Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

WARNING: (Yes, I do believe it warrants another one!) There is mention of a child's death. Please DO NOT READ if this is likely to upset or offend you. And Houghton is a sick and twisted individual, in case you hadn't noticed! Please consider yourselves warned.

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. Honestly, you are amazing and make this endeavour a real pleasure!

Blame

Chapter Fourteen

"Dad?" Frank had to say something; his father had been staring off into space for some minutes. He could see the guilt weighing heavily on him but they simply did not have time for this. He still needed answers: "Dad, how did you catch him the last time?"

"He made a mistake." It was Con who answered the question – but Frank held up one hand, silencing him.

He needed his dad to be back on board with them. Ironically, it was Con's words that snapped Fenton out of his stupor.

"Con!" There was a definite warning in Fenton's tone.

"Dad!" Frank's protest was immediate, as the actual words Con had said registered in his mind. A mistake? How could his dad not want him to know about it?

"Yes he made a mistake, Frank." Fenton's tired voice answered his unspoken question. "But…" He paused, wondering how he could possibly explain what was essentially only a gut instinct – that Houghton would never repeat such a mistake. "His mistake was in his choice of victim."

"The last one, Emily Hudson." Frank easily remembered the anomaly with that victim. Almost a month passed before she took her own life – desperate enough to stick her head into her gas cooker. "Why, dad? She went back to her life. What happened to her?"

Fenton sighed. He really didn't want to get into this – didn't want to offer even one iota of hope. He knew it would turn out to be false hope and so he tried to play it down as much as he could: "Her husband never let her out of his sight. He was a real rock for her and we genuinely thought that she would survive."

The explanation still did nothing to enlighten Frank. "So what did he do?" he pressed. "What happened – after a month – to make her do that?"

Fenton and Con exchanged a look. This was one of the most horrific aspects of the case; but it had ultimately led to Houghton's downfall.

"He sent them a tape." Fenton didn't look at Frank as he answered. "On it, Emily was begging Houghton to let her unborn baby die in peace – painlessly. She took, or was forced to take, Misoprostol. That's how we caught him. It's a very specialist drug to get hold of."

"Did he kill her child?" Frank was beyond appalled. Such cruelty was beyond comprehension.

"Emily, like the other victims, wouldn't speak about what happened. Maybe they couldn't remember, maybe they were threatened…"

"Dad, the baby?" Frank pressed.

"Misoprostol is used to induce abortions," Fenton eventually answered, with obvious reluctance. "We don't know what he did to make her so desperate." He felt sick at the mere memory. "But she lost the baby."

The noise stopped for a second time and Joe sat up, abruptly. The last time, the silence had coincided with a 'meal'. This time, it coincided with Houghton appearing outside his cell.

There was a rattle of keys and then the cell door swung open.

"Come on!" Houghton sounded irritated; impatient.

Joe got to his feet and staggered slightly. For the first time, he wondered as to whether his food or drink had been drugged. If so, it was too late to do anything about it. He took a hesitant step forwards.

"Move it!" Houghton lost all pretence of patience and marched into the cell, grabbing hold of Joe's left arm.

Joe reacted instinctively. He was used to danger; wasn't cowed by threats. And, this time, his hands weren't bound. And if he was being drugged, he knew that he had to act before those drugs took too firm a hold.

Feigning compliance, he took one step forwards and then he struck. He threw his whole bodyweight into Houghton, slamming him against the bars of the cell.

Houghton took a pained breath – used it to cry out a name, Carl – and then Joe used momentum to crash into him again. His assailant collapsed, moving feebly.

Joe didn't waste a single second. He didn't know how badly he had hurt Houghton and wasn't about to delay to find out. This might be his only chance of escape.

He never, for a moment, believed that Houghton's gasped cry had been heard and he needed to gain some distance before his assailant recovered sufficiently to call out more loudly for help.

The outer door was thankfully unlocked and Joe yanked it open. Then he found himself staring down the business end of a gun.

It wasn't possible that Houghton had been heard, but Joe had forgotten about the security camera. Just because there was no flashing light didn't mean that it wasn't recording – or being monitored.

The man holding the gun was, unsurprisingly, his original kidnapper. At least now Joe had a name to put to the face, but that was very small consolation. Carl was smiling evilly at him from behind the weapon – and Joe's abortive escape attempt was thwarted.

