Laura Hardy sat down at the dining room table, placed her cup of coffee in front of her, propped her elbows on the table and wearily leaned her forehead into her hands.  She had woken from a restless sleep about an hour ago, around seven-thirty, and decided there wasn’t a chance in Hades of drifting off again.  She never did sleep well when her husband disappeared in the course of his work; she lay awake alternating between anger at his careless indifference in not calling to reassure her, and deep fear of what might have happened to prevent him from contacting her.

She knew her attitude wasn’t very reasonable, and tried hard to control it, but some nights that was easier than others.  Fear and concern were understandable- they showed a lack of confidence in Fenton’s abilities, but they were still perfectly normal reactions.  The anger, though...  And the worst part of feeling angry at her husband’s ‘neglectfulness’ was the guilt that came afterwards. 

Fenton always apologized for worrying her, even when she made not the slightest reference to her fears.  He seemed to understand just how hard it was for her to pass the days with no news and wonder if that was good or bad.  However, he was a lot less accepting of her anger.  He would grow quite cool and pointedly state that he was anything but indifferent to her feelings.  ‘Circumstances dictate, Laura,’ he had told her more than once.  ‘I always get in touch with you as soon as is humanly possible.  Be angry at the circumstances if you must, but don’t blame me when I make every effort to put your peace of mind ahead of everything else.’

That always made her feel terribly guilty; she ought to be more supportive, and she ought- by now- to have faith in his promises to contact her ‘as soon as I can.’ 

She had started last night with feelings of subdued irritation, but over the course of the night, it had turned to fear.  Because this was different.  This was no planned undercover work, no arranged disappearance, and it frightened her deeply.  Behind her fear lay another concern, as well: the boys would be waking any moment.  They would come downstairs expecting to hear that their father had come home sometime late last night, while they were sleeping.  They were going to be scared and upset by the news she had to give them.  Joe, particularly, would be agitated.  On his way to bed the night before, he had suggested- more wistfully than was usual for him- that maybe the reason Dad wasn’t home yet was because he was questioning the kidnapper to see who might have hired him.  Frank had agreed with that assessment, and had even praised his younger brother for thinking of such a good theory. 

Laura knew better, but she hadn’t argued with them.  There was no point in wrecking her boys’ hopes any sooner than she had to, but she knew it was nothing so simple.  Fenton had intended to see the charges filed, but he would not have lingered to question the kidnapper; he would have hurried to the hospital and made sure that Joe was safe before he did anything else.  And even if he had been inclined to interrogate the man, he couldn’t have done so without knowing all the facts and details of the situation- including Joe’s condition.  A straightforward kidnapping attempt was one thing; endangering or assaulting a minor added a wholly new dimension, one Fenton would be quick to exploit. 

A quiet sound caught Laura’s distracted attention and she listened, not moving, as her sister-in-law opened one of the kitchen cabinets.  There was a quiet clink of a mug against the counter and the sound of pouring.  A few more rustles and clinks, and a moment later Gertrude set her own steaming cup of creamed coffee on the table opposite Laura and sat down.  Neither woman spoke; Laura let her hands drop and took a few disheartened sips of her lukewarm drink.  She wondered, irrationally, if Gertrude blamed her for Fenton’s failure to come home.  But that was nonsense, she told herself firmly.  It was no fault of hers that Joe had nearly been snatched away, and certainly no fault of hers that Fenton had disappeared somewhere between the police station and the hospital.  It was Fenton’s own dangerous job that was responsible for the scrapes in which the man found himself, and now that same perilous job had reached out to nearly snatch one of her babies from her.

Laura stifled her sudden flash of anger and took another sip of coffee.  She had married Fenton knowing that her life would be more dangerous than most women’s; she had even known that her sons and daughters might become targets for a criminal’s rage.  She could not lay the blame on her husband; he loved her and loved their sons, and would do anything in his power to protect them.

