Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Danger Zone (7 page)
That same morning, Joe walked along the Bayport harbor. He glanced at the sheet of paper his dad had given him and read "Captain Claes Rymond, Scandinavian Shipping, Slip 7" once again.
The ships started at number four. Where the first three had been there was now an enormous parking lot. A high concrete wall had been built along the southern edge of the lot and painted with a multicolored mural to hide the blighted docks. Joe had seen photos of the Bayport waterfront fifty years earlier, and it had swarmed with barges, ferries, steamers, and other trade ships. Longshoremen toted boxes and sacks from the ships to the warehouses just inland. Nowadays only four hulking wooden docks remained, each topped with a cracked concrete walkway, and each looking as if it were about to fall into the inlet.
The warehouses that hadn't been torn down were dilapidated, and only half were in use. One of them was marked with a rusted metal sign that said: SC NDI AVI N HIPPIN .
Joe knocked three times on the front door, which was paneled with riveted metal sheets. He heard four hollow reports echo within the building and wondered if it was empty.
He was about to knock again when the door started to creak open. Out of the darkness within two small eyes glowed. Joe was faintly aware of a sweet burning smell.
"Yeah?" came a hoarse, reedy voice.
"J - Joe Hardy." Joe couldn't help feeling a little nervous.
The door opened all the way, revealing a short, hunched man with enormous shoulders. He continued looking at Joe through slitted eyes and sent out a puff of musty, fragrant smoke from the pipe in his mouth.
"Fenton's boy. Yeah, come in," he said in a barely audible mumble. "I'm Rymond, but you can call me Captain Claes."
As Joe followed him the clack-clack of their footsteps resounded through a room that stretched up at least fifty feet. Occasional bare light bulbs threw small pools of illumination every few feet. Aside from three clusters of boxes marked "Fragile" in one of the corners and a collection of tools on wall hooks, the room seemed almost empty to Joe.
The captain led Joe to a sturdy-looking wooden desk against the opposite wall. He plopped down in a green leather armchair, and Joe pulled up a folding chair.
"Captain Claes," Joe began, "as my father may have told you, I'm checking for any newcomers to this area - anyone who might own this rope or wear a shirt made of this material." He held out the nautical rope and green thread.
Captain Claes examined the two specimens and puffed on his pipe again. "I've seen this rope, all right - on just about every boat that's ever come through here. As for the thread, well, when I meet a fella I don't usually pay much attention to his wardrobe. That's just the way I am."
Joe could see he wasn't going to be any great help. "No unusual ships have come through?"
The captain thought for a moment. "Mike Merwin's tramp steamer, a couple of barge tugs. No, but I know those guys like I know me." He shook his head. "Nope, guess I can't help you."
"Okay, thanks." Joe sprang from his seat and began heading for the door, happy to be leaving. But Captain Claes's voice stopped him.
"You might try the marina, young fella. Seems there's a heck of a lot more pleasure craft these days than trade ships. Look up Paul Douglas in Bayport Marine Supplies. He keeps his eye on everything over there."
***
Bayport Marine Supplies was a sprawling glass building overlooking the marina, which was thriving with activity.
Joe quickly found Paul Douglas, a silver-haired, mustached man, behind the cash register. When he described what he was looking for Mr. Douglas looked at him as if he were crazy.
He repeated Joe's request. "You want to track down someone who just arrived at the marina? Is that all you're going to tell me? What color is his hair? How old? Is he bigger than a bread box?"
"The trouble is, I don't know," Joe said with exasperation. "But I'm sure most of the boat owners come in here a lot. Wouldn't you notice if someone a little ... unusual started hanging around?"
Mr. Douglas looked out the window and drummed his fingers on the counter. "You know, there is that yacht that pulled in the other day. The guys on board haven't stopped in here yet. I don't think they're too friendly." He gave a short, sniffling laugh. "Either that or they're trying to hide something."
Joe's eyes lit up. Now they were getting somewhere. "What do you mean, 'hide something'? How can you tell?"
Mr. Douglas shrugged. "Hey, I'm only shooting off my mouth, but it seems kind of strange that they've docked so far out in the harbor." He gestured out the window with his arm. "You can barely see them. Can't figure out why those guys don't come in closer; there's plenty of spots this time of year. Maybe they like their privacy."
