Disclaimer: We do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, nor do we own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and are making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s). Co-written with Talefeathers of the HDA.

For those of you who are not familiar with The Sentinel's characters, we hope this will be a pleasant introduction to them for you. For those of you who are already acquainted with Blair, Jim, Simon and the others – enjoy! Trying to fit these four stories into two different story arcs [Hardy Boys and The Sentinel] just barely worked. Band of Brothers and Welcome to Cascade take place before September Song [Hardy universe] begins, and any time after The Perfect Partner [Sentinel universe]. Missing Persons happens right after Fanfare for June [Hardys]; A Matter of Public Record takes place any time between Death on the Fourth of July and February Flirtations [Hardys], and before Remodel and Rebuild [Sentinel].

This particular story was written in 2007. Technology does not match today's levels.

Missing Persons

A Hardy Boys/Sentinel Crossover Story

By EvergreenDreamweaver & Talefeathers

Chapter 11

It was a full hour before Jim began to return to consciousness, and by that time Joe and Fenton were getting very worried. They'd both had considerable experience with getting knocked out, and knew that prolonged unconsciousness wasn't a good sign.

Joe wracked his memory, trying to recall whether or not he'd heard either Blair or Jim mention any prior difficulties like this. Allergies, yes – he remembered Captain Banks saying that Jim had drug sensitivities, after he'd been shot. But now? He hadn't been given anything that would cause this – had he? Vaguely, he could recall hearing Jim's voice in the back of his mind...he'd said something once – when they were trying to find Frank and Blair and Daryl. Something about concentration. That when he concentrated he sometimes sort of got...lost.

"Look, if you think I'm starting to drift, shake me or say something to me, okay? Tap me. Hell, slap me, if you have to."

Well, it didn't look like Ellison was concentrating on anything right now, but he might have been, before...at any rate, there was no way Joe was going to slap an unconscious man with a head injury, that was certain!

Every few minutes either he or Fenton would try to rouse the comatose detective, but so far they had had no success. It was his turn now. He began rubbing Ellison's wrist and forearm gently, and talking quietly to him.

"Jim? Detective Ellison? Can you hear me?" He paused a moment, waiting and hoping, then resumed the gentle stroking. "C'mon Jim, wake up, huh – hey, there you go!" Joe gasped as Ellison abruptly stirred under his hand. Fenton leaned closer, watching intently. "Jim?"

The big man didn't open his eyes, but his face screwed up in a grimace of pain, and one hand lifted, reaching...searching..."Sandburg...?"

"No...sorry, it's not Blair. It's Joe."

Slowly, Ellison's eyes opened. He winced, blinked a few times and then squinted up at Joe. "Joe...?" The gaze sharpened as Jim realized who it was he was staring at. "Joe!?"

Joe grinned in relief. "Yeah, it's me. Welcome to our little hideaway."

Jim dazedly pushed himself up onto one elbow, and flinched, grunting with pain. Fenton moved forward to brace him. "Take it easy."

Ellison turned his head and surveyed a stranger with a familiar face – a face that showed him what Frank Hardy probably would look like in 20 years. "You must be Fenton," he said faintly.

Hardy's dark eyes twinkled, which made him resemble his elder son even more. "Well, if I must, I must," he said, "but if I had my druthers I'd rather be—"

"DAD!" Joe interrupted, turning crimson. "Not that old joke about Meryl Streep!"

"Meryl Streep nothing," his father said blandly. "I was going to say I'd rather be Clint Eastwood!"

Ellison began to chuckle despite the pain arcing through his head.

Joe sighed heavily. "Jim, meet my father, Fenton Hardy," he offered. "A private detective with a hidden desire to be a standup comedian. Dad, Detective Jim Ellison."

"We've talked on the phone," Fenton said, extending his hand, "but it's nice to meet in person. Although this wasn't quite what I had in mind for a meeting place. No seafood buffet."

Jim laughed painfully and reached for Fenton's hand, sitting up a little more – and winced again. "Ow," he muttered, putting the hand to his head instead. Encountering the bandage, he frowned in puzzlement. "What happened to me, anyway?"

"Why don't you lie down again?" Fenton suggested, and eased the other man back to rest on the pillow. "We can't do anything but sit here, so you might as well take it easy. As for what happened, we aren't sure, but we think maybe you walked face-first into a blackjack. I realize it's a lot of bandage for a small cut, but we didn't have anything better to work with."

Ellison's frown was more of concentration now than bewilderment. "Oh yeah," he murmured. "I was just going to leave the hotel room when some guy opened the door..." Now he remembered: the sudden blaring car alarm from the parking garage which had ricocheted through his head and caused him to freeze a moment in the pain of a sensory spike. That moment had evidently been his undoing. Sandburg'll be so pissed...Oh Lord. Pissed nothing...he'll have a panic attack when he finds out I'm gone! "How long – what time is it?"

