Hardy Boys Chap 28
HNB FJRAY- Thanks for pushing me to write again. This chapter is dedicated to you.
RightPerspectiveofwhump - Thanks for your kind words.
Spyder - thanks for figuring out the password snafu so it could be uploaded
To everybody, If you like the story, give God the credit. If you hate it, blame me.
Summary Shark still gunning for Frank and Joe. Frank agrees to therapy. Joe sick from Frank's green healthy seaweed muffin. Contractor rebuilding Joe's cottage, calls Frank for more money ASAP. Frank frustrated cuz the rebuilding was Fenton's secret project. Frank drives to bank to get money for contractor. Joe waits in the car.
JOE
A woman with long, black hair walks by Frank's car.
Iola?
Her body was never found after the explosion.
I open the car door.
What if Iola survived?
I follow the woman around the corner.
I have done this before.
It ended badly.
But I can't stop myself.
"Iola?" I ask.
When a stranger turns around, my heart breaks into a million pieces again.
"Sorry, I thought you were someone else."
Flashes of memory about Iola's death hit me like bullets.
An image of the redhead I flirted with at the mall flashes in my mind, as I cross Coe Street on shaky legs.
The hurt in Iola's eyes hits me like a rock.
My legs give out and I fall on the sidewalk.
In my mind, I see Iola getting into Dad's car at the mall.
I run but I can't catch her. I break out in a cold sweat. When the car explodes in my memory, I vomit.
"You done?" I dry heave.
"Take that as a yes," a vaguely familiar man's voice says.
"We have to get out of here," he says and throws me over his shoulders. "You just customized the mayor's limo."
I smell my vomit on the black limo's driver door. I squint through bleary eyes. If this is a kidnapping, I have definitely lost my advantage.
"Easy," someone says and carefully drops me on a wooden park bench.
"Biker?" I whisper.
He wears black jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket.
"Yeah, it's been a while."
Ten years.
Biker was one of my best friends. He was Frank's worst nightmare.
"You doing drugs?" Biker asks.
I shake my head no.
"Booze?"
"No."
"You wanna tell me what happened?"
"Give me five minutes. It got better before."
"Before?"
Crap.
I didn't mean to let that slip.
I ignore Biker, grab my phone and put on my headphones.
"Four minutes," Biker says.
I breath in deeply and feel the St. Michael Medal I always wear on a chain around my neck.
Iola's voice through my headphones calms me.
"Joe, I'm scared. Terrified. You are sixteen. You have been kidnapped twice. I know being a detective is your dream. I don't want you to give up what makes you happy. But I'm asking you to wear this St. Michael medal around your neck. I bought the medal and chain after reading a letter from a U.S. soldier named Michael. He fought with U.S. forces in South Korea against North Korea and the Soviet Union. Here's what the article said.
'That soldier, who renames nameless, recounted the miraculous tale in a letter to his mother as he recovered in a hospital. Navy Chaplain Father Walter Muldy received a copy of this letter and speaking to the soldier, his mother, and the leader of his unit, confirmed the veracity (truth) of the story.
Dear Mom, I wouldn't dare write this letter to anyone but you because no one else would believe it. Maybe even you will find it hard but I have got to tell somebody.
First off, I am in a hospital.
Now don't worry, ya hear me, don't worry.
I was wounded but I'm okay you understand. Okay.
The doctor says that I will be up and around in a month.
But that's not what I want to tell you.
Remember when I joined the Marines last year; remember when I left, how you told me to say a prayer to St. Michael every day. You really didn't have to tell me that.
Ever since I can remember you always told me to pray to St. Michael the Archangel. You even named me after him. Well I always have. When I got to Korea, I prayed even harder.
Remember the prayer that you taught me?
'Michael, Michael of the morning,
Fresh corps (angel soldiers) of Heaven adorning,
Keep me safe today,
And in time of temptation,
Drive the devil away. '
Well I said it everyday. Sometimes when I was marching or sometimes resting. But always before I went to sleep.
I even got some of the other fellas to say it.
Well, one day I was with an advance detail way up over the front lines. We were scouting for the Commies. I was plodding along in the bitter cold, my breath was like cigar smoke.
I thought I knew every guy in the patrol, when along side of me comes another Marine I never met before. He was bigger than any other Marine I'd ever seen. He must have been 6'4″ and built in proportion. It gave me a feeling of security to have such a body near.
