"No." Frank shook his head. "They said she’s out on a call. Well, I’ll try later, or catch her tomorrow, or something." He gave Joe an appraising stare, and grinned. "You look better when you’re not dripping all over everything."

"Thanks." Joe threw himself down on the couch. "you’re too kind."

"Any time." Frank debated whether continuing the repartee was worth it, and decided it wasn’t. He looked at the clock, and figured it was close enough to lunch time to justify scrounging through the kitchen for edibles. "Hungry? Let’s see what there is to eat."

The two were concocting sandwiches – Joe doing the actual work, while Frank suggested ingredients and offered advice – when there came the sound of vehicle motors in the driveway, followed by slamming car doors. Frank walked to a window to see who had arrived – and gave a cry of dismay:

"Omigosh! Something’s happened to Dad!"

Joe rushed from the kitchen, and flung the front door wide to admit their father, who looked rather wobbly, and who was holding an insta-cold pack against the side of his head. Jack Wayne walked beside Fenton, supporting him with a hand on his elbow.

"What happened?" Both Frank and Joe spoke together, in horrified tones.

"Stupid freak accident!" Fenton muttered irritably. He took a good look at his sons’ faces, and managed a reassuring smile. "I got hit with a golf ball, can you believe it? Don’t look like that, boys, I’m all right. Really."

"Jack, is that true?" Joe disregarded Fenton’s assurances and demanded verification.

"It’s true that he got hit," Jack replied. "Fenton, do you want me to help you upstairs?"

"Good Lord, no!" Mr. Hardy grumbled. "You can stop treating me like a war casualty, you know! But I wouldn’t mind sitting down," he admitted, in a milder tone. Jack steered him towards the family room, with Frank and Joe hovering worriedly around them like overanxious butterflies.

"I meant, is it true that he’s all right?" Joe persisted, watching Jack ease his father down on the couch.

"The medics checked him over," Jack temporized. "He’s supposed to stay quiet, today anyway." He flashed a quick, reassuring grin at Joe. "I think he’s okay, Joe, but he did take quite a whack."

"Can I get you anything, Dad?" Frank asked. "And shouldn’t I call Mom? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go upstairs to bed?"

"The closest bottle of aspirin in the house, and a glass of water," Fenton requested, "and don’t alarm your mother. For Pete’s sake, Frank, I’m fine! All you’d do is upset her! And no, there is no way I’m going to be put to bed like a toddler!" He distributed glares equally between Frank, Jack, and Joe.

"Now I know where you get it," Frank muttered to his brother.

"Where I get it? Where I get what?" Joe demanded.

"The thing with pretending you’re not hurt when you really are."

"Me? What about you? I seem to remember someone in Tahoe—"

"Both of you hush. Stop arguing; you’re making my head ache," Fenton said firmly.

Abashed, the boys immediately ceased their dispute. "I’ll get the aspirin," Frank murmured, adding softly for Joe’s ear alone, as he passed him on the way towards the kitchen, "I’m going to call Mom, too." A minute or so later, he returned, frowning slightly. He handed his father the water and medication, but when Joe tilted an inquiring eyebrow, Frank shook his head, and a moment later, whispered in his brother’s ear:

"She didn’t answer."

*****

"Vanessa? Vanessa!?" Andrea Bender’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill, and she burst through the back door of the renovated farm house with a bang.

"Yes? What?" Vanessa shouted from her room. "Just a minute, I’ll be down…." A few seconds later, she hurried into the kitchen. "What is it, Mom?"

"The most incredible thing happened!" Andrea sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, and stared at her daughter, blue-gray eyes wide with shock. "When Laura and I and Erica Ranson were shopping at the mall!"

"What? What? Tell me!" Vanessa commanded, seating herself and waiting impatiently.

Andrea did – and when she finished, she found herself trembling with reaction as she re-lived the incident. Vanessa, amazed and horrified, quickly moved to hug her mother tightly, and buried her head against Andrea’s shoulder.

