CHAPTER 1

Frank Hardy sat at the wheel of his red convertible driving, pacing himself, taking it easy. Would have preferred to be moving quicker; his toes demonstrating this by twitching with temptation against the gas pedal, but—

He took his palm from the stick shift to his neck and kneaded a tension knot, then moved to prod the hard lump on his head and grimaced. 'Yep, it's still there!' Driving after sustaining a head injury wasn't the smartest decision he'd ever made, especially in the middle of the night. But as the saying goes: desperate times call for desperate measures.

His subconscious wouldn't leave him alone, prodding away with a bony finger. Frank had the unshakable gut feeling he wasn't altogether alone, that he'd somehow picked up a tail despite his defensive driving. Eyes switched in quick succession from the road ahead, to the rear and side view mirrors. He couldn't see anyone following, hadn't spotted another car since he'd left his apartment, nevertheless—

'Stupid paranoia. Quit it, Hardy!' He scratched his chin and tried to shake off the itchy, irrational feeling, yet, his eyes still flickered from one viewpoint to another. He grunted.

Admittedly, although he acknowledged the foolish nature of his actions, his impulse pushed him toward his brother, to get to Joe's place, to reach out to him. He needed to put distance between himself and his apartment, to physically and mentally connect with someone he trusted.

Frank's mind flashed back to what had happened before he'd tossed handfuls of random clothes into a bag at his apartment and hot-footed it out of there. Possibly shutting the door behind him for the final time. 'Don't let the door hit you in the ass!' he thought, mirthlessly.

-o0o-

Frank hadn't sense anything wrong or off kilter when he stepped from the elevator in front of his apartment door. No unfamiliar smells, heavy atmosphere or sounds to caution him of possible danger. In retrospect, he'd allowed himself to slip into a false sense of personal security, which would now prove his ultimate undoing.

He fished his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and walked across the threshold. Only once he routinely raised his hand to deactivate the burglar alarm did he realize it had hadn't beeped his arrival to invite the code to be entered.

Startled, he turned and found himself eye-to-eye with a stranger in a balaclava. The person must have been positioned behind the door, hidden from view as Frank stepped into his hallway. The figure grabbed him by the lapels to yank him forward as something clattered against the back of his head, delivered by another unseen stranger. The hands let go and Frank dropped into oblivion, only stopping when his cheek came to rest on the cool, polished floor boards.

Frank came to, splayed out on his front. The sounds of shouts and running feet greeted his aching brain. He slid a palm up over the side of his face and head, and found a knot forming on his skull. Soft for now, but later would develop into a hardened bruise. With a flinch, he returned his fingers to his face to look for blood, but found no evidence of an open wound. He doubted he'd been senseless for longer than a few seconds, but it had knocked him flat out. Slowly, he moved to position his arms either side of his shoulders and lifted his head to watch the show.

Stan, the security guard for his apartment block, stood boldly in the doorway in full uniform. Although Frank couldn't see his face, Stan's broad back and heavy set neck gave his identity away.

Bob, Frank's pyjama clad, elderly neighbor, stood on the other side of the hallway, aggressively waving his walking stick and shouting. "Don't-come-back-you-thieving-tyrants!" Each word overlapped the next. Bob always talked quickly, rambled his words. Frank didn't always catch everything he said, especially as he rarely had his false teeth in. The few times Frank had seen him with them in, he'd witnessed them actually shoot out of his mouth mid-babble. Bob proved himself an expert at catching and shoving them back in as though nothing had happened. Frank suspected he would have been a good baseball player in his younger years.

Stan looked over his shoulder and down at Frank before taking off down the corridor in pursuit of the retreating running feet.

Bob watched Frank for a second and then moved to hover in the doorway.

Frank lurched to his feet and leaned a steadying palm against the wall. He felt a bit sick and unbalanced…then the hallway turned into a funhouse and tipped, throwing him into the opposite wall. A couple of deep breaths later and everything righted and Frank felt practically normal again. He turned to Bob.

"Burglars, Frank, mark my words. Stan'll get 'em. Wouldn't have happened in my day, we'd 'av tarred and feathered 'em! You all right, Boy? Public hangings, it's what we need!"

