Soon

Frank Hardy stood at the window of the hospital room and stared down at the street, watching the cars below move through the intersection without really seeing them. His gaze drifted over the crowd of media people without interest, oblivious to the cameras and recorders that were pointed up at his third-story window. His attention was all turned inward.

Why? was the most pervasive of all the thoughts and feelings whirling through his mind. Why?

Last night, the Reaper had come after him. Just as Joe had said he would. Frank shivered, rubbing his shoulder; there was a small, painful bruise where the drugged dart had hit him. The drug- which still hadn’t been identified- had slowly worn off during his night in the hospital. There hadn’t been any side effects, only the maddening tingle of nerves and muscles ‘waking up’ again.

Joe had stayed by Frank’s side the whole time, sitting in a chair beside the bed and guarding his brother while he drifted in and out of sleep. By the time Collig had arrived, nearly two hours later, Frank had been able to talk, haltingly. He had given his statement as plainly and briefly as he could. Joe’s hand had remained firmly wrapped around his own while Frank answered the chief’s questions; it was unusual for them both to allow someone else to see one of them comforting the other, but Frank had been grateful he could feel his brother’s strong grip. It had helped him keep calm.

Giving his statement had left the older Hardy physically and emotionally exhausted, and he had fallen asleep again while Collig was talking to Joe. He’d woken several hours later and been unpleasantly surprised to find himself alone, with a nurse checking on him. She’d told him that his brother left when the police chief did. Frank had taken some time to fall asleep again after she left, and this time his dreams had been full of his father’s face.

Fear ran icily down Frank’s back as he remembered his dreams, then recalled the image that had provoked them: his father’s face, cold with hate, contorted in rage and pain. He shuddered, his hand moving from the bruise to the small cut just above his collarbone where the knife had nicked him. He hadn’t felt it, and it had nearly gone unnoticed in all the hustle and uproar. It wasn’t until the intern had removed his shirt and sponged off his bare chest that the slice had been noted. It was only a shallow little thing, but it was right next to the jugular. If Joe had fired even a second later, it would have been extremely serious- probably fatal.

‘Odd,’ the young sleuth thought suddenly. ‘When the Chief was questioning me, he only asked if I recognized the accomplice. I said yes and he went on with another question. Wonder why. Maybe he didn’t want Joe to know it was Dad. He sure went to a lot of trouble to verify that it was definitely an attempt to kill me, not to rescue me.’ Frank bit his tongue as a suspicious burning sensation started up in his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry again. He’d cried a little last night after the nurse left him, but that had been because he was so unnerved and tired- and lonely. And worried about his brother and their mother. But that was last night. He wasn’t going to cry now.

A tear sliding down his cheek belied Frank’s resolve, but he wiped it away quickly and took several deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself.

Joe had committed murder- twice- to save Frank’s life.

Frank let his eyes close, his head droop, and felt hot tears streak his face. A tangled mass of guilt and gratitude churned inside him, mixed with horror and a powerful feeling of betrayal.

The guilt and gratitude were easy enough to trace; they centered on Joe. The two emotions were tied together so closely that it was impossible to tell where the one became the other. And equally impossible to say for sure which was the stronger.

Frank had never dreamed his brother would have to kill anyone, ever. To be the reason why his brother was arrested for murder- even the killing of a death-row criminal- made him cringe with something akin to shame. It was Frank’s fault his brother was no longer ‘innocent’, his fault Joe’s hands had shed blood. But Frank was alive only because Joe had acted, and his fear of being tortured to death by the Reaper was set at rest forever.

‘If I’d known the only way out of it was for Joe to kill...I don’t know what I would’ve wanted. Is my life really worth my brother getting stuck with a jail sentence? And even if he’s cleared, he still has to live with it. So do I, for that matter. I’m always gonna owe him this enormous debt.’ Frank frowned out the window, bitterness invading his thoughts. ‘And all because Dad thought we knew something important.’

Most of the betrayal and horror ran straight back to that simple fact, but there was more to it than there seemed. Fenton had targeted his sons because of Joe’s visions- that was plain enough. He was- had been, Frank corrected himself- afraid of what Joe would see, afraid of what he might tell Frank. Afraid they would realize he’d been the Reaper’s accomplice. If Joe hadn’t had the visions...what then? Would he and Joe and their mother have lived out their lives not knowing that their father was allied with a killer? Or would something else have forced that evil secret into the open? Would the Reaper have bypassed his accomplice’s family? But there had been that card in the mail, the teen reminded himself. You’re on my list, Hardy. That could be dismissed as a scare tactic, but then what about the discrepancies between vision and reality? Would it all have- ironically- happened exactly like the visions if Joe hadn’t had them in the first place? Would the man have come after them anyway? But why would he?

‘Maybe the Reaper was pissed at Dad for letting Sam get him in jail- on death row, even,’ Frank speculated, rubbing his hot eyes with slightly unsteady hands. ‘Maybe he was privately planning it all along; maybe Dad tried to talk him out of it but went along to keep from getting killed, too. Or to keep Mom safe. And then when he realized Joe was foreseeing some of it, he realized he had to keep himself safe.’

Sighing, Frank stepped back from the window and sank down on the bed, suddenly weary. Too much emotion, too many ifs and perhaps’s and maybes. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes. It would be a long while before he could get a grip on his feelings about his father. But what about his brother? How did he really feel- aside from grateful and guilty? He owed it to Joe to figure that much out.

Resentment? No- Joe had explained how it was impossible to warn Frank with the electronic listening devices in the house. Collig had verified that, saying that they’d counted nearly twenty bugs in the house- not including the ones in the telephones. Probably planted by Fenton before he left. Every word they said had been overheard. Joe had done the right thing in setting an ambush, rather than risk giving away what he knew and perhaps having the Reaper change his plans as a result.

Joe had even been coming to the house to help when the Reaper came out, despite knowing that it could get him killed or captured, too. He’d been climbing down from the tree, determined to be with Frank... A misty smile crossed the dark-haired boy’s face at the thought. That was Joe, too loyal to give his own safety more than a passing thought.

