Joe Hardy sighed, got up from the living room sofa, using the remote to lower the sound of the TV, and picked up the phone. ‘Invariably,’ he grumbled to himself. Frank was hooked up to his headphones, listening to that stuff he called music; Aunt Gertrude was out of the house, their mother was at work, and their father...

"Hardy residence. Oh, hi Jack!" Joe lost his sour expression at the sound of the pilot’s voice. "What’s up?" he inquired, grinning at his own bad pun. But this time Jack Wayne didn’t respond the way he usually did.

"Joe, can you and Frank come down to the airport? I’ve got a little situation with the plane, and I think you two should have a look."

"Something serious?" Joe asked, losing his smile but feeling a surge of excitement. Maybe another mystery was heading their way!

"Fairly serious, yes. Can you get here within the hour?"

"We’ll be there as soon as I can drag Frank away from his stereo," Joe promised. "See you in a bit!" He hung up, shut off the TV and raced up the stairs. Bursting into his brother’s room, he switched off the stereo with one hand and pulled Frank’s earphones from his head with the other.

"Ow!" Frank turned to glare at him. "What’re you doing? Give me those back-"

"Jack Wayne just called, he needs us at the airport, something about the plane, something serious, he said." Joe got it all out in one breath, then stopped to pant.

"Oh." Frank rose from the chair and tossed the CD cover onto his bed, his brown eyes suddenly as excited and interested as Joe’s blue ones. It had been more than a month since they’d had a case, and that one had not been all too exciting, just a matter of finding out who had been stealing exams at Bayport High. The most interesting part of that whole matter had been that the culprit had tried to frame Joe for it by stuffing one of the missing exams into Joe’s locker. Since then school had ended and a good portion of July had dragged past without any cases at all. "About time something came up, it’s been starting to get a little dull..." Frank trailed off.

"I have the car keys," Joe said impatiently as Frank hesitated, glancing around the room. He’d scooped them up on his dash past the kitchen and up the steps.

"My shoes," Frank explained tersely.

"I thought you were organized," Joe complained as Frank finally located his sneakers.

"Usually. By the way, next time, would you mind not hauling my headphones off like that? I think I lost some hair in the process," Frank remarked, tying his shoes and standing up again. He rubbed gently at the top of his head as the boys hurried through the doorway.

"Oh, sorry." Joe glanced back briefly. Sure enough, Frank’s dark hair was more disarranged than was usual for him.

"Hang on," Frank said as they reached the front door.

"What now?" Joe was practically dancing with impatience.

"I just thought we’d better leave a note for Mom," Frank explained, trying to hide his grin. "So she won’t worry if we’re not home this afternoon. You know how often these things get out of control."

Joe nodded, and contained his impatience with obvious difficulty; Frank scribbled the note, then headed for the door. "Well, c’mon, don’t just stand there," he chided, and laughed as Joe aimed a kick at him.

***

It took a little over half an hour to get to the airport; Joe drove, keeping the car at just about speed limit level the entire way. Pulling up to the hangar where Jack kept his private plane, the Skyhappy Sal II, he cut the engine and the boys quickly hopped out. "Jack?"

"In here!"

The boys hurried in and found the pilot standing by his desk, frowning down at a piece of paper. He was a tall, thin man, with a long, pleasant face, usually smiling. Today, though, he looked tense. "Glad you got here so quick. It’s not actually the plane," he began, straightening up and turning to the Hardys. "It’s a message your dad sent."

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Fenton was in ‘whereabouts unknown’ with his associate Sam Radley this week, working on something that he had not divulged to his sons. He had called last night and said he was making good progress and should be home soon. "Is Dad okay?" Joe asked quickly.

"As far as I know he’s all right, he called and spoke to me just a while ago. Said he didn’t want to call you fellows at home, wasn’t sure he could trust the phones, and asked me to bring you two out to Kansas as soon as possible."

"Kansas?" Frank repeated in surprise. "I wonder if it has something to do with all the wildfires they’re having out there this summer. They’ve keep saying on the news that the blazes look like they’re being set deliberately."

"He didn’t say what it’s about, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s it," Jack agreed. "I’m to take you out there and then come right back, to keep an eye on your home and your mom. I’ll tell her where you are, too."

"Thanks, Jack," Frank said gratefully.

Joe smiled his appreciation as well, then said, "We’ve got our backpacks in the car, let’s grab ‘em and get going." Over their years of solving mysteries, the boys had learned to keep at least one change of clothes near to hand, along with a few other necessities. It saved time, trouble, and embarrassment.

Ten minutes later the plane was airborne and winging smoothly along toward Kansas.

It was several hours later, as Jack was making contact with the tower on their approach to the airport, that one of the engines abruptly cut out. Both the boys tensed up in alarm as Jack checked several gauges and then muttered something under his breath. "Fuel," he said briefly. "We were full when we left and now we’re nearly out- there must be a leak."

Joe wondered if it was an accidental leak or not; looking at Frank, he could tell his older brother was thinking exactly the same thing. "I’m very glad we’re so close to the airport," he murmured, but his stomach was clenching with anxiety. Frank just nodded distractedly. They both knew it might not matter how close the airport was, if the second engine failed.

Jack remained calm, speaking into the radio and informing the tower of the situation. He was quickly cleared to land immediately and pointed the plane at the runway. A few minutes later they touched down; as the plane slowed, approaching the hangars, the second engine cut out as well. Joe let out a deep sigh and glanced over at his brother again. Frank was pale, but looked relieved. "Just in time," the older Hardy remarked.

"We may need to be towed in," Jack remarked, sitting back in his seat with a sigh that echoed Joe’s. "But at least we didn’t need to be scraped off the ground! I’m willing to bet someone messed with this plane while I was inside calling you earlier."

"Maybe when you get back you can ask if anyone saw anything suspicious, anyone hanging around," Joe suggested.

"You bet I will," Jack agreed as the aircraft shuddered to a halt. "Why don’t you guys hop out and go find your dad? I’ll get this baby into the hangar and find out what went wrong."

"Good thinking. We’ll check with you once we do find Dad," Frank agreed, unbuckling his seatbelt and standing. While he opened the door, Joe pulled out the backpacks that held their things. Frank deployed the ladder and hurried down; Joe followed and handed his brother his own pack, noting that they were only a few yards from the hangar. As the teens headed for the terminal, one of the little towing vehicles zoomed up and latched on to the Sal’s front wheel.

The airport they had landed at was a very small one, its traffic consisting mainly of private planes and commercial ‘puddlejumpers’. There were only four check-in desks in the single terminal, four gates, and two baggage carousels. The young detectives scanned the crowd of several hundred people; finding no sign of their father or Sam, they split up and searched more thoroughly.

"Anything?" Joe asked as they met in the middle of the building ten minutes later.

"Nope." Frank took another long look around, then shrugged. "If he’s here, he’s in disguise."