"You said 'guys,' " Joe pressed. "Have you seen them?"
"Well, two of them did come ashore once the other evening in a big old powerboat. They went to the grocery store and then right back out to the ship again." He looked toward the door and nodded to a young couple who had just walked in.
"Do you remember what they looked like?"
Now Mr. Douglas was beginning to get annoyed. "Hey, what is this? The third degree? No, I don't remember what they looked like. Look, if you'd like to buy something, be my guest. But if not, I'd be happy if you'd let me do my business here, all right?"
Joe pointed to a rack of fishing rods along the wall. "I'll take two of those," he said.
Mr. Douglas smiled. "Okay, now we're talking."
***
Joe paced the dock impatiently, dragging the fishing rods along the wooden slats. He was about to check his watch for the tenth time when Tony Prito walked up beside him.
"Tony!" Joe called out. "What took you so long?"
"Hey, give be a break," Tony replied. "You only called fifteen minutes ago. I thought I did pretty well, considering I had to search around the house for my dad's binoculars."
He was holding the binoculars in one hand and a floppy, plaid porkpie hat in the other. When he put it on his head the brim sagged down over his eyes and ears. "My fishing hat," he said with a grin. "How do I look?"
"Like a dweeb. It's perfect."
"Thank you. Here's yours." He held out a wide-brimmed fedora with the hatband missing.
"Leather," Joe said flatly, running his fingers over the water-stained cowhide. "This'll be nice and cool." He put it on and immediately felt sweat form on his brow.
"Well, at least the mystery kidnappers won't see our faces," Tony remarked. "Did you rent a boat?"
Joe nodded and led him to a small motorboat tied to the dock near Bayport Marine Supplies. The rods he had bought sat on the floor.
"Where's the bait?" Tony asked, climbing in.
Joe gave him a sharp look. "This isn't a real fishing trip, Tony, remember?" He stepped into the boat and pulled the motor's starter. "It's more of a big-game hunt."
The engine roared to life. Joe throttled it down and steered the boat into the marina, taking a course to the right of the mysterious yacht. As they drew closer Tony remarked, "Wow. I thought they stopped making these after World War Two."
The boat was hulking and weather-worn, with patches on the side and an array of antennae and disks on deck. Joe was itching to use the binoculars. He cut the engine and tossed Tony a fishing rod. "Okay," he said. "Let's see what's biting."
They quickly cast their rods. While Tony pretended to troll for fish Joe propped his rod against the side of the boat with his leg. Then he held the binoculars to his eyes and aimed them at the yacht.
"It's old-fashioned, all right," Joe said. "It has steam engines instead of diesel. But take a look at the electronic equipment." He handed the binoculars to Tony.
Tony let out a low whistle. "Looks like they borrowed it from the space shuttle."
"It's state-of-the-art stuff," Joe said, taking the glasses back. "Satellite communications, radar - looks almost like a spy ship."
"No kidding," Tony said in awe.
Just then a flash of light caught Joe's attention. At first he thought it was glare off one of the ship's metal disks. But when he aimed his binoculars at the source he realized he was wrong.
It was another pair of binoculars, focused straight at him.
"Uh - oh," he muttered.
The whine of an outboard motor broke the peaceful silence. A powerboat was racing toward them from behind the yacht. Joe quickly stashed the binoculars under his seat and grabbed his fishing rod.
The boat didn't slow down as it approached. Instead it aimed straight for the stern of the small motorboat.
Tony's look said it all. "What is this dude trying to prove?"
The powerboat began circling Joe and Tony's boat counterclockwise, once - twice. It picked up speed, making its circle tighter and tighter.
In its wake Joe and Tony's boat pitched up and down violently. The fishing rods clattered to the deck.
"We're going to capsize!" Tony shouted.
"Hang on!" Joe shouted back, clinging to the side.
"What does he want?" Tony's voice had become a terrified wail.
As if in answer, the powerboat slowed down and sliced back toward the yacht.
From its deck a man in a windbreaker leaned out with a megaphone.
"Better stay away, kids," his voice blared. "Or next time we go through your boat!"
