Double Exposure (2 page)

The man's eyes narrowed. "I see that you may need a further lesson."

Joe smiled. "You may be right. But who is going to teach me?" He deepened his voice, mimicking the man's accent.

The guy's eyes flashed. "I would be happy to."

Joe nodded toward the gun. "And do you need that to do it?"

Tightening his lips into a straight line, the man rammed his weapon into its shoulder holster.

"Gregor, no!" A small, balding man with wire-rim glasses and a loose-fitting suit burst from the back of the Mercedes. "I forbid it," he said, stepping toward them. "We cannot afford to — "

"Security is my department, Doctor," the man-mountain said. "Besides, this will only take ' a moment." He turned back to Joe. "Now," he said, balling his hands into fists. "Let's begin - your lesson, shall we?"

Joe feinted quickly, then stepped back. He was pleased he'd gotten the driver—Gregor, that was what the other man had called him—to put away his gun. Now if he could just hold them there till Frank came with the police—"Don't run away, my friend," Gregor said, moving toward him again. "How can I give you your lesson if you run away?" He took a halfhearted swing at Joe, trying to draw him closer.

He's big, all right, Joe thought, but he doesn't seem fast. Joe usually depended on his strength, not his speed, but Gregor was so much bigger than he was that Joe would have to use whatever advantages he had.

Seeing an opening, Joe darted left, tagging Gregor in the stomach with a hard right. Perfect!

But Gregor just stood there, smiling. "That is your best punch?"

Joe had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. That punch would have had anybody else doubled over, gasping for breath. Gregor didn't seem affected by it at all.

"Now let me show you my best," Gregor said. With that, he swung—much faster than he'd moved before, much faster than Joe would have believed possible for a man his size. He caught Joe square on the jaw. The force of the blow spun Joe around, and he pitched face forward onto the ground. He lay there, stunned.

Gregor stood over Joe, hands on his hips', staring down. "You are strong," he said. "But it seems you cannot take a punch. Perhaps you will need lessons in that as well."

Joe struggled to his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Suckered, he thought. He shouldn't have assumed that Gregor was slow just because he was big.

Gregor grabbed him by the neck of his sweatshirt and hauled him to his feet.

"Let us finish this lesson first, though," he said, drawing back his arm.

Joe saw Gregor's fist, about the size of the moon, hurtling toward him till it filled his field of vision.

Then the world went black.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Joe! Wake up!" It was a woman's voice. It must be his mother, trying to wake him up.

"I don't think I can go to school today, Mom," Joe mumbled. "I have a terrible headache." He turned onto his side. His mattress felt awfully hard. "Maybe I should go back to sleep."

"Do that, and you're likely to get run over." That was his brother's voice. "Frank?" Joe asked out loud. He opened his eyes.

He was lying by the side of the road. Frank was kneeling on one side of him, and Callie Shaw on the other.

"Oh, yeah," Joe said, rubbing his jaw. "Now I remember."

"Are you okay? What happened?" Frank ' asked, helping him sit up.

"The driver of that Mercedes had a hard right. That's what happened." He looked at Callie. "How'd you get here?"

"He wouldn't let me call the police." Frank nodded toward Callie's car, which was parked by the side of the road. Chris sat in the back seat. "He said he'd tell us everything he knew, as long as we didn't bring the cops in. I asked Callie to come and get us, and we went looking for you."

Joe shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Did you get a license number?" Frank asked.

"No, it all happened too fast. But that shouldn't matter—that guy in the back of Callie's car has to know who they were." Joe wobbled to his feet.

"Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "Give him a chance to catch his breath before you start interrogating him."

Joe waved his brother's concerns aside. "Relax—I have just a few simple questions for him."

He walked over to Callie's car. Chris looked up at him through the window.

Joe slammed his hand on the roof—hard. "All right, friend," he said, glaring at Chris. "Start talking. Who were those two guys in the Mercedes — the little man with the glasses and his king-size friend. And why were they shooting at you?"

"Easy, Joe," Frank said, laying a hand on his brother's arm. "He's hurt."