"And if he is, we probably want to wait till he contacts us, so we don’t blow his cover," Joe replied quietly, running a hand through his blond hair. "Let’s go back out and talk to Jack; if Dad is here, he can follow us and we can catch up on matters there."

Frank nodded, shifted his backpack, and led the way back out to the hangar. There, Jack Wayne and another man, who was dressed in an oil-stained coverall, were poking around at the plane. "Hey, guys," Jack greeted them, breaking off what he was saying to the mechanic. "Looks like it might have been a genuine accident. There’s a pinhole leak in the fuel line, might’ve got past the last maintenance check at Bayport. It’s an uneven break, so it looks like it wasn’t sabotage."

The mechanic, a chunky fellow with a shock of red hair, gave him a startled look but said nothing.

"Dad doesn’t seem to be here," Frank said, nodding to the information. "We thought we’d hang around and see if he’s just running a bit late."

"Hmmm." Jack stood up straight, thinking. Then he turned to the mechanic. "How long do you think that’ll take to fix?"

"Not long, but there’s a couple in line ahead of you," the red-headed man replied. "So, maybe an hour, maybe three."

"All right, thanks." To the boys Jack suggested, "Let’s go in and wait a bit, but if he doesn’t show up soon we should probably call his hotel. It showed up on my caller ID," he added in explanation as the trio walked out of the hangar.

"I didn’t know you had caller ID installed," Frank said, surprised.

"I was getting a little fed up with all the telemarketers," Jack explained. "A lot of insurance people, for some strange reason." He smiled briefly. Joe chuckled. Pilots did have a dangerous job, and their airplanes were expensive, complicated machines; insurance was a necessity. It was no surprise that Jack would get offers to sign up with many different companies.

Half an hour later, Joe was sitting beside his brother in one of the uncomfortable chairs, his eyes restlessly scanning the airport. Both of them were getting increasingly fidgety. "I think we’d better give this up," Frank said quietly, looking over at Joe, who nodded. "Either he’s not here, or he’s waiting for us to leave before he shows himself; either way, we’re getting nothing done."

Joe nodded and stood up. Jack, who had been sitting on the other side of him, glanced up and then stood as well. "If you two want to find out where that hotel is, I can go check and see where the plane is in line," he suggested, referring to the line of aircraft waiting to be repaired. "This was the number," he added, digging out a scrap of paper. Frank took it.

"Thanks, Jack. Meet you at the front."

Frank made the call while Joe wandered over to a vending machine and bought them both a bag of snacks and a can of soda. Bringing these back, he waited for his brother to hang up and then handed over the refreshments. "We’re going to need some transportation," he remarked.

Frank nodded, taking the bag of pretzels and the soda and putting both into his backpack. "Thanks. Yeah, let’s check with the car rental place."

"You’re awfully quiet," Joe remarked as they went to the counter.

"I don’t know. Something’s bothering me, I just can’t get my brain around it," the dark-haired boy admitted, scowling.

"May I help you?" the lady at the car-rental counter inquired brightly.

***

"We rented a car," Joe explained to Jack as they emerged from the airport to find him waiting for them. He glanced up at the sky as he spoke; it was quite hot, but not nearly as humid as Bayport. The sky was deep blue, with flocks of thick white clouds drifting across it.

"Oh. Good thinking, I almost forgot about that," Jack answered with a smile. "Too used to flying. Well, the line still hasn’t moved, they’re looking for a particular part for some older bird, so I guess I’ll be here for a bit. Now they’re talking three to six hours."

"What a pain," Frank sympathized. "They’re not much more accurate than weather forecasters, are they?"

Jack chuckled. "Not much. So which car is it, and where do we go?"

"He wouldn’t let me get the Ferrari," Joe complained mischeviously, nodding at his brother. "So we got a boring old Ford instead."

"I thought we wanted not to draw attention to ourselves," the eighteen-year-old defended himself, smiling. "There, they’re bringing it up now," he added as a rental car worker pulled up in front and stopped the car, a light-blue Escort. "Joe, here’s the local map, I’ve marked the hotel on it. Find us a good route, will you?"

Joe slid into the back seat, dropped his backpack, and studied the map for a long moment. This was one of his most useful skills, finding his way to and from places in the shortest possible time. "Take a right going out," he directed as Frank started the car and Jack buckled himself into the passenger seat. Then he picked up his can of soda and popped it open.

"Don’t spill it," Frank remarked. "We don’t want to have to pay for cleaning costs."

"I won’t," Joe agreed after taking a swig. "As long as you don’t get us into a high-speed chase. Turn left at the next light."

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the hotel, parked, and hurried in. The manager at the desk looked up as the trio reached it and calmly asked how he could serve them. He was a small, round man with thick, curly black hair and a good-natured expression.

"We’re looking for my father," Frank explained. "He’s been staying here, but we’re not sure what room he’s in. Fenton Hardy."

Unless he was using an alias, Joe thought with some apprehension.

"Oh, Mr Hardy checked out a few hours ago," the manager replied. "But he did leave a note for his sons, if they happened to come by- you don’t mind if I ask for identification?"

Both the boys quickly pulled out their wallets and showed their driver’s licenses; the manager examined them, then reached into one of the mail-slots behind him and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Frank with a smile.

"He must’ve left right after he called me," Jack murmured. "That’s why he didn’t tell me to come here."

"Yeah, so he meant to meet us at the airport, but something must’ve turned up," Joe replied quietly, frowning as Frank unfolded the note.

"West Fifty, northeast.... and the Hummler Building? What are these?" Frank wondered aloud, sounding perplexed.

"Hummler building sounds like a business," Joe mused.

"The West Fifty is an old homestead claim about thirty miles from here, a former tourist attraction," the manager told them. "There’s an example of the old claim shanties they used to put up when the area was being settled. The shanty is in the northeastern corner of the lot. Hummler was a parts manufacturer, German of course. Went bankrupt and left the U.S., but his warehouse is still here. Boarded up, though."

Frank frowned. "Why do you say the shanty is a former attraction? Don’t people still go there?"

"It’s been getting less and less attention, partly because it’s just not very interesting. An old board building that’s about to fall apart," the man explained.

"What sort of parts did Hummler manufacture?" Joe inquired, more from curiosity than any thought that it would be useful information. Still, one never knew.

"Automobile, if I remember correctly," the man replied, frowning slightly. "It’s been a while, almost ten years."

"Thanks for the assistance, you’ve been a big help," Frank told him, folding the note and putting it into his pocket. The man looked pleased, then turned to answer a ringing telephone.

"Let’s sit down and think this over a minute," Jack suggested, and the three took seats in the lobby.

"Dad clearly meant to meet us at the airport," Joe started.

"Right, but he never got there. Either he went to check these places over, or he was going to have us do it while he and Sam looked into something else. The fact that he left it with the manager suggests the second," Frank agreed. He sounded calm, but Joe could tell he was anxious about the whole business. So was Joe!

