Chapter 1 - Little Brother Lost

"Come on kiddo, don't do this to me," eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy muttered as he skillfully navigated the black van on the slippery, wet road on the sharp curve. He stayed well in the middle of the lane and kept plenty of distance from the safety barrier and the one-hundred-foot drop straight to the sea to his left. His phone was hooked to the dash charger and was on speaker, trying and failing to connect to his younger brother for the third time in the last twenty minutes. "Come on, Joe."

"Why the hell aren't you picking up?" The words were snapped in anger as he drove in the drizzle, but the plain worry and concern he felt for his brother would have been clearly heard, had there been anyone else in the van with him.

It had only been two weeks since Iola Morton's sudden and violent death. A terrorist cell which identified themselves as the 'Assassins', had planted a bomb in their yellow sedan for two purposes; to practice for their ultimate target and to send a warning to their father, who had been running security for the presidential candidate, Philip Walker. By a cruel twist of fate, Iola had the misfortune to reach their car before they did, and she died instantly, caught in the unexpected, fiery explosion.

They even caught the terrorist responsible afterwards - an Assassin named Al-Rousasa - who had been playing the role of a New York police inspector under everyone's noses, only to watch him fall to his death in the mall of Bayport. His body had ultimately ended up broken, bleeding and utterly dead in front of the very podium he had meant to blow up with the candidate.

Frank shuddered involuntarily as the memory of the dead Assassin's blank face floated to the forefront of his mind. He could have lost Joe along with the terrorist that day too, had he not been near enough to grab his bother by his belt to halt his slide over the railing. Al-Rousasa had done his damnedest to turn Joe's act of mercy into a mutual death, but Frank hadn't really been ready to lose his only sibling to a madman. Joe walked away with a cut on his left palm while 'The Bullet' took a journey to Hell, and Frank had absolutely no lingering issues with the outcome of their case.

Joe did though… and that was the problem.

Iola Morton wasn't just a random girl who happened to stop at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was their best friend, Chet Morton's, younger sister. She also happened to be the girl who had stolen Joe Hardy's heart.

The funeral had been one of the hardest things Frank had ever gone through. He didn't even want to imagine how hard it must have been for the Mortons.

He watched every day for the past fourteen days exactly how hard it was for his younger brother.

Joe wasn't sleeping. Frank knew this because sometimes he heard restless footsteps in the adjacent room when Joe tried his best to pace around in his room quietly but failed spectacularly. On the rare occasion he did manage to sleep, he woke up screaming and thrashing, in throes of nightmares that Frank couldn't chase away no matter how much he wished.

He was pretty sure that his brother's healthy and enthusiastic appetite had also taken a hit. He had seen Joe despondently poking his food around the plate, a few times, without really finishing the meals.

All in all, he was worried. He knew Joe was grieving, understandably so, but he never would have imagined in his wildest dreams the depth of his brother's sorrow and the fight he had to fight every day just to stay above the crushing waves of his grief, without drowning and suffocating in it.

Today was Saturday, and they were only ten days from Halloween. Any other year around this time, they would have already been looking for their costumes, pumpkins, and crazy decor for their home and planning events and outings with their circle of friends. This year, he knew they wouldn't be doing anything extravagant, or probably anything at all. The loss of Iola was still too heavy and fresh in all their hearts, minds and souls.

"Come on, dammit, pick up the damn phone,'' he cursed again as the hundredth call he had made during the past hour went to voicemail. He was driving towards the last place he could think of and if he couldn't find Joe there, he had no clue where to search next.

He had returned from his karate practices to find their mom in tears only about two hours ago. "Frank, Joe left soon after you did. I couldn't get in touch with him," she had tried her best to sound calm, but Frank had heard the wobble in her voice nevertheless. "I've made calls to your friends too, nobody has seen him the entire day."

