Miss Fenway, Chromde, Gotta love shoes, franknjoe, Kasey, Polaris: Thanks! I believe Phx is another big source of Joe-angst. Perhaps Stormwatcher if you like a touch of sci-fi.

Tukkie: sorry this took a while, but sick mommy plus sick toddler equals no time nor mood to write/upgrade. Yup, the part you mentioned was much later. This is an old story, and the writing I think, tells. I am compressing chapters sticking to the actions to get to the second part faster, I really do not want to drag. But you have to decide, do you want this story, or Looney Tunez. You can only have one. Cheers, Nomi.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

Chapter Two

-o-

I know I mentioned that the rain started when I was thirteen. But I did not mean that my teenage life was without happiness. As a matter of fact, I was a happy teenager – just that the happiness was a little… tainted. A tiny fracture had appeared in the bond I had with Dad. Over the next four years, I felt that fracture grew, and it seemed that no matter how hard I tried, I could not mend the break that I knew and feared was to come.

First, let me assure you that I do have a happy and healthy teenage life. Frank and I were close as could be, sharing the same dreams of following in our father's footsteps into law-enforcement. We love our new home in Bayport. After a decade in a cramp apartment in New York City, our two-story home at the corner of Elm Street was heaven. We have our own room connected by a shared toilet. We have a huge backyard with a sturdy oak tree on which we built our very own tree house. We attended the same school. I loved the gym and the football field while Frank drooled over the computing facilities. We made some wonderful friends: Chet Morton, Biff Hooper, Phil Cohen, Tony Prito and Jerry Gilroy.

Over the next four years, we all studied hard, played hard, and had numerous adventures together. We became best friends, helping each other out and cheering each other on – especially where ogling, wooing and dating girls were concerned. Hey, we were all young healthy males – not saints. The truth was that we all gave each other real crappy dating advice. We were all grateful for Frank's leadership and sacrifice: his first attempt at showing us how to approach a beautiful girl ended abruptly with a bright red imprint of a right hand on his left cheek. But as our unofficial leader said, we learned from our mistakes – I was so proud of my brave big brother. By the time I was sixteen and Frank was seventeen, we were all successfully dating and had at least one girlfriend each.

Everyone would tell you that I, Biff, and Jerry were the notorious heartbreakers of the gang. Biff and Jerry, who were both very talented and good-looking sportsmen, continued breaking hearts. Frank accidently knocked into a transfer student from Boston off her feet and ended up dating her after she gave him some valuable lessons on how-to-date-a-girl-without-stepping-on-her-toes. I utilized those very lessons to win over the heart of a very feisty dark-eyed beauty; Chet's very feisty sister, Iola. Tony Prito, after a long and arduous courtship, finally won over the heart of dark-haired and sultry Isabella Vanni. Phil Cohen took a lot of prompting, but he eventually plucked up the courage to ask Liz Webling out.

So there; I have a normal teenage life, but for my relationship with Dad…

For a long time, I could not explain what I felt was wrong between Dad and me. We got along great back in New York City. But after moving to Bayport, something happened that strained that wonderful relationship we used to have. For starters, Dad spent more time with me. No, Dad spent more time with us, and more attention on me.

After settling into Bayport, Dad started training us in investigative work in earnest. Frank and I were so excited. We listened as Dad discussed cases with us, taught us about logical deduction. He taught us how to extend our peripheral vision, how to appear inconspicuous, admonished us to always be aware of our surroundings. He taught us the importance of noting down details and remembering them. He trained us to look out for each other and effectively guard each other's back. As soon as I turned fifteen, he allowed us to help him and Sam with some grunt work in exchange for bonus pocket money. Dad also taught us other interesting skills that had mom frowning and other kids green with envy: lock-picking, getting free of ropes, getting free of cuffs, and when we were old enough, he taught us how to handle a gun.

Dad was particularly hard on me. I practiced memorizing details, picking locks and getting out of the tightest ropes and cuffs and rooms shaving microseconds off each attempt when Frank was not around. Still, I always got that niggling sense that Dad expected more. There were times back then when I thought Dad wanted me to become the next Houdini.

Then came my seventeenth birthday; Frank and the gang planned a huge birthday bash for me. I enjoyed it tremendously. It would have been perfect if not for the fact that I sensed Dad's eyes on me whenever he thought I was not aware. But Dad trained me well, and the darkness from Dad's gaze bothered me immensely. Actually, it chilled me.

