Soon

If you knew something was going to happen- something terrible, something that would change your life in a horrifying way...would you try to change it?

If you tried, would you be able to change it? Or would you find that everything you did propelled you further down an inevitable path?

And if you were able to change it, what else would change? Would you end up making things better? Or worse?

I’ve taken Antigone’s deep and powerful story, “I’ll Always Be With You” and wrapped these questions around it. The results were unexpected.

I must give due warning: it does not have a happy ending. A different ending, yes. But definitely not happy.

Keep some tissues nearby, just in case you need them...

Joe Hardy woke up with a gasp and a moan of despair.

“Frank,” he whispered as he opened his eyes. “No...Frank...” His eyelids blinked rapidly as he felt the damp tightness on his cheeks where his tears had run.

For a moment, he didn’t move, considered flinging himself back into sleep. But that would mean dreaming again. That was the last thing he wanted.

Slowly the teenager pulled himself into a sitting position, feeling his body respond sluggishly. Finally he sat on the side of the bed, his feet on the carpet- carpet? Joe blinked again as he stared around his untidy room. His room. Not the...hospital? Had it been a hospital? Yes. A hospital with bars on the windows. To keep people from jumping out, dropping to their deaths on the sidewalk five stories below.

Glancing around again, confused and disoriented, Joe caught a glimpse of his face in the dresser mirror and frowned, perplexed. Rising, he moved on bare feet to stare into the glassy surface. Rumpled blond hair, blue eyes muzzy with sleep, a sun-browned face that fell into the ‘more attractive than many’ category. A strong, athletic body clad in t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

Joe closed his eyes and rubbed them with his hands, then opened them again with a gasp at the feel of the warm blood trickling down from his wrists to his elbows. Staring at his arms, he saw only smooth, tanned skin. No blood coated his hands, no blood stained his t-shirt, yet he could feel the weight of the dying body in his arms- even hear the desperate gasps for breath...breaths that grew weaker and weaker and finally ceased altogether...

“Joe!” A tap on the door and his mother’s cheerful voice made the youth start in shock. “C’mon, honey, time to get up- Frank and your father are getting your share of the pancakes.”

Frank? Joe’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. “I, uh...I’m- I’m coming,” he called, and scrubbed his hand over his face in bewilderment. “I dreamed it,” he whispered, his head spinning as he looked again into the mirror. “It was a dream...he didn’t die. He wasn’t stabbed...” Relief weakened his knees and prickled tears into his eyes as he hurriedly pulled on clothing more appropriate to the breakfast table.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Frank Hardy greeted his brother cheerfully. Joe paused on the steps and stared at him for a moment, blinked once, then hurried the rest of the way down the staircase without replying. He dropped into his usual spot, and then just sat there, staring at his plate with a very peculiar expression on his face.

Frank raised an eyebrow; normally his younger brother muttered something smart-alecky about mornings never being good and dove into his breakfast like he’d never had a full meal in his life. Sitting and staring was pretty out of character. “Morning,” the seventeen-year-old replied at length.

“Not going on all cylinders this morning, I take it,” Frank remarked, passing the platter of golden-brown pancakes. Joe took it and fumbled for his fork, then- surprisingly- put both the fork and the pancakes down. Lifting his arms, he looked down as he ran his right hand over the underside of his left arm several times. His frown as he did this was almost frightened.

“You’d better take some of those while-” Fenton Hardy’s jocular tone stopped as he got a good look at Joe. Frank exchanged a glance with his father, both of them rather mystified at the boy’s silence and preoccupied air. “Joe?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Joe hastily picked up his fork and stabbed a pancake, then stopped and let it slide off the utensil. “I- um....I- don’t think I’m hungry,” he said slowly.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something,” Laura Hardy commented as she paused in the kitchen doorway, dishes in her hands.

“Hey. Earth to Joe. Wake up,” Frank suggested light-heartedly, putting a hand on Joe’s shoulder and giving him a slight shake. “What’s happened to the brat who comes down and complains that seven pancakes isn’t enough and that Dad and I are greedy for eating all the rest of them?”

A hint of a smile flickered at Joe’s mouth as he looked at Frank, but it fled swiftly and a strange, haunted look replaced it as he turned to their mother. “No- no, I- I’m just not hungry. I had...I had a pretty horrible dream and it’s taken my appetite. And it...it won’t go away,” the blond boy replied, his brow furrowing. “I mean, I keep- sort of- seeing it.”

“Well, try to ignore it and do your regular routine and it’ll figure out that it’s not welcome.” Frank relaxed, feeling sympathetic; he’d had dreams that were hard to shake off, too. Not recently, but he knew what it was like to feel trapped in them. Laura continued into the kitchen and a moment or two later, there was the sound of running water and the refrigerator opening and closing.

Joe slowly took a pancake and buttered and syruped it. Then he took a bite, and then another. Frank smiled and turned his attention back to the sports section of the paper. Laura bustled back into the room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, then dropped it on the table. “Will all you boys clean up after yourselves, please? I’m running late.”

“Certainly, love,” Fenton replied for them all, rising and meeting her halfway to exchange a kiss. “You’ll be home at the usual time, I imagine?”

Frank lost the rest of the conversation as something clinked quietly beside him. Turning, he saw that Joe had put down his fork and was staring with distant eyes at the pancake that had two bites cut out of it.

The front door closed; Fenton crossed the room and went into the kitchen, carrying his coffee mug. A moment later he returned, fragrant steam wafting from the cup. “Are you expecting that pancake to eat you, or what, son?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“I dreamed he died,” Joe said softly, and all traces of amusement fled from his older brother and father.

“Who died?” Fenton asked.

“He was stabbed. I was there, I- I couldn’t do anything. Stabbed...I got free and I tried...I called for help, they didn’t get there soon enough. All I could do was hold him.”

Frank slid his arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. Joe’s face was very pale, and as he looked more closely, the eighteen-year-old could see traces of tearstreaks on the fair cheeks. “Sounds like a rotten one,” he said kindly. “But it was only a dream, little brother.”

“I could feel it when I woke up. The blood. All over my arms. I can feel it now...” Joe rubbed at his arms again, his hands trembling. He swallowed and went on, “It was a case.” He looked up at his father, who lowered his coffee to the table and sat down, his face lined with seriousness. “We were trying to find the guy and he killed-” Joe stopped with a gasp, took a deep breath. “Killed someone.”