Joe looked at his watch. "Five-thirty-eight, Monday evening. You were dumped in here about four o'clock. You were out a long time; we were getting pretty worried. What hotel room?" he added.

Must've been partially zoned or something...Cautiously, Ellison visualized his mental dials and grimly noted that the one for pain was inching into what he inwardly termed the 'Red Zone.' He concentrated on pulling it down, bit by bit, until the savage headache eased somewhat.

"Um...a room at the Silver Reef," he answered Joe's question at last. "Do you have any idea why we've all been taken and stuck in here?"

"I'm thinking it's some sort of mistake...I mean, from what I overheard after they grabbed me, Bobbi Van Lansing was trying to avoid me, why I don't know – but it's her associates that keep dragging us all in here," Fenton mused. "Not her idea."

Jim reached automatically into a pocket, searching for his phone, and frowned in disappointment. "They must have searched me," he sighed, patting at all his pockets. "Even took my badge!"

As if on cue, suddenly the sound of a voice raised in utter fury reached them; although the speaker was downstairs both Joe and Fenton could hear it; to Jim it was crystal-clear.

"You did WHAT? ANOTHER person? And this...this..." The voice was rising, escalating from furious shouts into shrieks of incredulity. "You kidnapped...a COP? What were you...how could you..."

"Jeez, Bobbi, he was in mine and Bruno's room, snooping! What'd you expect me to do?"

"How about leave him alone!? Do you have any idea what you've done to us?" She was nearly crying now. "You assaulted a police officer...Darius, DO something! We're all going to be in jail for years at this rate!"

"Calm down, Cuddles; we'll work something out." Sutherland was much quieter than Bobbi; Jim had to notch his hearing up slightly to catch what the man was saying. He did it cautiously, for his head still ached quite badly. "Maybe we could just sort of...dump them...somewhere."

"Dump them...Dar, you're not saying...you wouldn't..."

"No! Jesus, Bobbi, what do you take me for?"

"I don't know...I'm sorry...I'm just scared, Dar! This has all gotten way out of hand – and it's all THEIR FAULT!" There was a crash as of something being slammed or thrown. Fenton and Joe both heard it; Jim flinched at the impact on his throbbing head and shoved the dials ruthlessly down.

"Bobbi's not happy," he said unnecessarily, and quirked a wry smile at his fellow captives.

#####

"Cuddles, dearest," Darius Sutherland began hesitantly, ducking as another of Cousin John's mugs shattered against the wall, the splattered liquid contents creating Jackson-Pollack-like trails to the floor.

"Bobbi," he attempted again, having decided that the use of his favorite nickname was not quite appropriate at this time, "Bobbi, love, calm down. We can figure a way out of this. It's really not as bad as you think-"

"Not as bad as I think?" Bobbi shrieked in reply, grabbing yet a third mug and flinging it angrily against the wall. "Not as bad as I think?"

Darius shot a quick glance towards his two long-time friends, who were cowering a few feet away, and nodded towards the door. Perhaps his girlfriend would calm down if the other two left the room; a sort of 'out-of-sight, out-of mind' philosophy. Bruno nodded once and nudged his cousin out the door, secretly grateful to get out of the line of fire.

Darius flinched as a fourth mug impacted the wall, adding the final touches to his girlfriend's spontaneous attempt at modern art. Taking a moment to double-check that there were no other small, hard objects nearby that could be used as potential projectiles, he took a deep breath and slowly approached Bobbi.

The young woman was standing quite still, now, her chest heaving with angry breaths, her hands clenched into fists. Darius cleared his throat nervously, causing her to look up at him. She stood up taller, straightening her shoulders and shaking out the tension in her hands, allowing her arms to fall loosely at her sides.

"So, Darius, darling," she finally said, sarcasm thick in her voice, "care to explain to me just how it is that the fact that we have three captives – one of whom is a COP, and all of whom were assaulted – is not as bad as my overactive imagination leads me to believe it could be?"

"Well," her boyfriend began, "I admit it isn't the most ideal situation—"

"Most ideal situation?" Bobbi parroted back in exasperation.

"But, it's not as bad as it could be," he continued doggedly. He jumped ahead before she could react to that statement. "Look, I agree, it's a bad situation – one we never expected to happen, but we can still get out of it."

"How, Dar?"

"Well – er – well, we could leave – you, me, Bruno and Rico, I mean, and just leave a note for the cops." The young man smiled nervously.

"Just leave a note for the cops?" Bobbi asked, brows raised high.

"Yeah," Darius replied, a mixture of trepidation and hope in his eyes.

"And just what, Darius darling, would we say in this note? Hmmm? 'Dear Captives and Friends of Captives, we apologize for any inconvenience your inadvertent kidnappings may have occasioned. We hope you have enjoyed your stay, and will come again. Sincerely, Bobbi Van Lansing and Darius Sutherland?"

