A month into the investigation, Frank happened to overhear Chief Collig talking with a few other detectives, sharing his opinion that, after so long without a hint, it was almost certain that his younger brother was dead. He said that the Hardy family, especially Frank, was deep in denial.

Frank resisted the urge to tear open the door and scream at them. Instead, he calmly walked out of the police station, slipped into his car, and then slammed his fist into the dashboard hard enough to leave a dent.

He wouldn't call it denial. He wasn't hoping or praying that Joe was alive. He knew that he was. It wasn't wishful thinking; it was a reasonable assumption from the available data. Joe had to be alive.

Frank knew him. They'd shared a room until they were twelve. They stayed by each other's hospital beds. They'd each had their first kiss within seconds of each other with the same girl (their cousin, Briana Gaffney, now living in Vancouver with her wife, an inauspicious and deeply creepy start to both of their love lives). Frank had laid with him on the floor of their living room, an arm wrapped over Joe's back, trying to protect him from the bullets smashing through their front window when a dissatisfied former client of their father's came looking for payback..

He knew Joe. He knew Joe wouldn't let himself die this way.

It took three days after Joe didn't come home for them to find the car. It was Aunt Trudy's old lemon. Frank was using their car to do surveillance. After all, it was only supposed to be quick run over to the next town to pick up some records Dad needed for the case. Should have taken two hours, tops.

There was a lot of blood in the car, covering the front seat. Whoever the blood belonged to had to be seriously injured. Frank was operating on the assumption that it was Joe's blood, even before they matched it to a DNA sample from his toothbrush three weeks later.

The F.B.I. was called in. All of Bayport mobilized. Frank hated the "have you seen me" posters with Joe's picture on them, even as he helped to paper the city with them. He and Dad, along with the rest of the official police department, scoured the area from Passaic to Nassau. Frank found every cranny and crevice in Barmet Bay, hunting for anywhere the kidnappers would've squirreled themselves away.

Because Joe wasn't dead.

After that Frank drove around for a while, fuming at that incompetent jackass Collig. Normally, the Chief couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight, now he thought that he could just run off and decide when the search for Joe became a wild goose chase. That smug son of a bitch-

He took a turn too quickly and skidded, scraping the length of the car along the guardrail. As soon as he had control of the car, he pulled over to the shoulder.

"Dammit!" he screamed in frustration. He felt like a child, lost and helpless. As hard as he tried, nothing was bringing him any closer to his brother. If he stopped thinking, theorizing, searching, he had to consider the possibility of being without Joe for the rest of his life. He could stand about five seconds of that thought, before he wanted to slam on the gas, head off the cliff, and make it go away.

That wasn't going to help Joe. Frank ground his teeth and breathed deeply until he had a hold of himself. Then, he started off again.

He drove to the Old Tower on the far side of the Bay. The site at the center of their first real case still held a bit of a sentimental lure to them. He and Joe used to drive out to the tower when they needed somewhere quiet to be alone and go over a case, study, or just talk.

Frank parked between a large tree and a crumbling stone wall. He crawled into the backseat, grabbed a half-used legal pad, and started scribbling. First, he rewrote the list of people who he knew had a reason to hurt Joe, separated into probables, possibles, and unlikelies. Then, he started adding notes, cross-referencing their known locations and movements with the circumstances of Joe's disappearance.

All of this was information he already knew. Frank tried to tell himself that this repetition might lead him to fresh ideas, but it was obvious that he was just trying to keep himself busy.

He couldn't let himself think about what Collig had said. If he let himself believe for one second that his brother was gone, he had no reason to keep going himself.

That wasn't a good thing. Maybe, he would deal with that after he had Joe back. First, though, they needed to find the son of a bitch who had taken him.

Because Joe wasn't dead.

Five weeks in, Frank lost control and slammed his fist into the wall. He supposed he was lucky that he was in the shower. He would have punched a hole in plaster otherwise. Instead, he stood under the stream of water, shivering, breathing heavily, feeling pain radiate from his hand.

Idiot. That was supposed to be Joe's job: getting out of control when the situation called for it, while Frank stayed cool and collected. That was how it worked. That was what they were used to. Now, Joe was gone and Frank was falling apart.