Three weeks later, Iola died. She was killed in an explosion meant for me and Frank. My world went dark. With Frank's help, we managed to corner the Assassin responsible for Iola's death. He plunged to his death rather than get caught. There was no justice for Iola. I grew more reckless in my search for that elusive justice. My grades suffered. My friends and family worry; but I shut them all out. After several long months, I and Frank were given the opportunity to infiltrate the Assassins. We followed the trail all the way to Indonesia where we stopped a major conspiracy and brought down the leader of the Assassins. Actually, Frank did. Frank figured out the simulations, the location of the bomb, and defeated the Assassin leader.

There, justice was served! But for some inexplicable reason, my darkness grew. I sank deeper into depression. My grades in school slipped to borderline, and after numerous ineffectual lectures, Dad suggested I dropped out of Bayport High Football Team to focus on my academics.

I snapped.

"You are seventeen, Joseph. You have to learn to be more responsible…" Dad started his standard lecture in the privacy of his home office in a reasonable tone after one very tense dinner.

I hated that tone. I hated that name. I even hated 'Joe'.

"… like Frank?" I snarled. "Frank's responsible, meticulous, careful, mature, intelligent, smart, neat, considerate, punctual, reliable, dependable… He's perfect. He got a perfect 4.0. He even looks like you…"

I was so mad; I was shaking uncontrollably. Sure we had had our arguments, but I had no idea how much bitterness, resentment, and tension I had chocked up in the last few months.

"But I am not Frank, Dad. I am not as talented or smart or skilled as you or your favorite son is. I am just another average Joe trying to make do with what little brains God gave him. All those extra training that you gave me is not going to change anything. I am sorry you have such a crappy younger son…"

"Joe…"

"Football is the only thing I am doing well in now, Dad. Not only well, but very well," I pleaded – I was still the star player on the school team. "If you take that from me, I would have nothing left… nothing…"

That was when I realized I was not exactly mad. I was hurt, I was lost, and I was scared. I was very scared. I felt Dad slowly slipping away from me over the last four years. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed that I could never perform as my Dad hoped for. I used to maintain a B average with minimal effort. But since Iola's death, the gap between my grades and Frank's widened. I tried, I really tried. But the harder I tried, the more time I spent working, the worse I did. My brains died with Iola. One day I calculated my GPA and knew I could never catch up. Then Frank and Mom started talking about scholarships and Ivy League Colleges…

I stifled a pained laugh. Perhaps I already had nothing! What exactly was I fighting for? Iola's gone, and the last thing I wanted to do would be to keep Frank from the bright future everyone said my brother was destined to have.

"I'm sorry Dad… I will tell the coach tomorrow. I'm going to bed now…"

I turned and headed for the door out of the private office. I ignored my Dad's voice calling out to me. There was nothing left to be said.

Suddenly, I found myself locked in my Dad's tight embrace. I thought I heard my Dad saying 'sorry' and that he did love me over and over. I listened without comprehending, my arms hanging limply by my side. Having faced my loss and my deepest fears, I was suddenly blessedly numb. All I wanted to do was to go back to my room and sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, I could start again all over. But all I wanted to do now was sleep.

But Dad did not let me go. Instead, he cupped my face with his hands and forced me to look at him.

"Listen, Joe, please…"

This time I heard the desperation in Dad's voice.

"I love you. I never stop loving you, and I do not love Frank more. I love you both equally. Nor are you just another average Joe. You are skilled and talented in your own way… You are everything a father hopes for in a son…"

Dad must have seen that skepticism in my eyes. I was recalling all those lectures I got when I was too slow, or too impulsive, or too careless, or too irresponsible, or too lazy…

"It was me. It was always me, not you. I kept pushing you harder and harder because I was scared. Not because you aren't good enough…"

Yeah. Because I was careless and impulsive and put yours and Frank's lives at risk…

