Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Danger Zone (6 page)
Frank's hands were coiled around the phone receiver as if it were a lifeline to his mother. For a few seconds he and Joe could only stand, stunned.
When he finally did hang up Frank noticed that his knuckles were white.
He looked at Joe and saw an expression on his face he'd never seen before. Was it terror? Fear? Anger? He wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he knew he was feeling it, too. Nothing they'd experienced before - multimillion-dollar heists, terrorist threats, computer scams - none of them compared to the kidnapping of their mother.
Everything that needed to be said was in the brief glance the boys exchanged. Biff, Chet, and Phil must have sensed it, too, because they didn't say a word. They watched with silent respect as Frank and Joe walked back to their father's office.
"Is she all right?" Aunt Gertrude called after them.
Frank and Joe didn't hear the question, and they were only vaguely aware of Aunt Gertrude rushing into the room behind them. All three of them stood watching Fenton Hardy, waiting for his reaction.
He sat, looking down, rhythmically tapping his pen on a legal pad. When he raised his head his face was taut and composed.
"Dad?" Joe finally said.
Fenton Hardy met his son's gaze. His eyes were burning. Frank and Joe knew he had a plan.
But it would have to wait. The sudden, cold jangle of the phone stopped him before he could say a word.
His arm shot out for the receiver. "Hardy!" he said, almost shouting.
Frank and Joe watched his features relax a bit. "Oh, sorry, Larry. ... Yes, I'm fine. ... Well, it's a long story. I'll let you talk to him." He held out the phone to Frank. "It's the Beast."
"Larry," Frank said, grabbing the phone. "I'll call you back in five, okay?"
'Oh, sure, Frank," the Beast replied. "But it'll only take a sec - "
"Thanks," Frank cut in. "Don't go anywhere." He slammed the phone down.
"What'd you do that for?" Joe asked.
"I don't want to take any chances," Frank answered. "We found a bug in the wall, but how can we be sure they haven't tapped our phone line?"
"Good point," Mr. Hardy said. "But how did the Beast get involved in this?"
"We may have a lead on the owner of the car that attacked the van yesterday," Frank wrote on a piece of yellow lined paper. "I'm going to a pay phone." Then out loud he said, "Come on, Joe."
Frank and Joe ran out to the rented car and drove to Pie in the Sky, a pizza place five blocks from home. Through the window they could see it was crowded, but the pay phone by the door was unoccupied.
"Perfect," Frank said.
"I don't know, Frank," Joe replied, scanning the parking lot, which was full of cars coming and going. "Maybe I'm being paranoid, but at this point I wouldn't be surprised if someone was following us with a shotgun mike."
"That's why this place is so perfect. Even if someone was parked right outside, he wouldn't pick us up over the crowd noise."
By the time Joe parked Frank was already at the phone. He dialed Larry Beister's number.
"Hello, meester, this is Larry Biester!" came the Beast's voice.
"I think you've been sitting in front of a VDT too long," Frank replied. "It's warped your sense of humor."
"Ooh, you really know how to hurt a guy," the Beast said. "This is what I get for doing you a favor?"
"I take it back," Frank said with a laugh. "Did you get the info?"
"Hey, was there ever any doubt?" the Beast said triumphantly. "The plates are for a Buick registered under the name Todd Brewster, eighty-five Barrow Street, Marfield, Massachusetts."
"Todd Brewster, eighty-five Barrow Street," Frank repeated so that Joe could hear it. "Beister, you're a genius."
"Just do me one favor."
"What's that?"
"When it's all over, call and tell me what this was about."
"We'll come up and tell you in person," Frank said.
"Over a pot of my famous homemade baked beans!" the Beast added.
"On second thought, maybe we'll call." With a laugh and a quick goodbye Frank hung up and raced back to the car.
***
In minutes Frank and Joe had returned to their house. They barged through the front door to see Mr. Hardy pacing the living room floor. Aunt Gertrude stood to the side, her face creased with concern. Biff, Chet, and Phil were nowhere to be seen.
"There's got to be a way to find her," he said without losing a step. "There was only about an hour between the time they took her and the time they called. They couldn't have gone far; my guess is they're still near Bayport."
"Dad," Joe said, "we found out the name of the guy who followed us. It's Todd Brewster, and he lives in Marfield."
Mr. Hardy stopped pacing. He cocked his head, deep in thought. "The name doesn't ring a bell, but it's a lead, and a strong one. One of us should go stake him out."
"I'll do it," Frank said.
"Good," Mr. Hardy replied. "I want to stick around to see if I can dig up anything about any newcomers in Bayport."