He needed his brother. He needed his brother right that instant. He needed to fold Joe into his arms and hold him until he was sure that he was never going away again.

He promised himself that when-when-they found Joe, he was going to handcuff himself to him so that they would never be taken away from each other.

His hand ached. He slumped to the ground, gingerly holding his knees to his chest.

There were no solid leads. They'd found no evidence of anyone with a grudge against the Hardys coming back to Bayport. Frank had gone as far as dredging up Dad's old cases from his time with the NYPD. He found a lot of ex-cons still cursing the name Fenton Hardy, but no one who had gone so far as grabbing his sixteen-year-old son to make a point.

A few of the suspects had alibis, but for most of them, there was no evidence to completely clear them. There just wasn't anything for Dad and Frank to go on.

Nothing, nothing, filing cabinets and folder and cardboard boxes full of goddamn nothing. Any one of them could lead Frank to his brother. Or none of them.

He got out of the shower, dried himself as well as he could with one hand, and then got dressed. Mom was holed up in her room and Aunt Trudy was out manning the useless phone bank she had set up for tips, while Dad was in New York for the day, so he didn't have to worry about slipping past them to the car. He drove to the emergency room to have his broken fingers set.

After checking in, he sat waiting next to a bored little boy with gauze taped to a bleeding cut on his forehead. The boy had blond hair and blue eyes, and Frank couldn't help but think about Joe at the same age, charming and brave and reckless, with the cuts and scrapes to prove it.

He tried desperately, but couldn't stop himself from thinking about how injured Joe might be at this moment. How hurt he could be, with no one there to help him.

Frank pressed on his broken index finger with his thumb. The sharp burst of pain was a welcome distraction.

Joe was alive. At least, if nothing else, he was alive. And that meant there was a chance.

Frank started sleeping in Joe's bed. He couldn't stand being up in his own room, just thinking about how alone he was. And, for whatever reason, it was comforting to be surrounded by Joe's things, his books and schoolwork and even his blankets and pillows that still smelled like him.

That was weird of him to think about. Weird didn't matter much anymore, though. Nothing else mattered until Joe was back.

Joe had been gone nearly six weeks, when they finally found a lead. Tire treads. There had been a tangle of them on the back road where they found Aunt Gertrude's car. Frank and Dad had been tracking major crimes in the area surrounding Bayport, and they finally had a possible match with a hit-and-run in Edison. Local police investigating that crime had already discovered a tentative link to a bank robbery in Trenton. A bank Fenton had consulted with on their security.

Frank and Joe hadn't been involved in that case at all. It had nothing to do with Joe, but he was the one paying for it.

One of the suspects had been identified by fingerprints left at the bank. A small time Newark crook named Stanley Munis. The police were trying to work backwards from Munis to find some known associates who fit the other four accomplices caught on security cameras, three in the bank and one getaway driver. Munis was a loner, unemployed, lived alone, no known associates: a human dead end.

Of course the Hardys were running their own parallel investigation. If there was one thing Dad had taught him, it was to never trust the police. Never trust anything that you couldn't confirm by your own wits. Definitely never trust anyone but family.

Dad was in Newark, following the trail. Frank was left with the paperwork. He made a nest out of arrest records and caps from the security footage.

Why would a bunch of bank robbers want to snatch Joe? Frank filled up notebooks with theories and scenarios. Maybe they'd wanted to use him as a way to extort information from Dad, and then the plan had changed. Maybe they were holding onto him in case they got cornered and needed a hostage. Maybe they were deep enough into the underground that one of them could find someone who would buy Joe. Maybe they'd dumped Joe somewhere far away and hard to get out of.

Joe wasn't dead. Frank knew that beyond a shred of doubt. He couldn't be alive in a world where Joe wasn't there. The idea was too strange and illogical to even be considered. Like a ball rolling uphill, or 2 and 2 making 7.

Joe couldn't be dead.

Frank was convinced he'd figured out at least one more of the gang. Devan Brand, a registered sex offender living in a small town, just east of Newark. He and Munis had both served time concurrently at New Jersey State Prison, Munis for armed robbery, Brand for aggravated criminal sexual contact and sexual assault.

