A/N: Ok, from the top, parts of the middle of this chapter start to go badly for Joe, and the next few chapters contain a line or two that are a bit, um, icky. Not as badly as Coming of Age went for Frank, at least. It just seemed to fit with the jungle and the personalities of Shuman, Rao, and Clippy. They're not nice souls, and they won't seem to go away, alas. My muse really should associate with a better caliber of people. Many thanks to Cherylann and Paulina Ann; you're keeping me moving along on the posting.

CHAPTER 13

Fenton scratched an gritty hand through his hair, watching the coastline of Ranei slip away. Less than twenty four hours ago, he'd sworn he wasn't leaving the island without his son, and yet here he was, sailing away on a cramped fishing boat, nestled on the deck between splintered crates that reeked of last week's catch. He'd left Connor Moore's home after slinging his files and some clothes into Joe's suitcase, barely restraining himself from ringing in for round two with the man. It had taken scarcely an hour to conclude that he trusted no one on the island, and never should have, but it required the remainder of the day to find a captain more interested in American money than the local army.

Not that he had any intention of heeding the inane suggestion to go home to Laura until he could bring Joe with him. There weren't that many things the detective feared, but at the moment he was faced with two of them, losing Joe, and facing his wife if he did. Determined to avoid both, he didn't want his aquatic hitchhiking to take him any further than the boating equivalent of around the corner. The last week of poring over shipping charts might have earned him a stiff neck, but it also left with him with a more than casual knowledge of the local coast. Mixing that knowledge with a dollop of the ships Joe had centered in on and a sprinkling of Connor's panicked conjectures, and voila . . . Fenton still might not make much of a chef, but he had a clear idea of where he wanted to go. He just didn't know how to get there. Step one, though, was to escape the capitol, he was sure of that, and so here he was, impersonating a especially large fish.

The capitol of Ranei spooned around a horseshoe bay, the slopes of the city providing spectacular views of the turquoise waters. The glaring difference between this trip and his first visit to the island nation disappeared if you looked out over the sea. He remembered lounging on the hotel veranda with Laura before the rebellion, admiring the crystal water and confectionary white sand as the boys surfed. The city then mirrored the natural palette, the pale whites and tans of the buildings matching the beaches and cliffs while the scattered green islands of jungle vegetation blended seamlessly into the waters. Now, the city boasted only a few unscathed structures, speckled amidst blackened palms, burned out cars, and gray heaps of rubble and soot. The ocean, though, remained unalterably serene, mocking the islanders' ability to truly influence what happened here. The waves still crashed, jewel toned birds still screeched overhead, vines still wound their way through the forest in riotous over-abundance. Something about the scene shouted that war or no, peaceful populace or every human life wiped from the island, the basic rhythm here wouldn't be changed. Couldn't be changed.

Fenton shook his head, trying to dislodge the melancholy that had apparently taken up residence. He'd intentionally suppressed his anger, but that left far too much time for his sleep deprived mind to wander to his sons. Assuming he still had two. The moment that thought hit it had launched his current mood and now it wouldn't go. There hadn't been any way to contact Laura and Frank since he departed Bayport, leaving him carefully nurturing a belief that they were fine. Even if the ploy to hide Frank had succeeded, his eldest son had still undergone two additional surgeries since he'd seen him last. Fenton couldn't permit himself to consider that perhaps they hadn't gone well or worse that anyone might be aware of the deception. No, he needed every scrap of energy focused on Joe. He would find his son in time. There wasn't any other option.

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"Jooeeeey, waaakkke uu-uup."

The soft sing songy voice was right beside his ear, barely whispered but somehow clanging like a freight train battering its way through his skull. When I do manage to wake up, you are so dead, Frank. There is no way we are late enough for school to justify that... that... that whatever it is you're doing... Think I'm too sick to go, actually... huh... head hurts...

"Joeeeeey..."

For crying out loud... uh...

"Joe Hardy, I told you to wake your lazy butt up!"

Tight fingers wound in his hair, jerking his head up from the floor.

That's definitely not Frank. Wood planks rolled under his stomach as Joe blinked his matted lashes open, the gently pitching deck of a ship refusing to come into focus. Eventually it coalesced into something recognizable, weather-grayed boards, an assortment of boots, and a kneeling man he couldn't identify. He managed to tilt his head slightly, confirming the boots had owners. Laying on his stomach with what felt like a foot heavily planted in his back, Joe couldn't see any higher than their knees, but somehow he didn't think they were the welcoming committee.

