Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Epilogue - Thanksgiving.

The weatherman forecast stormy weather, and he was right. The rain is so heavy that even with the wipers on full I can still barely see the road ahead. Leaves long since fallen from trees are blowing out of the gutters and along the road, and slapping against the side of the car, before swirling around and around the lawns of the houses and gathering in groups along the sides of the houses.

It’s as if they are trying to join in the Thanksgiving celebrations.

Mind you, it hasn’t been much of a celebration, not in our house. The turkey lay cold and uneaten, a half-hearted attempt at normality that was never going to work. I had no appetite, and Jean had no interest in cooking, and later, as we sat on the couch side by side, staring at the TV screen, I think I suddenly realised that we had lost more than our son; we were also losing each other.

She didn’t blame me, not outright; she never actually said that it was my fault.

“It’s all your fault.’

Fenton’s words keep replaying in my head over and over, the look on my son’s face as they took him away.

Was it my entire fault? Had I truly driven my own son mad?

My only son…one of the best things that I have ever accomplished. Such a handsome boy, with his mother’s dark eyes and curly hair. He had a smile for everyone, and seemed so happy with his life, with his job, everything.

Oh, I miss my son, but I miss my old friend, too. After leaving Fenton in a prison cell awaiting psychiatric assessment, I drove straight over to the hospital to see how Joe was, and the first person I met, sitting so still in the waiting room, his face drawn, and pale, was Fenton.

“Fenton, how is Joe? I don’t know what to say, I really just don’t.”

But Fenton Hardy interrupted him; his face was pale and drawn, he looked old and tired, and when Sam looked into his eyes there was no warmth there. “Just go home, Sam, please, just go. I’ll call you.”

“I’ll call you.” But he never did. That was four months ago and we haven’t spoken since.

I’ve kept in contact though, through Laura. She rang my wife to tell us that Joe was recovering well, and I talked to her for a little while. I don’t think she blames me, but I really don’t know.

I just can’t understand where all this came out of, what went wrong? He was home with us last Thanksgiving, we played chess and watched a football match and Jean came out and scolded us for making such a mess. Later on after dinner we talked and laughed. Everything seemed okay.

Everything seemed so normal.

‘Was it that simple though?’ Since everything that happened, I keep finding myself [found himself] questioning the whole of my relationship with my son, every sideward glance, every heated conversation. How long had my son hated me? A year?, Five, ten? From the very beginning, maybe?

I thought yesterday would never end; I just wanted to go to bed, to shut out the day, to ignore the reality of what happened; that my son was in a Psychiatric institution, and my oldest friend was ignoring me.

But at about 11 p.m. , the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi…”

There was a pause; the voice was hesitant and Sam recognised it instantly. How could he not, it was almost as familiar to him as his own son’s. He didn’t reply for a moment, he was almost afraid to speak, in case the voice stopped talking back.

“Hello, Sam?” The voice was slightly louder this time.

“Joe, hello….Happy Thanksgiving,” Sam finally ventured.

There was silence for a moment from the other end of the phone, then Joe Hardy spoke:

“I guess it is,” he replied, “I mean, it’s great that Frank found me, and I’m okay.”

“Are you?…okay, I mean!” Sam asked hesitantly. He didn’t mean physically though; Sam Radley knew the boys long enough to know that they were tough, they bounced back easier than most people.

“Yes,” Joe sounded convincing, but maybe a little too convincing. “Well…maybe….No…Oh, I don’t know, Sam. It’s all, well, it’s a mess really, isn’t it?

Sam was silent, sensing that Joe was trying to get a point across, but didn’t really know how to go about saying it.

“Dad, he somehow blames himself, and I don’t understand why. I think its ‘cause he and you were…are…such good friends, and that’s why Fenton spent so much time here as a kid; and that’s when he started resenting Frank and me. But it wasn’t like that, Sam, you know, I know that it was no one’s fault, not Dad’s, not yours, not even Fenton’s, really. He was…is…just unbalanced, you know? And no matter what anyone else says, you have to know that I don’t blame you.”

There was a pause before Joe continued.

“You chose me over him in the end, you know? And I told Dad that, and I said that I was gonna invite you here, tomorrow, for lunch.”

“And what did he say?” Sam asked.

“He didn’t say no.”

He didn’t say no. So here I am, the day after Thanksgiving, driving more than 250 miles to Bayport to see my oldest friend, to try and reclaim something from all this.

I hope it works.