Disclaimer: I do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).
Note: This story was written around the year 2002, so technology is not as advanced as it is today. People still used landlines! Also it was originally co-written with another person, to whom I give full credit for the plot, and heartfelt thanks.
Thank you to all those who have left comments and feedback; it is highly appreciated.
January Thaw
By EvergreenDreamweaver and Sparks JSH
Chapter 10
"She has?" Frank attempted to get to his feet, but Fenton put a firm hand on his shoulder and held him down.
"She followed the car to an older subdivision – on south 22nd Street," Joe continued. "She didn't dare get too close, though, and by the time she turned onto the street, the car was parked and empty. It was parked on the street, not in a driveway; it could be any of several houses."
"Let's go!" Frank pushed himself up again. "There isn't any time to lose!"
Once more his father restrained him. "You aren't going anyplace," he stated firmly. "You're going to stay right here and rest."
"But Dad!" Frank cried, "We've got to find them before something happens! This guy's got the plans now; what if he decides to – to do something – to kill—" He stopped speaking abruptly, and gulped, then buried his face in his hands. "I've got to find Megan…" he whispered. Fenton rubbed his shoulder comfortingly.
"Dad's right," Joe interposed. "You're in no condition to do a stakeout now. He and I can go—"
"Joe, I want you to stay here and keep an eye on your brother," Fenton said. "I'll go and check out the houses. You have the description of the car?" he asked.
"But Dad!" Now it was Joe who was protesting. "You shouldn't go alone – and I've seen the car; I can identify it. Mom can keep an eye on Frank—"
"Frank needs to rest, and I want you here with him," Fenton repeated. He looked from Frank to Joe, and his dark eyes twinkled a little. "Don't you trust me?" he teased them gently. "I'm not quite over the hill yet; I can still do surveillance without a bodyguard." He looked at the window. "The sun's down; it's going to be almost completely dark by the time I get there."
The boys exchanged glances; Frank's anguished brown eyes meeting Joe's excited blue ones. "Of course we trust you, Dad, "Frank said at last. "But you shouldn't go alone; Joe's right about that." He put his elbow on Fenton's desk and leaned his head on his hand. "Damn this headache!"
"Joe, write down as detailed a description of the car as you can give me—" Fenton began.
"I've got the license number!" Joe interrupted, scribbling hastily on a piece of paper. "And these are the houses Vanessa thinks are possibilities. Of course, they might have parked several houses away, and she doesn't know which side of the street—"
Fenton's lips twitched. "I'll work on it," he assured his son. "Thanks," he added, pocketing the slip of paper Joe handed him. "I'll leave right away. Frank, upstairs – now. Joe, go with him and make sure he lies down and stays put. When your mother gets back, tell her that I've gone out on a case, and I'm not sure how late I'll be."
As he talked, Fenton was busily shoving various items into his pockets; then he unlocked a desk drawer and drew out a shoulder holster and revolver, along with ammunition. "I'll find out what I can and then come back home; don't worry, Frank, you'll get your chance to find the girls." He briefly hugged Joe, then bent over Frank and clasped his shoulders tightly. "Try not to worry, son; I'll be back before you know it."
The boys watched in silence as Fenton departed, then Joe gently nudged Frank's arm. "Come on, let's go upstairs. I'm not sure how to explain your sudden headache to Mom, but I'll think of something."
Frank reluctantly got to his feet. "You don't have to explain it at all," he grumbled. "It's not a crime to have a headache." He massaged his temples, trying to rub away the pain. "Although I think it ought to be illegal to have one like this."
When Frank was stretched out on his bed, a cold compress against the back of his head and extra-strength aspirin inside him, Joe went into his own room to call Vanessa back and hash over the details of her tailing expedition. By the time he finished the conversation, he heard his mother come in, and loped down the stairs to inform her of what was going on.
"…said he's not sure how late he'll be, so don't hold dinner or wait up for him. Frank's lying down for a while; he's got a headache."
Mrs. Hardy looked concerned. "I knew he should have seen a doctor after that skating accident!" she murmured.
