Brenda Carlton gave her fingers a brisk shake, rolled her shoulders, then set her red-polished fingernails to the keys.
Titles were always the hardest.
Double Vision
Which Witch? Brenda wrinkled her nose and backspaced over that one. Too... accurate.
Vixen Vanishes! Brenda grinned. That would be the winner. She could already see it in forty-eight-point sans-serif.
Subhead: River Heights's famed snoop AWOL; imposter mingles with co-eds at Wilder
Or: Another Drew double causing trouble
Brenda nodded to herself. Sure, the editor might massage it, but the first choice would likely be close. She tapped out her byline, then took a deep breath to gather her thoughts.
When this reporter set out to track down River Heights's famed teen sleuth, who inexplicably decided on a private, nondescript university several hours away, for an in-depth profile, she didn't know what to expect. But it's always safe to expect the unexpected when the subject in question is Nancy Drew.
"Damn straight," Brenda muttered, tapping the return key.
Frequent readers, or anyone who has been alive in the greater River Heights area in the past five years, will remember Ms. Drew, 18, as a precocious youngster with frankly unbelievable luck who outsmarted criminals and nabbed thugs as casually as a classmate or peer might select a track on a CD or decide on a pizza place for lunch. Ms. Drew, who could often be found in the company of her silver-fox father
—/enabler, Brenda typed, then backspaced—
, celebrated defense attorney Carson Drew, was also often spotted on the arm of another ultra-eligible bachelor: standout quarterback, star baseball player, and pro-material basketball showstopper Ned Nickerson.
Brenda had no idea if she was mixing metaphors or if the adjectives even made any sense with those sports, but frankly, she didn't care. That's why Daddy paid the editor the big bucks.
Mr. Nickerson, 20, a perfect male specimen in every possible way, who boasts a jawline chiseled from marble and rock-hard abs, is an active member of his fraternity at Emerson College, so those in town who speculate on such things—
"Losers," Brenda muttered.
—put good odds on Ms. Drew choosing the same institution. After all, she has taken home many a crown from the college's dances. Surely she would feel some sense of obligation to the institution that has laid such accolades at her feet.
Alas, in August, it appeared this match made in wedding-magazine heaven was not to be. Ms. Drew, once she had shoved the last plastic milk crate and pole lamp into her frankly unfit for the task Mustang convertible, navigated not to Emerson, but to the aforementioned milquetoast Wilder.
"Milquetoast" probably fit. Brenda wasn't sure, but she was on a roll and had no intention of looking back now.
The oft-repeated question: Why? Could Ms. Drew be investigating some nefarious plot involving rich cult members laundering their ill-gotten gains through some university institution? Maybe sweet, waifish orphans had been forced to servitude at a local establishment, and Ms. Drew had dubbed herself their protector. Whatever it was, this reporter sensed a whopper, because little else could explain such a, well, inexplicable decision.
How to describe Wilder? Can one describe such a place? Your imagination, dear reader, can and should do a better job than the joyless construction crews who shoved cinder blocks into increasingly less imaginative configurations. This reporter's quarry was sure to stand out in such a bleak landscape.
And stand out, she did.
Because whoever planned this was ingenious: this creature, being, thing pretending to be Nancy Drew would never have fooled anyone in River Heights. In late August, when all single young ladies' ears perked up at the shocking news that the golden couple, RHHS's prom queen and king, had broken up—apparently for good—we should have known.
Of course Ned Nickerson would not be fooled by an imposter. The con artist who swindled members of the local country club couldn't do it; how could anyone expect a robot to do it?
Because yes, Times reader, this reporter has uncovered a bombshell. Nancy Drew has never been enrolled at Wilder University. Someone, something, passing itself off as 'Nancy Drew' has. And that being, or probably more accurately 'device,' has set out to rip her perfect life to jagged pieces.
This reporter conducted an interview with the cyborg, whose not-quite-fluid mannerisms and
—extreme horniness, Brenda typed, then backspaced over—
unnatural grins should have unsettled everyone around her, capitalized on the environment of entirely clueless co-eds, each focused on more pressing problems than why Rosie the Literally Riveted from next door was so obsessed with a bland pre-med student. For a few days, anyway.