"I’m so glad you’re all right," she whispered. "If anything had happened to you – I’d be all alone—"

"Kiddo, I wasn’t ever in any danger." Andrea hugged her hard. "Laura and Erica were, but not me. But isn’t that one of the strangest things?!"

Vanessa nodded – and tightened her embrace. The two women held each other securely, for a long time. Finally, Andrea sighed and said, "I’m fine, honey, just fine. Don’t sniffle like that, huh?"

"I’ll sniffle…if I want to," Vanessa mumbled – and sniffled again.

Her mother sought for a change of subject, and found one. "And now, let’s discuss cleaning your room."

Vanessa nearly choked. "My room? You were practically kidnapped, and you want to talk about cleaning my room?"

Andrea got to her feet and pulled her daughter after her towards the stairs. "Come on, I need something to take my mind off what happened. You just got elected."

Shaking her head in amazement, Vanessa followed her mother upstairs.

"I mean it, Van, something has to be done about it." Andrea Bender’s voice was mirthful, but there was an undertone of severity, too. She gazed about her daughter’s bedroom with assessing eyes, taking in the clothing, books, computer supplies, sketch pads, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia which littered every flat surface. "Today’s Sunday, you have time now, and I’m insisting."

"Mom…" Vanessa looked at the disarray with a sinking heart. If she had to clean it all up, her whole day would be shot! "I was going to do something with Joe—"

"You saw Joe just last night," Andrea stated firmly. "You’ll probably see him this evening. Now, however, you are going to bring this room back to some semblance of order. Capiche?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll do it. Mom – I love you," Vanessa sniffled one last time, and reluctantly started with the nearest thing to hand: yanking the sheets from the bed and preparing to put on clean ones. Andrea, with a satisfied grunt, left the room, as a luxuriously fluffy white cat meandered in. The cat looked around disdainfully with his golden eyes, and then leaped to stretch out on the bed.

Vanessa smiled down at the newcomer. "Hey, Thistle! Did you come to help?"

Thistle’s version of help consisted of lying on his side and lazily sinking his claws into Vanessa’s sheets, blankets, and bedspread, effectively keeping her from making the bed. She scooped up the cat in her arms and sat down, cuddling him in her lap. No longer a little kitten, Thistle made a lapful of squirmy fur. He clutched gently at Vanessa’s hand, claws sheathed, as she petted him, and purred loudly. "You’re sweet, but you are not any help at all," she informed him, and deposited him on the floor. Pretending it had been his idea in the first place, Thistle sat down in a puddle of sunshine and proceeded to give himself a bath, forcing Vanessa to step around or over him as she worked.

An hour later, the bedroom was tidy and spacious-looking once more. Vanessa tossed the last bit of trash from her desk into the wastebasket, and looked around, smiling with satisfaction. There, that ought to satisfy Mom! She went over to the dresser and took something from the top – a jewelry box, and a tiny paper sack – and sat down on the edge of her bed. Thistle, who had departed for the hallway when Vanessa got too energetic with her cleaning, trotted back into the room, and leaped up to join his young human, attracted by the crackle of the paper sack, and curious as to what she might be doing.

"This isn’t for you," Vanessa warned the inquisitive cat, as she took a silky slither of golden chain from the sack. "It’s the replacement chain for my locket, not a kitty-toy!" Although she had worn Joe’s graduation gift almost constantly since June, Vanessa had been forced to leave it off while a broken chain was replaced. She had picked up the new one the day before, and now proceeded to string the lovely gold locket on. Thistle watched her movements closely, tail-tip twitching with anticipation.

"There! Isn’t it pretty, Thistle?" Unwisely, Vanessa held up the sparkling golden bauble to admire it before fastening it about her neck. Thistle, tempted beyond endurance, made a sudden swipe at the dangling locket with his claws extended, but Vanessa quickly pulled it out of his reach. The cat’s down stroke caught the little box in Vanessa’s lap, and the claws struck into the velvet cushion.

