Frank Hardy opened his eyes, wondering what had roused him. He turned over onto his back- and adrenaline coursed through him as he got a glimpse of a dark figure looming over him. He sat up with a gasp of mingled shock and fear. “Wha-?” was as far as he got before the figure’s weight came down on the side of his bed. He grabbed the intruder’s shoulder, ready to fight- and paused as there was no resistance.

“Frank, it’s me...” The voice was just a whisper, but he identified the speaker readily and his tension ebbed.

“Joe? What- the dreams?” Frank sensed more than saw Joe’s nod, but could hear all too plainly Joe’s ragged breathing. Feeling a surge of sympathy despite the nerve-racking interruption of his sleep, he scooted over to make more room for his brother. “What happened?”

“I don’t-”

“Tell me,” Frank ordered quietly, knowing well his brother’s reluctance to talk about what he’d experienced in his dreams. “I can’t help you deal with it till I know what’s on your mind.” It was a point he’d made several times in the last few nights; there was no point in Joe coming to him for reassurance when Frank had no idea what new terrors had the younger boy in their grip.

“I- it was- the same, except I got released from the psych ward. Went back to college,” Joe whispered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t go home, couldn’t stand to be there without you. Everything I saw reminded me... I had a room by myself, no roommate. Didn’t want anyone. And I- I rejected everyone, Frank. I pushed everyone away from me, didn’t care how much I hurt them in the process. They didn’t, couldn’t understand. I wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t do anything, wasn’t even pretending to study. All I could think about was my own pain, not- not how anyone else might be feeling. And one night I realized how horribly alone I was. Didn’t know what to do, how to- to find anyone again. I didn’t have you, didn’t have Mom or Dad, or any of our friends. I wanted so badly to stop hurting... I was destroying myself, but slowly, and I was tired of it taking so long.”

Frank listened, his pulse quickening with tension and dismay. These dreams, these visions, were getting more real to Joe all the time. But why? Did it mean that the danger was getting closer? Or was this somehow part of the ‘missing piece’ that Joe had talked about two days ago? “It was a future,” he whispered, sliding his arm around his trembling brother. “A future, but not the one we’ve decided to make happen.”

Joe leaned into him, still shaking. “I’m so scared,” he whispered in reply, his voice sounding thin and terribly young. “So scared...”

Frank let go of Joe long enough to lean over and turn on the light, feeling spooked at the oppressive darkness. He sighed inaudibly when the light illuminated the familiar bedroom, and Joe’s shivering body seemed to relax slightly, too. “Destroying yourself?” he repeated, frowning into Joe’s pale face and red eyes.

“Wouldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep.” Joe paused, not to sit up but to move closer. Frank wrapped both arms around him and leaned back against the headboard.

“Cover up, you’re gonna get cold,” he suggested, feeling himself shiver despite his pajamas and the sheet. Joe obeyed, drawing the blankets over his legs and tucking the edges around his body without releasing his grip on Frank.

“I was smoking, too,” he said almost absently, leaning equally against Frank and the headboard behind them. Then he looked up. “And- drinking.”

“You’re underage,” Frank started, before realizing what a stupid thing he was saying. “Not that that ever stops anyone, but all the same, the thought bothers me a lot. Almost as much as not eating or sleeping. ‘Specially since Dad...” He didn’t complete his remark about the alcoholic tendencies that ran in their genes. Didn’t need to.

“I didn’t care anymore,” Joe murmured. “I didn’t want to be healthy. I didn’t want to be with people- because people kept expecting me to try and ‘get over it’ somehow. All I wanted was to be with you, and there was only one way to do that. And now I’m...” He shook his head, his voice dying away.

‘Terrified,’ Frank filled in the blank in his own mind. He bowed his head and pressed his brother closer to him. “We’re still together,” he answered softly. “Taking it one step at a time, Joe; being careful and alert and taking precautions. And we can change it. You’re not even in college yet, so it’s got to go differently...”

“I hope you’re right.” Joe didn’t sound any more convinced than Frank felt. A heavy silence fell as the brothers sat together. Frank had the uncanny feeling that Joe was not merely taking comfort from their closeness, but somehow trying to hold on to it, in case the worse should happen. To keep it fresh and strong in his mind, to stave off the pain in the future.

Or maybe he was imagining things; maybe he was the one who was trying to cling to Joe.

“I wish Dad was here,” Joe murmured, breaking the lengthy silence. “I don’t like it that he had to leave. These past two days have been so...creepy.”

“Yeah. I wish he was here, too. I know I can count on you, brother, but I’d just like it better if he was here.”

“’Cause you don’t have to comfort him,” Joe agreed, his voice quivering. “He’s stronger-”

“Don’t,” Frank interrupted. “It’s not like that. You and I are a team, we’re equal. We comfort each other. Dad’s not stronger, particularly, and I don’t want him here to make me feel safer. I want him here to catch the guy, not wait for someone to be murdered. If he was here, we wouldn’t be waiting, we’d be taking action.”

Joe sat up a little straighter, and a smile wavered across his pale face. “You sound like me.”

“Oh, man, that is not good,” Frank teased gently. He smoothed the wild blond hair, then asked, “How do you do this? You look like you fell asleep standing on your head.”

“Secret,” Joe choked, and buried his face against Frank’s chest, laughing a little as tears dripped from his eyes. “Jeez...now you got me all confused,” he gasped.

Frank didn’t reply, just held him, rocking ever so slightly from side to side until Joe settled down again.

“The only person I know who can make me laugh and cry at the same time,” the younger Hardy said ruefully as he straightened up and wiped his cheeks.

“It’s a rare and coveted talent,” Frank agreed solemnly, and grinned as Joe gave him a well-known ‘look’. “Feel a little better?”

“Yeah.” The ‘look’ faded to an expression of gratitude.

“Good enough to get a little more sleep? It’s- what time is it, anyway? I can’t see the clock.”

“A little after four. I guess I could doze a bit. I think,” Joe added dubiously.

“Me too. Probably more easily if I had some company, though.” It was getting more and more difficult to sleep alone; the familiar presence of his brother often was the deciding factor in whether Frank got to sleep or not. Particularly after hearing most of Joe’s vision-dreams. If Joe left now, Frank’s brain would be free to churn out images of his brother doing just what he’d described: starving himself, abusing his body with alcohol and cigarettes, going without sleep, suffering loneliness and self-imposed isolation- and grief so deep as to be nearly a physical pain.

“You’re in luck then, ‘cause I’m gonna do my dozing right here.” Joe settled to the mattress, pulling up the covers.

“Cool. Get the light, would you?” Frank lay down too, adjusting the pillow. Joe hesitated, then reached out and flicked off the lamp; as he did, his other hand crept into Frank’s hand under the covers. This was a new habit of his; Frank had been tempted to ask if Joe had become afraid of the dark, and if so, when and why. But he didn’t feel like discussing the creepy aspects of dark while it was dark, and anyway, Joe would probably deny it. Worse, he’d probably feel compelled to let go of Frank’s hand, which would mean that much less comfort for both of them.