Chris climbed out of the car, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never meant for anyone to be hurt — especially you two." He set his jaw, and a muscle just above the bone moved in and out. "It's too dangerous — I should never have come here. I can't — I won't tell you who they are. They'll kill you!"

"They may do that, anyway," Frank pointed out. He laid a hand gently on Chris's shoulder. "You have to tell us who those men were."

Chris sighed and leaned back against Callie's car. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"All right," he said slowly, reluctantly. "Those men — I used to work with them. The man with the glasses is Dr. Finn Liehm. A scientist—and very brilliant."

"And the other?" Joe asked.

"That must have been Gregor Krc." He pronounced it Kirk. "They are both members of the Czechoslovakian secret police—what is called the STB."

"The STB," Joe said, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. That explained the man's training at least. "But what're they doing here?"

"I think I can guess," Frank said. "It's something to do with Alexander Janosik, isn't it?"

Chris nodded but said nothing.

"Why'd you call our father for help? Who are you?" Frank said.

"Who am I?" Chris said slowly. He looked up and met Frank's questioning gaze. "My name is Chris Hardy."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Chris Hardy?" Frank asked. Joe just stared at him. "Is that what you meant before — about us all being - family? Are you related to us?" "To your family — to you two especially," Chris said. "You see, I'm your brother."

FRANK STARED at the computer screen in stunned silence. "I don't believe it," he said, shaking his head. "I just don't believe it."

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He'd been up since six that morning, trying to make sense of Chris's story. Now it was almost ten o'clock, and the only way things did make sense seemed as impossible now as it had the past night.

"Our long-lost brother," Joe had said when Chris first made his incredible claim, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Come to claim the family fortune, I suppose?"

But Chris had ignored Joe's mocking comment and hadn't backed down. Without a word, he'd handed Joe his driver's license.

It was for one Chris Hardy, of 112 Smith Street, Northampton, Massachusetts. According to the license, Chris was twenty-six years old, stood 5'10" tall, and weighed 165 pounds. He had light brown hair and brown eyes. It was all there in living color in a smiling photo.

"So what if you have a license?" Joe asked, after they'd driven back to the Hardys' house and were standing on the walk before going in. "Do you really expect us to believe that you're our brother? I mean, why would our parents keep a secret like that?"

"I see they remodeled the front porch," Chris said, looking at the house.

Joe's mouth dropped open.

"How'd you know that?"

Chris smiled sadly. "I used to live here, too, you know." Then he'd reached into his wallet and handed Joe a yellowed, square snapshot — a shape not printed anymore. It was a picture of a young couple and a boy of not more than five or six, standing together on the Hardys' front porch—before it had been redone.

Frank had peered over his brother's shoulder to get a closer look. He recognized the couple immediately. Although they were a lot younger than he could remember ever seeing them, Frank knew it was a picture of his parents. And the boy? Although Frank couldn't swear to it, he did look a lot like Chris would have at that age.

"Photos can be faked," Joe had said. Of course, he was right. But after Callie had left, Chris told Frank and Joe things about their parents and relatives that he couldn't possibly have known, unless ... Unless he really was their brother.

He knew about Aunt Gertrude's secret passion of reading old mystery novels.

"And I'll bet she really loves this, too," Chris had said, pointing to the Hardys' VCR. "She can watch spy movies whenever she wants to now, right?"

Frank had smiled at that—Aunt Gertrude loved nothing better than to settle back in the couch, shut out the lights, close the door, and put a movie on the VCR. In fact, the more he talked to Chris and watched him walk around his house, the more he liked him.

Especially when he'd proven to be a computer buff as well.

"Nice," Chris had said, studying Frank's system. "Small, but very well thought out." Then he smiled. "I've got a different setup — a lot bigger. You're more than welcome to have a look at it."

"I'd like that," Frank said, smiling slowly.

"I'd like it better if you answered some of our questions now," Joe said, cutting in. "Like — "

"Can't they wait until morning?" Chris asked. "It's past two now."

