A Will to Survive (12 page)

Tanya sent Sal to find a carton. Wendy went over to her and said, “I know Dylan's telling the truth. I just know it!”

“I hope you are right, dear,” Tanya replied. “But I cannot afford to take chances. Come with me. We'll have a cup of tea. Callie, will you join us?”

Jack looked at his watch and announced that he was going to watch a favorite program on TV. Rahsaan went with him. That left Joe and Frank alone with Bruce.

“Dylan's been hanging around for a while, hasn't he?” Frank remarked. “What was he up to tonight that made you suspicious?”

Bruce hesitated. Joe expected him to say that Dylan had been tapping on the walls. Instead, he said, “This may sound funny, but he was fiddling with that painting, trying to look behind it.”

Joe looked where Bruce was pointing. The painting was hard to overlook. A weasel was crouched in the grass with its paw on a dead bird. It was snarling up at a red fox that was about to pounce from a rocky ledge. High above, a hawk circled, preparing to swoop down. All the colors seemed a little too bright and vivid to Joe.

“Did Walter Parent do that?” Frank asked.

“That's right,” Bruce said. He sounded surprised. “How did you know?”

“It reminds me of that big painting of his in the entrance hall,” Frank replied.

“Except this one's more true to life,” Joe added. “No bears having a chat with turtles.”

“Good point,” Bruce said, with a short laugh.

Frank went over to the painting and tilted it up.
“Nothing here,” he reported. “It's just a blank wall.”

Sal returned with a cardboard box. He helped Joe pick up the geological specimens from the floor. Frank got a broom and dustpan and dealt with the broken glass. Bruce watched the cleanup for a few minutes. Then he went away.

When they finished, Sal went downstairs to join the others in the TV room. The Hardys had the exhibit room to themselves. They circled the room, testing every joint in the wood panels. Frank discovered one built-in cabinet. All it held were some old rags and an empty tin of furniture wax.

Joe gave an exasperated sigh. “Did Parent really stick millions in diamonds in the wall somewhere?” he wondered. “How crazy can you get!”

“If
he did,” Frank replied, “he must have left some clue as to where they are. Remember, Carl said Parent meant this to be a puzzle. Puzzles have solutions.”

“He kept buying more diamonds until just a few weeks before his death,” Joe pointed out. “Maybe there's a clue in his last appointment book. You know, like an entry that reads, ‘Eleven-thirty—Hide diamonds in abandoned well.' ”

“It's worth a try,” Frank said.

Frank went to get the appointment book from the suitcase in his room. He and Joe sat at a table in the library and scoured it, page by page. After half an hour, Frank slammed it closed.

“Forget it,” he said in disgust. “If there's any pattern there, it's too subtle for me!”

He dropped the book on the table. It fell open at the first page. Parent had neatly written in his name, address, phone and fax numbers, driver's license number, and blood type. The only blotch on the page was in the section headed In Case of Accident Please Notify. Something had been written in, then crossed out with angry pen strokes.

Frank held the book up to the light. “I can't read the name,” he reported. “But there's a phone number. Take this down. . . .”

The computer in the library had access to the Internet. Joe and Frank logged on to a personal search site that included a reverse directory. Joe typed in the phone number and hit Enter. A few seconds later, the screen showed a listing for an Elaine Silver. The address was in a nearby town.

Joe stared up at Frank. “Silver? Isn't that Dylan's last name? Do you think . . . ?”

“Let's find out,” Frank replied. He reached for the telephone and dialed the number. After a pause, he said, “Hi. Is Dylan there? Oh, okay, thanks. No, no message. I'll call another time.”

The Hardys were silent for a few moments. Then Joe said, “Now we know why Dylan has been hanging around. He has some kind of close connection to Walter Parent. Remember, Tanya mentioned a distant cousin. What do you want to bet that cousin is Dylan's mom or dad? He probably blames
the Shorewood Nature Center for doing him out of a fortune. So he's trying to get revenge.”

“It makes sense,” Frank said somberly. “Now the big question is, what is Dylan planning to pull next?”

“We'd better look for him,” Joe suggested. As he and Frank left the library, they ran across Callie in the hall.