“It does sound like a dreadful dream, and I can see why it’s got you upset,” Fenton answered gently. “But I’m not after any murderers at the moment- in fact, I’m quite at loose ends.”

Joe took another long, deep breath, let it out in a sigh, and picked up his fork. For the first time that morning a real smile crossed his face. True, it was a rather sickly smile compared to his usual grin, but at least he was shaking off the nightmare. Frank gave the muscular shoulders a brief, affectionate squeeze, then let his arm slide away and got up to take his dishes to the kitchen. Returning for another trip, he smiled to see his brother eating his way steadily through four syrup-laden pancakes. By the time the table was clear and the dishwasher running, Frank had forgotten the incident.

“It won’t go away.”

Frank and Joe were the only ones at the dining-room table this morning; their father was already in his office, doing some of the monstrous pile of paperwork that had built up while he was away the month before. Their mother had gone to work; Laura Hardy had recently started a part-time job in a medical lab. She was usually away during the middle part of the day, but sometimes went in after supper and worked late. The whole family had been a little surprised at how much she enjoyed the job, which entailed working with the ‘guinea pigs’ who volunteered to take experimental drugs.

Frank brushed at some of the loose dark locks hanging in his eyes, his troubled gaze fixed on Joe. Something was definitely wrong with his brother. For the past couple days- ever since he’d come down that morning having dreamed about somebody dying- Joe had been distracted, vague, silent. He would go off into trances, staring into space or down at his arms and hands, and he had developed the peculiar habit of rubbing the underside of his left arm. Sometimes he seemed to be trying to wipe something off his skin, but other times it was as if he was searching for something, something that wasn’t there. Frank had just inquired, as casually as he could manage, why Joe kept doing that.

“What won’t go away?”

“That nightmare. I keep having it. And it keeps getting...”

“Worse?”

“Yeah, but also more...involved. More and more things happening. I wake up thinking I’m in the-” Joe broke off suddenly. It was becoming a habit with him; he’d start to say something and then chop it off in mid-phrase, sometimes even in mid-word.

“I wish you’d remember how to complete your sentences,” Frank complained mildly, watching his younger brother closely. Joe made no response. “You know, if it’s bugging you that much- and anyone with eyes can see it’s having a pretty strong effect on you- maybe you should talk about it a little.” For the past few days he had respected Joe’s obvious desire to say as little as possible about the nightmare, but things were starting to get out of hand. Quite aside from his downcast demeanor, Joe’s appetite had suffered a decline and that worried Frank. It worried their mother, too. “Mom’s getting kinda concerned about you.”

“I need to talk to Dad,” Joe said suddenly, standing up from the table and pushing away the barely-touched plate of eggs and toast. Frank sighed.

“Did you hear a word I said?” he asked, trying to rein in his concern over Joe’s behavior and his annoyance about being ignored.

“Yes.” Joe looked at him with that strange, haunted look that kept rising into his blue eyes. “That’s why I need to talk to Dad.”

“I guess there’s some reason why you can’t talk to me?” Frank inquired, miffed. He was used to being his younger brother’s confidant, and he didn’t at all like the thought of being left out. Frank was stunned at the response to his testy question, though; Joe’s lips trembled and tears filled his eyes. The older Hardy boy pushed away his own half-empty plate and stood up as Joe turned his back, lifting his right hand to his face. “Joe...” What on earth had he said that would take his brother to the edge of tears? Frank touched the back of the broad shoulder and felt the tension knotting the muscles there. “What’s wrong?” he asked more gently. “I didn’t mean to...upset you, but it- why can’t you tell me?”

Joe’s hand dropped as he took several deep breaths, then he slowly turned back around. “I’m not going to tell Dad,” he said, his voice low and his eyes averted. “I just want to ask him a few things.”

Frank sighed again. “I think you need to talk to someone about this nightmare,” he repeated, removing his hand from his brother’s shoulder. “I think it’s going to keep gnawing at you until you get it out of your system.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What is the problem?” Frank clung to his temper.

“It’s not a dream.”

“What?”

“It’s not a dream, it’s- it’s going to happen.”

Frank stared, his annoyance replaced with concern and disbelief. “Joe-”

“Remember Colin?”

Colin. Frank sat back down in the chair, his mind starting to spin. Colin Randles and his family had moved to Bayport the previous year, and he and his sister had attended the recently-ended school year at Bayport High.

Colin wasn’t the sort of person one would be likely to forget; Joe’s question had been rhetorical. What the younger Hardy was referring to was the fact that everyone in the Randles family possessed some degree of psychic ability. Colin’s parents gave psychic readings. His younger sister, Nella, was a medium who could speak to spirits- including the dead. These were not terribly unusual or powerful manifestations, according to Colin. The Hardys had taken his word for that, though they found it unusual enough. Colin himself, though, was the powerhouse of the family. He was pre- and post-cognitive, which meant he had visions and impulses about things that were going to happen, or that had happened in the past. He hadn’t mastered his gift- or curse, as he referred to it- yet, but he was usually accurate, and one of his predictions had saved Joe from getting killed in a car wreck.

The whole psychic business had caused a lot of problems at first; people had not been too accepting of the ‘weirdos’. Gradually Colin and Nella had made some friends at school, the Hardys among them. Frank and Joe, skeptical but intrigued, had asked Colin about being psychic one day after school. Colin had given them some tips and explained the basics- and only a few moments later, while they were giving it a try, Joe had suddenly known that Laura Hardy had just remembered something she needed to tell him.

Frank had not had any such luck, and had been tempted to dismiss the incident as a fluke, except that a few days later it had happened again. And then again, a week after that. After seven or eight episodes over a couple months, Frank had to admit that it looked like his brother was picking things up psychically, though it was not by any means a regular occurrence. The main thing was that Joe- who had always relied on his hunches- seemed to have gotten more accurate with his flashes of intuition. It was very seldom now that he was wrong when he got a hunch, and his mistakes usually occurred when he was particularly angry or feeling unusually stubborn.

“So you’re having a hunch,” Frank said at last into the silence, wondering if ‘upset’ fell into the same category as ‘angry’. If so, his brother might be wrong in thinking the dream was a vision. If not...if not, it might indeed be genuine.

“I’m having a certainty,” the younger boy answered quietly, and Frank looked up at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

‘That didn’t take much psychic activity to predict,’ Frank thought wryly. Joe often grumbled about not being believed, despite Frank’s insistence that this wasn’t the case. He just wanted Joe to look at all sides of a situation, see all the possibilities, not get stuck on a particular one. “Well- sometimes when you’re feeling emotional about things, it throws your intuition off,” he reminded Joe.

