“Did you find anything that will help?” Lydia Cohen demanded, her eyes darting from Frank to Joe. Joe hesitated, glancing quickly at his brother, not at all sure what to say or how to say it. How did you tell a worried parent that her son had picked up and left because he was sick of her attitude?

“Well, we found an explanation, but I don’t know that it’s all too helpful,” Frank began tactfully. Joe recognized this as the ‘breaking it as gently as possible’ ploy, something his thoughtful brother was very good at. Joe himself tended to blurt things out directly, making delicate situations more precarious.

“What do you mean?” Fenton inquired.

“Phil left a letter,” Joe explained, gesturing at the computer and looking at his father. Lydia’s intense gaze was making him feel ill-at-ease. “He, ah, hasn’t been happy at home, so-”

“So he went looking for his father. Just as I suspected! Didn’t I say so, Fenton? He must have been in contact with that deadbeat-”

“Actually, no,” Frank broke in, shoving his hand through his hair. Joe laid an unobtrusive hand on his brother’s shoulder for moral support. “Phil specifically said that he’s not doing that. In fact he was rather- well- derogatory about the idea. He-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Frank!” Lydia stepped closer to the screen, glaring at the older boy. Joe frowned at the malice in her gaze, bothered by it. Did it really mean that much to her, to be right- or was there another reason she was trying to pin this on her ex-husband? Either way, her anger was chilling! “He’s obviously just saying that to throw you off the trail. Count on it, that’s...is this what he wrote?”

Joe retreated a step as the woman crowded up next to him. His gaze flickered to his father, who looked troubled. Under his hand, Frank’s shoulder jerked as Phil’s mother tried to nudge him out of the way. “Um, why don’t I get up and you can-”

“Filth! How dare you!” Lydia shrieked suddenly, whirling on the Hardy boys so abruptly that they both recoiled. “How dare you write such trash on my son’s computer? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Ms Cohen!” Fenton barked, pacing swiftly forward and grasping the woman’s arm. “Control yourself!”

“We didn’t do this!” Joe protested simultaneously, retreating several more steps. The woman looked insane with rage and he wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t try to hit him.

“This is a text document, not word processing! It’s been saved and filed, it can’t be altered without Phil’s password. Try it! Hit any key,” Frank spoke up, his voice urgent.

Lydia Cohen continued to glare at him, wrenching her arm from Fenton’s grasp. “I don’t believe you, you planted this here-”

“That’s a ridiculous assertion,” Mr. Hardy said sharply. “My boys have far more sense than to tamper with evidence in a missing-persons case. I should know; I taught them the procedures, if you will recall. Your son is their friend and they are concerned for him- do you seriously think they'd waste time and effort pulling some cheap and malicious prank at his expense?”

For a moment, the only sound was Lydia Cohen’s rapid breathing. Then, quite suddenly, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Joe let out an inaudible breath of relief and replaced his hand on Frank’s taut shoulder. The dark-haired boy relaxed slightly at the touch and straightened up in the chair. “Wow,” he murmured.

“That woman is not stable,” their father muttered. “I could tell that much from talking to her downstairs, but what’s set her off to this extreme?”

Frank turned to the computer and tapped several buttons; seconds later, the printer came on and quietly extruded a sheet of paper. “Phil’s homosexual and his mother won’t tolerate it,” he replied, sounding less calm than usual.

“As we can see,” Joe agreed, throwing a grim glance in the direction that Lydia had departed. “Apparently they had a major showdown when he told her, but from what he says, she’s a pretty severe bigot at the best of times.”

“So Phil decided enough was enough, made his plans and took off. He mentioned that he took his passport with him, Dad. For all we know, he’ll end up in Africa, but I think he‘ll be pretty easy to track down,” Frank concluded, offering their father the printed-out document. Dad accepted it with a distracted frown, folded it, and put it into his slacks pocket.

“That’ll be useful, but-”

At Dad's sudden silence, Joe glanced over and felt his eyes widen as Ms Cohen, her face grim and red with anger, swept into the room. He moved to the side, glancing anxiously at Frank, who was still in the computer chair. Frank's eyes turned wary and he quickly closed the document that was still visible on the screen.

“Ms Cohen, I’m going to suggest that we let the police handle this,” Fenton began.

Lydia ignored him, stalking across the room to the computer. She lifted her left hand as she approached and Joe saw with a jolt of fear that the woman was holding a hammer! He heard Frank suck in a shocked breath, but before any of them could react, the crazy woman was attacking the computer, shattering the monitor and pounding on the keyboard and mouse before turning her fury on the CPU. Joe, alarmed for his brother’s safety, seized the chair and hauled it backward as hard as he could. Frank staggered up from the chair and retreated, his face paling with shock and fear.

***

Fenton Hardy was taken by complete surprise and stood frozen for a moment as Lydia Cohen smashed the hammer against the monitor, then the keyboard. Then, moving with practiced speed, he interposed himself between his boys and the insane woman. "Out," he hissed over his shoulder as shards of glass and plastic bounced on the desk and carpet. The boys made haste to obey; Fenton followed, backing up so that he wouldn't get taken by surprise from behind. Before he reached the doorway, though, the woman stopped, stood panting for a moment, then dropped the hammer on the floor and slowly turned to face him.

"You will find my son, won't you, Fenton?" she pleaded, moving toward him.

The investigator’s eyes widened in disbelief. This went beyond mere mood swings! "Ms Cohen-"

"Lydia. You must call me Lydia. Please, find Philip?"

"I-" Fenton began, and started as the telephone rang.

"Oh dear, excuse me." Lydia slipped out the door, smiling sweetly in passing at Frank and Joe, who were regarding her with alarmed eyes.

"Are you two all right?" Fenton asked quietly, his gaze darting swiftly over his eldest.

"Fine, just..." Frank trailed off and shook his head.

"Shook up," Joe concluded for him.

"I think we should leave this in the hands of the police," their father remarked tensely. "If you two want to help out, that's fine, but it's obviously going to be a simple matter of verifying that he left on his own rather than rescuing him- or persuading him to come back."

"I wouldn't come back," Joe muttered. "Not once I'd gotten away from this!"

"Me, either," Frank agreed, then glanced quickly down the hall and frowned warningly. Fenton looked over and saw Ms Cohen approaching quickly, her face distraught.

"That was Michelle- Phil's girlfriend- such a sweet girl- she's so concerned. I promised her you'd do everything you could to find Phil for her," she said breathlessly, touching Fenton's sleeve. The detective drew back, repulsed. Surely she wouldn't try to- no, he refused to even think that.