"So either way, we should check these out; we may find Dad, or something that leads to him, or some information to help with the case. Or any combination of the above," Joe concluded.

"You two don’t waste any time in your meetings," Jack remarked with a half-smile.

Joe grinned briefly. "Now how are we going to check these places out?" he asked more seriously.

"Where’s the Hummler?" Frank answered his own question by getting up and going back to ask the manager.

"Well?" Joe asked as his brother returned, five minutes later.

"About forty-five minutes from here. He marked it on the map for me."

"Very helpful guy."

"Idea, guys," Jack spoke up. "Maybe if you split up-?"

The Hardys looked at each other. "But we only have one car," Joe pointed out.

"Tell you what. I’ll take one of you back to the airport, we’ll see if they can lend us a plane, and we can check out the West Fifty. We can even land; these prairies are so flat that it hardly matters if there’s a runway or not. The other one can take the map and look into the warehouse. We can meet back at the airport in a couple hours, and if we’re really lucky, the Sal’ll be repaired by then."

"Jack, that’s brilliant," Joe said enthusiastically.

"That’ll save a lot of time," Frank agreed gratefully. "Now..."

"I’m better with maps than you are," Joe pointed out, divining his brother’s thought.

"True enough." Frank handed the map and car keys over. "Guess you’re stuck with me, Jack."

"How many hours do you want to give it?" Jack asked, standing.

"Hmmm. An hour should be enough to get there, give the place a good looking over and get back," Frank decided. "But we better add another for travel arrangements. Take the cell," he added, opening his backpack and pulling out the mobile phone. "If we run into difficulty getting a plane, we’ll call you." He handed the phone to Joe, who took it with a nod.

"All right. We’ll meet in two hours at the airport- how’re you guys-?"

"Taxi," Frank inserted.

"Okay." Joe stood up and tucked the phone into his pocket. "Good luck," he added, slinging his pack onto his shoulder and cuffing his brother gently on the arm.

"You too, and be careful," Frank replied, giving the younger boy a light swat on the back.

***

"A helicopter?" Frank looked at Jack in some surprise as the pilot led him over to the small crop-duster in a corner of the tarmac.

"It belongs to the fellow we talked to earlier, the guy who helped me find the fuel leak," Jack told him, opening the door and climbing inside. Frank climbed in afterwards, dropping his backpack on the floor.

"I didn’t knew you flew choppers, too, Jack," he remarked, buckling in.

"Not nearly as well as planes," the tall man replied. "I took lessons in my spare time last year and got licensed, but I’ve only got about fifty hours of flight time so far. It’s really not that much more difficult than flying a plane, though. Put on the headset and adjust the volume; it’ll keep out the windscream and we’ll still be able to talk."

Frank plucked the heavy headphones from their perch and slipped them on. Jack pointed at a device that looked like a trucker’s CB unit; Frank picked it up and replied "Yes," into the handset when Jack asked if he could hear all right. Jack’s headphones had a speaker attachment, he noticed. Made sense, a pilot needed both hands to fly.

"Off we go, then," Jack’s voice came back over the phones, and Frank watched with fascination as the rotor blades began to whirl.

The trip took about forty minutes; they reached the West Fifty easily enough, but finding a lone cabin on the prairie turned out to be a rather difficult assignment. Once they finally spotted the place, Jack made a landing about fifty yards away, shut off the rotors, and the two of them unstrapped quickly. The sky, so clear an hour ago, was now darkening as clouds loomed on the horizon. As Frank glanced at them, he saw a tiny spark of lightning leap between the thunderheads. "We better make this fairly quick," he murmured.

The thick grass reached higher than Frank’s shins, and as he walked toward the old dwelling, he suddenly hoped there weren’t any rattlesnakes in the vicinity. The area before the shanty was fairly bare in comparison to the rest of the flatland, and he wondered briefly about that before tentatively pushing the ancient wooden door open. "Wonder where they got the wood from," he mused aloud. The prairies had few trees, and most of those were found at rivers or near lakes.

"Usually lumber shipped in from back East," Jack reminded him. "And tar-paper, instead of mud, to cover the cracks and keep the wind out."

"Oh, that’s right. The railroads." Frank pushed the door a little further and winced at the long squealing noise. The hinges were wooden, he noticed. No wonder the door was so stiff and difficult to open. Edging inside, he looked around the small main room with some surprise. He hadn’t expected furnishings, but apparently that was part of why the place was a tourist attraction; the examples of the old furniture had to be very valuable antiques..

The fireplace dominated one end of the room; it was made of stones, probably gathered from a local riverbed. A dark wood cabinet stood in one corner, and beside it was a rocking chair. Both looked extremely fragile. In the middle of the room was a square table, with five chairs set about it. There was a glass window opposite it, so that the sun fell across the tabletop. An old pot-bellied stove stood in another corner, rust showing on several surfaces. The floor near the fireplace was bare dirt, but the rest of it was boards, some showing rough, splintery areas where countless feet had stepped.

There were two other rooms and a loft; the loft was accessible by strips of wood that had been nailed into the wall to form a crude ladder. Frank carefully ascended and stuck his head through the hole in the floor to look around. Part of it seemed to have been a storage section for food and other essentials, judging from the clusters of old baskets, wooden tools and chests. The other part looked like a bedroom of sorts, with several wooden bedframes and pegs on the wall to hang things. Frank took note of the dust; no one had been walking up here in some time.

"Nothing down here," Jack said as Frank descended. "One looks like a pantry, lots of shelves and cabinets. And the other is the master bedroom, I guess. Bed, dresser, lamp, that sort of stuff."

Frank nodded, and then, more from curiosity than anything, glanced into the pantry. "Wonder what that is," he murmured, seeing an iron ring in the floor.

"Oh, maybe the storm cellar," Jack answered, peering over his shoulder. "They get a lot of twisters out here, you know."

Frank stepped into the room, crouched beside the iron ring, and pulled hard on it. A section of the floor rose up, revealing a black emptiness beneath. He let the trapdoor down easily, then peered into the blackness. Chill, musty air drifted against his face. "I wish I had a flashlight."

"I’ll go see if there’s one in the chopper," Jack said, and left the shanty. Frank sat back on his heels to wait, wishing his brother were here. Joe almost always carried a small flashlight in his pocket. And Frank didn’t want to go down into the hole without one; it wouldn’t likely be flooded, but the ground might be uneven, or there might be things he would stumble over. And of course, there might be snakes. Frank never got along well with snakes; he preferred to avoid them whenever possible.

A low rumble made Frank glance up in apprehension; sounded like thunder approaching. A moment later, there was no doubt; the storm was moving closer. Maybe he and Jack had better head back to the airport and wait until-

A new sound interrupted Frank’s thoughts. The sound of an engine. Frowning, the young detective got to his feet, went back into the main room and looked out the window. His eyes widened in shock at what he was seeing; the helicopter was airborne! What was Jack doing? Had someone followed them? Unlikely, but maybe someone had been hiding in the area and overpowered the pilot. But if that was the case, Frank thought, his eyes narrowing, then whoever it was must have seen both of them; why would they force just Jack to leave?