"Nah, he's okay," Joe assured her, mentally crossing his fingers. "But he'll probably nap through dinnertime. Don't worry, Mom, I'll eat his share!" He put his arm about his petite mother and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I'll eat Dad's, too!"
She laughed, diverted from her worries. "All right, all right. Scram now; out of here, or there won't be anything to eat!"
Joe, highly satisfied with his tactics, went into the family room and switched on the television. But while he sprawled on the couch apparently engrossed in ESPN, his thoughts were following his father across town, to a shabby neighborhood where Megan and Callie were possibly imprisoned.
##########
As darkness closed in, Callie and Megan sat in their armchairs, each cuffed once again. After much cajoling and pleading, they had convinced their guards that allowing them to take showers was in no way going to risk their escaping – as Callie had argued, "do you think I'm likely to break down the door and run out of the house in 10-degree weather in nothing but a wet towel? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?" and had been granted the privilege, following their lunch. Physically, they felt much better; mentally, they were still frightened and despairing.
"At least I feel cleaner," Megan murmured, running her free hand through her tumbled auburn curls. "That's a small improvement, anyway."
Callie nodded. "And I had an extra 24 hours of sitting here," she reminded her companion. "I really felt grungy." She wriggled a little, rubbing her back against the chair, then rubbed at her arm. "I still feel itchy, though."
Megan looked over at the door; she knew the guard stood just on the other side, within earshot. "I wonder what's going to happen now. Frank was supposed to deliver the security plans this afternoon – I suppose he did it, since we're still alive." Her voice quivered. "I don't want to die – but I didn't want him to do that, either."
"Frank wouldn't let us die….Sullivan hasn't been here all day," Callie replied. "Not since this morning. Do you suppose he's in the house and just hasn't come in here, or he's left altogether?" She squirmed and rubbed her leg. "I wonder if there was something in that soap that's making me itch so much…?"
"It doesn't seem to be bothering me," Megan replied. "And my skin's fairly sensitive." She looked critically at the other girl. "You do look sort of flushed. Maybe you're getting a rash."
Callie grimaced. "I don't feel very well, either. Did that clam chowder they fed us for lunch taste all right to you?"
Megan shrugged. "It tasted fine. What can you do to spoil canned clam chowder?"
"Nothing, I suppose." But Callie didn't sound too certain. "Maybe I'm just scared…."
"But you've been through this sort of thing so many times before—" Megan said sarcastically. "Or so you said. 'You get used to this sort of thing when you date a Hardy.' Is that why you broke up with Frank?" Her voice sharpened even more. "Why did you hurt him like that? Breaking up with someone you'd dated for five years by sending them an e-mail?"
Callie looked down at the floor, her cheeks crimsoning. "I've wondered that a thousand times since I did it," she admitted. "It was stupid, and cruel, and I know that now. I'd do it differently if I had it to do over again."
Megan frowned. She wanted Callie to feel remorseful; she didn't want her to wish she could undo the breakup! But it sounded like Callie wasn't heading in that direction….
"Tell me about it, why don't you? It will make the time go faster, maybe," she urged.
Callie wriggled in her chair again, and rubbed her stomach. "Well – you know that Frank and I had agreed that dating other people would be okay – that trying to stay a steady couple while I was so far from Bayport would be sort of silly."
"I understand that – go on."
"When I got to Colorado, I was really lonely at first. When my parents left, I felt like I'd been marooned on a desert island or something…didn't know a soul on campus, except my roommate, whom I'd just met!" She glanced over at Megan, who nodded encouragingly. "They have these freshman activities – sort of silly stuff, but it does serve to get you acquainted with people. The upperclassmen would do things like herding all the freshmen from a dorm out to the parking lot, when it was almost bedtime, for instance, where we'd meet up with the freshmen from a different dorm. And they made us play stupid games, there in the parking lot. Get-acquainted games; you know, like having to pass an orange down a line of people without using your hands; it's held under your chin."