Anything except cease being a detective; that was the one thing he’d never do.  It was a part of him that would never change, never ebb; the need and drive and ability to track down some of the most dangerous criminals alive.  He had warned her that it would be a dangerous life.  He had even told her honestly that if he had to chose between marrying her and being a detective, he would never quit his job.   

Not that quitting now would reduce their danger, Laura thought resignedly.  It was far too late for that.  Fenton had made too many enemies.  He had caught too many clever, ruthless, determined people for too many years.  Even if he had quit in the first year of their marriage, those criminals who craved revenge, once escaped or released, would still come looking for Fenton Hardy and his family to vent their rage on. 

‘At least it’s Fenton,’ Laura told herself, staring gloomily into the depths of her cup.  ‘At least it’s not Joey or Frank- or both of them- missing.  I’d be out of my mind if it were.  Fenton’s a grown man and a very resourceful one.  He has far better a chance of surviving and coming home to us than the boys would have...’  But the thought was no consolation.

From upstairs came the thumpings of two sets of feet.  Gertrude looked at Laura bleakly, lowering her coffee mug.  “What will you tell them?” she asked quietly.  The younger woman sighed.

“The truth,” she answered.  “I don’t dare start lying to them or withholding things at this stage.”

Gertrude’s eyes softened a little and she nodded approvingly.  “They won’t like it and they’ll be upset about it,” she agreed.  “But better the truth now than a lie now and the truth later.”

“Yes, then I’d have to admit that I’d lied, and they’d both lose a lot of respect for me,” Laura murmured.  As she picked up the spoon she’d used to stir the hot coffee, the first pair of feet began the descent down the stairs, closely followed by the second. 

“Mom?”  Frank, as usual, was first.  Laura put down the spoon, turned in her chair and held out her hand to the son who looked so much like his father.

“Here, honey.  Did you sleep well?”

“I kept waking up,” Frank answered with a sigh as he crossed the room and stopped by her chair.  “Thinking I heard things.  I did, once- Joe came in.”

Laura nodded as her younger son hopped off the steps and trotted over to the table.  For some reason, Joe constantly went to Frank’s room when he had nightmares.  Laura often  wondered what she and her husband lacked, how they had failed their boy, that he didn’t seek them out for comfort when his sleep was troubled.  Frank always had come to them- why not Joe?

Fenton took a lighter view, pointing out that Frank’s room was closer to Joe’s than their own was.  When one was traversing a dark hallway with a nightmare skulking in their imagination- especially an imagination like Joe’s- the length and darkness of the hall was a significant factor. 

“Where’s Dad?” the younger boy asked, his expectant blue eyes fixed on Laura.

Laura held out her arms and drew both her sons close.  “Your father didn’t come home last night,” she said quietly, looking from one worried, upturned face to the other.  “The police are looking for him.”  She paused, then added, “I talked to them this morning and they told me he left the station before we were gone from the hospital.  They’re going to talk to the hospital people and find out whether he got there or not, and if he did, at what time.”

Joe’s blue eyes went wide, his lips parted in shock.  Frank, on the other hand, had squeezed his eyes shut and was biting hard on his lip.  Laura winced inwardly and pulled them both closer, feeling their arms wrap around her.  “They’ll find him,” Joe murmured after a moment.  “They will- they better-!”

“Either they’ll find him or he’ll come home on his own, like he usually does,” Laura agreed, trying to believe her own words.  “Sam Radley’s looking, too,” she added, and felt both the children relax a little.  They both liked Sam and knew he was almost as good a detective as their father.

If only she could soothe her own fear so easily!  Laura knew, too well, that one day her worst fear might come to pass; that her husband would be found dead in the line of his duty.  It happened to too many men and women in law enforcement... 

Then she looked down at her children and heaved a sigh, abruptly realizing that her worst fear had changed without her notice.  The worst thing that could happen to her would not be the loss of her husband.  It would be losing her sons.  If her husband died, she would raise them as a single parent, or even remarry if she found the right person.  But no one could ever replace the two boys who even then stood looking solemnly at her.  Part of her would die with them...