"Sure," Darius responded with nervous enthusiasm, before shaking his head, "No! I mean, yes – leave a note as an apology, but don't sign our names."

"Dar, you aren't thinking straight again," Bobbi began with an exasperated sigh, "By now, they have to know that I'm involved. They've SEEN me, remember? If we couldn't just leave Fenton Hardy to be found when we only had him, we certainly can't just leave them now. Even if we left them, without telling the police, they'd come after me. You too. And now they know about Bruno and Rico. Do you really want to be fugitives?"

"But at least as fugitives we'd be free, and not trapped in a house in Cascade. We have our passports, we could leave now, drive up to Canada, take the money I got from the Moranos, hire a charter jet. We could be anywhere else in the world in a matter of hours."

The rush of words ended as suddenly as it had started, blanketing the couple in a tense silence. Darius held his breath and fidgeted nervously before remembering he was supposed to be working on not being so jittery. He took a deep breath and plastered a bright smile on his face. 'I am NOT nervous,' he repeated mentally, as he waited for Bobbi's reaction.

"My passport is at the hotel, in the hotel safe," Bobbi mentioned softly, slowly coming to the conclusion that the only way out of this mess would be to flee the country as Darius suggested.

The smile on the young man's face turned genuine. Bobbi didn't seem so mad anymore, and maybe his idea might actually work. "The one in your room?" he ventured to ask.

"No. The small safe in my room was broken. I asked to keep my valuables in the hotel's main safe until it could be fixed."

Darius' handsome face scrunched up into a thoughtful mask as he pondered this new bit of information. He was definitely much happier now. His girlfriend had lost that pinched look around her eyes – the look that warned him that she was angry. "Could the night desk receptionist open the safe for you?" he asked with growing confidence.

"I don't believe so. I think I remember them telling me that if I needed anything out of the main safe, I would have to wait until morning."

"Well, then," the young man answered, as he ran a hand through his hair, much more hopeful about the situation, but still a bit uneasy, "I suppose we have to wait until morning." Besides, he thought, he'd still need to replace the mugs and clean the coffee stains.

#####

Frank Hardy lay on the long couch in the living room of the loft. Blair had made sure he was comfortable before retiring to his room, but it didn't seem to matter whether he was comfortable or not; sleep was not going to come this night. There were too many things tormenting his mind. His body ached for sleep; demanded it, but his mind would not let him rest.

His and Joe's decision to come to Cascade was supposed to have solved the mystery of their father's whereabouts – not compounded it. Imagined scenes of Fenton and Joe's possible tortures troubled him; guilt at letting Joe be kidnapped assailed him; chagrin at being an indirect cause of Jim's capture overwhelmed him, resulting in a tumultuous torrent of emotion. And stronger than any of those was the sense of anger and frustration at meeting failure at every step of the way!

The young man shifted restlessly, doing his best to remain silent. He had no wish to disturb Blair, if the detective had been fortunate enough to fall asleep. Blair needed his sleep – and he had been so distraught over his roommate's disappearance...

The soft creak of a door being opened and an even softer footfall alerted him to the fact that he was not the only one suffering from insomnia. Frank sat up, trying to ascertain in the dimness of the loft that it was, indeed, Sandburg, and not some intruder. His movement and indrawn breath sounded loud in the silence – but at least it would serve to signal Blair that he was awake.

Sandburg's reaction was immediate. "Can't sleep either?" he asked in a low voice, turning towards Frank.

"No," Frank answered. "My mind won't log off."

"May as well keep each other company, then." Blair moved to the corner with long-accustomed ease and reached for the lamp. "Shade your eyes," he warned softly, and turned the switch to its lowest setting. He perched on the back of the yellow chair, regarding his houseguest somberly. "You all right?"

"Yeah...I guess." Frank knew neither one of them were all right, but desired at least some pretense of normalcy.

Blair smiled at him, a little sadly. "Feel like having some hot chocolate?" he asked. "Supposed to be a sure-fire sleep aid."

"Sure." Frank settled back on the couch, curling up under the soft quilt Blair had provided him when he went to bed. For mid-June it was surprisingly cool, he thought – and then remembered the Northwest magic of warm days and cool – almost chill – nights. He stared at the bookshelves thoughtfully as Blair rattled around in the kitchen, and noticed a chessboard peeking out from a lower shelf. A few minutes later he found a mug of hot chocolate being pressed into his hands. "Thanks," he murmured, and sipped gingerly. "'S good," he added, managing a smile.

Blair sat down on the loveseat, and the two men sipped their beverages in companionable silence. After a short time Frank's curiosity got the better of him. "You play chess?" He nodded towards the board.

