Apologies for the delay in updating, but work is hectic right now, so the chapters may be a LITTLE slower coming – but I'll try to keep delays to a minimum! Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.
BLAME
Sam convinced Frank to go back inside the house. Late evening had descended into night and the threatened rain had just begun to fall.
When they re-entered the kitchen, only Fenton remained and both of them figured that Gertrude must have retired for the night. Whether she was tired or not, she was astute enough to recognise that the three men needed to talk – and it would be on a subject they were not willing to discuss in front of her.
Her early retirement meant that they didn't have to make any excuses and descend back into the confines of Fenton's office.
Frank took a deep, steadying breath as he sat back down at the kitchen table. He and Sam had been gone long enough for the table to be cleared and the crockery put through the dishwasher.
He looked at his dad. Honesty was important right now – and so he maintained eye contact. "I'm sorry," he said.
"No, Frank. I am." Fenton had had his own time of contemplation – and had also endured his sister's piercing gaze drilling through him as she cleaned up the kitchen. "I never meant to mislead you."
"It doesn't matter, dad." Frank offered a grim smile. "Sam…" He exchanged a glance with the man in question. "Sam explained a few things. Now we just need to focus on finding Joe."
The conversation back on track, Sam chimed in: "Has the FBI been back in contact? Any word on Sherrie?"
"Not yet." Fenton scrubbed one hand over his face; exhaustion creeping up on him. He had slept badly the night before and suspected the same was true of Frank. He knew for a fact that Sam had spent the night on an airplane. He sighed. "We should probably turn in. The feds could call at any time. We'll need to be alert."
Frank heaved out a sigh of his own. His dad telling him to rest only reinforced how damned helpless he was feeling. He could rest, but only because there was nothing else to do. Every conventional avenue was being thoroughly explored by the local PD – a quick call from Con had reassured them of that.
He briefly considered typing 'Sherrie' into a search engine and then shuddered inwardly as he imagined the tens of thousands – if not hundreds of thousands – of results such a search might generate. It wouldn't even be like looking for a needle in a haystack; more like looking for a needle in a field of needles.
Sighing again – and realising that his one hope of finding a lead was an impossible one – Frank zoned back in on the conversation. His dad was inviting Sam to stay the night.
"You can sleep…" Fenton trailed off embarrassedly. Where could Sam sleep? The guest room had been taken by Gertrude; the couch was reserved for him; the bedroom he had once shared with Laura was still strictly off-limits; and it simply didn't feel right to offer the use of Joe's room.
"You can sleep in my room." Frank came to the rescue. He knew he would again spend the night trying to be as close as he possibly could be to his brother – even if that was only by sleeping atop his bed.
Joe didn't even know that he'd been taken back to his cell. One cold floor was swapped for another and his pain – from everything he had endured at the hands of Houghton and Carl from the onset of his captivity – was a constant companion.
But he never even felt the physical pain any more. The mental anguish was all consuming.
He lay on the floor of his cell – arms wrapped around his midriff and knees drawn upwards towards his stomach.
Words – condemning words – reverberated around his brain, but he was too far gone to realise that those words were only inside his head,
He lay in silence and in darkness but, still, Joe couldn't find the peace he craved.
His eyes were open and he stared into black nothingness – but he didn't see the darkness. Instead, he was staring inwardly; remembering the picture of his mother. He had to concentrate to hold onto the image – to remember her laughing eyes and radiant smile. If he lost his focus, even for a second, the picture crumpled and distorted and became the obscene image he had last seen lying on the interrogation room floor.
Joe frowned as he strove to keep his mental image intact. He wasn't even aware of the tears any more.
And, as much as he couldn't control his grief – he had no knowledge of his mouth silently mouthing the same words over and over:
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Frank awoke with a start – having very little memory of actually going to sleep. But he still didn't feel rested. Though he couldn't recall having dreamed, the rapid beating of his heart and his shortened breath were physical evidence that he'd been caught in the grip of a nightmare.
Absently, he reached up to rub one hand over his face. Then he withdrew that hand and stared at it, almost uncomprehendingly. His palm still sheened from the tears he had wiped away.
"God, Joe. Where are you?"
Rubbing at his treacherous eyes again, Frank went through his morning routine in a numb, detached state.
His brother had now been missing for almost two whole days and they still had no clue where to look for him. Two days had proved crucial in the past – as far as Houghton was concerned. It was all he needed to completely destroy a life.