"See you later, honey," the man said, leaning in the driver's window of the station wagon.
Frank stiffened at the sound of the voice. It was Muldoon, the guard who had stopped him and Joe the day before in the lobby of the Center for Experimental Research. He was saying goodbye to his wife. In his right hand was a small box wrapped in birthday gift paper.
Frank ducked behind his car, pretending to check his tires. When he looked back up the station wagon was gone, and Muldoon was walking through the front door of the building.
It wasn't going to be easy getting in past Muldoon.
Frank left the car and began sauntering toward the back of the building. The center sat on a slope, at the bottom of which was a truck dock - and, Frank hoped, an entrance.
Walking downhill, he kept the dark-tinted windows of the center's first floor in his peripheral vision. They were all lit by overhead fluorescents, except for one that was pitch-dark. He was surprised to hear a flurry of whispers drift out of the dark room's half-opened window. He considered turning and walking around the building the other way.
Suddenly the lights in that office flickered on, and a chorus of "Happy Birthday" blasted out. Frank gave a glance and saw Muldoon, Todd Brewster, and a couple dozen others singing to an embarrassed-looking red-haired woman.
If he was going to get inside, this would be the perfect time. He ran to the truck dock.
There was a door there, a heavy steel door with no handle. Frank tried to pry the door open with his fingers, but it was obviously locked. The sliding truck doors were padlocked, too.
Frank ran a few feet to his right and looked around the corner to the back of the building. A solid wall of glass and steel stretched across its entire length.
He decided to try the front door. As long as Muldoon was in the party room, Frank might be able to bluff his way in.
He had gone only a few steps when the steel door burst open. Thinking fast, he ducked behind a large white trailer that was parked at the dock.
"I can't believe she didn't know!" came someone's voice.
"She told me it was a total surprise." That voice was Muldoon's - and it was coming closer.
Frank felt the trailer begin to rock. Startled, he backed away. Did they know he was there?
From within the trailer a jumble of male voices was heard. He caught a few snatches: "Where's my shirt?" and "I knew they wouldn't get that oil stain out!" and "They really shrunk this thing!"
Frank realized the truck was used as some sort of makeshift dressing room. Suddenly it was clear to him how he could get into the center.
He waited for the men to leave, listening for the click of the metal door. Then he sprang into action, darting across to the front of the trailer. He reached out to test the doorknob.
It clicked open. Frank climbed inside and shut the door behind him.
He scanned the shelves along the wall, which contained neat stacks of kitchen whites, lab coats, and janitor uniforms. Then his eyes fell on a heavily starched and folded guard uniform.
He picked up the shirt, letting the sleeves drop down. It looked as if he was in luck - it was about his size, maybe a little big. The right sleeve was - ripped!
And the uniform was green.
Green cotton twill. Frank smiled. He had found Aunt Gertrude's "forest ranger." So one of the guys who kidnapped his mother worked at the Center for Experimental Research.
Quickly Frank changed into the uniform, stashing his jeans, T-shirt, and jacket in a large plastic hamper.
He stepped out of the trailer and walked to the front of the building. Just as Frank had hoped, Muldoon was hard at work on a crossword puzzle. Without looking up he grunted a greeting as Frank walked by.
Walking quickly and purposefully through the lobby, Frank headed for the elevator and pressed the up button. Behind him a few workers crossed from one hallway to the next. Frank paced back and forth, stealing a glance into the office next to the elevators, the room from which the security chief had emerged the day before. On the door were the words "Security/K. Straeger."
Just as he was about to peer in, the elevator door opened. Frank took a second to look inside the office: - no one was there. He glanced over his shoulder. The lobby was empty, too.
Silently he slipped into the security office. Maybe there he could find answers to some of his questions - like what kind of organization the center was and where Brewster fit into it.
He found himself in a small outer office with a bulky wooden desk and four tall filing cabinets. Behind the desk was a locked door, probably leading to an inner office. He opened a file cabinet at random and began leafing through a folder marked "Correspondence." The first letter he saw was pretty boring: something about a service contract for an alarm system. As he put it back his eyes swept across the letterhead: Straeger Security, Subsidiary of MUX.