"NO, Thistle!" Vanessa, holding her locket in one hand, spanked the offending paw lightly with the other, and Thistle pulled back, but the velvet came along, loosened from the box. "Let go…." Carefully, the girl disengaged Thistle’s talons. She started to push the padding back into the box, but paused, glimpsing something she had never noticed before. Beneath the cushioning was a piece of paper, folded into a small square. It must be…what? They don’t put directions for use in jewelry boxes! An ‘inspected by’ note? As curious now as Thistle himself, Vanessa carefully removed the paper and unfolded it.

Joe’s handwriting…what IS this? Slowly Vanessa began to read the words written on the paper…and her vision became blurred with tears.

The darkest hour is just before dawn.

And dawn seemed so far away.

Then I looked up and you were there.

You turned my night into day.

The night seemed so unending

And it would never go away.

But then you smiled right at me

And now you light my way.

You are sunshine and all things light

You are daytime and all things bright

You are the sun that breaks through the clouds

You are my heart - and this I vow:

I will love you—

Forever.

Love for always and ever,

Joe

Joe…oh Joe. She blinked her eyes clear, tenderly smoothed the fold-lines from the paper, and reread the poem once more. Why didn’t he show it to me before? Say something? What if I’d never found this? When would he have finally mentioned it?

With a sigh of deep contentment, Vanessa fastened her precious locket around her neck, then replaced the box in her dresser drawer. The poem, however, she slipped into the drawer of her nightstand, where it would be near to hand should she want it, day or night. Then she reached for the telephone. There were some things, she reflected, that just couldn’t wait….

*****

When Laura walked into her home, around two o’clock that afternoon, she was slightly surprised to find it very quiet, despite the fact that all her menfolk were home – or at least, all their cars were. She sighed to herself as she set her purse on the kitchen desk. She felt extraordinarily tired, and wished she could slip upstairs and take a nap without the effort of making conversation with her family. How in the world am I going to tell Fenton what happened, without worrying him? she wondered. He’d have to be told, of course – but later. Later.

She went into the family room, and found Fenton sound asleep on the couch. At first, she smiled, thinking he was merely catching up after being up early to get to the golf course – and then she noticed the ice pack, which had slipped to the floor…and the discolored swelling on the side of her husband’s head!

"Fenton!" The exclamation escaped her before she could stifle it. Laura slapped a hand across her mouth, but it was too late; Fenton jerked awake and blinked up at her.

"Hi, hon…."

She dropped to her knees beside the sofa. "Darling, what in the world happened to you? Your head…." Very gently, she touched the bruised lump.

"I’m beginning to think freak accidents follow me around," he replied, wincing slightly at her touch. "I got hit with a golf ball!" He sat up slowly, making room for her beside him. "It’s okay, honey, really. Don’t look so worried!"

"I want to hear all the details!" Laura insisted. A tiny voice in the back of her mind was heaving a sigh of relief – at least while Fenton was telling his story, she didn’t have to tell hers!

Mr. Hardy told her what had happened, and stressed that despite the malevolent shower of balls, no one else had been hurt, and his own injury was slight.

"Did you find out where they all came from?" Laura queried.

"No – the management at the club will look into it, of course," Fenton admitted, "but I’m not counting on them finding anything out." He smiled at her, and put his arm about her shoulders. "Now, let’s hear about your day. Did you and Andrea and Erica have a good time at the mall?"

"Ahhh…." Well, there was no way around it, Laura decided. "There was a little trouble…" she began, slowly.

Fenton had listened slack-jawed as Laura described the events which had taken place at the mall, and held her closely against him throughout the recital. When she reached the conclusion, with the threat hissed at them, he hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"You," he murmured, "are lucky to be alive, my girl! And doubly lucky to be here, safe at home, instead of God-knows-where!"

"What could they have wanted Erica for – or me?" she asked, resting her head against his shoulder. "What could they have meant by warning Michael Ranson not to ‘nose around?’" She shivered. "I wasn’t really afraid while it was happening; I was too mad," she confessed. "Now I’m afraid!"

"It’s all right," Fenton soothed her. "It’s all right…." He cuddled her close, wondering if strange occurrences always happened in groups, or if it just seemed that way!