Megan, intrigued in spite of herself, giggled at the thought, and Callie smiled reminiscently. "That's where I met Jonathan. We were trying to pass this orange – and he's six-foot-five. He had to crouch down to get his chin anywhere near mine….we dropped it." she added with a laugh. "After the games were over for the night, he asked my name, and where I was living, and if he could call me the next day. He was a lot of fun." Callie suddenly pulled one knee up, rubbing her leg and grimacing. "I really itch all over," she complained. "And my stomach is starting to hurt!"
"Tell me about Jonathan," Megan requested.
"He called, and we started going around together. He's on the football team, so we didn't have lots of time together, but when we did, he was there for me. And I guess I'm stuck learning about football whether I like it or not. It was sort of nice to go out with someone who didn't have to run off trying to save the world every other week." She smiled a little. "I wanted to have a normal relationship with a guy."
Megan unwillingly returned the smile. "I know what you mean," she admitted. "Frank and Joe do get a little obsessive about it sometimes, don't they?"
"I was wrong to be so blunt, with the e-mail," Callie went on. "I knew it at the time, too. But Frank never once said anything – he just sent me back that oh-so-cool message that I was probably right, and to enjoy my year. He didn't act as if he cared. We haven't corresponded since then. And when I ran into him at the mall, the day after Christmas, he told me about you. He'd mentioned that he'd met someone at school, in his letter," she added, "But he never told me your name, then." She shifted uncomfortably once more, and rubbed her stomach again.
"And not once has Jonathan canceled a date because of a terrorist bombing attack – or a bank robbery – or a kidnapping—" Callie's attempt at a joke fizzled when she said the last words, and sudden tears rolled down her cheeks. "I thought I was through with all that," she whimpered.
Megan felt a stab of contrition. "I'm sorry you got involved in it," she said. "Don't cry, Callie."
"It's not just – I mean, I'm scared, but – my stomach hurts!" Callie's tears flowed freely. "I feel like I did once when I ate crab by accident!"
"Huh?" Megan shook her head uncomprehendingly.
"Megan, call the guard – what's his name, Bob?" Callie twisted in her chair. "I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something!"
Megan obeyed the demand, and immediately the door opened to admit one of the masked guards. "Whassamatter?" he growled.
"She's sick." Megan indicated Callie. "She thinks she's eaten something she's allergic to."
"Was there any chance that crab or shrimp could have been in that soup we had for lunch?" Callie demanded, rubbing frantically at her shoulder.
"I dunno – maybe could have been," Bob replied.
"Well, I'm horribly allergic to shellfish. I break out in hives, and get sick to my stomach – and if it's bad enough, I can't breathe!" Callie squirmed. "I think I want to lie down…."
The guard shuffled over and unlocked the handcuff securing Callie to the chair, then took her arm and escorted her to the bed. She immediately curled into a ball, clutching at her stomach; Bob hovered over her uncertainly, holding the cuff.
"I need to put this back on," he reminded her. Callie ignored him, and began to cry again.
"Are you crazy?" Megan demanded. "Look at her! If you cuff her to the bed, that's tantamount to torture!" She tapped her foot impatiently. "Does she look like she's going to make an escape attempt?"
"Well – no," Bob admitted. "And tanta-what? We're not torturing anybody!" He attached one end of the cuff to the bedpost, but left the other end free. "Hey, kid, are you going to be okay?" he asked Callie.
She shook her head. "No – I think I'm going to be sick," she whimpered, and clapped a hand across her mouth.
The girls couldn't see Bob's face because of the mask, but his voice sounded as if he was feeling a little sick himself. "Oh hell!" he muttered. He grabbed Callie's arm to pull her up from the bed. "You better get into the bathroom, then."
Callie shrieked and yanked her arm from his grip. "Get away from me!" she screamed. "Don't touch me!" She curled into a ball again, moaning.
"I'll take her," Megan offered, "If you'll unlock this." She held up her wrist, indicating the handcuff.
"Hell," the guard growled once more, but he went over to Megan and unlocked her cuff. "Don't you try anything!" he warned her.
The little redhead shot him a poisonous glance. "I have no intention of 'trying anything'," she informed him, going over to the bed. "Come on, Callie, I'll help you."
