Thanks Polaris, Ms Fenway, Chromde, Nightwatcher, and Amal for leaving such an encouraging line. Hope you like this chapter too.
Still in pain, so shall not linger. Was surprised I actually got this out so quickly (I'm sure its slow by some standards). Again, if there's exceptionally high grammar errors or unnecessary words, please be nice until I do get better and can focus better.
And oh... thanks nightwatcher and Ms Fenway for the well-wishes and prayers! Thanks very much!
WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
Chapter Seven
-o-
Breakfast was always a happy time for the Hardy household because it heralded the start of a brand new day. That was the extent of Laura's influence and optimism on the family. Never go to bed angry, and always start the day happy with a hearty hot breakfast.
This morning, breakfast was cold and quiet, as it had been for the last few weeks. The father and son, who both looked so much alike, sat opposite each other, staring down at their breakfast plates, each lost in their own guilt and fears. The grandfather clock from the living room struck eight, yet the two remain seated, barely moving, at the dining table.
Laura, Fenton sighed, was still in the hospital recovering from a near fatal point blank shot. But she was doing well, and the doctors said she could come home as early as next week. He missed her terribly. And this house certainly missed her motherly and womanly touch. He needed her too, as do Frank. As for Joe… Joe…
"You should eat something, Frank" Fenton said sternly to his elder son, if only to distract himself from his own bleak thoughts and fears.
Frank continued pushing his toast from one side of the plate to the other, his face totally expressionless. Fenton knew that Frank was taking Joe's abduction very hard. His sons were very close and were rarely apart from each other for long periods. Still one got to eat. It did not escape the father's eye that Frank had lost weight.
"We can hop over to Flap's for a proper Big Breakfast," Fenton tried again with false brightness.
After all his infamous bake beans on toast breakfast could hardly be considered appetizing. But Fenton knew the dismal quality of his cooking had nothing to do with Frank's lack of appetite, or that of his own.
"Frank…" the father pleaded as his son remained quiet.
"Six weeks." The voice was soft and haunted.
"I know." Fenton answered simply.
"That sadist has Joe for six weeks, Dad."
Fenton's heart constricted. The truth behind that statement was terrifying in its simplicity. Both he and Frank knew precisely what Andrew Kempton was capable of. Both experienced Kempton's finesse and expertise firsthand. For the first time in years, he knew not what to say to his son to ease his fears.
"What am I missing? What can't I remember?" Frank suddenly blurted out, his fist slamming so hard onto the table that the plates jumped.
"Fra…" Fenton began, only to stop at the intensity of guilt and pain in Frank's eyes.
"Nothing, son. You are not missing anything," he said in a firm tone instead. "Andrew planned everything to down to the last detail."
That was true. Andrew Kempton and his son planned the distraction, the abduction, and the getaway, and executed everything step by step flawlessly. They left behind plenty of evidence as to who they were, from operational M.O. to fingerprints to DNA evidence on the victims' bodies. But there was not a single clue as to where they might be headed next from the moment the boys' van was abandoned in the private parking lot behind Marcy's Arcade and Bobo's Burger Bar. The extensive leg work questioning everybody and anybody who might have even the smallest chance of witnessing anything out of the norm yielded no results. They were now resorting to scanning through the hundreds and thousands of traffic violations photographs that was just delivered to them from the traffic department.
The only bright spot, if that could be counted as a bright spot at all, was the fact that the criminal profiler believed that Andrew Kempton had a bigger plan in mind, and would not kill Joe just yet. What that plan was, was unfortunately up to anyone's guess, Fenton admitted glumly.
"Dad…"
The self-loathing in his son's voice was so sharp, he almost cried. He wanted to tell Frank that it was not his fault that there were still parts of those few harrowing hours that he could not remember. Furthermore, Fenton was certain Andrew would not tell Frank where he was taking Joe or what he was planning to do next anyway…
"Andrew said he would enjoy watching the havoc I would cause… that when I remember I would know where to look next if I'm smart enough…"
The father's heart missed a beat and his mouth popped opened. He could not believe Kempton would have the audacity to actually leave a clue with Frank. Then he saw Frank's guilt-stricken face and realized that would be something Andrew Kempton would do, precisely because of the impact it would leave on his elder son.
"He TOLD me he would be watching… he did not leave Bayport when he told the FBI and you he did. The timeline's all wrong…"
Fenton recalled the criminal profiler saying that she thought someone like Kempton would want to at least watch part of Frank's torment. They searched the entire house for hidden cameras and came up with nothing. 37 Wayville Lane was clean. And if the timeline's all wrong, they would have to rethink the entire investigation over. But at least they now have something else to work on. Still…
"How?" Fenton wondered out loud. How was Andrew watching? And how were they going to find out?
Frank was already on the move, his breakfast forgotten. "I think I know, but we need to go now, while the morning sun's still strong…"
Soon they were back at 37 Wayville Lane. Fenton could see Frank turning a shade paler. He placed his hand firmly and supportively on Frank's shoulder.
I understand, he said to his elder son with his eyes.
Frank returned a grim nod before getting out of the van and started strolling up and down the lane, staring into the distance. It took Fenton a while to figure out what his son was doing. There were a number of tall high-rise buildings to the west. And in the strong glare of the morning sun rising in the east, he soon saw what Frank was looking for, that blinding glint of sunlight reflected off a telescopic lens.
The father and son exchanged a grim glance. They found what they were looking for.