"As I was just saying to Frank and Joe, this case seems to be more a matter for police verification than for detective work. Phil is eighteen, he can't be compelled to return if he chooses otherwise, and there's little indication that he was taken against his will. Since we know he took his passport, the police will be able to find him much sooner than we would. They have immediate access to that sort of tracking program. We'll be in touch, of course-"

Lydia Cohen drew back, her face reddening and contorting in anger. "If you do not have my son back here in time to take that girl out on Saturday, I will hold you and your family personally responsible, Hardy," she snarled. "Remember that! You will find my Philip, and you will bring him back to me."

"I will not be coerced into taking a case that is personally distasteful and professionally unnecessary," the investigator replied, forcing his voice to icy calmness. "And what I will remember when I report this matter to the police is how you threatened me and my family." Without waiting for an answer, the angry man turned and ushered his silent sons down the steps and out the front door. He was a little surprised that Lydia Cohen's only apparent response to his declaration was silence.

"Wow," was Joe's subdued reaction, when the Hardys were safely in Fenton's car.

"That was scary," Frank murmured. "Unstable seems kinda mild to describe her, Dad."

Fenton glanced at the rearview mirror, taking in the still-pale faces of his sons as they sat in the back seat. "I agree. If I thought it would do any good, I'd recommend that she undergo a psychiatric evaluation. But since custody isn't an issue at this point..." he shrugged, returning his attention to the road.

"I don't get it." Joe sounded baffled. "She smashed up the computer, she could've hurt any of us, she's obviously willing to get violent- why can't we use that to get her analyzed?"

"First, because it's her home, not a public area. What she does there is subject to privacy laws; you can do things at home that would get you cited or jailed in public. Second, she didn't actually harm us, even when she could have, so her threat would be considered a bluff- inappropriate but not actionable. And third, she has the perfect excuse for her behavior: emotional stress over her son's disappearance," Fenton explained. "Now, if it was a question of Phil's safety, there would be very little problem with determining her mental stability; the security of the child takes precedence over the privacy of the adult. But when Phil reached his majority, that option ceased."

"And Phil's not there to make a complaint, anyway," Frank added. "Even if she'd smashed the computer right in front of the cops, they probably couldn't do much beyond verbally warning her."

"Oh, I see." Joe sounded disgusted. "She's got to actually hurt somebody before anyone can get her into analysis, no matter how 'unstably' she's behaving, right?"

"It's not quite that bad, son, but she does have to openly display mental instability and the intent to harm before she can be subjected to a compulsory mental evaluation. It's one of those rules that is meant to protect peoples' rights, but occasionally shields the wrong person."

"So all that leaves is voluntary analysis, and I sure can't imagine her admitting that there's anything wrong with how she acted- can you?" Frank concluded ruefully.

Joe snorted.

"What bothers me most," Fenton mused, "is that we can’t be certain that she is mentally unstable, even judging by her behavior. She strongly reminded me of a very bratty, petulant, spoiled child. Many of the socially elite are like that; gracious when they have their way and flying into rages and ugly behavior when they don't. She may have nothing more than a mood disorder, and for all we know, she's already under treatment for it."

"If she is, I don't think it's working," Joe muttered.

"She might be noncompliant," Frank began.

"I wish you'd talk English!"

That, Fenton knew, was directed more at him than at Frank. He did, he reflected, tend to use a bit more vocabulary than was necessary and Frank often emulated him. 'Copies me,' the detective corrected himself wryly. "To put it in English, then: since Phil's not in danger, Lydia's privacy is more important than her mental state. She can easily claim emotional distress as her excuse for getting upset enough to smash things, and we can't prove otherwise. All we can do is file it and wait to see if she gets worse- that, and find out if she's already under treatment, and whether she follows her treatment plan or not."

"Oh." Fenton glanced in the mirror again and repressed a smile; Joe was a bit pink around the ears. "Uh, Dad, I-"

"I do get carried away when I get into lecture mode," the detective admitted easily. "Penalty of working with the government so much, I think. I get to the point where I'm talking bureaucrat-ese and don't even know it."

Joe murmured something that Fenton didn't quite catch and was silent for the remainder of the trip to the police station.

***

"I feel so stupid sometimes!" Joe Hardy complained to his brother, scowling as he watched Frank type. The older teen was looking up 'mood disorders' on Google, curious to know what sort of behavior was typical of each and hoping to match one or another to Lydia Cohen's apparent mental state. It was nearly nine in the evening and rain was pattering quietly on the roof. The smell of the baked ham they'd had for dinner still lingered in the air; Joe took an appreciative breath, momentarily distracted by the thought of a ham sandwich with plenty of 'fixings'.

"You're not stupid, kiddo," Frank replied, glancing over his shoulder. "I had a little trouble following all Dad's doublespeak, too."

"Right, and then you come up with 'noncompliant'? I don't know which is worse, trying to figure out what you two are saying, or feeling like an idiot when one of you has to translate."

Frank paused, swiveling his chair around and regarding Joe thoughtfully. "You didn't used to have that problem. Heck, you always were better in English than I was- math is my thing. Maybe if you do a little less video-gaming and a little more reading...time was, I could hardly get your nose out of a book."

Joe's scowl deepened as he dropped down on the end of Frank's bed. Frank's advice was good- it usually was- but Joe hadn't asked for advice and wasn't sure he was in the mood to take it. He knew it was immature of him to feel that way, but it was very annoying to look for a bit of sympathy and get nothing but a dose of unsolicited advice. It made him feel disinclined to follow it, no matter how appropriate it might be.

When he didn't reply, Frank shrugged and turned back to the computer. “It was just a suggestion,” the older boy remarked quietly. “And I repeat: you’re no more stupid than I am. I understand why you feel that way sometimes- but you’re not, Joe, honest.”

Joe was feeling too sullen to reply, so for several minutes, the clicking of keys was the only sound in the room. He was still considering the matter- feeling pulled between shame at himself and annoyance with his father and brother- when Fenton tapped on the bedroom door. "Hey, Dad."

"What's up?" Frank stopped typing again and turned in his chair.

"My contact called and I'm heading out." Fenton stepped over the threshold. "He's finally got me a decent lead, but it's taking us up to Rhode Island."

Joe blinked at him, then suddenly remembered what his father was referring to. "Oh- that call we were waiting for yesterday- the copyright rip-off investigation?"

