Disclaimer: I do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was written around the year 2003, so technology is not as advanced as it is today. People still used landlines! Also it was originally co-written with another person, to whom I give much credit for the plot, and unending thanks.

APRIL SHOWERS

By EvergreenDreamweaver & Sparks JSH

Chapter 1

"You don't think it's going to rain, do you?"

The speaker, a tall young man with thick, wavy blonde hair, stood next to a pitched tent in a clearing, scanning the cloudy skies with anxious blue eyes. He set down the armload of branches he was carrying, tossed a few onto the crackling blaze of the campfire, and turned toward his companion, who was seated on a folded tarp next to the tent.

"No, Joe, I don't think it's going to rain," Frank Hardy answered his brother patiently. "I think it's going to be cloudy, but I doubt that we'll get any rain. Stop worrying, can't you?" As he spoke, Frank rose to his full six-foot-one height and extended his arms lazily to a full stretch. "You never used to get so bent out of shape by the prospect of rain."

"But this may be our last camping trip for – for who knows how long!" Joe sounded wistful. "I don't want it to be spoiled by anything. I really wanted the whole gang to come, but we had enough trouble just getting the two of us away for it. Remember back when everyone would manage to go, at the drop of a hat?"

"You make it sound like it was decades ago!" Frank chuckled, his brown eyes twinkling. "You're not quite that old yet."

Now Joe grinned more cheerfully. "Nope, but I'm getting there! Only ten more days!"

"You don't have to remind me," Frank commented. "The whole reason for us being out here in the woods now is because you wanted to go camping right before your 18th birthday!" He shoved back the baseball cap he wore over his dark hair. "I didn't make strange requests like that when I turned 18…or 19." he added thoughtfully.

"Your birthday is in November," Joe scoffed. "Who wants to go camping in November?"

Frank shivered and buttoned his heavy wool jacket, then added another branch to the little fire. "Probably the same people who want to go camping in late March."

Frank and Joe Hardy were residents of Bayport, a city of some 50,000 people located on the Atlantic Coast, an hour's drive from New York City. The sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally-renowned private investigator, and his wife Laura, the boys were amateur detectives in their own right. For several years now they – 19-year-old Frank, a freshman at Bayport Community College; and Joe, a senior at Bayport High School – had been solving various sorts of cases and crimes, both locally and on a wider scale. The two had every intention of following in their famous father's footsteps, and making investigation or some related field their chosen careers. But for the moment, they were simply two brothers enjoying the North Woods in the spring.

Now Joe unfolded another tarp, and sat down himself, folding his six-foot frame compactly. "Want to go for a hike after we eat lunch?" he inquired, as Frank disappeared into the tent, emerging a few moments later carrying packets of somewhat squashed-looking sandwiches.

"Joe, we've gone for a hike after lunch every day for the past three days. Couldn't we vary the pattern a little today?" Frank handed Joe his share of the sandwiches, then retreated into the tent again to bring out a couple of apples and a zip-closed bag of cookies. He settled onto his tarp and began eating. "These sandwiches are definitely past their prime," he mumbled, eyeing the peanut-butter-and-jam item suspiciously.

"Vary it how?" Joe bit into his apple.

"Well – I don't know – play cards, or something, and then take a hike? Nap – and not take a hike?" Frank grinned teasingly.

Joe shook his head. "You're showing your age, big brother. Once you hit nineteen, you started going downhill, and it's accelerating all the time."

"It'll happen to you, too," Frank informed him. "You'll be eighteen in ten days—"

"Ohhhh, yeah!" Joe exulted. "Finally considered an adult! I'm tired of you always getting to do things that I can't because I'm under eighteen."

"Such as?"

"Well…" Joe considered it a moment, chewing a bite of sandwich. "Voting…?" He frowned. "And I could buy cigarettes…." he added doubtfully.

"Joe, you know you don't smoke."

"I know – but I could if I wanted to! And there's all those contests that say 'must be 18 years or older to enter'"

A smile spread across Frank's lean features. "You can also be called for jury duty, little brother. And don't forget that nice card you got in the mail a week or so ago – the one reminding you to register with the Selective Service…hey!" He ducked, as Joe tossed a pine cone at him. "See, being 18 isn't all fun and games!"