Reader, if I could, I would vehemently confirm your worst nightmare, your secret shameful desire: that yes, the all-American, perfectly poised and prim prom queen is warming the sheets with many a... less-attractive fellow student. That, after breaking her long-time boyfriend's heart, the town's former sweetheart has become everyone else's.
But the imposter means your vision of her, flawless and perfectly composed, will stand... for now. Because the real Miss Drew, wherever she is, has not stood up.
Wherever she is, she isn't here—and the man whose heart her robot twin supposedly broke is AWOL too.
This reporter, summoning all her courage—could this robot be a hired assassin, meant to get close to one of the real Ms. Drew's loved ones just to commit bloody, senseless murder? Could this intrepid reporter be risking her life yet again in pursuit of the truth?—approached the being and asked a few questions. The answers, I include here, edited for clarity and space.
Brenda pointedly ignored the word count steadily ticking up in the corner of the screen. Daddy could add another page to the next issue if he needed. Every word of this was golden! She'd sell out the newsstands in an hour!
Robo-Drew reluctantly admitted, after only a few easy questions, that she was impersonating the young detective. Wilder hadn't just been a random, inexplicable choice for the cover of a college degree; the programmer constantly refining her microchips is a faculty member here.
Wilder, it must be noted here, is not celebrated for an award-winning computer science program, and what semblance of a 'program' they don't even bother boasting is apparently shoved into a dusty basement, sharing space with a library annex and a frankly horrifying insect collection.
When—admittedly breathlessly—the cyborg was asked about the whereabouts of the real Ms. Drew, an approximation of a smirk moved her lips. According to the robot, whose circuits may prove unreliable, the programmer's inspiration is enjoying a long, steamy holiday with her longtime 'ex'-boyfriend at some tropical location.
When asked whether her impersonation extended to solving some basic crimes, the robot happily—if a robot can be imagined to possess such an emotion—pointed to her byline in the campus newspaper.
Brenda wrinkled her nose.
'Newspaper' would be a more accurate descriptor. The staff members are at least making an effort, but hand-wringing stories about bubble-sheet tests and political correctness in campus drama productions are hardly the earth-shattering revelations you've come to expect from this newspaper, and this reporter in particular. The robot's stories, which are probably more truthfully described as written by the programmer, reveal a startling lack of skill or perception, and would be the clearest evidence of the impersonation. That is, if I hadn't viewed the bundled of cords, wires, and rebar crammed under the rubberized flesh of the Drewbot with my own eyes. How such an amalgamation could lure anyone to a night of 'passion' is beyond even the scope of my own imagination.
As one might guess, this robot, whose twin dedications seem to be writing as many bland stories as possible while scratching as many notches into her dorm-room bedpost as possible, was programmed by a rather nebbish-looking man, who seems to be acting out some rather prurient fantasies via the red-wigged computer.
So many questions remain unanswered, and this reporter will not rest until those answers, and the flesh-and-blood Ms. Drew, are located. Is Ms. Drew the genesis of this scheme, or merely an unwitting victim? Has she indeed, as suggested by her Tin (Wo-)Man double, fled to some tropical paradise with the living Greek statue that is Mr. Nickerson for what is likely far more satisfying romantic interludes? More importantly, if she has, is Mr. Drew aware of this scheme?
Should any of the above be true, this reporter's prediction is a rapid discovery of a hasty marriage license. But if this is simply a
Mar, Brenda tried, then shook her head. Mor—
"Ugh," Brenda grunted in frustration.
Russian nesting doll of lies stacked on more lies, then the real Ms. Drew is doubtless embedded in some doomsday cult or mafia enterprise, and any forthcoming revelations will doubtless be a thrilling chapter in the continuing drama of Ms. Drew's life.
This reporter's final advice to you: watch your loved ones closely. See if they avoid being submerged in water, or chatter fondly to solar calculators. And should you see any nebbish young men crouching behind the potted palms: strike first, ask questions later.