“I had the vision first. Then I got emotional about it,” Joe corrected him.

Frank started to reply, then stopped. “Mind if I come up with you?” he asked instead as Joe turned towards the stairs. An indifferent-seeming shrug was the only reply.

“Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Certainly, son.” Fenton Hardy glanced up from a pile of papers as Joe paused in the open doorway.

His face strained, gaunt, his shoulders slumped, his eyes a mask of pain and resignation... ‘I’ll never take another case, Ezra...’

Joe shook off the sight and cautiously entered the room, acutely aware of the presence of his brother behind him. Gingerly, he sat down on the old brown-leather sofa and saw from the corner of his eye Frank perch on the arm. “I wanted to ask you about the Reaper.”

He had, he saw, his father’s complete attention. A few feet away, his brother stifled an incredulous snort. Joe ignored it, concentrated on his father.

“The Reaper?” Fenton replied, surprise in his voice. “What about him?”

“Corny name,” Frank muttered.

“It’s an accurate name,” Joe replied, not taking his gaze from his father’s serious face. “He’s murdered forty people.”

Frank’s shocked intake of breath was the only sound in the study for a moment or two.

“What else do you know about the Reaper, Joe?” Fenton asked quietly. Joe wasn’t surprised at the question. There were many cases, many criminals, that their father had never mentioned to them; the Reaper was one such. Fenton had to be wondering how Joe had heard the name.

The blond boy closed his eyes, frowned at what hovered in the back of his mind. “No one knows his real name, he’s used so many aliases. His current name on record is Theodore Ames. He has extensive knowledge of medicine and medieval torture techniques; he tortures people to death, usually by stabbing or puncture wounds.” Joe stopped, shivering; he could feel the blood hot on his arms, soaking into his shirt.

“Currently...” he dimly heard his father begin.

“He’s in a maximum security prison in Virginia right now, and his execution is pending.” Joe opened his eyes. “If he gets out, will he come after us?”

“Why would he do that?” Frank asked, sounding subdued.

“The Reaper has an unusual technique,” Fenton began. “It took five years to figure out his pattern. He chooses his victims by learning where his last victim’s spouse came from. Then he goes to that town or city, and kills again. Sometimes a relative, usually a random victim, but always someone whose wife or husband- or fiancee, or partner- was raised in a different town or city. Speaking as a professional, it’s an ingenious tactic; he’s always on the move, never in one place for more than two weeks, usually much less time than that. He only stays long enough to study his victims, find a place to...work, and then commit the murders. However, now that his pattern has been revealed, he’s been talking about making changes to it. He’s also mentioned revenge, frequently.” The detective shifted in his chair, frowning.

“He leaves his real victims alive,” Joe said softly. “He kills their family and makes them watch. Forty deaths- and about five suicides- are the result of his...technique.”

“How do you know this?” Frank’s question sounded quite testy, not unusual when the dark-haired boy was unnerved. “Read it in the papers, I guess? Got it all wrapped up in your dreams from researching it?”

Joe still didn’t look at him. Closing his eyes again, he stared at the sheets of paper that rose in his mind’s eye. “Theodore Ames alias the Reaper, age aprox. thirty-eight years. Hair black, eyes dark brown, height six foot two, weight two-hundred thirty pounds.” He paused. “Deceased: Jeannie Lake, age twelve. Relationship to Derek Lake: youngest daughter. Cause of death: multiple stab wounds, profuse blood loss, shock. Apparent motive: Ames allegedly told D. Lake that ‘this is more painful. You can’t do a thing to help her, all you can do is hear her scream in your mind forever.’” Joe paused again. “Physician’s comments: All of the wounds were placed in a manner to cause pain, not death. Strips of skin torn from arms and legs. One kidney and one lung pierced; lung did not deflate. Uterus punctured in four places; attempt seems to have been made to pierce bladder as well, but aim was inaccurate. Both eyes blinded by pointed weapon, not knife. Liver riddled with holes, probably from the same object used to blind J Lake-”

“Stop,” Frank whispered, his voice strained and shaken.

“Derek Lake was not harmed physically, but overpowered, injected with drug that caused paralysis of the major surface muscle groups, and bound. Was conscious while his wife and two daughters were slain by-”

“Stop!” Frank snapped.

“They haven’t figured out what drug he uses,” Joe murmured, opening his eyes and looking straight at his father. “The Lakes were living in a small city in California, but his wife was originally from Mississippi. So he went there when he was done with them.”

Silence fell again as Fenton nodded slowly, looking shaken.

“When he gets out, will he come after you?” the seventeen-year-old asked grimly.

“When he gets out? He’s awaiting the death penalty,” his father protested. “In maximum security-”

“When he gets out, he’ll come to Bayport. Is it you he’s after?” Joe persisted, his patience fraying. “Because if he does-”

Frank’s gasp made him turn. “Dad...did you help put him in jail?” the older boy asked anxiously, but his eyes were on Joe and Joe suddenly realized he’d given himself away.

‘Later. For now, focus,’ he thought, absently rubbing his left arm, fearing at any moment to feel the ravaged, scarred skin.

“I...was asked to participate,” Fenton said slowly, the words coming one at a time. “But I declined. I prefer to work alone; there were already seven detectives after him, including-”

“Including?”

“Sam Radley,” Fenton finished, his eyes widening.

“Is that who you dreamed about?” Frank asked quickly, and Joe felt his brother’s fingers clasp his arm.

“No.”

Silence fell and remained for several minutes. Joe stared at the carpeted floor, feeling the gazes that were boring into him but determined to say nothing more.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” Frank muttered at last, his voice hostile. “I think your dreams are just dreams, and I don’t think that Reaper is going to be able to get out of Virginia. And even if he did, all signs say he wouldn’t be too interested in Dad-”

“I am Sam’s partner,” Fenton pointed out quietly. “And stranger predictions have come true, Frank.”

“And I don’t think much of this business of keeping these dreams to yourself and only telling us enough to worry us,” Frank went on. Joe could feel his brother’s glare. “They’re a little too easy to make up as you go along, that way.”

“I dreamed I was in a mental ward. I tried to commit suicide,” Joe remarked flatly, letting his fingers seek the smooth skin of his arm once again. Anger was building inside him. ‘Making it up as he went along’, was he? Well, let Frank be the judge of that! “I tried to kill myself,” he went on into the shocked silence, “because I couldn’t handle the death.”

