Read Nightmare in Angel City Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Nightmare in Angel City (3 page)
The Hardys pressed their backs together. "Take out as many as you can," Frank whispered to Joe, "before we make a break for it." From every direction the menacing figures continued to stalk them. Then suddenly they began to snicker among themselves, until the alley seemed to become filled with laughter.
"Okay, guys, that's enough!" cried a voice.
To the brothers' surprise, the people turned away as they were just an arm's length from the Hardys.
From a doorway stepped a woman. It was too dark to see her face, but in the light from the street the Hardys could see she was dressed in a ragged jacket and blue jeans. Her head, covered by a ski cap, appeared to be too small for her body. Then Joe realized that she, too, was wearing several layers of clothing. In her hands were several bulging shopping bags.
With a quavering voice the woman said, "So you think this poor boy has your wallet?"
Frank blinked and strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the bag lady's face. Despite the distorted way she had spoken, he knew that voice!
"Callie?" he said cautiously. Everyone broke into uproarious laughter again, and, grinning, Callie Shaw strode into the light.
"Callie Shaw!" Joe snapped angrily. "What are you doing? Frank's been going nuts wondering what's happened to you."
"Nice to see you, too, Joe," Callie said.
The circle of street people stepped aside, and Frank moved close to Callie. "What's going on here? Why are you dressed like that? Who are these people?" Involuntarily, he wrinkled his nose.
"The smell," Callie whispered. "I know. It took me a while to get used to it too." She gestured to the street people and raised her voice. "Everyone, these are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy. Meet Adrienne, Frank and Joe."
A small woman, barely older than Frank, nodded slightly. She wore blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and old sneakers with the toes worn through. "Pleased to meet you," she said.
"Bob and Jimmy." Two men—the first black, wearing a short windbreaker and corduroy trousers, and the second, white and bearded—grinned and said, "Howdy."
An older man with cowboy boots and a three-day stubble leaned toward the Hardys. "I'm Charlie," he said. "You can call me Charlie."
Callie flagged forward the boy who had taken Frank's wallet. "Okay, Lewis. You can give Frank his wallet back. Don't worry, he won't hurt you." To Frank and Joe she said, "I needed some way to get you to come to me without showing myself."
The boy called Lewis moved toward them, the wallet stretched out before him. Frank took the billfold as Lewis backed away quickly into the darkness.
Callie watched Frank check the contents of his wallet. "Come on, Frank!" she said, annoyed. "They're not thieves, they're street people."
"We're artists," Bob corrected her. "Just down on our luck."
"You still haven't explained what you're doing here," Joe told Callie.
"Yeah, Callie," Frank said, angry now. "You told me on the phone you were in trouble. We were cut off with a clunk — I thought you might be dead."
"I'm sorry if I scared you. But I really am in trouble. Look, I've got to catch a bus to Santa Monica. That's where we're staying. I'll tell you everything on the way. Will you come?" Frank didn't budge. "Please, I need you."
Frank knew Callie must really be in trouble or ' she wouldn't have pulled such a rotten stunt. "Okay," he said, and nodded once. "Joe?"
Joe nodded too. "Why a bus?" Joe asked.
"Two reasons," said Callie. "First, it's the only thing, besides walking, my friends can afford. Second, buses stop and go. It's easy to spot someone tailing a bus."
"Tailing?" Frank repeated apprehensively.
"What kind of trouble are you in?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. It's a big story. Come on, I'll tell you all about it."
***
The abandoned bottling plant, decades old, stood on the beach between the Santa Monica pier and new condominiums built to the south. Once the plant had bottled a local brand of soft drink. It would be gone soon to make room for more condominiums, but in the meantime it housed dozens of homeless people, most of them : artists or musicians. Many had their musical instruments with them. Others kept supplies of paper and ink for drawing beside their makeshift cots. The walls inside the plant had been painted . with vividly colored murals in many different styles.
"There's quite a little art colony here," Callie told Frank and Joe as they toured the building. "They're great people, but for one reason or another they don't have homes, so they camp out here. They help one another out."
"Wonderful," said Joe, getting angry. "Callie, we flew for six hours. I've been scorched. Frank had to jump from a speeding car. We're both dead tired — we want to know what's going on."