As the eighteen-year-old waited for sleep to take him again, he mused over the new level of closeness he and his brother had attained. They had always been more affectionate in private than in public, but two weeks ago it would not have occurred to him to seek- or give- comfort by holding Joe’s hand. Frank wondered if it would continue when they were safe again, and realized that he hoped it would. Joe wasn’t much for talking about his feelings- or showing them either, for that matter- but he had always done so more with Frank than with their parents or friends. ‘We’ll talk about it,’ he thought, yawning. ‘He’ll probably be embarrassed about it- heck, I probably will, too. But it’s important. I hope he feels the same way; it’ll be awful he decides he doesn’t feel as close once the danger is past.’

Of course, that was assuming the danger passed.

“Boys! Joe, Frank, wake up.”

Someone was shaking him. Joe Hardy opened his heavy eyes, not quite placing the voice, and blinked up at his mother. “Uh? Mom?” Why was she waking him? He hadn’t overslept, had he? No, it was summer vacation, so what was going on?

“Wake up,” Laura repeated, her voice strained and shaky.

Joe sat up and took a quick look around. Beside him, Frank was just stirring. The clock beside the bed read eight-fifteen. Their mother, who had been leaning over them, straightened up. She was still in her nightclothes, a soft-pink dressing robe over her nightgown, but she was holding a newspaper in one hand. Probably this morning’s. “I guess I fell asleep,” he muttered, suddenly taking in the fact that she’d found him in Frank’s bed and was probably wondering about it. Looking up, he gave her a sheepish smile, but she didn’t respond, and the boy saw with a start that her eyes were all red.

Before Joe could say anything more, Frank, who was facing the wall, turned over with a sleepy groan. “Mom? Whatsa matter?”

“The paper,” Laura began, and then she turned away, hiding her face in one hand. Frank sat up as Joe pushed back the covers and got out of the bed. Anxiety brought him wide awake; something awful must have happened.

But whatever it was, it hadn’t happened to his brother...

“Mom, what about the paper?” he asked anxiously, putting his arms around her.

Laura clung to him for a moment, crying softly. Joe had just time to think, ‘Oh, not Dad- please, not Dad-’ before she let go, wiping at her eyes, and held out the folded-up newspaper to him. He took it as Frank got out of the bed and came up behind him, looking over his shoulder. Joe unfolded the paper- and gasped.

Local Investigator and Wife Brutally Murdered ran across the top of the paper.

“Sam!” The name burst from Joe without his conscious awareness. “Sam- and Ethel!”

“Oh my God,” Frank whispered, and Joe felt his brother’s cold hand clamp down on his shoulder.

Local Investigator and Wife Brutally Murdered

By Brad Hodge and Jennifer Adams

The bodies of local private investigator Samuel Radley and his wife Ethel were found early this morning outside police headquarters.

Mr. Radley, 48, was the chief assistant to well-known detective Fenton Hardy, for whom he had worked for just over fifteen years. His wife, formerly Ethel Vince, was frequently to be found volunteering at the local hospice care center, working with the elderly and the handicapped. She was forty years old.

In a statement released by Police Chief Ezra Collig, the causes of death in both cases were determined to be blood loss due to multiple stab wounds. Both bodies were so severely mutilated as to be almost unrecognizable. Identity was established by dental records.

“We do not at this time have a suspect in hand,” police spokesman Jeff Thompson, undersecretary to Chief Collig, said. “However, a man did recently escape from a maximum security prison in Virginia, and officials there have confirmed that Mr. Radley was instrumental in having the man convicted. This appears to be a case of revenge.” Further questions revealed that Mr. Radley and his wife had left town shortly after being notified of the man’s release. “Obviously, they felt they had something to fear,” Thompson said.

Analysis of the wounds revealed that Mrs. Radley probably died before her husband. Blood tests showed traces of an unknown element in Mr. Radley’s blood, lacking in his wife’s. Officials speculate that the drug was some version of sedative, used to keep Mr. Radley passive while the killer stabbed his wife to death.

The bodies were spotted by an officer coming on shift at the station at about three-fifteen a.m. The officer was not available for comment, and has not been identified. Asked why the bodies would have been left in such a conspicuous place, Thompson replied, “Either he was extremely confident or he was trying to make a statement about the force. Trying to suggest that we wouldn’t notice criminal activity unless we get our noses rubbed in it. This is fairly typical behavior for a psychopath; they tend to have immense contempt for law enforcement, right up until they get caught.”

Thompson also urged the citizens of Bayport to keep calm, but alert, saying that it was unlikely the man would strike again. “We are convinced it was a vicious, personal attack made for very specific reasons: namely, for vengeance. There is no reason to believe that anyone else in Bayport is in danger from this man.”

The information received from the maximum security prison from which the alleged killer escaped described the suspect as tall and muscular, being six foot, two inches tall and weighing approximately two hundred thirty pounds. He has black eyes and mid-brown hair, is clean-shaven, and currently using the name Theodore Ames. This is believed to be one of many aliases, and officials have not yet determined his birth name. Anyone with information regarding Ames is requested to alert Chief Collig. A substantial reward will be given for information leading to the capture of Ames.

Mr. Radley is survived by an older brother, sister-in-law and niece, inhabitants of Dallas, Texas. Mrs. Radley was an orphan and had no known siblings.

Services for the Radleys will be held at Our Savior Methodist Church on Monday at noon. Interment will follow the services in the Memorial Gardens.

“Lotsa people showed up,” Joe Hardy said softly to his brother as he got into the back seat of their mother’s car. He shifted uncomfortably as he sat down, tugging at the collar and then the sleeves of his dress suit. It felt tighter than it had the last time he’d worn it.

Frank, who had just taken the front passenger seat, nodded as he glanced across the clipped green lawn of the cemetery to where the fresh graves lay. “At least the weather behaved for a change,” he replied, unrolling the window. A cooling breeze moved through the stuffy interior of the car.

Joe looked up at the blue sky, dotted with white clouds, and squinted as the early afternoon sunshine hit him right in the eyes. It was the second time in two weeks that they’d had sunshine and temperatures above seventy-five degrees, and he should’ve been delighted. Any other day he would’ve been, but today dark clouds, dreary rain and chilly winds would have seemed more appropriate. He turned his gaze from the sky and watched, blinking, as his mother crossed from the Radleys’ graves, threading through the large crowd that still lingered there. “So many people,” he murmured again, thinking of the funeral.

The Radleys had been well-known and well-liked. The only family members to attend had been Sam’s relatives from Texas, but the church had been packed with friends and acquaintances. Several people had eulogized both Sam and Ethel, and although Fenton Hardy was conspicuous by his absence, Laura had risen to say a few words on behalf of their family. Quite a few people had asked, before and after the service, if the famous detective was going to track down the killer; Frank and Joe had cautiously replied that they were sure that was what he was attempting to do right now. However, since they had not heard from him in five days, it was impossible to say.

“Want me to drive?” Joe dimly heard Frank asking their mother. He leaned back against the seat, tuning out the conversation that followed as Frank drove them home. The funeral had been agonizing, and to his shame, it wasn’t his grief for Sam and Ethel that had made it so.