A twelve-year-old girl. Joe was okay. Even if these were the men that had grabbed him, he wasn't…

Frank wouldn't think about that. Joe was alive. That was what mattered.

Brand had suffered a broken hip as a result of a prison beating. Frank had extensively studied similar injuries and felt certain that the man on the surveillance tape with a distinctive limp was Brand.

Of course, the certainty of a seventeen-year-old boy didn't hold much weight with the police. Even if Collig was willing to give him some rope, he had virtually no influence in an investigation involving three counties, never mind the federal authorities. Collig was the only one who even agreed with them that Joe's disappearance was linked to the other crimes.

It wasn't strange for the Hardys to be on their own in an investigation. But this time Frank was alone. Joe was gone. Mom didn't leave her room much. She would spend all of her time either sleeping or crying if Aunt Trudy didn't do her best to distract her with the everyday business of keeping up the house. Dad was investigating the robbery, but even he wasn't convinced. It was a widely travelled road, he said, there were a lot of banks he'd consulted with, the match on the tires was only probable, not definitive.

Frank wanted to scream at him, somehow make him realize what he was missing. He asked to go with him out to Hamilton, to look up on Brand in the hopes that he would be a better source of leads than Munis. Dad didn't hesitate before telling him no. Weeks of exhaustion and stress needed only that one spark to explode. The shouting match lasted nearly an hour.

"Your brother could be in danger, I can't have you go risking your life too!"

"If Joe's in danger, it doesn't matter!"

"It does matter, damn it, Frank! You're my son-"

"So is Joe!"

"I won't lose both of my children!"

"You haven't lost Joe!' The scream tore up his throat and left him shuddering. "Joe is alive and I'm going to bring him back whether you help me or not!"

"Frank, you might have to accept-"

Frank stomped to Joe's room and slammed the door behind him. He wasn't accepting anything. Not ever. Joe was alive, and Frank was going to save him.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and shoved all of the necessary papers into his backpack. Records from a previous arrest for drug possession indicated that Brand lived mother in Linden.

That house was only a block from a school, so he wouldn't have been allowed to live there after his most recent conviction. But, it would be fairly easy for him to spend most of his time at there and still make all of his parole meetings in the small town. Linden also was also under an hour's drive from Bayport. Maybe Brand, Munis, and the others went from Newark to Linden, then started to run south. Maybe that was when they grabbed Joe. Maybe for a hostage. Maybe…

He didn't have enough information to start speculating. At least he had one lead, one thin, little thread that he could follow to his brother.

He slipped out of the room and down the stairs. He left the pre-written note on the kitchen table where he was sure that everyone would see it. On the note, he promised to call in twenty-four hours to assure them that he was safe, but also made clear that he wouldn't be coming home until he was carrying Joe with him. Then, he walked outside, backpack over his shoulder, to his bicycle. He rode to the Morton farm, where Chet had already agreed to drive him to Linden.

"You're gonna be back soon, right?" he asked as they both sat in the battered truck.

Frank nodded, not making eye contact with his friend. "Yeah. As soon as I know something."

"Just, you know, stay safe, okay?"

"Yeah." He tugged at some loose threads on his backpack and concentrated on not wondering whether or not he would ever see Chet again.

Frank held his breath and hit the doorbell a third time. He waited, counting off the seconds as he bit down hard on his tongue.

Finally, the door opened, though the screen stayed shut. A nearly-bald old woman in a denim jumper stared him down.

"What is it?" she said in a harsh voice.

"Mrs. Brand," he began, selecting every word with care. "My name is Frank Hardy."

"Are you selling something?"

"No, ma'am. It's, uh, regarding your son, Devan."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice rising several octaves. "You have no right to harass my son like this! They promised this wouldn't happen!"

"Mrs. Brand, you don't understand-"

"I understand exactly, you think you have some right to harass my son because of one mistake. It's bad enough they have to track down where he lives and works and every little thing he does, waiting for him to trip up once, so they can throw him back in jail. You're probably with one of those groups. Why can't you just leave him alone!