"That one," Dad nodded. "He found the source of the illegal manufacturing- it's a very quiet side interest of a legitimate corporation, so we'll have to be careful separating the guilty from the innocent. I should be back in a few days, and I'll keep in touch. I don't expect much trouble, but-"

"We'll be out in a flash, if you need us," Joe broke in. Dad smiled, moved into the room and extended his arm; Joe took the hint and got up for a brief farewell hug. When he let go, Frank followed his example.

"Take it easy, boys. And I'd suggest you and your friends keep your distance from Ms Cohen. If she does give any trouble, let me- and the police- know about it right away. Even if all you have is suspicions." The tall man's brow creased in a pensive frown. "If she hasn't done anything by Sunday, she probably won't, but keep alert- unstable people are hard to predict."

"We'll keep our eyes open," Frank assured him. "And you know Officer McGuire promised to get in touch when they find anything about Phil's location. Everything should be cool."

Their father nodded again, gave each of them a brief pat on the back and turned to leave, but as he reached the door, he paused and turned back. "Oh...son? Frank’s right, you're not stupid. Trust us on this."

Joe double-took as Dad disappeared around the corner, feeling his face turn red as the remark sank in. He ignored the amused glance Frank gave him as the older boy sat back down in the computer chair, and waited to hear the front door close before he remarked, sighing: "I suppose it's an occupational hazard, overhearing things...but I wish he wouldn't do that. If I want to talk about something with him, I will, but it'd be nice if he'd let me decide whether to bring it up or not."

"I think he just wanted to reassure you," Frank said quietly.

"Yeah, maybe, but so what? Why can't he just say, 'I overheard you; do you want to talk about it?' and let me decide?" Joe protested, sitting back down on the bed and frowning at his brother's back. Evidently Frank wasn't interested enough in the matter to face him. "Besides, I was talking to you in the car this afternoon- not him. He just decided I meant him because he used more complicated words than you did."

"You mean- you were annoyed at me?" Frank sounded surprised, and the sound of typing stopped.

"I thought I just said that," Joe retorted irritably. Wasn't Frank even listening?

"I guess I misunderstood, then- I had a feeling you said it to me because my complicated word was your last straw," Frank explained. "Like if you hadn't already been frustrated with Dad, you wouldn't've said anything to me."

"Does it worry you when you don't make sense?"

"Not much, no." Frank turned around again, wearing his patient look.

“Well, you don’t right now. If I had been annoyed at Dad, I certainly wouldn’t have been looking at you when I said talk English.”

"I thought," Frank paused, emphasizing the word, "up until right now...that you were frustrated with all Dad's doubletalk. So when I said 'noncompliant' instead of 'not taking her medication, if she's on any', it made your frustration boil over- at- well, maybe at both of us, but more at Dad, because he was doing more of it."

Joe opened his mouth, hesitated as he realized he might be opening the proverbial can of worms, and finally said, "No, I was definitely annoyed at you, not him."

“So you’ll accept complicated vocabulary from Dad, but not from me?” Frank raised an expressive eyebrow. "Even though he knows a lot more of it than I do?"

“I...it’s not the vocabulary so much as the attitude.” The younger boy hesitated again, then shrugged, averting his eyes. “From Dad, I expect complicated explanations. He’s older, he’s more experienced, he’s...superior. You, though- you're supposed to be at my level, but sometimes- when we're working with Dad, you two sometimes leave me feeling like you and he are the partners and I'm..." Joe trailed off with a shrug. "Excluded. It's frustrating. Anyway," he added, before his brother could respond, "I'm going down to get something to eat- I'm hungry again." He stood up from the bed, more eager to get out of the room than to eat anything; his appetite had all but disappeared during the conversation.

"Joe, wait." Frank's voice stopped him as he reached the door.

"What?"

There was second of silence, then: "He makes me feel that way too. Not so much excluded as- well, like an underling. An inferior."

Joe half-turned, a skeptical frown crossing his face as he met Frank's serious gaze. "He does?"

"All the time. I learn a lot from working with him, but it makes me feel...it makes me very aware that I'm inferior to him." Frank leaned back in the chair. "You and I are equal partners, and when we work with him...I think we're both about the same distance behind him-"

"Below."

"Behind, below, whichever- he's way ahead of both of us. But neither of us is ahead of the other, and that's- comfortable."

Joe considered that for a moment in silence, leaning his back against the doorframe. He looked into his brother's patient eyes and knew Frank was waiting for his agreement. "Well," he answered slowly, "I only get that excluded feeling when we work with Dad- but I get it from both of you then, because you seem to pick up on his convolutions faster than I do. You’re usually the one who translates what he means, y’know.”

"I guess I do translate sometimes," Frank agreed, looking troubled. “But only when I'm sure I’ve got it right, that he won’t correct me.”

Joe’s eyes widened indignantly at this admission. “Oh, I see!" he retorted bitterly, folding his arms on his chest. "You keep quiet and let me ask the questions and look like the idiot, and then you can act like you knew it all along-”

“Do I do that?” the dark-haired boy asked softly. “Do I rub it in and act like you were lacking the sense to see the blindingly obvious?”

Joe closed his eyes and let out a long, exasperated breath. “Well... well, no,” he admitted reluctantly, re-opening his eyes and frowning at his brother. “No, I have to say, you don’t.”

“And I do tell you when I haven't understood him, either.”

Joe glowered at him, the realization dawning: Frank often did exactly that, admitting that he didn’t have a very good idea what was going on in their father’s head. ‘Trust Dad; he knows what he’s doing’ was one of his most-frequently repeated admonitions. “That's right- you tell me. Not him. And you should. It’s not fair of you to let me take the fall and feel like a twit, when you’re feeling exactly the same way and just not admitting it.”

Color rose into Frank's face and he looked away from Joe's glare. "I guess you're right, I should have admitted it- but I didn't know it made you feel so lousy, bro, honest. You never seem to mind asking questions or saying 'I don’t get it'. I wish I could do that, and not worry about feeling like I’ve failed him somehow, but I can't help it- I feel like Dad expects me to understand everything he says- or worse, thinks- and when I don't, I've let him down.” Frank paused, taking a deep breath. "I really envied you that, Joe."

“Huh?” Joe gave his head a shake, wondering if he’d heard quite right, then shoved his hair out of his eyes.

"You seem so...confident," Frank murmured, turning to face him. "Like you were immune to that...disapproving look he gives when he has to explain-"

“That's exactly it,” Joe agreed, looking down and kicking uncomfortably at the carpet. He still felt pretty annoyed with Frank for not being totally honest about how he felt, but not quite annoyed enough to lay more guilt on him. After all, Joe himself hadn't exactly given a full disclosure about his feelings, either. To the best of his memory, this was the first time either of them had admitted that working with Dad could be anything other than totally great. “That look that says, 'you ought to understand, if you'd just pay attention'. I- well, I try to act like I’m following along okay, but after a while, I just get too confused or irritated to hide it, and then he gives that look, and that 'it's so simple' tone of voice-”

“And then you feel worse, ’cause then he knows how far beneath him you are.” Frank’s look was a weird mix of guilt and sympathy.

