As always, thank you for all the reviews. I can't say enough how grateful I am!

Speaking of reviews, alright guys, just as a warning, this story is going to get worse before it gets better. But it WILL get better. And while there is some upcoming whump, this story is not only that. Just wanted to reassure those who are hoping for some good times for our favorite detectives. They will maybe come...eventually.

Also, I'm in the process of rewriting the first five chapters of this story, so be on the lookout for that!

Without further ado, Chapter 9!

The sun was just peaking through his curtains.

Frank pulled on his shoes, letting his head hang downward. Sleep had helped to clear his mind, but exhaustion still lingered, as did the ever constant tightening in his chest that had begun the moment Joe had gone missing.

His little brother was capable, resilient, and in times it was truly needed, smart. The reassurance did little to make Frank less worried.

His father was already in the kitchen as he walked downstairs, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looked up as Frank walked in, grabbing another mug from the cabinet without a word. If Joe was there, he'd be complaining about how early it was, trying to convince them to let him sleep for another hour. Without him, the kitchen was eerily silent. Frank took the coffee.

"You're sure you want to be on this case?" His father asked him, breaking through the silence that lingered around them.

By the tone of his father's voice, he already knew what Frank's answer was going to be. "I have to, Dad."

Fenton gave him a sad smile. "I know."

They pulled up to the station fifteen minutes later, Frank feeling marginally more alive than he had before, thanks to the coffee and fresh air. There hadn't been many words exchanged between father and son on the ride over, and just as Frank was slipping out from the car, his father caught his arm.

A look of determination was plastered on Fenton's face, eyes deep and sober as they met Franks. "Let's find Joe and Vanessa."

Frank gave him a sharp nod.

Hang on, Joe. Hang on, Vanessa. We're gonna bring you home.

He prayed it wasn't a false promise.

Walking only a few steps behind his father, Frank walked into the police station, all together floored by how alive it was.

It wasn't that the station was usually dead, Bayport was still a part of New York, after all, but Frank couldn't remember a time that it had been so full of people, bustling with an energy that felt like a mix of determination and anxiety. Multiple voices greeted his father when they entered, some officers he knew, and some he didn't- this wasn't a small town case anymore. Egorov had been all over New York, and the makeup of people within the station reflected it.

Somewhere over to his left, he heard his name.

Turning, Frank locked eyes with the familiar face of Sam Radley, reaching out to shake the man's outstretched hand. The older detective pulled him forward, into a brief hug. It steadied him, and Frank found himself smiling as Sam pulled away, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Always good to see you, Frank," Sam said earnestly, "Glad to hear you're on the case."

Frank shot a look to his father, who was already deep in conversation with Chief Collig. Word traveled fast, it seemed. Sam caught his look.

"Fenton called me this morning. Both of us knew you wouldn't take no for an answer." Sam paused for a moment, his voice softer when he spoke again. "And we wouldn't ask you to."

Frank flashed him a grateful smile. "It's good to see you, Sam."

A sharp clap broke through the chatter of the small crowd, and Frank found himself, and every other eye in the building, turning towards Collig. The man was all business, his eyes sharp and focused.

"Let's get this started."

The group was led to a conference room, extra chairs having been set up in advance around a long table, the front of the room adorned with boards decorated with evidence. Frank took a seat beside his father. Collig didn't wait to get started.

"This marks victims eight and nine. Joseph Hardy and Vanessa Bender."

Frank grit his teeth at the names.

"I'm sure you're all aware, but as this is our first meeting with every department, I just want to make sure we're all up to speed. Of course, we are operating under the assumption that these disappearances are the result of Petya Egorov, but until this is confirmed, it is only a lead."

The older chief ran through details Frank had heard the night before, no less gruesome but dulled of some of their shock value, this time around. He was ready for it, this time. Joe and Vanessa needed him to be solid, unwavering.

"We know Egorov doesn't give ransom, or contact families, but as of yet, every victim he's kidnaped has come back alive."

Frank jotted down the occasional note, distracted by the same tug in his brain he had felt the night prior. It all sounded familiar.

At the other end of the table, a short, heavyset officer leaned back in his chair, his voice gruff as he spoke. "He hasn't had a repeat of city, yet, Chief. Could be to throw us off his scent, but we're thinking it's more than that. There must be something that links these victims, even if we can't see it."

Collig nodded, taking a seat at the table, hands laced together. "We've been thinking the opposite, Chief Herman." His eyes trailed over to Fenton.

"Yes," his father said, "we've been looking at the methodology instead. There could be a connection between the victims, but not one we can deduce before we understand what and why Egorov is doing what he's doing."