And Fenton was training them to be detectives.

“Mommy?” Joe asked anxiously as Laura shivered.

“Are you two hungry yet?” the young woman asked gently, brushing the tangled blond hair back from Joe’s eyes.

“A little,” Frank allowed, and Laura patted his cheek.

“I am too,” Joe agreed.

“Let’s see what’s in there that looks good, then.”  She nodded at the kitchen.

“I’ll make some muffins.”  Gertrude, who had remained uncharacteristically silent the whole time, now stood.  Her eyes met Laura’s in a glance of approval before she turned to carry her mug into the kitchen.

***

“Mom?” Frank Hardy looked uncertainly at his mother, who was sitting at the dining room table, her head bowed over a number of envelopes.  “Mom...”

“What is it, Frank?”  Mom didn’t pause at what she was doing, which was writing on an envelope.  Her voice sounded tired and almost annoyed.

“It- it’s Joe,” Frank began.  “He- we were talking and- well, he’s really-”

Mom looked up and frowned at him.  “Frank, I don’t want to hear about you two having an argument right now, all right?  I’ve got to get these bills paid and I don’t have time to be telling you boys to be nice to each other.  If you can’t be nice to each other, you need to stay apart.”

“But,” Frank began, feeling annoyed in his own turn.  Why was it that grown-ups could interrupt and be rude and kids couldn’t?  “We-”

“Frank-!”  Mom stopped, pushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear, and sighed.  “Honey, I know you’re both on edge about Dad, and I am too.  But getting upset with each other isn’t going to help anything.  And I know your brother gets pretty hard to live with when he’s worried and nervous, so probably the best thing you can do is give him a little space.  He can’t get snarly at you if you’re not there.  Okay?  Now, I really do have to get this done.  If these bills are late, we’re going to have to pay extra money for light and air conditioning.”

Frank scowled as his mother turned back to her important adult stuff, but didn’t try to argue with her.  He already knew that would just get him into trouble, and that wouldn’t help anything at all.  Turning his back, Frank went into the kitchen, opened the basement door and turned on the lights.  He thudded down the steps one by one, and when he reached the bottom step he sat down on it with a heavy sigh.  Leaning his chin into his hands, he tried to collect his thoughts.

The police had been looking for Dad for three days now, and they hadn’t found him.  But they knew who had taken him.  Mom had gotten a phone call from one of the rotten people who’d captured Dad, the day after he disappeared.  That man had told her to contact the FBI and State Department officials and tell them that if they didn’t let someone out of jail, Fenton Hardy would pay the price.

What that price that was, no one had told Frank, but he had a sick feeling he knew, and he feared it might happen.  He and Joe had eavesdropped on the two Government officials, a man and a woman, who had come to talk to Mom about it.  They hadn’t looked like Frank’s notion of government people- they’d worn ordinary clothes and no sunglasses, not like the Men in Black- but they had told Mom that getting that prisoner released from jail was going to be a big problem. 

Why it was a problem was still a big question, as far as Frank was concerned, for the agents had talked in grown-up, which meant using long and complicated words that he wasn’t very familiar with.  He had gotten the idea that some friend of the Vice-President had been working for some bad guys, but what exactly they were doing was hard to tell.  The agents had talked about ‘compromised security’ and ‘breach of confidence’ and ‘persuasion tactics’ and lots of other stuff, most of which made Frank’s head spin.  He had figured out that there’d been a ‘conspiracy’ and he knew what that meant, but what the criminals had been conspiring to do with or to the Vice-President was still a mystery to him. 

Frank could understand why the agents wouldn’t want to release someone who’d made plans to do something wrong to the government, but he couldn’t quite understand what these people were doing to get Dad back, either.  There had been a lot of talk about roadblocks and checkpoints, but it had been three days, so obviously stopping cars and checking in them wasn’t working.  They needed to do something else, something better.