“Yeah.” Joe leaned against the doorframe for a few minutes, thinking that over and feeling his resentment subside. "I wish you'd told me why I was the one asking all the questions," he said at last. "I was starting to lose my enthusiasm for working with the two of you.” He paused as his brother nodded; Frank still looked quite shame-faced.

“You're right, I should have told you how I felt. Even if it didn't bother you like it did me, it wasn't very honest of me to hide it and let you take the brunt like that. I'm sorry, kiddo. I won't do it again- and I'll start telling Dad when he's not making sense.”

“Thanks,” Joe said quietly, smiling slightly at his brother’s fond look. It felt good to get that out, he realized, mildly surprised. Obviously the conversation had been long overdue; they'd both been hiding some pretty serious concerns and not-too-pleasant feelings.

Maybe they should tell Dad, too?

"Joe? You're...okay with us being partners? I mean, I don't make you feel inadequate, do I?"

The last of Joe's resentment vanished at the anxiety in his brother's voice. "No- I'm okay when we work together," he assured Frank, and he meant it. For all his logic and intelligence, Frank made mistakes and got confused and reached wrong conclusions and got into serious trouble- as often as Joe himself did. And he got just as annoyed with himself when he messed up as Joe did when he was the one making the big mistakes. The blond boy mused over that for a moment, recognizing something he hadn't considered before. They were harder on themselves than on each other, which meant they spent almost no time chastising each other. 'Just ourselves,' he thought wryly. 'I couldn't even think of fussing at Frank when he's bawling himself out for doing something stupid- and I guess he feels the same about not rubbing it in when I've gone and done something really dumb.'

"I'm glad of that," he heard Frank say, and snapped back to the present.

"We're pretty well equal, 'cause we learn the same lessons at about the same time," he asserted. Then he straightened up and announced, "I'm going to go make a sandwich. Want anything?"

Frank's smile was full of relief. "You could bring me another cookie or three, if you felt like it."

"I could," Joe agreed thoughtfully. "And now that you mention it, I could have a couple myself. But if I get caught in the cookie jar, it's because it was your idea, not mine."

"I didn't know you were making a practice of that- how'd you make yourself fit into something that small?" Frank grinned.

"Aw, hush!" Joe laughed as Frank turned back to the computer, and left the room with a smile and an amused shake of his head. "And they think I play on words," he muttered as he descended the stairs. Twenty minutes and one large ham sandwich later, he returned to his brother's room, chewing on the last of his peanut-butter cookies.

"That was quick."

"Told you I was hungry." Joe held out his hand, offering the older boy the three cookies that he'd brought up- and drew his hand away as Frank reached for them. "On one condition."

"You and your conditions," Frank snorted good-naturedly. "Well, what sort of ransom do you want this time?"

"Only that, from now on, you wait till I ask for advice before you give it to me," Joe replied, growing serious. "Not only is it irritating as heck to have someone saying, 'you ought to do this' and 'you ought to do that' or 'if I were you' all the time, it makes that person look like a real know-it-all. As you may've observed, in our dear but exasperating auntie."

Frank's mouth opened in shock, and then he blushed. "I...see," he said rather stiffly. "I wasn't aware that I was turning into a...know-it-all. It was just a suggestion, like I said. I wanted to help, not just sit and nod and come across like I wasn’t very interested.”

"Oh...well, 'helpful' wasn’t quite how you did come across. I mean, suggestions and advice are all fine and dandy," Joe said easily, placing the cookies on Frank's impeccably tidy desk; "but when someone's just trying to get something off their chest- holding a gripe-fest, if you like- advice isn't what they want to hear."

"What's the point, then? If you think someone's looking for a way to have whatever-it-is not occur again-"

"If someone says, 'what do you think I should do?' or 'what would you do?' or even 'I don't know what to do!', that's a pretty good indication that they need some advice," Joe remarked, wondering why they both were talking so indirectly. It was time to switch tactics. "Look, brother, I do appreciate it, but it's the same with that as with Dad's comment before he left. He needs to let me decide what I want to talk about with him, and you need to let me decide when I'm going to ask for advice. How am I gonna be able to trust my own judgment if everyone goes around making my decisions and telling me what I ought to do?"

Frank's flush deepened and he averted his gaze to stare at the computer monitor. "Good point," he said quietly. "I guess I'm...I'm so used to...well, trying to look out for you, that...I- I don't really think about it, I just sorta...do it."

Joe laid one hand on the desk, leaned his weight against it, and regarded his older brother with an affectionate, if slightly wry smile. It wasn't often that Frank got flustered enough to stammer like that. And while Joe had never objected to having Frank look out for him, the elder Hardy could get downright overprotective at times. Joe knew it was an indication of his brother's affection for him, Frank's way of showing that he cared, but he felt that sometimes less 'showing' and more straightforward saying-so would be nice. Still, that wasn't Frank's way. It was easier for him to demonstrate his feelings through his behavior than put them into words. "Not a major deal," he replied at last, gently. "That's why it only costs three cookies."

"Ah, okay." Frank's color abated a little and he reached over for the first cookie. "Thanks." He glanced up, meeting Joe's gaze; his dark eyes held a hint of shyness. "I'll try to put a lid on it," he promised, and quickly took a bite of the crumbly cookie.

Joe nodded, smiling, then looked at the computer screen. "Find anything that matches our raving madwoman?" he asked lightly, deliberately changing the subject.

***

"This is getting really out of hand," Frank Hardy muttered in disgust, prying the lid off the can of paint and sticking the wooden stirrer into the gluey liquid.

"No foolin'," his brother agreed, scowling at the large black spray-painted letters scrawled on the side of their house. "Pranks are one thing, but this..." He didn't finish, just leaned down to pick up the paint-roller and pan. "And on both sides, too."

Frank looked up quickly. "It's on the other side?" he repeated, surprised. He hadn't thought to look, when he came out to get the morning paper. In fact, it was just luck that he'd happened to glance up and see the profanities scrawled on the white brick wall before he went back into the house.

"Yep. Same thing- whoever did it didn't have much imagination."

"You don't need imagination for this sort of crap. Actually, writing cuss words in spray-paint on people’s houses is a pretty good indicator of a complete lack of intelligence; imagination has nothing to do with it." The dark-haired young sleuth sighed. "Want to take one side, and I'll take the other?"

