The ringing of a cell phone interrupted Biff's and Chet's interview with the assistant warden. "Excuse me, sir, I think that's my phone," Biff said. He answered the phone. "Yes, this is Biff...Oh, okay...Yea, we can be there in forty-five minutes...It's okay, bye."

"Problem?" Chet asked.

"Yea, my mom's having car problems. I'm sorry, sir. We'll have to cut this short. I think we may have enough, but can we phone you tomorrow if we have further questions?"

"Yes," the assistant said. "It was a pleasure to talk to you boys. I hope you do well on your report."

Biff and Chet left the office and when they reached the gate, signed out. They told their arranged story to the guard to cover Joe's absence. As they were getting in the car, the noticed three men going up to the gate.

"There's Mr. Hardy!" Chet exclaimed.

"Where? Maybe we should let him know Joe's inside," Biff said.

Chet was still staring at the three men. He didn't like the looks of the two men with Mr. Hardy. "I don't think so. I don't think Mr. Hardy is here of his own free will. I think we better go find Sam."

The boys quickly got into the car and exited the parking lot. A short distance down the road they found a dirt drive and Chet pulled in. He immediately spotted Sam Radley watching from behind some bushes. He jumped out.

"Sam!" he called.

"Chet, what are you doing here? You'll give me away," Sam said angrily. "What were you boys doing at the prison anyway and where's Joe?"

"Sam, we just saw Mr. Hardy go in there. I think one of the men with him had a gun on him. Joe's in that old building over there looking for Frank," Chet told him, excitedly.

"You sure? I saw some men go in, but couldn't make out who they were," Sam answered.

"Yes, I'm sure. Please call the police or maybe Con. I'm sure they're in trouble," Chet pleaded.

Sam was already dialing as Chet made his plea. "Come on, Con, answer the phone," he said to himself.

"Con Riley here," he finally heard.

"Con, Sam Radley here. I'm over at the Riverton prison, keeping it under surveillance for Fenton. He suspects something is going on there and that Frank may be there."

"I know," Con answered.

"Well, two men just took Fenton inside. I think he's in trouble and needs some backup."

"Actually, we're in route now. Laura already called us that Fenton was taken by two guards from the prison," Con replied. "ETA fifteen minutes. Don't do anything until we get there. Understand?"

"Okay," Sam answered, then hung up. "They're already on their way," he told the two boys.

The guard who had accompanied Fenton into Villman's office melted back into the shadows of the room, his gun unwavering on Fenton's back. Jenkins and Rand were only a step behind them.

The twelve year old photograph of Villman was still an accurate representation, Fenton reflected. His eyes were bright, but they had no life. He saw that immediately. Villman didn't yet realize that he would get no pleasure from his revenge. He couldn't help but wonder how long ago Carl Villman's soul had died.

"Finally," Villman said. "Welcome, Fenton." He was perched on the edge of the table, his body obscuring the monitor behind him.

Small talk had no appeal for Fenton at this moment. "Where is my son?" It was more a demand than question.

"He's waiting for you, Fenton," he said, a smile passing like a ghost across his face, and he shifted to the left, leading with his gaze to the screen he had been hiding.

It took all of Fenton's control not to react to the image that flickered before him in the neutral tones of the monitor. The surveillance camera must be at ceiling level. It looked down into the small cell, focusing on the bare cot. Frank lay very still, one arm draped over the side of the metal frame, his right leg bent and propped against the wall beside him. Fenton knew without being told that the dark stain on the sweatshirt was blood. Frank wasn't moving; even his breathing was imperceptible. For one terrible, eternal second Fenton thought his son was already dead; then Frank shifted slightly and a low moan marked his body's response to the movement. He didn't move again.

Fenton knew better than to give Villman the satisfaction of pleading for Frank's life, but his heart put the words in his throat and he couldn't resist them. "If it is my life you want, then send my son away from here."

"You killed my son," Villman said, and it was startling to hear the words slip so easily from him. "Don't you think there should be some sort of retribution?"

"Then take your retribution," Fenton countered, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. "But take it from me, not an innocent boy."

"That doesn't seem a fair trade." He slid back into position, again blocking the screen.

He was enjoying this, Fenton thought with a flare of anger that he forced into submission. If he allowed any of his fear or pain to show in his face, Villman would feed off it like a parasite. He wouldn't give him that pleasure. He waited for him to continue.

"You killed my son. I'll kill yours. Then we are even. Don't you agree?"

"Except that I didn't kill your son," Fenton answered.

"Perhaps it was not your knife," he conceded, "but you were the one who put him in that jail."

"He was guilty. He killed that boy."

"He was not, and he never had a chance to prove it, did he. He never even made it to trial."

The anger was the first honest emotion he had seen in Villman's eyes. It suggested a loss of control that Fenton would not let pass. "That riot had nothing to do with you, me, or your son. He just happened to get caught in the middle of it." Fenton countered. "You never read the investigative report, did you?" he pressed. "Your son would have been found guilty."

"I saw my son's body!" His voice rose almost to a shout. "I did not need a report to see my dead boy!"

He stepped away from the table, turned to stare into the screen. His back to them, he watched the still figure on the cot.

"I have been watching him for twelve years, Fenton. He's grown up into a fine young man, hasn't he. Sometimes I almost regretted that he wouldn't live till his nineteenth birthday." He spun around, his mouth twisted as if undecided on its next expression. "I tried with Kurt. You know what it's like trying to keep them safe, teach them. We work so hard at it and all they do is fight us. Always they fight us."

"Perhaps it was your own hatred that you taught him. Your twisted view of the world that got him killed," Fenton said into Villman's madness, knowing he would only enrage him, but not caring now in his own fury at the danger forced on his son. That Villman had ghosted after Frank for twelve years woke his own fury, along with the metallic taste of fear. Villman might know the effort of keeping a child safe, but he so very clearly did not know the joy of loving one.

"I could kill you now! Here!" Villman took one shaky step toward Fenton, leaning into the action.

Rand stepped between them. A twitch of nerves at the back of his neck told him Jenkins had raised his gun, but he ignored the man.

"If you kill him now, he gets off too easily," he said softly. "You've waited a long time. Your best revenge is down in that cell. Are you going to let Hardy goad you into wasting it?"

His eyes followed Rand's to the monitor where Frank lay pale and still on the cot, the unwilling instrument of his vendetta. He drew in a long, quivering breath, and Fenton and Rand both watched the thin veneer of control slip back over his face.

When he spoke, his voice was once again icy calm. "It is not over this soon, Hardy."

Back on the lower level, Joe again examined the gates leading into the cell blocks--both locks looked as if they were still in use. He scanned the floor with his light and saw that the floor was relatively clean. There was no indication on which block he should search first. He examined the lock on the right gate and decided he might be able to open it. He pulled out a small, specialized toolkit, and started working on the lock. Despite his proficiency at this dubious ability, it still took him almost 5 minutes to open the gate. Once through, he jammed the lock so it would not engage again and closed the door behind him.

He made his way to the first door and tried it. It opened easily. He found the room piled high with discarded furniture. He found the same with the room on the other side of the hall. He went on to the second set of doors. Again they opened easily and obviously were used as additional storage space too. After the second set of room, there was another gate. This time, when he examined the lock, it looked like the ones on the second floor, obviously not used in quite some time.

He looked at his watch. He had already been in the building over a half hour. He turned back to go search the other block. Just as he reached the gate back out to the reception area, he heard the outside door open. He ducked into the closest room just as the overhead lights were switched on.