The worst part, though, had been the effect on Joe.  He’d first been quiet and glum, then progressed to sullen; he still wasn’t saying much of anything, but when he did it was in a curt mutter, nothing like his usual voice.  He wasn’t eating much, either; Aunt Gertrude had fussed at him about that at almost every meal, and Mom had been worried too.  All Joe would say was that he wasn’t hungry, and he had absolutely ignored dessert each night, which was totally not like him.  No one could figure out why he’d changed so much- until now. 

Now Frank knew that it wasn’t just worry about Dad that was making Joe so miserable, and he knew someone needed to talk to Joe about it- but how could he make his mother listen to him?

Frank’s irritated brooding was cut off by the sound of footsteps overhead and a sudden click.  “Hey!” he shouted, leaping to his feet as the basement light went off, leaving him in total blackness. 

“Oh!  Frank, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were down there,” his aunt apologized from the top of the stairs.  The light switched back on and Frank blinked, relieved.  “What’re you doing?”

“Trying to think,” Frank admitted. 

“About?”  Gertrude descended several steps and paused.  “Your father?” she added kindly.  She’d been much nicer than usual in the last few days.  Even when she’d fussed at Joe for not eating, her voice had been gentle.

Frank almost answered her question in the affirmative, but then he stopped and frowned at her thoughtfully.  “Not really,” he said slowly, debating with himself.  Should he tell her?  Maybe.  Maybe she’d make Mom listen to him...  Frank hesitated a moment, then steeled himself.  He’d take the chance.  “About Joe.  I- he told me- what’s wrong, and I tried to tell Mom, but she’s busy.  Wouldn’t listen.”

“Wouldn’t listen?” Auntie’s thin eyebrows rose sharply.  “Why on earth not?”

“I started to tell her, but she wouldn’t let me finish.  She thinks we’re fighting,” Frank explained disgustedly.  “And we’re not.  She just told me to stay away if he’s snarling at me, but that’s not it at all.  He finally told me.” 

“Can you tell me?”  Aunt Gertrude descended the last few steps to stand beside him.

Frank pursed his lips, thinking.  Could he?  Joe hadn’t said not to, but he hadn’t said to, either.  In fact, Frank wasn’t even sure he should tell Mom- but somebody had to know, because Joe had totally the wrong idea and was being too stubborn to listen to Frank about it.  “Well,” he began, and then stopped.  “Well, you won’t like it,” he offered rather worriedly, remembering that particular aspect.

“I don’t like seeing Joe so miserable and not eating enough to feed a starving crow,” his aunt replied.  “I’d like to know what the problem is so we can work on it, even if it’s something I dislike the notion of.”

“Okay.”  Frank leaned against the guardrail and tried to decide on the best way to say it.  There wasn’t a best way, he concluded finally, and blurted, “You made him think what’s happened to Dad is all his fault.”

Gertrude’s eyes went very wide and her mouth opened.  “I...I did?” she sputtered after a moment.  “How- what-?”

Frank took a deep breath.  “You said he’d been in a lot of trouble this summer,” he explained.  “And you said he shoulda stayed closer to Mom.  So he thinks that if he’d just done that, stayed near her, he couldn’t’ve been caught.  So he wouldn’t’ve had to go to the hospital.  So Dad wouldn’t have left the office and got caught on the way to come make sure he was all right.”

“Oh dear...”  Gertrude’s hand rose to her lips.  “Oh dear goodness.”  From the look on her face, she seemed almost ready to cry.  “I never- never meant that- oh...”  Her eyes closed briefly and then she shook her head and gave herself a little shake.  “Where is he?  In his room?”

Frank nodded, taken aback by his aunt’s response, but also feeling very relieved.  Obviously Auntie hadn’t meant for her words to be accusing or make Joe feel responsible.  “He was laying on the bed.”