"Probably the best way to do it," Joe agreed, holding out the paint pan. Frank poured a measure of paint into it, then wiped off the dripping edge of the can with his brush and set the can back on the lawn. "Ironic," the younger boy added after a moment. "Any other time, we'd have to be careful about dripping on the flowers." He looked down at the bare flower-beds at their feet with a scowl. "Somehow, I don't think this is just pranks, bro. It may've started as pranks, but it's gone beyond that."

"I was just thinking that," Frank agreed, feeling a touch of sour amusement. Once again, their thoughts and deductions were in synch. "You notice that all these 'pranks' have been directed at us? No one else in the neighborhood has had any trouble, but we got the trees TP'ed, the flowers ripped out and tossed in the gutter, the bushes attacked with hedge-clippers, and the porch light bulbs taken out- and the eggs in the mailbox yesterday." He ran his hand through his hair, wondering again if they ought to have reported that last one. It was, after all, a Federal offense to interfere with the mail.

"Don't forget the hose getting cut apart and the stuff scribbled in the driveway," Joe reminded him, and then paused. "You know what, I bet they used the same thing to cut up the hose and the hedge."

Frank blinked. "I didn't think of that, but you're probably right. Hedge trimmers could cut through a hose fairly easily. Come to that, Joe, it's not a very big step from writing crap on the driveway to writing it on the walls. Just more noticeable- and more permanent."

"Yeah. Escalating it. Which leaves us with the big question," Joe concluded, nodding. "Who's mad enough at us to harass us, but cautious enough to try and make it look like coincidental pranks?"

"Cautious or subtle," the older boy mused. "I wish Dad was home so we could ask him- it might be related to one of his cases, not one of ours." It had been five days since their father left to check out his present lead on the copyright infringement case, and while he had been in touch every day, no one had alerted him to what they'd thought were just a very annoying succession of practical jokes.

"'Specially since we haven't had too many mysteries lately," Joe agreed, frowning. Then he shrugged and shifted the paint pan. "Let's think about it while we paint and compare notes when we're done."

"And while we're at it, let's check the back of the house and see if they got that, too," Frank suggested grimly.

Joe's blue eyes widened, then narrowed; he lowered the pan to the ground and dashed around the corner. A moment later he was back, shaking his head with a relieved expression. "I guess they weren't feeling that courageous," he reported. "All right, let's get this done before any of the neighbors' kids see it." He picked up the pan again and hurried around to the other side of the house as Frank bent to douse his brush in the bucket. Starting at the lowest point, he began to work upward, slowly erasing the ugly language.

Half an hour later, Frank paused and regarded the remains of the spray-paint with a frown. He'd just become aware of something and wondered why he hadn't noticed sooner: whoever had done the spray-painting had aimed no higher than his shoulder. Most people, he reasoned, when painting words, did so at their own eye-level or perhaps a bit higher. So if the vandal- or vandals- were doing the same... "Hey, Joe," he called.

"Yeah?"

"How high off the ground is the stuff over there?"

There was a longish pause, and then Joe's wind-blown head appeared around the corner. A cold front was moving through, bringing the typical strong, scattered gusts of wind. "Now that's interesting," the younger boy exclaimed. "I didn't think of it till you said that, but if they were working at eye-level-"

"Or maybe a few inches higher," Frank amended, extending his arm upward in demonstration.

"So we're dealing with someone fairly short."

"Which might just mean, fairly young," Frank concluded. "Say, the son or daughter of someone Dad put away recently. And/or their friends."

"Or some kid who's got a personal grudge against us...Frank, you don't think Phil would-"

The sound of a car turning into their driveway made both boys turn quickly, and then they both broke into grins. "Hi, Dad!" Joe shouted, and ran for the car.

"Hello, boys- what's this? Are you so bored that you've taken up house-painting, or is this your mother's idea?" the detective inquired, opening his door and stepping out with a smile. "Hold that thought, son," he added as Joe reached him. "You've got almost as much paint on you as your brush does."

Frank stifled a chuckle as Joe blinked down at his white-spotted brown shirt and tan shorts. "I was busy thinking," the seventeen-year-old defended himself with a wry smile. "Didn't pay enough attention to the paint- but Dad, wait till you hear what's been going on around here!" He launched into a recital of the events of the past week, ticking off the points on paint-smeared fingers. Frank took the opportunity to check his own clothing, and found that he, too, was spattered- though not as badly as Joe was. A welcome-home hug would have to wait until they got cleaned up.

"-So we were just figuring it might be someone's kid, somebody who's mad at you- or us- for something that happened to their parent," Joe concluded. Their father's brow wrinkled in thought.

"It's a good theory, Joe, but I can't think offhand of anyone recently..."

"It might not be too recent," Frank remarked. "Might be the kid had trouble finding out where we live. 'Specially if they live in another state. I mean," he added as Joe gave him a skeptical look, "Bayport, yeah, but it's a pretty big city for a kid to track down one family."

"Well, that's true," Joe agreed. "But I was thinking-"

"That's a change," Frank muttered under his breath, but apparently he wasn't quiet enough, for Joe turned to him with a scowl. "Sorry. You said something about Phil a couple minutes ago."

Joe glared a moment longer, then turned back to their father. "See, a couple days ago..." he paused and began again. "You know the FBI said they'd alert us to any developments? And they had Phil's passport number flagged so that they'd get a report on it as soon as someone put it into any computer system? Well, it popped up at Atlanta's airport, and he was detained and questioned."

"And everything was in order?" Fenton deduced, leaning back against the car door.

Joe nodded. "They didn't say why he went all the way down to Atlanta- maybe he was hoping they'd overlook him or something, since it is the busiest airport. What they did say was that he wasn't too happy about being found, especially when they told him how they did it. So since he told us in his letter that he was taking his passport, he probably figured we were behind it. Which we were."

"And you think he'd stoop to this sort of thing?" Frank waved at the house in disbelief.

"Not specifically, no, but if he called someone and suggested they play some pranks on us...and if that person's getting out of hand..."

"That's something to consider," their father agreed as Frank nodded slowly. "If he just said, pull a few tricks to let them know I'm not too thrilled with 'em right now-"

"Speaking of not thrilled," Frank broke in, "there's someone else who's not too thrilled with us, since we didn't bring her 'darling' back by her deadline. Ms Cohen's called twice now, and she was- as you might expect- unstable."

"About as unstable as a faulty nuclear reactor," Joe growled.