"Okay," Callie said. "You know about my broadcast journalism class."
"Yes," said Frank, not sure if he could believe anything now.
"Well, when I heard about this colony of artists, I decided to do my final class project on them. You know, interview them, tape their daily routines. But when I approached them, they didn't want anything to do with me. I had to get close to them."
"So you pretended to be one of them," Joe observed. "Callie, I didn't think you had it in you."
"Thanks — I think," Callie said. "Anyway, it was great. I had a video camera concealed in a bag and my microphones hidden in my clothes. They didn't even know the equipment was there. After a day they started talking to me. And I decided to narrow my report down to six people: the five you met and Patch."
"Patch?"
"I don't know what his real name is. He's an older man—in his forties, I'd say. He has a patch over his right eye, so everyone calls him Patch. Well, I couldn't get him to open up to me.
"So I followed him—discreetly, from a distance. A couple of times he spotted me and ducked away, so I started following him in disguises.
"Last night when I followed him, I tracked him to the beach up near Pacific Palisades. He waited in one spot until about five this morning. Then a policeman came onto the beach — "
"A policeman?" Frank said.
"Yeah. He was in uniform and carrying a briefcase," Callie continued. "I thought it was strange, so I started videotaping the whole thing. They seemed to know each other. Patch started yelling at the cop, but I wasn't close enough to hear what he was saying. The policeman handed Patch the briefcase, and as Patch opened it, the policeman drew his revolver and aimed it at Patch."
"And, of course, you yelled," Joe said, speculating.
"Isn't that what you would have done?" Callie said sharply. "This is my story. Please stop interrupting. When the policeman heard my voice, he spun around and aimed at me. He was a good shot too. He smashed my camera, and I thought I was done for. But Patch stopped him. He hit him over the head with the briefcase."
' She frowned. "It flew open, and I could see it was empty. Whatever the policeman was supposed to bring he didn't. Patch took off down the beach while the policeman staggered in loopy circles. I grabbed the camera and took off. It didn't look like anyone was chasing me, so I stopped at the first phone booth and called you. I thought I'd better get some help."
"Then what?" asked Frank.
"Then, right after we talked a minute, I saw the cop coming down the road toward me. I dropped the phone and ran. Late this afternoon when I got to school I heard a policeman had been nosing around looking for me. How he traced me to school I can't figure."
"But once he found out who you were it · must've been easy to learn where you were staying. With Emma," Frank said.
"Aunt Emma? I forgot to call her!" Callie said, covering her mouth with her hand. Now she looked more like the Callie that Frank and Joe remembered. "Has anything happened to her?"
"No," Frank said hesitantly, deciding not to say anything about the firebomb. "She's worried sick about you," Frank said very pointedly.
"Has she called my parents?"
"No, but she'll have to if she doesn't hear from you soon," Joe informed her.
"I'll call her right away," she said. "I haven't been home for a couple of days," she explained.] "When I got in with these people, I felt I had to stay."
"Now, listen, Callie. You've got to go back to Bayport on the next flight out. You're in more danger than you know."
"Frank Hardy!" Callie snapped. "Are you telling me to give up on a case?"
"I'm not telling. I'm asking," Frank replied sternly. "You're very important to me, and I want you out of — "
"Sorry to break you two lovebirds up," said Joe, "but do you smell something funny?"
Frank sniffed. "Gas," he said, surprised. He listened. Beneath the drone of voices he could hear a soft hiss. "Everyone out!" he shouted. "There's a gas leak."
Everyone crawled out of their beds and ran for the main door. "It won't open," one of them shouted. They all beat on it with their hands, then rammed it with their shoulders, but the steel door held.
Joe began to cough and looked up where the windows had once been set. They were boarded up now. "This place is filling up pretty quickly," Joe said, blurting out his words between gasps. "The gas must have been leaking for a while. We have to get out soon — this place is going to blow."
He barely heard his brother say, "It's no good. We're trapped." Joe tried to answer, but he felt suddenly dizzy.
Then Joe Hardy's legs gave out, and he pitched forward into darkness.