The man moved quickly and pain exploded in Joe's jaw as the gun barrel connected solidly with it. He fell, heavily – darkness clawing at the edge of his vision and automatic tears filling his eyes.

He could offer no resistance as he was wrestled onto his stomach; barely felt the cuffs, yet again, encircling his wrists.

Then his pain was pushed to the back of his mind, as Houghton's voice growled in his ear:

"Interrogation time, killer."

They dragged him back to the room where he had been forced to strip. This time, there was a chair set a small distance away from the table and Joe was thrust into it. The ache in his jaw hadn't abated one little bit. It pulsed in time with his rapidly beating heart.

Houghton moved to stand directly in front of him and Carl stood behind the chair, keeping an achingly firm grip on his left shoulder.

"So." Houghton leant back against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest. "Are you ready to save us all a whole lot of time and confess to your crimes?"

Joe went to answer, but was forced to flinch away when the ache in his jaw flared into genuine pain. He wondered if it was broken. He shook his head, slowly – partially in negation at Houghton's question and partially to try and clear his befuddled mind.

"Innocent men don't run," Carl growled from behind him – his clawed fingers tightening cruelly into the muscles of his shoulder.

"The man has a point." Houghton straightened up and began to pace; his eyes never leaving Joe. "If you are innocent, why would you try to escape?"

Joe blinked at him, wondering if he was possibly losing his mind. This wasn't real; he wasn't actually under arrest; wasn't being held in a State facility. He had been kidnapped by these goons – of course he would try to escape. Anyone in their right mind would, given half an opportunity. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen some of the stiffness that was setting in. But then Houghton spoke again before he could formulate a suitable response.

"Alright, if you don't feel like talking – how about I talk and you can correct me if I go wrong." He stopped pacing and leant forwards, putting his face very close to Joe's. "You killed your mother. Period." Then he straightened back up, folded his arms and just waited.

"Dad, you told me that Houghton had never killed anybody." Frank was angry and it was reflected in his tone. He didn't like being lied to at any time – but now it bore direct relation to Joe and added a terrifying new dimension to his possible fate.

Fenton didn't immediately respond. His own thoughts had taken a very dark turn and he didn't fully trust himself to speak. Luckily, Con was there to come to his rescue.

"New York doesn't have any Foetal Homicide laws," the young cop answered quietly. "Legally, he didn't…"

"Dammit, Con, that's just semantics!" Frank exploded. It didn't matter a jot whether the State laws classed an unborn child as a person in their own right or not. Dead was still dead. "He's not supposed to be a killer!"

"But he is, anyway, isn't he?" Fenton chose that moment to speak up and the look he aimed at Frank was dark and brooding. "He became a killer when he…"

Frank stood up abruptly, his chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor and interrupting his father's words. He stalked across the office and then stopped; turning to nail his father with an accusatory glare.

"I can't believe I never even wondered about that!" he snapped, dragging one hand through his already unruly hair. "You were so sure, dad – so sure! You knew that Houghton killed mom." He shook his head, knowing it was worry over Joe that had made him miss the inconsistency in his dad's behaviour. "You told us he wasn't a killer, but then you were certain he killed mom. What else did he do, dad? What else?!"

"He wasn't a killer – not in the eyes of the law," Fenton answered tightly. He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes as he struggled to find his composure. "I never lied to you."

"Dad, it doesn't matter." Frank forced himself to calm down. He knew they didn't have time to argue, but he wasn't about to let this go completely just yet. It was too important. "I just want to know what you think he's going to do now."

"Frank…" He didn't even want to think about it, much less put his deepest fears into words.

"Five minutes ago, I didn't believe him to be capable of murder!" Frank's own fears were suddenly brought out into the open. "Do you think Joe's even still alive?"

Fenton opened his mouth, intending to offer reassurance that Houghton's revenge wouldn't be so anticlimactic, but no words emerged.

Houghton revelled in finding peoples' breaking points. Now Laura was dead and Joe was missing. Maybe Houghton hadn't taken Joe in order to find the teenager's breaking point – maybe he was, instead, pushing Fenton until he reached his.

He looked at Frank and knew that he could not lie: "I don't know, son," he said – and saw the terror he felt mirrored in his eldest son's eyes.

TBC