Wow, thanks for all the support, you are all probably the reason its being written so quickly...so once again THANKS!

Chapter 4

March 29th 1983 – A suburb outside Washington DC.

"Marty? Marty? Where are you? Dinner's on the table." Elinor Fitzgerald stood at the back door, she was a young woman; no more than 30, with deep blue eyes and a long mane of blond hair falling almost to her waist.

"Martin?" she called again, a little more anxiously this time.

There was no sign of the boy. Usually Martin came running at the first mention of food, it was their little game. He'd come tearing up the garden and she'd swing him high into the air and then gather him in for a bear hug. Then they would chatter together for the few minutes until dinnertime. It was their game, their little secret. Victor Fitzgerald didn't approve of such displays of affection, believing that they made a boy 'too soft'

Again she called his name, but the back of the Fitzgerald house with its patio, large perfectly edged lawn and sharp cut box hedging was silent. She hesitated. Dinner was just ready, Victor would be back in…she looked at her watch…. three minutes.

He was always on time, when he was at home that was. He always came through from his study to the dining room at seven p.m. sharp. After 8 years of marriage and two children, Elinor Fitzgerald had come to accept and her husbands set ways. Many people had warned her that Victor Fitzgerald was harsh, a strict disciplinarian, incapable of genuine emotion. But Elinor loved her husband, he was a good provider, and she was never short of money or food, they had a lovely home and she had two wonderful children. And if she was missing affection, well, she had Marty for that.

She could hear Martin's younger sister Anna playing in the living room and her husbands sharp command to the girl to 'Go sit up at the table young lady.' Then Victor Fitzgerald was standing beside her in the kitchen.

"Everything alright Elinor?" he asked, and his voice softened almost imperceptibly, as it always did around his pretty young wife. "Where is Martin?"

"I…he must just be playing somewhere…I'm sure he just lost track of time, Victor, ill walk down the garden and look for him."

"Nonsense!" Victor's voice was sharper now. "Martin Fitzgerald, please come into the house now, dinner is on the table."

Elinor couldn't help wincing at the tone of her husband's voice; she hoped he wasn't going to get into one of those moods. The only real problem that she had with her husband were his ideas of 'disciplining' his children, and in particular his son. Physical violence, however it was justified to her, just didn't seem to be the right thing to do, and although it was never really bad, she still disliked it.

"Martin." Victor walked down the path that bisected the lawn in two and towards the box hedging, where there were ample places for little boys to hide. "Now come on, young man, your mother is worried."

But there was no sign of the boy anywhere and it took only another 5 or so minutes of searching for Victor Fitzgerald to realize that something was wrong. He looked back at his wife. "Elinor, please call George Stevens"

"The police?" Now genuine worry had lined Elinor Fitzgerald's pretty face. "Victor, what's wrong, can't you find him? Maybe he went out next door?"

However, they both knew that Martin Fitzgerald wouldn't leave without his mother's permission, and Elinor knew that he would never miss their 'dinner talks' as they had been christened. She sat down heavily on a wicker chair, as realization hit her. Victor was a good detective, maybe one of the best, and he had been hotly tipped for the recently opened position of deputy director. That was why they had moved to Washington, six months previously.

Victor had brilliant instincts. And he knew that something was wrong. And suddenly she did too.

Someone had taken Marty.

&&&&&&&&

'Marty' Fitzgerald was cold. His blue shorts and green t-shirt afforded him little protection against the damp walls of the cellar that they had put him in. He had just been sick and even though there was nothing left in his stomach, he wanted to be sick again. Chloroform. He knew that's what they had asked his Dad all about it one day. For some reason his Dad had told him too, and usually they never talked about anything besides school.

He was so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, silly Martin. His Dad has warned him again and again and again never, ever to talk to any stranger. He could still remember the hiding he got when Mr. Jones next door had invited him over to look at his collection of butterflies. Boy had his father been mad, even his Mom was cross for a while. But not like Dad, not for long.

Martin adjusted his legs so that they were stretched out in front of him. He looked down at his legs and at the cuts on both his knees, the results of a playground fight. Martin hated always being the new kid in school. He'd show them though; he wouldn't let anyone bully him.

He sighed heavily. What would Dad say now…would he think that Martin had ran away on purpose, or that he'd gone over to Mr. Jones's even though he swore he never would. His Mom might be worried though, and he felt sorriest for her. Martin loved him mother, loved her so much that sometimes he thought a part of him belonged only to her. As he grew up and as his Dad's influence took hold Martin learned to be less affectionate, less open, even at seven years of age.

He thought back to the event of the previous two hours. He'd been playing Star Wars, he was Hans Solo and he was going to defeat Darth Vader, who was hiding somewhere in the hedges. He been creeping along the bottom of one of the tallest of these hedges when a hand seemed to come out of the hedge and grabbed him, clamping something over his mouth. He knew that something was wrong but he couldn't get the hand off his mouth and as he thrashed and fought against the mans hold he breathed in huge mouthfuls of the strong sweet smelling scent on the tissue.

And now he was sitting here in a cold, damp celler all along with nothing to do. His head ached and he was so tired. Martin Fitzgerald's last thought as he slipped into oblivion was that he was going to miss his talk with Mom that day.