Chapter 13!
Thanks Chromde, blackwolf and memorygirl for letting me know you enjoyed the last chapter.
I hope this will not disappoint.
Do continue to leave a line, and hopefully my Muse will see this story done before my babe is due. Cheers
WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
Chapter Thirteen
-o-
No one paid any notice to the old janitor who just shuffled out of the side exit of the Bayport Police Department. They should have. Not that they could have averted the tragedy that was already unfolding. But they might have averted tragedies that were to come.
To them, that old man was just another person sweeping the floor and emptying the bins leaving at the end of his shift. They had other bigger issues to handle, like the gathering of curious pedestrians and reporters slowly building up outside their main entry. Not to mention the havoc within.
Once that old janitor reached an old van parked at a quiet location a safe distance away from the police block, he discarded his disguise, throwing them carelessly over the pale white body of the real janitor. Then he left, all the while ensuring that he was not noticed and not followed.
Andrew Kempton had accomplished what he set out to do in the police station. It was such a simple thing, so simple no one would notice what was wrong until it was too late.
He was also quietly listening to what happened at the old lighthouse on the point while going through the motions of his supposed duties. No one saw that gleeful gleam in his feverish brown eyes. His first move actually turned out better than he expected, given the fact that he only spent two weeks hashing out the details. Then again, he expected the Hardys and those fancy profilers to assume that he would take his time to plot his perfect vengeance. That was why he could safely change his modus operandi. The ball had started rolling, and a series of unfortunate events were about to happen, each overtaking the other until all his enemies lay dead. That would be the justice he would take for his beloved son, William. Speed was the essence this time. His plans had their plot holes, but the speed of execution would work to cover those plot holes. No one would see those holes until they no longer mattered.
An ugly rage threatened to spill over was he recalled the moment he confirmed that Joseph was still alive. A rage so deep his head hurts as if someone thrust a red hot iron into his brains. That boy should have been dead! There was no way he should have lived, not after what he injected into that boy. Yet Joseph lived, while William died. Frank lived, but William died. That was just not fair!
And how dared Joseph be happy. That boy who refused the honor of becoming his son now called another couple his parents. He watched them from a distance; that happy family scene grated on him. They would all suffer for it. Joseph would know they would all die a painful death because of him. It had been an easy job, breaking into the psychiatrist's office to read Joseph's file. A person with a deep-seated anger and half remembered memories would be easy to manipulate. Especially when one strike him hard at the heart of what matters most to him.
First the Blacks, then the Hardys. And Joseph would be alone again, as he promised his replacement son so many years ago. Except this time, he won't be killing his ungrateful replacement son. Poor Joseph had no idea how valuable he now was. But Joseph would still have to suffer for his betrayal.
Andrew's smile turned almost beatific as he headed towards his future base of operations to start on the next phase of his vengeance. A part of that would be dependent on Joseph's reactions. Not that those reactions really mattered in the scheme of things. The only thing that mattered was that every body complicit in the death of William suffers before they die.
It was also true that as Andrew headed happily towards his destination, his mind still working on the details of his plotting, that he had no idea he was no longer just mentally sick. A very real and ugly tumor had started to grow, eating at and collapsing his once brilliant and meticulous mind. The consequences of that little change sadly created an even crazier and dangerous villain. One that was no longer capable of following the standard laws of logic or rationale in plotting, but had decades of experience to back his every insane thoughts.
-o-
The officers on evening shift at the usually quiet Bayport PD was certainly feeling hassled from without and within. Throngs of reporters were waiting at almost every entry and exit point ambushing any officers trying to get in or out, hoping for a newsworthy quote, if not an exclusive. Phones within the stations were ringing non-stop. Calls from concerned superiors, nosy media personnel, and even angry fans kept flowing one after another.
In a brightly lit interrogation room, Michael Black sat alone, but straight and proud. All he said was that he would not talk until he had his time with his lawyer, who was currently flying over on a private chartered plane from Washington DC. He asked to be accorded that right and respect according to the law, and he was. He asked to be kept updated on his wife's medical condition, and he was. All he requested for in the last hour was for a glass of water.
On the other end of the one way window, Fenton Hardy stood and watched. That was the man whom his long lost son called "Dad". That man had refused to speak to him beyond a simple threat: "You will not hurt my son again, or else." A part of him was glad that Joe found a family who obviously cared for him. Another part of him could not help but be a little envious at what he missed. His Joe had apparently done very well in the last six years. He could not help making a few calls and looking into Joe's last six years, now that he knew what he was looking for. Joe Black was one of the top artistic talents of his class, and even got nominated for the Eisner Award this year for one of his publications. He was proud of his Joe, but he was not the father who nurtured those talents. He was not the father who help guide his son through what must have been a hard and tough road to recovery.
Still all those confusing emotions would have to take a back seat for now. The priority was to figure out Kempton's games before his family and any more innocent bystanders got hurt. And he still had to figure out what to say and how to explain what happened to Laura.
