Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.
BLAME
Father and son watched in absolute silence as the rest of the vehicles emptied – and the various law enforcement agencies worked seamlessly together; deploying quickly and efficiently to surround Sherrie's old house.
It should have been a sight to inspire confidence; even admiration. But neither Fenton nor Frank could appreciate the intense amount of effort it must have taken to coordinate things so perfectly.
They could only feel helpless and frustrated. Even angry.
Anything might be happening within that house – and there were still a million things that could go wrong.
And if things went wrong when they were so close to Joe…
"Chief…" Frank was the first to break and addressed the unmoving form of Ezra Collig; still sitting stiffly in the driver's seat of the patrol car.
"No." Collig spoke without moving – not even the slightest turn of his head. And, though Frank couldn't see his face, he knew that the Chief didn't even blink.
Then the brief, almost non-existent conversation was forgotten as the head of the task force – Agent Adrian Mason, in whom they had at least a little faith – held up his right hand.
He counted down on his fingers as simultaneous orders were communicated by radio: Three, Two, One. GO!
It was a synchronised assault. And – synchronised – around a dozen silent alarms were all triggered within the house.
The houses were old, but 'top of the range'. When built, they had every mod-con installed. When obscenely wealthy owners moved in, those mod-cons evolved into every must-have gadget on the market.
Time passed by and must-have gadgets were replaced by the ones that fulfilled the growing need for home security. Every door and window was alarmed – all originally directly linked to a private Home Security Company. Then that Company had gone bust and the alarms were directed inwards.
The raucous bells and screeching alarms were considered ineffective. Not only was there no longer anyone around to respond to such an alarm but, nine times out of ten, the casual passer-by would ignore anything that did not directly concern them.
In Sherrie's mind, that was just a sad reflection of society.
She fitted every door and every window – and even her fireplaces – with silent alarms and each one of them was hooked up so as to only ever sound in her basement.
As the years had passed in isolation, her paranoia grew and she practically lived her entire life in the basement. There was only one way down to her – and she was guaranteed of sufficient warning before anyone put even one foot on the top stair.
She converted the space – dividing it up into two separate rooms and even attempting to install a bathroom; though that plan had come unstuck due to the inadequate plumbing in the old house.
But she still planned everything else meticulously; measuring and re-measuring until everything was perfect. She found herself a place where – even in today's cruel and uncertain world – she could feel completely safe. The two rooms – to the naked eye – looked to fill the whole basement space. It was impossible to notice that one of them concealed a state-of-the-art panic room.
She always wondered at people who built such a room in their attic. There was no easy escape from an attic.
And that, again, set new fears spiralling within her – as safety and security became something beyond an obsession to her. She developed an almost uncontrollable fear of being trapped – of her supposedly 'safe' room becoming her tomb – and so she had an escape route built in.
Treacherous, even in the best of conditions, she had an exit built out of the panic room – leading directly onto the cliffs of Bayport Heights.
"Time's up."
Houghton smiled grimly when Carl said those words. He had known this would happen. He just hadn't expected it to happen quite so quickly.
But Graham Houghton was a long way removed from being stupid. He'd underestimated Fenton Hardy all those years ago – and had taken steps not to do the same again. Even though he'd been interrupted sooner than he'd anticipated, all was not lost.
He also knew that Carl wasn't as patient as he was. The henchman had made it abundantly clear that the potential for prison was definitely not on the agenda.
A deal had been brokered and Houghton was not about to renege. He knew how tough life could be in prison – and he didn't want to attract the attention of anyone even remotely connected to the mob. He had also managed to escape from a State Facility before – so, equally, he didn't want to have the wrong kind of enemies on the outside. They didn't forgive easily and gave a whole new definition to the word 'ruthless'.
"Go!" he barked at Carl – and that single word set their 'Plan B' into motion. Twelve years ago, he hadn't even considered a contingency plan; but he had most definitely learnt from his mistakes.
Carl nodded at him and their eyes locked for the merest instant. This was definitely the end of the road as far as their business relationship was concerned – and that brief glance communicated a mutual respect; an acknowledgement from one professional to another.
A few seconds later, Carl was gone – and Houghton knew he had precious little time left.
His eyes hardening, he advanced on Joe – but the boy was too far gone to respond to his implicit threat.
