PK and Red:

I'm so sorry I emailed TA the wrong files for posting. Prologue is essentially the same, but some difference in chapter one. And yes, this trilogy is written as a Hardy Story in Supernatural-verse. And sadly, one does need to know something of both Supernatural and Hardy Boys for this story. I hope this clears things up somewhat. TA will still be doing the rest of the postings in the meantime. (Thanks, TA).My back still hurts - I re-strain it, then both me and baby got food poisoning while my hubby got his first taste of Hong Kong flu. On top of that, my broadband connection is really wonky and no one had any idea why yet.

OK- TA over to you. Cheers, Nomi.

The One That Got Away

By Nomi

CHAPTER 2

Initial Impressions

It was about half past ten in the morning, and a bunch of teenagers were sitting down on a half-cleared lawn taking a break from their morning exertions and chatting. They were all good friends attending the same high school. They and their parents were currently helping Biff and his father clear the mess left behind by the fire and the aftermath. The police had finally finished with their crime scene investigations, and the surviving family members were allowed to move back into their partially burnt down home.

"You know, this whole place is starting to feel like a ghost town rather than the homey Bayport I grew up in," Callie Shaw commented to her friends as she sipped on her ice-lemonade.

Eighteen year old dark haired Frank Hardy recalled his drive over to the Hooper's residence two hours back and had to agree with his girlfriend.

Today should have been one of those lovely Saturday mornings; the sky was clear and blue, and the air smelled fresh and crisp after a light but rare pre-dawn shower. Parents should be bringing their kids out to the numerous outdoor parks and woods for a little morning fun and exercise. Innocent childish laughter should fill the air, complementing loud chirping from the various birds that flew freely in nature-friendly Bayport. Yet as he drove, he could see that the playgrounds were bare, and the parks were empty. Even the greenery seemed duller than they should be.

"I hope they catch that serial killer soon," Chet Morton said fervently. "Mom's chafing over the fact that Dad insists someone accompany her wherever she goes."

Sympathetic looks were passed around the group. They all understood Chet's feelings all too well. An irritated mom makes a jittery home, and a very uncomfortable house to go home to.

"Tell me about it, Chet," Jerry Gilroy added glumly. "My mom's getting downright hostile about her lack of personal space. I got cold bread and jam instead of my usual warm buttered toast this morning."

Frank winced at the memory of his own cold breakfast. Given that all their moms were helping to clean up the interior of the house, Frank was struck by this sudden image of all their moms sitting around the kitchen table sipping tea and plotting to make their kids and husband's lives as uncomfortable as their own. He shook that ridiculous image away. It was clear all the mothers were chafing under the dual strain of the lack of personal space and fear of the killer.

Mrs. Angela Hooper was only the first of the victims. Since then five other women had been killed in a similar way at the rate of one every two or three days. Those six grisly inexplicable fiery murders were committed over a mere fifteen days. That was why the entire town was in jitters. Police had warned all matured age women in their forties to take extra care and to try not to be alone at home.

The Bayport Police Department had been working overtime trying to track and apprehend that psychopathic serial killer. So far they had been unsuccessful. The rate of the murders had forced the Town Council to approve an emergency budget to hire several members of the public sector of various expertises to assist in profiling and locating the killer, dubbed "Firestarter" by a number of local tabloids.

His father, Fenton Hardy, was a well-known PI. Fenton was one of those 'experts' roped in to assist in the police e in the past week.

"I supposed we can't ask you for details on the case, can we?" Phil Cohen asked his best friend.

"You know dad can't divulge information related to the case, guys. It might interfere with the investigation," Frank answered as he shook his head regretfully.

"You and Joe are not helping out with the case this time?" Tony Prito asked, surprised. Mr. Hardy often let his sons help out with the grunt work whenever possible.

"We are, but only peripherally this time," Frank said. "Dad made it clear that our first priority is to make sure mom's safe and never alone. Looking at the profiles of all the victims so far, I agree."

A silence settled on the group of friends as they spared a moment to remember the dead. Bayport was a small town, and almost everybody knew almost everybody else. The tragedy struck a little close to home this time, Frank admitted.