Stepping out of the shower, Frank briefly considered shaving. Then he looked down at his hands – at the way they trembled minutely and had done since the moment Joe had been taken – and decided against it. If nothing else, a couple of day's growth of stubble would give Joe something to tease him about when he came home.
"Today, kiddo." Frank promised, staring intently into the mirror. And his reflection transformed into his brother's handsome face, as he spoke those words aloud. "Today."
And then the phone rang.
Frank darted out into the hallway – still wearing only a towel. The phone stopped ringing, but Frank snatched up the extension anyway. He was just in time to hear the tail-end of his dad's greeting to Special Agent Adrian Mason.
There was an extremely brief exchange of cordialities and then Frank offered a silent prayer of thanks, as Mason said the words they had been longing to hear:
"We've got an address."
Joe slept – but, like his brother, he had no memory of going to sleep. He didn't even know he had closed his eyes. That action only resulted in one darkness being exchanged for another. But the deeper darkness resided in his soul – and it was that darkness that prompted the nightmares.
Unlike Frank, he wasn't blessed with no memory of his dreams. Every moment was as stark and clear as a video playing in his head:
An intersection. A green light. Joe gently accelerated. Then he saw the Buick and swerved hard to avoid a collision. Then suddenly, another Buick was bearing down on him from the left. He swerved again – straight into the path of a Buick coming towards him head on.
Joe glanced in the rear view mirror – and saw a sea of Buicks speeding towards him. And Houghton grinned at him from behind every steering wheel.
Joe panicked. He didn't know what to do!
He sawed wildly at the steering wheel and then the telegraph pole reared up in his vision.
Impact was loud but, strangely, Joe felt nothing. His seatbelt was snug across his chest and hips. The car flipped; spun spectacularly. But Joe's seatbelt held him firm and comfortable. It was like being on a not very scary rollercoaster.
But his mom was screaming next to him – and blood was beginning to stain the windows, the seats, the entire interior of the car…
And that was when he woke. The lights were back on and there were muted background noises.
It wasn't a shout any more – it was a whisper. But the accusations were still the same:
Matricide. Mother-killer.
The insidious words crippled him as deeply as when they had been screamed at him. But now they were more than an accusation.
Now, to him, they were a fact.
Joe had been made to believe what he had been told; was forced to accept it as the truth.
He had killed his mother.
Vaguely remembering the brief oblivion he had once found, Joe slowly – almost subconsciously – lifted his head a couple of inches off the floor. Then he let it drop again. New pain didn't even register over the old. He repeated the action, letting his head bang onto the floor for a second time.
When he tried to do it a third time, he felt hands suddenly grab him.
"Not yet, killer." Houghton growled at him. "You wanna kill yourself, that's all well and good. But not before we get your confession."
'Sherrie' turned out to be Cheryl Matthews and she had been Houghton's father's midlife crisis. She had been his other woman; his affair.
That was all they knew on the back of a six a.m. phone call. It was all they needed to know. Details might come later, but they could wait.
The only important fact was that Sherrie died – and she left behind a big, empty property. It was the address of said property that Mason provided them with.
But the information came with a gruff warning attached: "We're mobilising a task force in conjunction with the local PD. We're moving now, so if you want to be a part of it…"
"We're on our way." Fenton shot back, without hesitation.
Frank dropped the phone – not caring if it was heard and gave away his eavesdropping. They were going to find Joe.
Dashing back into his bedroom, he dressed in record time. As he did, he thought about the address they'd been given. 'Ocean View' was the highest point of Bayport; situated overlooking Shore Road – the main thoroughfare in and out of Bayport.
It was mostly ignored by the locals; having fallen into disrepair as wealthy owners died and adverse weather played havoc with the ancient structures, thus deterring any future investors.
Ocean View was a part of Bayport's past – but it was also the place where Sherrie died.
Isolated, virtually inaccessible and with rumours from local kids (as was bound to be the case) of hauntings, it was no wonder that the place had fallen off even Bayport's map.
Frank thundered down the stairs – and then virtually collided with his dad and Sam. Both men looked equally dishevelled as he felt and shaving had been forsaken by them all.
Excited and adrenaline pumped, Frank allowed himself an inward smile. Joe would have a field day seeing all of them sporting the 'Miami Vice' look.
He couldn't wait to hear him tease.
TBC