It was grief for his brother- his brother, who was sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, who had been beside him in the pew the entire time. And yet, it had taken all Joe’s concentration to keep reminding himself that it wasn’t Frank in one of those big, ornate wooden boxes. Every time his concentration lapsed, he saw his brother’s death-pale face, closed eyes, carefully-combed hair...his lifeless body dressed in his best suit, the fabric lining the coffin, the lid closed over the lower part of his body. A blink, and it was the wide, vacant, dead eyes, the blood-soaked clothing, even the dead ‘feel’ of the skin as warmth and life drained away from the corpse of his brother...

“Joe?”

“Huh?” The blond boy gave himself a violent shake as his mother’s voice broke through to him. He looked up quickly, meeting Frank’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Mom,” he muttered to Laura, who had turned in her seat and was looking at him. “I was- thinking.”

“Just wondering if you were all right. You seemed pretty far away.”

“You could say that.” Joe caught a flash of concern in Frank’s eyes as he averted his gaze and stared out the window at the passing streets and buildings. The familiar town seemed somehow unconnected to him; still familiar, but unreal, as though it were merely props for a television show. Even their house, when Frank pulled into the driveway, seemed not quite genuine.

Joe got out of the car in a hurry after his brother brought the vehicle to a halt inside the garage. He was eager to shed the suit; it always made him uncomfortable, and he was doubly so after the use it’d been put to this morning. Festive occasions were bad enough, but sorrowful ones were worse. ‘Besides, maybe if I’m not dressed for a funeral, maybe I’ll stop getting these flashbacks-’

Joe’s thought halted as he glanced at the boys’ black van. He frowned; something about it was wrong, something had caught his eye as he moved past it to get to the kitchen door. Pausing, he studied the smooth, glossy panels.

No- not smooth. There was a scratch. And there, another. Frowning, he ran his hand over the thin, curving lines in the paint, feeling the roughness. “Hey, Frank? Did you scratch up the van lately?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

Joe’s eyes went wide and adrenaline shocked through his body. He turned, restraining his anxiety until their mother proceeded into the house, then nodded curtly at the vehicle. Frank joined him, looking perplexed. “Look,” the younger boy said softly, tensely, tracing the scratch without actually touching it. His finger made an ‘s’ shape in the air.

“Someone’s...” Frank stopped as Joe traced the next scratch, then the third, then the fourth.

S-O-O-N.

“Soon,” Joe whispered, his voice husky. “He was here!”

For a moment Joe thought his brother might actually faint. Frank’s face went the color of chalk and he seemed to lose his balance slightly. Joe grabbed his shoulder and steadied the older teen, feeling him start to tremble. “We’re next,” Frank murmured weakly. “He got Sam and Ethel and now it’s our turn.”

Joe nodded, suddenly aware that his heart was racing. “He did it this way on purpose,” he hissed bitterly. “He let us go through these last three days, knowing we were upset about Sam, knowing the funeral was today- he wanted us to feel the grief.” And the guilt, the helplessness, the fear. “And now-”

“Boys?”

“Uh-” Joe gulped as he glanced at the open door. “Coming in a minute, Mom. Just- the van is all scratched up, we’re trying to think when it happened.” He turned a worried look on his brother, who was still staring owl-eyed at the word scraped into the black paint. “Frank,” he said softly.

The older boy ran his hand through his dark hair, taking a deep breath as he did so. “Right, let’s get inside.”

“Yeah.” Joe let his brother lead the way, and made sure he closed the kitchen door securely behind him. It didn’t ease his anxiety, though. Their mother was moving around the kitchen, apparently readying things for lunch. Unwilling to risk a discussion just now, afraid his nervous tension would be too great for him to control, Joe made straight for his room. He heard Frank’s footsteps behind him as he hurried up the stairs and down the hall to his room. Hustling out of the suit and dress shoes, he quickly pulled on jeans and a light, long-sleeved shirt, rolling the sleeves up. As he was tying his sneakers, Frank- also changed- stepped into the room and sank down on Joe’s desk chair.

“They left Bayport,” the older teen said without preamble. “He found them, he killed them, and he brought them back and left ‘em for the cops to find. He waited three days for the funeral- must’ve read it in the paper. And he had to’ve been watching the house, to know when we left this morning so he could sneak in and slash up the van.”

“Not necessarily,” Joe pointed out, sitting back on the bed and letting his feet drop to the floor. “The times were listed in the paper, too, on the obits page. But he probably was pretty close by, so he could get in and get out in a hurry. I didn’t see any unfamiliar cars in the area when we were leaving,” he mused. “Though I wasn’t looking very hard.”

“Neither was I,” Frank admitted. “Too much on my mind. And it was impossible to tell if we were being trailed.”

The seventeen-year-old tensed, a new question occurring to him. “Wonder how he got into the garage without setting the alarm off?”

“We have a pretty sophisticated system,” Frank muttered, frowning and rubbing his chin. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to disarm. What I’m worrying about most is-” He stopped and met Joe’s gaze directly, his dark eyes anxious and vulnerable. “How’d he know where to find Sam and Ethel? The only one who knew where they were going-”

“Was Dad,” Joe breathed, his own eyes going wide. “Then- you think he...he caught Dad and...” The boy couldn’t force the rest of the deduction into words. “Dad would’ve resisted,” he managed at last. The thought of his father enduring the Reaper’s torment made him feel sick.

“We know the Reaper uses at least one drug, to paralyze his victims,” Frank reminded him. The older boy sounded unnervingly like someone trying to convince himself as well as his listener. “He might have access to other drugs, too. A truth serum, maybe. Dad would have resisted...torture, but no one can resist a truth serum. And that might explain the alarm, Joe.”

Joe nodded, not feeling much better. There was no guessing what the killer could have learned from their father, if Frank’s theory was true. And it certainly fit the events together. “He might’ve...done both,” he said at last, giving voice to the ugly suspicion in his mind. “When he realized Dad wasn’t going to give in to torture, he might’ve used a mind drug. Maybe that’s another reason why he waited till today- maybe he couldn’t get past our alarm until now.”

Frank gave him a horrified look. Then he got up out of Joe’s chair and closed the bedroom door. Joe bit his lip, appalled at himself for voicing his thought, and even more chagrined by the thought that their mother might have heard. “You might be right,” his brother said, before Joe could apologize. “I hope not, but...you might be.”

“I hope not, too-”

“Joe, what if he’s dead? If the Reaper got all the information he needed-” Frank’s face twisted in fear and worry. He stood beside the chair, too upset to sit back down, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his hand around the wood. “He-”

“No, Frank. No.” Joe shook his head, sucked in a breath. “He won’t kill Dad.”

“He killed Sam-”

“To get at Dad. Remember, Dad was the one who got the original request to help track the Reaper down. He passed it to Sam. Sam did the work, but he wouldn’t have caught the guy if Dad hadn’t given him the assignment in the first place.”