“Probably too tired from not eating to do much else,” the woman muttered.  “Well, come on upstairs with me and let’s just get that notion out of his head at once.”

“I tried,” Frank said dubiously, slowly starting up the steps.  “He’s...stubborn.”

“I think I know how to manage it,” his aunt replied rather mysteriously, and then she was silent as they went through the kitchen and up to the bedrooms.

***

Joe was a little surprised to hear someone tap on his door.  Frank didn’t do that, so it must be either Mom or Auntie.  He lifted his head from the pillow for a moment and looked over his shoulder at the door, then lost interest and lay back down again.  They could come in if they wanted, he didn’t care, not really.  Nothing really mattered now, except Dad.

The door creaked a little as it opened and then a heavy weight came down on the foot of the bed.  Joe didn’t open his eyes; he was too tired and heavy inside.  But when several minutes passed and nothing happened, his curiosity stirred slightly.  Who would come in and then just sit there, not saying anything?  Pulling his eyes open, he blinked in mild surprise.  “Auntie?”

Aunt Gertrude looked at him for a moment, and Joe thought that she looked sad.  “Joe, I’m going to be direct with you,” she said quietly.  “It is not your fault your father was captured.  It was nothing you did, or didn’t do, that made it happen.”

Joe stared at her for a moment, then laid his head down on the pillow and shrugged.  He didn’t feel like talking.  So he was shocked when he heard the words coming out of his mouth that had been echoing in his head for three days.  “You said I should have been more careful.”

There was a pause, then, “Dear, there’s something about this that I don’t think you’ve quite understood.”

Joe turned over again with a frown, and for the first time he noticed that Frank was standing in his doorway, looking very serious.  “What?” the ten-year-old asked slowly, trying to pull his attention back to his aunt and feeling suddenly sulky.  Frank shouldn’t’ve told!

“The men who captured your father were waiting for him on a section of the road where he drives every day,” Gertrude explained.  “Part of the route between the police station and the hospital is the road between here and your father’s work.”

“Yeah, Mom said that.”  Joe shrugged.

“That means they were planning to get your father when he came home from work that night.  The fact that they caught him several hours earlier than they planned makes very little difference; he was on the road and they knew where to wait, because they had been watching him closely for several days.”

Joe frowned in surprise and sat up, feeling his head spin a little.  “They- they were?” he asked weakly, suddenly trembling. 

“They were.  They had it all planned out, days ahead of time.  There’s a point where the road takes a sharp turn and then after that there’s a mass of bushes.  The police said they found lots of tire-tracks, all from the same car, in that area near the bushes.  They also said that someone coming around the corner wouldn’t have seen a car was waiting in that spot.  They found trash, too, that the criminals threw out their windows and left scattered around.  Old bread and beer cans and stale chips and things.  And a newspaper that had been rained on in the last storm.”  Auntie paused and took a breath; Joe stared at her in disbelief and shock.

“How many days?” he whispered.

“Two or three, it’s hard to say.  But the tire tracks by those bushes were the same as the tracks of the car that banged into your father’s.  The police think that they were planning some other way of getting your father to stop- maybe throwing something, maybe leaving something in the road... maybe simply shooting.  They don’t know.  But, Joe, it may actually be a good thing that your father was caught when he was coming to the hospital.”

Joe’s mouth dropped open.  “A- why?”

“No shooting,” Frank murmured from the doorway.  “If they’d shot at him...especially at night...”

“That,” Gertrude agreed, glancing over at Frank.  “And- because we knew right away that he was missing, and we knew where and when he got caught.  If it had happened later that night, we wouldn’t’ve known all that and it might have been a week or more before they started looking for him.”