Though pleased that his victim was well and truly broken, Houghton didn't have the time to play games any more.
"Sign the bottom of the page," he commanded.
When Joe just stared at him through empty eyes, he knew he had to hurry things along. He slammed his hand down onto the table; got the desired flinch – even if it wasn't as extreme as he'd hoped it would be.
It didn't matter. He still had control.
"You confessed, so sign your confession." His voice was calmer now – but it was still deadly.
Barely capable of independent thought, Joe did as he was directed. He added the date when that was also demanded. Maybe now it would finally be over and he would be allowed to find absolution. Maybe then he would be left alone to find some escape from his hell.
The radio crackled and all three men inside the patrol car sat upright. Then Con's voice came through loud and clear.
Chief Collig instantly regretted staying in the same car as Fenton and Frank; but he couldn't have left them by themselves – not when Joe was in such grave danger. So now he had to live with his decision and let the Hardys listen in on Con's frantic radio call:
"He's demanding to see Fenton; says he'll kill Joe otherwise."
Collig inwardly cursed – and then took a brief moment to wonder if he'd explained the 'travel arrangements' to Con. It didn't matter. The threat had been made and now he had to act on it.
"Con, have you liaised with SWAT? Is there an opening? Any chance..?" Ezra had to ask – protocol demanded it.
"SWAT can't get close. He's in the basement, backed up in a corner and with a gun to Joe's head." No. Con definitely didn't know that Fenton and Frank could hear this. "He's just started a countdown… Says we've got three minutes before he pulls the trigger."
"EZRA!" Fenton roared from the back seat. If ever the PD needed a field test as to whether a perp could break out from the back of a patrol car, then Fenton might have provided them with it.
No criminal had ever been as desperate as he was at that moment in time.
But Collig was already moving. His speed belied his bulk and – mere seconds later – he, Fenton and Frank were racing towards the house.
As they ran, the fleeting thought crossed both of the older men's minds: that they should be keeping Frank away from this.
But they couldn't pause to argue; couldn't spare even a breath for an objection.
Three minutes sounded like plenty of time to get from a car to a basement. But it wasn't. Not when you had no way of tracking the passage of time; not when a second too late would result in a trigger being pulled; not when every instinct was screaming that giving into Houghton's demand was a bad idea.
Not when the next sound they heard might be a gunshot.
Joe flinched when he was suddenly grabbed around the shoulders and dragged back into the corner of the room – but that was only because the action was so totally unexpected. He had done what was demanded of him; now he was waiting for a promise to be fulfilled. He was awaiting release.
There was a noise – a sudden rush of movement – and instinct alone had him jerking away. The reaction of his captor was to shift his grasp away from his shoulders to his throat.
He could see guns and dark uniforms – and he didn't understand what was happening – but his captor was clearly unperturbed. Houghton merely discharged his gun – the report deafeningly loud in the confined space – and shouted:
"The next face I want to see is Fenton Hardy's. Or the next bullet will be going through his brain."
Another gunshot accompanied the words: "Tell him he's got three minutes, or the kid dies!" There was a third gunshot and that was followed by a frantic rush of movement around the door.
Joe closed his eyes.
He had just confessed to murdering his own mother – and his father was on his way to them. How would his dad react to the blatant truth that Joe had killed his beloved wife?
Joe didn't want to find out. It would be overwhelmingly and cripplingly painful. He knew how much he hurt with the knowledge – and his dad had loved his mom a thousandfold.
He couldn't take it any more. He had signed his confession and had been promised freedom. Joe needed to be free. But freedom – in his mind – no longer meant a simple release from his captivity.
It meant a release from the agony brought about by guilt; by culpability; by the blame that he knew was bound to follow.
He was guilty. He had killed his mom. And now his dad – and most likely his brother – were racing into danger to try and save his life. He didn't deserve to live. He deserved the fate that inevitably awaited him: the death penalty.
How that was meted out didn't even matter. That he was killed for his sins – as per New York law – was all that mattered to him.
"Kill me," he rasped. He needed his captor to do it now – before his dad and brother got there. He didn't want them to witness his death.
"Please!" He openly begged. This was purgatory to him and he craved an end to his suffering. "Shoot me, please…" Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Kill me!"
And those were the words Fenton heard when he emerged through the doorway into the basement where Houghton was holding his son.
TBC