Revulsion, then? No. No. Frank had seen too many things- too much death- to really be revolted by the carnage his brother had caused. It had been nasty, all right, but Frank was genuinely glad the Reaper was dead. He just wished Joe hadn’t needed to be the one to finally stop the bastard.

But killing Fenton...that was different. Frank had loved his father for eighteen years. He couldn’t wipe out all those years in the course of a single night, even if he had wanted to. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. His feelings were too tangled. Frank wasn’t about to forgive his father for his deceit and betrayal, but he wasn’t going to be able to forget all the good times of his life with his dad, either.

By the same token, he was deeply grateful to his brother, but he still felt uneasy, uncertain what to do or say when they met again. Joe had changed their lives- against his own will, and for what Frank had to admit was an excellent reason- but it was a change of the worst kind, and it rankled. It was hard not to be angry that their father was dead, at least in part because now they couldn’t ask the man why he’d ever done it.

Another big part of it was his concern for their mother’s reaction. Frank hadn’t seen her last night, but he knew Collig had talked to her and she had to be devastated. Bad enough her husband of twenty-one years turning out to be a criminal of the worst kind, but then to be killed- and by his own son... She was bound to be blaming Joe for her pain, and while Frank didn’t really agree, he couldn’t really argue. ‘Maybe I do resent it a little,’ the teen mused guiltily. ‘I shouldn’t... but I don’t resent him, not really. Just what he had to do. The circumstances that made him act.’

The rationalization helped; Frank leaned back with a sigh and let his eyes drift closed again. Hospitals were not restful places, to his mind, and he hadn’t wanted to stay overnight. He’d wanted the comfort of being in his own room and his own bed. But the doctors had insisted and it was probably as well. Mysterious drugs aside, there were other practical aspects: the house would smell of smoke, the neighbors would be hanging about- not to mention the press lurking around and the phone constantly ringing- and the police might even still be there. The power might not have been restored, either. And there was no guarantee that he would have felt safe, particularly with his brother absent.

Someone tapped on the door; Frank started and sat up straight. "C’mon in," he said, turning around and wishing once again that he had on his ordinary clothes instead of the ridiculous polka-dotted hospital gown. Sure, they were only small blue dots, but still! But his jeans and shirt- particularly the bloody shirt- had been confiscated as evidence. Frank felt rather fortunate that they hadn’t tried to take his socks and underwear as well.

The door swung open and his mother stepped in, pale-cheeked and red-eyed but fairly composed. Frank slid off the bed and went to her, hugging her tightly, not sure whether he was trying to comfort her or let her comfort him. "Oh, baby," he heard her murmur. For once the endearment didn’t raise a protest from him.

"Mom," he said softly, and then his throat closed up.

"Are you all right, honey?"

He nodded, unable to speak.

His mother released the embrace and laid her hands gently on his shoulders, looking intently at him. She frowned when she saw the small cut on his neck, but didn’t ask about it. "I brought some clothes for you, they said you can leave any time now. Ready to go home?"

Frank looked at the white plastic bag she’d dropped on the floor and reached down to pick it up. ‘I ought to go to headquarters,’ he told himself. ‘See Joe.’ He looked at his mother. "Yeah, I think so." His voice sounded strained despite his efforts to control it. "Is it- they’ve got the power back on and everything?"

Laura nodded. "I stayed the night with the Shaws and came back this morning. And I left the windows open to air the place out. There’s not much damage. Joe’s room will need a new carpet and the window replaced, but that’s about it."

"That’s good," Frank murmured, remembering the fire crawling across the carpet towards him, the smell of gasoline and the thick, choking smoke.

His mother reached out and took his hand. "Chief Collig told me what happened last night," she whispered. "He wants us to meet him at the morgue today, to identify the... your father."

Frank closed his eyes. Given the choice, he’d switch places with his brother in a heartbeat. A stint in jail compared very favorably to formally identifying the Reaper’s accomplice as his father. Especially with his mother there. But if he didn’t go with her, she’d have to go alone. "Okay," he replied shakily, opening his eyes. "But it’s not going to be easy."

"No," his mother answered sadly. "None of this is going to be easy."

"Mom-" Frank looked down at the plastic bag in his hands, wondering if he had the right to ask what he wanted to know.

"What is it, honey?"

"Joe..." Frank wanted to know if she was angry at his brother. Blaming him, holding him responsible. He wanted to make some sort of excuse, or apology; he’d been the one in danger, he was the reason Joe’d had to shoot. But the words wouldn’t come, and he shook his head in frustration. "Are you mad at him?" he asked, feeling inadequate. "’Cause if I hadn’t been caught-"

"No," Laura interrupted. "I’m not mad at him. I’m grateful to him. I’m not grateful to learn that Fenton was fooling us all for however many years," she added at his shocked look. "And at the same time I’m not glad he’s dead. But Joe did what he had to, and I’m proud of him for it." She smiled ever so slightly at Frank’s _expression. "Go get changed, honey. It’s getting late, and we need to be going. I parked in the employee lot," she added as he turned towards the small bathroom in the corner. "Seemed the best way of avoiding all those newspaper and TV people."

"That was a great idea," Frank said admiringly, and then he went into the bathroom and closed the door. Changing turned out to be a bit awkward in the tiny room, but he managed and soon re-emerged, feeling relieved to be rid of the drafty gown. As he and his mother walked out of the room and headed for the elevators, Frank tried to prepare himself for what was coming.

"Surprise surprise," Officer Long said cheerfully, pausing outside Joe’s cell and fumbling with a set of keys. "You’ve got a visitor."

The blond youth looked up from the auto magazine that another of the policemen had given him, interest lighting his blue eyes. He stood up from the bunk, but waited to move out until Long got the door open. "Who is it?" he asked eagerly. He hadn’t had a visitor during the two days he’d spent in the cell; he hadn’t expected one, but he had wished for one. A specific one in particular...

