Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

They took the path that led downhill, as instructed by Sam. They walked briskly and quietly, each lost in his or her own thoughts on the case and on their families.

“Fenton?” Madeline suddenly said.

“Yes?” Fenton gave a quick sidelong glance at the woman walking next to him.

“I’ve been thinking about Con’s notes,” Madeline said and she ignored several other glances thrown at her. “He noted that the eight of us plus our living spouses made thirteen. That does seem a little coincidental. But I am more interested in a side scribbling that read ‘something about the detectives themselves’. He underlined that twice. You know Con, Fenton. Why do you think he highlighted that?”

Fenton looked at Madeline for a moment, surprised. He did not remember reading that. He must be really tired. He sighed as he asked Madeline to show him where Con wrote that. He shone his torch on the notes and read through everything on the page. That was no easy feat since he was still walking and dodging tree roots at that point.

The page contained all their names and those of their immediate families, plus a number of scribbles by the side:

Retired…well-known profiler…handled fraud…tracks escaped convicts… white collar crime…

Then:

Something about the detectives…. All have good reputations…creative…. Persistent

Fenton frowned. Something there, he knew, but he just could not make any sense of it. He shook his head in disappointment.

“Don’t worry about it, Fenton, I’m sure we’ll figure it out, and we don’t even know if Con’s on the right track,” Madeline said when she saw him about to start on his guilt trip again.

Fenton turned and gave her a wan smile. “Don’t worry about me, Maddy, I’m fine. And we’ll nail this bastard,” he replied.

Then the forest opened up into a little clearing of sorts.

The detectives came to a stop and stared at the moonlit scene before them. If this had been a real Halloween Hunt, their kids would have picked the perfect haunt to freak them out.

About a dozen or so old crumbling houses lined each side of the cobblestone path before them, and that path led straight into the dark shadowed woods just about a hundred meters ahead. No those were not quite houses. Cottages would be a better description. Those grey rotting ruins looked like medieval styled cottages, the tattered thatched roofs the only thing that were protecting them from the elements. It was clear that no one had lived here for the last two, maybe even three decades.

The detectives were quiet as they made their way slowly down the path towards the shadowed woods. Perhaps it was their way of showing some respect for the dead and abandoned village. The drizzle of rainfall dampened everything it touched; giving those crumbling stones and tattered roofs a silvery sheen that effectively reflected the pale moonlight. And the cottages glowed as the detectives walked by.

The silence was total, except for the soft shuffling sounds of eight pairs of feet, which the detectives failed to silence despite their efforts to be light-footed. The need to keep quiet was intense; it was almost as if they were afraid of attracting unwanted attention.

The sounds of eight deep sighs of relief rang loud and clear the moment the detectives made it to the woods. The trees before them stood tall, dark, and twisted. The thick branches all twisted and curled downwards and inwards, as if reaching out to capture and cage their prey. The contrast was stark, those crumbling cottages that glowed all silvery, and now the dark colored trees here seemed to swallow up all light, leaving only shadows to tell of their existence.

The detectives turned to look at each other for a moment, and then they shrugged rather helplessly before walking on. They had all made their reputations by being logical and methodical in their approach to solving crimes. They would not let these few little magic tricks get in their way. First they would find their families, and then they would figure out how all those effects were achieved. There was no such thing as the supernatural.

Or is there? Each detective could not help but wonder, but then quickly shoved that dangerous thought away.

The path led further downward. It was like slowly descending into hell; Fenton could not help but muse. He could barely see his feet. A white and heavy moist mist gathered around their feet as they walked, seeping through their shoes and chilling their soaked feet.

Soon, the tall dark trees seemed to part before their eyes as the forest suddenly thinned out. And they saw an old stone tower with its wicked conical roof precariously perched at a crazy angle, next to a little running river at the bottom of the valley below them.

It took them another twenty minutes to get to the base of the tower. It was big but it wasn’t very high – possibly eight meters at most, two or two and a half stories high. They explored the tower and its surroundings. They counted twelve open graves, each with a half-opened coffin, placed at equal intervals around the tower. It spooked them a little; they could see that on each other’s faces. They had just been reminded of Gray and what he said about being The Thirteen. There was no denying the terrifying thought going through all their minds: Would their child be the one chosen to kill the others?

