Fenton Hardy stared at his cluttered desk, feeling overwhelmed. He’d done the usual searches of hotels and hospitals in the five-state area but found nothing, not even any John Does. He felt at his wit’s end with only dead ends for his trouble. What bothered him most was the fact that in the last four weeks, Joe hadn’t tried calling home. That couldn’t be good.

The phone rang, making him jump. He snatched it up before anyone else could answer one of the extensions. “Hello....Nicholas, what’s going on?”

As Fenton listened to the man, he frowned. “Doctor Amelia Robertson? St. Vincent’s in Manhattan? I know I included all the hospitals in New York, Nicholas. Even Memorial which is for cancer research....Well, yes, I was...I tried John Doe as well...Why? Nicholas—”

Fenton pulled the receiver away from his ear but not before he heard a second click. A moment later, his study door swung open. Frank hurried inside. “Dad...”

“You were listening in?”

“I hadn’t planned to. Are you going to call St. Vincent’s?”

Fenton took a deep breath and reached for a Manhattan phone book. He scanned the entries until he found the one he wanted. “I’m calling, Frank, but I already checked there.”

“Who was that guy that called?”

“Nicholas de Santos. He was a client about six months ago. Security checks.”

Fenton held up a hand to forestall another question as someone answered on the other end. “Yes, do you have a Doctor Amelia Robertson on staff?....I’m calling about a John Robertson, was he admitted within the last month?”

Frank wondered why this Nicholas de Santos had suggested the name. Did he know something? He watched his father scribble something on a notepad. “Yes. Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “A John Robertson was admitted into the hospital nearly three and a half weeks ago, apparently a cousin to Dr. Robertson’s husband. The hospital released him three weeks ago.”

Frank sighed. “So...another dead end?”

“I’m calling Dr. Robertson. It’s her day off.” He dialed the number the hospital had given him. “Dr. Robertson?...I’m calling about your husband’s cousin, John...Is he still with you?...I see...My name is Fenton Hardy...Wrong? What do you mean, Dr. Robertson?”

Frank reached over and hit the button for the speakerphone, earning a glare from his father. “...certain they were a perfect match. Blood type, height, eye color and hair color. I found him on the side of the highway not far from Prospect Park in Queens.” The woman sighed softly. “He has amnesia. I was hoping his going back to Bayport would trigger his memory but I guess I was wrong. I apologize for the mix-up.”

Fenton frowned. “You sent him here? To Bayport?”

There was a long pause. “Yes. I paid for his bus ticket.” Now the woman sounded confused. “When I saw the newspaper article about your missing son...”

“Dr. Robertson,” Fenton tried to keep his emotions out of his voice. “Could you please explain a little better?”

“Yes, of course. David and I were driving back from Brooklyn. My parents live there. We saw this young man unconscious near Highway 278. We brought him to St. Vincent’s only to discover he had no identification. I’m a resident there so I set to bandaging his head injury and checking for more contusions or trauma. When someone asked, I just told them that he was John Robertson, cousin to my husband. David’s blond so I figured that would be okay.”

Frank leaned forward, mentally urging her on. After a moment, the woman continued. “I kept an eye on him for several days and when he finally woke up, I was certain everything would be fine. Until I discovered he had amnesia. When the hospital released him, I brought him home. I searched for information, news reports and finally found yours about your missing son. I was sure it was John, so I sent him to Bayport.”

Fenton cleared his throat. “He’s not here.”

“Oh. I’m sure I got the right bus...”

“Why didn’t you just call me, Dr. Robertson?”

“If I was wrong, it would have gotten your hopes up. That would have been cruel. I would have thought if he was your son, seeing his hometown would have been sufficient for restoring his memory.”

Fenton took a deep breath. “Thank you for trying to help.”

“I’m sorry I was mistaken,” she said and hung up.

Frank hit the speaker button to silence the soft drone of the dial tone. “Where is he?”

Fenton stared at the phone. “Why would Nicholas call me with that name?”

“Ask him.”

Fenton dialed the number for de Santos but it went straight to voice mail. “Nicholas, please call me back.”

“Let’s go over there, maybe we can talk to him personally.”

“He’s a private man and one of his daughters just got home. I can’t just barge in there.”

“What if it is Joe?” Frank started for the door. “Why don’t I go to St. Vincent’s with Joe’s picture. See if the people there can ID him.”

“I’m not losing another son.”

Frank shook his head. “Then come with me.”

Fenton took a deep breath and got to his feet. “All right. We’ll take the van. Let me go tell...” He shook his feet. “And if we’re wrong? I can’t do that to Laura.”

“Dad, I think it is Joe. And I think we’re finally going to find him. Mom will understand.”

Fenton looked over at his son. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve wanted to help with this.”

Frank took a deep breath. “Dad—”

“Let me go tell Laura and Gertrude. Meet you at the van.”

Frank watched his father leave, more energy in his step than had been there just a few minutes before. They were going to bring his brother home, he knew. Just in time for Christmas.

*****

I stared into the flames, wishing they’d tell me who I was. The parlor was empty and quiet as the de Santos bustled around in other parts of the house.

I shifted my gaze to the towering Christmas tree in one corner. Tiny lights glittered, bouncing off the silver and gold ornaments. There was something old-fashioned about the tree with its popcorn and dried cranberry strings and I thought about Christmas cards with old pictures on them.

“John?”