"So, what's the connection?" Herman asked, not unkindly.

Fenton sucked in a breath between his teeth. "Just like most things involving Egorov, we're not sure. We've gotten two accounts of what Egorov is doing as 'punishment', but it doesn't seem consistent through each victim."

"That's indicative of it being something religious, the word 'punishment'," Said a woman officer, pushing her dark braids over her shoulder, "but the actions and so called 'punishments' don't fit specifically with any religion. And of course, it's not every victim that talks about a punishment."

Frank furrowed his brow.

A religious motive.

"That," Frank said, tilting his head, "Could be a reason why there hasn't been any mortalities."

At his words, the room fell silent, every pair of eyes turning to face him, as if they had just realized he was there. He felt like a bug under a microscope.

Without missing a beat, Collig was speaking, his voice authoritative, leaving no room for argument. "Frank Hardy, Fenton's son. He's officially on this case, so please treat him just as you would anyone else in this room."

The silence lingered a moment longer. The woman detective who had spoken earlier looked at him, bringing her hand up to hold her chin.

"Why do you say that?" She asked him.

Clearing his throat, Frank pressed on, ignoring the weight of two dozen eyes on him. "Well, it's a stretch, maybe, but if it was religious, and Egorov had a strict moral code because of whatever the religion is, it could explain why he hasn't killed anyone."

In tandem, the room nodded.

"And the torture isn't bad?" Herman asked, a scoff in his words.

The woman spoke before he could. Frank couldn't say he wasn't grateful.

"Not necessarily. If we're looking at someone who has a moral code based on something skewed, which would obviously be the case, he could perceive everything he's doing as morally just. Maybe even good."

Voice began to overlap, the room erupting into conversation, and Frank chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Whatever it was, the woman officer had been right. Frank glanced at her nametag. Vesper. He reminded himself to thank her afterwards. There was no religion that would fit exactly what Egorov was doing, but that didn't mean the man didn't have a religion he had taken and contorted. Or, perhaps created himself.

But that wouldn't explain the gnawing in the back of his mind, telling him to keep thinking, connect a dot he hadn't found yet. Normally, he elected to ignore gut feelings, leaving that up to Joe, who liked to brag his gut had never led him wrong. In his absence, Frank thought he'd take a page out of his brother's book. Come hell or high water, they'd find him and Vanessa.

At the thought, Frank stilled.

Hell.

Suddenly, his brain threw him back to where he had sat the night before, leaving Callie a message, staring at his childhood bookshelf.

War and Peace. To Kill a Mockingbird. Animal Farm. Catcher in the Rye. The Great Gatsby. Dante's Inferno. Lord of the Flies. Fahrenheit 451.

Frank gasped, pulling in the breath through clenched teeth, head shooting toward his father.

"Dad."

Fenton turned to look at him, brown eyes that matched his own quizzical.

"Dad, it's Dante's Inferno. It's hell."

For a moment, Fenton just stared at him. "What?"

Voice still lapsed in and out around them. Frank ignored them.

"What he's doing, why all the methodologies are different. Why some of them said it was a punishment. We had to read it in highschool, and I've been wondering why what you told me yesterday felt familiar."

A look of realization grew on Fenton's face.

Frank continued, not realizing the room had grown silent with the rising of his voice. "He's making them commit the sin, like…like gluttony, or lust, or any of the other ones from Inferno, and then he's punishing them according to that level of hell! If we look at each case, I think it'll line up exactly!"

"Shit," someone breathed, across the table.

The look his father was giving him shone with pride, quickly being taken over by a somber one. The excitement of his discovery fizzled with the thought of what it really meant.

Oh god. Joe. Vanessa.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, voice low. "Let's get to work."

Joe didn't know how much time had passed. He did know, however, that the body was starting to smell.

They had fed him three times so far, and each time he had choked down what little he could, telling himself he needed to keep his strength up. He could only hope it wasn't drugged.

He hadn't seen Vanessa since they had dragged her away. Each time he had been brought food, he had pelted them with questions about where she was, what they were doing with her, and each time he had been met with nothing but silence. Anger burned in him. Guilt burned brighter.

The word murderer played on his mind.

He tried to ignore it.

It felt a little like going crazy.

The door to his cell swung open. From where he sat on the cot, his eyes everywhere but the floor, Joe turned his head to look, expecting another plate of lukewarm food.

Egorov stood in the doorway, hands behind his back. Vadim loomed behind him.

"Joseph," Egorov said, eyes narrowed, "it is time to pay for your sin."

A break in the case! Maybe not a good omen for Joe, however…

Thanks again for reading, everyone! Please leave a review if you wish!

-Lee