Boosting - Chapter 17

Joe settled back down onto the porch steps and took a long drink from his bottle of beer, watching Frank taking sips from his own drug-laced bottle. "How you feeling, Frank?"

"Knee's a bit stiff is all, bro, it'll be better by morning."

"That's good, dude, although I wasn't meaning your knee. I thought you might, you know, be ready to have a chat about things, now that we've cleared the air about the job situation? You did say last night that you would."

"What sort of things?" Frank asked, sounding disinterested and returning to his bike.

"About the Pandora Posse and everything that happened. Maybe get a few things off your chest – those dreams you've been having?"

The wrench Frank was holding suddenly slipped from his fingers and he clumsily grappled with it before it finally fell to the ground. He flashed Joe a strange, unreadable look before scooping it up and returning his attention to the bike. "I don't have anything I want to get off my chest. If I wanted to talk things though, I'd do that with my doctor."

"I don't believe you," Joe said evenly.

"Don't believe what? That I don't have anything to talk about, or that I talk to my therapist?"

"Both—"

Frank chuckled humourlessly, a hard, grating noise. "With all due respect, it doesn't matter what you believe, bro." He picked up his beer again and drank some more. "Pass me that other wrench, would you?"

Joe handed it across. "Are you ever goin' to share? I might want to talk you know, pal – we were all affected by it!"

Frank appeared to be considering the very valid point Joe had made. "I'm not stopping you from talking."

"Dude, you so are! How can I when it's like tryin' to converse with a brick wall?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "Can't help you with that one, Bro. I'm sorry you feel that way. I'm not a 'sharing' kind-o guy."

"Whatever! You never used to be like that." Joe muttered. "Sit out here and drink your beer." He left huffily to go into the cabin and play with the telescope.

Fifteen minutes later, Joe came to stand in the doorway again to see what progress, if any, the sedative was making. Frank was still fiddling with his bike, but now was on the other side of the machine looking at his hands as though he had sausages for fingers. Joe leaned up against the banister and observed the empty beer bottle resting on the top step of the porch. "How's it goin'?"

"I…erm…yeah, okay, almost done," Frank answered. "Only—"

"Only what?"

Frank reached up and grasped on to the handlebars of the bike to pull himself up onto his feet. He turned to Joe with his eyebrows knitted into a worried expression. "I feel…weird!"

Joe casually meandered down the steps to approach him. "What? Even more weirder then usual?"

"Very funny, Bro. Groggy weird, almost like—" and then he staggered and began to drop.

"Whoa!" Joe exclaimed, covering the last couple of steps at a run to catch his older brother before his fall resulted in him crashing into the bike. Joe bore his weight, Frank already unable to support himself fully. "I gotcha!" Joe said, readjusted his posture and smoothly hoisted his brother up into a classic fireman's carry. "Those pills are good!"

Frank was so surprised that he just allowed it to happen, his body loose.

"This is all those sleepless nights catching up with you!" Joe assured him and carried him indoors, "or maybe you can't hold your liquor?" He moved speedily across the seating area.

"What?" Frank asked, muffled from over Joe's back.

Joe entered his brother's bedroom and dipped to turn the bedclothes down with his free hand, before unfurling Frank onto the mattress. "You're over-tired, Frank, so your body's telling you to have a nap," he explained vaguely and sat down.

"Bull! I know what you did! Drugging your own brother, Joe? That's a new category of low." Frank glared challengingly up at him through heavily lidded eyes.

Joe said nothing in response to deny the accusation – Frank had worked it out anyway, so what was the point? But then something happened that caused Joe to realise that Frank had only really suspected it, didn't want to believe it – that was, until Joe had failed to refute the claim.

A micro-expression of betrayal washed over Frank's face and seconds later, a surprised Joe found himself exiting at breakneck speed from the bed, hitting his shoulder against the nightstand, the collision resulting in both him and the small table hitting the floor at the same time, a lamp missing his head by mere inches. The shrill words "You suck!" following on loudly.

Frank still clearly had enough whits to have noted that Joe was so close to the edge of the bed that he was off balance. One quick, carefully placed almighty shove later, and Joe had disgracefully tumbled off, allowing Frank the opportunity to throw his quick angry insult and make a bid of escape – his legs might not have been working properly, but there was nothing wrong with his upper body strength!

Joe got slowly up, unable to move at speed as the wind had been knocked out of him and his shoulder was burning. He started rotating it in its socket to relieve the pain and watched as Frank stood up on the other side of the bed, intent upon leaving the room, possibly even the cabin. However, he only managed to take three weaving, staggered steps before spinning awkwardly on the balls of his feet. He landed on his side with a thud, got up onto his knees and made a clumsy forward lunge, collapsing face down, half in and half out of the doorway.

"Why is this happening?" Frank asked himself, sounding crushed. "Why can't people just leave me alone?" He raised himself again half onto his knees and slithered out of sight on the polished wooden flooring.