"If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?" Long chided, grinning. Joe smiled ruefully back and followed the officer down the blank gray-white corridor. Gray walls, white ceiling, plain white tile on the floor.

"Y’know, you guys really could do with some renovating in here," the boy remarked jokingly. "Some wallpaper, a couple nice pictures, maybe a bit of carpet...you’d be in business."

"Whadda we look like, a hotel?" Long retorted with a laugh. "Besides, plain white is better for the boozers and pillheads. They don’t get so dizzy looking at it, which means less puking. A consideration we take very seriously."

"Oh, I see." Joe smiled again, reflecting that there were worse places to be than in the holding cell of police headquarters. The officers were giving him extremely preferential treatment here, something they could not have gotten away with if he’d been transferred to the Delmore Prison. He was still wearing his own clothes, not prison issue, and he’d been given an extra pillow and blanket. Several of the cops had brought him books or magazines to read, and Collig stopped by every so often to keep him updated on the Reaper case. His meals had even been non-regulation. Sometimes it was fast food, other times a treat from someone’s wife.

Joe had been a bit bemused by all the solicitude at first, but after a cop passing by said what a shame it was he had to be in there, Joe got the idea. It wasn’t that they had sympathy because he was innocent- they knew he’d done it- it was that they felt he’d done a necessary, even a good thing, and were dismayed that he had to be punished for it. They were carrying out the law, but their hearts weren’t really in it. He also got the feeling that they rather admired or approved of him for confessing right out and not trying to get off through some legal loophole. As if he could have!

The seventeen-year-old snapped back to the present as Long stopped at the door to one of the interrogation rooms. Poking his head in, the officer commented, "I’ll leave the door unlocked, just let someone know when you two’re done talking."

‘He didn’t say ma’am, so it’s probably not Mom,’ Joe deduced as the cop withdrew, giving Joe a brief nod before he disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall. Stepping forward, the boy entered the small room and paused just inside the doorway. Frank was sitting on the interrogation table. Not sitting exactly, Joe amended mentally as he stepped the rest of the way inside and closed the door behind him. He was arranged kind of sideways, on the side of his leg, one foot braced against the floor and the other swinging restlessly in the air.

Joe became aware that he was smiling. "Frank! It’s good to see you," he began, hurrying to the table. His brother gave him a faint smile in return, then hooked his foot into the underside of a nearby chair and pulled it over next to the table. The younger boy took the hint and sat down. "You okay? When’d you get out of the hospital?" he asked, noting the half-healed cut on Frank’s throat with a wince.

"Yeah, I’m okay, I guess," was the noncommittal response. "They let me out the next morning. Well, more like afternoon, actually."

Joe’s smile faded a little. He started to ask why Frank hadn’t come to see him yesterday, then squashed the remark. For that matter- "How’s Mom?" he asked, the smile fading completely.

"About as well as you could expect. Not happy, but taking things pretty calmly, considering. The press are driving us both crazy, though." Frank rolled his eyes, his _expression unusually cross. "Camped out on the lawn till we threatened to get ‘em arrested for trespassing, now they’re loitering around on the sidewalk. On the positive side, the neighbors keep telling ‘em to get lost and leave us alone."

"That’s good to hear." Joe felt himself relax slightly. ‘You can tell yourself people will understand, but you’re never really quite sure,’ he thought. "So folks are- aren’t all shocked and appalled about this?"

Frank tilted his head, considering. "It’s not that they aren’t shocked. They are. But not in the same way that they were when Sam and Ethel were killed."

"Well, that was pretty different."

"I guess they’re shocked in a supportive sort of way, not in an accusing sort of way," Frank concluded seriously.

"That’s a relief. Life could get pretty ugly, otherwise," the younger boy murmured. Frank just looked at him. "Well, I don’t deny I killed ‘em, and I guess technically it was murder," Joe explained, feeling his spirits sink. "But I don’t feel ashamed about it, nor as if I did something terribly wrong."

"I see." Frank looked away. He obviously disagreed.

‘I did it to save your life, you-’ Joe choked off the thought before it spilled out and asked, "What does Dad say about it?"

"Dad?" Frank’s head snapped back around and he stared, a peculiar _expression on his face. "Dad..."

"He’s back, isn’t he? It’s been over a week, he said he’d be back. Frank, what’s wrong? Is he all right? The Reaper didn’t do anything to him, did he?" Joe stopped and took a deep breath; his voice was getting more tense with every word. "What’s happened?"

"I thought they’d have told you by now," Frank said softly, increasing Joe’s fear. The older boy extended his hand; Joe looked at it blankly, then reached out and grasped it, directing his gaze back up to his brother’s solemn face. "Joe...the Reaper’s accomplice has been identified. He...it- was Dad."

Joe heard the words, but they didn’t seem to make any sense. What was Frank trying to tell him? "What?" he asked at last, sure he had missed some very important part of the remark.

"The Reaper’s accomplice," Frank repeated softly, his brown eyes fixed on Joe’s.

"Yeah?"

"It was Dad."

Puzzled, frightened, Joe stared at him blankly. Frank was silent, waiting. Joe slowly shook his head. "That’s not possible," he said simply. "Dad would never- never do anything like that." But a cold knot of fear was tightening in his stomach. Frank wasn’t joking- he wouldn’t joke about something this serious. He had to have a reason to believe what he was saying. And he had more information than Joe did.

"I’d like to agree," his brother answered. "And a week ago, I would’ve. But there’s no mistake, Joe. It’s him."

Joe’s eyes widened suddenly as he realized what Frank was saying. The man- the second man- the one who’d been about to- Joe’s eyes went to the small wound on his brother’s throat. That man- who he’d shot. Shot dead-

"No," he repeated more forcefully, pulling his hand free of his brother’s grip. "I don’t believe you. It wasn’t Dad!"

"I saw his face, Joe. And I heard his voice. The Reaper contacted him while we were in the house. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I have to."

"No!" Joe insisted, getting up. "It’s a mistake! If he’s not home yet- you ought to be looking for him, not just accepting this- this-"

"Joe." Frank was frowning at him. "He’s not going to come home. He’s in the morgue. Mom and I had to identify him."

