Faced with the reality that he was going to have to relive that night, detailing every agonizing moment, Fenton had finally forced himself to think about it. Every image, every emotion, every fear came back to him with overwhelming clarity. Once they had been unleashed, the memories refused to leave as if trying to make up for lost time. It had been the middle of the night before his mind had stopped spinning enough for him to sleep. Or so he thought.

One mental picture was steadfast in its refusal to go back into hiding and had plagued him throughout the night. It had been suppressed far too long and now wanted it’s due. Regardless of whether he was awake or asleep, Fenton couldn’t escape the image that tormented him, bringing with it the stark terror he’d felt, as if it were happening all over again. It was that one brief moment when Frank had reached out to check Joe’s pulse and announced with absolute certainty that they were too late - Joe was dead.

Even now it was still with him, so vivid Fenton found himself glancing to his left, looking past Laura and Vanessa just to make sure Joe was really there – alive and breathing. Hearing Peter Handling call his name, Fenton felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. His pulse quickened and he tried to calm his nerves before he found himself in a full-blown panic. Slowly, Fenton Hardy stood and walked to the front of the courtroom.

*****

Fenton had been on the witness stand for over two hours. While he had been able to maintain an outwardly calm appearance, inside his pulse was racing, his stomach was churning and his heart was breaking. Unable to stop himself, Fenton had frequently found himself staring at Joe throughout the questioning. Joe, who always seemed to know when his father needed encouragement and reassurance, gazed back at him calmly.

"Don’t worry, Dad," the look seemed to say, "I can handle it."

The thought that Joe was trying to be strong for him was almost enough to make Fenton’s seemingly composed exterior crumble around him. Tearing his eyes away from his younger son, Fenton looked at Frank intently. He had answered all Handling’s questions leading up to the moment they found Joe. Fenton knew things were about to get ugly and needed to know Frank could handle it if Joe began to fall apart. Frank nodded almost imperceptibly, letting Fenton know he understood the silent request. Fenton gripped the armrests and focused on Peter Handling.

"Mr. Hardy, your son Frank has already testified that when you found Joe he appeared near death due to the injuries inflicted by the defendant. He also testified that he was forced to shoot the defendant twice in order to save Joe’s life. Can you tell us what happened next?"

"As we walked towards Mr. Rashman, I picked up the chain he had removed from the trunk and discarded on the ground," Fenton began, stopping almost immediately. He felt the all-consuming anger just as he had at that moment, as if it were happening all over again.

An awkward silence ensued as everyone waited for him to continue. Staring hard at Joe, Fenton heard Joe’s voice exactly as it had sounded that night – weak and filled with pain.

The same feeling of horrified disbelief washed over him just as it had that night when he thought he was hearing Joe’s last words.

"Mr. Hardy, do you need a moment?" The District Attorney asked.

"I’m sorry, what?" Fenton replied snapping back to reality.

Joe watched his father, confused and concerned. Something was obviously wrong with him but Joe had no idea what.

"What’s the matter with him?" Joe leaned towards Frank and whispered worriedly.

"I don’t know," Frank lied, "but I’m sure he’ll be fine."

It was that moment when Frank realized his father had never taken the time to try to come to terms with what happened to Joe. More importantly, he never bothered to deal with the guilt that had obviously been eating him alive for months. Frank wished he’d come to this realization sooner and forced his father to face the demons from that night. It had been painfully difficult for Frank to do it, but he knew it was the only reason he had been able to get through his own testimony with his sanity still intact. Frank watched as Fenton shook off Handling’s question and resumed his testimony.

"I used the chain to subdue Mr. Rashman," Fenton continued, temporarily pushing aside the terror he’d felt that night. "Joe looked at us. He asked for his brother. He asked for me…" Fenton stopped again, an unfamiliar tremor in his voice.

"Dad…" The word and the memory haunted him.

"…and then he passed out," he said softly.

Joe looked at his brother increasingly concerned. ‘What’s with Dad?!’, his piercing blue eyes seemed to scream.

Frank gave Joe what he hoped was a comforting look. ‘Come on, Dad. Hang in there!’ Frank silently urged, unnerved at the grief etched on his father’s face.

His voice low and subdued, Fenton continued.

"Frank reached out and put two fingers on Joe’s neck, checking for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. He said, "We’re too late! He’s dead!" , Fenton almost choked on the word. "I pulled him back so I could check for myself. I was hoping the leather strap around Joe’s neck was the reason Frank couldn’t find a pulse."

A few gasps echoed through the courtroom, one of them all too familiar. Slowly, Fenton looked out and gazed at his wife, sorrow now clouding his deep brown eyes. Even from this distance he could see Laura trembling, her eyes wide with shock and both hands covering her mouth.