"To strand me here," he answered his own question in disgust. "But why?" Shaking his head, Frank gazed at the rapidly departing chopper, noting that it was flying directly towards the storm. That didn’t seem to make any sense either. He wished he’d kept the cell phone after all; as it was, he’d have to wait for the storm to pass before setting out for the airport. Joe was going to be worried, but there was nothing Frank could do about it right now.

‘Well,’ he thought, looking around the shanty, ‘at least I can do a fairly thorough search.’ He went back into the pantry, searched around until he found a ladder leading down, and carefully began to descend it. Once he reached bottom, he waited for his eyes to adjust, then slowly moved around the perimeter, touching the cool earth walls from time to time to keep his bearings. About halfway around, his foot touched something that yielded; Frank hesitated briefly, then reached down to pick it up.

Whatever it was, it did not belong here. It was modern material, not settlement-era. Glancing up at the fading light from above, Frank moved back to the ladder, ascended it with some relief, and sat down on the floor to examine his find. The blood drained from his face as he recognized it.

It was a jacket, a light windbreaker, dark brown in color. Near the left shoulder was a small hole, and reddish-brown stains covered the arm and part of the chest. Blood. With trembling hands, Frank caught hold of the tag at the neck, and bit hard on his lip. The initials F.H. were inked neatly on the back of the tag, just below the washing instructions.

"Dad," he whispered.

Frank’s gaze returned to the black hole, and he shuddered, suddenly frightened. He had heard and sensed nothing that indicated another living presence in the cellar. No breathing, no rustling. If his father was in there, he was either unconscious or dead. Swallowing hard, Frank put the jacket aside and went back down the ladder, his knees wobbling beneath him.

A careful exploration revealed nothing more in the cellar. Getting down on hands and knees, Frank searched for disturbed earth, but could find none, and his hopes rose. His father was obviously hurt, but hopefully not dead. But this made it all the more imperative to-

Frank paused in his thoughts, frowning, a stray whiff of something coming to him. He sniffed again... "Smoke," he said aloud, slowly. "Smoke- the fires! The prairie wildfires-" He scrambled to his feet and was up the ladder as fast as he could go. But when he reached the shanty door, he stopped and stared in terror.

A band of fire seemed to stretch the length of the horizon; he could see the dull red flames beneath the thick clouds of black smoke. Wind gusted into his face and he felt sweat gather on his forehead as he realized the storm winds were driving the monster blaze right at him. "The chopper. Whoever was in the chopper set it," he whispered. "Got to get out of here-" The cabin was old dry wood; it would go up as fast as the grass. "But where?!" The flames would soon catch up to him if he tried to outrun it. There was only one possibility; he could try to get past the leading edge and get around behind it.

Even as the thoughts formed in Frank Hardy’s head, he was moving, running hard, parallel to the blaze, his face pale with fear.

***

"Sorry I’m late. There’s a thunderstorm brewing up out there and it was making things rough," Jack explained to Joe. "I had to detour around it."

"No problem," the seventeen-year-old replied, standing up from the chair where he’d been fidgeting as he waited for Jack and Frank to return. "I was pretty sure you couldn’t have gotten into too much trouble," he added, a smile of relief crossing his face briefly. Then he glanced around. "Where’s Frank?"

"He wanted to check out the area around the cabin; there was nothing useful to us inside," the pilot explained. "He said it might take a little while, and since we knew we couldn’t contact you, I told him I’d come back and update you."

"Ah." Joe smiled again; just like Frank to not want him to worry. "We’ve really got to get a second cell phone," he remarked.

"Might be useful," Jack agreed. "But you two are usually together. So, find anything interesting?"

"A lot of rusty old car parts, and a bunch of footprints in the dust. I suppose it might be someone’s meeting place, but I hate to suggest it; every time I do, we end up on a stakeout, and I really hate stakeouts," Joe explained with a rueful smile.

Jack chuckled. "Well, what next? I guess you want to get out to-" The pilot broke off at the sound of an announcement.

"Attention! All rescue and firefighting volunteers present are to report to their stations at once! Fire in the West Fifty! Repeat, all firefighters and rescue personnel to your stations immediately! We have a wildfire in the West Fifty!"

"The West Fifty-" Joe gasped in horror, barely aware of the chaos the announcement provoked among the other airport visitors. "Frank!"

"The storm," Jack said softly, his voice tense. "The lightning. Come on, Joe. I’ve still got the chopper, maybe-" He didn’t finish; Joe didn’t wait for him to. They were both out of the airport at a run; five minutes later the helicopter lifted into the air.

It was the longest, most terrifying forty minutes of Joe’s life. They could soon see the thick smoke; the fire line seemed to be miles across. Smoke boiled into the air, mingling with the heavy thunderclouds. If it would just rain, Joe prayed silently. There’d still be a chance for Frank if it would only rain! All his fear for his father had been pushed aside for the moment. Fenton might be in danger; Frank was in danger- horrible danger.

"The fireline is about twenty miles across and spreading fast; the wind’s at about forty miles an hour," Jack said gravely into the headset, nodding at the radio as he spoke. Joe flinched, made no reply. "They’ve got chemical extinguisher dumps going, but it’s still out of control."

"There!" Joe cried suddenly. "The cabin- it’s still standing-"

"The fire’s almost there," Jack pointed out. "He wouldn’t’ve stayed there, he knows it’s no shelter. We’ll circle, he couldn’t’ve gotten very far on foot."

***

It was no use, Frank thought despairingly. He must’ve run at least a mile already, but it seemed all for nothing. He couldn’t outrun the edge, it was too much farther to go and the main body of the fire was too close to him. He was already coughing from the thick, wind-driven smoke. His first burst of speed had slowed, fear and the thick smoke sapping his strength. His hands clenched as he struggled to think of some way out of his deadly predicament. Around him, he could see wild creatures fleeing the flames; rabbits, mostly.

Casting a frantic glance around him, Frank noticed that all the animals seemed to be moving towards a common area. Where were they going? ‘To their holes,’ he thought, but changed his mind as a small antelope bounded past, following a pair of scurrying rabbits. His eye traced the animal’s path and he saw something that gave him hope; he pushed his tiring body back into a hard run and soon reached his goal.

It was a small ravine- maybe once it had been a river, but now it was just a trickle. Still, it was below the level of the fire, there was no vegetation, and there was a little water. It wasn’t much, but it was the only chance he had and Frank took it without hesitation.

Panting, he scrambled down the side of the shallow bank and dropped to his knees in the water, quickly dousing his clothing in an effort to prevent the heat from affecting him. Then he lay down on the rocky riverbed and drew the neck of his wet shirt up over his mouth and nose, to filter as much smoke as possible. Farther down the chasm, he could see the antelope bounding downstream as fast as it could go. He wished it luck, then turned his face to the top of the ravine, waiting for the flames.