"So he’s dead. But that doesn’t make him-"

"He’s dead of a bullet to the throat, Joe!"

Silence fell. Joe Hardy turned away, remembering the explosive roar of the gun, the way it recoiled in his hand...and the fierce joy and relief he’d felt when Frank’s attacker fell, blood spurting from his throat. "It wasn’t Dad," he gritted out. "You should know better! We’ve run into doubles before- plastic surgery- impersonators-" He stopped as Frank got up from the table and walked past him towards the door. "Where- Frank!"

The older boy swung around, his eyes full of anger. "I don’t appreciate being called a liar," he said, his coldly calm voice a stark contrast to his eyes. "Besides which, we already covered this. Collig had dental records checked, blood type- remember the blood all over my shirt? Dad’s. The Chief even had a DNA test done, just to rule out a double. And don’t talk to me about cloning. The Reaper hadn’t the technical know-how to clone anyone. And if someone else had, there wouldn’t have been any of Dad’s old scars on him. There was nothing but blood in his blood, no chemicals of any sort, so whatever his reasons, he wasn’t doped."

Frank paused to take a deep breath and Joe seized his opportunity. "I didn’t kill our father!" he shouted. "I didn’t!"

"You did," Frank contradicted him calmly. "And you’d better start getting used to the idea, Joe. I don’t like it any more than you do, but he was going to kill me and you kept him from doing it. Incidentally, thanks. I guess I owe you my life twice over," he concluded, turned on his heel, and marched out, slamming the door behind him...Frank, who never slammed doors.

Alone, Joe sank back down into the metal chair, shaking, a hairsbreadth from tears. To fight with his brother- that was bad enough, and it always left him shaken up. But to fight with Frank about their father’s death! "No," the boy groaned aloud. "No, he’s got to be wrong. There’s some mistake. There must be! Dad would never team up with a murderer! Even if there was some weird threat hanging over him, he’d rather die than put others at risk- that’s why he helped Sam and Ethel, even knowing it would put us all in danger."

Sam and Ethel. How had the Reaper known where they were? Dad hadn’t told anyone else...

"Are we sure he had no outside help?"

"He was always alone..."

No. It had to be some kind of drug. Or maybe hypnosis- no, people couldn’t be ordered to do things under hypnosis that they wouldn’t ordinarily do. But a drug, one that left no residue...that must be it. The problem was, Joe couldn’t think of any mind-altering drugs that left no traces behind.

‘Doesn’t mean there isn’t one, though. There might’ve been more people even than the Reaper and his accomplice- whoever he was. There could be three or four people involved...’ Joe’s thought ground to a halt as he reluctantly admitted to himself how unlikely that was. He’d ‘seen’ the reports in his visions, and the survivors had consistently reported one man. Plus, all the traveling the murderer had done indicated someone working more or less alone. Groups always moved more slowly.

Fenton Hardy had had the perfect excuse to travel frequently: his detective work. Going undercover, out of touch for days at a time, cases taking a few days longer than he expected...

‘Stop thinking like that! He was a good man.’ Angry at himself for letting his brother’s accusation color his thoughts, Joe got to his feet and stalked out of the interrogation room. ‘It wasn’t Dad. Drugged, hypnotized, schizophrenic, or any other way- it was not Dad.’ A second later, glancing uncertainly up and down the hall, he saw another officer, Tiller, coming towards him. She gestured down the hall and he turned to walk back to the cell, sighing as he went inside. He heard the door close and the lock click, and- for the first time- felt like a criminal.

"Up and out you go."

The voice broke into Joe’s thoughts, jarring him from the melancholy brooding that had occupied all his time since his brother’s visit the previous afternoon.

"What?" Joe looked up at the Chief in some surprise as Collig unlocked the cell.

"You’re outta here."

"I am? Why?" Joe pushed his hair from his eyes and got up, puzzled. He couldn’t be going to the initial bail hearing already; the date was set for the next Monday.

"Had a talk with the Governor," the Chief explained as Joe stepped into the hall. "You’ve been pardoned."

"Pardoned?!" Joe’s eyes went wide.

"Full, complete, no loopholes pardoned, and the Governor sends his regards."

"You- you went and saw him," Joe guessed, gazing at the husky Chief with gratitude and amazement.

"Phoned," Collig replied. "Took less time that way. He’d heard about it, of course, said if I hadn’t called him, he’d’ve called me."

"Chief, I...I- thank you!" Mere thanks sounded dreadfully lame to the teen, but it was all that he could bring to mind.

"Here it is. Faxed it down about ten minutes ago." Collig, smiling, drew a document from his pocket and handed it to Joe, who scanned it quickly.

...hereby grant to Joseph Hardy a full Pardon for the justifiable homicides of one Theodore Ames and one Fenton Hardy; committed in the process of saving a life and eliminating a condemned murderer....

The words leaped off the paper; Joe dropped the thing as though it had burned him, spun around and walked back into the cell, clacking the door shut behind him. He went straight to the bunk, gathered up the extra blanket and pillow and the magazine he’d left untouched since the previous afternoon. Moving back to the cell door, he pushed the items between the bars at the chief. "I don’t think I need these," he said quietly. "And Chief, not that I don’t appreciate it, but I can’t accept that pardon."

Collig’s face darkened with astonishment, and then with anger.

"I know-" Joe sighed before the man could speak. "I know how ungrateful this looks, and I’m sorry, but I can’t." He waited as Collig stiffly took the little comforts, then walked back to the bunk and sat down on it, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. He heard a snort, but didn’t look up; a moment later, footsteps stalked away.

For what seemed a very long time, Joe just sat, his mind still reeling from what he’d read. At length, he lay down on the bunk and stared at the ceiling, lost in his unhappy brooding. Frank had tried only yesterday to convince him that the second man he’d killed was their father. Now it seemed obvious that everyone believed it- even the governor of New York.

"Get up."