Joe stared from his brother to his aunt and finally remembered to close his mouth.  The heavy lump of guilt that had sat solidly in his middle seemed to be dissolving, turning into water that was trying to run out of his eyes.  He blinked hard in an effort to make it stop and was dismayed when that only made things worse.  He hated crying, especially in front of grown-ups, and didn’t want to cry now if he could help it, but he wasn’t sure he could help it.  He felt Auntie pat his leg, and then Frank sat down beside him on the bed and slid an arm around his shoulders.  Joe curled up against his brother, suddenly feeling very tired, but much lighter in his mind than he had for a while.  Why feeling so much better made him want to cry was something he didn’t understand, but he was really too tired to think much about it.

“Feel better?” Frank asked softly after what seemed like a long time.  Joe nodded a little, sighing as Auntie handed him some tissues without saying anything.  He mopped his damp cheeks and wiped his nose, frowning to himself about how much he was crying this week.  He was just going to have to stop doing that. 

“I still wish Dad would come home, though,” he whispered after a moment.

“So do I,” Frank murmured, squeezing him.  “But they’ll find him, I know they will.”

“Of course they will.  Now, Joe, why don’t you rest a bit?” Aunt Gertrude suggested.  She was still sitting at the foot of his bed.  “It’s a few hours yet before dinner, and it’ll do you good.”

Joe nodded, thinking that a nap had never sounded so good before.  He felt his aunt get up from the bed, but he didn’t let go of his brother.  “Stay?” he murmured.

“Sure, I’ll stay,” Frank said softly.  “You better lay down, though- you’ll get a neckache, sitting up like this.”

Struck by this logic, the younger boy lay down on his bed, feeling the cool softness of the pillow under his cheek.  Frank’s hand rested on his arm as the older boy settled down beside him, though Frank was sitting up instead of lying down.  Joe sighed contentedly; it was good to not feel that heavy nagging ‘my fault my fault my fault’ feeling pecking at his mind as he drifted off.

***

“I’m glad to see you finally feel like eating something Joe.”

Frank Hardy looked up the table at his mother, then back at his brother and smiled slightly.  Joe wasn’t eating as fast as he usually did, but he was munching steadily away at his supper for a change.  He’d eaten more tonight than he had for the last two suppers combined. 

“I’m hungry now, I feel better,” Joe explained, taking a bite of cornbread.  His cheeks were still flushed from the nap he’d had; he’d slept for nearly four hours, until Frank woke him to come down to supper. 

The sleep had done him good, almost as much good as the little lecture Auntie had given him about not being to blame.  Before they came downstairs, Joe had admitted, with an unusual tinge of shyness, that he hadn’t been sleeping much better than he’d been eating lately.  Frank had given his brother a gentle scolding for that and got a promise out of Joe to ‘come to my room if you can’t sleep right again.’

“That’s good.”  Mom was resolutely picking away at her own plate of food, but obviously not enjoying it very much.

“Auntie and Frank helped me,” the blond boy elaborated, but casually.  His attention was mostly on the pork chop he was cutting, while Frank’s attention was divided equally: half on his meal and half on their mother.

“Helped you?”

Joe nodded but didn’t seem inclined to explain further, so Frank spoke up.  “It was Auntie, mostly,” he remarked, looking across the table at Gertrude.  “She’s the one who got him to see that it wasn’t his fault.”

“Fault?” Mom repeated, her voice tensing a little.  “What do you mean?”

“That Dad’s missing,” Frank explained, leveling his gaze on his mother.

“What?” Laura gasped, putting her fork down with a clatter. 

Joe stopped eating and looked up, a little frown crossing his face.  He didn’t say anything, but glanced uncertainly at their aunt.  Gertrude saw it and nodded.

“Frank told me that Joe was blaming himself because of something I’d inferred,” the older woman said, regret in her voice.  “But we straightened it out- you’ll keep that in your mind, won’t you, Joe?  It wasn’t anything you caused.”

“Why in the world would you blame yourself?” Mom demanded of Joe, whose blue eyes turned to her in confusion.

“Be- because...”  Joe looked at Frank uncertainly.

“’Cause Dad got caught when he was coming to the hospital to see Joe,” the eleven-year-old explained.  “But it wasn’t Joe’s fault that Dad got ambushed,” he added challengingly.