I twisted around to see Holly walking into the parlor. “Hey.”

“We’re going to the mall. Want to come?”

An uneasy feeling swept over me and I shivered. “The mall?”

“Yeah, last minute Christmas shopping. For me, anyway. Missy’s busy with the accounting but Ivy wants to show me the mall. Want to come?”

I tried to think of a good reason to not go, but nothing came to mind. “Okay.” I got up and followed her to the front door where she traded her slippers for her boots. Ivy was waiting by the door, keys in her hand.

“I’d better grab my jacket,” I said, hurrying up the stairs. Something about the mall bothered me, but what? Why did I feel like something horrible was going to happen? I slipped my jacket on and went back downstairs.

We took the double-cab truck again and Ivy headed back toward town. Holly took the front passenger seat and I was in the back again. At a red light, I saw a black Ford van that looked familiar. I leaned forward, trying to see it better but it turned off. I followed it with my eyes, wondering why I felt as if I’d recognized the vehicle.

Another few minutes’ driving brought us to a three-story brick building with a parking lot full of cars. This was obviously the mall. My eyes were drawn to the area that led to the underground parking garage, looking for blackened concrete. I could see the explosion as if it were happening in front of me.

I could feel the heat, someone holding me back. The horror swept over me. I’d lost someone. Someone close to me. The heat seemed to steal the oxygen from my lungs and I had a hard time catching a breath.

“John?”

I gave a start and turned to Holly. But for a moment, the imagery changed and I was at a boat dock, feeling the same heat, the same horror. For a moment, Holly’s hair was much shorter and her eyes were gray instead of blue. Someone...I’d lost someone. Who was she?

“John, are you okay?”

I gave a jerky nod. “Yeah.”

Holly didn’t look like she believed me but she didn’t ask me any questions. We got out of the truck and headed for the mall. The main entrance led straight into the food court which was open all the way up to the third-floor ceiling.

Ivy pulled off her gloves. “Anybody hungry?”

“Pizza,” I said automatically, seeing the sign Pizzeria. I hung out there a lot, eating pizza with friends. Maybe someone there knew the truth. I started walking over there, heedless of Holly and Ivy’s puzzled looks.

I walked up to the counter and a young girl smiled at me. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know me?” I asked, not even caring that it sounded like a crazy question.

She looked at me and shook her head. “No. But then I’m just seasonal help. With it close to the holidays, Mr. Prito wanted some extra hands.”

Prito. Italian. It sounded so familiar but I couldn’t put a face to the name. I felt a small hand on my arm and turned to see Ivy. “John, is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly walked up to us. “If you’d rather go back to the house, I can do my shopping later.”

A part of me wanted to, desperately. Hide myself away from concerned looks and puzzled expressions. But I knew now that I was close to learning the truth, learning who I really was. “No. We’ll stay.” I cleared my throat. “Who knows, maybe I’ll find someone who knows me.”

Holly studied me for a moment. “You’re from here, then?”

“Yes, Doc Robertson said I was this detective’s missing son. But—”

Holly went white. “He was right there. In the house just after we got there....”

A chill settled on my shoulders. So close. “Do you know where he lives?”

Ivy shook her head. “I’m sure Papa could tell us.”

Without another question, we all veered for the exit. Suddenly a female voice sounded above the noise. “Joe! Joe Hardy!”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw a blond girl rushing up to us. Her gold-blond hair was jaw-length and her hazel eyes were wide. “Joe? Oh God, Joe, you’re okay.”

I willed myself to remember her but I drew a blank. “Who are you?”

Her surprise turned to anger. “That’s not very funny, Joe.”

“He’s not joking,” said Holly quietly.

The girl looked over at her and then turned to me. “Your parents are frantic with worry. Mr. Hardy has searched everywhere and Frank...” She shook her head. “This is no game.”

None of the names rang a bell, not even the name she’d called me. “Look, I really don’t know who you are or who anyone is, including myself.”

She stood there for a moment and frowned. “You’re serious. Oh God, you don’t remember?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Her hazel eyes went wide again. “Oh no.” She set the shopping bags on the floor and held out an awkward hand. “Callie Shaw. I’m Frank’s girlfriend. Frank, your brother.”

I shook her hand. “You’re sure I’m Joe Hardy?”

I saw tears fill her eyes then. “Yes. You...I’d know you anywhere. Joe, what happened?”

I told her about Doc Robertson finding me. She looked confused. “But...Joe, you came to the mall that Saturday, said you were going to start in on your Christmas shopping early. Vanessa saw—”

Vanessa. She had gray eyes and blond hair. She wore it shoulder-length, liked computers. “Vanessa?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“But—” Memories of the scorched concrete, the heat, the burning boat. “I thought...” I shook my head, confused. My head was starting to hurt. “The explosion...”

Callie took a step forward, touched my shoulder. “Oh Joe, Vanessa’s okay.”

“Then who...?”

I saw a tear trail down her cheek then. “Your first girlfriend. Iola Morton. She...was killed in a car bomb meant for you and Frank.”

Hands holding me back from the heat, the flames...fighting to get away. “I tried...to save her...didn’t I?”

Callie nodded. “I think we need to get you home. Your mother will be so glad to see you.”

The pounding in my head intensified and my stomach tried to twist inside out. The glare of sunlight bouncing off of the windows and the overhead lights blurred into one painfully bright glow. The holiday music seemed to be nothing but discordant noise. And then everything went black.