To Joe's question, Callie told them she had not seen Dylan since the scene in the exhibit room. “I know he's not with Wendy. I saw her just now in Tanya's office. She's pretty upset.”

“Do you think she'd talk to us?” asked Frank.

Callie shook her head decisively. “Not a chance,” she said. “She practically accused me of being part of a plot against Dylan, along with you guys, Bruce, Tanya, the King of Siam, and the U.S. Marine Corps Band.”

“I get it,” Joe said. “The old ‘They're all against us' bit. Very romantic—like Romeo and Juliet.”

Frank grabbed Joe and Callie by the arm and pulled them into an alcove behind a marble statue of a stag.

“Wha—” Callie started to say.

Frank put a finger to his lips, then pointed down the hall. Past the stag's neck, Joe saw Wendy. She had just come out of Tanya's office. She turned her head to look furtively up and down the corridor. Then she walked quickly toward the entrance hall and out through the front door.

“You want romantic?” Frank said softly. “How
about a meeting by moonlight with your banished boyfriend? Come on. Dylan may let her in on what he's planning. I want to hear.”

The three friends hurried to the front door. Joe found the switch for the hall light. They didn't want it to betray them when they opened the door to go outside.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Joe saw that there was still a hint of light in the western sky. The three-quarter moon was already high enough to light up the garden and the open area beyond. The encircling band of woods was black by contrast.

“She's headed for the reflecting pool,” Frank murmured. “Is that someone waiting by the bench?”

“Yes,” Callie whispered. “It's Dylan.”

Joe and Callie followed Frank across the grass. They circled to the left, keeping the neatly trimmed shrubbery between them and their target. They stopped when they were close enough to hear.

“I told Tanya,” Wendy was saying. Her voice quavered. “I swore you hadn't done anything wrong. But she wouldn't listen. She's like all the rest of them. They have it in for you because you're not part of the group. I can't believe they're so mean!”

“Listen, Wendy,” Dylan said. “There's something I have to tell you.”

“No, don't!” Wendy pleaded. “I can't bear it!”

“I haven't done anything wrong,” Dylan continued.
“But . . . well, I'm not really who I've been pretending to be. You see—”

He broke off and looked around. At that moment, Joe heard a noise like a giant blowing a lungful of air out through partly closed lips. A yellow-orange glow flickered on the bushes and trees.

Joe looked over his shoulder. The center showed in silhouette against the strengthening light. An alarm began to clang.

“Fire,” Joe said.
“Fire!”

Frank, Joe, and Callie jumped up and broke into a run. For a moment, Frank wondered if Dylan and Wendy would notice them. Then he dismissed the thought. This was an emergency. A minor concern like breaking his cover hardly mattered.

The flames shot higher against the night sky. Over the clamor of the alarm bell, Frank heard people yelling at the back of the mansion. As they rounded the corner of the building, he saw the source of the fire.

“It's Carl's workshop,” he shouted to Joe.

Joe nodded and kept running.

Sal and Jack ran across the staff parking lot a few yards in front of the Hardys. Each of them was holding one side of a big metal reel of rolled-up firehose. Up ahead, Rahsaan was waiting, wrench in hand, next to a red fireplug.

Sal tripped and fell, letting go of the reel. Taken by surprise, Jack, too, dropped the reel, which rolled across the pavement in the wrong direction. Hardly breaking stride, Frank and Joe changed course and picked it up. They carried it to the hydrant and helped Rahsaan attach one end of the hose.

“Will it reach?” Joe wondered, eyeing the distance to the workshop.

“There's only one way to find out,” Rahsaan replied. “Go! Yell when you're ready for water.”

The Hardys started unrolling the heavy canvas hose. Jack and Sal ran up to help. Sal was carrying a wooden pole.

“Here!” he shouted. “We can use this as an axle!” He poked the pole through the hole in the center of the reel. Joe, on the other side, grabbed his end and tugged. Now the reel was a sort-of wheel. It rolled as fast as they could push it. The hose unwound as they went.

When the nozzle end of the hose came off the reel, they were close enough to feel the heat of the fire. The windows of the workshop were filled with flames. Part of the roof had burned away, allowing the fire to leap up into the branches of the nearest trees.