The first flames were leaping in the grass at the top of the chasm when a faint sound met Frank’s ears. He strained to listen; the roar of the fire nearly blocked it out, but as he searched the sky, he could see a small helicopter approaching. His heart leapt; he struggled to his feet, gasping at the intense heat that struck him, and waved wildly at the chopper.

***

"That’s him! That’s him, in the ravine!" Joe shouted, clutching wildly at the seat, not daring to distract his friend. "We’ve got to get him out of there-!"

"Joe, we can’t."

Joe Hardy stared in horror at Jack Wayne’s grim profile. "What?" he gasped.

"The heat is too intense. It will cripple the chopper if I set down, and we won’t be able to lift off again."

"Jack, you’ve got to! Frank will be killed, we can’t leave him there!" the teen begged, shaking in every limb. To be so close, to see his brother alive yet be unable to save him- "Jack, please!"

"If I land, we’ll all three be killed, Joe. He’s got a fighting chance, he’s in the ravine and it looks like there’s water in it," the pilot answered quietly.

"A fighting chance? Are you crazy? He can’t survive down there! The smoke- he’ll suffocate!"

Jack made no reply, but his actions spoke for him. He angled the helicopter away from the ravine and sped for the end of the fireline. Joe craned his neck to look back over his shoulder; he could see Frank’s arms fall to his side, see his brother sink to his knees; then the smoke thickened and he saw nothing.

"We’ll go around it," Jack said, still in that low, steady voice. "We can’t do anything else. We’ll come in behind and pick him up."

***

Frank stared in shock as the chopper veered off and angled towards the fireline. He stopped waving; the fierce heat drove him to his knees and he reached with shaking hands for the trickle of water beside him. "You saw me," he whispered. "I know you saw me." He had even seen who was in the helicopter; Jack Wayne and Joe Hardy. Slowly, numbly, he lay back down on the ground, keeping his face toward the ground and using his shirt as a filter again. His back was getting hot and the air was thick with smoke; the filter helped, but not much.

Why? It was the only thought in his mind as the fire intensified. Why had they left him here?

The main part of the blaze was sweeping forward now; hot ash and sparks flew thickly around him, driven by the searing wind. Trembling, Frank rolled onto his back in the water, then turned over to douse his front again. If only he could breathe water, he thought dazedly, coughing as the smoke drifted over him. Like a fish. He could breathe this cool water and soothe the pain in his throat...

***

The helicopter settled lightly to the burned ground. Joe was out of the vehicle in a flash, one hand gripping the first aid kit he’d found in the rear of the chopper. The other clutched something even more important; a small oxygen tank and breathing mask. He didn’t know if this was standard equipment for a helicopter or not, but this one was here and it might be worth its weight in gold.

The ravine was on the far side of the chopper, and something in Joe resented this- Jack could at least have landed closer!- but there was nothing to be done about it now. He had no time for it, he had to find Frank! Joe ran for the ravine, never stopping to see if Jack was following or not. Reaching the edge, he looked frantically back and forth, panting- and froze when he spotted the motionless figure twenty feet away. "Frank!" There was no response to his call.

A shower of loose earth came down with him as he plunged into the shallow chasm, but Joe paid no attention. He raced upstream and fell to his knees beside his brother. "Frank," he whispered, dropping the first-aid items and carefully grasping his brother’s shoulders. Turning him over, Joe nearly sobbed at the sight of Frank’s face. The older boy was ghastly white, almost gray, and his lips were blue. But a pulse beat faintly in his neck and his chest was rising almost imperceptibly- weak, shallow breaths.

Joe lifted Frank’s head onto his knee, tilting his neck back to open his air passages. Flicking the lever that started the oxygen flowing, he gently placed the breathing mask over Frank’s mouth and nose. "You’re gonna be okay," he whispered, wondering if his brother could hear him. "Just breathe, Frank. Just breathe and you’ll be fine..." His eyes flickered over his brother’s motionless body, looking for burns but seeing only slightly reddened skin. No worse than a sunburn- he hoped.

After several minutes, Joe noticed the improvement in his brother’s breathing. Frank’s chest was moving more noticeably now; he was no longer gasping weakly but taking slower and deeper breaths than before. Joe tried to swallow the pain in his throat, but it seemed to just spread upwards, burning in his eyes. "I’m sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "I tried, I really did, but he wouldn’t land! He wouldn’t even give me a chance to help you! I would’ve risked it for you- I’d risk anything- but I couldn’t get him to do it. He said the heat was too strong, that we wouldn’t be able to take off again."

Joe paused to take a breath and noticed how smoky the air still was. And then he noticed something else. Frank’s eyes slowly opened, eyes bloodshot from smoke and full of confusion. His hand moved weakly, reaching up, and Joe suddenly realized his brother was reaching for the breathing mask. "Don’t, don’t," he said quickly. "Leave it-"

Frank made a weak sound of protest behind the mask.

"We can talk later," Joe whispered. "You just lie still and rest. It’s still pretty smoky out here, you don’t need to make matters worse for yourself." Frank stared at him for a moment, then nodded slightly, closing his eyes. His head lolled until his cheek was resting against Joe’s arm.

"Is he alive?" The familiar voice came from behind them and Joe went rigid with anger. He turned, ready to make a harsh reply- and froze.

Jack Wayne was standing on the edge of the ravine. In his hands was a .357 and it was pointed directly at Joe. "Is he alive?" the tall pilot repeated coolly.

Joe stared. Slowly he laid his brother on the ground, carefully moving the oxygen tank so that Jack could not see it. Then he turned, keeping his body between his brother and the pilot, his mind racing. "You know as well as I do that he didn’t have a chance," he answered shakily, hoping the man would believe the lie. "And if he had made it, you’d just shoot him, right?"

Jack smiled. It was answer enough for Joe.

"Why?" Joe shouted, shaking with fury. "Why did you do this, Jack? What have we ever done to you? You were our friend, we trusted you!"

"Trust- oh, you trusted me all right," the pilot answered bitterly, his smile dropping from his face. "Trusted me with missions and plans and messages- I’m supposed to be a pilot, Joe. Hired to fly you from one place to another- that’s it, nothing more. But your father turned me into a damned detective, and you two were no better. You Hardys, you’re nothing but users. You never hesitate to take advantage of a so-called friend. Oh, you’re very remorseful if someone gets hurt or something gets damaged, but does that stop you from calling on them again? Hell no! How many times have I gotten hurt on these cases? Dozens! How many times have my planes been sabotaged, even destroyed? You call us your friends, but all we are is convenient cannon fodder!"

