Frank slowly raised his head, peeking around his arm. His heart thudded with apprehension at what he might see – and then he relaxed slightly. His father was crouched over his mother, sheltering her with his body. Michael Ranson was spread-eagled over Erica, protectively covering her. Neither man appeared to be hurt, nor did Laura or Erica. They were already starting to get up, Frank noted with relief,

Frank was not in the least surprised to see Fenton gripping his .357 in one hand, although normally he didn’t wear it while sitting quietly at home. Evidently Mr. Hardy had been taking no chances with his wife’s safety. What did surprise Frank a little, however, was the fact that Michael Ranson, too, was holding a revolver in his right hand; holding it in a way which looked as if he was very comfortable with it in his grip. Frank couldn’t see Ranson’s face; the man was staring out into the street, but his whole aura was…menacing. He was muttering to himself, and Frank couldn’t hold back a wry grin as he overheard some of the language Michael Ranson was using!

Cautiously, Frank climbed to his feet, pulling himself up by the doorknob. He looked around, abruptly aware that he hadn’t seen Joe – and then blew out a breath of relief when he saw his brother’s blonde head slowly appear above the Ransons’ Mercedes; apparently Joe had ducked behind the car when the bullets started flying.

Mr. Hardy was helping Laura to her feet now, holding her tightly, checking her over for injuries. Frank could hear his soft questions: "Are you all right? You’re sure? Not even any scrapes? Thank God…."

Laura nodded, and murmured something Frank didn’t quite catch, something that sounded like "… just…Stateline…" which caused his dad to emit a sharp bark of laughter and hug her. Frank wondered what in the world she’d said. Had they been shot at in Stateline, or something? If so, he’d certainly never heard about it!

Then Fenton turned to the others. "Kids, are you both all right? Frank, did you hurt your arm more? Joe, you okay?"

"I’m fine," Frank assured his father, trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm. You’re fine, Hardy, stop being such a wimp….

"I’m okay," came from Joe, who was scowling and rubbing his chest, but seemed unhurt other than that. He walked over to Laura and Fenton, and put his arms about his mother, hugging her comfortingly.

"Michael, what about you and Erica? Either of you hurt?"

Michael Ranson had helped Erica to her feet by now. The blonde girl was ashen-faced with fright, and clinging tightly to her husband; he kept one arm securely around her shoulders, and the other hand was still clenched on his revolver. He was looking around, scanning the area, still on the alert. "I’m fine…Erica, sweetheart, you’re not hurt are you?"

"No," she whispered, shaking her head, but she didn’t loosen her death-grip about his waist. Tears started running down her cheeks. "Michael, I’m s-s-scared…you c-could have been – we could have been…." She buried her face against his shoulder.

Frank looked around; there were neighbors emerging onto their porches and peering out their windows, and he could hear sirens wailing already, coming ever closer. Someone had been quick to call the police!

"That was…" Michael paused and swallowed, then continued, starting very quietly…but his voice escalated in both pitch and volume as he spoke. "That was insane. Totally insane. Shooting at a whole group of people, in front of a house? Are they nuts? Have they completely LOST IT?"

"It seems they’re getting reckless, or desperate about something," Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. "I wonder what their plan was? To shoot someone? Anyone, no matter who? Just to scare us? They could have hit any one of us, with that fusillade. It doesn’t make any sense, either; it will just put us more on guard than before."

"This isn’t going to end here," Michael growled. "I AM going to find these people who are trying to kill us. Nobody gets away with shooting at me or my wife! And believe me, they’ll pay for this!"

Frank, who was watching his father, noted Fenton’s look of surprise at the vehemence of Ranson’s words. Mr. Ranson looked…tough…before, Frank thought, but now he looks…yeah, he looks dangerous! What happened to the nice, newlywed businessman?

A patrol car, followed almost immediately by the fire department’s medic unit, swept around the corner and braked to a stop in the middle of Elm Street. Uniformed officers got out of the car, and paramedics leaped from their truck, but Fenton waved the latter off.

"No injuries, everyone’s fine," he assured them. He turned to the policemen. "But you’re going to find bullets and shell casings everywhere." The medics radioed the status into their dispatcher and then departed, pleased that their services weren’t needed, while the officers began the process of stringing yellow plastic tape about the crime scene.

Another car arrived, unmarked but somehow recognizable as official, and Con Riley stepped out. He was wearing jeans and a light jacket which covered a white tee-shirt, and battered, slip-on loafers on his feet. It was quite evident that Riley had been yanked out of his house for this emergency call. He swept the crime scene with a cursory glance, and sighed deeply as he neared the Hardys.

"Con," Fenton smiled as he shook hands with their friend, "I know you weren’t on duty – are you planning on taking some time off soon, I hope?"