*****

"Frank, are you going over to see Megan any time soon?" Laura called up the stairs to her elder son. After a few moments, she heard his reply:

"Yeah, I think so…." Frank’s head appeared above the banister. "Why?"

"Well, I wanted Carolyn to have things for dinner, and I thought if you were going over anyway, that you could take them." Laura explained, smiling up at him.

"Oh, sure!" Frank smiled too; this was an unlooked-for excuse. Even if Mrs. Wright was being protective of Megan, she couldn’t object to him bringing their dinner over, could she? "When do you want me to go?"

"Soon," his mother told him. "I told Carolyn they’d be there by five."

Frank glanced at his watch. "Give me time to turn off the computer, and I’ll be ready to go."

Laura nodded her approval. "I’m sending enough for you to eat dinner there…" she commented as she went back to the kitchen.

He turned away from the banister, glancing into Joe’s room as he passed by. Joe had taken off a little while before, answering an imperious summons from Vanessa. Frank smiled to himself, recalling Joe’s nervous remark as he left: "Jeez, what did I do now? All she said was ‘Joe Hardy, I want you out here ASAP!’ and then hung up!"

When Frank took his leave, he hugged Laura a little longer and a little more tightly than usual. Hearing about the theft and kidnap attempt at the mall had unsettled all of the Hardy men; no one was going to threaten Laura and get away with it, not if they had anything to say about it!

When Frank approached the Wright’s home 20 minutes later, he was surprised to see an unfamiliar car backing out of the drive. He paused before pulling in, waiting courteously for the dusty blue compact to leave, wondering who might be visiting Mrs. Wright and Megan. He could see what looked like a male figure at the wheel, but couldn’t get a close enough look to recognize features. When the car had departed, Frank parked, and popped the trunk open. He took out the basket his mother had packed with the leftover chicken and other things, grateful that she had used something with a handle, that he could manage with one hand.

"Hello, Frank." Carolyn Wright answered the doorbell, smiling warmly up at him. Her red hair, brighter even than Megan’s, shone in the evening sun’s rays. "Come on in – oh, let me take that!" She efficiently scooped the basket from his hand, and headed for the kitchen. "It was awfully nice of your mother to send this over!"

"She was glad to do it," Frank commented, following her. "Where – how – is Megan?" he asked, then.

"She’s in the family room," Mrs. Wright answered. She set the basket on the kitchen table, and uncovered the contents. "Goodness, there’s a great deal here." She glanced up at Frank and smiled a little. "Care to stay and help eat it up?"

"If I wouldn’t be in the way…." Frank said hesitantly. He wasn’t sure if Carolyn Wright really wanted him there, tonight.

"Megan and I would both enjoy having you here," Carolyn assured him. "Now, go on and see her. I know you’re dying to!" She made a shooing gesture at him, and a ‘sksss, sksss’ noise. Frank grinned, and happily departed for the family room, where he found Megan sitting on the couch and reading his history text. A Consumer Reports magazine lay on the floor nearby; apparently Megan had been researching cars!

"Hi, Baby." Frank bent over her and laid a light kiss on her hair, figuring that was the safest bet for not causing her any pain. "How are you feeling?"

"I’m tired of being tired," she admitted, with a rueful smile. "Even when I don’t take the stuff the doctor gave me, I’m still sleepy all the time."

"Sleep’s good for you," he assured her.

Megan made a face. "What’s even worse, Mom’s practically nailed me to this couch! I’m not supposed to get up unless it’s absolutely necessary!" she complained. "She’s been waiting on me hand and foot ever since she got home."

Frank smiled complacently. Apparently, he and Carolyn were of the same mind on this subject. "Good."

"Good?" Megan echoed. She stared reproachfully at Frank, wounded by this betrayal. "I thought you’d be on my side in this! I hoped you’d help me argue her out of it!"

Frank sat down beside her, and carefully laid his arm across her shoulders. "I am on your side, baby, but your mom’s right to keep you quiet," he told her firmly. "You’ll heal faster if you get plenty of rest."