"It was me, Joe," Dad repeated firmly, and then more desperately when I failed to react. "It was me, son. I'm so sorry I made you think otherwise. But it was me. You and Frank were already so much better than I was at your age. You are already so much better than I was at your age. But still I kept pushing you… After Iola died, I should have given you the space to grieve and to recover. Instead I kept pushing you because I am scared of losing you. I kept pushing you because I needed you to be better to cover for my own fears, and to cover for my own failures in keeping you safe. I was unfairly pushing you to be better when I should have been pushing myself… I had no right to pile my fears and guilt and failures on you…"

It was so strange to see Dad rambling. It was even stranger to see Dad crying. Slowly, my hand reached up to wipe away some of those tears. I made my Dad cry. That was just not right…

"I am so sorry for what I did. I am so sorry I undermined your confidence. But son, you are not another average Joe," Dad continued fiercely. "You may not be getting 'A's like Frank did, but you are definitely very skilled and gifted in your own way. You used maintained your B-average with little effort, and I am sure you could do that again once you get over this depression. Sometimes, we just need to take some time-out to recover. I know you have a very generous heart. That, son, is more valuable than perfect grades. All those time when you let your friends think you the fool, and let them laugh at you at your expense, so that they all had a good time at parties or outings – I know, son. I was there watching. I know why you had so little savings. I know what you did with all those extra money you earned from me and all your part-time work. Those kids at the other end of town; you played with them, got to know them, treated them to healthy food, talked them into doing something worthwhile with their lives. I know it looked like I disapprove of the time you spent with them. But I was actually worried because the East side is a dangerous place. Do you know that one of those kids will be starting his course at the Police Academy next month? I am very proud of what you did…"

Dad knew? He was proud of the fact that I convince Tommy to try for the Police Academy? That surprised me. I did not think that Dad would approve of me spending all those time with the biker gangs and all those other kids from the East side. Most of my friends thought they were bad influence.

"I am very proud of you…"

I always wanted to hear those words from Dad. Yet somehow, hearing them now did not fill me with joy as I expected. In fact, I felt nothing. I was just too emotionally wrung out over the events of the last few months. Still, my innate sense of curiosity push me to ask the questions that I know Dad had yet to answer.

"What are you scared of, Dad? What happened when I was thirteen?" I knew everything started there.

That was one sad smile on Dad's face; it was a regretful smile. "I've always known that you would make a very good detective, son. Do you still doubt yourself?"

Dad sighed and continued when I did not respond to his praise.

"In a nutshell; one of the most vicious serial killer I ever come across in my career threatened to take you away from me sometime during your seventeenth year. I spent the last four years trying to find him, but I failed. That was why I pushed you so hard. I wanted you to have the best chance of getting away should I fail to find him before your seventeenth birthday, and later precisely because I failed…"

"Why me? And why my seventeenth year?" I asked, even though from somewhere deep within me, I knew it had to be me. I was just born on the wrong day – on Friday the thirteenth.

"Do you want to know the whole story?" My Dad asked after emitting another long and heavy sigh.

I nodded and watched as Dad reached into one of his cabinets for a thick file that looked like it was falling apart. It was clear that Dad had gone through it very often. When I looked up again, I suddenly saw that Dad looked really old and burdened. His movements were slow, and his eyes were deep and shadowed and… lonely.

Dad kept everything to himself so the rest of us, Mom, me and Frank, could enjoy the last four years! I Dad was not totally successful, and I certainly bore part of the brunt of his failure. But I also felt better – Dad really loved all of us.

"Don't worry, Dad. I promise I will be careful," I tried to assure Dad. "And I am seeing the school counselor…"

Dad looked as if he was going to cry again. I would not let him. I pushed for the details of what happened.

"But I really need to know what to look out for…"

Dad nodded and started talking. That was the start of a new stage of father and son relationship between me and Dad. We chatted and discussed that Kempton case late into the night. Surprisingly, Mom and Frank left us alone. I was grateful. We agreed that we would tell Mom and Frank the very next day – that night was for me and Dad.

I cherished every minute.

That was the last time I saw Dad for a long time.

When I woke up for breakfast the next morning, Dad was already gone. Mom said he rushed off after receiving an urgent call in the wee hours of the morning. However, Dad did tell Mom that we would all be having a family talk after dinner that day, that he would be home by six no matter what.

I never had the chance to build that new relationship with Dad.

When I saw Fenton Hardy again several years later, I did not remember him. All I knew was that Fenton Hardy ripped apart a happy family. He caused my mother's death. I would never forgive him…