Now Joe looked morose. "Maybe we should have stayed in Bayport for spring vacation after all," he said glumly, his mouth full of sandwich. Frank was immediately sorry he'd teased him; he didn't want Joe to be unhappy.

"No way…not with the girls and Mom gone, and all the other guys gone or busy, and Dad out of town." Frank ticked off their reasons for vacating Bayport on the fingers of one hand. "Vanessa and Megan decide that shopping in New York is the way to spend spring vacation, and manage to convince their mothers and our mom to go too!…Tony's working his tail off all vacation at Mr. Pizza…Chet went to Texas with Devon, to visit her grandparents…Phil stayed in New York, to attend that computer seminar—"

"And to be with his new girlfriend," Joe interposed.

"—that too…Biff's working all day, every day…." Frank sighed. "Dad's gone to Washington D.C….I'd rather be out here having to cook than home rattling around the house and still having to cook!"

"And no cases for weeks…." Joe was scowling now. "Man, I'm getting bored!" He threw another pine cone into the trees, then reached for the sack of cookies to console himself.

"Something will turn up," Frank said optimistically. "It always does."

When the boys had finished eating, they prepared to take a walk, carefully smothering the little campfire and loading their backpacks with water bottles, lightweight snacks, a small flashlight, and various other things they thought they might need.

"Ready?" Frank glanced around the campsite to make sure everything was tidy.

"Yup." Joe emerged from the tent and fastened the flaps closed. "Let's head – that way today." He shut his eyes, turned around once or twice, and pointed randomly into the trees, and they set off in the specified direction. There were numerous animal trails to follow, so long as one wasn't choosy about where one went.

They had only hiked about five minutes, however, when Frank paused mid-stride and held up a hand to halt his brother's progress. "Listen!"

"What?" Joe cocked his head and frowned.

"Sounds like a plane engine!"

Joe turned slowly, searching the sky. "I hear it now too. There! My gosh, that thing's awfully low!"

Both teens looked up at the sound of a small plane flying overhead. Frank smiled wistfully. He had his pilot's license, but it had been far too long since he'd had a chance to take a plane up. The smile abruptly changed to a look of alarm as the sound of an explosion came to their ears.

"Something's wrong with that plane!" he cried.

The two boys watched as a blue-and-white twin-engine Cessna floated over their heads. The motors were misfiring and hiccupping badly. Frank shrugged out of his backpack and pulled a tiny pair of binoculars from one of the pockets, attempting to focus on the plane as it made a sudden dip. It was obvious the pilot was having difficulty holding the plane level.

"Do you think he can get it down?" Joe demanded.

"There's a small lake over there somewhere, I think," Frank replied without taking his eyes from the struggling aircraft. "Crashing into the water would be safer than hitting the trees. If he can get it between the trees." His tone was grim. Not that much chance of success…. He blinked and took the binoculars away from his eyes.

"Joe, do you know whose plane that is?" he cried.

Joe shook his head. "Should I?"

"It's—" Before Frank could continue, the noise of the plane's engine cut off abruptly. As the boys watched in horror, they saw it dip again. As a pilot, Frank had a fair idea of what was going on in that cockpit right now; the amount of strength required to keep the plane's nose up would be Herculean.

A tall oak looming higher than the surrounding trees was directly in the little plane's path. Although the pilot managed to avoid crashing headlong into the massive trunk, the topmost branches scraped the belly of the plane, then caught one wing. Frank cringed as he saw it torn from the plane, much like a stepped-on child's toy.

The plane rolled sideways and tilted downward, and then came a dreadful sound that echoed through the quiet forest: a crackling, snapping noise, as branches were ripped from trees – followed by an enormous CRUNCH. Echoes reverberated – and then there was silence.

"My gosh, it's crashed!" Joe yelped, and headed through the trees at the fastest pace he could manage, Frank right behind him.

Despite their desperation, the boys couldn't make quick headway. The underbrush was thick, the trees close-set; thickets of brambles seemed to sprout in their path with demonic purpose. Worse, they weren't exactly sure which direction would get them most quickly to the crash site. They had a general idea, but specifics were something else again. Once, they thought they heard the sound of a helicopter in the distance, but it faded away.

After fifteen minutes of scrambling and thrashing through the woods, Joe halted and leaned against a tree, panting for breath. He took a long swig from his water bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Think we're anywhere close?" he asked Frank, who was doing the same. Joe noticed Frank had lost his hat, somewhere along the way.