“But then- Ethel-”

“Ethel was killed as Sam’s punishment. But Dad is the victim, he’s the main revenge figure,” Joe insisted. “That’s why the guy went for Sam first and not us. He’s working up to it. First Dad’s friend’s wife, then Dad’s friend- next, us, his family. Escalating.” It was pure intuition on Joe’s part, but it fit the situation logically, too.

“You may just be right,” Frank replied slowly, and sighed shakily, dropping back into the chair. “No, you probably are right. The Reaper’ll want to keep him around until he’s gotten ahold of us, it’s his pattern. ...I wonder how soon ‘soon’ is? And what’re we going to do about Mom? What should we tell her?”

That was a twist Joe wasn’t quite expecting. Usually he asked the questions and Frank found a plan or an answer or a theory. “What’re we going to do, period, is a better question,” he replied uncertainly. “First of all, let’s think about our options.” He rubbed his aching temples and pondered, trying to think calmly and clearly. It was harder work than usual.

“I guess the best thing we can do is keep doing what Dad told us to,” Frank said after a longish pause. “That, and tell the police what we suspect, so they’ll keep up the patrols. And keep escorting Mom.” He looked over at Joe, who returned the glance bleakly. “Apart from that, I think the only thing we can do is stay alert and wait.”

“I think,” Joe suggested, “that it would be good to keep guard shifts at night. Normally I’d suggest bringing some of the fellows in to help out, but that strikes me as a bad idea this time. I doubt he’d think twice before taking ‘em out.”

“Yeah.” Frank grimaced and Joe knew what he was thinking. If they called their friends in, it might give the Hardys the edge when the man came after them. But it might also end in making one or more of their friends become the ‘replacement’ for Frank. As much as Frank would’ve welcomed the help, Joe knew his brother would never forgive himself if something happened to any of their pals. “As for telling Mom-” he started.

“Lunch is ready!”

Joe got up from the bed and maneuvered around several stacks of stuff to open the door. “You hungry?” he asked his brother.

“A little. I didn’t have breakfast.” Frank stood up from the chair. “Let’s keep this between us- especially the part about Dad.”

Joe nodded as he stepped out the door. He wasn’t really hungry himself, but he knew his stomach was empty. And he knew he’d need all the energy he could summon in the next few days.

Reaching the dining room, he regarded the steaming bowls of creamy tomato soup; the crisp buttery soup crackers; the platter of sliced lunchmeats, cheeses, vegetables and dip, and the package of plump sandwich rolls. He smiled wanly as his mother, who was still in her black dress, set two tall glasses of milk on the table. “Thanks, Mom. It looks good.” As the savory smell of the hot soup reached him, his empty stomach suddenly rumbled with hunger. Joe sat down at the closest bowl, picked up the spoon lying beside it, scooped out some soup and promptly burned his tongue.

“Slow down, Joe,” Laura said with a rueful shake of her head at her younger son’s muffled yelp. “The bowl isn’t leaking, you don’t have to rush.” Frank, smiling in mild amusement, picked up some crackers and crumbled them into his own soup.

“Ah no,” the blond boy responded, fanning his mouth and blinking his watering eyes. “Bu A’m hungier an Ah tho.”

“Did you make sense of that?” Laura asked Frank, who was rolling his eyes as he dunked the cracker bits with his spoon. Joe grabbed the glass of milk and gulped some of it down to cool his mouth.

“I said, I know, but I’m hungrier than I thought,” he translated a moment later. “Aren’t you going to eat, Mom?”

“I snacked a bit while I was getting it all together,” his mother explained. “Oh, I checked the answering machine...no word from your father, but the lab needs me to come in tonight if I possibly can. They’re under some heavy pressure to get an experimental drug approved for use in treating dementia.”

“Treating what?”

“It’s when people get irrational; used to be dismissed as ‘insane’. One of those brain-chemical imbalance things,” Frank explained, and took a spoonful of soup.

“Yes. It’s not easy to treat the brain, because of the filter that stops so many medications. It’s called the blood-brain barrier. So they’re trying to get it in a spray, like nose drops, that seems to be most effective. But there’s some trouble with the side effects. Some people it improves, some it actually makes worse,” Laura explained gravely. “It seems to depend on body types, so we need to find out exactly what the factors involved are. Anyway, in a nutshell, I’ll be heading over soon and I probably won’t be leaving till ten at the earliest.”

“We’ll take you over,” Frank told her as Joe finished his soup and reached for the tray of cold cuts.

“Do you think that’s still necessary?” their mother asked, her voice suddenly troubled. Joe paused, tray in hand, and the brothers exchanged a look.

“Better safe than sorry. Besides, Dad did tell us to keep escorting you until he got back,” Joe answered seriously.

“But he’s gone now, isn’t he? I mean-” Laura bit her lip. “He- he moved on to another town, right?” She obviously wasn’t referring to her husband.

Joe hesitated and this time Frank spoke up. “Well- maybe. But Sam and Ethel weren’t in Bayport when he...caught them. If he had caught them here, he probably would’ve moved on; that’s his pattern. But he didn’t, and we don’t know if that means he’d double back and catch someone actually in Bayport, or just move on altogether.”

“I...see.” Mrs. Hardy took a deep breath. “Well. Yes, I’ll get ready and you two can take me over.”

As his mother walked out of the room, Joe exchanged another grave glance with Frank. It was, he thought, a good thing they’d decided to tell her as little as possible. Just the thought that the man might still be in the area had rattled her. To tell her the rest of their suspicions- particularly without a speck of proof- would only upset her needlessly.

“You really are out of it today, aren’t you?” Frank remarked to his brother, not expecting an answer. Joe was only responding to about half of the comments and questions addressed to him- if even that. He’d been silent at the funeral and distracted both on the way home and during their drive to- and from- their mother’s workplace. He hadn’t even responded to Laura’s promise to call them when she was ready to come home.

Now, sitting on his unmade bed and watching the sun drop lower in the sky, Frank could tell his brother’s mind was somewhere else entirely. Joe’s blue eyes were fixed in a ‘thousand yard stare’, and as Frank had expected, he made no reply to the older boy’s question.

Frank scowled, feeling resentful. He was pretty sure he knew what was troubling Joe- probably the same thing that had preyed on him for the past two and a half weeks. The visions. But the dark-haired young sleuth, normally sympathetic to his brother’s distress, was not inclined to try and comfort Joe now. After all, Frank was the one in danger! If Joe was so upset and worried about those visions, why didn’t he pull himself out of them and concentrate on Frank’s here-and-now safety? Why was he just sitting and staring? What would he do if the Reaper attacked right now- fight back? Or watch as his visions played out in front of him?

The older Hardy knew he was being unfair, but he was too unnerved and angry to correct his thoughts. He directed his scowl at Joe for a moment, half-tempted to voice his spite, then checked himself. They didn’t need a fight. And if he made Joe mad enough, or miserable enough, there was no telling what might happen. Silently, he slid off the bed and left his bedroom, left his brother sitting on the carpet, gazing with wide eyes at something only he could see.