Fenton stared down and reviewed the trail of evidence that lead them all to Michael's Black doorsteps. Evidence that he now knew with his heart was planted. Still, as the law goes, Michael Black was caught with the victim's body in his car, his letter-opener buried in her heart, exactly the way it was written in his novels. As a matter of fact, all four deaths were copycats of the murders from Michael Black's various crime and mystery novels. So as the law goes, he had to be arrested as a prime suspect. The courts would have to decide on the bail and the final verdict – unless the police could catch the real murderer in the mean time, or find overwhelming evidence that Black was framed.
"I've sent Callie and Vanessa home. Tommy's there with them, just in case."
Fenton turned around to see his elder son walk into the room.
"I also checked up on Joe at the hospital," Frank said. "Don't worry, he didn't see me. And Chief Collig left a plainclothes officer there to keep an eye on him."
"How's he?" Fenton wanted to know.
He had most reluctantly accompanied Chief Collig back to BPD at the Chief's insistence.
"You'll make things worst if you follow Joe to the hospital," was what Collig said quietly to him, and Fenton had to agree.
"Joe believed we were the Kemptons, that we framed his father…" Fenton had to admit that knowledge cuts him to the core, even though he knew why Joe might construe things that way.
"I know. That hurts," Frank admitted with equal gravity. "But he's back in Bayport, Dad. We clear up this mess, and we'll soon have him home with us."
Fenton could not help but feel a little uplifted at the confidence in Frank's voice. Yes, he should have looked on the bright side. Joe was back in Bayport. It would only be a matter of time before his son comes home again. Then that moment faded. They still had to get Kempton before that psycho could cause any more major troubles.
"What happened, Dad?" Frank asked. "How did Kempton manage to make Michael Black a prime suspect? We have to untangle this fast. For Joe's sake, as well as to stop the media circus out there from getting worse than it already is."
"Yea," Fenton agreed tiredly. "Or Joe would never forgive us if anything's to happen to Michael or Michelle…"
"No Dad," Frank corrected him. "Joe would never forgive himself if anything is to happen to Michael or Michelle Black. Especially once he remembered everything…"
And Fenton realized that Frank again was right. Joe would blame himself for anything bad that might happen to the Blacks even though every thing was Andrew Kempton's doing. And that kind of deep-seated guilt might never heal…
"We better get started…" Fenton heard Frank say. He nodded tiredly and was about to start briefing his son when a commotion caught both their attention.
A terrible sinking feeling went through both father and son the moment their minds registered what was happening. Michael Black was on the floor of the next room gasping for breath.
They rushed over.
Officer Murphy stood in a corner of the room, yelling through his handset for an ambulance.
"Some sort of a severe allergy reaction," Officer Con Riley said to them. "Officer Brown is getting the Epi-pen from the first aid kit."
Fenton tried to help, but his proximity only served to agitate Black further. He stepped back and helplessly watched Con Riley handle the famous writer. He could never forget that accusing expression from Michael Black's deep blue eyes. Those eyes ironically reminded him so much of Joe.
In the mean time, Frank examined the broken glass pieces after pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. He sniffed at it, and his heart sank.
"Peanut oil," he said.
Somehow, Kempton must have learned about Mr. Black's allergy to peanuts. And somehow, Kempton got into the police station to lace the glasses with peanut oil without anyone noticing.
"I'll get someone to go through all the internal video recordings now," Chief Collig promised in a grim voice.
All three exchanged grim expressions. Kempton was here and they all missed him.
Then Officer Brown returned with the blessed Epi-pen and proceeded to inject its contents into Michael Black.
For some reason, at that moment, an overwhelmingly bad feeling came over Frank, and he yelled 'stopped', but it was too late.
The deed was done and over with.
No one breathe, until it appeared that Mr. Black was recovering and everyone heaved a sigh of relief.
But that was only an illusionary recovery, the calm in the storm. Without warning, the attacked resumed, now worse than before. Within seconds, the best-selling author was foaming at his mouth and bleeding from his eyes and nose.
The epi-pen, that only epi-pen in the entire BPD, as Frank feared, had been tampered with. He turned his bleak eyes to his father. It seemed that things were rapidly going from bad to worse again. Andrew Kempton had again out-witted and out-paced them.
Officer Murphy resumed screaming into his handset for the ambulance that seemed to take forever to arrive.
"He'd stopped breathing!" Con yelled.
Around them, chaos reigned.
Frank rushed over to assist Con in performing CPR.
Outside the police station, the crowd grew even more restless at the realization that something was happening inside, away from their prying eyes.
Several minutes later, an ambulance was rushing to the nearest hospital, the same one that Michelle Black was, still fighting for her life.
That ambulance was followed by a number of police cars, sirens flashing and blaring loud and bright.
Seated in one of those cars, Frank and Fenton could only pray. Each wondered as an icy grip tightened its hold on their heart, how much worse things were going to get.
-o-o-0-o-o-
I sat outside the operating theatre with my head in between my knees, fighting a very real urge to be sick.
It was my fault. I choose their cabin to hide in six years ago. They were kind enough to take me in, adopt me, and give me a future I never thought I deserve.
The lights atop the operating room were still flashing.