She put her arm about the other girl, helped her to her feet and guided her toward the bathroom. Callie stumbled in, shutting the door behind her. In a few moments, the unmistakable sound of retching reached the two persons in the bedroom. Megan, leaning against the door, shook her head sympathetically. A bit later, following the sounds of flushing and water running in the sink, Callie emerged, her face pale and damp.
"Are you okay?" Megan asked her anxiously.
"For the moment." Callie shakily made her way back to the bed and lay down. "But I know it's not over yet…." She curled into a tight ball of misery once more. Megan, ignoring Bob, went into the bathroom and ran cold water on a washcloth, then returned to sit beside Callie on the bed and gently sponge her face.
"It'll be all right," she crooned. "You'll be okay…."
##########
An hour passed, then two. Callie had thrown up several more times; in between bouts of vomiting she curled up on the bed in tears, or rubbed frantically at her arms and legs, trying to ease the itching. Megan tried to soothe her, without a great deal of success. Bob, the guard, remained in the room, obviously nervous about the condition of his prisoners. Apparently he was the only one in the house, for no one else came to the room to relieve him, and he didn't dare leave.
Callie suddenly began to breathe heavily. She clutched Megan's hand tightly. "It's so hard – to breathe!" she panted.
"Callie, what can we do to help?" Megan asked her frantically. "Tell Bob; maybe he can get something that will help you."
"Antihistamine," Callie replied between gasps. "It – should be prescription stuff – but even over-the-counter would – would be better than nothing!"
Bob reluctantly approached the bed. "We don't have anything like that here," he said crossly. "Can't you get along without it?"
"Oh – sure!" Callie gasped. "What's a little – oxygen – anyway?"
"Are you ready to face a murder charge?" Megan demanded hotly, staring up at their guard with her beautiful turquoise eyes aflame. "She could die, right here! It's called anaphylactic shock, in case you don't know. A person's throat closes up – Callie can't get any air into her lungs."
Callie took a wheezing breath. "He – doesn't care, Megan!" she gasped.
"That's not true!" Bob protested. "I don't want you to die, kid." He sighed impatiently. "Okay, I'll run to the store and get you something. What is it you need?"
"Any antihistamine, Callie?" Megan asked the blonde. Callie, unable to speak at the moment, nodded her head. "Ask someone for the strongest antihistamine you can get without a prescription," she instructed their guard. "I'll make sure she's still breathing when you get back."
With a panicked backward glance at the bed, Bob exited the room, locking the door behind him, and the girls heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs, then the slamming of a door followed by a car engine starting up.
For a few moments, they were silent. Callie was scarcely breathing, and Megan, too, seemed to be holding her breath. Then Callie raised her head from the pillow.
"It worked," she whispered. Sitting up, she caught Megan in her arms, hugging the smaller girl tightly. "Let's get out of here, right now!"
"You were marvelous!" Megan hissed, returning the hug, then grabbing up her parka and slipping it on. She tossed Callie her coat. "How did you manage to throw up on cue like that?"
Callie grimaced. "It's a dubious talent, I admit. I've been able to do it since I was little – it's a sure-fire way to never be forced to eat Brussels sprouts."
"Do you have any other abilities – like getting through a locked door?" Megan asked softly.
"There are some advantages to dating a Hardy," Callie smiled and pulled her wallet from her coat pocket. She dug out a plastic store credit card and held it up. "I've seen the boys do this – now I'll find out if it's as easy as it looks."
A few moments of jiggling and manipulating resulted in a soft click as the lock released. The girls exchanged smiles of triumph, and Callie opened the door a tiny crack to scan the hallway outside.
"Looks all clear," she breathed, beckoning Megan to follow her.
Tiptoeing, the two made their way down a staircase, and looked for the front door.
"There," Megan pointed, and she and Callie hurried toward it, still trying to listen for any possible pursuit.
Callie reached it first, and turned the knob. "Not even locked!" she hissed, and grabbed Megan's hand. The two of them stepped through the opened door, into the bitterly cold night air. They had taken perhaps three steps when they heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
"Well, girls – going out for a little walk, were we?" a silky bass voice inquired.