Frank Hardy stood by the big picture window overlooking the front lawn and watched. Everyone had moved inside to give Joe and Hero some privacy but this was as far as Frank would go. He was unwilling to let the younger boy out of his sight; an unreasonable paranoia gripped him that if he did, Joe would just disappear. He barely dared to blink.

The teen stared at Hero in wonder; his emotions in turmoil, stretched to their very limits by the events of last night, and then onwards past breaking as he sucked in a breath at the memory of the razor in his brother’s hand…. That had been too close. Shoving that thought away, Frank forced himself to refocus on what was now, instead of what was almost. His thoughts returned to the dog.

Although the boy had never consciously given much thought as to what had happened to Hero after he’d run away – no, after he’d been stolen – Frank had somewhere along the way just accepted, or expected, that the large canine was dead. It made the most sense; was terribly logical. And terribly untrue.

Damian Iago had given the dog to his sister-in-law for her children, in lieu of the abusive, alcoholic father his older brother was….The dog had lived, and been loved by the Iago family since then. It was very apparent that they had been good to Hero, his dark shiny coat, and ample girth attested to it. But it was more than just his physical appearance that spoke of how well he had been treated – it was something else. Something that the animal exuded and something logic could not put a name to.

Sighing heavily, Frank swallowed back the lump in his throat put there by watching them – by seeing Joe and Hero, together again; an impossibility until this very moment.

Behind him, he heard voices coming from the kitchen; his mother’s, Sam’s and then those of the woman, Ruth she introduced herself as, and her three children, Shannon, Mark and Adam – Hero’s other family.

The clink of glasses suggested iced tea was being served, and that brought a faint smile to his lips. He sometimes wondered if his mother had a touch of Southern in her, because she seemed to always have a plentiful supply of iced tea and lemonade for whenever anyone showed up, no matter how unexpected. The sound of someone moving quietly behind him erased the smile. It was his father.

And once again the image of his brother in the bathroom seared his mind….The razor…the desperation…the fear…

* * *

“How’s he doing?” Fenton Hardy asked quietly as he came to stand beside his son. His gaze turned out the window as well and he sighed.

“Okay I guess,” Frank shrugged, his tone surprisingly cool.  “They’re just sitting.”

Fenton glanced at the boy, picking up a hint of hostility directed at him. “Is something wrong, son?” he asked, wondering what he’d done to deserve it.

Frank never said anything but continued looking out the window. The detective saw the small muscle in his son’s jaw clench and knew the boy was biting his tongue. Obviously, whatever was bugging him was something he wasn’t willing to share yet.

Letting it drop for now, he returned his attention out the window, “I really do need to talk to him—”

Instantly Frank turned on him, his face a mixture of fear and anger.  “No – don’t! Don’t say anything to him about this – not yet!”

“What?” Fenton was stunned by the vehemence in the teen’s voice.

“He’s not ready, yet, Dad!”

“Son—”Fenton put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, unnerved by this outburst, and attempting to placate him.

“You don’t understand,” Frank continued, his dark brown eyes boring into Fenton’s, “he isn’t ready! You might be ready to hear what he has to say, but he isn’t ready to say it! And when you tried to get him to talk before – and he ran upstairs – he—” the teen just stopped.

“He ran upstairs and he what?” the detective pressed softly as his heart started to hammer in his chest. The look on his son’s face was pure fear now.

“He tried to – he was going to...”  The boy took a deep breath, closed his eyes and then just said, “he was going to slit his wrists. If I’d been even a moment longer…”

All the blood drained from Fenton’s face as he turned swiftly towards the window again; seeking the visual reassurance that Joe was still out there – still all right. “Oh God,” he hissed. Guilt scorched him – he had seen the fear on Joe’s face when he’d told the boy he wanted to talk, and he’d ignored it; believing it was better to press him now than allow it to remain unspoken, to fester – desperate to ‘fix’ everything. And so he pressed…not giving his son an out, only a place…We can talk in my office, the kitchen, your room, wherever you want, son. But I think it’s important that we don’t put this off….He never asked Joe if he was ready to talk, but just told the seventeen-year-old he was ready to listen…right now.

And then when his younger son had fled – panic stricken – from the room, Fenton had not followed; had not attempted to offer his own comfort or an apology for pressing. He had just left it to his older son to undo whatever damage his own selfish need to comfort Joe – to help alleviate his own guilt and feelings of helplessness – had inflicted.