--
The sun was warm, and Nancy woke and stretched, then reached down to gently pat her distended belly. From the other side of the room, she could hear the muted sound of Ned's keystrokes.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," she murmured with a smile.
Ned gave her long bare legs an appreciative glance before she pulled her robe closed. "How are you feeling?"
Nancy shrugged. "Toast and orange juice," she replied. "Maybe a scrambled egg?"
"Coming right up."
Nancy shuffled over to the patio and sat down, waiting for Ned, gazing out at the ocean. From here it looked close enough to touch. No matter how many mornings she woke up to this, she was still awed by it: the perpetual hush of the waves, the sparkling sand, and Ned.
She hadn't yet asked whether he regretted his decision. And even though she hated it, privately, she knew that she wouldn't be here if not for him.
When Elizabeth had first approached her, Nancy had promised the genius programmer anything. Elizabeth had saved Nancy's life during a case the previous year, and Nancy would never forget it.
What she had asked, though...
Elizabeth's life was in danger. She had a hard drive in her possession that she had been trying to crack for the past year, and she was getting close. And the agency who had stolen the drive and provided it to Elizabeth had made some powerful enemies.
Nancy had been more than willing to throw herself into protecting Elizabeth, doing all she could to help protect her, but Elizabeth had the best bodyguards money could buy. The last thing she wanted was Nancy putting her own life in danger again.
Or, at least... not that way.
Because Elizabeth and her partner had been trying to get pregnant for some time. Nancy wasn't aware of all the details, and the topic was clearly painful for her, but Elizabeth's need for a baby had become urgent, undeniable. And Nancy... Nancy could keep Elizabeth's baby safe. Quite literally, in the shelter of her own body. Elizabeth had it planned: the seaside villa, everything Nancy could possibly want, her own security, and Elizabeth could visit her every day, make sure she had everything she could need or want, ferrying her to the nearby medical center under the cover of being a close, deeply concerned friend.
It was a massive, almost unfathomable level of trust, and Nancy had been floored by the request. She had never considered surrogacy, not in her wildest dreams. But the symmetry of it was somehow appealing. Elizabeth had saved Nancy's life; Nancy could bring the life of Elizabeth's child into the world.
But it meant staying away from everyone in her life for most of a year, especially considering the preparations Nancy had to go through to make her body ready for pregnancy. All she had been and still was going through had made Elizabeth incredibly sensitive and anxious, and she insisted that, if Nancy agreed, she would stay in the villa for the duration of the pregnancy.
And how, Nancy had asked, would they explain her absence? Elizabeth definitely didn't want anyone knowing the real cause of the pregnancy, so the most likely explanation would involve Ned, a passionate night...
And then a breakup. Nursing a broken heart in a distant island paradise.
Elizabeth had suggested a plan for that, too. Someone posing as Nancy could enroll at a distant college, one where no one knew her. The real Nancy could return after the baby was safely delivered with no one the wiser, and pick up her life where she had left off. But Elizabeth's paranoia meant that no stranger could be trusted with the impersonation, even after Bess and George had joined the deception and agreed to cover for a faux Nancy at their eventual choice of Wilder.
Wilder, where Elizabeth's half-brother basically constituted the entirety of the computer science department. And he had been working on a robot prototype for a long time, now.
It had all felt like a dream, some ridiculous hallucination. Nancy had known that leaving Ned on his own for a year would be a breakup, even if neither of them spoke the words. The longer she thought about it, the more strongly she believed that helping Elizabeth was the right choice.
But her heart would break every day, without Ned.
When she went to him, when she explained, tears in her eyes, her heart already aching, Ned had taken her hands in his. "How little faith you must have in me," he murmured, searching her eyes, his own dark. "Think about it, Nan. If you were to find yourself pregnant..." They both smiled, knowing that though they had come close, they hadn't yet crossed that line. "I'd want to be there for all of it."
"But I'll be with Elizabeth. She needs me close, for a year..."
"So you'll be pregnant, away from everyone, vulnerable. Why wouldn't I be there to help protect you?"
Nancy's eyes widened. "Because you'd be, what, taking a break from Emerson for a year?"