Frank steered clear of the upstairs for the next two hours and tried to find something to occupy his time. He watched a little television. He called Callie Shaw and they talked for a while. He rummaged through the den and tried to find an interesting book to read, but was stymied by his own restlessness. Around seven-thirty, growing hungry again, he went into the kitchen to find something to eat. He was heating a slice of pizza left over from the night before when he decided to ask if Joe wanted any. There wasn’t much left and if Joe didn’t want it, Frank planned to finish it off. He climbed the stairs and peered into Joe’s room, but Joe wasn’t there. ‘Has he been sitting in my room the whole time?’ Frank wondered in some surprise as he continued down the hall. He paused in the doorway to his own room and a puzzled scowl crossed his face.

Joe was there, but no longer on the floor; he was now seated in Frank’s desk chair. He was hunched over the desk, his back to the door, his right fist grasping something. His left sleeve had been pulled up to the elbow and Frank caught a glimpse of some odd movement. Bewildered and wary, Frank stepped inside and silently moved up behind the chair. His eyes widened in horror as he saw bright red streaked all over Joe’s bare arm! He gasped and lunged forward with a startled cry. Joe whipped around, his expression one of shock, then swiftly pressed his arm against his side, hiding it from Frank’s view.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing!?” Frank demanded, reaching for his brother. Joe eluded him and stood up, nearly knocking the chair over in the process.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that-” Frank broke off as he got a good look at the whole situation. His desk drawer hung slightly open. The thing his brother was clutching was a red marker. And lying on the desktop, gleaming in the light of the desk lamp- Frank’s silver pocketknife, that he kept in the drawer. Frank’s eyes shot back to his brother, who looked both defensive and extremely uncomfortable- almost embarrassed. “What are you doing?” Frank asked again, his voice taut and controlled. “And don’t you dare say ‘nothing’. Why is my knife out? What were you going to do to yourself?”

“Nothing! You wouldn’t understand.” Joe glanced at the knife, then away, not meeting Frank’s intense gaze.

“Try me,” the older boy challenged. He shoved the chair aside and deliberately placed himself between his brother and the knife. Joe had not opened either of the blades, but Frank still didn’t care to take any risk just now.

“I’m not going to cut myself,” Joe said rather wearily. He was still pressing his arm to his side; now he tossed the uncapped marker to the desk and carefully pulled at his sleeve, trying to cover his arm. Frank took a step forward, caught his brother’s wrist, and pulled Joe’s arm out despite the younger boy’s resistance. Then his jaw dropped.

Scrawled in red capitals across Joe’s lower arm was-

“What- why-?” Frank stuttered, before Joe- too late- seized his sleeve and hauled it down, covering up the writing. “Why did you write my name on your arm?” Frank asked carefully, suddenly wondering if his brother was actually losing his mind.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Joe repeated grimly, averting his flushed face.

“Well, I sure don’t understand now, why don’t you give me something to work with and see how it goes?” Frank suggested, not releasing Joe’s wrist.

Joe sighed. Shrugged, suddenly resigned. “I was trying to get it over with.”

“You said you weren’t going to cut yourself,” Frank retorted, eyeing his brother uneasily.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Are you gonna go racing out of the room if I let go of you?”

“No.”

Frank hesitated, then released his grip. Joe sat down on the bed, wearily pushing his blond hair from his eyes. “So...what do you mean, get it over with?” Frank picked up the marker, found the cap and replaced it, then dropped it into the drawer with the others. “And red- why red? You wanted it to look like blood? Which it does,” he added with a grimace. “I thought...”

Joe bit on his lower lip, clearly debating whether to reply. “I told you about it- my vision- trying to commit suicide by cutting my wrists.”

“Yeah...” Frank thought he was beginning to see where this might be headed.

“Well, it was true in a sense, but not true in the way that most people think of ‘cutting their wrists’.”

“You mean...” Frank gestured silently at Joe’s sleeve, too shaken to try and put the thought into words.

“Yeah.”

“So...” Frank looked down at the marker in the drawer, reached over and picked up the knife. “So you were...what, rehearsing?” he asked, incredulous, angry, frightened. He dropped the knife beside the marker and leaned back against the drawer, closing it with his weight.

“No. I was trying to- to get it over with. So that I won’t do it.” Joe started to say something else, then stopped and let out a long breath. “Look, every time I sleep, I dream of it, okay? I dream I’m cutting my arm up-” He pulled back his sleeve and Frank winced at the sight of his name etched across his brother’s arm. The marker ink looked horribly like blood. “And I dream that it doesn’t work. That even though I’ve tried, I keep living. What I’m trying to do is get rid of the compulsion. So when- if I do sit down here and think about slicing myself up, I’ll remember that it won’t work. This...tonight... it’s not a rehearsal, it’s a- a surrogate.”

Frank’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of his brother’s explanation. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said after a moment or two of blank disbelief. “You did this, just now, because you’re afraid that sometime in the future you’ll find yourself doing it for real? You’re hoping by doing it now that you won’t feel compelled to, later?”

“Right.” Joe looked vaguely surprised. “I’ll sit down, I’ll look at my arm, I’ll remember that I already know this part-”

“That’s why you’ve been rubbing your wrist all the time,” Frank realized abruptly, and shuddered. He’d known Joe wasn’t quite leveling with him about the visions, but he had not figured on anything like this! “You keep thinking about it.”

Joe nodded. “Sometimes I...I’d swear I can feel the scars.” He looked away and Frank saw him swallow. He moved to Joe’s side and sat down beside him on the bed. Reaching over, he pulled his brother’s sleeve back down, covering the red letters. Then he looked directly into Joe’s tired eyes, no longer angry, but deeply shaken and worried.

“You’re scaring me, little brother. Bad enough to think you’d try to kill yourself, but doing it this way-”

“Pretty extreme,” Joe agreed softly. “The sort of thing that gets someone put in a mental institution.”

Frank shivered again, as much at the bleakness in his brother’s voice as at the implication. Joe wasn’t crazy- a little weird sometimes, but most of what he did made sense. Even writing Frank’s name on his arm with red marker made a disturbing sort of sense, as a way to stave off the real thing. But that ‘real thing’; that thought frightened him. Could Frank’s death truly push Joe over the edge of sanity, so that he’d do such damage to himself? So that simple death wouldn’t be enough, that severe pain- self-inflicted- had to be carried out in the process?

“I just hope this works.” Joe’s voice broke through Frank’s worried thoughts.

“Works?” Frank looked over at him. “You mean that...what do you mean?”

“What I said,” Joe answered, clearly perplexed. “I hope it works. That doing this tonight will keep me from doing it in- well, whenever it might happen,” he amplified, shrugging, as Frank frowned at him. “A month or two or three- whenever.”

Frank shook his head to clear it. There was something wrong here, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. “You mean, so you don’t try to kill yourself.”

“Not this way,” Joe clarified, sounding a little impatient. “If I know it’s going to fail, there’s no point to it. I want to remind myself that this won’t work, that I need something different.”

Frank stared at his brother in horror, realization sweeping through him. Joe wasn’t trying to keep himself from committing suicide; he was trying to prevent a failed attempt so that he could make a successful attempt! “Don’t you dare!” he shouted, seizing the shocked boy by the shoulders and shaking him. “Don’t you dare kill yourself!”