Joe started at the harsh voice and turned to see his brother and the Chief standing outside the cell. He turned his face away. There was a metallic click and a faint noise of hinges as the door swung open, and then Frank was beside him. "Get up," he repeated, in a voice that Joe had never heard before. "You’re going home."

"No I’m not."

"You’ve been pardoned."

"I won’t accept it." Joe looked up in time to see Collig silently hand Frank the document and then walk out of the cell and down the hall, leaving the brothers alone.

"He went to all this trouble for you, and you-"

"Read it."

Frank’s eyebrows lifted briefly, and he turned his attention to the paper. Then he made a low sound of disgust. "So that’s it. You think refusing this pardon is going to change the truth?"

"It’s not the truth!" Joe shouted, sitting up in a fury. "I didn’t kill him, and I won’t be pardoned for doing it," he added shakily, turning to lie down again. A second later, a hand grabbed him painfully by the chin and forced his eyes upward.

"I don’t care what sort of lies you’re feeding yourself to maintain this delusion," his brother said savagely. "But you are getting up, you are getting out of this cell, and you are going home. NOW!" Frank ended in a shout, and then his voice lowered threateningly. "And if I have to knock you unconscious and drag you, I will damned well do it. Make up your mind, I’m out of patience." He released Joe’s face with a push that shoved the younger boy back against the thin mattress, then stood with his hands on his hips, waiting.

Joe stared, fear running over him in little prickles. He’d seen his brother mad before, but never this mad- and never at him. The rage that possessed Frank had totally altered his usual pleasant _expression; he looked like a heartless stranger, perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. Joe took a deep breath and got to his feet, feeling shaky around the knees.

"Move," Frank snapped, and Joe moved slowly across the floor, hesitating briefly in the corridor. He flinched as the cell door slammed shut behind him with a clang that made the walls ring. Joe didn’t look back, but he could feel Frank following as he led the way out to the main doors and then into the parking lot. Here he paused again and Frank took the lead, marching angrily across the blacktop to their mother’s car.

It was a very nice day, Joe noticed as he got into the car and buckled up. The weather was warmer, into the eighties for a change, and perfectly clear. But he didn’t feel warm. His brother’s anger chilled him right down to his bones, and his hands trembled as Frank took the driver’s seat and started the car.

"That was a really cute stunt," Frank remarked sarcastically, still with that undercurrent of fierce anger. "Give the press something more to yap about. Look like an ungrateful jackass to the Chief. Leave Mom and me- I tell you this, brother-" and his fury made the word an epithet, "-if you so much as suggest to Mom that the corpse she had to look at wasn’t her husband, I’ll beat you till you can’t stand up. She’s in enough misery as it is, and this last piece of pure insensitivity did not help her!"

"If she’s that upset, why didn’t she come see me?" Joe demanded, finding slight refuge in his own firecracker temper. "For that matter, you didn’t bother to come hurrying in either, did you!"

"It’s a damn good thing she didn’t, because if she’d had, she woulda had to listen to your nonsense!" Frank half-shouted. "She can’t leave the house without being followed by those shitty vultures who call themselves the press! Wanting interviews. Wanting the ‘human interest side of things’. Shoving cameras in her face in hopes of getting some ‘emotion.’ And then on top of it all, you acting like a complete brat!"

"A brat!?" Joe felt his anger getting the better of him. "What the hell are you acting like, then? Threatening me! Slamming things-"

"If it’s the only way to make you listen- you’re so deep in denial you won’t hear what people are saying to you until they scream it! What happened, Joe, the truth get to be too much to handle? Gonna hire a shyster lawyer after all and wiggle out through a loophole? What happened to facing the circumstances and dealing with the consequences? Mighty nice speech you made to Collig about it, but I guess you were just playing at being noble, right?" The malice in Frank’s voice was frightening.

Joe stared straight ahead, all his anger gone. Just like that, gone, leaving him empty and sick. His brother was right- damn him- he was right. Joe’d had every intention of accepting whatever penalty came his way, of admitting what he’d done and not twisting the laws to shelter him. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but he’d also known it was the right thing to do.

But let someone tell him- even someone he trusted like no other- that he’d killed his father and all his resolve to accept and admit fell by the wayside. Maybe he had truly killed his father; maybe Fenton actually had been the Reaper’s accomplice. If so, he had to face it, not accuse people of lying to him or making stupid mistakes or being duped. Frank had every right to be enraged; Joe had not only attacked his brother’s nearly-legendary honesty, he’d insulted Frank’s sleuthing skills. Frank wouldn’t tell him it was Dad unless he was completely convinced- especially since they’d received false reports of Fenton’s death several times before.

"Frank," he began timidly.

"Shut up. I don’t want to hear it."

"But-"

The glare he got silenced Joe; he gulped and turned to stare out the window with brimming eyes.

Frank Hardy drew up to the house on the corner of Elm and High streets and growled a curse at the sight of a dozen or so reporters lurking around on the sidewalk. There hadn’t been that many when he’d left; they must’ve guessed something was up and called in reinforcements. He pulled up at the curb, wishing he’d left the van in the garage. It would make for a quicker escape. But he’d parked it in the driveway, wanting to let the new paint job dry before locking it up. And he hadn’t left enough room to pull in behind the other vehicle.

He glanced at his brother; Joe was staring out the window and Frank couldn’t see his face. The older boy’s rage was ebbing fairly quickly and he felt rather bad for having thrown such a temper tantrum at the younger boy. After all, he hadn’t wanted to accept it, either, even when- Frank cut off the thought of the morgue with a shiver and glowered at the reporters. "Better run for it," he advised quietly. "And don’t say anything, not even ‘no comment’, or you’ll never get away from ‘em."

Joe nodded, still looking out the window, then opened the door, stepped out, and started up the driveway. Frank followed, grim satisfaction in his heart as he shut the car door. The driveway was their property; the press were forbidden to trespass. All they could do was stand on the sidewalk and shout their nasty, nosy questions.

"Joe, when were you released?"

"Who’s responsible for your release?"

"Are you glad to be home?"

"Is there a new trial date?"