I glanced out of the window. The skies were now dark. I glanced at the clock hanging at the far end of the corridor. It said seven pm. It was dinner time, but I wasn't hungry. I doubt if I could ever be hungry again.
Seven o'clock. My Mom's been in there for over an hour now. A terror rose in my heart – it was clear the doctors had no idea what was the problem.
I had a terrible feeling that she was going to die. Tonight. And all because she had the heart to care for a boy that was not worth caring for. I prayed like I never prayed before in my young life.
Please God, if you truly exist, take me instead. Not her. Not Mom. Not a wonderful woman like Michelle Black.
If God heard my pleas, He gave no indication.
The door opened. I stood up so abruptly, the chair I sat on toppled backwards.
Then I froze. I could tell from the doctor's eyes that it was going to be bad news. Then the doctor was speaking, but most of his words went over my head. His tone was so gentle, like an angel. It was so unreal.
But what he said was awfully real.
She's dead. Mom's dead.
But she can't be! The doctors all said that she had at least a few more months to go. They all agreed the sea air would so her good. That was why we moved to Bayport. And I was so certain those doctors were wrong. She beat those cancerous cells once before. She could do it again. Because Mom's a fighter, just like I am…
"No…" I whispered, shaking my head, and taking a few steps backward.
What was I to tell Dad? Dad told me to take care of Mom. No, Dad asked me to take care of Mom. It was the only thing he asked of me in the last six years, and I failed him.
I could feel the scalding tears on my cheeks as I turned my attention to that gurney at the end of that little corridor leading into the operating theatre. I took two steps towards it, only to find myself unable to move forward anymore.
I wanted to see Mom again. But seeing her body also meant that her death was final. I could not bear to do that…
But how, how did she die? She was still well this morning! What happened? What could possibly have happened?
It was then I saw the doctor quietly speaking to the plainclothes officer whom I know was keeping an eye on me and Mom. Shoving all my pain aside with every ounce of will-power I could master, I sneaked up behind those two and eavesdropped on them. I caught only one word, but that one word was enough to explain everything.
"… poisoned…" the doctor said.
Poisoned…
Of course, that was something my biological father was an expert in. I could still remember some of those nasty concoctions that he tested on me. I still shudder at the memory of some of those effects.
Poisoned…
Mom didn't die because of cancer. She was going to beat her cancer like she did six years ago. Mom was murdered. She was murdered. Pain and fury washed over me in equal measure, and I knew not which the dominant emotion was.
And Fenton Hardy was responsible. I will find a way to make him pay. Make Frank pay too… I would… it was the only way I could ever make up to Mom and Dad… Dad…
Dad!
If Fenton poisoned Mom, what about Dad? They were at the police station together! I raced towards the nearest phone, heart pounding. Would Dad be able to access his handphone? I wondered. Dad needed to be warned.
The phone booth was right there next to the A and E department.
I was desperately fumbling for coins in my pockets.
That was when I saw the parade of ambulance and police cars turning into the hospital driveway.
The phone receiver fell from my numb fingers.
And I knew who was in that ambulance. I just knew.
I was too late.
Fenton had acted, I knew.
I rushed towards the A and E entrance. I could see paramedics unloading the body from the ambulance and rushing the gurney down the corridor. I caught up with the gurney just as it was turning into the treatment rooms.
It was Dad…
"Dad!" I cried. "No… not you too…"
Dad never moved. I tried to feel for his pulse. There was none.
The paramedics pried me away from the gurney.
"Let the doctors do their jobs," they pleaded with me.
I let Dad go.
I watched the doctors from the glass partitions as they fought to bring Dad back to life. I watched them charged up that horrible machine again and again, hoping to shock the heart back into beating. I watched my Dad's body jerked so hard each time I was certain he would cracked a rib or two.
All the while I never stopped mumbling, pleading, begging. "Dad… please… come back. I need you…"
But I knew Dad was not coming back. Mom's gone. Dad would want to be with her.
The green line on the machine remained flat.
Finally, the doctors gave up.
And I was alone again.
I sank down onto the cold white hospital floors, hugging my knees curled into a fetal position, trying to deal with the pain I felt.
It was the pain of loss, the pain of loneliness, and the pain of overwhelming guilt all rolled into one.
A gentle hand touched me, and I looked up.
It was a kindly doctor trying to comfort me.
But I wasn't seeing or listening to the doctor.
Instead, I saw them. They were standing right there, just a few steps away from me.
They killed Mom and Dad.
And they were standing right here just a few steps from where I was.
I went berserk.
"You killed them… you killed them…" I screamed at them, eyes burning with tears and a fury I never remembered ever feeling. "I'll kill you…"
For a split second, that was all I had, I could feel Fenton's neck with my bare hands. That split second was just not long enough.
Then they dragged me away. I fought them all the way.
"Let me kill them… you've no idea what you're protecting…" I begged, I pleaded, I screamed, and fought.
But all was for naught.
They forced me down onto the cold hard floor and one of the doctors injected a tranquilizer.
I cried, not from pain of the needle, but from the pain of loss, and the pain of knowing what was to come.
"You'll regret that…" was all I said to the doctor as the drugs started to take effect. "There will be blood… there will… be.."