Hardy Boys Fan Fiction - A Summer Storm by Anya (Hardy Detective Agency)

Bartell Point was a small outcropping jutting into the sea in the South of Bayport. It was really a small island with an unusual geological formulation that had endowed it with a distinctive black clay in its soil, which was not to be found anywhere else in the vicinity. Over time, with extensive land reclamation being undertaken around Bayport, it was no longer completely an island, but was joined to the mainland by a narrow neck of land, which also contained its only access road. Till some twenty years ago, it had had a few families living on it. But now, most of them had moved out into the mainland to be closer to schools or shops or other amenities. It was not a particularly scenic place, and now it was just a deserted, rather dismal looking piece of land lying unused and discarded.

He was about to say something when both of them heard the sound; someone seemed to be in their backyard. It was soft sound but still discernable despite the racket made by the rain. That late in the night, with the weather the way it was, Frank doubted if the visitor’s intentions were ‘good’.

Fenton got up very, very quietly and walked over to the door that led out onto the back porch. Frank looked around wildly and picked the first thing that came into his hands – a cookie jar. And then, thought better of it and replaced it with the rolling pin lying on the sideboard.

As the footsteps neared the door, Fenton placed a hand on the doorknob, and Frank took up position at the other side of the door with the rolling pin in his hand.

*****

Joe opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. It was of no use, he couldn’t sleep, he was cold and his arms felt numb. He’d tried counting sheep, very slowly, and had reached 584.

If I counted one a second, that means about 9 point something minutes. Great, you can pass Go! Smart thinking, Hardy, do Math instead of trying to escape! On the plus side, no sign of those rats…

He had another go at the rope around his wrists. This is ridiculous, he thought to himself, it wasn’t the first time he’d found himself bound hand and foot. Yes, but it’s either not so tight or there’s always been something sharp around, like my Swiss army knife! The knife was lying in his dad’s car right now. They’d been using it to cut an apple.

Or if there had actually been rats in the room, they might bite, but maybe he could have had the ropes chewed on instead. Oh, clever… like they’d prefer to chew rope over chewing your hands…

There had to be something in the room. But he knew the room was totally bare, maybe there could be a nail on one of the walls. There was very little skylight coming in from outside. He could barely make out the wall near him. A bolt of lightning lit up the room, showing up the table.

Joe stared at it for the split second the light lasted; maybe there was a loose splinter, or a sharp edge…

He made up his mind quickly, and rolled over in the direction of the table, wincing as his face hit the ground. His jaw was still sore.

He reached the table and knocked it over, the jug, flew down and clattered to the floor, with an enormously loud crash, blocked out by a thunderclap. Joe let out a breath of relief, he didn’t know where the others were, but if they were anywhere nearby, he’d have been in trouble.

He tried to feel the table’s contours with his hands. The top was rounded. No sharp edges there… maybe the legs…he groped around in the dark, and when he’d found one of the legs, tried to rub the ropes against it, in the hope that it would help at least fray them.

After what seemed like an eternity, he decided it was going nowhere, he was just getting more cramps by contorting his body to get his hands in the right position. Besides every now and then, the rubbing action made the fallen table rock, he’d have to steady it first, and to steady it he needed his hands free.

He let out a deep breath and shut his eyes, trying to tell himself to be patient, when he remembered the jug lying on the ground somewhere near his feet.

Here goes nothing, he thought as he tried kicking his bound feet around in search of it. He struck it pretty soon, and somehow managed to kick it in front.

In a few seconds he had it in his hands, feeling it, he could make out a sharp piece jutting out in the vicinity of the handle joint.

In another fifteen minutes, Joe had managed to scrape away at the rope to an extent that enabled him to be able to wriggle his hands freely under the ropes. The looser it got, however, the slower he was going, as the blood began to rush back into his hands, causing enough pain to make him grit his teeth trying not to shout.

Almost there… just a little more…he was concentrating so hard, he almost didn’t hear the footsteps outside.

Joe froze for a second, and let go off the jug. He sat very still and listened carefully hoping the footsteps were going away from his room. But they weren’t, they were getting louder.

He immediately rolled over back to the wall he’d been lying against earlier. He couldn’t straighten out the table but that couldn’t be helped, let them think he’d just kicked it in frustration. The rope around his hands wasn’t completely loose yet, it still held his hands in place, so he just placed himself with his back to the wall so the hands couldn’t be seen. Just in time, for the footsteps were now right outside his door.