"How were you treated in jail?"

And then: "How do you feel about having killed your father?"

Frank froze. Joe, two steps ahead of him, stopped and stood as though riveted to the pavement.

"How has this affected your relationship with your mother?"

Frank saw a shudder pass through his brother, stepped forward with a thought to consolation, and was taken by complete surprise when the younger boy shoved his hands into his pockets, opened the driver’s door, jumped in, and started the van. Frank hopped off the driveway onto the lawn as the van surged backwards out of the drive, skidded into the street, and accelerated, tires screeching, for the intersection.

For a moment, Frank wasn’t sure quite what to do. "If you wreck that new paint job," he muttered, but his words lacked force. "Hell with the paint job, don’t wreck yourself," he whispered. Then the teenager turned to the press, all of whom were chattering into tape recorders and trying to re-focus their cameras. "You lot could give the European paparazzi a big lesson in invasiveness," he said coolly. "You claim to be here in pursuit of facts, so how do you rationalize asking how someone feels? How anyone feels is an opinion and therefore a blatant contradiction of what you claim you’re after. And if you’re really after feelings, then you’re all a pack of liars, operating under false pretenses. You might as well leave; you already have the facts, and there’s no way on earth anyone here is going to share their feelings with any of you. You’re wasting your time, and your employers’ money."

There were a large number of open mouths after this piece of news, but Frank didn’t stick around to observe the rest of the reporters’ reactions. He hurried towards the house, ducked in through the kitchen door, and went to find his mother. "Mom?"

"Downstairs, Frank!"

Frank turned and re-crossed the kitchen, only then noting that the door that opened on the basement stairs was ajar. He hurried down the steps, pausing on the third-to-last one. His mother had just come out of the laundry room, a basket of clean dark clothes in her hands. "Where’s Joe?"

"Well," Frank leaned against the railing with a sigh. "First I had to bully him out of the cell. Then-"

"Why wouldn’t he leave?" Laura asked.

Frank paused, then sighed again. "He’s in denial. He absolutely refuses to believe that it was Dad. So when he read that he was pardoned for it, he wouldn’t accept it. I guess he’d rather sit in the cell than admit it to himself, if admitting it means going free." His voice sounded cross, even to him; Frank made himself calm down, releasing his suddenly tight grip on the railing.

"You sound so angry," Laura murmured, putting down the basket. "Is it really so hard for you to take, Frank? We can’t all confront things head on the way you can."

Frank’s eyes widened. "Joe’s the confronter, Mom, not me. He’s the one always ready to go off at the drop of a hat."

"I didn’t mean it quite that way, honey. I mean your objectivity. Joe did something that had to be extremely difficult in itself- he shot two people. You really shouldn’t blame him for not wanting to face the fact that one was his own father. You look at it and say it’s something you have to live with, but you didn’t pull the trigger."

"Well, I have to live with the fact that Dad was about to cut my throat," Frank retorted defensively. "That’s pretty difficult too, but you don’t hear me saying that he woulda stopped at the last second." His mother looked away, and Frank bit his lip. "I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t want to believe it either, but I didn’t try to find excuses- reasons like ‘maybe he was drugged, maybe he’s an imposter, a double, there must be some ulterior motive-’ any of that. I hate the thought, but I can’t deny it, so I’m not. Joe hates the thought, so he’s refusing to face it."

"And why is that wrong?" Laura countered, brushing her short blond hair back from her forehead. "Why is it wrong to hide from the truth until it becomes less painful, easier to admit?"

"Because that’s exactly what he said he wasn’t going to do-"

"That was before he knew the whole story."

"Besides, hiding from the truth just gets you stuck in false hopes, at the very best. It also affects everyone around you. If we let him go on lying to himself, saying it wasn’t Dad, then we’re going to be grinding our wheels right alongside him. Because our attitudes are gonna be completely out of sync. He’ll be saying he’s worried ‘cause Dad’s not home and I’ll be saying that’s ‘cause he’s dead," the eighteen-year-old pointed out. "I love him, Mom, but I can’t let him be an ostrich about this. You know how stubborn he is, how far he’ll go to maintain his own opinion."

Mrs. Hardy started to answer, then checked herself. Shaking her head, she picked up the laundry again. "So you had to bully him home."

"And then the reporters got in on it with some of their ‘human interest’ angles and he took off in the van. I don’t blame him, either."

"It’s good to know there’s something you don’t blame him for," Laura said caustically. "I do hope my cycle of emotions meets with your approval, Frank."

"Mom! I’m not telling anyone how to feel," the boy snapped. "I’m saying, lying to yourself is a very stupid thing to do! The only way any of us are gonna be able to deal with this is by facing it! The more you try to avoid and deny and pretend, the worse it’s going to be. And I don’t blame him for anything except that. He knows better than to close his eyes and hope it’ll all go away. But that’s what he’s doing. The longer he puts off admitting it, the harder it’ll be for him when he finally does, ‘cause he’ll have built days or weeks or whole years- knowing Joe, whole decades- around one massive lie."

His mother stopped, her foot resting on the last step, and gazed up at him, a strange look on her face. "And when the lie comes crashing down, so will the rest of his life up to that point," she said at last. Her shoulders drooped. "I suppose you’re right. Doing something to someone ‘for their own good’ always does involve a certain amount of pain."

"For everyone," Frank told her, moving back up the stairs to let her climb up. "I hate what I’m doing. I hate it, seeing the look on his face, arguing with him- of all the things neither of us needs, being mad at each other is number one." He set his jaw. "But it has to be done, and in the end, he does usually listen to me. I just hope he does this time, too."

Joe Hardy took a deep breath before opening the kitchen door and entering the house. The clock over the stove read ten-thirty-five and he cringed in anticipation of the flak he was going to take for this.

He hadn’t meant to stay out so long, but he’d very been reluctant to go home, what with all the nosy reporters hanging around. The thought of facing an angry brother and a mother whose reaction to seeing him was bound to be a poor one had dropped his enthusiasm even lower. And then there’d been the accident...he wasn’t looking forward to explaining that. Frank would be furious. ‘But then, he already was furious. It probably can’t get much worse.’