"Did you contact the phone company?" the detective inquired. "They can block her from calling again."

"Mom did," Frank replied. "She took the last call, and she was pretty upset about it. Angry, not anxious," he amended as Dad frowned. "As soon as she hung up, she made the block-call."

"Ah, good. Well, hopefully Lydia Cohen will settle down and accept the situation once she realizes there's nothing more to be done about it. Phil's an adult and he's made his decision. And now," their father concluded, "I'm going in to say hello to your mother."

"Tell her we'll be in soon, we're almost done," Frank requested.

"And we'll probably need to rinse off with the hose before we do come in," Joe remarked ruefully. Then he lifted his roller-brush and rolled a line of paint across Frank's cheek.

"Hey!" the older boy protested loudly, dropping his paintbrush and automatically wiping at his face with his shirt-sleeve. "What'd you do that for?"

"I suppose I must not have been thinking!" Joe shot back, and darted away before Frank could do or say anything in retaliation.

"Why, that little-" Frank sputtered, taking another swipe at his gooey face.

"You should have known he wouldn't let you get away with that," Dad remarked, chuckling unsympathetically as he turned to go up the walk and into the house. After a moment, Frank smiled too, shaking his head as he bent to pick up his paintbrush from where it had fallen on the grass.

"I s'pose I did deserve that," he admitted quietly to himself, plucking several blades of grass from the brush. Dipping the brush into the paint, he applied another thick layer to the wall and- regarding the results- hoped that they wouldn't need to apply a second coat after the first had dried. He didn't relish the thought of getting spattered all over again in a day or so!

***

It was while the Hardy boys were eating lunch- having cleaned up both their paint equipment and themselves- that a vehicle pulled up outside the house and tooted its horn. "That might be Chet," Joe remarked, getting up from the table and going to peer out the big bay window in the living room. "But it isn't!" he exclaimed a moment later. "It's Aunt Gertrude!"

"Again?" Frank mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. "She was just here two weeks ago."

Gertrude Hardy, matriarch of the Hardy family, was constantly on the move despite her advancing age. She made the rounds of the far-flung Hardy relations, checked in on her friends, and could be counted on to arrive- or depart- with little or no warning. She normally stayed several weeks in each home before moving on to the next, which meant that once she had departed, it was usually two or three months before she returned.

Why exactly she felt the need to travel from home to home was the subject of much speculation among her family; Joe tended to agree with his brother's half-in-earnest joke that, like a general, Gertrude was reviewing her 'troops' to make sure no one slipped too far out of line. Aunt G, as they often called her, claimed to have very definite ideas about how to 'properly' run a household and made clear to the occupants exactly what they were doing right- and wrong. The fact that she only talked about it and never made any attempts to enforce her 'rules' was one of the many indications of her true, good-hearted nature. The boys were fond of her, for she was both shrewd and amusing, and though she claimed not to approve of their fascination with mysteries, she had staunchly defended their sleuthing abilities on more than a few occasions.

"You run up and tell Mom; I'll help her with her stuff," Joe offered, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. Frank nodded and stood quickly, sandwich still in hand, and hurried up the stairs to find their mother. Joe opened the front door and trotted down the walk to the street, where the cab-driver was hauling Gertrude's luggage out of the trunk. "Hullo, Auntie," he said as he reached the curb. "We weren't expecting to see you back so soon- is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing's the matter, unless you call cousin Violet going off on a month-long vacation without informing me to be a bit of a matter," the woman replied briskly. "Costing me a train ticket is nothing to her, I suppose, but she ought to have let me know. I was quite alarmed when I arrived and found the house locked up, called your father at once- of course she'd told him what she was doing!" Gertrude sniffed. "Made me look a complete fool and threw me off terribly. I didn't need a scare like that, and you may be sure she'll find a bug in her ear about it when she gets back. Careful with that bag. Where is your mother? Is Fenton off on another of those dangerous jobs of his? Have you been swimming, Joseph? Your hair's wet- don't tell me you just got up, not at eleven-thirty in the morning! 'Early to bed-' "

"Frank's getting Mom, Dad's checking in at the office, and no, I took a shower because we were out painting the house at about ten o'clock," Joe replied in one breath, finally getting a word in edgewise. "And if it's any help," he added more slowly, "I had no idea that cousin Violet was taking a vacation- Dad didn't tell us either, but he just got back this morning." Then he frowned; surely Gertrude couldn't have made that good of time getting here!

"Back?" the lady repeated sharply, but the taxi driver spoke up before Joe could amplify, stating the fare in a polite but firm voice. Gertrude fumbled in her purse for a few moments, paid the fare, tipped the man, and gestured impatiently at Joe to begin carrying the luggage inside. To her credit- as always- she insisted on carrying several pieces herself. They were met at the door by Mom and Frank; Frank went to collect the last few bags, while Laura helped her sister-in-law 'settle in'.

It was nearly another hour before all the ruckus quieted down and everyone had a chance to get explanations clear. It turned out that Gertrude had spoken to Fenton the day before he left on his last case, but she had remained in cousin Violet's town for the remainder of the week- ostensibly because the train schedule was so inconvenient and the ticket prices were so exorbitant. No one challenged her on that, though Frank and Joe exchanged a glance and a daring wink. Everyone in the Hardy family knew that one of Gertrude's old suitors lived fairly close to Violet.

The rest of the day passed in the usual chaotic manner of Gertrude's first days 'home', as she always called her brother's house. It often took three or four days for the settling-in to be complete and everyone to adjust. The boys, finding themselves more in the way than anything else, slipped out and went down to the beach to meet some of their friends for a swim. They returned home as dusk was approaching, and were greeted by a kitchen full of delicious odors and a brisk, "Go get cleaned up for supper," from their aunt. The teens both hastened to obey; Gertrude's meals were well worth hurrying for.

"I wonder," Joe mused quietly, pausing outside his brother's door before going to his own room, "if she'll still be doing this 'drop in whenever' business when we have our own homes."

"Entirely possible," Frank predicted. "As long as she's still cooking the same way, I won't mind."

Joe grinned. "I used to wonder why Mom put up with her showing up all the time and talking about how things 'ought' to be," he confided in a whisper. "It took a while before I noticed that nothing really changes- it's all just talk. And I bet Mom likes the break from cooking."

"And the help cleaning, too," his brother agreed softly. The sound of a car door closing outside made them both glance down the hall at the staircase. "Hurry up, Joe- you'll get a patented Auntie-scolding if you're not ready when she calls us for dinner."

