Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Arthur Gray shrank into the couch he was sitting on. He did not want to be here. However, one did not tell one’s boss ‘no’ under circumstances like this one. But he wished he could just vanish somehow out of the Hardy home and return to the safety of his office back in New York City. He was known as The Gray Man because of his ability to blend inconspicuously into any environment he was in. Except, apparently, when he most wanted to and needed to; right here and now in this house.

He wondered how long it would take for Fenton to realize the significance of why he was here. He swallowed his tea and felt a little sick. Then the questions would start. And then he would have to remember. He shivered a little and hoped no one noticed.

No one did. They were all too enthralled by the conversation going on between Fenton and their boss, Maxwell. How often did one get to sit in the same room at the same time with the head of FBI, the head of the Network, and a private eye with a reputation like Fenton Hardy?

“That was 13 years ago…” Fenton said.

“Yes,” Maxwell responded in a soft but clear voice. “I was a field agent back then when it happened…”

“One of the best they had…” Fenton could not resist adding.

Maxwell let out a little laugh. It was just something to lighten the somber mood in the living room.

“A number of our undercover agents went missing,” Maxwell continued. “At first we thought they were discovered and taken down by the respective agencies they were spying on…only to find out later it was not the case. No bodies were found, and we found out the various agencies were also wondering what happened to their men. So, no, their covers were still intact.”

Maxwell paused and gathered his thoughts, “After the eighth undercover agent went missing, we still had no clue as to what was happening. There were some interesting characteristics though. All missing agents were deep undercover agents. And they were all taken from different states, and had disappeared at the rate of one a month. We had no clues as to how they were taken then. Our best profilers thought that it might be the work of a very intelligent psychopath, possibly a serial killer, out looking for a challenge.”

“Why is it that we never heard of anything like that…?” Henry started to ask when Maxwell stopped for a drink.

“It was not something we want to advertise, you must understand that….It was imperative we put a stop to those abductions back then, and the FBI did something unprecedented. They authorized the employment of eight civilian detectives to assist in the case. It was hoped that those detectives would offer fresh perspectives to a case that had been running stale over eight months. Fenton was hired to help me track down the missing agent in New York. Not long after he took up the case, the ninth undercover agent went missing, also in New York City. It sort of cancelled one of our theories on the MO.”

“Anyway, and in a nutshell, a total of 13 agents were taken over 13 months,” Fenton interrupted his best friend, his tone flat and controlled. “It was sheer luck that the Candyman made a mistake while abducting his thirteenth victim. Even so, it took us nearly a month to trace his whereabouts. By the time we found them, twelve were dead and the thirteenth close to catatonic but alive. Then we hunted the Candyman down in his personal playground. We cornered him but he blew up the room rather than get caught.”

Gray smiled inwardly as he compared the reactions of both men. Max had chosen to go into details to avoid reaching the gruesome part too quickly. Fenton had stripped out all details, leaving behind a bland but essentially accurate story. He didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want to remember either. And it was not the details, it was the feelings. The overwhelming emotions…

Then Fenton confronted them: “So what has the Candyman got to do with my missing sons? He was dead, we saw him, and we found his remains.”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything,” Maxwell told him, his tone serious, and his eyes silently telling Fenton to be prepared.

“Thirteen years ago, we hired eight detectives. All in all, they had thirteen children.”

Fenton felt the blood drain from his face. His heart began to race.

His friend continued, ruthlessly: “The first went missing thirteen weeks ago. Joseph was the twelfth and Frank was the thirteenth. In each case, a partial piece of a sweet was left with some form of the victim’s identity, usually a driver’s license,” Maxwell finished gently.

Fenton couldn’t help himself. He felt sick. The images he kept barely buried in his conscious mind suddenly broke free. He saw the strange rooms he went through as he helped to chase that killer. And he saw the twelve dead bodies as they were paraded one by one past his mind’s eye in great detail. Then he saw his sons….

He puked.

oooooo

Everyone was quiet as they waited for Fenton to join them again. The four younger FBI agents all looked a little uneasy. The situation was getting to them. They could see that their superiors were spooked by that case, and they were all wondering if they really wanted to know the details.

Fenton made his way slowly back to the living room. He had no choice. If the Candyman had his sons, then he had no time to waste. He sat down on the couch, ready to start again.

The Gray Man knew that everyone had expected him to continue with details of what happened thirteen years back. But he knew better. And Fenton did not disappoint.

“So if it’s the Candyman, whether the original or a possible copycat, what is he doing here?” Fenton tilted his head towards Arthur Gray as he put the question to Maxwell.

His friend replied, “He was the lone agent who survived thirteen years ago, Fenton. Back then, you were only allowed to read the transcripts of the interview. But now you can …”

Fenton’s eyes widened in surprise, and turned to look at Gray again. He realized this time that Gray did indeed look a little grey. ‘Oh my God, to have gone through that…’

He vaguely heard his friend talking some more.

“…and Fenton, we want you to come with us to our office in New York City. The other seven detectives should be there by now. And we do have more leads for you to go through.”

The room was quiet. They were waiting for Fenton’s answer. Or his questions.

But he did neither.

Then Sam broke the silence, and asked that question. Everyone else waited with bated breath for an answer.

“How did the twelve agents die?”

Even Sam was unnerved by the three sets of stony eyes staring back at him.

No one answered him. Perhaps it was because they were interrupted. For something came crashing in through the window, scattering something all around them. And everyone dove for cover.

There was absolute stillness and absolute silence. For a while anyway. Then slowly, the people began to move.

There were candies all around them. Chuppa-chups. Toffees. Jellybeans. Chocs-eclairs. Licorice drops. You name them, you find them. And in the midst of all those little sweets was a large lollipop. On it were the words in a scrawling script:

The Thirteen

They all stared at that lollipop. They failed to notice the reaction of one man amongst them.

Gray was staring at the black and white swirls on the lollipop, and the red words imprinted on it. Oh no, no, no… a memory long forgotten surfaced. Or was it merely suppressed? And he saw red. All around him. His hands were blood coated. And sugar coated. There was blood everywhere. He could still smell the saccharine sweetness.

More and more images flashed by. And voices echoed hollowly in his eardrums. Saccharine-sweet voices. His breathing started to get raspier. He could remember making candy floss and fruit sorbet. And on the table before him…

Gray started to laugh. Rather softly at first, then it grew progressively louder.

The others turned and look at him in surprise.

“Gray?” he heard Fenton called out carefully.

He did not care, he could not care. It was like someone else was there controlling him. Or maybe it was just him losing it. He knew they were all looking at him, concerned. But that didn’t matter to him. Not anymore.

He remembered. He finally remembered.

He laughed. Bitterly. Maniacally. Painfully. Regretfully. He cried. He laughed so hard and cried so hard, his throat and eyes hurt. He sank slowly down onto the floor.

Finally, he looked up into Fenton’s concerned eyes and mumbled in a childlike voice, “I was…The Thirteen…that was why the candyman let me live…”

“Oh my God…I killed them…I killed them all…I was The Thirteen…and I killed them all.”

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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.