‘Damn you! Why didn’t you prepare her better?!’ Fenton cursed himself. ‘This is her baby you’re talking about…’ correcting himself almost immediately, ‘our baby…’

Next to Laura, Vanessa had gone pale but sat stoically with one arm hugging Laura tightly, the other clutching Joe’s arm. Fenton’s eyes rested briefly on her, as he was once again amazed at her seemingly endless reserves of inner strength.

"I put my fingers on Joe’s neck but I couldn’t find a pulse either. I moved them slightly and tried again, but still felt…nothing." Suddenly every emotion and every fear Fenton held that night engulfed him as one thought swirled through his mind, ‘Joe is dead…Joe is dead…Joe is dead…’ He swallowed, choking back a sob.

"I’m sorry," Fenton said hoarsely. His vision started to blur with unshed tears. "May I have a moment?"

"Of course," Peter Handling replied, genuine showing concern for the first time.

Walking to the prosecution table, Handling filled a Styrofoam cup with water and returned to the witness stand. As he handed the water to Fenton, he glanced at the judge who gave a slight nod.

"Take as much time as you need," Handling said soothingly.

Fenton took the cup gratefully. Surprised to see the water sloshing around, he tried to still his badly shaking hands. Sipping the water slowly, Fenton sent out at silent prayer.

Fenton knew it would be hard enough for Joe to hear the details from his perspective. Still he was confident that with Frank’s support Joe would be fine. If, however, Fenton were to break down during his testimony he knew it would affect Joe deeply, reopening the gaping hole of depression Joe had finally seemed to climb out of. Fenton downed the last of the water and sent out a final plea for help.

Placing the empty cup on the rail Fenton cleared his throat and sat up squaring his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said to the D.A. in a somewhat steadier voice, indicating he was ready to continue. "On the third try I was finally able to locate Joe’s pulse. It was weak and shallow. I turned to Frank and told him to check Mr. Rashman’s car for anything we could use to help Joe. Blankets, water, first aid kit…those kinds of things.

"While he checked the car I searched Mr. Rashman’s pockets and found the key for the chains that were holding Joe to the fence. By then, Frank had returned with a first aid kit, water, towels and blankets. I saw Joe’s left arm had been severely burned and asked Frank to clean and bandage it. Once he did that I unlocked the chains, freed Joe from the fence and laid him on a blanket on the ground." Fenton stopped only long enough to take a breath, knowing his new found willpower wouldn’t last long. He wanted to finish his testimony as quickly as possible.

"I used Mr. Rashman’s knife to cut the leather straps from Joe’s neck and wrists," Fenton heard a sniffle and saw his wife brush away a tear. "I asked Frank to direct the flashlight on Joe’s foot. He had a pretty severe knife wound and I wanted to get a better look at it."

"What did you find when you took a closer look?" Handling interrupted.

"Salt," Fenton replied. His eyes flashed with rage and he made no attempt to hide the anger in his voice. "There was salt deeply embedded in the wound. As if it had been purposely rubbed in."

Joe flinched and leaned forward slightly. He shuddered involuntarily as the echo of Keith Rashman’s voice surrounded him.

Unknowingly Joe gripped Vanessa’s hand tightly, trying to ward off the painful flashback. Even though Vanessa was squeezing his hand just as hard in response, Joe felt himself slipping into the shadowy memory that could surface and torment him in the blink of an eye. Just as the recollection began to swallow him up, Joe felt a hand on his back. The feather light touch was familiar, the small circular pattern it made comforting beyond belief.

"Take a deep breath," Frank murmured.

Joe inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. At Frank’s quiet urging, he repeated the calming action again and again. Focusing completely on Frank’s voice, Joe allowed his brother to lead him back from the hell that had beckoned to him. A moment later, a slightly more composed Joe turned to Frank and mouthed a silent thank you. Frank winked and gave Joe a final comforting pat on the back before they both returned their attention to their father.

"We got Joe in the car and laid him on the backseat," Fenton continued.

"Which car?" Handling asked for clarification.

"Mr. Rashman’s."

"Why not your rental car?" Handling pressed wanting to reinforce in the jurors minds how gravely injured Joe was.

"It was a half a mile away. Joe would have died-"

"Objection!" Matthew Barning called out. "The witness is a private investigator, not a physician," he said disdainfully.

"Sustained," the judge agreed.

"Mr. Hardy, without making a medical judgment, can you tell the court why you chose to use the defendant’s car instead of retrieving your own?" Handling asked, refusing to give up.

"Joe’s injuries appeared to be numerous and severe," Fenton glared at the defense attorney. "I was afraid if I took the time to walk the quarter of a mile back to my rental car, Joe would die before I got back. I felt I had no choice but to take Mr. Rashman’s car in order to save my son’s life," he explained, distress at the memory clearly visible in his eyes.

"What happened once you got Joe in the car?"