"A little," the detective acknowledged, following his gaze. "Jim's more the chess buff than I am; it's a military strategy thing, I think. But I play some, yeah. You?" He eyed the board wistfully, thinking of the games he and Jim loved to play on long winter evenings in the cozy loft.

"A little," Frank echoed, not bothering to mention that he loved chess, was very good at it, and had spent some time playing against and devising strategies with the Soviet Junior Chess champion, Pyotr Zigonev, a year or so before. A tiny but genuine smile curved his mouth.

"Want to play?" Blair got up and fetched the board and a small wooden box containing the chessmen. "It would at least be a distraction, since neither of us can sleep."

"Sure," Frank agreed, welcoming anything that would keep his mind occupied and away from its endless cycle of worry.

"Let's set it up here," Sandburg suggested, moving to the dining table. Frank brought the mugs from the living room and placed them in the sink, then took his place at the table. The two settled down for a classic battle of strategy.

That is, they both intended for it to be a classic battle of strategy. Unfortunately, neither one was able to keep his attention focused on the game for more than a minute or two, which resulted in poorly calculated, half-hearted moves.

Blair was the first to look up and concede defeat. "I don't think this is much of a war," he stated wryly, tipping his king over.

Frank snorted and shook his head. "Hardly," he agreed. He regarded the game board again before continuing. "This knight," he said, pointing to one of his white knights, "managed to get himself captured by this black pawn. And this bishop," he went on with another shake of his head, "got himself captured too quickly too. It was a stupid move on my part."

Blair stared at him for a moment, then abruptly shoved the game pieces off the board and onto the table. He picked up the white knight and the white bishop and set them together in one corner of the board. He took the victorious black pawns and placed them close to the two white chess pieces. He looked up and made sure he had Frank's attention before he slowly picked up a white rook and placed it in the corner too. "This rook managed to get captured too easily, too" he stated softly.

Frank looked at him in mild confusion. What was the man talking about, anyway? But Blair hadn't finished.

"And the white knight and white rook that have been left behind," the Cascade detective continued as he selected the pieces and placed them at the other end of the board, "have to figure out who the black pawns are, and where and why their friends have been taken."

Frank smiled, understanding now. He selected the black queen and handed her to Blair. "We know there's a black queen that has to be involved somehow," he said. Blair nodded his head thoughtfully as he added the black queen to the corner with the captive pieces and the black pawns.

"And we probably know the identity of the pawns, too," he offered.

"The two men Ms. Van Lansing and her friend were known to hang around with," Frank concurred. "The ones whose room Jim disappeared from."

"Which means," Blair continued as he selected another chess piece, "that the black king is probably Darius Sutherland."

"And that means—" Frank began enthusiastically before coming to a sudden halt. "That means...what? It doesn't really help us any."

"Except to remind us of the one other player involved," Blair said thoughtfully. "The one most easily forgotten."

"Who's that?"

"The one who might be able to lead us back to the black king," the detective answered, as he placed a black bishop in the corner where the lone white rook and white knight stood. "John Sartellis."

###

Eventually they gave up and went back to bed, and surprisingly, to sleep, although neither of them slept more than a few hours. Frank was marginally comforted by Blair's assurance that when they managed to contact John Sartellis, things might start to break loose. Blair, although not as sanguine as he tried to sound, had hopes as well. Sartellis hadn't given off any bad 'vibes,' so to speak, and the detective would have been surprised if he was part of this kidnapping spree...but he had to know something!

By seven a.m. the two were both up, dressed and had eaten a sketchy breakfast. By eight they were both decidedly restless. Sandburg kept glancing at his watch, calculating just how early he might courteously telephone Mr. Sartellis at home. The first time he did so, however, he got no answer, and the call switched to an answering machine. Irked, the detective ended the call without leaving his name.

"He's not home?" Frank asked from the living room sofa, where he was watching Good Morning America with a significant lack of attention.

"I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he's taking a shower or something," Blair replied. "I'll try again in about 15 minutes."

The next time he dialed, the phone was answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Mr. Sartellis? This is Detective Blair Sandburg, Cascade PD. We met the other day...?"

"Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?" Sartellis' voice sharpened slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Blair admitted. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but I have a few questions I'd like to ask you regarding your cousin, Darius Sutherland."

"Detective, I'll be honest with you; I'm just on my way out the door, and I'm running late. I'll be in my office in about 20 minutes. Could you meet me there?"

Sandburg gritted his teeth in frustration. No! I want these answers NOW! Can't you be late to your office for once? He wanted to scream. Pulling his composure about him, he replied as politely as he could manage, "That will be fine. I'll be there in 20 minutes. Goodbye." He cradled the receiver and turned to Frank. "Shall we go?"

Frank nodded, thumbed the remote control for the TV, and jumped to his feet, eager to take some action, slight as this might be, to find his father, brother, and friend.