"Ma'am, you're wrong," Frank interrupted forcefully. He wasn't going to let her turn him away. If she tried to slam the door in his face he would stop her. He was getting closer to Joe and now every second that he wasted weighed a ton. Nothing else mattered now, except for finding Joe alive.

"I don't care what your son has done. I'm interested in his friend, Stanley Munis. I think he's pulled Devan into something way out of his league and he's probably going out of his mind right now."

Mrs. Brand's voice was high and strained. "What do you care about my son?"

"Munis did something to my brother. He grabbed him and he could be… he could be really hurt right now. I just want to find him. I know your son wasn't the brains behind this, I don't care about catching him. Look at me, I'm not a cop. I'm seventeen, for God's sake, I just want my brother back." His voice was cracking, but he didn't care. "He's the most important thing in the world to me, and I need him back as much as I know you need your son."

For a moment, she just stared at him, her beady eyes filling up with tears. Frank felt utterly powerless. There could be one word behind that woman's teeth that was all that stood between him and Joe, but he just couldn't get at it. He imagined Joe somewhere alone and afraid in the dark, freezing or bleeding or starving more and more with each passing second.

"How old is he?" she asked finally.

"Sixteen," Frank answered, his mouth dry.

Mrs. Brand ran a trembling hand through her thin hair. "Dear God, please forgive me. I know that man, Munis. Dev met him in jail. He was at his house one time I came to visit. This huge, violent thug, I knew he was going to get my boy into trouble, but Devan wouldn't listen. What did he do?"

"He robbed a bank."

"Oh Lord," she said, voice choked.

"Please, Mrs. Brand, I am begging you. If you have any idea where they might have gone, where they might have taken my brother . I swear, no one will know you told me. I just want my brother back, please."

Tears were already trickling down her wrinkled face, as she whispered. Frank had to strain to hear her clearly.

"The quarry."

Frank stumbled and barely caught himself before he went skidding down the rocky incline. He'd followed Mrs. Brand's directions to the abandoned rock quarry where Devan had habitually hidden as a child. According to her, the quarry was dotted with small natural caves, virtually impossible to search fully. It was the perfect place for Munis and Brand to hide out from the police, and to stash Joe.

The only road that he could find into the quarry was closed off, so he had to hide the bike and continue on foot. By then, it was growing dark. The cold bit at him, even through the heavy jacket, and he struggled to hold the flashlight straight.

The one corner of his brain that still remained rational told him that he was acting like an idiot. He knew that there was nothing he could expect to do here by himself. He didn't even know that Joe was here.

Stop it. Stop. He had to be at least close. He couldn't give up on his brother. If he gave up hope of finding Joe, there was no reason for him not to take that extra step and throw himself down onto the rocks.

Stop.

He peered through the mist formed by his breath, as he picked his way carefully down the wall of loose rock and gravel. He planned to start at the bottom of the quarry and spiral his way up, checking for any sign of recent visitors. He knew it would take hours, maybe a whole day. Probably, Dad would track him down before he could finish, drag him back, and lock him in his room. Maybe this would be grounds enough for temporary institutionalization. Obsessive, delusional, paranoid, self-destructive.

His hand was bleeding from where he'd sliced it open on a rock. He wiped it on his jeans and then ignored it.

One time, on one of their first cases alone, Joe had fallen through a rotten wooden staircase and gotten a bad gash on his side. Frank wanted to call Dad, but Joe talked him out of it. Dad would never let them work on a case again if one of them got that badly injured.

"C'mon, Frank," he'd said, smiling even as his blood soaked through Frank's sweatshirt pressed to the wound. "We're the Hardy Boys, remember? Not just Fenton Hardy's sons. You and me, all on our own, right?"

Frank relented and drove him to a hospital out of town to get stitches. They were lucky that the scar healed up nicely, so they never had to tell Dad what happened. They solved that case. Dad was so proud of them, and Frank felt like he was going to burst from happiness. He had never been so grateful for his brother, been more aware of how lucky he was to have his best friend beside him.

He had spent his life hungry fro his father's approval, but he would throw that aside in a second to keep Joe by his side.