"We laid him on the backseat but he started choking and gasping for air almost immediately. I’m no doctor," Fenton said sarcastically glaring at Matthew Barning, "but I assumed that meant his lungs or ribs had been injured. It was obvious he couldn’t breathe lying down so we sat him up and Frank held him in that position for the duration of the ride."

Hearing this for the first time, Joe immediately looked at his brother, a lump forming in his throat. Frank smiled slightly and shrugged, hoping to smother the horrible memory of thinking he’d never see Joe alive again.

"I called 911 on my cell phone," Fenton continued. "I described Joe’s injuries the best I could. The operator said she was requesting a MedEvac chopper rather than sending an ambulance to meet us. Based on what I was able to tell her, she felt the sooner Joe began receiving medical treatment, the greater his chance of survival."

"Objection," Barning exclaimed again, making a show of throwing his pen on the table in disgust. "She was an operator, not an EMT."

"A 911 operator who is trained to determine whether a victim is so severely injured that a MedEvac chopper is warranted rather than an ambulance," Handling jumped in before the judge could utter a word.

After considering both arguments carefully, the judge found in Handling’s favor. "Overruled," he stated and then turned to Fenton. "You may continue."

"She told me where the chopper would land and gave me directions on how to get there. About eight minutes later, we came to the roadblock. The chopper was already there waiting. The EMT’s removed Joe from the car, put him in the chopper and they left," Fenton finished softly.

He looked at Frank and Joe, sitting side by side in the first row of seats and felt his eyes begin to burn at the memory. Frank hadn’t wanted to let Joe out of his sight. Terrified he’d never see his brother alive again, Frank had sobbed when the chopper took off.

Blinking back the tears, Fenton glared openly at Rashman. ‘You put my boys through hell,’ Fenton thought wishing Rashman could read his mind. ‘One way or another, you’ll pay.’

"No further questions, Your Honor," Peter Handling said as he walked back to the prosecution table.

"Mr. Barning, do you wish to cross-examine?" The judge asked.

"Yes," Barning replied with a smirk as he stood, "I do."

"Mr. Hardy, you testified that after your son shot my client for the second time, you approached Mr. Rashman, is that correct?"

"Yes," Fenton replied, trying to figure out what Barning was up to.

"With my client lying on the ground with bullet wounds to the hand and shoulder, inflicted by your oldest son, what did you do?"

Fenton hesitated for a second. "I secured him to ensure he couldn’t escape before the authorities arrived."

"Mr. Hardy, may I remind you that you are under oath," Barning said coolly.

Joe turned and looked at Frank, confused. What was Barning getting at? Frank stared straight ahead avoiding Joe’s questioning gaze, having figured out what Barning’s intention was.

Fenton remained silent, glaring in response, as he too understood where Barning was headed with his line of questioning.

"Mr. Hardy, when my client was lying motionless on the ground after being shot by your son – twice – did you do anything else with the chain you had picked up? Did you do anything with it before using it to ‘secure’ my client?" Barning practically sneered.

"Yes," Fenton answered simply, deciding to make Barning pry every word out of him.

"Exactly what did you do with the chain prior to using it to bind my client?" Barning snapped.

"I used it to immobilize him to ensure he wouldn’t get loose after we left," Fenton replied evenly.

Barning chuckled and shook his head. "You’re very good at this, Mr. Hardy."

"Your Honor…" Handling began in a cautionary voice.

"Mr. Barning, stick to the facts of the case, please, and keep your personal opinions to yourself," the judge admonished.

"Yes, Your Honor," Barning replied, still smiling. Turning he stared at Fenton with a self-satisfied smirk. "Mr. Hardy, please tell us exactly how you used the chain to immobilize my client."

Fenton looked at Rashman with no remorse. "I hit him in the back of the head with it."

"So even though my client was all ready on the ground, unmoving, bleeding and in pain from multiple gunshot wounds inflicted by your son, you found it necessary to viciously attack him with a chain, knocking him unconscious. This despite the fact that you used said chain and a few more to bind him until the authorities arrived," Barning stated theatrically, turning to face the jury. "Sounds like my client wasn’t the only one who was temporarily insane that night," he finished and returned to his seat.

"Objection!" Peter Handling was on his feet in an instant. "Move to strike!"

"Sustained," the judge agreed, glowering at Matthew Barning. "The last comment will be stricken from the record. Mr. Hardy, you may step down."

Furious, Fenton returned to his seat, pausing to glare at both Rashman and Barning on the way. He was shocked to find that for the first time, he wished Frank really had killed Keith Rashman that night.

Making his way down the row to his seat, Fenton stopped in front of Joe, who was very obviously unsettled at what had just occurred. Squeezing his shoulder in comfort, Fenton continued to his seat next to Laura. Shaking with rage, Fenton’s gaze was drawn to Keith Rashman.

‘Thirty seconds,’ he thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the man who had almost killed his son and destroyed his family. ‘Just thirty seconds alone with him…’