The detective had even suspected, and asked his wife, if she thought Joe would try again – she had no answer and he sought none himself.

Closing his eyes briefly in self-loathing, Fenton Hardy turned and left the room. Going into his office, he shut the door, sat down at his desk and stared at the blank monitor. His mind flipped backwards and forwards in time, assaulting him with old guilt and new fears. And that was where Sam Radley found him, sitting at the desk with a haunted look on his face.

* * *

“Hey old buddy,” Sam said, knocking on the door and pushing it open, “want some company?” He had seen his friend flee to his office, and although he had no idea what was wrong, he had recognized the defeated look on Fenton’s face. He held up a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

Fenton looked up at him and shrugged. Sam took that as a ‘yes,’ going into the office and closing the door behind him.

Immediately he poured two glasses and offered one to his partner. The senior Hardy took it and swallowed it down in one gulp. Sam refilled it and then sat down quietly across the desk from Fenton and waited; after a few minutes his patience paid off.

“I tried to get Joe to talk this afternoon,” the dark-haired man admitted, his voice sounding drained.

“I take it, it didn’t go exactly as you’d hoped?” Sam speculated, watching his friend carefully.

“You might say that,” Fenton snorted and then downed his second glass, but this time Sam never refilled it. “He tried to kill himself—” he paused and then added, “again.”

“Oh Fenton.”  The words were compassion-filled as Sam sat back in his chair and shook his head. He really had no words to make this better.

“The thing is,” Fenton continued, obviously not expecting his partner to say something magical and fix everything, “I don’t know if I want him to talk to me for him…or for me.”

His dark eyes sought out the hazel ones and held their sympathetic gaze.  “I just feel so damn guilty about everything – about being ignorant to what was going on eight years ago, and then again now,” He shook his head.  “but it’s like I can’t wait….He can’t talk to me fast enough so I can fix it…make it all better! And I know that’s wrong – but still – I can’t help it! I need to fix this for him…for both of us.”

“That is understandable,” Sam finally said, choosing his words carefully, “but Fenton, you can’t rush this. I know you’re hurting – you’re all hurting – but if you make Joe talk before he’s ready to, then, my friend, you’ll only do more harm than good.”

“I know, I know!” Fenton stood up and paced behind his desk, “but now I’m scared – terrified that I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he elaborated.  “If I don’t get Joe to talk to me, I’m afraid I could lose him – lose the Joe we all know and love – watching him replaced with a scared child going through the motions every day but not living past that hell; and if I do get him to talk, he might erupt again and the next time Frank might not be here – not—”

“Fenton! Stop!” Sam said, standing up and swiftly moving behind the desk to grab Fenton by the arms, forcing him to listen to him.  “None of this is helping! So stop it! If you want to help your son – and I know you do – then follow your heart on this one, NOT your guilt. Joe doesn’t need your guilt and all it’s going to do is cloud your judgment and increase your impatience. An impatience that your son will pick up on, and add it to whatever other recriminations he is hurling at himself. He will blame himself for your feelings, as well, and that isn’t right – so stop and focus. Focus on your family as a whole. Be there for them, lend them your strength and remind them of your love, and then, and only then, can you hope to single any one out to help. Joe will talk to you…but first you have to be approachable; an easy ear to talk to. A strength he can draw on. And you, my friend, are right now, anything but approachable. You’re wound up so tightly that two glasses of scotch hasn’t even made a dent!”

Fenton sighed and then as Sam released him, he sat back down heavily in his chair and picked up his empty glass.  “Well then, how about three?”

Wordlessly Sam moved back around the desk, picked up the bottle from where he’d placed it on the floor and refilled the glass. Fenton drained it, and then sat back in his seat. He regarded his friend somberly.  “Exactly where did you, Sam Radley, self-professed bachelor extraordinaire, ever pick up such pearls of family wisdom?”

“Well, brother,” the sandy-haired sleuth chanced it with a grin, which widened as he was met by one across the desk, albeit it one a bit more strained but still pleased, “I have a very good role model. You, Fenton Hardy, are the best husband and father when you don’t mean to be, so I’m in awe to think of what this will bring out in you when you try to be.”