The faint rumble of an engine stopped him in his tracks. He spun around towards the source of the sound. A second later, he remembered to turn off his flashlight. The car emerged from behind a small copse of trees and down a path into the quarry. '92 Toyota Corolla. The same car that had been seen at the robbery, whose treads were at the scene of Joe's kidnaping. Frank dropped to his stomach, doing his best to blend into the rocks.

There must have been some hidden road Frank had missed. The car curved around, hugging the far side of the quarry.

As he watched, the car came to a halt. He could barely make out what was happening. Two men exited, one with blonde hair sticking up in all directions, the other with dark hair. Frank could detect a slight limp as he walked around the car. That had to be Brand, which made the other Munis. The two of them moved behind the car and disappeared into the shadows.

Frank bit down on his tongue. These men were his only link to Joe. He couldn't let them get away.

He tucked the flashlight into his belt, then found the nearest, walkable way across the quarry. Speed and silence were important; he could sacrifice safety, cutting his hands on rocks as he half-ran, half-slid towards the car.

When he thought he was within earshot of them, he dropped to his stomach and crept forward into the shadow of the car. He could hear two voices talking indistinctly, but couldn't determine where they came from. He struggled not to even breathe, and slithered up to the tire.

More than anything, he needed to keep them from running away. He reached under him to pull out his pocket knife. These weren't the first tires he'd ever slashed. He knew how do it without making much noise. He took out the two that he could reach, more than enough to disable the car on the narrow, treacherous roads. Then, he had to bank on his assumption that the two of them were reckless or stupid enough to help him when he needed it.

He rose up onto his knees then, slowly eased on the handle. It opened with a click and Frank's heart jumped into his throat. He opened the door mililimeter by millimeter. As soon as there was space enough, he pulled himself up half into the car.

Through the driver's side window, he could see Brand and Munis standing a few yards away from the car, walking along the quarry wall, as if they were looking for something. Frank scanned the interior, and he didn't have long to look. A pump-action shotgun lay across the front seat. He didn't know whether or not to be more grateful or angry that the men who had hurt his brother were complete idiots.

The safety was already off. Frank clicked it on, before checking the magazine. With one round in the chamber, it looked fully loaded. At least there was enough for him to make his point.

He didn't waste much time and effort on stealth as he left the car, carrying the gun. Brand and Munis still didn't notice him. Brand was leaning against the wall, looking like he was busy pulling down his pants to take a leak.

Frank aimed the gun. He clicked off the safety. "Turn around, hands up, don't try anything," he ordered.

Brand and Munis both spun around, their faces stunned, Brand's belt undone. Munis took an immediate, aggressive step forward.

Frank trained the gun squarely on his head. "Don't move. I swear, I will kill you, if you try anything. Tell me, right now, where is my brother?"

"Who the hell are you?" Brand screamed.

"My name is Frank Hardy. I know that you took my brother Joe. Now tell me where he is!" He was trying to stay calm and intimidating, but on that his voice jumped up. Frank had never seen anyone look at him with as much fear as Brand and Munis did.

"Listen, I don't know what you're talking about, buddy," Munis said. "Let's just all be calm, we can figures this out." He took another step.

"Stop! Don't lie to me. I know that you grabbed Joe Hardy in Bayport. I need you to tell me where he is right now."

"Jesus, Stan," Brand said in a quavering voice.

"Shut up, Dev. Okay, Frank, Frank, I think I know what you're talking about. There was this kid, up near the coast. We winged him standing outside his car. He looked okay, maybe he got lost somewhere or ran into trouble with someone else. I can't help you."

Frank moved the barrel and pulled on the trigger. The bullet pulverized the rock about a yard above the men's heads. They both flinched and Brand let out a yell of surprise. Frank ground his teeth. He didn't want to admit to himself that firing that bullet made him feel better than he had in weeks.

"I know you took Joe!" Frank shouted. "Tell me where you put him, now!"

"I swear we didn't hurt him!" Brand squeaked. "I swear, I swear!"

"Dev, shut up!" Munis screamed. "We can't tell you anything until you put that gun down."