Ned shrugged. "I can work something out with my instructors. Do a long-distance thing."
"And football? Basketball, baseball?"
Ned smiled, and his smile became a grin. "I think they can manage without me," he replied. "It'll make my comeback next year all the more epic, anyway."
She reached up and stroked his cheek. "Ned, you don't have to do this," she murmured. "It's so much. It's just so much..."
"You're giving up a year of your life, allowing your own body to... to grow someone. It's a massive sacrifice. And I guess I'm just a jealous, selfish bastard, but... I just don't want to give you up for a year." He smiled. "Besides, it's a perfect cover, right? Let me play the doting father-to-be. No one would ever suspect the truth. And..."
Then he trailed off, still searching her eyes, and she could almost hear it, could almost feel what he had nearly said.
A part of her had been half-convinced he would quietly smile and shake his head, but he hadn't. And knowing he would be there beside her, living with her... that cemented it all, for her.
At least he wouldn't waste the year. Teaching himself via textbooks, driving to town to laboriously electronically mail his assignments to his instructors—even that setup had taken some intense persuasion, but at least it had been allowed.
Nancy touched her rounded belly again, and smiled.
One day, this could be them.
"What are you thinking?"
Nancy directed her smile at Ned. "About next time," she admitted. Until this, until she had actually been pregnant, she had never really imagined it. Now, with Ned doting on her, living with her, it was easy to imagine him as a father-to-be, to imagine a birth that wouldn't be bittersweet. Nancy felt affectionate toward the growing life in her, but she knew she would be giving up the baby; a pregnancy that was wanted, adored, that would result in a baby that was part of both of them, a baby they could cradle in their arms, sing lullabies to, rock to sleep...
He smiled, too. "Next time," he agreed.
She reached for the juice and downed half of it. "Baby loves orange juice."
Ned chuckled. "We'll be buying it in bulk soon."
Nancy swept her hair off her shoulder and laughed quietly, though it trailed off quickly. She knew exactly why Elizabeth had chosen her for this incredible responsibility, and any biological compatibility was only part of the story. Nancy had promised herself that before the baby was born, she would put the gang threatening Elizabeth away for good. That way Elizabeth could bond with her new baby without worrying the entire time that someone might kidnap or hurt her.
It was a humbling responsibility, to protect someone with her own body, especially so literally.
When she stood, Ned crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, then dropped a kiss on her head. "I'm really not sure life could be better than this," he admitted.
She turned and caught his lips in a long, sweet kiss. "Not here, anyway," she replied.
"Back home?"
Her eyes were aglow as she searched his. Maybe it was the hormones, all the ways her body was changing, but she was seeing Ned in a way she never quite had before.
"Thanks for putting your life on hold to stay here with me."
Ned grinned. "It's not a hardship at all," he told her. "There's no one I'd rather take a year off with. Nowhere else I'd rather be. Not now and not ever again."
Their gazes met and held. Her heart was beating faster.
"Yes," she whispered. "Ned, yes."
He brushed his lips against hers. "Just think," he murmured. "Most proud parents have to wait years to see little versions of themselves running around. And you..."
Nancy snickered. "She tries," she sighed. "But yours..."
Ned sighed, a far more dramatic sound. "Had to fake a broken heart because I would be damned if some metal puppet was going to tank all my stats this year."
"Not to mention, if your robot was hanging around Emerson, I can totally imagine Bess kidnapping it."
Ned shuddered. "He wasn't gonna fool anyone, and there's no way he'd fool Bess."
Nancy shook her head. "It's pretty insulting to imagine I have a robot pretending to be me and no one's noticed it, isn't it?"
Ned shrugged. "It's Wilder. They aren't known for their Mensa candidates. Which was kinda the point, really, wasn't it?"
She nodded, then giggled when he gently picked her up and turned in a slow twirl.
"I love you, Nan."
She drew his face to hers, and they kissed until she was clinging to him, unsteady on her feet, her heart in her eyes. After this, she didn't know how she would go back to sleeping alone.
After this, she wasn't sure she would have to.
"I love you too."