The latest victim was killed just last night. Her name was Mrs. Beatrice Carson and she lived just three blocks away from the Hardy residence with her teenage son. Mrs. Carson always reserved her largest homemade lollipop every Halloween for him and Joe every year when they went 'tricks and treating' as kids.

Then Phil's voice broke through the respectful silence.

"So, Frank, how do you feel being on the list of suspects that the fancy profiler from New York City drew up?" Phil's question, asked in the most casual tone, sent a ripple of shock, then anger through that group of close knitted friends.

"What are you talking about, Phil?" Callie demanded indignantly.

The others simply looked towards Frank and waited for him to respond. Liz Webling, whose father owned the local daily, The Bayport Times, sat up straight, instantly on full alert mode.

"Off the record, Liz," Frank responded calmly and chuckled as Liz groaned.

Frank waited for her to give a rather reluctant nod of consent before continuing.

"I supposed you are on the suspect list too?" Frank asked Phil, and watched as the others gape at the studious lad. That would one possible reason why Phil guessed that he was on that list.

"Aye," Phil confirmed. "They came and asked some questions yesterday."

"Are those smart-asses from New York crazy or something?!" Tony exploded.

"Actually, I would have questioned their competency if they didn't have me on their list of suspects," Frank said, surprising everyone. "But I am surprise you were on the list, Phil… ah, wait, the Dexter's and the Mariner's homes made use of your dad's company's latest security" systems."

Phil nodded.

"That still doesn't explain why the two of you were suspects!" Chet protested. "Surely those people can't be serious."

"It's in the profiling. I am guessing that there must be some tip off mentioning a young man or some young men walking away from the crime scene, am I right?" Liz asked, taking note that both Frank and Phil were dark haired and about the same height, though Frank's more muscular than Phil.

Frank smiled; Liz's guess wasn't that far off from what he knew.

"As you ready from the various media outlets, there were no signs of forced entry and all phone outlets were disabled, suggesting either a familiarity with each of the homes, or that the killer must have staked out the place for a while. The tightness of the time gap between each kill suggests the possibility of someone local. The fire burn quick and hot leaving behind no trace of what started it off in the first place – the temperature was so high hardly any part of the body was left behind for the forensic pathologist later. One way such a fire can be achieved would be through the controlled use of chemical flammables. Given that the police had no suspects, it is logical to take into consideration all the locals with good knowledge of chemistry as possible suspects. Given that all the victims were female, the profiler would logically tag the killer 'most probably male'. It would also be reasonable to presume that the killer would be someone young and strong," Frank explained without answering Liz's question.

And everyone knew Frank represented Bayport High at the National Chemistry Olympics last year. Phil represented their school in the Mathematics and Physics Olympics. Still, each took their time to digest what Frank just said.

"Biff's taking his mom's death pretty hard," Chet commented as he looked at his friend sitting alone at the end of the partially cleaned verandah.

"He shouldn't be alone over there," Tony muttered as he made to go over to his friend.

"Biff needs time and space to grieve, Tony. Give him that," Frank called out.

"How… ah…" Callie's voice tapered off as she answered her own question. Frank had to take care of Joe after his girlfriend, Iola, was killed in a car explosion just three months back. She felt a familiar sadness rise again. Iola Morton was her best friend.

"Frank's right, give him his space," Iola's big brother, Chet, concurred quietly. And Tony understood.

"And Joe… How's he?" Callie asked her boyfriend as she turned her eyes on the other person of their group that chose to sit alone by the only tree in the Hooper's backyard. "I noticed that he had been more tired and withdrawn lately."

Everyone knew that Joe took Iola's death hard. They knew from Frank that Joe had fiery nightmares for weeks after that ill-fated explosion. It was reasonable to assume that the recent fiery murders must have affected their friend somewhat. So they sat by and watched as Frank excused himself to go over to his brother.

Yes, Frank confessed the other reason why his involvement in this case was minimal was partially because of Joe. His dad was worried how the similarity between the current killings and Iola's death would affect Joe. Nevertheless, the father had kept his sons up to date with the findings of the case and even solicits their help for some basic groundwork. Fenton believed that the knowledge would help his sons protect their mother better. Frank could see that his father was right as usual. Joe had started getting nightmares again. Frank knew, even though his kid brother chose not to talk about it, because he could hear the screams of terror nightly for the last week.

