October 3 3:20AM
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bz—
"Hello?"
"Nancy."
Nancy Drew, sits up in her bed. "Frank?"
She checked her cellphone's clock, wincing at the light. 3:20 AM.
Her room was only illuminated by the LED street lamp from outside, bathing the room in a faint, blue glow. Her teddy bear rolled to the floor as she drew her knees her to chest.
This wasn't the first time Nancy had received a phone call in the middle of the night; usually they weren't from Frank Hardy. Kidnappers, secret societies, and murderers loved calling her so late, but not the polite older Hardy.
"Nancy, open your window, I'm climbing up," he answered, his voice nearly vibrating through the window panes of her second story bedroom.
She rushed over the window, leaning out to see Frank Hardy using her porch railing to latch onto the roof that nested beneath her window. She carefully stepped onto the roof, offering a hand to her friend.
An electricity crackled around the air around them. The early October air was heavy with humidity and rain, fliting between an unbearable summer heat or the first chill of autumn. In a dark blue quarter zip jacket and jeans, Frank was nearly swallowed into the night compared to Nancy's bright purple pajamas.
He couldn't help but smile a little as he followed Nancy into her bedroom, nostalgia swelling in his chest like a balloon. The years spent with her and his brother on her bedroom floor trying to solve a case with the help of her corkboard and her dog Togo pulling off his socks seemed like a distant memory as his frown returned.
"I wish I was here under better circumstances, Nan, but there's no time to explain," Frank said, locking her bedroom door and grabbing her duffle bag from her closet. "We need to get out of here; I'll explain everything on the way."
"On the way to where?" she asked, sitting down next to the bag with her arms crossed. Frank chewed his bottom lip and looked away. "If we're in danger, if something has happened, I need to know what's going on before I pack a single pair of socks, Frank Hardy. Where's Joe? Is this Network related?"
Frank let go of the breath he was holding for the past six hours, kneeling next to Nancy. His hands found their way to her arms, absentmindedly rubbing circles into the fabric of her pajamas. Ned or not, he wasn't feeling like himself and the world felt flipped upside down.
After a long while he met her gaze again, unflinching. "Nance, I need you to trust me for 72 hours. You can't tell Hannah or Carson you're leaving; you just need to come with me and believe me when I say that everything will be okay."
Nancy eyed the floral print duffle bag on her bed, the zipper mouth gaping open and gasping for clothing.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Frank asked, rising with Nancy. He watched her duck into her on suite bathroom, moments later emerging in a plain green sweatshirt and jeans, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
"Okay, but I expect a full answer, Hardy" she said, grabbing her cellphone and charger.
Frank took them from her hand and set them back on her bed. He reached into his pocket and handed her a plain flip phone. "I already got us a couple burners to keep in touch."
Nancy nodded, stuffing the phone into her pocket. She couldn't help but chuckle a little at the fact that Frank put one of the cellphone chargers she gave him from Japan on it; Nancy also banished the voice in the back of head asking how long Frank had kept a burner cellphone for her on reserve.
As she headed toward the window, she turned back at Frank who was following close behind her. "For future reference, Frank, my to go bag is always under my sink."
He smiled ruefully and as they left, shutting the window behind him.
Togo's barking was their only send off as Nancy hopped onto the back of Frank's motorcycle, the pair speeding off down her darkened, empty street.
WHERE THERE'S SMOKE
October 3 7:50 AM
Joe Hardy woke to the sound of hushed arguing below his window on his front porch. He groggily got up, padding over to the bay window of his room in sweatpants and a high school track shirt. The cool glass of the window woke Joe along with the spikes of hushed conversation.
"…ludicrous, Fenton! How do you have no idea…"
"We're figuring it out, Shannon, it's being handled."
"Then where's my daughter?!" the woman's voice climbed above whispering with each word.
A flock of crows erupted from the top of the oak tree in the Hardy's front yard, a couple red leaves joining the collection on the ground.
Joe cranked his window open as quietly as he could to try to peer down below. He pulled his phone off his dresser to begin recording the conversation; Frank would be so jealous to know that he got such a juicy tidbit on his own.
Fenton rubbed his eyes tiredly beneath his glasses. "We're doing all we can, I'm getting my top detectives on this today—"
"That's not good enough anymore, Fenton. I've already contacted the real police and the real FBI—"
"Call them off; you're going to compromise thousands of people all over the globe, Shannon. I will personally find Sam and bring her back," Fenton said, his cool exterior being shaken by her threat.