He had started with the usual hangouts; Tony's Pizzeria, the Mall, the Park, and even the marina at the Barmat Bay where they kept their boat. Then he tried the school library, a highly unlikely place but with possibilities, but had no luck. He had even driven past Morton's farm and Biff's backyard, but there had been no sign of his wayward brother. His phone kept ringing and ringing the entire time, telling Frank that the phone was either lost somewhere or the younger Hardy was not paying any attention to it.

Frank parked the van in the lot and got out, shivering in the autumn chill, already missing the heat inside the van. It had been drizzling nonstop since the day before and it showed no sign of letting up just yet. He tightened his jacket around his neck and opened the wrought iron gate with a loud squeak as the rusted hinges grated on each other.

The cemetery looked empty and desolate, wrapped in the dark grey cloak of heavy rain that hadn't quite started to fall in earnest just yet. The silence around him was eerie, almost expectant, and Frank shivered again, hoping to find his brother here, but dreading it at the same time. The thought of his younger brother, bright and full of life, spending time among the dead and buried in this gloomy, despairing place made him feel exceedingly troubled.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to chase away the unhelpful thoughts, Frank adjusted the hood of his pullover to cover his head, stuck his hands deep in his front pockets and took off to where the tombstone for Iola Morton was located.

He saw the only spec of colour in the entire bleak cemetery exactly where he had hoped to find it. Joe's hunched form solidified as he took off at a slow jog to close the distance to the relatively fresh grave of the girl they all had bid farewell to only two weeks ago.

His brother was sitting on the grass before her grave marker, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his folded knees. Frank could see that he was drenched to the bone by the way his thin t-shirt and his jeans were plastered to his body. His blond hair was flat and dripped rivulets of water all over his blank face. To Frank's alarm, he also seemed to be shivering slightly all over, but the vacant stare in his dull blue eyes told him that the younger boy was not really aware of any of it.

He reminded Frank of a frightened and lost little boy, instead of the impulsive, hotheaded teenager who chased and caught dangerous criminals for an unorthodox hobby.

"Whoa! Frank…" Joe was badly startled when Frank touched his shoulder and would have toppled fully to the ground if Frank hadn't tightened his hold to keep him upright. "I didn't hear you coming."

Frank's worry intensified. They had been in the inherently dangerous crime-solving business long enough to know not to let their guard down so badly, especially if they were by themselves. Their father, Fenton Hardy, a successful and famous private detective, had done his best to instil those instincts from very early on. The fact that Joe hadn't even heard Frank calling out meant his brother had been completely out of it until Frank's touch brought him back to the present.

"Yeah, I noticed," he said softly, crouching slowly next to Joe, trying not to grimace at the mud squelching under his sneakers. "How long have you been here?"

His brother blinked confusedly and checked his watch. The little colour he had in his face drained, leaving him in a sickly grey pallor when he took notice of the time for the first time.

"Oh, crap!" he turned his wide, guilty gaze towards Frank in panic. "I left home around eight, I think, Oh, God…. Mom!"

Frank did his best not to let his own panic show, keeping his smile firmly fixed on his lips. It was almost three in the afternoon now. Which meant Joe had been sitting here in the chilly drizzle for more than six hours!

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" He made sure to keep his voice gentle when he asked. "She was a bit worried."

Joe dug into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled the phone out. The number of missed calls on the screen made him gulp and squeeze his eyes shut, further hunching in over himself. Joe was not at all behaving like his usual self, full of bluster and inane excuses and sweet talking his way out of trouble he knew he was in. He was withdrawing into himself, as if trying to protect himself, from exactly what, Frank had no clue.

"F-Frank, I'm so s-sorry. I, uh, I kind of z-zoned out," his muffled apology came out through chattering teeth in a stammer. Frank wasn't sure if that was because of the cold or if Joe was scared. He decided that calling his mom could wait. Joe was here and he was safe. But there was something very wrong with his brother that needed Frank's immediate attention. He fired out a quick text to his mom saying he found Joe, watching the way his brother kept his face buried in his folded arms. Then he put the phone away to talk to him. He had a feeling that this was his chance to get Joe to open up to him, where there was no one else but them and the long-gone presence of the dead.