Joe waited apprehensively; he’d been so near, he thought to himself bitterly. If he’d just been able to free his hands a little earlier, he could have untied his feet and tried to jump his visitor. Even if the others had heard the noise, Joe thought he’d have had a good chance. An element of surprise may have worked against them. He heard the sound of the doorknob being turned very slowly and silently wondered what his kidnapper wanted with him now.

*****

Fenton’s hand tensed as the footsteps stopped right in front of the door. He turned the knob to pull the door open, and then, their visitor knocked.

"Fenton, Frank, are you there?"

It was a soft voice barely audible over the rain, but they could still recognize it.

"Con," Fenton cried out as he opened the door to see their friend wiping his muddy feet on the drenched doormat, "What are you doing here at this time?"

Con came in holding his dripping raincoat carefully in his hand, trying unsuccessfully not to wet the kitchen floor. He stared at Frank who still had the rolling pin in his hands. Frank hurriedly put it back where he’d found it; he’d suddenly felt like the woman in Tom and Jerry who used to keep chasing Tom, brandishing a rolling pin in her hands.

Or was it a broom she used? Why am I thinking about Tom and Jerry at a time like this!

"I was heading home, when I saw your lights were still on," Con was explaining. "I thought I’d tell you, the rain’s really affected most of the entry and exit points for Bayport. Umm… have you heard anything from them?" He knew, though, that this wasn’t one of those usual ransom cases.

Fenton shook his head.

"Any luck with the car?" Frank asked.

"No, but I’m more or less positive it hasn’t left this area. There’s been so little traffic outside since it started raining; we’ve been able to check each vehicle leaving. And they haven’t left in another vehicle. The highway patrols have had their description since the morning, and there’s been no sign of them. They can’t leave any other way other than the expressways in this weather, they’d be crazy to try it."

"Gavin Walker is…. umm, unstable," Frank pointed out, "But I think you’re right, there’s something we’d like to check out."

Fenton and he then proceeded to tell Con all that had happened, till the part where Frank had mentioned Bartell Point.

"The clay’s still on the carpet," Frank motioned towards the living room.

Con knelt down and looked at the tiny bits of clay embedded in the carpet. Against a dark coloured carpet, they weren’t easily visible, not unless one was specifically looking for them.

Frank waited patiently by as Con picked a fragment and felt it between his fingers. It’s a good thing mom and Aunt Gertrude aren’t around, water on the kitchen floor, dried clay in the carpet…

The dried clay had stuck on only to the carpet, not any of the floors, and Frank had vaguely registered it at the back of his mind when he fell after being walloped on the head by Irene. The thought of that brought his repressed headache to the fore again and he frowned instead, thinking how lucky it actually had been for him, or they’d never have noticed it.

Maybe I should thank her next time I see her, if I see her, if we’re right. He desperately hoped his surmise was correct. It was very thin thread to hang on but it was still a thread.

Fenton stood by, his lips pursed, thinking rapidly. He was glad Frank had spotted out something he’d missed. It gave them a start, at least. Something to work on…

"So, now, all we need to do is search Bartell Point for a house with a tin roof," Con commented, "That’s…"

"Actually, I was thinking…" Frank began.

"Louise Walker?" Fenton asked.

"It was in your files, a little stuff about her," Frank told him.

Fenton nodded, "So let’s see now…"

Con Riley cleared his throat, "Umm…I missed something there, I think… Louise Walker? Gavin’s first wife? Where does she come in?" He was groaning inwardly, as if everything isn’t confusing enough as it is!

*****

Joe took the only viable option he could see. He curled himself up and turned his face towards the floor, hoping Walker or whoever it was would go away, when they saw him lying there seemingly harmlessly asleep. The last thing he needed was someone to come and check on him and find his hands loosened.

The door came open very slowly and very silently. From the corner of his eye, Joe could make out a figure standing at the door. He heard a clicking sound, like a torch being switched on and immediately shut his eyes, before the light fell on him.

Footsteps entered the room and came all the way up to where he was lying. He felt someone kneel down next to him A hand fell on his shoulder and the torch was shined on his face.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boy Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.