They shook off those thoughts through sheer necessity to focus on the problem at hand.

There was no way in, no doors but for a window at the top of the tower.

“What now?” someone asked.

“We search for a way to make some sort of a rope and get ourselves up there,” Mathew answered.

Fenton stood where he was and continued to scan his environs. Somehow, this entire setup felt familiar. It was as if he had seen it before somewhere. Yet, how could he?

“Are you okay, Fenton?” Gaby asked when he noticed that Fenton was not helping them make the rope.

Fenton did not answer. He stared at the trees. He stared at the little river of water next to the tower. He turned back to the tower, his mind working furiously.

Hansel and Gretel…Little Red Riding Hood…Gingerbread…. Yes!

This place was a scene from The Brothers Grimm! The Brothers Grimm… is there a story in there that has a tower with a window? Fenton asked himself. Yes, there is one!

Fenton ran to the spot just beneath the window; he looked up, and called out:

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down thy hair.”

A long thick braid of golden tresses appeared at the window, and slowly made its way down to the ground where the detectives stood and waited with pounding hearts.

oooooo

Max gave a curt nod as Ezra confirmed they had the bookings for the seaplanes to fly over to West Fire Island. It was good that everyone in this room was now on a first-name basis. It showed that they were comfortable working together.

He called for the men to gather for a final mission briefing before setting off. There were twelve of them; seven FBIs and five BPD officers. They would have to be enough. Max did not want to do anything to risk alerting the Secret Service. That was, if they didn’t already know where to find the Candyman.

Bayport PD had proven to be remarkably efficient and Fenton certainly had friends there. And that kid, Phil Cohen, was a real whiz with computers. If not for him, they would have no idea where to go next. Max made a mental note, adding the Cohens to his list of freelancers.

After Max commented that he wished he could see what was on the papers that Gray handed Fenton, Phil had quickly returned to his keyboard. And soon, they were looking at the magnified image of two maps.

“FBI uses High Definition recording allowing a 20X optical zoom, and I added another 5X digital zoom and a little bit of fuzzy logic to retrieve these,” the kid explained.

Max was impressed.

The map made no sense, but there were two sets of numbers there. It took all of them an hour to figure out what that meant. Ezra had his wife call on a special favor to get them late night access to the library where they found the book. After deducing the tower was where the detectives went, it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out that the twelve digits were coordinates. And Phil did a quick search to match them to a location right on West Fire Island.

Max had to smile at Phil’s reluctance to leave. Max could see that the boy was worried for his friends. The kid’s done all he could, and it’s time for the professionals to take over. So Max had spared a couple of minutes to talk to him.

“We’ll bring them back safe,” he promised, and hoped he could keep it.

And Mr. Cohen led his reluctant son out of the room. But not before Max thought he caught the merest hint of a gleam in the boy’s eyes.

Then Chief Collig was tapping his hands on the table calling for attention and distracted him. He pulled Max over to the head of the table, and Max started his briefing.

“Okay people, listen up. We know 26 years ago a little-known segment of the Secret Service did a Halloween project and created the Candyman. We do not really know the nature of that project, even though the notes I have here seem to indicate some occult basis for it. But, we do know that they want him back at all costs. The problem here is that the Candyman is possibly currently holding 28 hostages in whatever mad game he is playing: the eight civilian detectives, their spouses, their 13 children, and possibly Arthur Gray and Sam Radley…. And we need to get those 28 men and women out unharmed. With Phil’s help, we have pinpointed a highly possible position. Thanks to Officer Riley’s connection with the paramedics at Saltaire, Fire Island, we have a medical team with their choppers on standby. We’ll be going in on two private chartered seaplanes. Since there is no current map of the island, we’ll just have to improvise when we get there…any questions?”

A hand raised and a number of questions blurted forth from Bill Murphy, one of Bayport PD’s officers:

“I have some questions. First, the SS was created to handle currency fraud and to protect the head of state, so why were they involved in something of this kind of typical cold war military stuff? Second, why are you so certain this group of SS would kill everyone just to get the Candyman? Why is he so important to them?”

Max stared at Bill for a moment, and having gathered his thoughts, answered.