"Joe, look at me," he was still gentle, but it was his 'no-nonsense' tone. Joe reluctantly peered at him, just one blue eye visible over his left elbow. "What's going on?"

A shoulder hitched in a shrug. "It's just. Um–"

"Look, I know you're not sleeping well, or eating or doing anything you usually do," Frank pressed when there was nothing else coming out of his brother. "I know something is wrong. This isn't just you grieving, brother. To tell you the truth, I'm worried."

"You're gonna think I've gone crazy or something," Joe muttered, looking up and fixing his gaze on the silent tombstone before them instead of Frank.

"I already know you are not the most mentally stable guy around," Frank said dryly, earning a soft huff. "Try me.'

Joe was quiet for a long time. Just as Frank was about to suggest that they both get out of the rain and go home, Joe broke the silence. "It's, uh, it's like this. I have, um, nightmares," he said haltingly. "You know this, obviously. It's just that they are very detailed and too clear to be bad dreams and-and every night–," he cut himself off to take a deep breath before blurting out the rest. "Frank, it's exactly the same damn thing. Every damn night."

"You wanna tell me what it is about?"

"Iola," the name of his late girlfriend came out in a long exhale that rattled his frame. "Except, she's different. I'm not seeing her right," he frowned then, trying to describe what he was seeing every night. "Her face is distorted, all hazy and blurry and she's screaming," Joe shuddered as if he could still hear it. Frank instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulder and was relieved when Joe didn't pull away from him. Now they were both sitting on the wet grass, leaning against each other, shoulder to shoulder. "Only it's not her voice," Joe continued softly. "And there's the smell of blood and petrichor like it's been raining hard with thunder and lightning while somebody bled to death? I-I don't know how to explain it. It's just her, this unending high-pitched screaming and this distorted background that I'm sure is the Morton farm."

"She did die horribly, Joe," Frank winced when the words slipped out.

"I know," Joe finally dragged his gaze away from the grave and turned to Frank. "I mean we were there, weren't we? But these nightmares are different, Frank. They're not just about macabre images my mind conjures. They're about sounds, smells and emotions…I can feel she's in pain and it's bad and she is so very scared–" It ended in what sounded suspiciously like a choked-off sob and Frank instinctively tightened his half embrace around his brother. Joe continued to shiver against him from the cold and the intensity of the nightmare he just described.

Frank had no idea where to even begin helping his brother. Now that he knew what Joe was battling, there was no wonder Joe was having a hard time dealing. It sounded horrific enough to experience once, let alone every night. Maybe Joe really needed professional counselling, Frank thought, to help him process these intense dreams. Or at least he could see their family doctor to get some sleeping aids. Then he grimaced because he knew exactly how hard it would be to convince his stubborn brother of either of those things. There was a chance he would stop talking to Frank altogether if he voiced the suggestions, and he might even regret opening up to Frank.

There was nothing more to be done here in the unending autumn chill, getting drenched in the rain. Now that he knew what was happening, maybe there was a way for him to help his brother, or at least be there for him in a bit more productive way. What needed to be done now was to take his shaking brother back to the van, change into dry clothes they had in there and take him back home.

"I'm glad you told me," he murmured, earning another slight shrug from Joe. "Let's go home, brother."

"I don't wanna–" Joe whined, knowing that he was in trouble with their mom for worrying her.

"It'll be fine," Frank reassured. "You can tell her whatever you want, and I'll back you up."

He wasn't a fan of lying to their mom, and it wasn't something they did often. He felt guilty doing it and most of the time, she knew when they were lying anyway. But, he felt that this time, it had to be Joe's call. This was an incredibly personal thing and his brother needed to sort through his emotions at his own pace.

"Thanks, Frank," Joe sighed. "But I'll tell her I was here and lost track of time."

"I'm sure she'll understand."