Frank realized he wasn't getting anything out of them at this rate. He jerked the barrel of the shotgun towards the car. "Get in the trunk."

"What?"

"Get in the goddamn trunk." He aimed at Munis. "Now."

Munis licked his lips, as his eyes darted back and forth.

Frank chambered another round. "I know that you hurt my brother. There's nothing that would make me happier right now than shooting you. Don't give me an excuse.

Munis narrowed blue eyes stayed locked on his as he and Brand made their way to the car, Frank staying only a few paces behind.

"Open it," he ordered, once they reached the trunk. "Then drop your keys on the ground." Munis obeyed. "Now get in. I'm sure there'll be enough space for both of you, if you try hard enough."

Munis gave him one last glare, then, when Frank didn't respond, hefted himself up into his own trunk, and started curling into as small a ball as possible.

"My lawyer's gonna fucking tear you apart," he rambled. "You stupid son of a bitch, this whole goddamn family…"

"Shut up." He turned the gun to Brand. "You too."

"Listen, we didn't meane to hurt him, I swear. We just wanted, we just needed some insurance."

"Devan!" Brand shouted.

"Tell me where he is."

"You pervert piece of shit, don't you dare!"

"Just up that cavern right there. I didn't want to hurt him."

"Dev!"

"It's over, Stan. There's no way we're getting out of this. I can't go to jail again for murdering a kid!"

"Get in the trunk, Frank repeated. He struggled to keep his hands from shaking now. Joe was alive, Joe was alive, Joe was alive. He was close and soon Frank was going to be able to hold him again, and he was alive.

Brand scrambled to comply, jamming elbows and knees into Munis as he struggled to fit. Munis had just opened his mouth to scream again, when Frank slammed the trunk closed.

He didn't stay to listen to the muffled curses and banging, before he started towards the hole in the rock indicated by Brand. The mouth of the cave was a tight fit, but it immediately became more spacious within. Frank turned on the safety and leaned the shotgun against the wall. He replaced it in his hand with the flashlight. Even that didn't do much to illuminate more than a few feet ahead.

"Joe!" he yelled. "Joe, it's Frank! Where are you?"

He stopped breathing to listen for any sound. After a second, it came to him, a weak moan, barely audible, but still there.

"Joe!" Frank ran towards the sound. As he went deeper, he could see supplies piled along the walls: bottled water, backpacks, guns and ammunition.

He heard another muffled cry, and swung the flashlight around. His breath caught in his chest. "Joe."

Joe was curled up in a ball against the jagged rocks. He wore only his shorts and the same T-shirt he had disappeared in. His arms were bound in front of him with thick duct tape, the same as was wrapped around his ankles and mouth. He was horribly thin and deathly pale. His hair was dark and matted, every visible inch of skin was covered in dirt and bruises. A cut above his right eye was crusted with brown, dry blood.

The bright blue eyes stared up at Frank, and in that moment neither of them had any thought in their head, other than that there brother was back and everything was going to be alright.

"Oh God, Joe!" Frank dropped to his knees and pulled his brother into his arms. He was so cold. It was like holding spun glass that would shatter if he applied too much pressure.

Joe was sobbing, his whole body shaking, as he burrowed his face into Frank's warm shoulder.

Frank forced himself to pull away, one hand still pressed to the side of Joe's face, stroking his cheek. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay. I'm here, I've got you. You're safe. You're safe now."

He pulled out his pocketknife and slipped it behind Joe's ear. He continued to babble soft encouragement as he sawed at the layers of duct tape. "You're okay, I've got you." As gently as he could he peeled the tape off of Joe's face, leaving behind the chunks still stuck in his hair.

Joe gasped for air. His lips were chapped and bleeding in places. "Frank…" he croaked, pained voice barely audible.

"I'm here, Joe. I'm going to get you out of here. It's gonna be okay." He turned to Joe's hands, struggling with the layers and layers of thick tape. Finally, he broke through. He held Joe's hands in his own and rubbed them to try to get some warmth back.

Joe struggled to raise his arms, and, with visible effort, reached them out to Frank.

"Frank," he repeated.