Joe was fiddling with the nautical rope, which Mr. Hardy had brought into the living room. "I'll check out the harbor area. Maybe they're hanging out down there."
"There's one problem," Frank said. "I know it's a rented car, I know we shook off a tail in Springfield, but they know we're here now. What if I'm followed to Massachusetts?"
Fenton nodded gravely. "I'll take care of it." He pulled a fistful of change out of his pocket and quickly examined it. "The phone company's going to love us today. Be back in a minute."
When Fenton Hardy returned from his drive to the pay phone he was carrying a sheet of paper with a hand-drawn map. He thrust it toward Frank. "Here's the way you'll get to Marfield. It's basically small highways all the way, with a couple of detours onto roads. Whatever you do, don't deviate from this route."
"Right," Frank said.
"And be sure to check in with Winthrop tomorrow."
"Right," Frank said again. He folded the map and put it in his pocket. After a quick goodbye he ran out to the car, armed with a cold soda and a couple of sandwiches that Aunt Gertrude had slipped him.
It was going to be a long ride.
Halfway through Connecticut Frank was slowed down by a major accident and sat in traffic for over an hour while it was cleared. Following the route his father had given him, Frank had wound his way through the centers of many small towns.
Now Frank felt his eyelids getting heavy. The night's sleep at the Marfield Motor Hotel had obviously not been enough. He lifted his directions to eye level and stole a quick glance. He was to take the next exit and snake around a tiny town called Devaron, then get back on the highway at the next exit.
A tiny voice inside him grumbled that the trip would have been much faster if he had been able to stick to the highways.
Resignedly, he took the Devaron exit and made his way along a narrow, unlit road through a forest. On the winding turns his headlights shone white against the many tree trunks and bushes. Farther along there were clusters of small houses. Moments later the building gave way to forest again, and Frank realized he had gone through the town already. Below him weeds peeked out of the ruts. He felt as if no one had driven this way in months.
As the road straightened out he found himself hoping for an all-night gas station or convenience store where he could pick up something to drink. Maybe around the next bend?
Frank sped into the next turn faster than he had intended. The curve continued for more than 150 degrees. His tires screamed as the car listed to the left.
When the road finally straightened out Frank was only riding two wheels - both on the left side. The first thing he saw in his headlights was four people, all dressed in blue, diving for the side of the road. Then he saw the flashing lights.
Frank's foot hit the brake as the car fell back on four wheels. He registered that there was something ahead of him, blocking his way. As he skidded from side to side Frank made out what the lights were for, and why those people were dressed in blue.
He was zigzagging straight at a police roadblock!
The sound of Frank's tires screeching grew louder and louder. Through the windshield the light blue sawhorses loomed larger, as if they were growing in crazy time-lapse photos. Behind the sawhorses two police cars were parked nose to nose, their lights flashing. Frank clenched his jaw and waited for the crash.
His fingers were locked around the steering wheel. His teeth were bared, and his eyes were closed to shut out the moment of impact. But there was no crash. His brakes held.
When Frank opened his eyes the bright white message "Property of Devaron Police Dept." painted on a blue sawhorse was about three quarters of an inch from his front grille.
"Couldn't you get it a little closer?" came a gruff voice from the side of the road.
Frank spun around to see a broad-shouldered policeman strolling toward him. The reality of the situation came flooding back. Here he was on a strange road in the middle of northern Connecticut, dead tired at ten o'clock, trying to track down a man who might be following him. Now he was about to go to jail for almost wiping out an entire smalltown police department. "Sorry, officer," he said.
"You'll be even sorrier if you don't have your license and registration," the officer answered. Behind him three other officers stood impassively by the side of the road.
Frank took his license out of his wallet and opened the glove compartment for the rental registration. He handed them over. "I didn't expect something like this in the middle of - " He stopped himself, guarding his choice of words in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
"Nowhere? Is that what you were going to say?" The officer leaned down and pushed his face through Frank's window. There was a grin across his stubbled face.
"Well, I don't see roadblocks anywhere too often," Frank replied. He could see the other police officers sauntering closer.
The officer nodded silently. Frank fidgeted as the man's coal black eyes bore down on him. "You look a lot like your dad," he finally said.
Frank was sure he hadn't heard right. "Uh, excuse me?"
The officer stood and turned to the others. "Fenton Hardy's son. Pretty good resemblance, huh?"
Smiling, they nodded in agreement. Frank felt completely bewildered. "What's going on here? How do you know my dad?"