"The horror!" Joe made an exaggerated show of alarm, grinned as Frank stifled a laugh, and hurried down the hall. He heard the front door open and Dad's voice speaking to Mom. A moment later came the sound of Gertrude's voice and the teen smiled as he closed the door to his room. Dad would be surprised, but he always took his sister's visits in stride.

As Joe pulled on clean clothes and reached for his hairbrush, he wondered again about the age difference between his father and aunt. Gertrude had never been coaxed into admitting her age, but some quiet checking around had revealed her birth-date. She would turn sixty-seven this year, even though she looked- and behaved- more like someone in her fifties. Dad was only forty-three; Gertrude had still been living at home when her much-younger brother was born, and from hints Dad had dropped, she had been his primary caretaker. Joe understood that; Grandmother Hardy had died when Dad was two and Grandpa had had to work, which explained why Auntie 'mothered' Dad so much. But such an age gap was unusual and Joe wondered what had caused it. He never quite dared to inquire while she was there, and never remembered to ask Dad when Gertrude was away.

Joe shook off his thoughts, finished making himself 'presentable' and went back downstairs. Mom and Dad were sitting on the living-room sofa, talking, and Auntie was still bustling around in the kitchen. Frank appeared a few minutes later, and the boys filled their parents in on the events of their day. "Sounds like you enjoyed yourselves," Mom was saying, when a pointed throat-clearing sounded from the kitchen.

"I'm almost ready to serve dinner, but I can't do it until there's something at the table to put everything on. Unless you've all taken to eating with your fingers, like the savages?" Gertrude inquired from the kitchen doorway.

"I believe that's your cue, guys," Dad remarked with a wink.

"We tried it, Auntie, but everything kept dripping on the floor," Joe explained, deadpan, as he rose from his seat on the carpet. "The milk, particularly. Stunk the place up pretty badly, too."

"And it brought a bunch of ants," Frank added mournfully, and then they both laughed at the expression on Gertrude's face.

"The two of you," she snorted, trying to hide her own smile and pretending to threaten them with the wooden spoon in her hand. Joe smiled as he entered the kitchen; as usual, Gertrude had set out the plates and glasses and piled the silverware and napkins on the top plate. She'd even gotten the pepper, salt, butter and milk from the refrigerator. All they had to do was carry everything out and set it around. The teens obligingly did so and soon the family was enjoying a delicious Irish stew.

After dinner came the other side of dish duty, the cleanup, and everyone pitched in for that. It was followed by dessert in the living room while the dishwasher ran, with one of the spinoff 'Trading Spaces' shows flickering across the television screen. This one was 'Trading Castles' and the boys watched with a fair bit of interest. "I wouldn't mind living in a castle," Joe mentioned after a while.

"I dunno. They look neat, but keeping 'em maintained...and imagine the heating bills!" Frank pointed out. "And then you've got the entire estate to mow-"

"That's what the gardeners are for!"

"Hmmm." Frank didn't sound convinced. "And how would you pay them?"

"Oh, I'm sure there'd be a trust fund or two laying around..."

"Ah, so it's a castle in the air!" Frank offered, and laughed when Joe slugged him in the arm.

"Puns are my territory, not yours."

"If you two are feeling rambunctious, you might want to go upstairs," their father suggested tactfully, smiling. "Or downstairs, for that matter." By which, Joe thought ruefully, Dad meant that the adults were trying to watch the show, not listen to the two of them. And once the show was over, Gertrude would doubtless start in on her most recent travelogue.

"Upstairs is good," he agreed, getting to his feet. He paused long enough to watch the castle owner react to the changes with a fairly typical stream of delighted exclamations, then headed up the stairs and sat down on the floor by his bed. A few minutes later, Frank came in.

"I took your plate out," the dark-haired boy said half-scoldingly, referring to the cake plate that had held Joe's helping of dessert.

"Oh! I forgot about that. Thanks, bro."

"You're welcome." Frank gave him a curious look. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Because I left my towel on the bed and it made the covers damp," the younger boy explained ruefully. "I'm hoping it'll dry before I have to go to bed."

"Ah." Frank sat down beside him, shifting a pair of discarded jeans out of the way first. A comfortable silence fell as the teens listened to the faint sound of voices drifting up from downstairs. "She's off."

"She sure is." Joe smiled. "Why d'you think I left in such a hurry?" Then he paused, realizing how unkind that sounded. "I didn't mean it like that. I do like her and it's really kind of interesting, but she just skips around so much..."

"I know. It's almost impossible to keep track of what happened when and where, with her jumping from one thing to another."

"Exactly." Joe leaned back against his bedframe with a sigh.

"Tired?"

"A little. Swimming..."

"You need to straighten up in here," Frank remarked idly, and something bounced gently off Joe's chest and fell into his lap. He looked down to see one of his short-sleeved shirts draped over one knee.

"Yeah, she'll be after me if I don't."

"Sorry about this morning," his brother said suddenly, and Joe looked over in surprise, tossing the shirt in the direction of his hamper.

"Huh?"

"When I said- about you not thinking. It was a rude thing to say, and- and I hoped you don't think I meant it."

"Oh, fah." Joe waved his hand, though he was inwardly pleased. "I know you were kidding- and I got you back, so we're even."

"Still." Frank met his gaze and there was sincere penitence in the dark-brown eyes. "I shouldn't've said it."

Joe smiled and saw his brother's shoulders relax infinitesimally. "S'okay," he answered easily. "And I was thinking something else, earlier...remember we were wondering about Phil being behind all this stuff?"

"Changed your mind?"

"Yeah, the more I think about it, the less it seems like something he'd do," Joe replied slowly, trying to put his feeling into words. "Number one, leaving it up to someone else to do it; number two, going to such extremes; and number three, being so...juvenile. Phil's a perfectionist, so he'd come back and do the job himself, to make sure it didn't get messed up. And he's our friend, so it's very unlikely he'd do real property damage like this. If he was that mad at us, he'd tell us. He wouldn't sneak around this way."

Frank was quiet for a moment, his expression turning distant. "I dunno about the sneaking around part; he did have his share in the practical jokes," he pointed out.

"Helping Chet, yes, but that was for fun, not for spite. Phil never gets mad much, but when he does, he makes sure you know it," Joe reminded him.

"Well, true." Frank shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged. "So, got a new idea for a suspect?"

"His mother."

"Lydia?" Frank's eyebrows went up. "Isn't that a little- well- out of character for her, bro?"

"Oh, well, you tell me what her character is and I'll tell you if she's out of it," the blond boy snorted. "She's exactly the sort who would hire someone to do her dirty work, she threatened us before Dad left, she already made two very nasty phone calls and would probably have made more if Mom hadn't had her blocked- in fact, she might be stooping to pranks because she can't make threatening phone calls." The blond boy paused for a breath.