"I’ll take time off when you and your family take an extended vacation on the other side of the globe," Riley said with hopeful resignation. "When did you say you were leaving?" He continued to look around, and took out his notebook. "Okay, what happened?"

"We just stepped outside to say goodbye to our guests—" Fenton started to explain, and Laura stepped away from him, going over to where Erica stood, still clinging desperately to Michael.

"Erica – honey, you and Michael come back into the house. Come along, now…."

"Come on, let’s do what Laura says," Ranson urged his wife, turning her towards the porch and keeping his arm about her. Erica, shivering and still with tears sliding down her face, docilely obeyed. Laura shepherded them into the house.

Frank, who was still watching events unfold before him, noticed that Ranson had managed to pocket his gun in the last few minutes…probably about the time the police arrived, the elder Hardy surmised. I wonder if it’s unlicensed, or something? Or if he just didn’t want to explain carrying one.

"You okay?" Joe had deserted his post beside the Mercedes to walk over to his brother’s side. "Did you hurt your arm again?" he queried, for the way Frank had been holding his arm hadn’t missed his notice.

"It’s fine, just the usual ache," Frank lied, still gritting his teeth slightly. It’s more than the ‘usual’ ache, but then, I slammed it into the doorjamb, after all! What did you expect, Hardy?

"Well, be careful with it," Joe cautioned him, not quite convinced.

They stood together, watching the activities all over the yard and street, as investigative officers searched the area. They were coming up with quite a few shell casings, Frank noticed, and mentally tried to tally the number of shots he’d heard fired. "Did you count the shots, Joe?"

"Uh-uh," Joe shook his blonde head. "You?"

"Tried to – maybe ten or so. No more than that, although it seemed like we were in the middle of the gunfight at the O.K. Corral when it was going on!"

"We’re lucky those guys were lousy shots – or were aiming to miss," Joe observed quietly. "We were all sitting ducks!"

Con Riley was kneeling beside the Ransons’ Mercedes now, and examining a bullet hole in the passenger door – right above where Michael had sprawled on top of Erica! Further exploration found two holes in the front wall of the house, one in a window, and one in the front door – perilously close to where Frank had been. No, this hadn’t been a poor attempt at a joke, these guys were evidently playing for keeps!

"Way too close," Joe mumbled in Frank’s ear, and his brother nodded agreement.

"I’ve got your dad’s report," Con said, remounting the porch steps to join Frank and Joe. "Did you boys see anything you could add to it?"

Both of them shook their heads. "I got a really good view of the side of the Ransons’ Mercedes," Joe volunteered with a wry grin. "And an even better one of the driveway, after I threw myself on the ground!"

"I wasn’t looking toward the street when the shooting started," Frank said, "and after that, I was too busy ducking and shielding my head."

"Well, let’s go in and see if anyone else noticed anything." Con suggested, and they went inside, leaving the rest of the police officers still meticulously going over the crime scene.

The Ransons were seated on the couch, drinking more hot cocoa. Erica was still quiet and pale, but she had stopped crying now, and she was munching cookies; Frank thought she’d be okay after her fright wore off a little more. Michael had taken off his leather jacket, and was gloomily surveying it, smoothing the leather with a careful hand. Frank looked more closely at the article of clothing, and gasped aloud. There was a raw hole punched through the expensive fabric!

"Mr. Ranson – your coat – you were nearly hit!"

"I know," Ranson said tersely. "My car…my jacket. Almost scared Erica out of her wits. Damn it. Not going to forget this." It was fairly evident that Michael Ranson was holding his temper down by the method of keeping all his remarks very short. He was afraid if he said too much, he might explode!

Laura quickly performed introductions between the Ransons and Riley, and Con took out his notebook once more.

"What can you tell me?" he invited.

Laura and Erica had seen nothing at all, obviously. They had both been shoved to the ground and flattened there by their husbands.

Michael, however, had had the best view of the attack. "It was a dark car," he reported concisely, "Maybe black, or dark green. Or it might have been a dark brown. There were two people in it, one driving, and one shooting out the passenger window. It was too dark to see either one very clearly, just a general shape. The shooter was husky – or maybe he had several layers of clothes on." Michael stopped and thought, then shook his head. "That’s all I remember. I’m sorry I didn’t see more." Very softly, he growled, "I don’t like getting shot at!"

"No one does," Riley replied. He closed his book and pocketed it. "Mr. Ranson, you can take your car, I’ve already had photos taken of it, but you’ll need to come into the station tomorrow and sign a formal statement. Oh—" he noticed the jacket spread on Ranson’s lap. "I’ll have the photographer take a picture of that, too."

"Thank you." Ranson handed Riley his damaged coat. "I’ll write a statement up before I go to bed, so I can keep it all straight, and I’ll bring it in first thing in the morning."