"Erm," Frank gave his head another tentative poke. "I think so. Come on in, Bob. I'm sorry."

Bob shuffled in. "What'r you sorry for, Frank? Weren't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" Heavy footsteps approached, so Frank took a step toward the stooped old man protectively.

A fed up looking Stan returned. "They gave me the slip. I'm calling the cops." He stepped close and took Frank by the upper arm. "How you feeling, need a lie down? I'll call for an ambulance."

Frank waved a dismissive hand. "No ambulance, I'm fine and don't call the cops on my behalf. Tell them you found intruders and chased them out, but don't trouble them about me. I've caused enough problems for everyone."

"Problems? You're no trouble, Frank. You and Bob, you're my least problematic tenants. Trust me on that."

"Enough's enough," Frank muttered and turned on his heel to walk through his apartment. He systematically moved through his home room-by-room to check no other unwanted guests were hidden inside.

Stan followed close behind, so when Frank finally turned toward his bedroom, Stan had to do a jaunty skip to one side to make room. "Anything gone?"

"Don't think so. Probably interrupted them - caught me by surprise, that's for sure." Frank opened his closet, took down his overnight bag, and threw it down on the bed.

"Didn't you set your alarm?"

Frank unzipped the bag and moved to slide open his top drawer. His hand hovered for a beat as he considered the possibility Stan's simple explanation could the most obvious answer. "I guess I couldn't have." He yanked the drawer open. "The system's top of the range, not easily tampered with - what a dummy!" He grabbed a fistful of underwear and flung it into the open bag. Very unlike how he'd usually pack which would be highly organized and neat. He didn't care, he wanted out.

Bob jabbed at the carrier with his stick from the doorway. "You goin' somewhere, Lad?"

"You betcha, I'm out of here. Off to my bro's."

-o0o-

The sight of red and white lights pulsating in his rear window pulled Frank out of his memories. He must have gone into a trance, didn't have any recollection of the last five minutes of his journey. Not good. "Perfect!" He muttered, and glanced at his speedometer. He wasn't going over the limit and he didn't think he'd been driving badly, despite the headache.

He took another look in his mirror to double-check the lights were for his benefit. Frank could see a police cruiser right up on his fender. Headlights flashed, the cop definitely intended him to pull over. So he did, carefully.

An officer slid from the car and approached as Frank let his window down. As the cop leaned down, Frank recognized him. "Officer Bach. We're destined to forever run into one another under strange circumstances." Frank offered his hand out awkwardly through the window aperture.

Bach took it and they briefly shook. "Would seem so, Frank. I seem to spend half my shifts on a search for you. Hopefully this time it won't involve a kidnapping, murdering assassin and Lieutenant Riley's delinquent, dead brother." Bach sniggered and took his cap off. "We took a call from the security detail at your apartment building. He's concerned about you, said—" Bach paused and his head whipped around to look back. He lurched into the door, pressed and moulded his body into the metalwork as a dark car passed far too closely to Frank's scarlet convertible. It almost took Bach off his feet. "FREAKIN' IDIOT!" he bellowed. "Frank, I can see you're okay. I'm gonna see if I can't catch up with that fool."

"Take care of yourself, Bach." Frank stared into the darkness in the direction the car had gone. He wasn't sure Bach heard him as he'd already run to his car. Seconds later the squad car wheel span away in pursuit, lights and siren blaring.

Frank rubbed his throbbing temples, his headache had built to distracting proportions, and the siren hadn't helped. He dropped his glove box and shuffled through the meager contents in search of pain relief medication, but came up empty. He sighed and took the car out of neutral, hit his turn signal and peeled slowly onto the road to continue his journey.

Presently, he coasted into the marina's car lot next to the wharf where his brother's houseboat, 'Iola's Memory' had permanent mooring rights. He parked next to Joe's black motor cycle, retrieved his carry on from the backseat, and headed for the boat.

He found the inside in darkness with the blinds drawn down, to be expected considering the late hour. As he reached Joe's bedroom window, he rapped a noisy rhythm on the glass and walked to the prow to pull himself up onto the deck. He began to search through his pockets for his key, but quickly realized he'd forgotten to bring it in the rush. He rolled his eyes in frustration, but then the door opened and Joe's surprised face peered back at him.