Anyway, there we were trudging along. The rest of the patrol spread out. Just to start conversation I said, "Cold ain't it." And then I laughed. Here I was with a good chance of getting killed any minute and I am talking about the weather.
My companion seemed to understand. I heard him laugh softly. I looked at him, "I have never seen you before, I thought I knew every man in the outfit."
"I just joined at the last minute", he replied. "The name is Michael."
"Is that so," I said surprised. "That is my name too."
"I know," he said and then went on, "Michael, Michael of the morning …"
I was too amazed to say anything for a minute. How did he know my name, and a prayer that you had taught me?
Then I smiled to myself, every guy in the outfit knew about me. Hadn't I taught the prayer to anybody who would listen.
Why now and then, they even referred to me as St. Michael.
Neither of us spoke for a time and then he broke the silence. "We are going to have some trouble up ahead."
He must have been in fine physical shape or he was breathing so lightly I couldn't see his breath. Mine poured out in great clouds.
There was no smile on his face now. Trouble ahead, I thought to myself, well with the Commies (enemy soldiers) all around us, that is no great revelation.
Snow began to fall in great thick globs. In a brief moment the whole countryside was blotted out. And I was marching in a white fog of sticky particles. My companion disappeared. "Michael," I shouted in sudden alarm.
I felt his hand on my arm, his voice was rich and strong, "This will stop shortly." His prophecy proved to be correct. In a few minutes the snow stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
The sun was a hard shining disc. I looked back for the rest of the patrol, there was no one in sight. We lost them in that heavy fall of snow. I looked ahead as we came over a little rise. Mom, my heart stopped. There were seven of them. Seven Commies in their padded pants and jackets and their funny hats. Only there wasn't anything funny about them now. Seven rifles were aimed at us.
"Down Michael," I screamed and hit the frozen earth.
I heard those rifles fire almost as one. I heard the bullets. There was Michael still standing.
Mom, those guys couldn't have missed, not at that range. I expected to see him literally blown to bits.
But there he stood, making no effort to fire himself.
He was paralyzed with fear. It happens sometimes, Mom, even to the bravest. He was like a bird fascinated by a snake. At least, that was what I thought then. I jumped up to pull him down and that was when I got mine I felt a sudden flame in my chest.
I often wondered what it felt like to be hit, now I know. I remember feeling strong arms around me, arms that laid me ever so gently on a pillow of snow. I opened my eyes, for one last look. I was dying. Maybe I was even dead, I remember thinking well, this is not so bad.
Maybe I was looking into the sun. Maybe I was in shock. But it seemed I saw Michael standing erect again only this time his face was shining with a terrible splendor.
As I say, maybe it was the sun in my eyes, but he seemed to change as I watched him. He grew bigger, his arms stretched out wide, maybe it was the snow falling again, but there was a brightness around him like the wings of an angel.
In his hands was a sword. A sword that flashed with a million lights.
Well, that is the last thing I remember until the rest of the fellas came up and found me. I do not know how much time had passed. Now and then I had but a moment's rest from the pain and fever.
I remember telling them of the enemy just ahead.
"Where is Michael?" I asked. I saw them look at one another.
"Where's who?" asked one.
"Michael, Michael the big Marine I was walking with just before the snow squall hit us."
"Kid," said the sergeant, "You weren't walking with anyone. I had my eyes on you the whole time. You were getting too far out. I was just going to call you in when you disappeared in the snow."
He looked at me, curiously. "How did you do it kid?"
"How'd I do what?" I asked half angry despite my wound. "This marine named Michael and I were just …"
"Son," said the sergeant kindly, "I picked out this outfit myself and there just ain't another Michael in it. You are the only Mike in it."
He paused for a minute, "Just how did you do it kid? We heard shots. There hasn't been a shot fired from your rifle. And there isn't a bit of lead in them seven bodies over the hill there."
I didn't say anything, what could I say. I could only look open-mouthed with amazement.
It was then the sergeant spoke again, "Kid," he said gently, "every one of those seven Commies was killed by a sword stroke."
That is all I can tell you Mom.
As I say, it may have been the sun in my eyes, it may have been the cold or the pain.
But that is what happened.
Love, Michael "*
"Joe, please wear this for St. Michael's medal for me. I can relax if I know St. Michael has your back.
I love you. Only 2,555 days to our wedding.
That's two more years of high school, four years of college, one year to find a job and plan our wedding."