"Oh, I know, but it makes me an awfully boring person to have around! And if I stay on this couch much longer, I think my muscles are going to atrophy!"

Frank laughed. "I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening in one afternoon," he chuckled. "I saw somebody leaving, when I drove up," he continued, changing the subject. "Who was here?"

"Oh, that was Kirk Moncrief," Megan replied. "He came over to pick up the books I borrowed yesterday." She sighed. "I don’t think I’m going to make it to classes tomorrow, so he needed the books back." She blushed a little. "I know it’s only a matter of vanity, but – but – I just don’t want everyone to see me quite yet!"

Kirk Moncrief again! Frank felt himself tense, and his lips tighten, and hoped Megan didn’t notice. Stop it, Hardy; you act like she isn’t allowed to have any friends besides you! "Sorry I didn’t get to meet him," was all he said aloud.

"He was offering me advice on what sort of car to replace the Accord with," Megan chuckled. "I’m not sure I agree with all his ideas, though. There’s got to be a happy medium between totally environmentally-correct, and something that looks nice!"

Now he’s helping her choose a new car?! Frank bit his tongue hard, to keep back resentful words. "What did you have in mind?" He bent down and picked up the magazine from the floor.

"I’m not sure…I suppose it sort of depends on what sort of deal we can make, and how much the insurance will pay." Megan leaned against his shoulder and reached to turn a few pages. "I’m thinking I might like something RED, though! I’m tired of that namby-pamby blue!"

Frank blinked. "Red?" he echoed, and then laughed aloud. "I thought you hated the word and all its associations!"

"Well…" Megan smiled, a bit unwillingly. "I guess I’ve gotten used to it, since that seems to be Joe’s nickname-of-choice. Aside from Raccoon Face, of course."

"He isn’t calling you Raccoon Face," Frank insisted. "You’re the only one calling you Raccoon Face, baby!"

"He hasn’t seen me lately," Megan said darkly, and sighed.

Surveying her, Frank had to admit she was, indeed, looking awfully bruised tonight. The discolorations were showing up in both expected and unexpected places on her fair skin. He knew it was temporary, but it still made him ache to see it. Before he could answer, however, the sound of the doorbell ringing surprised them both.

"Who in the world could that be?" Megan queried. She started to get to her feet, but Carolyn’s footsteps in the hall, and voice, halted her.

"I’ll get it….Yes?"

A deep, unfamiliar male voice came to the ears of the listening Megan and Frank. "Is this where Megan Wright lives?"

"Ah – yes…" Mrs. Wright sounded uncertain, slightly suspicious.

"I would like to see her, if I might," the deep voice continued. "I’m the one who hit her car on Friday afternoon."

That brought both Frank and Megan to their feet. They started towards the entrance hall, reaching it as Mrs. Wright ushered their visitor inside.

"Please, come into the family room, Megan is – oh, there you are!" Carolyn smiled at her daughter.

Megan’s mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to get any words out. "M-Mr. – President – Mitchell!" she squeaked. "You’re the – Mom, this is the president of the college!" She stared at him in amazement. "I go to school at Bayport Community!"

"You DO?" President Mitchell was equally astonished. "In that case, I am doubly apologetic! I certainly don’t make a habit of going around running into students’ cars!"

"Mr. Mitchell, please come in and sit down," Mrs. Wright urged. Still looking bemused, the man followed her into the family room; Frank and Megan brought up the rear. They all took seats and resumed the conversation.

"I had wanted to speak to you on Friday evening, after the accident occurred," Mitchell said to Megan. "But you were whisked away by ambulance so quickly, I didn’t have a chance."

"You weren’t hurt in the crash?" Frank inquired. President Mitchell turned an inquiring eye on him, evidently wondering just where the Hardy boy figured in all this.

"No – my car is quite a bit heavier than Miss Wright’s. And you are…?"

"Oh, I’m sorry," Carolyn Wright hastened to say, "Mr. Mitchell, this is Frank Hardy, a friend of Megan’s. He also is a student at BCC."

