Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.
The warning has been removed in response to a reviewer's concerns ;-)
Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. SORRY for the delay in posting this chapter. Work got in the way and then it was my birthday yesterday! I'll try not to leave you hanging so long for the next one.
Blame
Chapter Thirteen
Something – he couldn't identify exactly what – but something in either Frank's words or tone got through to Fenton.
He tore his gaze away from the house and met his eldest son's eyes. Then he simply nodded his head.
The decision made, the hurdle overcome, Fenton and Frank opened their car doors simultaneously. As they did, Con straightened up from his slouched position on the hood of the car. His eyes immediately sought out Frank's.
The teenager jerked his head towards the house – silently requesting assistance when he couldn't speak out loud. He didn't want to say the words that might undermine his dad – but they would need the help of the Bayport PD and Con Riley was one of their best.
Fenton didn't acknowledge either of them. With a new found resolution he marched up to the front door and put his key in the lock.
The alarm blared and Fenton froze. He had once carried his wife over that very threshold.
Then Frank brushed passed him, punched in the code and silenced the alarm. Fresh guilt crept up on Fenton. Why was he having such a hard time with priorities?
Your wife or your child. You choose.
It was an age-old nightmare; one he'd had since he'd first learnt they were expecting their first child. It had once held the power to terrify him, but not any more. Now there was no choice to be made – he no longer had a wife. Now it was a battle between his past and his present; the dead and the living; the hopeless and…
It wasn't a choice – not really – but Fenton chose Joe.
"My office," he snapped.
Frank and Con exchanged a glance; both relieved to note that Fenton Hardy was back to firing on all cylinders again.
Frank was at a distinct disadvantage out of the three of them, when it came to knowing about Houghton. His dad had obviously worked on the case and, as soon as the man had escaped from jail, Con had pulled his file and learnt everything there was to know about the case. Frank, as did Joe, only knew the meagre facts that his father had supplied him with and what he was able to track down on the Internet.
He knew there was a lot he didn't know; things that would never appear in a newspaper and would always be hidden away in a confidential police report. Only first-hand knowledge or access to said report would tell him everything.
Frank needed details; he needed to know everything there was to know. There might be something – some small clue he wasn't aware of – that could be the key to finding Joe. The trouble was he didn't think his dad would feel too much like sharing some of those details; not considering that the man's crimes might currently be being inflicted on his youngest son.
Frank hadn't found anything regarding exactly what had happened to those unfortunate people during their actual periods of captivity – and he found that to be more than a little disturbing. What, exactly, did Houghton do to them in order to destroy them so completely?
He knew that he had to choose his questions carefully and he started with one that had been nagging at him since back at the precinct:
"Dad, you said to Chief Collig that there had never been much evidence of anything; what did you mean by that?" Then he couldn't help but add: "If there was no evidence, then how did you catch him – much less convict him?"
Fenton sighed and rubbed one hand wearily across his face. He had known that this conversation was inevitable, but was still reluctant to share too many details. It wasn't that he didn't trust Frank; he just didn't want him obsessing over what might be happening to Joe instead of focussing fully on the manhunt. He was having a hard enough time doing that himself.
"Sometimes a cop, or an investigator, just gets lucky," he answered eventually. "Houghton was only ever convicted on three counts of kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment."
"But dad, what he did to those people…" Frank was fishing for details, but he needed to know. "How..?"
"Houghton never confessed to anything," Fenton answered – knowing what his son was demanding: how did you drive someone to suicide? "His victims either couldn't – or wouldn't – talk. He himself never once spoke of what he did – not under interrogation; not in court; not even at sentencing. So a lot of what we have is just theory and conjecture; at least about what happened to those people whilst he held them captive." That wasn't strictly true – their theories had been well founded, but there were some things Frank would never know.
The raucous noise stopped as suddenly as it had started, but the lights still did not go out. Joe was on the verge of total despair; pain and exhaustion threatening to completely overwhelm him; but even though the noise was gone, he could still hear it reverberating around his skull.