It took them several hours to pin down the exact unit in the exact building, and then track down the owner of Apartment Unit 16 E of Atlantic Views, a private residential high-rise that overlooks the Great South Bay. That unit was apparently being leased to a Mr. Edwin for eighteen months until the end of the year with all rent paid in advance in cash.
Fenton's heart sank. The Kemptons had been around Bayport that long? No wonder no body saw anything out of the ordinary. Eighteen months in today's context would literally make them 'locals' and 'fellow Bayporters'.
The father and son proceeded with the paperwork for the courts to issue a search warrant for the premises. Fenton leaned on a few contacts to help speed up the procedure. It was refused with the judge citing insufficient evidence and cause for concern.
Frank glared furiously at the verdict; he wanted to break into the apartment, but Fenton put a stop to it.
"I have a few more contacts I can call on," the father assured his son. "We need to do everything by the book. You really do not want to get on the bad side of the law enforcement establishment at this point in time. We're going to need their help later…"
And then it was evening.
"Tomorrow," Fenton promised, and Frank relented most grudgingly.
They were having Chinese takeaway for dinner when the doorbell rang. It was Tommy, one of Joe's biker friends from the East Side, the one who just started his first year at the Police Academy. He declined Fenton's invitation into the house.
"I heard about the apartment and that the court refused the search warrant from the PA grapevine. The gang drew lots to see who would… you know…," Tommy announced in a gruff voice, his boots tracing circular patterns on the floor.
"… to break in to that apartment?" Fenton finished off for Tommy in an incredulous tone.
Tommy shrugged uneasily looking rather like a mouse despite his muscular build and his normally intimidating black leather biker's jacket. "Joe's a friend and a darn good one too. Matt's breaking in right now… Don't worry he know what to do to create enough attention to bring in the police but will not destroy any potential evidence you might need… But I was hoping you know… that maybe you can… you know… ask your friends to sort of ignore certain evidence if… if you know… in case Matt's a little careless…"
"I will admit to the break-in if it comes down to that," Frank cuts in without hesitation; that so-called crime was after all something he intended to carry out on his own anyway. "And thanks…"
Tommy observed Frank for a moment before returning a little smile. "We never liked you. Thought you were a mite arrogant and aloof. But now I can see why Joe literally worship the ground you walked on."
"Thanks Tommy, for telling me…" Fenton was touched by the fact that those bikers were willing to risk a criminal record for his son. He was grateful, but he could not condone such an action either. "I'll see what I can do. But… tell your friends: Don't ever do something stupid like that again." Then the father added when he found himself a recipient of two hostile glares from Frank and Tommy. "Joe would not want you to risk that for him…"
The father had to hide a smile at Frank's low growl of disagreement and Tommy's clearly irritable mutter about the obvious fact Joe would have stage the break-in himself if Frank was missing. Both of them kids did not have to know that he was planning to break-in himself if his contacts failed to come through tomorrow.
By midnight, Chief Ezra Collig had a professional forensic team processing the apartment. Frank was right. There was a high-powered telescope aimed squarely on 37 Wayville Lane. Kempton's prints were all over the house – that psycho did not bother to disguise his presence. And then a grim-faced Ezra Collig passed him an A4-sized manila envelop that was addressed to him.
He opened it.
Frank read the note and blanched.
Fenton just did not want to analyze his own reaction.
The note read:
So Fenton, how long did it take you to find this place? Do not worry; you will get to see your precious little Joseph again, but only when I am ready to let you. The question is: will he still acknowledge you as his father? Perhaps the more relevant question is: by that time, will you still want to acknowledge Joseph as your son?
-o-
Andrew Kempton strode down the stairs towards that dark and dank basement room with a plate filled with fries and a steak sandwich and a can of coke. His new son had performed well yesterday, and would be getting his promised gourmet meal. More importantly, there were reasons why he needed to make sure Joseph looked reasonably healthy for now.
He opened the door and for a moment enjoyed the sight of the pathetic little creature covered with dirt and grime cowering in the darkest corner of the room. The drugs kept the boy fearful and terrified of everything around him.
"Come here, son," he called out.
The boy scrambled desperately over to his feet.
"Dad…" he whimpered, as told to.
"It's time for your lunch, son. Its steak sandwich today, as I promised. A reward for your good works yesterday," he announced magnanimously.
He watched as Joe grabbed the plate with both hands before retreating to gobble down his meal in his usual dark corner, looking more like an animal than a human.
Would Fenton see what his beloved son is going through now! Then again, he had video recordings of everything he puts Joe through. Fenton would get to view them eventually. He could almost taste the pleasure as he imagines the father's pain and horror.
"Are you ready for your next lesson?" he asked sternly with a malicious glint in his eyes the moment Joe finished the food and the coke.
There were several vigorous and desperate nods even as the boy continue licking off the last of the grease on the plate. He missed his meal the previous day.
Good, the boy was now eager to please, Andrew thought with much satisfaction.
"Your lesson today, son, is: How to skin a rodent alive. Just watch Frank carefully as he demonstrates to you how it is done."
Andrew watched the boy's face turned sickly white.
Some might wonder why not simply drive the boy overboard and turn him into a psychotic killer? No, Andrew wanted the boy to loathe everything he did, but he did them anyway because he was too traumatized and too terrified to disobey a direct order. Now, that is what he called sheer enjoyment and pure pleasure.
"And you will get a juicy steak with steamed vegetables for your lunch tomorrow if Frank is happy with your performance. Otherwise…" Andrew left that threat hanging as he passed Joe a scalpel similar to the one his son William was using.
His smile widened as a trembling hand slowly reached for the little scalpel.
It would not be long before his Joseph is ready to work on a real target.
-o-