“No!  No, of course it wasn’t!  Frank, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this!”

“You wouldn’t let me,” Frank snorted, inwardly very pleased.  “I tried, but you interrupted and told me if Joe and I were fighting, I should leave him alone.  You were too busy to listen to me, and you didn’t really care what happened as long as we didn’t fight.  So I went away, and when Auntie asked what was wrong, I told her.”

His mother gazed at him for a moment before letting her eyes drop to the table.  She took a short breath and said levelly, “You’re very angry at me, aren’t you?”

Frank shrugged and nodded.  “Yeah, but I’m not saying that just ‘cause I’m mad.  It’s true.  You always tell us to listen to you and not interrupt and not be rude, but you interrupt and don’t listen- and you can, ‘cause you’re a grown-up and we’re not.  Nobody can ground you or make you go to your room or not have dessert.”

“I see.”  Mom’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.  “I- I apologize for interrupting you and not listening to what you wanted to tell me, Frank.”

Somewhat placated, Frank nodded and picked up his milk glass.  He hadn’t exactly forgiven her, he decided, but he wasn’t really angry at her anymore now, either. 

“Joe-”  Mom was speaking a little louder now.  “Why didn’t you tell me why you were feeling guilty?  We could’ve talked about it, helped you feel better, sooner.”

“Because I was right,” Joe answered, pausing with his fork in the air.  “I mean, I thought I was.  I mean...I thought if I told you ‘I think it was my fault’, you’d just say ‘Yeah, you’re right, it is’.  I figured you were already thinking it anyway, so why should I talk about it?”

“You were blaming yourself and you thought we were blaming you, too,” Aunt G clarified.

“Yeah.”  Joe sighed and poked his partly-eaten pork chop.

“Which we weren’t,” Frank reminded him.

“Certainly not,” Mom agreed.  “It’s your father’s own fault that his work takes him into danger every week.  You’ve nothing to do with it, Joe.”  With that, she stood up and left the table and soon disappeared up the stairs.  Frank watched her go with a puzzled frown, wondering at her words.  She sounded angry at Dad...was she?  And- why?

“It’s not Dad’s fault, either,” he said at last to his aunt and brother, breaking the uncertain silence that had fallen.  “Not really.  It’s the criminals’ faults, for breaking the laws and doing things they shouldn’t.”

“I agree with you,” Gertrude replied, looking at him with something that seemed to be approval.  “Any man can find himself in danger because of criminals- you don’t have to be a detective.  Although detectives do get into more danger than most people, I must admit.”  Then she turned thoughtful.  “I had no idea you were so angry at your mother, Frank.  You didn’t say a word about it.”

“I wanted to say it to her,” Frank explained, picking up his cornbread.  He wondered if Mom would come back down and finish eating, and if not, who would take her plate out to the kitchen.  A sharp little needle of guilt poked him as he continued eating: maybe he had been too angry.  Nobody was perfect- Mom had just made a big mistake at a bad time.  Frank wanted her to know how big a mistake it was.  And what a bad time it was.  “She wasn’t this upset when Dad was gone before,” he remarked after a while.  “Mostly she was angry, then.”

“That’s ‘cause he left on his own, not captured,” Joe reminded him dourly. 

“Exactly.  Last time, Fenton was working on a case and there was a chance that he had run into something dangerous.  This time, he got captured and we know he’s in trouble- no guessing about it,” Auntie sighed.  “Still.  There’s always hope.  Fenton is more resourceful than most.”

“What’s ‘resourceful’?” Joe wondered aloud.

“That means he finds ways out of things- or into them- that very few people would think of.  He has very smart ideas and is very clever at making them work.”

“Oh.”  Joe glanced over at Frank and the boys traded a small smile, both feeling a subdued touch of pride in their father.  It was always nice to hear someone complimenting Dad, even if he wasn’t there to hear it himself.