Hardy Boys Fan Fiction at the HDA - Lie To Me

Laura smiled at her youngest son from her spot on the sofa, clicking the television off with the remote as he sat beside her. “There’s some of Gertrude’s stew simmering on the stove, if you’re hungry.”

He shook his head and stared at the black screen of the TV. “When do we need to leave?”

“In about an hour,” she answered, placing her hand on his back and rubbing it gently. “Sam and Ethel are coming over; we thought it would be nice to go over to the school together.”

“That’s nice,” he responded absently. “Where’re Dad and Frank?”

“Your father’s in his office, and Frank,” she sighed as she thought of her eldest son. “I think he’s still out on the deck.”

That got the boy’s attention and he glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s been out there since we got home from the service?”

Laura followed his gaze, picturing Frank as he had been the last time she had checked on him. Sitting rigidly on one of the deck chairs, staring out into the yard at nothing in particular, his handsome face an emotionless mask. “I think,” she said after a moment’s thought, “the funeral was hard for him. He’s grieving.”

“It was hard for everyone,” Joe shook his head again and rose from the sofa. “He’s not grieving, he’s hiding.”

His mother’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, halting him as he went to walk away. “Joe…”

“I’ve been where he is, Mom,” he said sadly, gently prying her hand away from his arm. “He helped me when I needed it, and now I can help him.”

The walk from the living room, through the kitchen, and onto the back deck took only a few seconds. Yet during that time Joe’s heart leapt rapidly against his chest. Despite reassuring his mother, he was at a loss of what he was going to say to his brother.

Frank had secluded himself from his family and friends for the past week. He refused visitors, phone calls, and barely ate or slept any more. Now he looked pale and gaunt, the bags beneath his eyes accentuating the pain that haunted those once vibrant eyes.

Joe missed him.

Remembering what he had been like when Iola died, Joe knew the pit of despair that had opened and threatened to consume him. Frank had been there for him, talked Joe back from the darkest period of his life. But there was more to it this time, more than the grief of losing someone so dear, and Joe feared there was no bringing his brother back.

“Hey,” Joe said casually as stepped out onto the deck.

The dark haired teen sat in the lounge chair, one fist clutched around several sheets of paper, and stared at the water drizzling from the awning. He glanced briefly at Joe when the boy sat in the chair next to him, but said nothing.

Joe swallowed his uncertainty and nodded toward the papers. “Is that the eulogy Principal Woods asked you to write?”

“Yup,” was the indifferent answer.

“May I read it?”

Frank stood up from the chair and tossed the loose papers into his brother’s lap. “Knock yourself out.”

Joe watched him, his heart aching, as Frank walked over to the railing of the deck and leaned against one of the posts. Slowly, Joe picked up the papers.

For a few moments, the only sound in the yard came from the steady fall of rain on the roof above the boys.

When he finished, there were tears burning at the corner of Joe’s eyes and he rose to stand next to Frank. “Frank, this is… beautiful.”

Frank tore the papers from Joe’s hands and crumpled them into a ball before tossing it into a nearby puddle. “It’s bullshit.”

Taken aback by Frank’s response, Joe stared at his brother in confusion. “Bullshit? So you didn’t mean a word of it? I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you want,” the older boy snarled. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Dark, dispassionate eyes glowered at Joe. “If you are, I can finish this conversation on my own.”

“Oh, get over yourself already!” Joe snapped, his anger at his brother’s attitude finally overwhelming his compassion. “I get it, you’re trying to deal, but you’re being a real ass! To Mom and Dad, our friends, to everyone around you when all we want is to help you!”

“Well, who asked you to?!” Frank snarled back. “I can deal with this on my own!”

“Right, like you’ve been doing such a bang up job of it so far.” Joe put a hand on Frank’s arm, only to have it shrugged off. “Frank, no one can do this alone; Least of all you.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“You keep things bottled up inside,” Joe explained, trying to keep his temper from boiling over. “You always have. But you do that with something like this and you’re going to go insane. I know.”

“You know nothing.”

Joe gaped at him. “Nothing? I know a hell of a lot more than you think, brother dear. Or have you forgotten Iola?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why? Because Iola wasn’t killed by some coward from my forgotten past? Because she wasn’t killed by someone I knew? ”

Frank whirled on Joe, grabbing him by the collar of his sweater, and slammed the younger boy against the post he had leaned against only a moment before. “Shut up!”

