My stomach growled painfully. When was it I last ate? I do not know. But my body cries for food and my soul cries for love. Did Dad and Frank leave and left me to starve to death alone in the dark? Perhaps that is a good thing, for then I can be with Mom again.

Still a part of me refused to die. I don't know why I should want to live. But I do want to live. Sorry Mom, I want to be with you, but I am still not ready to die. Not yet…

Wait! I hear sounds of footsteps heading towards me. I am still of use to Dad and Frank after all. Soon, they are standing right in front of me.

"Dad, Frank," I greeted them they way they expected me to, and waited for them to hand me my daily bread.

They did not. Instead, they both have this terrible smile on their face. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a real deep seated fear from the depths of my soul that was not drug-induced. Dad held up a needle filled with a strange amber colored liquid.

"My final test on you, son… this time, you will give me the results I want, and then you are free to join your beloved mother in heaven…"