"And she does have that untouchable reputation," Frank mused, nodding. "We point to her, we better have overwhelming evidence, bro."

"I can just hear it now," Joe muttered. "'What, that lovely Ms Cohen? She's such a lady, so refined and genteel- she couldn't possibly be capable of anything so- so common and undesirable!'" he declaimed in his best 'high society' voice.

"Something like that," Frank agreed with a chuckle. Then he sobered. "Too bad we didn't get a recording of her while she was pounding the computer into molecules."

"Yes; and unfortunately, Dad's word isn't enough to-" Joe was beginning, when a terrific crash of shattering glass and a sudden female scream cut him off.

***

"Auntie!" Frank scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairs, hardly aware of his brother charging along behind him. The stairs shook under his feet as he pounded down, two at a time. He hardly registered the living room as he reached the bottom, but the sight of the three standing figures brought him to a sudden, rather confused halt. "What's happening? Auntie?"

"Come away from the window and sit down," Dad was saying in a tense voice. Mom was saying something as well, something about letting her see it; Gertrude, oddly, was silent. Frank caught a glimpse of her face as Mom moved, and frowned. He'd never seen his aunt so pale and wide-eyed, and she was clutching her left arm with her right hand.

"The window- Auntie, you're hurt!" Joe cried suddenly, brushing past Frank and hurrying towards the adults. Something cracked under his sneakers and Frank became aware that the bay window was a gaping, empty hole surrounded by knife-edged shards. There was glass scattered all over the windowsill, the carpet, the armchair- even the sofa glittered with fragments.

"Get away from the window!" Dad was losing his patience. "You're making a perfect target, standing here like this! Joe, help me-"

"Mom, come on! Whoever broke the window might be aiming something else at you right now!" Joe sounded more exasperated than scared, in direct contrast to the look that flashed across their mother's face. She stepped back, and for the first time Frank saw what his brother had already seen; the blood running from under Gertrude's hand, clenched around her upper arm. Her blouse-sleeve was getting soaked-

Frank turned and ran into the kitchen, snatched up the nearest clean dish-towel, and ran back to the living room, feeling his stomach churn. He nearly collided with his mother in the doorway and shoved the towel into her hands with a quick, "Here! I'll call an ambulance, and the police." The dishwasher was still running; as he pulled the phone from the cradle, Frank shut off the machine, the gush-sploosh dying into silence. "Yes- this is the Hardy residence. We need an ambulance for my aunt, she's been cut badly on her arm by flying glass," he told the mercifully-swift operator who answered the line.

"We'll have it there within ten minutes," the woman replied, her calm voice helping Frank get a grip on his own ragged nerves. Getting hurt himself was one thing; seeing his aunt cut and bleeding was another thing entirely and the eighteen-year-old, not normally squeamish, felt his knees shaking with reaction. He made himself dial police headquarters despite the trembling of his fingers, spoke to the desk sergeant, who promised to have a squad car there within minutes, and finally hung up. As he turned to go out of the kitchen, he unexpectedly came face to face with his father and started violently.

"Easy, son." Dad's face was pale and tight with tension, but his voice was calm.

"The ambulance'll be here in a couple minutes, and the police are on their way, too," Frank told him quickly. "Dad, what- what broke the window?"

"A rock the size of my two fists," the detective said briefly, opening the freezer and pulling out ice cubes. "Get me a plastic sandwich bag, please." Frank obeyed, wondering. "Cold helps slow bleeding," his father explained, dropping a double-handful of ice into the freezer-bag. "Would you get your aunt some water? She's feeling a little shocky."

'So am I,' Frank thought as he pulled down a mug- not a glass!- and filled it with cold water. Following his father out of the kitchen, he paused at the sight of Mom and Gertrude sitting on the bottom step. Dad knelt and pressed the ice-bag against his sister's arm; Gertrude winced, but didn't protest. Frank hurried over with the water and gave the mug to Mom, who helped Gertrude drink from it. Frank glanced around for his brother and saw Joe standing near the front door, staring out the shattered window. Frank crossed the room, feeling warm night air drifting in through the gaping hole, and paused when he reached Joe's side, careful to stay out of the line of sight. "See anything?" he asked quietly, frowning at the large, muddy rock that was sitting on the carpet near the sofa.

Joe shook his head, then turned to look at the little group of adults by the stairs. "Dad, do you want us to stay here and board up the window, or go along?" he asked.

"I want you two to drive your mother over, she's got some cuts as well. I'll stay here, talk to the police and take care of the window," Dad answered, not looking over. "They’ll probably have you stay overnight, Gert," he added to the older woman. "You're going to need some stitches, and they'll want to keep an eye on you, in case of infection."

Gertrude simply nodded, sighing.

"The pranksters," Joe murmured, his brows pulling down in as scowl. "Escalating again."

Frank nodded agreement. Whoever was responsible hadn't cared if they hurt someone or not, so long as they inflicted damage. How long would it be before they shifted to deliberately trying to harm the family? "We need to take steps," he murmured, and then broke off at the sound of an approaching siren. "The ambulance is almost here," he told his parents. "I hear it coming."

"Good."

The next half hour was a confusion of activity. The ambulance arrived; two technicians examined Gertrude, bandaged her arm and helped her down to the street. As soon as they were gone, Fenton repeated that Laura should be taken in and checked out, and to the boys' surprise, their mother didn't protest. As Frank was backing the car out of the driveway, the police car pulled up, and he saw Dad hurry out to speak to the officers. He noticed that a few neighbors had come out on their porches to see what was going on, and hoped no one got the urge to call the news people this time. Then, shrugging off the thought, he concentrated on the too-familiar drive to Bayport General Hospital. When he reached the imposing brick building, he let Joe and Mom off at the entrance and went to find a place to park the car. His suspicion that it was a slow night was born out when he reached the waiting room ten minutes later: not only had he found plenty of nearby parking for a change, Joe was sitting by himself, looking rather pensive. "They took her back already?" the dark-haired boy asked in surprise, dropping into the next chair.

"Yeah. She didn't even finish filling out the forms."

"And Auntie?"

"No word yet."

That was not unusual, and Frank sighed in resignation. "I didn't even know Mom was cut," he admitted after a moment.

"Neither did I, but she said it wasn't serious- she's just humoring Dad. Aunt G's the one who got the worst of it. I think Mom got a couple shards in her leg, she was limping just a little."

"Oh,&quo