He raised his eyes at last and met Frank’s gaze. “He murdered you,” he said softly. “He caught us both- he dosed me with that drug and I couldn’t even twitch my fingers. He tied us both and piled us in the back of a van and drove for a long time- I was just able to move a little when we stopped and he took us inside...and down- one at a time. I couldn’t see, I was blindfolded. He took the blindfolds off and then he asked which one of us was going to be first-” Joe bit his lips and turned his gaze away.

His brother’s screams rang in his ears and he was helpless, helpless. The tingling in his fingers and then in his arms, and the bonds around his wrists ever so slowly loosening as Frank’s cries grew weaker and weaker. Finally free, hearing nothing but silence from the other room. Staggering to his feet, stumbling down the short hallway that seemed to stretch in front of him forever. Another blank, white, room. His brother lying on the floor, the dark blood staining his clothes, his body, running over the floor. The faint rise and fall of Frank’s chest, the weak gasps. Falling to his knees beside his brother, feeling the frantic pounding of his own frightened heart-

“Son?”

“By the time I got there, he’d left. I got the cell phone out of my pocket and called for help. I held you. You couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t speak, tried to tell me to leave before he came back, but I didn’t care anymore. Blood...so much blood...we both knew...”

Frank’s dimming eyes, the blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, the last, desperate heaves of his chest, his hand straining to touch Joe’s wet face...and then...the silence. The dullness of the lifeless eyes, the coolness of the limp body, slowly going stiff, and Joe’s own half-felt, half-heard wails of agony...

“Joe. Joe, hush, hush.”

The seventeen-year-old gasped in a breath, feeling as if his own heart had stopped, his own body were drained of life. Arms were holding him tightly; tilting his head up, he stared into his brother’s white, horrified face. “Hush, it’s all right,” the older boy murmured shakily. “I’m right here, and I’m very much alive.” The rapid beat of Frank’s heart, the warmth of his arms...Joe closed his eyes and reveled in both. “I’m sorry,” the low, familiar voice murmured. “I should’ve realized why you weren’t telling me. Shouldn’t’ve said you were making it up, but you got me a little rattled...”

“I would say that was definitely more than just a dream.”

Fenton’s voice broke over Joe with a jolt; he’d forgotten where he was. Sitting up, he rubbed at his eyes and tried to pull himself together. The boys seldom showed such open affection, but the strong embrace and the soft words had driven the vision away- at least for the moment. “I’m really afraid it’ll happen. Terrified. Maybe- maybe it won’t. Maybe he won’t escape, or if he does, he won’t come here. But I just can’t shake the dreams- the feeling,” he explained, taking a quivery breath.

“I’ll call the Virginia prison,” Fenton told him, reaching for the telephone that sat on his desk. “Ask them to let us know immediately if he does escape. Concerned about Sam, of course. Was there anything else?” he added, pausing with his hand on the receiver.

“Nothing...useful.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Joe’s father said seriously.

“Well...”

“Your mother, for example?”

“Oh! No, no. We- they caught him. But too late. Mom...” Joe hesitated again. “She-”

His mother’s grief-ravaged face fading into dull blankness as the tranquilizers she’d become addicted to gradually consumed her.

“She- was on Valium, and...” Joe shook his head. “You stopped taking cases...”

The piles of empty cans and bottles in the recycling bin, cans and bottles drained of their numbness-inducing alcohol. The slow bloating of a once-trim body, the stupor of a once-active mind.

“Stopped doing much of anything, really,” the youth finished, grimacing. “Except I remember a lot of- of- beer bottles.”

Fenton looked a little rueful; it was an open secret in the family that Fenton’s father had had a drinking problem. They all knew it, but no one discussed it; it was the reason there was seldom any alcoholic beverage in the house.

“Aunt Gertrude moved away.”

The sharp tongue silenced, the tart, loving voice muted.

“And you- in the ward of a hospital.”

“I- I cut my wrists.” Joe stopped, not daring to speak of the real damage he’d done to himself. “It was- seemed- appropriate.” He looked up again, feeling his brother’s arm tighten around his shoulders. “The Reaper destroys families,” he murmured, aware of Frank’s stunned incomprehension. “And he relies on people’s tendency to ask, ‘Why couldn’t I have stopped it? Why did I let this happen?’ Even when someone knows it’s not their fault, they blame themselves.”

Fenton nodded, his face grave. As he picked up the phone and dialed, Joe remembered something.

“A walkie-talkie.”

“What?”

“He had a walkie-talkie in his belt loop.” The blond boy frowned. “Unless it was a CB radio...”

“A police dispatcher unit?” Frank suggested in a murmur.

“Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s how he avoided getting caught for so long,” Joe speculated. “Listening in on the police bands and knowing when to lie low.”

“Good. Very good. I’ll ask if anything of the sort got confiscated,” Fenton remarked, his brows rising in surprised approval. “And if you remember anything else, son, tell me at once. I intended to stay close to home anyway, but I think I’ll definitely keep things local until we know- one way or another.”

Joe nodded and sighed, suddenly feeling like a terrible weight had lifted from him. His cheeks itched where his tears had trickled down, and his head was stuffy, but he felt better than he had for three days. Why had he been so certain that they wouldn’t believe him? ‘Because you’ve been trying the ‘only a dream’ argument on yourself, so naturally you’d expect them to do the same,’ he scolded himself. Maybe it was only a dream, maybe it was more, but either way it was serious enough that his father would take precautions. And Fenton believed in precognition; he’d admitted to consulting a psychic once himself. A sudden wave of gratitude went through the boy as he listened to his father’s phone call. Not many fathers would go to this trouble to reassure their sons about a maybe-nightmare.

“I don’t think you need to alarm your mother with this,” his father said into Joe’s thoughts.

“I wish I didn’t have to alarm anyone with it,” Joe replied dourly, glancing at Frank, who’d been extremely quiet for some time now. Frank, stirred from his brown study, blinked at him.

“I can handle it. And I’ll keep my mouth shut, too,” he added to their father.

“All right. Joe, anything- the slightest detail, any change in your- visions- tell me at once, okay? Whatever I’m doing,” their father insisted. “You know that even the most unlikely things can turn out to be valuable clues.”

“I will, Dad,” the youth promised, feeling another glow of gratitude. His stomach gurgled and Frank smiled, withdrawing his arm from Joe’s shoulders.

“Hope those eggs aren’t all cold by now,” the older boy commented, rising from the arm of the sofa and leading the way out of the study.