I slide my headphones off. Sometimes I don't know how to survive my depression and anxiety. Maybe that's why Iola chose St. Michael for me. If St. Michael can overcome the powers of hell, maybe He can help me escape my own personal hell - life without Iola.
I open my eyes. I feel stronger. Like I can survive another day.
"You look human again," Biker says. "Weird. I wasn't gonna ride this way, but there's a detour. So what happened?"
"Water," I say. I need time to figure out what to tell Biker.
"Hardy, this is getting to be a bad habit." Biker crosses the street to the mini mart.
I close my eyes and remember. Frank's twelfth birthday was the worst day of my life. When he unwrapped his first computer, I lost my best friend. Frank was always stuck to the computer doing something. If I told Mom that Frank was on the computer all day, she made him play with me.
But Frank changed. Nothing fit anymore. The treehouse, board games, and our video games bored Frank. I bored Frank. So I stopped bothering him. Dad was always gone on a case. Mom got a job working at the library. Frank and his computer were like Siamese twins.
Everybody had something to do - except me. I stopped going to the playground. Too many memories of Frank playing baseball, basketball or kickball with me. So I walked through the woods, past the railroad tracks, and ended up on the bad side of town. No memories there.
I found party spots in the woods filled with empty beer cans and campfire remains.
I watched a drug deal go down while I was hid in an abandoned car in the woods.
Mostly I kept to myself.
That changed the day I was hiding in my abandoned car in the woods and heard a bunch of teens beating up someone.
"Leave him alone!" I shouted and jumped in the fight.
When a big guy came at me with a knife, I remembered what Frank's tae kwon do teacher had demonstrated. I grabbed the guy's wrist, stepped behind him and kicked out the back of his knee.
An even bigger guy punched me in the stomach. I fell to my knees and vomited.
"Biker, next time you steal from me, I'll slit your throat," someone said.
I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes, everyone was gone. Except Biker. He had a black eye, a busted lip and a bloody nose.
"You ok?" Biker asked.
I tried to nod, but threw up again. Biker pressed a cold can of ginger ale to my forehead.
"Name's Biker. I don't steal. But Russ, my older brother, does. Sometimes I take the fall for him."
Something cold touches my arm. I look up and see present day Biker holding a can of cold ginger ale against it.
I grab the can and sit up.
"What happened?" Biker asks.
Nobody knows about Iola and the St. Michael stuff. No way am I baring my soul to Biker.
"Nothing. I'm good."
Have it your way," Biker says. "Russ, my older brother, escaped out of maximum security prison. Watch your back."
Biker gets on his motorcycle, revs the engine, and races down Main Street.
Russ. Great. One more enemy. What if he goes after Frank? How do I even tell Frank about this? What if I can't keep Frank safe?
I hit my playlist. Steve Furtick performs I Will Be Confident in my headphones.
"I will reject the lies that echo in my mind telling me that I don't have what it takes. That I cannot survive this trial; that my best is behind me or that humiliation awaits me. The devil is a liar. I will fight."
I dig my fingernails into my palms. I fight to regain control of my emotions.
"Though my enemies surround me, my God surrounds my enemies."
I cling to those words, as I walk back to Frank's car. I am five feet away from the Lexus when the world explodes.
Sprawled on the pavement, I am surrounded by parts of Frank's car. The crumpled black hood, half of the steering wheel and the exhaust pipe remind me of a giant model car kit.
Oily smoke gets in my eyes and throat. A blurry figure runs toward the flames surrounding the car. I blink and struggle to focus.
Frank. I crawl to my feet and sprint. I pray my burst of adrenaline lasts long enough to reach my brother. I hit Frank hard.
We land sprawled on the pavement. When Frank gets up, I grab his leg. He kicks me in the head. I hit the ground hard.
Through black dots, I see Frank moving toward the flames.
As I lose consciousness, I know when I wake Frank will be dead.
I let him die….just like Iola.
FRANK
"Never leave anything valuable in your car," Shark says.
I look up. A giant ball of fire erupts where my car was parked.
Like a 3-D movie, I watch one of my car doors hurl toward the bank's front window. The car door shatters the bank window and knocks me off my feet.
Pain brings me back to my senses. Joe needs me. I run to the 15-foot flames surrounding my car. I struggle to see through the oily smoke. Six feet from the flames, something crashes into me.
I fall to my knees. I do not have time for this. Joe needs me. I grab the traffic light that landed on its side in the middle of Main Street and pull myself to my feet. A picture of Joe trapped inside my burning car flashes through my mind. Someone grabs my leg. My muscle memory fires off a brutal tae kwon do back kick.