"Frank Hardy?" Mitchell’s cool, impersonal gaze softened. "I’ve heard of you – and your brother – and your father, of course, and the work you do. You three are well-known in Bayport. I’m very glad to meet you, Frank."

"It’s my pleasure, sir," Frank smiled a little.

"In fact…" President Mitchell paused, sounding slightly uncertain. "I may say that meeting you is fortuitous. You may be able to help me with something."

"Oh?" Frank raised an eyebrow.

"As I was about to explain to Miss Wright—"

"Please, call me Megan," she interposed softly, turning pink.

"All right." The man smiled at her, kindly. "As I was going to say, when my car struck yours, Megan, there was something odd occurring. I hadn’t expected the light to be red, I’ll admit, but I did have time and room to stop – or so I thought! When I stepped on the brakes, however, they felt soft, and mushy. I slowed down, but was unable to stop the car – which is why it hit yours so hard." He frowned darkly. "Yesterday, the mechanics started work on repairing my car, and something very strange came to light. It appears that the brake line was partially severed, so that a good deal of brake fluid had leaked out. I have been assured that this did not occur during the accident, but was the reason for the accident!"

Frank’s gaze narrowed. "Someone tampered with your brakes?"

"So it seems," Mitchell said dryly. "And Megan was the unfortunate recipient of the…prank." He was still frowning. "Prank," he repeated. "But there’s something more – something even more sinister."

"What?" Carolyn Wright leaned forward tensely as she asked the question.

"In my car trunk was found an empty container of methanol." He paused, for Frank had gasped sharply. "Yes, Mr. Hardy, you’re quick on the uptake. It’s something that may have been used to start or fuel the fires at the school."

"And I take it you hadn’t bought any methanol," Frank said, making it a statement, rather than a question.

"Most certainly not! I didn’t even know what the stuff was! But the police are being…suspicious. Oh, they’ve been perfectly polite, so far, but…."

"Someone tampered with your brakes and planted the methanol container in your car. It sounds like a win-win situation for whoever did it," Frank noted. "You might have been killed in the accident, or badly injured – and you were almost certain to be incriminated when the container was found!"

President Mitchell looked from Frank to Carolyn to Megan, meeting their gazes – assessing, accusing, curious – squarely. "I swear I had absolutely nothing to do with setting the fires. And I am most dreadfully sorry about what happened to you, Miss Wright – Megan. If there is anything, cost-wise, that the insurance company doesn’t cover, in your medical bills or in replacing your car, please know that I will pay the difference."

He looked at Frank again. "But I’m facing a larger problem, if someone is attempting to frame me with regard to the arson. Is there any chance that Hardy Investigations might look into it, and clear my name?"

"We’ve been itching for someone to ask us!" Frank admitted with a grin. "My younger brother Joe is on the football team, and he’s taking it especially hard; he was looking forward to playing, and now the games have been postponed or cancelled, because of what happened to the stadium and the field. He wants someone punished for that!"

Mitchell chuckled. "Well, I want someone punished for it too!"

"Frank…" Megan said hesitantly. "I just thought of something."

"What’s that, sweetheart?"

"Remember when you and I and Joe and Vanessa were walking by the Admin building on Thursday morning? You found that picture—"

"Picture?" President Mitchell raised inquiring eyebrows.

"Yes, sir. It seemed odd…." Frank reached for his wallet, and took out the photograph they had discovered. "Look." He handed the picture to Mitchell, who looked at it and blanched, closing his eyes.

"Where did that come from?"

"Was this a photograph you had?" Frank turned the question back on the other man, who opened his eyes and gazed meditatively down at the picture again.

"Not exactly like this, no…." he mused. "There were some group shots similar to it, with numerous copies floating around my extended family – but not one of me alone." He fingered the photograph, and frowned again. "This seems awfully small, don’t you think?"

Megan extended her hand. "Could I see?" When he handed her the photograph, she looked at it closely. "Mr. Mitchell, could this have been one of your group shots, with the rest of the people cut off?"

Mitchell’s gaze held respect. "It certainly could!"