"You never had to help, Jack!" Joe snapped back at him, but some of the venom had gone from his voice. He’d never imagined Jack Wayne would resent helping with their mysteries. "You could have said no; you even could have quit if you didn’t want to help-"

"Quit?" Jack repeated. "Hate to tell you, boy, but there’s things in life called ‘expenses’. I couldn’t quit- I depended on that pay. And if I’d said no even once to your dad, he would have found someone to replace me. So I stuck around. But I hated every minute of it."

"Then why-?" Joe gestured at the area around him, at the gun, at the entire situation. If merely quitting was out of the question, why was Jack taking such extreme action?

"Well, now the pay won’t matter. Some very generous gentlemen have offered me a hundred thousand apiece to take out my irritations on you three- you and your brother and your dad. And now it’s two down, one to go."

"Two- Dad? You killed Dad? For money?!"

"That, too," Jack agreed calmly. "That and revenge. He was dying when I left him this morning."

Joe stared at the man as though he’d never seen him before, his heart breaking inside him. His father dead, Jack about to murder him- and Jack would kill Frank, too, as soon as he realized Frank was still alive. Fear and fury and helplessness churned together inside the boy and burst out of him in one hateful word. "Traitor!" Joe screamed it, and a second later, a bolt of lightning hit nearby with a sizzling roar.

Jack, startled by the lightning, turned his head sharply. Joe seized his chance; springing to his feet and lunging, he grabbed the man around the ankles and flung his weight backwards. Jack lost his balance, the gun flew from his hand, and he toppled into the ravine. Joe was on him in a second, fists flying, but Jack fought like a demon. For a few moments, neither could gain the advantage, but then a rock- wielded by the pilot- cracked against the side of Joe’s head, momentarily stunning him. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back; powerful hands closed around his throat and his air was cut off completely.

Joe struggled frantically against the vengeful pilot’s grip, but to no avail. Blackness whirled before his eyes. ‘Frank, I’m sorry,’ he thought as his struggles weakened.

A second later the crushing grip fell away; Joe gasped in smoke-laden air, coughed several times, and tried to get his eyes open. Then he gawked. Sam Radley was standing over him. An unconscious Jack Wayne lay on the ravine floor beside him. And behind Sam was- "Dad!" Joe croaked.

Fenton Hardy was pale and his left arm was in a sling, but he moved steadily to Joe’s side and knelt beside him. "Thank heaven," he said softly, sliding his good right arm under Joe and helping him sit up. Joe, dizzy and stunned, clung to his father until his head cleared.

"What- how? He- he said-"

"Turns out Jack’s not as as good with a gun as he thought he was. And he was under suspicion, so I wore a bulletproof vest," Fenton explained, his voice sad and weary. "We came here because we heard at the hospital that there was another fire and we wanted to try and catch him at the scene. I never imagined he’d dragged you boys into this-"

"Then- he made it all up? The hotel and the note and the message that you wanted us out here to help?" Joe asked dazedly.

Fenton nodded, looking a little puzzled. Then he looked over to where Frank was lying motionless. "It took a while to get here, we had to get behind the fire line. We saw the chopper...we- we got here in time to hear him say, ‘two down’," he said in a whisper. "Is- is your brother-?"

Joe looked up, seeing the grief in his father’s face, and then his eyes widened. "Oh! Oh, no, Dad, it’s not what you think!" The blond boy scrambled to his feet, swayed for a moment, then stumbled over to Frank. "He’s okay- he’s suffering smoke inhalation, but he’s alive. I was lying when I told Jack he was dead," he explained, kneeling beside his brother and lifting up the oxygen tank. Then he reached down and carefully adjusted the mask. Frank’s eyes opened; he stared up at Joe for a moment, then slowly reached over to grasp his brother’s arm.

Fenton slowly stood, walked to where Joe was kneeling, and dropped beside him, relief lighting his face with a smile. Frank reached up and pulled the breathing mask away. "You’re...all right," he whispered, his voice ragged from the smoke.

"In one piece, more or less," Fenton agreed quietly, replacing the mask. "And I could say the same to you, son..." He turned to Joe. "To both of you," he finished, putting his arm around his younger son’s shoulders.

A noise nearby made Joe and Fenton turn; Sam had gotten Jack onto his feet and handcuffed him, and was now trying to get the half-conscious pilot to the top of the ravine. Joe got to his feet and went over to help, ignoring the hate-filled glare his former friend was giving him.

"At least I got two of you," he snarled.

"Think again," Joe retorted. "Didn’t anyone ever tell you that detectives know how to lie convincingly?" He pointed to where Fenton was leaning over his elder son, his good hand on Frank’s shoulder. Jack’s mouth opened, but he said nothing. The look on his face as he stared at his failure, however, said it all for him.

***

"So that’s the situation," Fenton Hardy summed up. "Jack Wayne is in jail on charges of starting the fires- it wouldn’t be arson, except that the historical marker burned to the ground- and attempted murder charges. Also assault with a deadly weapon and a lesser assault count." He nodded at his sons and then looked rather ruefully at his left arm, still in a sling. No bones had been broken, but the doctor’s orders were to keep the sling on for a week to aid the healing of the bullet wound.

It was about forty-eight hours after Jack Wayne’s arrest. The Hardys were sitting in their living room, Frank and Joe in the easy chairs, Fenton and Laura on the sofa. Gertrude was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, listening in while making sure that dinner didn’t burn. The boys had explained the ruses Jack had employed to get them out to Kansas and Fenton was filling in with his and Sam’s growing suspicions about his long-time pilot and friend.

"So he actually set all those other fires, and then recommended you to the authorities to investigate them," Frank mused.

"It was cleverly done," Fenton agreed with a sigh. "He’s learned a lot about detective work over the years, and knew how to plot well."

"I still can hardly believe it," Joe said somberly. "He was so- I always trusted him, and all this time he’s been hiding so much anger. I wonder who the people are who were going to pay him?"

"Oh, Sam’s working on that," Fenton said, snapping his fingers as he remembered. "He went to Jack’s home and searched it, we should hear what’s up with that in a day or two. Of course, there’s not too many people who can get their hands on that kind of money, so we already have some suspects."

"It’s horrible to think he could betray you like that," Laura said, her voice troubled. "I don’t understand why he couldn’t just say how he was feeling and ask for things to change. And to go to such extremes!"

"He said that he didn’t have any choice," Joe recalled. "He couldn’t quit, and he felt that if he tried to stop helping out, he’d get fired, so..." He shrugged, shaking his head.

Fenton sighed again, his expression much graver than usual; the situation was clearly bothering him a great deal. "I’d been wondering why he’d seemed so distant, almost unfriendly lately, but when I asked he just said it was personal problems. And then Sam got that security video picture from the airport and the name of the airplane, and we both started to worry. I really didn’t want to believe he could do anything so monstrous; it’s pure luck no one got killed in the blazes, but there’s millions of dollars worth of property damage."

"What security picture was that?" Gertrude asked.