"You awake now, kid?" The man dipped his face a little lower, waiting until the blood shot sapphire eyes wandered closer to his own. Satisfied his young captive was now paying attention, he uncurled his hand, abruptly releasing the blonde waves. He laughed as Joe's cheekbone hit the decking and bounced once. "Get yourself together, we're going ashore in ten minutes."

Get yourself together... heard that before... I tried Mr. Morton, really did... was pulling it off pretty well there for awhile... I'm sorry, Chet... The weight on Joe's back subsided and he saw all but one pair of the boots retreat. When he spoke the rasp of his own voice surprised him. "Ashore where?"

"You aren't going to be around long enough to care, Hardy."

The snappy comebacks of a day earlier were nowhere to be found as Joe fought to piece his memory together. Every inch of him ached, surely there was an explanation for that? He remembered the office building, the infuriatingly smug look on Clipboard's face, and then everything got hazy. Before he could ponder any further, his stomach rebelled. Joe hastily pushed himself up on stiff elbows and knees, helpless to stop an endless round of retching. Oh yeah, that's what happened next...

"Knock it off, you're making a damn mess."

Joe didn't answer, too preoccupied with gasping for air to bother. The dry heaves finally ceased and he let his forehead loll against the floor, panting. He hadn't noticed the thick rusted chain wrapped in layers around his wrists until he tried to wipe his mouth. His hands wouldn't move, but he couldn't tell if they were attached to anything or simply weighed down. It didn't much matter, right now he couldn't lift a teacup. The air problem returned with a vengeance, his brain too sluggish to register the heavy black boot flying at his side until after the kick flopped him onto his back. You didn't have to do that...oh, owww... owww... really didn't... I feel like a flipped over turtle... wonder if turtles get cracked ribs... yeah, probably right before they die...

Unable to do anything else, he listened to the familiar sounds of a boat being tied up at dock intermingled with snatches of a conversation he couldn't understand. He hadn't had much opportunity to talk to Frank about what had happened to him as a prisoner of the rebel militia, but that was one thing that they had discussed, albeit briefly. The utter frustration of the language barrier, of having no way to prepare for whatever was coming. Least they're not asking me anything... they asked Frank questions he couldn't understand and then beat him when he couldn't answer... I should have found you sooner, Frank... should have found Chet... I'm sorry...

"We're here, get up."

Now that voice Joe could understand. Definitely American, probably Midwest by the accent. It was the same voice he'd heard hustling him into the truck yesterday. Yesterday? He blanched when he realized it could have been longer. There was no way to know.

"Are you deaf? Get up." Another swift kick in the stomach punctuated the question.

"Yeah, ok." Joe feebly responded as soon as he could pull in a breath. There didn't seem to be an abundance of alternatives. He rocked back onto his knees, kneeling for a mere second before vertigo claimed him and he toppled back to his side. With his hands lashed together nearly to up to his elbows, there wasn't any good way to catch himself. A second and third attempt didn't go any better. "I can't."

"What did you say?"

Joe grounded his teeth together in frustration, hating the useless rubber that seemed to have replaced his legs. Hating being helpless more. "I said, I can't."

A peal of laughter wholly inappropriate to the situation took a moment to subside. "Can't get your feet to work, kid? I've always loved this particular little poison; the muscle side effects are a real treat. What did you call it, recreational pharmaceuticals? Good a name as any, I suppose, it's amusing me, after all. Most of the time it wears off, sometimes it doesn't. Won't matter in your case."

"Ayo di sini dan majukan puteri, kelihatannya dia tidak bisa berjalan."

A pair of the soldiers broke off from their tasks and approached Joe, one slipping his hands beneath Joe's arms from behind and hauling him to his feet. The other man promptly wrapped huge arms around the youth's waist and hefted him over a shoulder before starting down the gangplank.

Bear hug Neanderthal man from the office... Greaaat... Joe struggled to track the wavering, upside down view as black sand beach and palms gave way to dripping bamboo jungle, but ultimately it was the muscle rippled back bouncing against his nose that captured his attention. Crud, he's huge...

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"You're doing great, Frank, one more step."

"That's what you s-said last time, remember?" Frank shot the therapist an obviously faked dirty look, but made it the three steps to the end of the gym.