Joe wrenched free, stumbled to his feet and backed away. “What’s with you?” he sputtered, his expression equal parts fear and anger.

Frank Hardy clenched his fists and fought for his customary self-control. “Don’t you dare commit suicide if I don’t make it through this, brother,” he gritted out. “Don’t even think about it!”

“Too late!” Joe snapped. “And why not?! Isn’t it better than maiming myself so bad I get stuck in a loony bin for the rest of my life?”

Frank stared, shocked at the despair, the defeat in his brother’s voice. “Because you’ve got a life to live, Joe! You can’t just give up and...and- follow me! And I don’t want you hurting yourself, either-”

“Well, you won’t be here to stop me, will you?” came the swift, accusing reply. “It’s my own life to live- or not live- and my choice to make, Frank.”

“I don’t want you to die just because I die!”

“Just?” Joe exploded, lunging at him. Frank reared back, startled, half-afraid he was under attack, but Joe stopped a few feet shy of the bed. “What the- just? ‘Just because’!? What the hell else would push me to suicide? Nothing! Nothing! Not even losing Iola did!”

Silence fell over the room as the brothers stared at each other. Frank felt himself trembling, tried to speak, but could find nothing to say. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me I was so important to you?’ he thought dazedly, gazing into his brother’s eyes. And then he looked away, guiltily, because Joe had been telling him- indirectly. Too late, the implications and hints whirled through his mind. Joe maiming himself. Losing his mind. Wanting to die. Not merely wanting- trying to die. Pushing people away from him and wrapping himself in his pain. Trying to destroy himself- not eating, not sleeping, drinking... ‘I should’ve seen it, heard it. He told me I was vital to this family, I should’ve guessed he meant to him. I tried to comfort him, but I didn’t really understand what he wanted me to know. How do I tell him...?’

“Maybe if I died, you’d keep going,” Joe murmured at length, bitterness in his low voice. “Maybe you’d be able to, and I hope so, and- I’d hope you’d be happy. But I’m not you. You can’t try to pin me down to your reaction, Frank. I do what I do.”

‘Would I keep going?’ Frank wondered suddenly. ‘I wouldn’t be happy, I know that much...’

It would be over for me- the pain. It would just be starting for you.

He’d said that to Joe only six or seven days ago, the first time Joe had talked about suicide. What if the pain ended for Joe- but started for Frank? How would he endure it? Would he endure it? “I don’t know,” he murmured aloud, answering his own question. How had his brother become the most important person in his life? How had this bond grown between them, that they would think of dying to be with each other instead of finishing their lives without each other?

“What don’t you know?” Joe asked. Frank looked up, saw the younger boy’s wary expression. He offered his hand and, after a slight hesitation, Joe sat back down beside him on the bed. Frank encircled his brother in his arms, feeling the shivers that rippled through Joe’s tense frame.

“I don’t know if I’d want to keep going either, if it was the other way around. So I guess I have no right to insist that you do. But...Joe... if something does happen-”

“Shhh!”

“What?” Frank looked around uneasily, releasing his embrace but keeping one arm around Joe’s taut shoulders.

“Don’t say that.”

“I have to. Joe, try, please? Try not to blame yourself. Try to find other reasons to stick around. I’m- I won’t insist,” Frank told him soberly, cupping Joe’s chin and meeting his troubled gaze. “If you can’t, you can’t...but at least try, okay? You’ve always been a fighter, and I hate the thought of you giving up without a fight. Maybe if you fight long enough, you could get through it after all.”

Joe was shaking his head ever so slightly.

“Please,” Frank insisted. “Live for me. Do the things I won’t be around to do. See things. Help people. Care about people.”

“Live half alive, the other half gone and out of reach for as long as I chose to torment myself by going on,” Joe muttered, and reached up to rub his eyes. “No, Frank. I’ve already made my mind up. That’s why I did this tonight.” He gestured at his arm. “No half-measures, big brother. And no mistakes. For Pete’s sake,” he added, looking into Frank’s unhappy face. “Do things? From inside an insane asylum? I may be a fighter, but there’s some things I can’t fight and win. Myself being the main one. Either way, I lose, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Frank sighed, feeling defeated. He could tell that no matter what he said, he wasn’t going to talk Joe out of his determined course. “What do you mean, fight yourself?”

“To keep going. I’d have to fight my instincts-”

“Joe, I don’t think suicide is an instinct.”

“Big brother, keeping going in the face of unending misery is not my way. My instinct is to get the worst over with as fast as possible. Hanging around here for however many more years, with half my soul missing, is not how I want to spend my time. Talk about Hell,” the younger boy added in a lower voice. “That’d be my version...and I’d be inflicting it on myself, every day, every week- every hour! I’m not a masochist, Frank. Some pain I can handle and some I just can’t.” He lifted his head. “So do what you said you would, and stop insisting.”

Frank opened his mouth, then closed it again, rebuked. Joe was right, he was insisting, despite himself. ‘Guess I’ll really have to stay alive, now. I can’t let him just give up his life...’ “Okay,” he sighed. “Okay, sorry, I did say I wouldn’t insist. But you understand why I did, right? You wouldn’t be any more pleased if I was the one making up my mind-”

“Stop the guilt trip, too,” Joe interrupted.

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, I’m trying to point out that we’d both rather see each other alive than dead, no matter what happens to us individually. Though I don’t even know why we’re talking about such a gloomy scenario,” Frank replied, willing himself to sound positive. “After all, we’ve made up our minds to change it.”

Joe didn’t respond, but Frank could practically hear his thought: ‘Someday, one of us is going to die...even if it’s just from plain old age. And the one that’s left is going to have to deal with it. We might as well have our decisions made ahead of time.’

Frank Hardy shuddered and held his younger brother close again. He felt Joe’s head rest against his shoulder and some of the tension leave his body. Maybe someday they would have to face it, but not, he prayed, tonight. Not this year. Joe was only seventeen; Frank was only eighteen. Far too young to die.

The telephone rang.

Joe Hardy started violently and felt a similar jolt go through his brother. “Jeez,” he muttered as Frank’s arms loosened. “I gotta calm down.” He sat up as his brother released him and found himself resenting the interruption. Somehow, their situation didn’t seem as bleak- or as threatening- when he could feel the warmth of Frank’s body and the easy rhythm of his breathing, hear the sound of his heart beating.

“Maybe that’s Mom.” Frank got up and hurried out into the hallway to pick up the extension.

Joe watched pensively, sitting on the side of the bed and absently sliding his right hand over the sleeve covering his left arm. Then he realized what he was doing, and stopped. Cutting himself was no longer an option for the future. With any luck, he wouldn’t need any sort of suicide options at all, but if he did, he wasn’t going to do that. ‘If only to spite my damn visions,’ he told himself grimly.

He hadn’t meant for Frank to catch him, and it wasn’t the way he would’ve picked to tell his brother how much he cared about him. But in a way he was glad it had happened. Not that he’d enjoyed the last half-hour, but at least he had told Frank the whole truth. Frank hadn’t liked it either, but at least he finally understood exactly how much he meant to Joe. A hint of a smile touched the seventeen-year-old’s lips; he’d seen the shock, and then the realization in his brother’s face. And then, oddly, guilt. ‘Why guilt?’ he wondered. ‘What has he got to feel guilty about?’