Joe wasn't sure what sort of a reaction he'd expected. Yes, he didn't think he'd be happy, but this strength of response was wholly unforeseen. He'd counted on Frank simply surrendering himself to sleep, but obviously that wasn't to be. Now there was the worry that if Frank didn't calm down, he'd end up injuring himself. How could such a simple plan have gone so wrong?

So Joe rounded the bed in pursuit and stepped through the doorway to find that Frank had pulled himself across the length of the seating area and was now at the dining table, reaching out in order to use it to help himself back to his feet – no doubt to leave via the wide-open front door. "You're not goin' anywhere!" Joe said, determinedly.

Frank glanced back. "Stop being a jerk and leave me alone!" he shouted, desperately trying to scramble away as his younger brother strode across.

Ignoring Frank's protestations, Joe placed one leg on either side to sit down heavily across his bother's hips and stop his progress. Frank rolled onto his back to meet him and Joe found himself instantly blocking attacking arms. "Frank, can't you see you're wasting energy fighting me? Dude, the pills are fully in your system. Heck, I could leave you rolling about on the floor; you're goin' to pass out eventually with or without my help. I'm only stopping you from hurting yourself…HEY!" Horrified, Joe hit Frank's hand sharply as his fingers made a move to make himself vomit. "Frank, man… what the hell?!"

"Get off me, get freakin' off me right NOW!" Frank shouted, putting up a fierce fight. "I don't want to sleep, bro, what's the matter with you?" He went back to stretching for the leg of the table, but Joe grabbed the arm and yanked it back to hold it down.

"Quit thrashing about, would ya Frank…it's like dealing with a squirming kid!" Joe was beginning to lose his cool. He was starting to get annoyed at being jostled about as Frank made concerted efforts to buck him off.

"You've got no right doing this – no right!" Frank's breaths coming in short sharp gasps as he next tried to roll over, so Joe aimed a firm hand high up on his chest to hold him down and wait for the sedative to take full effect.

Although Frank was much weakened, Joe still didn't want to try manoeuvring such an unwilling and strong patient to his bed in such an excitable state. But things were looking up – Joe noted with satisfaction that although Frank was still battling, his physical struggling was becoming weaker and the hand set up high on Frank's chest was having the desired effect of holding him steady. "Relax, yeah? Stop freaking out!"

Frank gripped onto Joe's shirt. "Don't do this to me, I'm begging you. You don't know what you're doing!"

Joe shook his head and stared out through the front door, no longer prepared to engage with Frank's irrationalness, even visually.

In due course Frank's struggles became more and more pathetic and intermittent until he wasn't moving at all, his grip loosening and slipping from his brother's front, landing with a gentle thud next to his waist. He was still vocalising however, even if less lucidly, loudly and less frequently.

Joe took the gamble of lifting hovering hands, ready to drop them back if Frank was faking, but he didn't move, simply gazed back, so Joe dismounted and went to slip off his brother's boots and socks and throw them to one side. Then he pulled down the zipper of his jacket and worked limp arms free of it and lastly stripped him of his heavy sweater. By the time he'd finished, Frank's eyes were closed and he didn't appear conscious.

He moved to pull Frank up into a seated position and dipped to put his arms around Frank's body and pull him in close to raise both himself and his brother until they were both upright, Frank's cheek leaning heavily against his shoulder. Lifting his brother off his feet in a bear hug, he lugged him ungainly into the other room again and half threw him down onto the bed. "Sorry Frank. Hope I didn't hurt ya?"

Frank must have still been half-awake after all because he was looking back at Joe again and darkly murmuring.

Finally, Joe placed his brother into the recovery position, manoeuvring his head closer to the edge of the bed so that if he vomited, he wouldn't choke or asphyxiate.

"Joe…don't—" Joe was able to hear what Frank was saying now that his head was so close to his mouth.

Crouching, Joe talked directly into Frank's face. "It's too late. You can tear a strip off me in the morning, but right now, you are sleeping, dude, whether you like it or not!"

"Don't send me there—"

"It's for your own good." Joe pulled the blankets up over his brother, hoisted the table back into place and replaced the lamp before sitting down on the floor with his back against the nightstand. He went back to rubbing his sore shoulder.

"You don't know…what you've done—" Frank slurred and his eyes closed. Two seconds later they opened again for a moment, and with a haunted expression he whispered the words: "Back off—" and then he was silent.

For a nanosecond, Joe thought he saw a flicker of fear as Frank's eyes slid closed for the final time and he slept deeply, but he discarded the theory almost as soon as it entered his head. "You put up quite a fight there, Frankster – you're not well, are you?" The thought occurred to him as to how their roles had lately reversed. Anyone looking in from the outside would be forgiven in assuming that he was the older brother, not the other way around.