Finally, things quieted down in the Hardy household. The policemen all left, saying there would be a detail left on guard overnight, and that they’d do more investigation the next day.

"I’ll call you after I’ve done the shtick at the police station," Michael said to Mr. Hardy as he and Erica departed for their hotel. "We can discuss this in more detail – and decide where to go from here!"

Fenton, Laura and Joe went upstairs to bed, but Frank stayed where he was a little longer. He knew he needed to get some sleep, for he had early classes the next day – but still he lingered, sitting by the window and staring out into the night. Watching for anyone who might be watching the house – other than the plainclothes cops sitting in their car across the street, guarding the crime scene.

Finally, Frank shrugged his good shoulder in resignation, got up, and went up to bed.

*****

"I’m not getting up!" Joe moaned the next morning. He lifted his head and stared malevolently at the radio alarm clock, and willed it to shut itself off and let him go back to sleep…to no avail. It still kept talking to him, the radio personalities continuing with their usual morning babble.

It had been after one when he went to bed the night before, and he was positive that Frank had stayed up even later. "I haven’t had enough sleep yet!" he complained loudly, trying to drown out the penetrating voices. He wished he could justify skipping class…but he couldn’t. Joe dropped his head back down, and yanked his pillow over it to muffle the noise.

"Joe, are you listening to me?" That was odd, the radio personalities didn’t ordinarily speak to him by name…. "Joe!"

Joe pulled the pillow from his head and blinked, suddenly aware that the voice was both closer and more familiar than the ones coming from the radio. "Uh – Mom…" He stared sleepily at his mother, who was standing in the doorway with an exasperated expression on her face. He considered pulling the pillow over his head again, but Laura was already advancing into his room.

"Joe, for the third time, you have a phone call."

"Oh – phone? Who is it?" Joe tried to gather his wooly thoughts.

"Dani Tanner," Laura replied. "She said she wanted to talk to you or Frank right away – and Frank’s already left for school. So, since you have to be awake to talk on the phone…you can just GET UP, JOE!" She turned around and marched from the room.

Joe sighed and reached out to pull the telephone from his bedside table. "H’lo? Dani?"

"It was a custodian!" Dani’s voice crackled over the connection, vehement with exasperation. Joe pulled the receiver away from his ear, wincing. "That’s who I saw on top of the gymnasium! He was up there retrieving stuff that ended up on the roof. Three footballs and a baseball. The footballs, some overzealous freshmen threw up there, when they were playing ‘Who can kick the ball the farthest?’ in the parking lot! They didn’t have the sense to stop at just one, oh no!" she snapped. "I have no idea where the baseball came from!"

Joe wanted desperately to laugh, but was afraid Dani would bite his head off if he did. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d been in on one of those games in the parking lot. He grabbed a corner of his pillow and stuffed it into his mouth to stifle the chuckles bubbling up at her words – but then his amusement died, as he realized that another potential lead had just dried up! All we have left now is the S.F.E. Kirk Moncrief. And maybe even Dave Wahlstrom – or some other member. He hated to consider Dave as a suspect in this, though.

"It’s a good thing it wasn’t another attack on the school, Dani," he reminded her. "We’re already in danger of having the school closed as it is! And it would be a shame to lose out on a semester of school. And," he added with a sigh, "although while they haven’t suspended President Mitchell, or flat-out fired him, he’s on borrowed time. And he’s depending on Frank and me to help him."

"Oh, I know," Dani conceded, "but I was hoping we’d found something concrete out! I really want to help you and Frankenstein nail this guy, Joe!"

"I know."

"Did you get the photos developed?" she asked then. "I realize that the ones of the janitor on top of the gym aren’t any help, but…"

"We looked at them last night," Joe responded, yawning. "They were good, but I’m not sure they’re going to be any help. Nothing leaped out at us and screamed ‘I am your clue!’" He considered telling Dani that they’d had some other business that interrupted their work with the photos, but decided not to bother her by mentioning the gunfire attack.

"Darn it," Dani commented softly.

"I’m really starting to hate this case," Joe muttered…and then after a few seconds, he amended his words. "No, I really DO hate this case! It’s insane. I hate running into brick walls."

Dani chuckled. "You’ve got a hard enough head for it, Golden Boy….Okay, I’m at work for the next two days, so if you or Frank need me, call me at the station. I’ve got to go now."

Joe forced himself to sit up, knowing he couldn’t stay in bed any longer. "Thanks, Dani. Talk to you later." He disconnected, then reconnected and hit the speed dial for Vanessa. It’s time to break down a few brick walls….Corin What’s-His-Name. Kirk Moncrief. The Students For Earth. Yup. Head busting was about to commence!