Joe squared his shoulders and went up the stairs. Might as well get it over with. The light in his parents’ room was out, the door closed. Frank’s door was partly open, though, and light was streaming into the hall. Joe moved quietly up to the entrance and looked in. As he’d half-expected, Frank was at his desk, but not on the computer. Instead, he was writing in a spiral notebook. "Hey."

Frank looked up. "Joe! Where have you been? Mom’s been majorly worried- I went looking for you, but I couldn’t find a trace of you."

"Sorry," Joe murmured, and found he was unable to meet Frank’s gaze. He studied the desk instead. "I- I’ve been all over, time got away from me, and..." He paused and braced himself, forcing his eyes up, facing his brother’s displeasure. "I got delayed an hour and a half ago, had a...an accident in the van."

Frank sighed, tossed his notebook and pen onto the desk and turned the chair to face Joe directly. He didn’t speak for a moment, but his eyes searched Joe’s face and scanned his clothes. "You okay?" he finally asked.

Joe was slightly taken aback; he’d been expecting an outburst of anger and a lecture on his foolishness. "Yeah, I’m fine, just a bruise or two."

"What happened?"

Joe fidgeted. "Well, I was at a stoplight-"

"Oh, don’t tell me you were racing!" Frank exclaimed, but he still sounded more exasperated than angry.

"It really wasn’t my fault though," Joe tried to explain, looking earnestly at his brother. "See, they were losing, and they got sore and came up behind me and bumped the rear driver’s side. It was a four-by-four," he added. "So it had a pretty good amount of inertia, and I nearly had a close encounter with a light pole, but I missed."

Frank paled. "You could’ve been killed!"

Joe wasn’t inclined to argue. For a few seconds, he’d been sure he was in for a head-on collision; he’d been unable to veer left, because the truck had been jammed right up against the van’s side. So, in an act of sheer desperation, he’d cut hard to the right, onto the sidewalk, and skidded around the pole on the other side. "I know, and the arresting officer made the same comment to those hoods when everything settled down a little."

Frank shook his head and leaned back in the chair, looking resigned.

"She didn’t arrest me," Joe added quickly, raking his hand through his hair. "She arrested the guys in the truck for reckless endangerment. Also they have to pay for the parking meter they took out; after I stopped they tried to ram me, but they didn’t see the meter between me and them."

"Who were these guys?"

"I have no idea, never saw ‘em before. New Jersey license plates."

Frank grunted. "So what’s the damage?"

"Um...the driver’s side is pretty dented up. And the rear bumper is a bit, well, bumped." Joe leaned against the doorjamb and rubbed his cheek disconsolately. "Sorry," he mumbled. "While the cop was taking names and all I suddenly noticed the new paint..."

His brother nodded. "You need to knock off the racing," he grouched, and Joe felt himself shrivel inside at the disapproval in the older boy’s face. He looked away, positive that the lecture was about to start. "But at least you didn’t get hurt," he heard his brother offer, and turned to see Frank’s disapproval alter to relief.

"I will," he promised, trying to hide his surprise. His brother didn’t usually let him off that easy when he did something stupid.

"You said that the last time."

"Last time I didn’t have an encounter with a bunch of crazies," Joe pointed out.

"True."

Silence fell, a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Frank looked away and fidgeted with his pen, leaving his notebook on the desktop. Joe waited, prepared for more questions- or more talk, at least- but his brother didn’t seem inclined to discuss anything. That was another surprise; Joe had pretty much been counting on getting another denunciation about his behavior that afternoon at police headquarters. But his brother continued to sit silently, tapping the pen on his palm, and the younger boy gradually concluded that they weren’t going to talk about it. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or not. He really didn’t want to risk getting into another argument, but he would’ve liked to know if Frank was still angry at him. It didn’t seem like he was, but sometimes it was hard to tell, with him.

"Well, I’m tired," Joe ventured at last. "I think I’m going to turn in."

His brother seemed about to speak, then just nodded. "You eat anything?"

"Um...no." He’d forgotten to eat, hadn’t been aware of hunger.

"There’s some stuff in the refrigerator..."

"Not hungry," Joe replied softly. "See you in the morning."

Usually this would have been answered with, "Goodnight," or "Sleep well," or some such thing, but this time Frank was silent as Joe turned away from the door. And oddly, the silence hurt. It was as if Frank was saying by his silence that he didn’t care whether Joe slept well or had a dozen nightmares. The boy knew it wasn’t true- Frank had asked if he was all right, hadn’t lectured him, and had even been concerned enough to ask if he’d eaten. It all suggested that he wasn’t too angry, and certainly not indifferent. If he didn’t say ‘sleep well’, it was probably because he felt it would be a futile wish. But even with these thoughts to console himself, Joe found his spirits taking another plunge.

The seventeen-year-old was briefly distracted from his gloom by the sight of his bedroom. The carpet was a new one, dark reddish gold instead of wine-colored. And his things had been- not exactly cleaned up, but rearranged somewhat. The main difference was that there was very little stuff on the floor. ‘Probably so they could get the carpet in,’ he thought ruefully. He found he liked it, it was thick and soft and the color was more cheerful than the old one. But why the change?

‘Oh. The fire,’ he realized, and his incipient pleasure faded swiftly. Of course, the firebomb the Reaper had thrown. The broken window had been replaced too, he noticed. Taking a breath, he frowned, wondering if the lingering odor of smoke was real or if he was imagining it. He opened a window before getting into bed, just in case it was real. Then he settled in, wondering darkly how long it would take for him to get to sleep...and what dreams would come when he did.

Frank Hardy was on this third piece of toast when he heard his brother’s footsteps descending the stairs. He glanced at his wrist-watch and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. Not quite nine o’clock; Joe was up early. He turned to say good morning and blinked, surprised again to see that the younger boy was fully dressed, even to having put on his socks and shoes. That was very unusual; most mornings Joe wandered down in his nightclothes, or at least barefoot.