Frank took a quick survey. The line of evergreens stretched all the way to the garage, stable, and carriage house. Unless they stopped the fire now, it could spread until all of Shorewood was in danger.

Joe and Jack stood on either side of the hose, holding the nozzle with both hands and bracing their feet. Sal waved his arm over his head and yelled to Rahsaan, “Let 'er rip!”

For a moment, nothing happened. Frank had time enough to wonder if the fireplug was connected to a source of water. Then the hose swelled. Suddenly a stream of water as thick as a baseball bat shot out of the nozzle.

Joe and Jack staggered backward from the force. Frank wrapped his arm around Joe's waist to give him support. Together they arced the water upward, toward the smoldering branches. A cloud of white smoke appeared, and the licking flames went out. Nearby, somebody sent up a cheer.

The next important area was the roof. It took time to learn to direct the powerful stream accurately. Soon, however, they started to get the feel of it. As the flames seemed to retreat in one place, they twitched the nozzle and sent the water shooting toward another part of the blaze.

Frank focused all his attention on the fire and the water. Gradually he became aware that he heard sirens approaching. Three fire trucks roared into the parking area and skidded to a stop. Moments later somebody slapped Frank on the back.

“Okay, buddy,” a voice shouted. “You've done your share. I'll take over now.”

Frank gladly gave his place at the nozzle to the firefighter. His arms and shoulders ached from
battling the force of the water, and his face and eyes stung from the heat of the flames. He stepped back and looked around.

Tanya was standing a few feet away. She had an arm around Carl's shoulders. The caretaker was staring with disbelief at the destruction of his workshop. Farther away, Wendy and Dylan were part of a bucket chain that kept the bushes and tree trunks damp. Others in the chain included Maureen, the cook, and several people Frank didn't recognize.

A man in khaki pants and a short-sleeved blue shirt came up to Tanya. “I understand you're in charge here,” he said. “I'm Robert Crowell, the district fire marshal. Can you tell me if any flammable substances were kept in this building?”

Frank and Joe moved closer to the little group.

“I wouldn't think so,” Tanya told the fire marshal. “This was Carl's workshop. Carl?”

“The main fuel tank is in a room off the garage,” Carl said. “I kept a little can of gas in the workshop, though. Just enough to refill the weed trimmer and leaf blower.”

“Was it closed tightly?” Crowell asked.

“You bet,” Carl said. “That's not something I take chances with.”

“Excuse me,” Tanya said. “I have the feeling you are not satisfied about this fire.”

“It's my job to investigate suspicious fires,” Crowell
said. “I don't think I ought to comment further at this point.”

Frank turned to Joe and murmured, “The fire spread awfully quickly. When we first got here, did you smell anything?”

Joe nodded. “Uh-huh. Smoke . . . and just a trace of gasoline.”

Before Frank could respond, Bruce rushed over to Tanya and Crowell. “Are you here investigating the fire?” he demanded. “I was one of the first on the scene. I was out taking a stroll and I spotted the flames.”

“Yes, sir?” Crowell prompted.

“As I came up,” Bruce continued, “I saw someone running into the woods. I recognized him. It was a young man who has been hanging around the center lately, causing trouble. Just a couple of hours ago, our director had to warn him to stay away.”

Those within hearing turned to stare at Dylan. His mouth fell open. “I . . . I . . . that's a lie!” he cried. Jack stepped over and put his hand on Dylan's arm. Dylan pushed him away and ran off into the night. Jack hesitated, then took a few steps after him.

“Let him go,” Tanya said. “We can find him later. Fighting the fire is more important. If he is guilty, the law will deal with him.”

“He isn't guilty!” Wendy declared. “He was with me. He didn't do anything. And I think you're all horrible!”

Frank grabbed Joe and pulled him off out of earshot of the others.

Callie rushed over to join them. “Dylan didn't set the fire,” she said indignantly. “We were watching him when it happened.”

“We know,” Frank replied. “Why is Bruce so sure it was Dylan?”

“Maybe he isn't,” Callie suggested. “Maybe he simply wants to get Dylan in trouble. They had that fight before.”