“Joe, it’s Colin.”

Joe hopped up from the bed and hurried into the hall, feeling fresh energy rush through him. “Colin! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days, where’ve you been?” he exclaimed into the phone. He tried not to sound too uptight; Colin could be touchy.

“Sorry. Dad had a special project and he needed my help with it. Joe, I need to see you tonight. The sooner the better- right now would be good, actually,” Colin replied, his tone quite casual.

“Now? Why can’t you just tell me, then, since you’ve got me on the phone?”

“Because it’s a show-and-tell, not a plain old tell,” his friend replied cheerfully. “And I need to tell you, not your brother; it’s not exactly his area of expertise.”

Joe digested that for a moment. “Just me? But-” he began slowly, and sensed Frank’s uneasy movement beside him. He didn’t want to leave Frank alone, even if Colin was going to give him psychic information. Besides, they hadn’t finished their conversation- and he was hungry.

“Don’t worry. It’s safe,” Colin said more seriously. “And it won’t take long.”

“It’s safe,” Joe repeated, glancing at his brother. Frank, who was listening intently, relaxed visibly and nodded. “Well, okay, but I’ve got to eat first. We were just thinking about dinner.”

“Pizza,” Frank murmured.

“Oh, that’s right, we’ve got some leftover pizza. I’ll grab some of that and be on my way,” Joe said.

“All right, see you shortly then.”

The psychic boy hung up; Joe replaced the handset with a thoughtful frown. Then he related the conversation to Frank. “He sounded pretty cheerful. Maybe he’s seen good news,” he concluded.

“I hope so.” Frank brightened. “Maybe the guy isn’t going to try for us after all.”

Joe hesitated, thinking of the word that had been carved into the van that afternoon. He shrugged, then managed a smile. “Hope so. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. Let me at that pizza!”

Fifteen minutes later, Joe wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin, threw it away, and plucked the van keys from the kitchen counter. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If Mom calls to be picked up-”

“Not very likely, it’s only eight-thirty,” Frank pointed out. “It just looks later ‘cause of all the clouds,” he added with a half-smile. “She said she’d be there till ten, maybe later.”

“True.” Joe headed for the rear door that led into the garage, then paused, his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t feel at all easy in his mind about this.

“If Colin says it’s safe, I’m sure it is safe,” Frank assured him. “But I’ll keep alert anyway, just in case.”

Joe nodded and left the house, closing the door firmly behind him. He opened the driver’s door and got in, trying to squash his unease. His visions had told him that the Reaper would come for them when they were together, which should’ve reassured him that the man wouldn’t be coming after them now. But the discrepancies they’d encountered, the piece of information Joe still lacked- those made everything much less certain. ‘Maybe that’s it,’ the boy thought as he started the van and backed into the street. ‘Maybe Colin’s figured out what the missing piece is- maybe that’s why he has to show it to me!’ Heartened, he sped off down the road towards the Randles’ home.

Colin was waiting for him on the front steps of the Randles’ house, and before Joe could even walk around the front of the van, his friend was at the curb. Colin didn’t look at all cheerful; he looked exhausted and keyed up. He stared at the letters scratched into the paint and nodded slowly, then turned to look at Joe as the Hardy boy joined him on the sidewalk. “It’s tonight,” the psychic told him.

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they sank in and Joe nearly erupted. “You said it was safe!” he hissed, grabbing the shorter boy by the front of his t-shirt. “I left Frank there alone with that killer running around because you said it was safe!”

“I know what I said, and it’s true,” Colin replied, his hand locking around Joe’s wrist and twisting. Pain jolted through Joe’s arm and he let go with a gasp. “It is safe. For the moment. You’ve got a couple hours. I couldn’t tell you over the phone, your phone line- your whole house- is bugged.”

“What?” Joe stared. “Bugged? How do-?”

“How do you think I know?” Colin snapped. “Trust me- I know! And if I’d told you anything over the phone, he’d’ve heard it! He’d come after me- my family!” The psychic threw a glance back over his shoulder at the house, then turned to Joe with a scowl. “Let’s get off the sidewalk. No, not in the house,” he added as Joe started for the front door. “We can sit in here, he hasn’t tampered with the van.”

“Tampered,” Joe repeated with a snort, unlocking the passenger door. He walked around the front of the vehicle and climbed back into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. ‘Just as well,’ he told himself. ‘Won’t waste any time getting out of here.’

“Not electronically, anyway,” Colin amended, climbing in and closing the passenger door more quietly. “Listen, I’m sorry I had to fool you, but- I had to.”

“Okay, okay. You weren’t really fooling me, you were fooling the bugs.” Joe took a deep breath and felt his hands start to shake. “Tonight?”

“I saw- some of it,” Colin answered seriously. “It wasn’t very clear, but there was no mistake- it was your house that the power went out, while everyone else’s remained on.”

Joe nodded quickly; the power outage was one of the signs he was waiting for. “What can we do?” he asked softly.

“That was the main thing I need to tell you. Joe, if you go back and wait for him, it’s going to happen. What-”

“Then we need to leave, find somewhere else-”

“He’ll know!” Colin cut in sharply. “The bugs, Joe. Any plan you make- even if you just tell Frank you two to leave the house and you’ll explain later- he’ll know! Now let me finish. What you need to do is take the initiative.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Joe demanded, furious and frightened. “Take the initiative- can’t you talk like a regular person instead of a- a mystic?”

“I am a mystic,” Colin retorted, his voice rising. “And I’m being as clear as I can! I told you the picture wasn’t clear, all right!?”

Joe bit his lip. He had no right to talk to his friend this way, taking out his fear on someone innocent. “I’m sorry,” he said with difficulty. “I believe in your visions, and I trust you, but I don’t understand. It’s scaring me.”

Colin seemed to relax suddenly. “It’s not much consolation, I know, but I don’t really understand either. And I’m scared witless, too.” He took a long breath. “All I know for sure is: if you go back and wait for the Reaper to come in, he’ll take you both. You need to do something to stop him, before he gets into the house.”

“But we can’t just leave.” Joe gritted his teeth.

“Not without alerting him. Even if you don’t make a sound, that’ll be an alert to him. I mean, if you were listening to someone and suddenly everything went silent, you’d know something was going on, right?”

Joe nodded, reminding himself that, bugs aside, there was the question of their mother. They could go and get her instead of waiting for her to call them, but after that they’d have to explain the situation. And then they’d be right back at the beginning, trying to find somewhere safe and wondering if the Reaper would find them there, too.

“You can’t run from him, you have to stop him. I don’t know what there is to do, but I’m no detective- maybe you can think of something. But whatever you do, make sure you do it quietly, so he won’t pick up on it over the microphones.”