“That’s what microwaves are for,” Joe countered with a small smile, following just half a footstep behind as they hurried down to the dining room to finish their interrupted breakfasts. He picked up his plate of cold food and took it into the kitchen. His brother followed, evidently having the same idea. He still looked very serious, and Joe decided it was time for a subject change. “So. What’re your plans for this delightful summer day?” It was very cool for July, barely reaching eighty degrees for the last week and usually ending up at the low seventies.

Frank smiled as the microwave dinged. “Well, a day on the beach is a definite no-go,” he replied, gesturing at windows streaming with rain. “Maybe we could go down to the arcade and see who’s there.”

Fenton Hardy stared thoughtfully at the closed door of his study after his sons left, disturbed on many levels. Picking up a ballpoint pen from his desk, he slid the smooth, cool metal between his fingers.

Joe. Frank.

The Reaper...

‘So Joe is psychic after all.’ Fenton Hardy made a practice of not dismissing things he couldn’t explain, but he seldom had much confidence in them, either. He hadn’t held much confidence in Joe’s ‘hunches’ and intuition, despite how often the boy had been correct in his assertions. Some people simply worked better with small, almost unnoticeable hints of body language and apparently unrelated scraps of information. He’d assumed that was what the younger boy was doing. But now there was no doubt. There was no other way he could have known about the Reaper.

But he obviously didn’t know everything. Or did he? Was he holding back? Fenton frowned, suddenly certain of two things: Joe wasn’t telling all he knew, and he wasn’t likely to do so, despite his promise. Joe was the wayward boy who never hesitated to do his own thing- and keep his own counsel. Not like his more obedient elder brother.

The detective tapped the ballpoint against the paper before him, idly noting the blue spots that appeared on the pristine whiteness. ‘Still, he did give me something to work with... more than I would’ve expected, seeing how emotional he got.’

Emotion, as he’d striven to teach his sons, was a hindrance to observing and deducing. It interfered with the reasoning process; it colored one’s reactions, prejudiced them. Frank had accepted the lesson, becoming highly deductive and logical. Joe, on the other hand, still struggled valiantly against his emotional responses. This present situation was a case in point; Joe might have learned more had he accepted that his foresight had not actually happened, that it was a warning and not an inevitable occurrence. But Joe had gotten upset and frightened and lost the vital objectivity.

Fenton’s frown became a scowl as he lifted his eyes back to the door. Seldom had his sons showed so much affection, so openly. Embracing. Crying. Frank’s gentle reassurance, and its immediate effect on Joe. But none of it was a surprise to their father. They had learned that he did not approve of great shows of affection and were casual in their public attitudes towards each other, but his boys lived more or less for each other. Oh, they loved other people- their girlfriends, their mother, even him. But they loved each other best.

Fenton’s strong hands gripped the pen tightly at the distasteful thought. Once, he had delighted in his sons. Years ago, they had loved him best, adored him, almost revered him. He had taught them, raised them, molded them. Loved them.

And then, as they became young teens, they had ever so slowly, so subtly, drifted away from him and towards each other. Confiding in each other, not him. Frank tutoring Joe instead of encouraging Joe to take his homework to his father. The two staying at home with their aunt instead of accompanying their parents on vacations. And then there was their detective work. Fenton had first introduced them to his occupation; now his sons planned to have their own detective agency- not to join his. They even called each other partners already, despite the fact they were still amateur investigators Oh, talented ones- he should know, he’d trained them. But still amateurs. Amateurs who never failed to call on his prestige and reputation whenever they floundered or their abilities were questioned.

But the most obvious aspect of their intense relationship was that they insisted on working on every single mystery that came their way, together. And their work on their cases should have suffered because of it. They never split up for more than a day, which was inefficient. They strove to always be aware of where the other was- that was an unnecessary distraction. They always went on the alert and became concerned when one of them failed to show up or make contact on time- which was often a waste of energy.

It was a source of extreme annoyance to the older detective, because despite all the wasted time, effort and energy, their case-work did not suffer at all. Somehow, by the time it was over, the boys always came out ahead. He never failed to point out when things got down to the very last minute, reminding them that if they’d been more efficient, they might’ve completed the case sooner. Yet more often than not it was that very inefficiency that somehow led them to the conclusion of the mystery.

Most important of all to Fenton- and the thing that rankled him the most- was that though Frank and Joe still worked with him whenever he asked, they no longer volunteered to help the minute they learned he’d taken a new case. And he shouldn’t’ve had to ask. They should’ve welcomed any opportunity to keep learning from him, even if they were less than delighted to be sent on separate assignments every now and then.

Realizing what a breach was opening between him and his boys, Fenton had quickly learned to hide his dismay, his anger, from them and his wife and sister. He didn’t dare admit he was jealous, and had concealed it so well that no one suspected it was there. He’d even encouraged the boys to be close, closer than most brothers, all the while silently resenting his loss. He had fallen from the pedestal of their childhood, and there was no getting back on it. He had struggled to accept it- and found that the only way to do so was to drive all his old love for his sons out of his heart.

He had learned to hide his indifference as well as he had hidden his jealousy. Externally, he was almost the perfect father, stern and joking by turns, dispensing authority and allowing freedoms, punishing and praising as circumstances dictated. He even felt some of it, sometimes. He worried when they faced danger- they were his sons, and he did not want them injured any more than was necessary to teach them a lesson. Certainly he would be most upset if one of them- or both or them- were killed.

And now...now it seemed very possible that one or both of them could end up slain, or at least badly hurt. Fenton had hidden Theodore Ames’- the Reaper’s- existence from his sons, as he had often done when he felt they were not equal to taking on a particular case or criminal. The last thing he wanted was for them to become intrigued and start digging into the case, unearthing things better left alone.

Despite his caution, though, it seemed they were already close to learning the truth. At least, Joe was. In fact, Joe might know it already, though Fenton had not seen any signs of it. And if Joe did learn the truth, either through his dreams or through more conventional means...what then? “Wait and see,” the detective murmured aloud. “Time enough to decide what to do when I know what’s at stake.”

Turning his attention back to his paperwork, the detective noticed in some surprise that he’d inadvertently bent his pen almost in half. Shaking his head at his lapse of control, he tossed it into the trash and plucked a fresh one from the desk drawer.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Joe Hardy asked quietly. “You figured out what I was trying not to tell you.”