Still, it is up to Joe when he feels ready to talk about it, Frank thought as he approached his younger brother.

That statement was a reflection of his faith in his brother's ability to handle that resurgence of nightmares. He was also confident that Joe would share the details of those nightmares when he was ready. So he simply reached out with his hand and placed it comfortingly on Joe's shoulder. He knew his brother would understand what that meant.

Joe sat alone under the shade of the tree, thinking about his dreams. It was true that he had been sleeping badly for the last two weeks. At first he thought he was remembering Iola's death in that explosion all over again. But as the fiery explosive nightmares returned night after night, growing in length and details, he knew it was something else. Then there were those women's fiery deaths. And last night… last night's dream… He could not help but shudder as the images went through his mind again.

That was when Joe felt the weight of his brother's hand on his shoulder and it calmed him a little. Frank's grip on his shoulder was light yet firm. As always, big brother's hand was steady and reassuring. For a short moment, he just sat there and enjoyed that quiet moment with his brother, letting the comfort Frank offered flow through him.

"Thanks, big bro," he said after a while.

"You're welcome, kiddo," his brother responded with the usual.

"I'm scared, Frank," Joe blurted out. This might not be the best place to be sharing confidences, but sometimes, there was no such thing as a best time or a best place.

"Share it with me?"

"I've been having dreams," he started.

Frank nodded and listened as he always did.

"Only that I think they're not really dreams."

He could see Frank's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"It started several nights before Mrs. Hooper was killed. The first dream was just a fire burning, the blue flames reaching out hungrily as if trying to grab something. Over the nights, it gets longer and more detailed. It always starts with a fire burning. Then there was the ceiling. The next to appear was a faceless woman who was held to that ceiling by some invisible force. She was bleeding from her stomach. Then a fire exploded out of her, the angry flames licking and consuming her flesh. I could feel the pain as her skin melts away in the heat. I could feel her terror…" he felt a shiver ran through him as he recalled the feel of her terror.

"Joe…" Frank wanted to explain to Joe that those dreams were likely just a reflection of everything his brother read or heard in the last two weeks manifesting as nightmares, but Joe cut him off.

"No! Let me finish. Last night, I had the most detailed dream to date. It started like always with a fire. Except this time, I could see the face clearly. It was mom. She was burning and screaming. And I was there, watching. Just watching…" Joe turned his troubled eyes to his brother. "Frank, I just stood there and watch… watch her burn to death."

Frank could feel his own heart pounding. There was something haunting in his brother's voice, a remoteness that drew him in. And there was an intensity emanating from Joe's eyes that sent chills down his spine. He could almost swear he felt the temperature about him dropped ten degrees. He shook his head a little to clear his mind. The tensions from the recent murders must be starting to get to him as well. Joe's not the type that would stand and watch others suffer. His kid brother's always the first to jump in to help anyone in trouble; that's why Joe's always in trouble himself in the first place.

"I think those are visions." Joe continued softly. "And I'm afraid, because I have this inexplicable feeling that mom's going to die, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it. Does that make sense?"

Frank opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was a logical person and do not believe in such things as the supernatural and visions. Ye t it was equally clear to him that Joe was serious this time. And Frank acknowledged that it is entirely possible for the serial killer to target their mom. Laura Hardy fit the current known victim profile of the serial killer: A matured age woman in her forties and a mother of teenage sons.

"The killer won't get mom. We won't let it happen, period." Frank said finally, infusing every bit of confidence he could into his voice.

Then someone was calling out to them. Both brothers stood up a little reluctantly. Frank caught Joe's hand in a firm and reassuring grip. We'll talk when we get home, he told his kid brother with his eyes. Joe acknowledged his brother's assurance gratefully.

"Hey Frank, Joe, there're two FBI agents here right now talking to Biff and his dad. Think you two can find out what's happening?" Chet asked them excitedly.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, surprised. It's unusual for FBI agents to do home visits on weekends. The two of them excused themselves and headed towards the living room.