I run to the flames. Something hits me in the eyes.
Blinded, I can't defend myself when someone punches me in the stomach.
I fall to the pavement. Someone grabs my hair and pulls my head up.
Through my watering eyes I see my unconscious brother sprawled on the pavement.
"Joe, are you ok?" I ask.
"He was before you kicked him in the head," a vaguely familiar voice says.
I did this?
"Joe bragged you were a black belt. Figured throwing dirt in your eyes would even the odds," the voice says.
I squint.
"Biker?" I ask.
My day just got a hundred times worse.
"Frank, what happened?" Con Reilly asks, as he gets out of his police car.
"Joe needs an ambulance," I growl, as Con pulls me to my feet.
"How is he?" I ask.
"Steady pulse and breathing. Nasty bump on his head," Biker says.
"Dispatch this is Con. I need three ambulances sent to where the bank used to be on Main Street. One for use and two on standby."
"10-4."
I rub my eyes, but they won't stop watering. I lose my balance.
"Frank, I've got you," Con says. "I got the first aid kit out of my cruiser. Bend your neck so your eyes are facing the pavement. We'll get your eyes washed out."
Before I can ask who 'we' is, something wet hits my pants zipper.
"Sorry, guess I aimed the saline too low," Biker says.
He doesn't sound sorry. I grit my teeth.
A flood of saline washes the dirt out of my eyes. I blink. It doesn't hurt. I can see again.
"Ok Frank, what's going on?" Con asks.
"A loose end from an old case blew up my car. His name is Shark. He wanted to kill Joe."
"Any name other than Shark?"
"No, but I can describe him to a sketch artist."
"I'll check around. See if anyone's heard of him by the docks," Biker says.
"No. I do not want you spooking Shark. I can handle this," I say.
"Really?" Biker asks and looks at the destruction around us.
I want to argue with him, but Biker is right. Joe almost died on my watch.
"Frank, can I talk to you privately for a minute?" Con asks.
"Sure," I say and walk a few feet away with Con.
"Last week Officer Epps trained to handle explosion scenes. Last night, he was stabbed at a domestic dispute call. He is in surgery."
"Who is his back-up?"
"Me. But I haven't met with Epps yet to find out what he learned."
"State police?" I ask.
"Can't help. They are searching for two escaped convicts."
"Why didn't you send two officers for training?"
"Frank, our funding got cut. We barely scrapped up enough money to send Epps."
"Con, I need every inch of this crime scene processed. I have to find out Shark's location."
"Frank, I know. I figured out a way to process it."
"Good. What do you need?"
"You. Frank, you interned with the FBI in college. You have experience processing explosion scenes."
"Con, that's not an option. Joe needs me at the hospital."
I can't tell Con how car bombings remind Joe of the car bombing that killed Iola. I know Joe will have nightmares about today's car bombing for weeks.
A TV news truck pulls up outside the bank.
"This is a crime scene. You need to leave now," Con says.
"Ever hear of freedom of the press?" The male driver asks.
"Ever hear of getting charged with trespassing?" I say.
The driver moves the truck so fast, he leaves a skid mark in the pavement.
"Officer Harrison, I need you to mark this as occurring after the bombing," Con says.
"Will do, sir." Harrison replies.
Go to the hospital with Joe or stay here to process the crime scene?
I have never understood Dad more or liked myself less.
"Con, I'll stay. We need to set up an evidence collection site. Maybe the library. It didn't get damaged."
"Sounds good. I'll handle it," Con says.
"And we need supplies to process the scene. Tarps, lights, generators and crime scene photographers to record the damage."
"I'll radio for the supplies ASAP. Thanks, Frank. You won't regret this."
I already do.
"How is he?" I ask the medic taking Joe's pulse.
"I don't know. Doctor will order a CT scan to see if his brain is bruised or bleeding."
I did this.
When the medic steps away, I kneel at Joe's side.
"Joe, I have to stay. Just hang in until I get there, ok?"
"We're ready to transport him to the hospital," the medic says.
He and the other medic, load my brother into the ambulance.
What if Shark kills Joe at the hospital?
"Biker! I need your help."
"Forget it," Biker snarls.
"I have to stay here."
"Don't care," Biker growls.
"I need you to watch Joe's back at the hospital."
"Yeah, right."
"The police can't spare anyone to protect Joe. I don't have time to track down a friend."
Silence.
Biker glares at me.
"Please."