Frank sighed and looked at his brother, who was perched on the foot of the bed. The older Hardy was standing in the doorway to Joe’s room, leaning his back against the doorframe. It was very quiet, which was unusual. Joe usually had music playing on the radio or stereo. But this evening there was only the sound of the incessant rainfall on the roof. It occurred to Frank that he’d been sighing an awful lot today- most of it earlier that morning, but some this evening, too. “Yeah. I put two and two together before you got into the details. But I was hoping I was wrong.” There had been hints enough in his brother’s behavior, in the way he’d suddenly stopped completing his sentences.

“We were trying to find the guy and he killed- killed someone. I couldn’t save... He died while I held him... Dad, is the Reaper going to come after you? ...He leaves them alive, he kills their families and makes them watch...”

“I wish I was wrong.”

“Joe...”

Joe’s unusually serious blue eyes met Frank’s anxious brown ones. “I really didn’t mean to freak you out, big brother. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

The day had passed in a not-quite-normal manner after Joe’s incredible outburst of information in their father’s study. Both boys had tried to get back to their routine and push all thoughts of the Reaper and his methods out of their minds. They’d only been partially successful; they’d both been a bit preoccupied, and Joe had refused to let Frank out of his sight. It was easy to tell that Joe was feeling better about the situation, though- it showed in his face, in the way he no longer looked so lost and haunted, in his greater willingness to talk to people. He wasn’t back to ‘normal’ yet, but it was a vast improvement.

Frank himself had been somewhat of a loss for what to say, so he’d been glad enough not to try and talk about it. But it didn’t help that he really didn’t know what to think, either. Joe was taking it all seriously, very seriously. So was their father, who’d told them after dinner that he was one of many who would be alerted in the event of the Reaper’s escape. Frank’s normally logical outlook was proving difficult to maintain; he couldn’t quite pass the situation off as unlikely, illogical, or call his father’s precautions over-protective, over-reacting. The Reaper was a savage, cold-blooded psycho, and precautions sounded like a very good idea indeed. Now if Frank could just get the images out of his mind-!

“I think what’s freaking me the most isn’t the thought of him killing me,” the eighteen-year-old said slowly, feeling his way through the jumble of emotions in his mind. “What scares me is everything else. I mean...you- you wouldn’t really try to...?”

Joe looked away. Frank moved across the untidy room and sat down on the rumpled bed, watching as his brother’s hands picked nervously at the old comforter. “Probably.”

Frank shook his head, not denying the response, but appalled by it. “I hate to think you- or Mom and Dad- would quit living and start just- existing. Waiting for...”

“Trying to go numb,” Joe whispered. “Trying not to hurt.”

Frank laid his hand over his brother’s, stilling the restless movement. A thought was straining to get out. “If I did die..”

“We’d fall apart. I don’t think you know how vital you are to this family.”

Frank blushed slightly as he studied the downcast young face, resisted the urge to make Joe look at him. It was difficult enough for the younger Hardy to admit to his feelings; if it made it easier for him to direct his remarks to the bed, Frank wouldn’t insist that he look up and face Frank directly. ‘You’d fall apart,’ he repeated the words in his mind as silence enveloped the room. ‘You’d be in pain...’ “It’d be over for me,” he said aloud, as the thought crystallized. “The pain. It would just be starting for you.”

“And it would never stop.” Tears glittered on the blond boy’s lashes, and one landed hotly on Frank’s hand.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joe. If it’s a future, it needn’t be a- an inevitable one. We can work to make sure it won’t happen. You know how we are when we make up our minds on something,” Frank tried to reassure him, aiming for a slightly lighter note, a touch of the confidence that his brother always had so much of.

“Well...that’s true,” came the half-hearted response.

Frank looked at his brother’s bowed head for a moment and something inside him snapped. He lifted his hands from Joe’s, laid one palm against each hot cheek, and lifted Joe’s head so that they were looking right at each other. “Stop grieving! I’m right here!” he insisted, gazing into startled, slightly bloodshot blue eyes. “I have no intention of tamely letting some butcher slice me up, not now that I know it might happen. I don’t want to die any more than you want me to be killed, so stop thinking that it will happen and let’s put our heads together to keep it from happening.”

A smile- a tentative one- crossed Joe’s face. “Change our future? Sure,” he said shakily. “I’d like that a lot, and I’m willing to sling all my energy into it.”

“‘Always in motion is the future- difficult to see,’” Frank remarked, letting go of his brother as he quoted the wise old Jedi master from his favorite movie series.

A real smile replaced the tentative one. “That’s true, too. Maybe- maybe I should check with Colin. He knows a lot more about this kind of thing than I do, and he changed my future.”

“He did that all right, once I’d yelled at him enough.” Frank recalled the incident with a shudder: Joe riding with Phil Cohen in his new sports car; the Mack truck barreling through the intersection where the boys would have been, if they hadn’t pulled over to Frank’s urgent honking. And Frank wouldn’t’ve been honking if Colin hadn’t grudgingly warned him that something terrible- deadly- was going to happen to the boys on that particular stretch of road. “Make sure you get the whole story; he has this habit of leaving things out.”

Joe nodded, rolled his eyes briefly. “Don’t forget his habit of being a real unhappy...” The younger boy paused. “I guess I’d be unhappy too, if I saw the things he sees. I’ll give him a call in the morning, it’s a little late now.”

“Do your- the things you know- do they ever arrive as dreams?” Joe Hardy asked rather diffidently of the fair-haired, dark-eyed boy sitting in the brown wicker patio chair across from him.

“Not usually,” Colin Randles replied, looking curious. “Why, are yours?”

“Well, yeah.” Joe took a deep breath and launched into his dream, skimming over the details but explaining enough to get the point across. When he mentioned the Reaper, Colin nodded.

“I keep getting some very creepy vibes,” the young psychic volunteered when Joe was done. “There’s going to be deaths.”

Joe swallowed hard, then got a little angry. “And you don’t know whose yet, right?”

“I can’t see their faces,” Colin answered simply. “How many times have you had the vision?”

“About five now. I had it again last night. It’s making life kind of unpleasant.” ‘And that was the understatement of the summer,’ he thought dryly.

Colin nodded, sympathy in his face. “Repetitions are a little unusual; it generally means you’ve got the general idea, but you’re missing something. Don’t ask what,” he added. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I dunno about missing, but they keep getting...getting stuff added. Like last night I got some- details that I hadn’t had before.” Joe looked away for a moment, trying to push the memory away. This time, he had seen the capture of the Reaper, something that he had ‘known’ but not actually seen in the vision before. He had also seen his brother’s funeral, and that was the part he was trying hardest to forget.