"Ah, Frank, Joe, come over," Mr. Alexander Hooper invited the moment he saw them step into the living room.

"This is Special Agent Dean Winston," Mr. Hooper did the introductions. "And this is Special Agent Sam Kerr. This is Frank, and this is Joe. Their father, Fenton Hardy, is a well-known PI and is currently involved with the investigation. These two are also helping out. So they probably know more about the case then I do."

The four of them shook hands, eyed each other carefully, and smiled politely. But one could not miss the tension among the four of them.

Mr. Hooper supposed the FBI agents did not like the idea of kids interfering with what they considered to be adult work. Then again, those two agents were outsiders and had no knowledge of what the Hardy brothers were capable of.

Sam was staring at Joe and struggling to keep his shock from expression. That blond headed teenager was the boy in his visions. He had not expected to run into the boy so quickly. So the teen's name is Joe. Joe Hardy. Sam committed that name to memory. He could feel a connection flared between the two of them the moment they had eye contact. He saw Joe's eyes widened almost imperceptibly and knew that boy felt it too.

We'll have to catch up later somehow, he thought, and was surprise to feel something akin to a window or door slamming shut at him. He retreated into his own mind and soon locates the mental path to the lad's mind. Perhaps he should have questioned how he knew what to do. But he did not. Instead, he felt elated at the knowledge that he gained a new skill – telepathy. The lad had somehow shut him out at the moment. But Sam knew, with that mental path, he could locate the boy later. He retreated for the moment, and let Dean handle the current situation.

Joe felt the weight of Sam's eyes on him. It made him uncomfortable for some reason. Yet he felt a sense of déjà vu, as if he knew that guy from before somewhere. But he knew for a fact their paths never crossed as far as he could remember. He also knew from Sam's carefully controlled expression that the agent was feeling something similar. It was a strange feeling.

Then he felt something in his mind from Sam. No, he heard something that only he could hear in his mind. We'll have to catch up … His reaction was instinctive and immediate. He visualized a door and slammed it shut as hard as he could.

What just happened? Joe wondered, bewildered. His head was pounding and he could feel the start of a really bad migraine hitting him.

Frank Hardy did not like the way the one called Sam was eyeing his brother. But he liked the cocky devil may care attitude of the other agent even less.

"I do not remember seeing you around. You must be new on the investigation team. Things must be heating up, since I know it's not FBI policy to pay home visits on a Saturday morning unless there are some key developments," Frank commented casually to the older looking agent. "Sorry, I did not catch your name. Do you mind if I have a look at your ID?"

"Sure," Dean replied with a smile and he flashed his ID swiftly at the teen's face before quickly pocketing it. "Special Agent Dean Winston. You can call me Dean. We've just been assigned to assist the investigation given the high priority status."

I hate smart alec kids, fresh out of school and thinking they know everything, Dean thought. Man, they barely knew the half of the world they live in. Not the mention the other darker half. And just my luck to bump into one first thing in the morning.

Frank's eyes narrowed. There's something fishy about those two, he was certain. Nevertheless he smiled. He got the names, and that's all he need for the moment. He could get Joe to do the sketch later if needed be. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before the two agents bid them farewell and left most amicably.

It was then that he noticed Joe's pain-glazed eyes. Beads of sweat dotted his brother's brow, and his face was so pale, it was white.

"You okay?" Frank asked as he helped his brother down onto a seat.

"I think so…" Joe groaned. His skull felt like it had just been given a workout banging against the wall or something similar.

"I think you might be coming down with flu or something. You should go home and rest." Mr. Hooper said concern clear in his tone. "Don't worry, there's more than enough people here helping out."

"I'll go get your mom," Biff offered and head up the stairs.

Just a little over half an hour later, after tucking his brother into bed and leaving his mother cooking lunch in the kitchen, Frank made his way into his father's office. He promised his dad that they would take another thorough look at all the victims' profiles. But first, he had a call to make.

He picked up the phone in the privacy of his father's office and rang Sam Radley, his father's business associate and partner.

"Hello Sam, Frank here, I need you to help me look into the background of these two FBI agents: Sam Kerr and Dean Winston…"

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