"G’morning," the older Hardy said through a mouthful of toast. "You’re up kinda early," he added after he swallowed.

"Couldn’t sleep," Joe answered with a shrug. Frank watched as Joe turned away from him and felt deeply chagrined. Joe’d had a rough day yesterday, and it had mostly been due to Frank’s abrupt loss of temper. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d treated his younger brother so maliciously. He needed to apologize- he should’ve done so last night, but he’d stalled, distracted by the account of Joe’s accident- and Joe had gone off to bed, probably thinking Frank was still mad at him.

Frank put his toast down, ready to say something, then realized he’d lost his chance for the moment. Just as Joe stepped into the kitchen doorway, their mother came hurrying out and the two nearly collided. "I’ve- oh! Joe, love-" Laura caught his face in her hands and kissed him quickly. "Next time you’re going to be late, call us, okay? We were awfully worried about you. You’re all right?"

Frank noted that his brother looked taken aback. "I’m- fine," he replied quickly.

"Good," their mother said distractedly. "I’ve got to run, I’m late, overslept a bit. I’ll see you both around five, okay?"

"Sure thing. Good luck with getting everything sorted out," Frank told her as she hurried back into the kitchen.

"Thanks," floated back into the dining room, and then there was the sound of the door closing and, a moment later, the car starting.

"What was that all about?" Joe asked slowly, sounding slightly dazed.

"Some kinda crisis at the lab," Frank explained wryly. "I didn’t take it all it, it was apparently a very high-tech glitch. But it seems they have a lot of work ahead of them."

"Oh." There was a long silence. Frank glanced at his brother, who seemed to be thinking quite hard about something, if the furrows in his forehead were any indication. He kept quiet, not wanting to mar Joe’s concentration. ‘Hope he’s not having another vision- or worse yet, the same one,’ he thought rather anxiously. ‘Since it’s over, you’d think...but I really don’t know how visions work. It is over, isn’t it?’

A moment later, Joe came out of his introspection and Frank relaxed a little. No shaking, no near-panic, no rubbing his arm...looked like Joe finally was done with that vision of the Reaper. The older boy turned back to the newspaper, hearing but not really processing the sound of the cabinet opening and closing, the clink of a bowl being set on the counter, the drawer opening and silverware clattering. There was the rattle of cereal and the fwoosh of the refrigerator opening. After that, everything was quiet and Frank’s attention was absorbed by the article he was reading. Not the front page, that was still all about them and the Reaper, but the sports section was mercifully lacking in sensationalism.

After a while, it dawned on the young detective that he hadn’t heard anything from the kitchen for a while. ‘Great- he won’t even eat with me? I better do something about this right now,’ he thought determinedly. Frank got up, gathered his plate and glass and carried them into the kitchen. And stopped short when he saw the kitchen was empty. The bowl of cereal was sitting on the counter, milk carton alongside it, but his brother was gone.

A frown wrinkled Frank’s brow as he hastily set down the dishes. Hurrying to the basement door, he opened it and discovered that the light was off. That made it fairly unlikely that Joe was down there, but he descended to check, anyway. ‘Where in the world did he go?’ the teen wondered, almost as annoyed as he was anxious. Joe hadn’t come past him, and it became apparent he wasn’t in the basement, so he must’ve left the house. Frank opened the door and pursed his mouth at the sight of the van; wherever he was, Joe was on foot. So-

Frank moved swiftly, grabbing up his keys and making sure the door was locked before closing it tightly behind him and climbing into the van with a brief wince for the damage. It was dented, all right! But that wasn’t important now. The important thing was to find his brother and give him hell for scaring Frank this way! The youth backed quickly out of the garage and was grimly pleased to note that there were no members of the media lurking outside the house this morning. Then he headed for the main street, following the route Joe usually took when he ran.

Joe Hardy ran. The soft sand clung to his feet, slowing him, but he kept running. The beach was deserted- it was always deserted, no one else ever came to the Gold Cove. So there was no one to look at him oddly, the way several people had when they’d seen him race past their homes. Few occupied homes on the Shore Road, no gawkers, no media, no accusing, angry brother, no mother intent on getting out of his presence as fast as she could manage. Just him, the shifting sand, the breaking waves of the incoming tide, the gulls crying overhead.

The boy’s breath rasped in his throat, his side ached fiercely, his legs seemed to be getting heavier by the second. He kept running as fast as his body would take him. As long as he ran, he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to feel anything but his body ordering him to stop. He slithered on seashells and weed, their smell strong in his nose, the sea air wet and cool. How many miles was it from here to home?

Where was home? Did he even belong there anymore? Was that the price he’d pay for changing his future? His brother would live, but Joe would be isolated from his loved ones- the ones that still lived.

Between one stride and another, his body quit on him. Joe staggered, dropped to his hands and knees on the damp sand and gasped for breath. Wasn’t it worth it? His brother hadn’t died. Wasn’t that worth a few arguments? A brief stay in the police headquarters’ cell? A pardon from the governor? It was more than he could have reasonably expected, and he’d achieved his goal...the Reaper was dead, Frank was alive and uninjured-

Joe closed his eyes as the vision rushed over him, more vivid and terrible than it had ever been before. This time, he didn’t see it. This time, he lived it.

Papers rustled on the desk as he sorted through them, pausing every so often as a scrap of information caught his eyes. The keys of Frank’s computer clicked erratically as he typed, then paused, then typed some more.

Joe heard his own voice speaking, complaining how bored he was, how they’d gotten nowhere. His brother replied, swiveling around in his chair and explaining his theory of the Reaper’s modus operandi. His conviction that the Reaper was in Bayport. Their Bayport. Joe tried to stifle a shudder at the thought and failed, feeling bad for having complained, feeling proud of Frank for finding the common thread but also a little annoyed with himself for not seeing the pattern first. He would find some other important piece of information, he promised himself.

Joe wondered sometimes, when the medications eased their grip, if that meant Gertrude had believed him. It was his one consolation in a locked ward of pain.