“Well,” his friend mused, and Joe snapped back to the present. “That’s a little odd, too, but you’re pretty new to this, so it makes sense that you’d get it in bits and pieces. Once you’ve gotten the whole picture, it should start letting up on you.”

“What I really want to know is- if it’s true, how can I keep it from happening?”

“You can’t keep an incident from happening, you can only change the outcome.” Colin looked seriously at Joe. “You may be able to keep your brother from getting killed- but someone in Bayport is going to be killed by the Reaper. That’s a given. If not Frank, someone else.”

Joe stared at the overcast sky and wished the sun would come out. It wouldn’t seem quite so terrible if it weren’t so dark and gloomy. “You know he’s going to escape, then?”

“I saw it,” Colin sighed.

“But if I warn my Dad-”

“If they prevent him from escaping this time, he’ll find another time. I saw it, Joe. I saw his jail cell, empty. And the guard dead, and the Reaper, alive. His eyes...” Colin shivered. “He’s soulless. I didn’t know who he was till you told me just now, but now that I know, I understand why I’ve been feeling this way. Nella’s been upset, too, but she wouldn’t say why. It might have something to do with this, it might not. She’s not talking and we don’t like to pressure her. Bad stuff tends to happen when we do.”

Joe rose abruptly from his chair and paced the Hardy’s front porch, taking a deep breath of the heavy, damp, cool air. “So we can’t keep him from escaping, we can’t keep him from coming to Bayport, we can’t keep him from killing people. All we can do is try to make sure it’s not my brother he murders.”

“We can try, yes,” Colin responded, sounding unusually optimistic. “But we won’t be able to try until your visions are complete. I imagine this is affecting you more than me because you’re so close to Frank- I mean, you have a close relationship, and you live under the same roof. Proximity adds a lot of vibes.”

“How can you be so calm about it!?” Joe burst out suddenly. “How do you know he won’t go after your parents, your sister, you?”

“I don’t, of course.” Colin looked mildly surprised at the outburst. “And I’m only calm because one of us has to keep their head on straight. I’ve had quite a few years to get used to feeling useless and futile, because I try to change things and they don’t change. Or they do, but in the wrong way. I never know which way it’s going to be, so unless it’s something catastrophic, I try not to do anything. And even then, it usually doesn’t work,” he added bitterly.

“That’s why you were so reluctant to tell Frank when I-”

“Yes. I was afraid we’d just get there in time for him to have to watch. I was glad it worked out,” the black-eyed boy said more quietly. “I don’t know, maybe if I hadn’t tried to repress it so much...” Colin shrugged. “Anyway, there’s not a lot to be done until either you get more information or I do. But forewarned is forearmed. And you Hardys have a lot of determination. I think you’ll manage to keep Frank safe.” Colin stood up. “Just be careful. He wouldn’t like it if you ended up replacing him.”

“No...guess not,” Joe murmured, feeling a little ashamed of his outburst. “You leaving?”

“You’re observant,” Colin joked. “Yeah, I have to pick my sister up from the movie theater. Hopefully we can get home before it starts raining again. It’s not usually like this, is it?”

“No, this is unusual weather, especially for July,” Joe answered, his mind on autopilot. “Colin, if you get any hints-”

“I’ll be in touch, if you keep in touch with me,” the young psychic replied. “See you.” He stepped down off the porch and walked towards his battered old green car. A brief wave as he got into the driver’s seat, which Joe returned, and then the car roared into life and pulled away.

“You keep that in mind.”

Taken completely by surprise, Joe spun around, then let out a startled, “Ow!” as a sharp pain dug into his bare foot. Losing his balance, he dropped in a heap on the wooden floor.

“You okay?” Frank asked from behind the screen door.

“Ow,” Joe repeated, picking up his right foot and looking at the bottom of it. “Would you bring me the tweezers, please?”

“Got a splinter?”

Joe looked up. “Why, no. I’m going to snip my toenails,” he replied sarcastically. Frank grinned and disappeared. A moment later he was back; opening the screen door, he handed Joe an implement. Joe was just angling it towards his foot when he realized his brother had handed him a pair of small scissors. “Frank!”

Frank grinned again, dug in his pocket and brought out a pair of tweezers as Joe dropped the scissors. Then he crouched by Joe’s feet and took hold of his heel. “Let’s see.”

“Hey, give me those,” Joe requested. “I’ll do it myself; you always tickle my feet.”

“That would only be significant if your feet were as ticklish as mine,” Frank retorted, passing him the tweezers.

Joe ignored that and labored over his foot rather awkwardly for several minutes. Finally he got the sliver of wood out and put his foot back down with a sigh of relief. “So what was the point to startling me?” he inquired, resting his arms on top of his bent knees.

“What Colin said.”

“What particular thing?” Joe asked, feeling his face heat up slightly.

“About not replacing me,” Frank said directly, his expression suddenly grimly serious.

Joe glanced at the screen door to make sure their mother wasn’t overhearing the conversation. It was Saturday and she had the day off. “Don’t worry, I’m no more eager to get sliced-and-diced than you are,” he said quietly. “It didn’t even cross my mind till he mentioned it.”

“It better not cross again. You’re just as vital to this family as I am.”

This time Joe did blush; he could feel his cheeks burning.

“I know you don’t intend on it, but I don’t want you leaping in without giving things a lot of thought first,” Frank went on, affecting not to notice Joe’s embarrassment. “Jumping in without thinking always has at least a fifty-fifty chance of getting hurt. You’ve been lucky so far, but I think you might not want to push it, this time around.”

Joe took a long moment to think about that. If he thought the Reaper was about to stab his brother- if he looked in through a window or doorway to see Frank being tormented- his usual impulse would be to charge right in and try to overpower the guy. He wasn’t sure he could keep his cool long enough to back off and call in for help. Especially knowing that his brother might be dying- or dead- by the time help got there. “I guess it depends on how much time I’ve got to think, what the situation is,” he answered at last, in little more than a whisper.

“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t exactly argue if you charged in and kicked the knife out of his hand or something,” Frank muttered. “But that’s a little different. If we’re going to change this, we need to think pretty carefully about actions and reactions. Don’t want to play into his hands.”

“Definitely.” Joe frowned. “Colin firmly believes the guy’ll get here, but he didn’t say when. And we were here- I mean, at home- in my dream, when he caught us.”