"We were trailing someone from the airport," Fenton explained. "Turned out to be Jack, of course, but we didn’t know it then." He frowned for several moments. "When Sam and I got to Kansas last week, all we had to go on was descriptions of a lone man loitering in the fire areas and then departing very quickly. Fortunately, someone had managed to get the license plate number of the car he was using, which we traced to the airport rental place."

"But he used an alias?" Frank deduced, and his father nodded.

"We got a slightly better description from the clerks there, but it wasn’t much. Our best hope was to wait around the airport and see if he came back again. He did- the rental people pointed him out- so we followed him and saw him set the fourth fire, but got distracted trying to get authorities on the scene to put it out, and he got away."

"At least you knew where he was going when he left," Joe remarked.

"Exactly. After the fire was out, we went through the airport’s security videos for that day. We had an approximate time of arrival and a rough description, so we were taking note of everyone who matched it. Then we saw Jack and realized he fit the description too, and that led us to the Sal’s timetable. He’d arrived soon before the fire and left soon afterwards."

"I found your jacket in the cellar of the cabin, Dad," Frank said quietly after a long silence.

"Did you?" Fenton looked surprised. "I wondered what he did with it. I was wearing it when I confronted Jack, and he pulled his gun. He took it from me when he locked me in the warehouse."

"So you were there!" Joe exclaimed. "I saw footprints, but I couldn’t tell whose they were."

"I was there, but not for long. He didn’t know Sam was in this one with me." Fenton shook his head. "I confronted him, he shot my vest- and my arm- took my jacket and locked me in. As soon as he was gone Sam let me right out again and took me to the hospital. I guess I foiled him without knowing it," he added thoughtfully. "You found the jacket, Frank-"

Joe had turned pale. "So I was supposed to find you. He must’ve wondered what was going on when I showed back up at the airport and said I hadn’t found anything there."

Frank leaned over and gave the younger boy an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "He must have had a very busy morning. Getting everything all set up and then pulling us in to play it out," he remarked rather sourly.

"That’s true. He must have been getting ready to try and kill me, confrontation or no, but I guess I did present him with a better opportunity than he expected," Mr Hardy agreed ruefully.

Laura Hardy shuddered. "I’m just grateful Sam is such a trustworthy man," she said softly. "I can’t bring myself to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t been there." Her husband put a comforting arm around her as silence descended.

"So," Gertude said briskly from the doorway, startling everyone. "He set three wildfires, then suggested to the authorities that they call you in, set a fourth while you were there investigating to make you look bad, but got caught on the airport video, which led you to suspect that it was him. Rather than turn him in, you confronted him; he tried to kill you and leave proof of your death in the places where he was arranging the boys to visit. Then he fabricated the story about you needing help and masqueraded as you in the hotel, duping the manager and planting that note with the two locations on it. Is that about right?"

"That’s about right," Fenton agreed with a half-smile. "The only true part about it was that he, using my name, had in fact checked out of the hotel early that morning. He also sabotaged his own plane, to give him a reason to stick around and guide you two along," he added to his sons. "And we didn’t have enough hard evidence to turn him in right away. He could have had a perfect alibi for being in Kansas at that particular time."

"Well. I’m sorry it turned out to be him, but I certainly hope he gets what he deserves." Gertrude shook her head, then turned to the kitchen. "Ten minutes to dinner; come set the table, boys."

***

"I can’t get over what he said," Joe Hardy said softly to his brother.

"What who said about what?" Frank asked, leaning back against the wall and stifling a yawn. He had spent the previous night in a Kansas hospital, under observation for smoke inhalation. He’d been released this morning with a ‘clean bill of health’ as the doctor had phrased it; his father and Joe had collected him and they had flown back to Bayport that afternoon with Sam Radley. Frank was glad to be home; he had not slept very well in the hospital and though he was pretty well recovered from his harrowing adventure in the prairie fire, he had found himself tiring more quickly today than was usual.

Joe, Sam and Fenton had stayed the night in the hotel where Jack had impersonated Fenton- which, Frank thought wryly, had probably thrown the friendly manager for quite a loop. Joe had been subdued today; his neck was bruised where Jack Wayne had tried to choke him and there were circles under his eyes, indicating that he hadn’t slept very well either. Fenton had looked weary as well, probably the wound in his arm had been hurting him. Sam Radley had actually fallen asleep in the airplane, something Frank had never seen him do before, so it seemed a good bet that he was tired too.

Now it was almost ten in the evening and his blond brother was sitting at the foot of Frank’s bed. Earlier, after they had come up from dinner, Joe had been switching aimlessly from station to station on the radio but had given up and tried to read a book instead. Now he put the book down and scowled at it. "What Jack said about how we use people on our cases. Like cannon fodder."

Frank looked over, suddenly troubled. "I heard that," he muttered. "I’d forgotten, with everything else that was going on, but I heard him say that and thought that maybe he had a point. Maybe we have been...insensitive about getting people involved in our mysteries. People have gotten hurt, and pretty badly scared, too, sometimes. And maybe we assume too much..."

"Yeah, it’s one thing to ask people if they notice something weird to call us; it’s another to get the guys to stakeout for us," Joe agreed gloomily. "Or any of the other ‘assignments’ we give them."

Frank was quiet for a while, thinking that over. The gang had given them invaluable help in the past, several times even saving the Hardys’ lives. But it wasn’t right to presume on their friendships to get assistance every time they found themselves needing it. Sure, everyone in the gang seemed enthusiastic about the mysteries, most of the time, but Jack had always seemed enthusiastic, too. "I guess there’s just one thing to do," the dark-haired sleuth said at last.

"Ask ‘em," Joe suggested, and Frank nodded.

"Ask them how they feel about it and assure them that if they don’t want to get involved, we’ll be cool with it." It would also, he thought ruefully, serve to reassure them that no one else was harboring such resentment.

"Not tonight, I think."

"No, definitely not tonight. I dunno about you, but I’m tired out- I didn’t sleep well in that hospital," Frank added as Joe looked over, clearly concerned. "It wasn’t just the constant check-ins from the nurses; the bed was not comfortable, either."

"I’m kinda tired myself, I spent a lot of last night trying to clear my head," Joe admitted, turning just a little pink. "I kept going from scared to mad and back again."

"I was doing some of that myself. Which reminds me," Frank recalled suddenly. "What I wanted to tell you, when you said not to talk-" he smiled a little as Joe’s color deepened. "I was wanting to say, quit apologizing, it’s not your fault." Then he leaned over, grabbed Joe’s arm and pulled him across the bed. Joe landed on his belly with an ‘oomph!’ of surprise and Frank gently tousled his hair.

"Aw, stop it," the younger boy grumbled, but he didn’t protest very effectively, and the attempt he made to ward off Frank’s hand was half-hearted. Besides, he was grinning.

"I think I owe you a major one, there, kid brother," Frank said, smiling at the picture his brother now presented. Joe propped himself up on his elbows and swiped at his disarranged hair.