"Yeah—" Frank nodded while gulping water. "Joe—" he continued. "that plane – did you see the logo?" He bent over, hands on knees, pulling in a deep breath.

"No – just saw the color. Why – what about it? Did you recognize it?"

"It was – oh Joe, it was Jack's plane!" Frank's face was so white that Joe instinctively stepped closer to him, afraid he was going to collapse.

"Jack's – oh, no!" Joe slapped the top down on his water bottle and returned it to his pack. "Come on, then – let's go!" The two brothers set off again, pushing their way through underbrush, going around trees, trying all the time to stay on a course which neither could say for sure was the correct one.

Jack's plane…no, oh please, not Jack! Frank's thoughts kept pace with his rapid footsteps. Not Jack! His mind's eye showed him Jack Wayne – the young pilot whose services Fenton Hardy had used so many times in the past – tall and lean, with dark hair and chiseled features. He taught me to fly – I remember all those takeoffs and landings! – and he was so patient…. He'd just keep repeating something, over and over again, when I couldn't get it…until finally it sank in. Jack, so friendly and likable, who probably would have still been Fenton's personal pilot, if circumstances hadn't forced him to concentrate solely on his charter and cargo-delivery service the previous year.

Joe's thoughts were in a similar vein. He's got to be all right – he's such a great guy! Such a good friend – and helped Dad so many times…. He shoved his way past a thick, spiny bush, wincing as thorns ripped at him. He taught Frank to fly – and tried to teach me…but I didn't have the patience for it…. Hang on, Jack, we're coming!

The trees thinned suddenly, and the going became easier. "It looks like there's some sort of opening, up ahead." Joe pointed. "Is it that lake you mentioned? Something's caused a break in the trees." He braced a hand against the bole of a nearby maple, and endeavored to catch his breath once more.

"Yeah, I see." Frank took a deep breath and scanned their surroundings. "Joe, look! Torn-off branches – and look there, smoke! – this has to be the right direction!"

Encouraged by this finding, the boys plunged into the undergrowth again, now following an increasingly-clear trail of snapped tree limbs. In a few more minutes, they emerged from the trees and found themselves near the edge of a small pond which gleamed dully under the cloudy skies. Frank seized Joe's arm and pointed, wordlessly. At the far side of the pond a crumpled, twisted mass of blue-and-white metal lay on the earth; Jack Wayne's pride and joy was smashed against a tree, its nose pointed heavenward. The stylized map with superimposed flight routes was clearly visible, painted on the side of the plane, and saucy, red script formed the words: WAYNE'S WORLD.

They had seen the tree take off the missing left wing, but the crash had also broken off a portion of the tail. From the pieces of fuselage that covered the area, it appeared that the plane had flipped on its back at least once before landing right side up once more. Fortunately, it looked as if its roll on the earth had smothered most of whatever fire there might have been; all that remained now were a few flickers of flame and a lot of smoke. As long as nothing ignited the gas that had spilt from the tanks, they didn't have to worry about an explosion, at least.

"Oh God!" Joe moaned and took off around the edge of the pond as fast as he could go.

"Jack?…Jack!" Frank shouted the pilot's name as they neared the downed aircraft. "JACK!" A startled screech from a crow was the only reply he received.

"No one could have survived that…" Joe whispered, with a sinking heart, but even as he spoke he was heading for the opening left by the missing tail section, with Frank right on his heels.

Inside, the wreckage was disheartening. Boxes were strewn about from the rough landing. A few had opened, revealing broken china of various colors. Joe forced himself to look toward the cockpit where he knew Jack's body would be, and shoved his way forward through the debris.

Dreading what he might find, Joe leaned into the cockpit, and caught his breath at the sight he beheld.

The pilot seemed to be semi-conscious; the only sounds Joe could hear were strained breathing and an occasional low, pain-filled groan. Blood seeped from a head wound, mixing into caramel-colored hair on which rested a small, high-tech headset. The pilot's seat had been shoved forward until its occupant was wedged tightly against the steering mechanism, and Joe saw one slender arm trapped between the yoke and the cracked instrument panel.

The younger Hardy turned back toward his brother, his face blank with shock.

"Frank – it's not Jack!"