"Dude, what are you doing here?" He wasn't in nightclothes, but at least this time he wasn't entirely naked. Although topless, he wore a pair of jeans. His blond hair steepled on one side of his head where he'd been lying down, but his blue eyes didn't look sleepy. The TV, set to freeze frame, proved to be the only light source in the room, the overhead bulb having been turned off. The hand not rested on the door held a bowl of popcorn. "I know I've an open door policy, but this is ridiculous."

"Bro, I…why aren't you in bed?"

"So asks the guy who's just turned up uninvited at my door with an overnight bag. I'm in the middle of a horror movie fest. What's your excuse? You moving in?"

"If you'll have me, temporarily."

"What?" Joe narrowed his eyes, and regarded Frank up and down. "This a joke?"

"No."

Joe's eyebrows shot up and he swept the hand holding the bowl toward the inside of his living space, spilling several kernels onto the floor. He stood aside and let Frank down the few steps into his territory.

Frank entered and threw his bag at one of the lazy boy chairs. He felt dog tired. The cold of the night had seeped right through his jacket and added to the misery of his aching head and neck. Not helped by Joe suddenly turning the overhead light on. "Ouch!" He slumped down onto the sofa and shaded the glare away from his eyes with the blade of his hand.

Rufus, Joe's large, ginger cat, busied himself in his investigation of an errant popcorn kernel next to him.

"What wrong?" Joe asked, concerned, dropping the bowl down on a small table.

"I got jumped in my apartment by burglars. They got a good hit to my head. You got any pain killers?"

"Did you lose consciousness?" Joe approached and started to plough gently through Frank's dark hair, looking for signs of broken skin. "You've got quite a bump there, Dude."

"Trust me, I'm aware of that."

Joe waited for a fuller response, but Frank offered nothing. "Did you pass out or WHAT?"

"DON'T…shout." Frank turned his squinting brown eyes up to his brother, peered out from under his hand. "I'm not sure I did, probably, but not for long. I'm okay, but I can't live in my place anymore, it's freakin' jinxed!"

Joe laughed. "Over-reaction much!" He went and dimmed the light.

Frank stopped shading his eyes. "I don't think so. Ask yourself this - how many times have you found this place turned over or besieged?"

"Well, never. James once burst in on us with a gun."

"Yeah, but he thought you were in trouble. He fell down the stairs and nearly scared Rufus half to death."

Joe laughed at the memory, and went to his kitchenette to get his first aid box down and find some pain killers.

Frank kinked his mouth up on one side, raised his fingers and used them as a count-down clock. "Well my place's been trashed. My car boosted. My hallway used as a target range to try and kill Dad and Con. Kidnapped from the elevator by a gentleman assassin…and now…hello burglars, come on in, why not, everyone else has." He half laughed. "I've run out of fingers so I've not included the uber-fight in my living room during which I nearly bashed your head in."

Joe handed Frank two tablets and a glass of water. "We had an uber-fight here too, remember? I hit you with a hand weight." He reddened slightly at the memory.

"Yeah, well. Not really the same thing, given the circumstances at the time. I needed the push when we had the fight in my place…the dumbbell thing…you know…wasn't your fault."

Joe sat down next to him, their knees touching and watched as Frank downed the tablets.

Frank continued. "If nothing else, it's not fair on my neighbors. They're elderly. Should be slowing down, not speeding up. It's turned me into a paranoid freak. I got Stan so closely involved today he could have gotten hurt."

"Stan?"

"Security Guard."

"Dude, you didn't do it, whoever busted into your apartment did that. And it's Stan's business to get involved, the clue's in the job title. They shouldn't have even got passed him."

"Whatever. So…can I stay?"

"This is the place, stay as long as you like." Joe slapped Frank's knee and rose up. "You take the bed. I'll set up shop on the sofa."

"Joe, it's your home, I'll take the sofa."

"Like I'm gonna let my half concussed brother sleep on my sofa. No arguments." Joe headed for the linen closet. "Besides I can carry on watching 'Nightmare on Elm Street' then."