Frank had been shocked to discover Chris was right—the time had passed very quickly. They'd all gone to bed, putting Chris in the guest room upstairs. Yet even though he liked Chris, Frank still didn't believe his story. So he'd gotten up early this morning, and, using access codes a hacker friend had given him, he'd logged on to the Bayport City Hall computer. He had expected the records to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Chris's story was false.

He'd gotten the surprise of his life.

Chris Hardy was real. But Frank couldn't call his mom and dad to verify it — they were deep in the wilderness.

"I don't believe it," Frank said again, shaking his head at the computer screen. "I just don't believe it."

He was looking at a notice of birth for one Christopher Edward Hardy, parents Fenton and Laura.

Frank pulled Chris's social security number and found a grade-school transcript for him— from the same school that both he and Joe had gone to. Chris had gone there until he was six and a half years old, at which point all trace of him disappeared.

About the time I was born, Frank realized.

He picked up Chris's driver's license for the umpteenth time and stared at it. All the details matched their contact perfectly. If it was a forgery, Frank had to admit it was the best he'd ever seen.

At eight-thirty this morning he'd even asked a contact of his at the Department of Motor Vehicles to check out the Massachusetts license.

She'd called back an hour later to verify that it was real.

He put the license down. None of this made any sense. He was getting a headache. And he was getting hungry.

The doorbell rang. It was Callie.

"Morning." Frank gave her a quick kiss at the doorway. "You look wide-awake and ready to face the day." She was wearing a pair of khakis and a bright green sweater underneath her jacket.

Callie looked him over and shook her head. "I hate to say what you look like."

"That bad, huh?" Frank tried to stifle a yawn. "I've been awake for a while—checking up on my new brother."

"Oh, Frank, come on," Callie said, hanging up her coat. "You don't really think—"

"Hey, what's all the racket?" Joe stood at the top of the stairs in his gym shorts and T-shirt, his wavy hair tousled into curls from sleep. "Don't you know there are people trying to sleep up here?"

"You're right — we'll try and keep it down," Frank said. "Chris's first night back home should be a restful one."

Joe and Callie both looked at him as if he'd gone crazy.

"What have you found out, Frank?" Callie asked.

He yawned again and stretched. "I'll explain over breakfast."

Joe came downstairs then and somehow convinced Callie to cook.

"Well, I'm still not ready to accept him into the family," Joe said, swirling his pancakes in a small stream of syrup.

Callie nodded. "Neither am I." She was sitting next to Frank on one side of the breakfast table, with Joe directly across from them.

"And I don't understand why you let him stay here last night instead of going to the cops," she continued. "You don't know anything about him."

"He knows a lot about us." Frank put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

"Too much, I say." Joe grabbed the last of the pancakes off the platter set between them on the table. "Look, Frank—instead of proving who he isn't, let's just find out who he is."

"Has he told you anything else—about himself, his connection with those guys in the Mercedes, with Janosik?" Callie asked.

"We didn't find out much more about his connections with anyone. We got a little sidetracked last night with family history," Frank admitted.

"Well, I think it's time we got back on track," Joe said. "I owe that driver a thing or two—and they owe us for one new window on the van!" He carried his dishes to the sink. "I'll get dressed, and then we can have a little brotherly chat with our visitor." He smiled at Callie. "Thanks for the breakfast, Callie. You're a great cook."

Frank shook his head. How Joe had managed to talk Callie into making breakfast. . .

Callie turned and punched him playfully on the arm. "How come you never say anything nice about my cooking, Frank?"

Joe winked at him.

Maybe Chris will turn out to be my brother, Frank thought, watching Joe head for his bedroom. It's about time for a new one.

When Joe came back downstairs, he found Frank, Callie, and their friend Phil Cohen huddled around the breakfast table. The dishes had been cleared and put away, and what remained of the videocassette Frank had taken out of Chris's jacket the night before was spread across the table.

"The tape itself looks fine — all I have to do is splice it back together and put it in a new case," Phil was saying. He was slightly built with long-ish, dark curly hair and quick, deft hands. Phil was also Bayport's resident electronics genius. "Then it should be as good as new."