Joe closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. ‘Too much,’ he thought, feeling exhaustion overwhelm him. Not so much physical as mental exhaustion. Between the Radleys’ funeral, his constant flashbacks and the emotionally-charged conversation with his brother, he felt overloaded. And now he had to think of a plan, some way to stop the Reaper before he marched up the front walk and boldly entered the Hardys’ home. Worse, he had to think of it on his own and make it foolproof- or his brother would die.

Horribly.

“I can’t take this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He felt a hand rest lightly on his arm. “I can’t, Colin. Frank’s the planner, not me.”

“You were the one who came up with our audacious plan to get a woman out of a dangerous hostage situation,” Colin reminded him. “And it worked like a charm. You’ll come up with something even better, this time. The situation is more dangerous, but since you two thrive on danger, that should not be a problem.”

Joe forced a smile at the suddenly lighthearted remark. Colin was right; Joe’s plan had worked better than any of them had hoped. That time, anyway...

“Besides.” Colin grew serious again. “When you’re depending on Frank, he comes through for you. When he’s depending on you, you don’t fail him. It’s like the threat to you brings out all his skill and effort- and the other way around, too, Joe.”

Joe ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks, pal,” he said quietly, feeling his panic abate to manageable levels at his friend’s reassurance. “I needed that.”

“I had a feeling,” Colin answered wryly. “See you later.” He released Joe’s arm, got out of the van, and closed the door behind him. Joe watched for a moment as the young psychic went up the steps and opened the door. Light spilled over the lawn for a moment, then the darkness returned. Joe turned the key and put the van in gear.

“All right, time to start thinking,” he told himself as he drove through the streets towards his home.

Three blocks from his house, Joe Hardy pulled to the side of the road, shut off the van, and leaned back in his seat, thinking feverishly. So far the only plan he’d come up with was to call the police and tell them that he expected the Reaper to attack tonight. He’d stopped at a public phone booth to do so, but the results had been about what he’d expected. Collig was gone for the night, and the desk officer had treated the whole thing like a prank.

Flickers of his visions danced across Joe’s mind, making him dizzy. The Reaper walking up to the house. The Molotov cocktail exploding in flames. The window shattering. His brother’s bleeding body.

He could wait in the bushes beside the porch, but would he be able to bring the guy down? Maybe if he was armed- could he sneak into the garage and get a baseball bat? But what if the Reaper just overpowered him? ‘That,’ he thought grimly, ‘is about the most likely result. If I was very lucky, he’d smash my skull and I’d never wake up. But I wouldn’t be that lucky.’ He found himself rubbing his arm again, and clutched the fingers of his right hand in his left to stop himself. ‘Whatever else, that’s not going to happen. I’ll just get Dad’s old service gun and end it fast.’

A sudden inspiration flashed through the boy’s mind. He opened the van door and got out, closed it behind him, and hurried down the street towards his house.

Reaching the garage, Joe moved silently to the kitchen door, which he’d left unlocked. He stepped into the house, moved across the room and glanced around for his brother. Fortunately, there was no sign of Frank except a slight creak from the ceiling. Joe went to the hall closet, then paused and peered up the steps. From here, he could hear music faintly playing. He stifled the urge to go up and make sure Frank was really there; Colin had said he had a couple hours. Everything was fine, for the moment.

Joe wrenched his attention back to the closet and stealthily opened it. Rising up on his tiptoes, he reached up to the top shelf and carefully lifted out a large, rectangular box covered with dust. It was heavy, heavier than he’d expected, but he held it tightly and brought it down. Opening it, he scanned the contents, nodded, closed the closet door, and left the house the way he’d come in with the box under his arm.

Climbing the old elm tree on the edge of the Hardys’ property while carrying a heavy box proved to be more awkward than Joe had expected. After five frantic minutes of scrambling and puffing, he made it into the branches. Taking a wary glance around, he climbed higher, until he could see all of the front yard and most of the street. He sat down on a sturdy branch and opened the box onto his lap, lifting out his father’s old gun.

Fenton Hardy had been a police detective in New York City before he married. He’d seldom used his issued handgun, but he’d kept it after he retired and he’d taught both his boys how to handle guns. They were both excellent shots when it came to stationary targets, and had been in live situations where there’d been gunplay as well. They’d even occasionally had to hold people at gunpoint, but neither boy had ever actually shot another human. Neither of them cared at all for the idea of killing or wounding someone.

‘An exception to every rule,’ Joe thought grimly as he opened the chamber and found the six compartments for the bullets were empty. He wished he could remember what model it was. Then he shook the thought from his head- he didn’t need to know whether it was a .45, a .38 or a .357 to load and fire it. Opening the smaller box of bullets that was nestled in the corner of the larger box, he fumbled a little as he extracted the first bullet.

By time he picked out the sixth bullet from the box, he was quivering all over. Slipping it home, he closed the chamber, shut the bullet box, put the lid on the larger box, and found a convenient crook to stick the thing. He couldn’t sit holding it; it might interfere with his aim.

It was a desperate plan, but it had the virtue of being so simple as to be completely unanticipated. His visions had shown him the Reaper walking up to the front door and entering the house. When the murderer arrived, he would be visible in the streetlights. Joe had no intentions of actually killing the guy; his aim with a gun- even at night- was good enough to bring the Reaper down with a non-fatal injury. The sound of the shot would draw considerable attention, and an injury should make it quite easy to subdue the criminal.

‘And if I do end up killing him...’ Joe shuddered, wondering if this was really the best idea. Then he reminded himself of Sam, and Ethel. And the forty other people the Reaper had slain. He didn’t relish the thought of becoming a murderer himself; he certainly wasn’t thinking of himself as some sort of avenger. But the fact that the man was a savage killer who’d been destined for a lethal injection eased his mind about actually taking a life. This particular life was already forfeited.

The authorities, he knew, would not see it in quite the same light- never mind that the sergeant on duty had curtly dismissed Joe’s concern and hung up on him. ‘I’ll probably end up in prison for assault with a deadly weapon, at best,’ the boy thought, shivering. ‘I don’t know what Mom and Dad will think...’ The thought almost made him reconsider again. At seventeen, he was old enough to be charged as an adult, with murder if not quite premeditated murder. His mother would be horrified, his father...he wasn’t sure what Fenton Hardy would say, but stern disapproval would be the very least of it. Or would it? After all, their father had taught them to shoot because some day they might need to. And tonight, he felt he needed to. ‘If it keeps Frank from getting killed,’ Joe told himself firmly, ‘it’ll be worth whatever happens. Even if he thinks less of me.’

That was another disturbing thought, but Joe was sure that- given the choice- Frank would prefer Joe to kill the Reaper than have the Reaper kill one or both of them. ‘Hope I’ll get a chance to ask him. Wish I could tell him what I’m up to!’ But there was no chance of that, not with the house bugged. How had the man managed to do that?

The teen dismissed the unanswerable questions from his mind. The only real question was whether his resolve would falter when the Reaper arrived.

Joe Hardy let a bitter smile cross his lips and prepared himself. He didn’t dare let the visions distract him now, but if he faltered, he would call on them. Maybe that was what they were for in the first place- to show him what would happen if he did falter at the crucial moment. “I won’t let you down, big brother,” he whispered. “Just don’t get worried and go looking for me, okay?”