Joe grit his teeth against the shock at seeing the rage burning beneath the surface of Frank’s eyes. He had never seen his brother so riled up before, especially not at him. Still, he was not backing down now; not now that he knew why Frank had been acting as he had the past week.

“Peter knew you, Frank! He came looking for you and Callie died. Jerry died. People we knew died! But it wasn’t your fault!”

The few times the brother’s had ever come to blows, Joe only came out relatively unscathed because of Frank’s control. But seeing the fist pull back now he knew there would be no holding back. He braced himself as much as he could for the blow.

“Frank!”

Laura’s shriek of astonishment stopped time.

Joe glanced over at his parents who stood framed in the kitchen doorway, looks of utter surprise on their faces.

Frank’s fist hovered at his shoulder and the shock at what he’d been about to do was crushing as the anger faded. His arm lowered and the grip on his brother’s sweater let go. Tears sprung to his eyes as he stepped away from Joe.

Seeing Frank about to melt down, Joe reached for him but his brother jerked away from him. If Joe couldn’t physically comfort him, he’d try something else. His voice filled with every ounce of love and compassion he felt and he spoke gently, “It wasn’t your fault, Frank.”

The older boy looked horrified and spun away, rushing past both his parents and back into the house.

Laura was right behind him and Fenton watched as Joe stepped off the deck and retrieved the sopping wet ball of paper from the puddle. “What just happened?” the father asked when Joe came back.

“Something good, I hope,” Joe said sadly, shaking his head as he heard the roar of a motorcycle coming to life from the garage. All was quiet again a moment later as the sound of the motorcycle disappeared into the distance.

Putting an arm around his son’s shoulders, Fenton guided him back into the house. Joe placed the paper on the table and began the careful task of salvaging the words written.

~~HBHBHB~~

Friday, June 18, 8:30pm

The front steps of Bayport High School were covered in thousands of flowers. The light from more than a hundred candles once illuminated the area, but the steady fall of rain had extinguished most of them in the last few hours. Arranged on easels, and placed within the growing memorial, stood pictures of those who had fallen only a week ago.

The rain was keeping no one away and it seemed as if the entire population of Bayport was trying to find a place in front of the building. Across the crowded street, on the roof of the junior high school, dozens of news cameras were set up beneath protective plastic sheets.

The world was watching.

Principal Woods stood tall behind the podium, his deep green eyes looking at the gathered congregation with shared grief. He stood before the throng of students, teachers, and mourners not as a school official but as one of them. A human being touched by the recent tragedy at Bayport High School.

He cleared his throat hesitantly, smoothing out the wrinkled papers on the podium before him. Slowly, he began to speak.

“The words I’m about to speak are not my own,” he said haltingly, trying to control the hitch in his voice. “They were written by a graduating student and they deserve to be heard more than anything I could say.” Looking down at the rain splattered pages, he read:

“I would be lying if I said I understood. I don’t. I could never understand the evil that man is capable of. There is no explaining why bad things happen to good people.

“And bad is what happened June 11.

“Friday’s tragedy has spread shock waves through families, and across the country, as so many lives were lost. They vanished in the blink of an eye; Young, much too young to be gone already. Sons and daughters, friends and teachers. Making sense out of death is difficult, but this? How do you make sense out of senseless?

“A man once said, ‘We cannot banish dangers, but we can banish fears. We must not demean life by standing in awe of death.’

“Now is not the time for remembering the evil that was done in our school. We must forge ahead, taking with us the memories of those no longer walking the path of life beside us.

“Remember the friend that touched your life, no matter how briefly, and helped to shape who you are today.

“Remember the teacher, who strived daily, to see that you had the tools to face life beyond the school walls.

“Remember the student with first aid training who swallowed his fear and remained, trying to save his teacher's life.

“Remember the teachers who risked their own lives to protect the lives of their students.

“Remember the selfless student, whose final act was to save her friend.

“Remember the countless acts of heroism, that saved many lives, and the profound heroism among those who died.

“Remember that within this evil there is still goodness.

“Remember, and those who died here will not have died in vain.

“Remember.”

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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.