"Actually, I think that would be whoever stuck the oxygen tank and mask into the chopper," he answered seriously. "I’m not certain that’s standard equipment." He paused and looked up. "Not to mention Sam and Dad. I couldn’t tell if you were conscious or not..."

"When you got there, I was drifting in and out. I heard most of what you were saying, and started to figure out why he left me there. I had thought at first that maybe someone was hiding nearby and forced him to take off without me. And then when I heard his voice-" Frank shivered. "That was fast thinking, Joe, letting him think the fire had finished me. I was trying to get enough energy together to help you out, but-" he shook his head, remembering his fear and frustration at being too weak to help. "How’d you manage to jump him?"

"Oh, the lightning," Joe explained. "It distracted him, so I made the most of it." He grimaced, touching the bruises on his neck. "Which wasn’t nearly enough."

"At least you got the gun away from him."

"It was starting not to make much difference, Frank. And if Sam and Dad hadn’t got there right when they did, it wouldn’t’ve made any difference," the seventeen-year-old replied quietly.

Another little shiver went down Frank’s back at these words. "But they did," he reminded Joe. "We got through it in one piece."

"Physically," Joe amended, almost inaudibly. He sighed and laid his head against Frank’s knee for a moment. Frank wasn’t expecting it, but he wasn’t surprised either. He ran his hand briefly over the bowed head.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Physically. But our trust took a major beating." Even now he didn’t want to believe it. Betrayed by Jack Wayne, a man they’d always called their friend. He’d taught them both how to pilot his planes, he’d gotten them out of scrapes and helped them get vital information. How he could have been hiding so much hatred- enough to be willing to murder them all- almost defied comprehension.

"I’m feeling paranoid," Joe murmured.

"Me too. When someone betrays you, I guess it’s inevitable to wonder if anyone else is, or would, as well. That’s another reason to talk with the gang, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, but- how will we know?" Joe asked, looking up. "Jack wouldn’t tell Dad what was wrong; what if they don’t tell us?"

"Jack wouldn’t tell Dad because he was afraid it’d cost him his job," Frank reminded him, trying not to sound as uneasy over this possibility as he suddenly felt. "It won’t cost our friends anything to say that they don’t want us calling on ‘em to get into trouble."

"Well...no, probably not." Joe sighed and let his head drop again. "I am tired. I think I’m going to try and go to bed."

"Okay." Frank watched as his brother sat up, then slid his arm around Joe’s slumped shoulders. Joe returned the awkward half-embrace, then slid off the bed and walked out the door.

"G’night, have good dreams."

"You too, bro."

***

"So that’s the story." Frank Hardy gazed around the bedroom, looking into the faces of his best friends; ‘the gang’ as they called themselves. They all had other friends, but this group was a clique, and a particularly tight-knit one.

He and Joe were sitting in the middle of the bed, backs against the wall. Chet, Iola, Biff, Phil, Jerry, Tony, Callie and Liz were all perched around them. Liz was on the chair, the other two girls at either end of the bed. Biff and Tony were standing in the doorway and the other three boys were sitting on the floor. It was nearly noon, and the two Hardys had just finished explaining what had happened on their unexpected trip to Kansas.

"Guys, that’s terrible," Chet spoke up. "I always liked Jack, always thought he was a real nice guy."

"What a horrid thing for him to try to do," Callie said softly, and there were nods of agreement.

"Why in the world did he do it?" Tony asked, his dark eyes flickering from one young detective to the other.

Joe took a breath and explained the pilot’s festering resentment for being turned into a ‘detective’. "We had no idea he felt like that about it until then. He never even hinted that he would rather not get involved."

"That was dumb of him," Biff said bluntly. "If he didn’t tell you, how could you know, or do anything about it?"

"He seemed to think that doing something about it would mean firing him," Frank explained.

"Ridiculous," Jerry murmured. "Your Dad’s not the vindictive sort." There were murmurs of agreement at this.

‘Now to it,’ Frank thought, glancing at his brother.

"The reason we’re telling you all this is because he said something that really hit home," Joe said slowly, pausing to find words. "He said that- that we use people-"

"Hoooollld it," Chet ordered, drawing out the word for emphasis. "Are you going to suggest that he made you think we only help you out because you-"

"Chet, you already don’t make sense," his sister interrupted. "Let ‘em finish."

"Well, if Jack Wayne thinks we help you for any other reasons than because we want to, he’s off his rocker," Chet replied firmly.

"It’s not exactly that," Frank answered. "It’s that- we don’t want anyone thinking the only way to keep our friendship is to come running when we call. That’s not what friendship’s about, and if anyone’s more comfortable not getting involved, we’d rather know it than not. We don’t want to be pushing people into things they’d rather avoid."

"And we wouldn’t ever blame anyone for not wanting to get involved," Joe added earnestly. "Sometimes we don’t even want to do some of the work, so how could we blame anyone else for not wanting to?" There were smiles at that, despite the serious air in the room.

"So-" Frank spread his hands and glanced around the room.

"Don’t be ridiculous. We like helping out, it’s an adventure," Biff told him. "Sometimes moreso than others, but I’ve never regretted it."

"Guys, you’ve got a real acute sense of responsibility. We know perfectly well that if we say we can’t get involved, or don’t feel easy doing something, you won’t hold it against us," Phil remarked, looking a little surprised.

"Yeah, you let us decide if we’re going to help or not," Jerry affirmed. "And if we screw things up, you don’t blow a gasket at us, either," he added ruefully.

"You do call at weird hours sometimes, but it’s always for a good reason," Callie teased. "Seriously, you’re always on the go, but you don’t insist that we always be right beside you- you don’t drag us in. You don’t give us orders, you ask, and that’s proof enough right there that we want to help out."

"Besides, we call you in to help us, too. You’ve bailed me out, I don’t know how many times," Chet reminded them

"Yeah, and if we do ever get into a fix, you get us out of it, never mind the investigation," Tony pointed out.

"I wish you’d take me along more often!" Iola nudged Joe and smiled. "Biff’s right, it’s exciting- and it’s great to think you trust us with important stuff."

"I’ll be honest, I wish the same thing; you guys make good news, even if it gets a little unnerving sometimes," Liz, who was the editor of the Bayport High paper and daughter of the Bayport Times editor, chimed in. "I suppose there’s downsides, no one likes to be scared or risk getting hurt, but it does go with the territory and we accept that. Besides, you’ve always tried very hard to keep us out of danger- never mind what sort of danger it got you into in the process." Another murmur of agreement went up at that remark.

Frank and Joe looked at their friends, then glanced at each other, both lost for words. Chet, who had been their closest friend for several years, knew the look, and he slowly got to his feet and held out his arms like an orator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the votes are cast, the results are in, and the verdict is unanimous." He turned to face the startled brothers. "You’re not using us, so stop worrying about it," he declared, breaking the solemn mood; laughter rose from everyone in the room. "Now, who’s up for lunch?"