Chapter Twenty-One: Drive-by Shooting

Most of the time when I’m upset or troubled, I go to my own room, shut the door, and work on getting my emotions under control in privacy. The privacy part is flexible; sometimes I let Joe in, other times Dad. Joe’s the one I usually vent at; he’s a good listener and goes a step beyond sympathy. He understands me so well that he knows what will (and won’t) help me calm down. Dad’s the one I talk to if I need some advice based on experience. He doesn’t tell me what to do, but he does make suggestions and offers views that I haven’t thought of.

But there are other times, when the only thing that will help me get my head on straight again is to just get as far away, and as fast, as I can. It’s as if the more distance there is between me and the uproar, the easier it is to think. Besides that, there’s a strangely powerful freedom about being able to go off somewhere and know that no one will be able to find me- that I won’t have to return until I make the decision to. It’s sorta like a weird version of hide-n-seek, except I’m both the hider and the finder. I hide myself away until I’m ready to be ‘found’.

This was definitely the latter time. I didn’t want to see or try and talk to any of my family until I got a grip on myself. The fact that Joe and Dad had both been aware of Mom’s favoritism and never mentioned it to me rankled badly. I could dimly see why they wouldn’t want to talk about it with me, but I sure could have used their understanding when I was trying so hard to figure out if her attitude was all my imagination or not.

Obviously not- how dumb do they think I am? Did they think not talking about it would make me not notice?

When I reached the end of Elm Street, I hesitated, realizing that I had no idea where to go. None of my ‘regular’ spots would do; I wasn't concerned that Mom or Dad would find me, but Joe might. He knew all of the places I went when I was upset, and while he didn't usually intrude on me, this might be an exception. So I needed a new place, somewhere I'd never gone before. I turned the thought over in my mind as I jogged towards Bayport proper, then decided to worry about it once I got to the other side of town. I slowed down to a fairly rapid walk as I reached the edge of town. Running down the sidewalks would attract too much attention. I passed the Marina and thought briefly of taking the Sleuth out, but discarded the idea. I wanted to sit and think, not concentrate on wind, waves, tides, sunken rocks and other boaters.

By the time I was halfway across town, I had slowed down a lot more. Bayport doesn’t take a lot of time to walk across- at least, not the downtown part of it. There’s at least twice as much suburban territory as there is urban, and easily four times as much rural as either. Still, eighteen blocks of busy streets, parking lots, office buildings, shops, and the two malls, takes a little time to get through. Especially since there’s a traffic light every fifty feet or so. Well- okay, fifty yards. Still, it can be a nuisance.

Bayport used to be bigger- it looks like a small city and used to have a city-sized population, but now it’s basically an overgrown town. Everyone keeps either moving down towards New Jersey or up nearer to New York City.

I had just paused for a Don’t Walk sign at one of the intersections when a car pulled up beside me and stopped. I hardly noticed; it was a right-on-red and the driver had the right of way. But this car just sat there, causing the one behind it to honk loudly. I looked over and took automatic note of the make and model: a black Honda Civic. Then the passenger rolled down the window and stuck his head out. A youngish guy, mid-twenties, sunglasses, dark hair, smoke drifting up from the cigarette in his mouth. He looked right at me, nodded briefly, turned to say something to the driver. I wondered if they were lost. The guy seemed to reach over for something- I thought he was putting out his cigarette. He turned back to me, leaned over as though to speak. And then, almost too quickly for me to understand what was happening, he stuck a handgun out of the window and fired repeatedly.

Straight at me.

I had no time to move, to react, to dodge. I felt the bullets hit, like hard punches against my body, staggering me. I felt myself stumble backwards, lost my balance, fell to the sidewalk and lay there. I couldn’t move, it was as though I had no strength, no will. The wind had been knocked out of me and all I could do was gasp in air and wonder how badly I was hurt.

The strangest thing was that at first, I didn’t really feel any pain. But after a moment, I became aware of a burning heat deep inside me. I’d never thought about it before, but of course bullets would be hot. I dimly heard screams and shouting, heard horns, opened my eyes - when did I close them?- in time to see the car screech around the corner. I saw the license plate, but my mind wouldn’t focus enough to register it. The intense heat began to fade, but there was sticky warmth all over my shirt. I felt very weak, but my arms seemed able to move a little. I wanted to know how bad it was, so I made an effort to push myself into a sitting position.

That was when the pain hit.

I tried to cry out, but only managed a groan as I fell back to the pavement. My whole body seemed to be cracking apart, tearing, twisting. Red-tinged blackness drifted behind my squeezed-shut eyes; every breath seemed to catch and tear me even farther apart.

“Frank! Frank- oh, God!” Someone gasping- someone I knew. I opened my eyes again, looked into Joe’s stricken white face. I started to feel scared- it had to be bad for him to look like that.

“I called the police, and there’s an ambulance on the way.” A man’s voice- a shadowy figure looming behind Joe.

“Hang on, bro, hang on...”

“Hurts,” I gasped, letting my eyes close again. “Hurts, Joe.” I felt strangely cold now, despite the heat all over my front. Fear? Shock, probably.

“I know, big brother, I know it does, but just hang on.” His hand was gripping mine, warm, strong, something to cling to and help me endure the pain.

“How-” I started to ask, and then couldn’t finish. I was so tired. I wanted to sleep. I couldn’t hear right, everything was all up and down and up again...wailing...strange. Someone was calling me, but I couldn’t open my eyes again, they were so heavy. There was darkness swallowing up the pain, but it was pushing me down and down and down... too deep to see... “Joe,” I thought, maybe said, and then everything stopped.

 

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.