“Maybe if you tell me what to expect...?”

Joe glanced up at the screen door. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t like the idea at all, but it would help a lot if Frank knew the sequence of events. That way it would be easier to recognize- and break- the pattern. “But not here. Don’t want Mom to walk out and hear it all.”

Frank Hardy stared over the sunset-drenched sea, trying to assimilate what he’d just been told. Beside him, his gaze fixed firmly on the pale, damp sand under them, sat his brother Joe. It had taken a little coaxing, but Frank had finally gotten the younger boy to tell him more about the situation that would- according to Joe and Colin- soon be upon them.

We were in the house alone. You were in your room, I was in mine. Dad had been working on the Reaper case for a while- he’d finally called us in to help with the research, because he wasn’t getting far enough. fast enough. You were the one who figured out his tactic of the spouse’s hometowns. That was why he was in Bayport, his last victim’s wife was from here.

That simple statement had left half a dozen question buzzing in Frank’s mind. Dad wasn’t working on the Reaper case- but maybe he would, if the fellow really did escape. But the vision hadn’t involved an escape, and they already knew his tactic. He’d mentioned that right away, and Joe had nearly bitten his head off.

“I know it’s different. Just having the visions, getting forewarned, has changed things. Other things might change it even more. And I said so to Dad, if you remember. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d pull it apart and conclude there was no danger. But just because we’re not in danger yet doesn’t mean we won’t be!”

“Calm down, kiddo, calm down...I’m just trying to say, it looks like our future is already a little different. Maybe enough that we don’t need to worry as much. Maybe not.” He’d added the last bit just to soothe Joe, who wasn’t soothed but continued his description in a slightly sullen voice.

You went to talk to the woman, she’d moved back here after her husband was murdered. He was checking up on her, probably trying to pick his next victim from people she knew. He saw you, followed you. Researched you. Decided we’d be his next targets. We fit his agenda, since Mom was born in Milwaukee. And Dad was a threat to him. He stalked us both for a while. You knew it was happening, but you wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Trying to protect me.

That, Frank admitted, was extremely likely. He’d always been protective of Joe.

He was so close. He damaged the van, ruined the paint job. Watched us...one night he decided it was time. He went for me first, got me with some sort of dart. That drug he uses. Shot it through the bedroom window. Then he threw a Molotov cocktail in while I was paralyzed, it landed right on me...thought I’d burn up, couldn’t move a muscle... You heard and came running in, put the fire out. Then the lights went off. We both knew he was here. You tried to call the police, but the phone line was dead. He came into the house, not bothering to sneak, just walked right in. Found us both in my room. You didn’t fight him, he threatened to shoot me...

Frank acknowledged that this was one of the few things that would always stop him cold: a threat to his brother. It was their greatest vulnerability- and their greatest strength, because a threat to his brother would also spur either of the Hardy boys to their most desperate, determined efforts.

He tied us both up, blindfolded us both, stuck us in the back of some vehicle. Drove for a long way. We ended up in some beach-house, near the water. He took the blindfolds off, and gags, and left for a few minutes. Then he came back, with the knife... Asked who wanted to be first. You faked him out. Told him you didn’t know what was going on, didn’t have anything to do with whatever reason we were there. He thought you were telling the truth. Decided he’d kill the innocent one- you- first. Make me listen, make me realize what my meddling had gotten you into. He cut the rope off your feet and took you down the hall. Didn’t even search us, didn’t know I had the phone in my pocket. I- I heard... It- took me a long time to get loose, a long time just for my muscles to start working again. By the time I got to you, he’d gone, I didn’t know where.

“I’m not going to talk about afterward,” Joe finished, his voice a bare whisper. “Bad enough I have to dream about it.”

Frank had put his arm around his brother’s slumped shoulders early on, in an probably fruitless attempt to reassure him. Certainly it hadn’t kept Joe from trembling. Now, watching the sunset and listening to the waves, Frank tightened his grip and glanced uncertainly at Joe’s pale, weary young face, unable to decide whether to talk about the obvious discrepancies or not. Joe would probably not react very kindly to Frank’s doubts. “So...” he began at last, trying to be tactful, “that’s what would have happened if he hadn’t been put in jail in Virginia? Or if you hadn’t been warned that he’s going to escape?”

Joe raised his head, pushed at his unruly hair. “Like I said, just seeing something changes it a little,” he repeated, sounding more resigned than upset. “But the basic point is the same. He will come to Bayport and people will die. Maybe he’ll follow his old pattern, maybe he’ll be making a new one. Maybe this time it’s all about revenge. I don’t know. But for whatever reason, our family is going to catch his attention. Maybe from proximity to Sam.” The muscular shoulders moved in a shrug. “Maybe instead of killing you, he will kill me, or us both, or Mom, or everyone but Dad- I don’t know. All I’ve got to go on is these visions, and I don’t know how they’re going to change things yet.” He paused, then sighed. “They get more vivid every night.”

Troubled, Frank ran his hand down his brother’s hunched back. “You’re pretty sure that means it’ll happen soon, then.” It was more statement than question.

“Yes.”

“So...I guess the first thing we look for is for him to escape. After that...” Frank trailed off. He was still trying to persuade himself that the discrepancies meant his brother’s visions wouldn’t come to light, but he couldn’t help feeling spooked. He’d heard what Colin had said, and it wasn’t easy to dismiss the more experienced psychic’s grim predictions. Frank didn’t want anyone to die in his place, but he certainly didn’t want to be stabbed to death. Especially since Joe would blame himself for not saving him! “After that,” he repeated, “well...one step at a time. Sit tight, keep our eyes open, stick together and take precautions.”

Joe nodded and leaned wearily against Frank’s side. Frank held him closer and turned his gaze back to the restless sea. The late-afternoon wind had died down, the sun was nearly set, and the clouds were moving in. He shivered; the temperature was dropping. A cool salty breeze blew past, then the air was still.

“Hungry yet?”

“A little. You?”

“Mainly I’m starting to feel chilly,” Frank decided. “And it’s getting late. Let’s head for home.” He helped Joe to his feet and they walked to their van, both struggling with their silent thoughts. It wasn’t until Frank turned into the driveway and got into the garage that he realized there was a new feeling creeping along his bones.

We were alone in the house.

Suddenly, home didn’t feel safe anymore.

‘Knock it off; that’s what alarm systems are for-’

The power was out, the phone line dead.

A shiver went through him as he hurried in after Joe and locked the door securely behind them.