"You can't send a 19-year-old to Italy and brush it off like she's studying abroad! She's in danger because of you!"
Shannon? Sam? Joe's father couldn't possibly mean Shannon and Samantha Green, right? Joe leaned into the glass further, opening the window a little farther. The squeak was covered by the front door opening.
"Fenton, what's going on?" Joe's heart sunk.
"Nothing, Laura, is the coffee ready?" Fenton asked with a wry smile, throwing an arm over his wife's fluffy robed shoulders.
"Actually, Mrs. Hardy, there is something going on. Your husband's little club is about to implode if my daughter isn't found," Shannon cut in icily, her arms crossed to combat the early fall air.
"Club? I mean Fenton hasn't coached club baseball since the boys were in it…wait, who's missing?" Laura stepped out from underneath her husband's arm to face him across the porch near Shannon. "Is this a detective thing?"
Joe was leaning so far out of the window that he was almost falling out. He ducked back into his room, darting down the hallway to Frank's.
"Frank, we've gotta problem. Mom's onto us and we need to cover Da—"
Joe stopped, his weight braced on the door knob.
Frank's room was immaculately clean as usual; bed made, floor spotless, books alphabetized and fighting for space on his shelf. What was out of place was the fact that his brother was nowhere to be found, his cellphone left on its charger along with his wallet.
Joe flung open Frank's closet, searching for his black duffel bag he kept for last minute mysteries.
Gone.
He checked his desk for his secret stash of emergency cash.
Also gone.
The blonde sprinted down the stairs, a panic rising in his gut with each step he made toward the garage.
Tearing the door open, he froze. Frank's yellow motorcycle was missing along with its keys, leaving behind only a black can of spray paint in its place.
In a trance Joe made his way toward the front door, the arguing so loud that he was sure Aunt Gertrude could hear it over her whale sound machine.
"Fenton, how can this be true? You said you retired from all of this!" Joe saw his mother clutching her chest as if she had been wounded through the glass protecting the front red door hanging open. His steps slowed as he saw tears springing to her eyes.
"Trust me; if I would have known about the Network, my department would have shut it down years ago, much less have allowed my daughter to join," Shannon said, her rage simmering down to offer Laura condolences.
"The Network has solved more cases than Interpol has in the last 5 years—"
"Five years? This has been going on for five years and you didn't tell me?"
They stopped when Joe pushed his way through the front door, the color and humor drained out of his face. Sweat was cooling on his face before trickling down his neck like melting wax.
Before Laura could jump in, Fenton beat her to it. "Joe, what's up? You doing okay?"
"Joey, honey, did you know anything about this?"
"Of course he did; he and Sam worked on several cases together, isn't that right, Mr. Hardy?"
The words came up like vomit. "Frank's gone. I don't know where he is."
The questions burning on the adults tongues were doused when an army of news fans pulled up around the Hardy's blocks. Cameramen and photographers flooded the driveway and freshly mown lawn as the reporters fought for the best lighting in the rising sun.
"Good morning this is Vicki Blackwell—"
"Mark Shell—"
"Tamara Hogan—"
"Jamie Fuller with Channel 9 live from Fenton Hardy's resident. Just hours ago, The Network's database was leaked online—"
"Featuring past missions and operations, and the names of agents who were involved in the organization who all appear under the age of 22, the youngest being 14—"
"Mr. Hardy?"
"Mr. Hardy?"
"Mrs. Hardy?"
"Are you available to comment?"
"They won't be taking any comments now," a withered voice said, breaking through the sea of reporters. "As his attorney, I will release an official statement tonight just in time for the six o'clock news. Have a nice day!"
Carson Drew, Nancy's father, waved his attorney badge around like a battle flag. His grey suit impeccably tailored, but his expression screaming of exhaustion, ushered the group inside the house. He shut and locked the door behind him.
Joe hadn't seen the living room so crowded since Christmas with every seat cushion and armchair occupied by guests and family members. Carson was still leaning against the front door, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Fenton stopped his pacing to greet his old friend. "I always knew it was good to have you on retainer, Dr-"
"Frank came to the house last night and took Nancy."
The tea kettle steadily screamed as it sat abandoned on the stove. Shannon leapt to get it as the Hardy family had become immobile.
Carson's eyes found Joe's. "Do you know anything about this, Joe?"
He found himself speechless for the first time in his life, fighting for words.