He didn't even realise that he was no longer alone until he heard his cell door slam violently shut. Jerking upright, he looked around wildly – totally disoriented by lights and the noise. Then his eyes alighted on the fake police officer, standing outside his cell looking in.
"When you're given food you will eat it," the man said, coldly. "Or else we will stop feeding you. It's not our intention to kill you, but if you should die…" He shrugged, as though that eventuality was of no concern to him. Then he turned and walked away.
Joe stared at the space he had just vacated and then his eyes drifted slowly downwards. There, on the inside of the cell door, were a paper plate and cup – guaranteed that they could not be utilised as some sort of weapon. He slid off the bunk and approached them suspiciously. He didn't doubt for a second that his kidnapper would make good on his threat, but his appetite wasn't exactly demanding sustenance.
Then he realised that he had no need to worry on that count. The plate held only two slices of unbuttered brown bread and the cup was just water. If he hadn't been so thoroughly miserable, then Joe might have smiled sardonically at the cliché of typical prison fare – but there was no mirth, dark or otherwise, within him.
He retrieved his meagre meal and moved back to his bunk. He was thirsty and the water was actually welcome, but he also forced himself to choke down the bread. He hadn't eaten at all that day – if it was, indeed, still the same day – and he did recognise the need to keep his strength up.
Thinking of what day it might be added another worry onto Joe's already laden shoulders. His watch was gone and he had absolutely no way of monitoring the passage of time. He couldn't even hazard a guess as to how long he had already been in captivity.
Sighing, Joe lay back down on the bed – again using one arm to cover his eyes. The second he did so, the noise blasted out again.
The entire Bayport PD was on the lookout for Joe, for Houghton and for the mystery man who'd masqueraded as a cop. So far, there had been nothing to report.
Houghton's parents' house – where he had taken his original victims – had been sold on and was currently occupied by a family of five. None of his other former hangouts had turned up a thing. The phoney cop lead was a needle in a haystack and the search for the car an even bigger bust.
In short, they had absolutely nothing to go on.
Fenton was thoroughly sickened, if not overly surprised. Up until that morning, there hadn't been a single confirmed sighting of Houghton since his escape from prison – and now he had simply and effectively disappeared again.
He couldn't help but remember the last time, almost twelve years ago. They had got lucky that time – and, though he could pray for history to repeat itself, he didn't hold out much hope of pure dumb luck coming to their aid again.
No, it was up to them and they had to move fast. One of Houghton's victims had been released after only two days – and yet still enough damage had been done to cause the young man to throw himself under a train.
He wouldn't let Joe go through such trauma and he definitely wouldn't be mourning another member of his family. Though Fenton wanted to believe that Joe would be strong enough – that his son, who was following so admirably in his own footsteps, would never succumb to psychological torture – he knew the case too well; knew exactly what Houghton was capable of.
In normal times, Joe would have had a hard time resisting the man's twisted games. Houghton's original victims were considered to be normal and well-balanced individuals. But then their abductor had found their deepest fear, their darkest secret or their biggest shame and had turned it against them. He had found their breaking point and then pushed them beyond it.
And Fenton knew that everyone had a breaking point. It was only too easy to imagine what Joe's would be right now.
Fenton inwardly winced as he thought about his own part in making Joe believe that he might be responsible for the death of his mother. Though they had managed to speak about it after the anger of Joe's hospital room, Houghton had disrupted their attempted reconciliation. Joe had said sorry, but Fenton never got the chance to.
He had also asked Frank whether Joe hated him and he remembered his immense relief when his eldest son answered in the negative. Now that relief felt bitter, even in his memory. The question should have been: does Joe think I hate him? Fenton couldn't answer – and with that thought came the knowledge that he had played directly into Houghton's hands.
He was hoping that Joe would be strong enough – but how could he be when his own father had provided some of the ammunition needed to break him?
Unknowingly, he silently echoed Frank's thought that a clock was ticking against them. But they didn't even have a place to start looking.
TBC