"Joe." Frank hugged him again, circling the thin, cold body with his arms. He pressed Joe's head to his chest and rocked him. He struggled to speak around the tears pouring down his own face. "I love you so much Joe. I love you." He kissed Joe's dirty, tangled hair and held him more tightly.

"Frank." He felt Joe's grip handfuls of his shirt. "Frank, I wanna go home."

"We're going home, Joe. I promise. You're safe now."

Frank realized he didn't know how long Joe had been bound like that alone. He looked around for any food or water within arm's reach. He managed to grab a bottle of water, and shifted around enough to hold it up to Joe's lips. "Here, drink this, it's okay."

Joe gulped down the water like he hadn't drunk in days. When the bottle was nearly empty, he pulled away and buried his head in Frank's chest again.

Frank tossed aside the bottle and then freed his arms to pull off his coat. He pulled his cell phone out of the pocket, before wrapping it snugly around Joe's shivering form. "You're okay, Joe," he repeated for the thousandth time, as much for himself as for Joe. "I've got you, I've got you."

"Stay with me, Frank," Joe pled into his shirt.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Joe." Frank pulled Joe closer, so that his brother was bundled up in his lap. "I'll always be here. Always. I promise."

Frank rubbed Joe's shoulder, as he rocked them gently back and forth. When Joe had relaxed slightly in his arms, Frank turned on the phone and dialed 911.

"This is Frank Hardy, I'm in a rock quarry off of Jameson Road. I need police and an ambulance. I have two fugitives, Stanley Munis and Devan Brand, and a recovered kidnap victim, Joe Hardy."

He kissed the crown of Joe's head again, and felt the warmth slowly returning to his brother's body.

Chief Collig took care of the press. Officer Con Riley stayed outside of Joe's hospital room and made sure no reporters got within a hundred feet. Frank would have been grateful, if he had been able to comprehend any thought that complex in those first few days.

Malnutrition and dehydration, early stages of hypothermia, two broken ribs, a sprained ankle, two gashes to the head, one on the forehead, one behind the hairline, requiring nearly a hundred stitches between them, two black eyes, cigarette burns clustered around his arms, shoulders, and back, innumerable cuts and contusion in various stages of healing.

"He must be very brave to have made it through so much," the doctor told them.

Of course, Frank thought. He's my brother. He's the bravest person I know.

Another part of him wished that he had taken his chance when he had Brand and Munis at gunpoint in that quarry.

The first two days, it would have taken a crowbar to separate Frank from Joe. He rode in the ambulance, stayed by Joe's side while they had him sedated, held his hand while they took X-rays. He only left the room long enough for the police to take Joe's statement, after Joe murmured that he would be all right. He gave Frank's hand a tight squeeze, before Frank tore himself away from his brother.

The concise, but thorough version Joe gave to the police was similar to what Frank had surmised himself. Munis, Brand, and a third accomplice forced him off the road, then hit him over the head with the butt of a gun. He came to in the trunk of their car. He managed to disable the taillights, but they must have been on an out-of-the-way road, because that didn't get them pulled over. At some point they stopped. Joe heard them arguing. Then they started driving again. He estimated it was about two hours later that they stopped. There were only two men then, Munis and Brand. They forced some water down his throat, then locked him in the trunk again.

Brand's confession filled in the blanks. One of their accomplices was from a neighboring town of Bayport. He had a plan to hide out in Barmet Bay, then catch a ride on a boat out of the country. They grabbed Joe because of a half-baked plan to ransom Dad into providing them the money to escape. Of course Fenton Hardy would be well-known in the area. But, then they heard over the radio that Munis had been identified and the other accomplice split. Munis and Brand didn't know how to contact the family, and they were stuck with their hostage.

Joe said that he spent the rest of the drive locked in the trunk, aside from a few breaks for air and water. He couldn't tell how long it took, because he kept passing out. Finally, they dragged him into that cave, tied him up and shoved him into a corner. The next few days, they spent hoarding food, water, and weapons.

"It was clear they were planning for some big, final standoff," Joe explained. "They kept me around to be their last ditch bargaining chip."