FROM SOMEWHERE JOE heard his brother's voice. "Joe, get up! If you go to sleep, you'll die. Wake up!" He felt a sharp pain in his cheek. Frank had pinched him.
Groggily, Joe opened his eyes. He wanted only to sleep. But he fought the lack of oxygen, and by sheer willpower forced himself to his feet. All around, everyone was scrambling to get out. But the other exit was jammed too. It was no good. Several people had collapsed as Joe had.
Joe's vision blurred as his eyelids started to close again. He shook himself awake. "Put something over your mouth and nose," Frank said, "It'll help filter out the gas." Joe ripped his sleeve from his shirt and tied it around his face.
Frank looked up at the boarded windows a good fifteen feet above his head. He started to sway on his feet, and Joe could tell the fumes were getting to him too. Callie sat down, and Frank harshly pulled her back to her feet. "Gas is heavier than air," he warned. "Down there you're finished." He stared at the windows again. "Up there I could breathe long enough to figure a way out—maybe."
Joe studied the factory. "The windows are too high up, Frank. Even if we made a pile of everything in this place, we couldn't reach them."
Frank tried both doors again. They didn't budge. "Something's blocking them outside." He gazed at the windows again. "They're our only hope, but how can we reach them?"
Callie brightened. "A human ladder." She ran to the others — the few who were still standing.
Two of the people started forcing their groggier companions to their feet, and soon they were all on their feet and shambling over to the Hardys.
"Here's your ladder," Callie said before coughing.
Bob braced himself against the wall next to Charlie. One man climbed up on Bob and stood with one foot on Bob's shoulders and one on Charlie's. One last man shinnied up to top off the pyramid. Callie nudged Frank. "Go on."
"Give me your belt, Joe," Frank said, and Joe peeled it off and shoved it into Frank's hand.
Carefully, Frank climbed the human ladder. Everyone was wobbly from the gas. At the top Frank tied Joe's belt to a pipe running beside the windows and looped his arm through it.
"I'm secure," he called down. "Everyone down now. I don't want anyone hurt." Suddenly there was nothing under his feet, and he dangled for a second until he reached up with his free hand to get a grip on the pipe. Below him, the human ladder was collapsing. He had only minutes left before everyone, including Callie and Joe, would be overcome. He had to work fast.
Quickly, he slid off his own belt and wedged the buckle under a plank of wood, hoping to work loose the nails holding the board to the building. Nothing. He pulled harder, but nothing budged. Frantically, he closed his eyes and yanked with all his strength.
The nails held, but the wood, rotted by the sea air, gave way, shattering into splinters. Frank saw the glass on the other side of the wood. Wrapping his belt around his hand, Frank punched through the glass. Cool sea air rushed in to sting his lungs and face.
Gulping the air, his strength returned and he found it easier to break the rotting boards. Within seconds he had cleared an area large enough to crawl through. Reaching the window latch, he slipped the window up, then pulled himself through the opening.
It was a twenty-foot drop to the beach. He dangled at the window's edge for a second, then let go, going limp as he fell. He crumpled as he hit the sand, rolled with the impact, and sprawled to a stop.
Legs aching from the shock, Frank forced himself to his feet and ran to the main door of the bottling plant. Someone had shoved a small dumpster against it and locked the wheels in place so it couldn't be moved. He kicked the locks free and shoved the bin out of the way.
The door swung open and everyone spilled out onto the beach, hungrily gulping the fresh air. Last out were Callie and Joe. Frank joined them on the sand.
"Everyone's out," Callie said. "That policeman must really want to get me. He nearly killed a whole building full of people."
"Hold on," said Frank. "We don't know for sure that our suspect is really a policeman. Second, he wasn't the one who did this."
Both Joe and Callie looked surprised. "What?"
"Think about it. No one followed us here. We were watching, and we'd have spotted him. And if he already knew you were staying here, he would have gone after you here, earlier, rather than at your aunt's house."
"Then," Callie began nervously, "someone else might be after me too."
"Right," said Joe. "It'd have to be someone who knew the plant though. I bet if we check, we'll find a gas pipe that's been broken open. The place filled up too quickly. It couldn't just have been a leak."