*****

Fenton had bidden goodnight to Hannah two hours before with a promise that he wouldn't stay up for much longer. He had practically lied to her, truth be told. His brain was too full of information, the pull of his sense of duty too strong. He felt that every second of downtime he allowed himself meant the longer Bobbie Shandley would be missing, and there would be less of a chance of finding her at all.

Sleep deprivation had never worried him much; he regularly survived on five hours a night. Laura hated it, but that was the way of his body clock. He was a night owl, she a sleepy head. What was of concern, however, was that he was gazing at the maps that Bobbie had worked so hard on, and neither were making much sense.

When Fenton had packed away her belongings at the hotel, he'd come across another smaller map that had been left open on the dressing table. It was of River Heights, upon which Bobbie had laid down dots into a more concentrated spread. Why she'd done this purely for Nancy's hometown was anyone's guess, but she'd gone to a lot of trouble.

Fenton was working on the assumption that Bobbie had seen something that had prompted her to leave the hotel that day, and felt he should try and work out what it was and follow on after her. But what she'd spotted was eluding him, and it was burning his ego – how had such an inexperienced, young, would-be-P.I. been able to see something he couldn't?

Hannah had been kind enough to allow him to commandeer the dining room in his quest and he'd recreated the montage of pictures on the walls, the maps taking center stage. The trouble was, it hadn't helped, he felt like all the doors that had previously been wide open in his brain, the one's that allowed the free flow of contemplation and reflection had been closed. Maybe he was more tired than he thought?

He raised his palms in annoyance and then let them drop to his side with a slap. If only Con was with him, they could at least throw around some ideas, have a brain storming session. It was hard to do that on his own, impossible.

Fenton decided to allow himself ten minutes of relaxation to think of anything other than those darned maps and started making his way to the kitchen to help himself to a coffee. He didn't bother to turn on the hall light; he didn't want to disturb Hannah. Instead, he laid his fingertips against the wall and walked along, tracing his path until his hand was stopped by the edge of the doorframe. He entered the room and reached out to where he expected the light switch would be, but his hand landed on nothing. He put his flat palm against the wall and started sweeping, but after 30 seconds, he knew he wasn't going to find it, so he turned and started feeling his way back again to switch on the hall light, as he should have done in the first place!

He was about half way along when he discerned a shuffling noise behind him and was halfway to turning when something hit him hard across the back of the head with a resounding metallic clang, the force propelling him forward and jarring his neck. The hand that was still connected with the wall instinctively groped for support, but he felt himself sliding forward anyway, dazzling stars dancing in front of his eyes, unable to halt or slow his descent. He didn't feel himself hit the floor, must have blacked out for an instant, but then felt itchy carpet riding hard up against his cheek. A great weight bore down on his back as a body dropped down on to him and something was pushed firmly between his shoulder blades.

"Don't move an inch! Move and I'll pull the trigger."

Fenton squeezed his eyes even tighter shut, trying to cope with the solid hurt that was gripping the back of his head in a vice, making him feel sick. He had to make a real effort to speak, and when he did, it was delivered in a drunken slur. "I know the difference between a gun, and someone using their finger!"

"Wha—?" asked the astonished voice. The finger withdrew.

Light suddenly flooded the space. Fenton didn't know who'd done it, but he'd seen the atmospheric change through his eyelids and it made his head hurt even more. He pushed a hand to his eyes.

Then came Hannah's squawking voice. "Carson! What on earth are you doing?" she snapped and gasped. "What have you done, you silly man!?"

"Wasn't my fault!" Carson Drew argued, sounding to Fenton like he was a big kid having been caught scrapping by his mother. "I came home to find him creeping about in the dark and thought it was a burglar!"

"You are so grounded!" Fenton thought.

"He's not a burglar, he's a house guest!"

"Hannah! Are you inviting in waifs and strays again?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Fenton felt the weight finally shift off and the touch of gentler hands. "Goodness, are you all right?" Hannah asked, stroking the back of his neck.

Fenton didn't answer; he couldn't, afraid he'd throw up if he attempted to and he didn't want to ruin the nice carpet. So he waved with his free hand instead.

Carson sounded aggrieved. "You could have warned me he was here. I hit him over the head with a frying pan! I assumed we were being robbed, or worse. Who is he anyway?" His voice had grown louder as he leaned in closer. "Fenton Hardy, is that you?" he asked after a pause, all astonishment.

"Yes." Fenton muttered and moved his hand down to squint up at him, seeing four concerned blue eyes and an elongated mop of brown hair hanging freely down over an unfeasibly wide forehead. There was no sign of Hannah. He hoped she hadn't gone far, he needed some comfort.

"I'm sorry Fenton," he said sheepishly. "Did I hurt you?"

"Well…duh! Can you both argue a bit quieter." He went back to shading his face with his hand again. "I didn't know you had a twin."

Carson Drew snorted.