Biker smiles.
"What?" I ask.
"It's fun to watch you jump through hoops."
"Glad you enjoyed it," I say.
"Relax. I was going to the hospital before you asked."
"Why?"
"Russ, my older brother, escaped from maximum security prison. He hates Joe."
"When were you going to let me know?"
"I told Joe. Figured if he wanted you to know, he'd tell you," Biker says.
That hurts. But I keep my face neutral.
"Biker, you let anything happen to Joe you'll wish you were dead."
"Frankenstein, I'm gonna enjoy telling them how Joe got his head injury trying to save your life," Biker says and climbs in the back of the ambulance.
"Uh, sir. No one is allowed to ride back here," the nervous paramedic says.
"Someone almost killed your patient. What are you gonna do if they try again?" Biker asks, and shows the gun in his shoulder holster.
"Always room for one more," the paramedic says.
Biker slams the ambulance door.
The ambulance siren gets fainter as it speeds away.
I pull on a pair of plastic gloves.
A rain drop hits my cheek. Rain. It will wash the evidence away.*
"Con, the rain is destroying the crime scene!" I shout.
Something blue catches my eye. The rain is sweeping the blue object toward the storm drain in the street. *
I run, slide on my knees and grab the blue object just before it slides through the storm drain.*
I open my hand, hoping I don't see a crumpled candy wrapper.
"Con, I need an evidence bag!"
"What did you find?" Con asks and pulls an evidence bag out of his pocket.
"Looks like part of a circuit board used to set off the bomb," I say and drop the fiberglass fragment into the evidence bag.*
"Frank, you just broke this case wide open!" Con says. He closes the evidence bag, seals it, dates it and signs it with his signature.
"Hold on," I say and pull out my phone. "Let me take a few photos. Sometimes evidence gets 'lost.'"
My phone is wet, cracked and dead.
"Frank, what's wrong? You look like you could pass," Con asks. "Don't worry. I'll take pics with my phone and send them to your email."
"I messed up. Biker was going to call me when Joe woke up at the hospital."
"Sit here before you pass out," Con says and helps me into the passenger side of his police cruiser. "Officer Harrison, takes some pics of this and send it to my work email. Then take this to evidence collection."
"Yes, sir."
"Con, I have to talk to Joe now," I say.
"What happened to your shoulder?" Con asks.
"I don't know." I stare at the red mark spreading on my shirt.
"You rest," Con says as he folds up his police jacket, puts it on my shoulder and buckles the seatbelt over it. My mind is fuzzy. I can't concentrate.
"Gotta see Joe."
"Five minutes," Con says, and starts his police cruiser.
"No. Gotta let him know I'm alive. Iola died in a car bombing. Joe will think I'm dead."
"I gave Biker a ticket for speeding last week. Let me look up his info," Con says and types on the MDT (mobile data terminal) in his police cruiser. "Got it."
Con types a number into his cell phone and hands it to me.
"Come on. Pick up," I mutter, after the phone rings four times.
"What!" Biker shouts.
"How is Joe?" I ask.
"Good, until I called and you didn't answer."
"Put Joe on."
"He's listening."
"Joe, it's Frank. I'm ok."
Silence.
"My phone died. I'll be there in five minutes."
Silence.
"Biker, what's going on?"
"I don't know. He's just kinda shutting down."
"Joe, I need you to hang on. Con asked me to help process the crime scene. Nobody gets a second chance to hurt my brother."
"Hurt my brother," Joe repeats.
"No. You didn't hurt me. Joe, focus on my voice. I am three minutes from the hospital. This isn't like Iola."
"Like Iola," Joe says. "Frank is dead."
"Joe, I am alive."
"You walked into the fire looking for me. I blacked out, before I could stop you. I killed you, just like Iola."
Con switches on the police car's lights and siren.
"Biker, hit the call button!" I shout.
"I haven't stopped hitting it! Nobody answers!"
"Get a doctor! Now!"
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
"Joe?" I ask.
"I killed you, just like I killed Iola," Joe says, before the line goes dead.
1 "The Miraculous True Story of St. Michael Saving a U.S. Marine In the Korean War," UCatholic, blog, Billy Ryan, Dec. 13, 2018.
2 "How to Collect Physical Evidence in Inclement Weather," Caseguard, Jan. 4, 2016
3 "The Investigation of Explosion Scenes," James T. Thurman, The Detonator, Vol. 36, No. 4, pg. 51-58, July/August 2009