"Yeah, but this time I meant it." She unclipped the support line from the leather belt around his waist and patted the raised treatment platform beside her, pleasantly surprised when her patient laid down without a protest. "Tired?"

"A little." He swiped at his damp forehead with his good hand, ignoring the pull in his hamstrings as she repeatedly pulled one knee up to his chest. "More sleepy, I think."

"Now that's something I'd like to know about." A new voice sounded from the corner and quickly traversed the therapy department.

Both Frank and his physical therapist turned to find Dr. Wilkins staring at the pair of them. "Hi, doc."

"Hi. Karen, can you give us minute?"

"Not a problem." Tugging the heavy red braid over her shoulder out of habit, she retreated to the white counter and red chairs that rimmed one wall of the room, pulling up her progress notes on the monitor there. She idly tapped her foot against a yellow bin full of various sized green and blue balls as she started to work.

Frank watched her all the way there, then glanced around at the primary colored mats that carpeted the floor and treatment areas before returning his attention to the surgeon. Sometimes in here he felt like he was intruding on a reprise of Romper Room - or a miniature version of Barnum and Bailey. The construction cone orange walls did little to dispel the thought.

"So, how come I have to traipse all the way down here to find you, Frank? I don't think you've spent ten minutes in your room during the last three days. It's obvious you're tired, and your mother asked me about giving you something to help you sleep - without telling you. What's up?" Wilkins sat on the mat's edge, content to wait for an answer.

"You guys have lousy beds. You s-steal those mattresses from the Spanish in-quisition?" Frank smiled slightly, hoping to blow the conversation off. Didn't look like it was going to work that way. Resigned, he gave half a shrug and grunted his way to sitting up. "I f-figured as long as I couldn't sleep, I might as well make use of my time. Karen didn't s-seem to mind."

"She doesn't as long as you follow the gym rules. As a matter of fact, you've made about ten days worth of progress in the last four, but that doesn't explain the sleeping." He ran a hand over the silver beard, waiting again.

Not like I can tell him I don't have time to sleep, not that I could anyway... Whatever's going on with Joe, there's no way I can help him sulking around in a hospital... I have to be on my feet... "I really don't s-sleep well away from home."

"And where's that?"

Frank shook his head, the conversational smile fading. "You know I can't answer that."

"Sooner or later you're going to have to talk to somebody, Frank, those nightmares of yours are becoming a hospital legend." The scrub clad surgeon shifted, catching sight of something behind the toffee brown eyes. "I'm not a bad ear..."

"Thanks, but I'm f-fine. I just need to get out of the hospital. It's been a while." The older Hardy hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

Wilkins let out a loud sigh and eased Frank's arm from its sling, resuming some stretching exercises. "Ok. I know better, but ok. That's not what I came to tell you, though."

"No?" Frank carefully schooled his features before he spoke. If his face gave away how much moving that shoulder still hurt, he'd never get out of here.

"No. You really have gotten further along with therapy than I expected this week, so there's not a lot more I can do for you. You remember us talking about a rehab hospital?"

Frank nodded, but he didn't look happy about it. "You really think I need that? A few more days here and m-maybe I could be discharged instead?" He knew there was a plan in place for where to stay if he was released from the medical center before his father and brother came home. He didn't know the details yet, but wherever it was, it was likely to be easier to slip away from there than from a rehab hospital. He had to get to Joe.

"Afraid that won't work. It will take until tomorrow to finalize the paperwork, but then you're headed for Health South. It's a smaller hospital that does rehabilitation after major injuries, strokes, prolonged illness; that sort of thing. They have a department that's specifically aimed at younger patients and athletes. The goal of a regular hospital therapy department, even a good one like ours, is to make someone functional. Get out of your bed, dress yourself, walk down the hall alone. That's fine in certain situations, but how long are you going to be satisfied with that level of ability?" The doctor paused, knowing the dark haired youth had no intention of settling for that. "I know you don't think so, Frank, and you've been doing great, but you need another three or four weeks of inpatient therapy. Health South can do that. We can't."

The dark haired youth didn't hide his disappointment very well. "Where's this p-place?"

"There's a bunch of them actually, but the arrangements for you were in place before you were ever admitted here. You're headed for Princeton, WV."

"Can't s-say that I've ever been there." And can't say that I'm going there now...

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to be continued...