“Yes, the SS was created for the purpose you specified. But it seems we might have a rogue section. Whoever they are, they ranked high, very high. Otherwise I would not have suddenly discovered how many more bosses I have up there above me that I have to answer to. And so, no, I have no idea who or what the Candyman is…”

Why did I say ‘what’?! Max wondered but made himself continue with his speech.

“But I do know the Candyman is crazy – otherwise he would not have constructed that crazy panopticon of a labyrinth thirteen years ago. I was there, racing down those crazy halls…” Max paused for a moment to suppress an involuntary shiver as he recalled that crazy maze he ran through before he continued.

“And I do know they want him at any cost. Remember the 13 pieces of candy that Arthur Gray received? Well, they aren’t body parts from the victims thirteen years ago as per the original forensic results we were given. They were 13 bullets, special SS-issued bullets, and the blood samples on those bullets were DNA-matched to the 13 FBI agents abducted 13 years ago.”

oooooo

Fenton was cursing angrily to himself as he opened the next door before him. It’s a playground this time. He was hopelessly lost and he knew it. Even worse, he was alone. The Candyman had managed to separate them all. They’d all be easy pickings now.

But he kept his anger up. It was his one defense against the overwhelming despair that was threatening to set in.

How the heck did we allow this to happen? Fenton asked himself for the hundredth time.

He cursed again as he recalled what happened after they all climbed into the tower through that window. They were faced with two doors and decided to split into two groups.

That was their first mistake.

Then he and the other three were walking down a long flight of stairs. Fenton had no doubt that by the end of it, they were all underground. Soon, they were walking along this long corridor where they were spread out too far from each other. Next they knew, a wall dropped in on them, and then they were three.

That was when Fenton got a really bad feeling about the whole thing.

Then they were walking through a series of gingerbread rooms, each tastefully furnished with beautifully made gingerbread and sweets furnishings. The detectives were reminded of another similar journey they had made thirteen years back. The setting might be a little different, but it was equally intricately bizarre.

Next to disappear was Madeline. She opened a door, screamed and was yanked through it by someone. Fenton and Gaby had rushed to the door and tried to open it but to no avail. Finally, the door opened, but there was no one there in that nursery.

And in the nursery, the rocking horse rocked.

Fenton and Gaby walked on. They could not go back, because they no longer knew the way. They kept an eye on each other and stayed close as they continued their exploration of the strange labyrinth they found themselves in. Their partnership did not last long.

Fenton stepped onto a trapdoor and fell.

He could still hear Gaby yelling for him as the trapdoor slammed shut above him. Then he was on the slide-ride of his life, and was soon deposited on a giant fluffy pillow. It took his old bones several long minutes to crawl out of that soft plushy cushion. And when he did, he walked out of the only door in that room. There was no other choice open to him.

He walked through a bedroom, a library, a billiards room, and a playground.

The next room he stepped into was the kitchen.

How interesting! he thought. For a moment, he wondered how the mechanics of cooking worked in a gingerbread kitchen. Then he realized this room was different. This was the first room he’d seen with real-life furnishings, unlike the pure gingerbread décor of all the other rooms. The ovens were real, the stove was real, the cooking utensils and knives were real…

He went to the gingerbread sink and turned on the tap. Water flowed. He reached into the cool water to give his face a quick wash. He needed it to clear away all the sweat and grime that he accumulated during his hike through the forest and tumble through the maze of gingerbread rooms.

That was when he saw the message on the wall above the sink.

He turned and headed towards the table. There was the recipe book, the utensils, the knives, and the chopping board. That was one big flat wooden chopping board, Fenton noted. He turned it around. There were messages carved onto it!

And there was Joe’s message! And Frank’s! They’re here, Fenton thought. He could not help but feel a little relieved knowing that his sons were really here somewhere. Suddenly, it did not matter that he had no idea where they were and that he had no clue how to get out of this place. What mattered was that he would see his family soon. He knew that now with absolute certainty.

Suddenly, Fenton felt the hairs on his neck rise. He thought he heard a voice screaming ‘dad’, and he moved just in time to avoid the downward slash of a silvery blade.

He looked up, shocked to see his eldest standing there before him. There was a short moment of joy that swiftly faded away as he noted the lackluster appearance of his eldest’s eyes.

“Frank?” he called out tentatively, with both his hands raised before him in a placating gesture. “Frank, listen…”

That was as far as he got, and Frank was on him again.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys 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.