The other man contemplated that for a few moments, a warm, almost peaceful look filtered across his face. “Thank you, brother,” he returned the affectionate term easily although his voice was rough with constrained emotion, and Sam beamed at the recognition. “I – I—” he faltered.

Sam reached his hand across the table and Fenton clasped it, tightly. The sandy-haired sleuth’s voice was low and sincere:  “And I’ll be here to remind you about that, whenever you need me to…”

Fenton opened his mouth to try and say something else. But he couldn’t – there was nothing to add. So instead, he just gave a little nod…no words were needed.

* * *

Outside the office door, Frank could barely breathe. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on his father and Sam’s private conversation – it had just happened. He tried to make himself move but his body refused, so he stayed there, entranced by the desperation he heard in his father’s voice and shocked by how deep his father’s guilt still was.

But in the end, he was glad he had stayed, and overheard, because it helped him understand his father’s side a little bit more. And in place of the anger he had harbored this afternoon, he found a wary compassion; his desire to shelter his brother conflicting with his new knowledge. He just hoped his father’s resolve to be patient would remain strong as his thoughts turned back to brother. Hastily, he returned to the window, just to make sure…

* * *

“I – I’m so s-sorry,” Joe’s voice choked off, lost in Hero’s thick black fur, “So, so sorry.” His head was swimming from exhaustion and the overwhelming emotions of the past twenty-four hours. Just yesterday he thought he was losing his mind; and now today – tonight actually –  he was reunited with something he had thought he’d lost – that was gone forever – left behind in that horrid ‘secret place.’  “Please…forgive me…” he whispered.

The words tumbled out of him as he tried to explain to the dog what had happened; why he’d been left there. Joe needed to explain it; a need rooted so deeply that it tangled his heart in a chokehold and weighed down his soul with heaviness. Hero had to understand on some level, if only through the telling, that he had not been left behind on purpose…

* * *

The dog listened patiently, turning time and again to lick the disconsolate face pressed against his body. He was distressed at how upset the boy was, and whined to make him feel better. Guilt and fear clung heavily to his child, and grief, oh so much grief…

Gently he nuzzled the boy’s side with his large wet nose, and then licked the face that turned to look at him.  There was nothing to forgive in his canine mind. His love for his boy was unconditional and unquestioning. Just being with him again, for no matter how brief a time, was enough.

“Oh my Hero…” once again the face, anguished, pressed against his warm body and the dog sighed – he could not give this child what he needed. His doleful eyes turned towards the house where he knew the others were waiting and watching. He could hear them and feel their gaze – their worry – burning hotter than the setting sun beating down on his black coat.

In that house lived what this child – what his boy – needed. A comfort the dog could never give him….

A voice to tell him he was safe – to soothe with words what thoughts never could; arms to embrace – to hold him tight and stroke his face when the tigers of fear clawed tears from his soul; protection by presence to prove to him he was loved – to shoulder his burdens when their weight threatened his very breath. Hero could not do that – he was just a dog.

But he could do one thing for his boy that no one else could. And he did just that….

He listened; ears that would hear every word the child would tell, and lips that would never whisper it to any living soul.

And so it was to the dog that Joe poured out his soul and then, exhausted, collapsed against him, closing his eyes to the darkening evening. Hero lay quietly beside him, and kept vigil over him for one last time; basking in the love of his lost one.

They both knew what would happen – what the waking would bring. It would bring a goodbye. And it did.

* * *

In an old farmhouse, only a couple of hours away, the black-haired woman stretched out on the double bed. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply; positive that she could still smell the familiar mix of horse, man and aftershave that was uniquely Paul Scott.

Smiling at the rush of memories and emotions, she opened her eyes and glanced around the room – his room. Soon, she promised herself, I’ll have my Paul soon…

And then closing her eyes again, she dreamed of a blond haired seventeen-year-old with electric sapphire eyes. Very soon.

To be continued in ‘Brutal Persuasion’…

Spoiler: How far is Gwynne Smart willing to go to get what she wants? With a motto of ‘the means justify the ends’, the Hardys are about to find out. And then, when the unthinkable happens, Fenton and Laura team up, once again in a race against time to save the ones they love from a nasty case of ‘brutal persuasion.’

Special appreciation to JD, Stormwatcher and Alaina! Thanks ladies for putting up with my oft-times neuroticism!