Brand confirmed that, as well as Joe's observation that the Waco ending was Munis' idea, and Brand was just dragged along.

They beat him up when they were bored or frustrated. Munis gave him one black eye as punishment for an attempt to escape, which got no further than slicing through the duct tape around his wrists with a sharp rock. Brand was responsible for the other one. Brand had also sprained Joe's ankle. As much as he was playing the innocent now, Joe made it clear he was the same sadist as Brand.

The doctors made Joe go for at least one psychological evaluation. Frank couldn't go with him, but Joe gave him a play-by-play as soon as it was done.

"The doctor think it's some type of transference," Joe told him, as they sat on the edge of the bed, Joe watching Frank play Minecraft on his laptop. "Brand went after me, like I was his boss or somebody who harassed him in prison, or something. She also says that I'm overly identifying with them, which I'm not. I just like when someone decides to beat the crap out of me to understand why they did it. Dude, iron ore."

Frank obligingly mined the blocks. "But she's okay, otherwise?"

Joe shrugged, his eyes still locked on the screen. "I'd rather just get home."

"Yeah, me too" Frank mumbled. He understood why the doctors wanted to keep Joe in the hospital so long, after everything that had happened. He understood why Dad had agreed, above Mom and Aunt Trudy's objections. He was pretty sure Joe understood too, but that didn't mean he didn't desperately want his brother back home where he belonged.

The day that he was finally discharged, Joe was chipper and talkative. He bounced out of the wheelchair as soon as he was out of the hospital. "So, Aunt Trudy, I was thinking maybe, perhaps in honor of my coming home and because you're so happy I'm okay, you could maybe make some of your strawberry pie for dinner, pretty please?"

Aunt Trudy huffed. "Oh, you know I'm not going to be able to say no to you. I shouldn't have put it past you to take advantage of me."

"It would be an awfully nice homecoming," Frank added. Trudy glared at both of them, then gave a little sigh and folded herself into the car.

Joe kept trying to talk over the details of Brand and Munis' prosecution with Dad, but he just said that they would talk about it later, and that what was important now was that Joe was home safe and sound. Frank gave Joe a little nod, silently telling him that he would fill him in on the latest developments once he had the chance.

As soon as they were in the house, Mom broke down, crying and hugging Joe. The rest of the family pulled back a bit to give her space. Joe gave Frank a little smile over her shoulder, as he rubbed her back comfortingly.

Once Mom managed to collect herself, she said in a hoarse voice that Joe had had a long day and would probably want to go to his room and rest. Joe nodded, but looked over at his brother.

"Frank…" he said quietly.

"Yeah." Frank walked with Joe up the stairs towards his room. For a second, Dad looked like he wanted to stop them, but controlled himself.

Joe opened his bedroom door and flopped down onto his bed like he had been gone for a weekend, instead of nearly a month. Frank smiled as he shut the door, then leaned against it.

Joe extricated his face from the pillows and looked over at Frank. "Were you in my bed?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe. Yeah."

"Dude you're weird." He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the haphazard pattern of glow-in-the-dark stars they had stuck to the ceiling when they were seven and eight.

Frank just watched him for a moment, until he couldn't hold back the thought that was filling up his brain. "I'm really glad that you're back, Joe." The words were a pale approximation of the warm, heavy feeling that was threatening to burst out of his chest.

"When I was in that cave," Joe began, his voice quiet, like was unsure of his own voice, "when you found me, I didn't think anyone was gonna come for me. I didn't- I thought you all that I was dead, so you weren't looking. I thought I was gonna die."

Frank crossed the room in three long steps. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and looked up into his brother's eyes. "I won't let that happen. I would never stop looking for you and trying to keep you safe."

Joe squirmed one hand out of the blankets and held it out over the edge. Frank took it.

"I just thought about you, here alone," Joe continued. His grip on Frank's hand tightened. "I don't wanna leave you."

Frank understood exactly what he was saying. He couldn't think about going and leaving Joe behind, anymore than Joe could think about leaving him. The Hardy boys were meant to be together. They didn't make sense without each other. Joe was alive and Frank was alive and that was how it was meant to be.

"I'm here," he said. "We're okay."