Chapter 4
Prisoners and Keepers
A/N: I own nothing except the plot.
Also, it has been (thinks) roughly 13 years since I was last on a beach (I was Charleston, SC, when I was in 1st grade for the Sysco Foods National Truck Rodeo, courtesy of my father), so all following beach descriptions are from an extremely vague memory of playing in the water and feeling the skin on my feet grow tight from the salt…
Btw, the children's mystery series character mentioned near the beginning of this chapter is one of the main characters from the Trixie Belden mystery series.
It was not so very long ago, Number 12 reflected somewhat ruefully, definitely sorely as he walked forlornly along the Beach—that he and Nancy had done this very thing. Hand in hand, with nine-year-old Brett dashing ahead, seagulls scattering to white pinpricks in the blue sky as the impatient little boy approached them; then the gulls spiralled back down like a corkscrew to land once more upon the saturated sand. White sea foam had lingered there, dampening Frank and Nancy's bare toes, the sea salt making their skin feel tight, as it always did. Ships were visible in the distance out past the baymouth bar of Barmet Bay, he recalled, and a few small jellyfish strewn upon the beach were drawing in more gulls.
Number 12 stopped and looked about him. Mountains on either side of the harbour upon whose shores The Village loomed, faerie-tale peaceful, yet as ominous as the legends surrounding the castles of Transylvania. Sea before him; sea so inviting, so peaceful, yet treacherous at the same time—in fact, that very evening, the cheery woman announcer would warn the Villagers of rip tides close to the shore. HOWEVER, she would state, somewhat amused as she usually would be if such a comment were to be made, THE GUARDIANS WILL BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR SWIMMERS IN DANGER.
He started walking again, reaching the forest bordering the Village and continuing onward, but…
"You've passed the boundaries," a deep, British-toned male voice informed him off to his right. From the forest itself. As if the trees could talk.
Number 12 turned and saw a man standing there, dressed in the same style as himself. "Boundaries?" he asked, puzzled.
The man nodded, coming down the small bank and walking until he stood in front of Number 12. "You're new here, aren't you?" he said, glancing around. Uneasily, Number 12 decided. The man's words were not quite a question, nor were they quite the comment. Neither one thing, nor yet quite t'other, a voice intoned from Number 12's memory.
"Yes," Number 12 replied, somewhat hesitantly. "Are you?"
The man eyed him. Blue eyes, slight smattering of freckles, sandy, wavy hair almost like that of a children's mystery series character he remembered from his youth. And Number 12 discovered that he trusted this newcomer; had a sense of familiarity about him. "I am not new here," the newcomer answered. "But I am relatively unfamiliar with this setup, yes."
A roaring sound, a combination of bear and machine, reached their ears. "Shall we go back to the inside of the boundaries?" Number 12's companion asked.
"Why?" Number 12 asked, following after his companion.
"Rover," was the reply.
---
"You may call me Number 6," the blue-eyed man told Number 12. "Everybody does."
They were in the man's private apartments; a graceful instrumental like the sound of spring birdsong coming from the speaker that was in every dwelling; Number 12 sitting, somewhat uncomfortable, upon a chair in his companion's kitchenette watching as Number 6 puttered around, making lunch for the two of them. "What's your number?"
"12," the man calling himself Frank Hardy replied. "I arrived…yesterday."
Number 6, in the process of cracking two eggs into a buttered cast iron skillet, nodded sympathetically. "Number 2 advised me to help you around these first few days." He paused, using the time to throw the eggshells into the bucket reserved for compost and washing his hands. "You see, like your self, I am a prisoner. The persons holding jobs of authority are usually keepers—except for the shopkeeper. He, like us, is a prisoner." Number 6 paused in his explanation once again, this time to crack the two yolks and flip the eggs. Number 12, having not eaten breakfast, discovered his mouth was watering. Fried egg sandwiches, the main course on Number 6's menu for today, were a common meal at home. Nancy would spread garlic-flavoured mayonnaise and chipotle hot sauce (the smoky kind, of course—never the spicy kind, because she hated spicy foodstuffs) on sourdough rye bread, and fry bread and all briefly before serving. It was one of the things he discovered he would miss the most. From his material world back home, anyway.
---
Number 12, satisfied at last, leaned back in his chair. Number 6, facing him, had told him all he knew of The Village: its occupants, its norms, its rules. And Rover.
"What is Rover?" Number 12 had asked, taking his chance as his companion had paused in his description of The Village to eat.
Number 6 had swallowed and said, somewhat dryly, "The Village Guardian. A large, white plastic weather balloon-type Guardian, which makes sure no one escapes. I advise you to avoid it whenever possible."
Now, Number 6 leaned back as well, wiping the last bit of mayonnaise from his lips. "Now," said he, "I will take you around to the different shops and we will stock your own apartments with the necessities."
"I want to go back home," Number 12 said stubbornly.
"I know," his companion replied gently. "But here, having found out the hard way numerous times, there is no escape."
"Vanessa!" Joe Hardy said quickly into the phone. After calling her all day, he'd finally gotten hold of Vanessa Bender; and after all that he was not about to let her hang up, as she had done so many times in the past when he'd attempted to call. "Frank's been reported as non-salvageable on a detective job, and Nancy and I don't believe that report."
There was a long pause from the other end of the line. "And just how have you two come up with this assumption?" Vanessa asked coldly; almost sarcastically. "Elen?"
Joe stiffened. "As a matter of fact, yes. Look, Van, I accept your privacy and everything else, but what is it that you have against her? She is your daughter, after all."
"Was," Vanessa corrected him in that same, cold voice. "No longer will I have any connection with the Hardy family."
"Vanessa, why?"
She sighed, having clearly explained this several times before. "When I first met you, Joe, and your brother, it was something out of a dream. Out of a storybook, like the Trixie Belden mysteries I read as a girl. But every time you or Frank would get hurt or kidnapped, all I could think about was what it had been like before I met you. No constant worrying, no phone calls late at night to help you with a Muggable Mary setup or anything like that. It was all so carefree. As if the real world didn't even exist.
"And then Elen and Gwladys were born. I knew it would be even worse when Elen started in with her clairvoyance skits. I knew that I couldn't live like that, knowing that something would happen, but not knowing when; or where; or how." She paused. "Do you understand, Joe? I still love you, but I could not live the life of a detective, wondering when you would get kidnapped next—or when I would get kidnapped because of my connection with you. Remember when the Assassins made it seem as though Callie and Nancy had been killed, and they had actually killed Iola? I saw the toll that knowledge: the belief that Callie and Nancy were dead, had taken on Frank, and, to some extent, you."
"Look, Van, I respect your privacy; but things have not changed. Would you at least be willing to help us look for Frank," asked Joe, "assuming, of course, that he is still alive? We're meeting here at seven-thirty tomorrow night. Bring Paul." But you know Paul will make things difficult, a tiny voice warned him. He always does. "I don't care."
"I'm sorry, Joe," Vanessa said quietly. "I'm a Laskry now; I promised myself I would no longer have anything to do with your family."
"Even Gwladys and Elen?"
"Even them." And she hung up slowly; and Joe was left staring at the silent receiver.
But I want everything to do with you.