The officer stuck his hand out toward Frank. "Henry Singer, chief of Devaron Police. I'm an old colleague of your dad's from way back when we were on the New York City police force. He called a few hours back to warn me you'd be coming through here and might have a tag along breathing down your neck. I told him to route you along this road and I'd make sure you got to Marfield alone."
In front of him one of the officers had climbed into a police car, and another was moving a sawhorse away.
Frank's grin now mirrored Officer Singer's. "Thanks," he said as a feeling of relief washed away his tension.
"All right, now, why don't you pull over to the side?"
Frank felt a shudder of dread. Was he going to give him a ticket after all?
Officer Singer seemed to read Frank's mind. 'Don't worry. I brought my car for you to use." He indicated a small Firebird resting on the right shoulder. "In case anyone is' after you, this'll really throw them off. This car will be okay. Your dad gave me the address of the rental place, and I'll have one of my rookies return it tomorrow."
"But - your own car? I can't - "
"I've been trying to sell it for weeks," Officer Singer said, chuckling. "Hey, if you like it, maybe you can make me an offer."
Frank maneuvered his car to the side and got out. "I'll talk to my dad about it."
As Frank got in and started it up Officer Singer gave him a little salute. "Say hello to him for me," he said.
"You bet," Frank replied. He shifted into gear as the police car moved away, clearing the road.
"One other thing," Officer Singer added as Frank started off.
Frank stopped again and looked back out the window.
"Uh, keep it under the speed limit, okay, buddy?" the officer said with a wink.
Frank smiled and pulled away, obeying the advice.
Turning left around the next bend, he thought he could hear the screech of tires. It might have come from the highway, which he could see in the distance - or it might have come from behind him. But when he looked into his rear-view mirror the roadblock was out of sight.
Either way, Frank had a good feeling as he drove up the ramp to the highway - a feeling that he was definitely on his own.
***
Number 85 looked like all the other houses on Barrow Street - two stories, white shingles, a sloping roof with a dormer, and a screened-in porch. In front there were neat hedges and a well-kept lawn. Sort of a disappointment, Frank thought. So average and unthreatening.
Except for what was parked in the driveway, that is. The outline of the familiar Buick sat there, its black-tinted windows shut for the night, its license number, NZE-809, the same that he had seen the night before.
Frank looked carefully at the house. Whoever this Todd Brewster was, he was asleep.
Which was good, as far as Frank was concerned. He nestled himself into as comfortable position as he could. It wasn't his bedroom, but it felt a whole lot better than driving. In fact, it felt pretty terrific at that moment. As he drifted into sleep he thought that maybe he would ask his dad to make Officer Singer an offer on the car.
***
The next thing Frank knew, he was squirming under the heat of some kind of spotlight. He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there. He was only aware of intense orange light that was making his head throb and his neck ache.
Leering down at him was Todd Brewster. He had never seen the man, but somehow he knew it was him. Brewster's lean face looked like a skull with a thin layer of flesh. Behind him, screaming as she was engulfed by flames, was Laura Hardy. Frank tried to go after her but couldn't move. He tried to yell, but his mouth was frozen. A sharp, paralyzing pain began to shoot down his neck, spreading to his shoulders. ...
Frank's eyes flew open. A startled gasp escaped from his mouth. He squinted at the early-morning sun that was framed by his windshield.
Of course. He had parked facing east, and in his dream the rising sun had become a spotlight.
He grabbed his neck, which had stiffened during the night and now throbbed with pain. The nightmare was over, but waking up was no joy. He had to get out, walk around, shake out the cobwebs.
But the moment he grabbed the door handle he froze. Across the street a screen door had slammed. He looked out his window.
An athletic-looking blond man walked out of 85 Barrow Street. He was about six foot one, and he wore a neatly pressed dark suit. There was a leather briefcase in his left hand. With his right hand he waved to a neighbor and shouted a friendly greeting.
" 'Morning, Todd," the neighbor called as Brewster climbed into the Buick.
Frank felt a twinge of relief that Todd Brewster was not the cadaverous man he'd seen in his dream. In fact, Brewster's most outstanding characteristic was that he was so average. He was about the last person Frank would expect to be a hit man.
Frank waited until Brewster was a block away before he started up the Firebird. He followed him through the suburban streets and onto a busy main thoroughfare.
As the sun streamed in through his window Frank put down the visor and stifled a yawn. He had a sense of déjà vu about this street, but it left as quickly as it had come.
Brewster turned off the main road and onto a long street that curved sharply left. For a few moments Frank lost him, and his heart started to race.
But when he came around the bend he saw Brewster's car up ahead. Suddenly Frank knew where his déjà vu had come from.
He had been here before - the Marfield Center for Experimental Research!