Double Exposure (3 page)

"We'll be really interested to see what's on it," Frank said.

"You think it might prove Janosik's innocence?" Callie asked.

"I hope so."

"Maybe it's an old home movie," Joe said, breaking into their conversation. "Hey, Phil."

"Hey, Joe," Phil returned the greeting. He swept up the pieces of the videocassette into a small case he'd brought with him. "Heard you had a little excitement last night." Joe smiled. "A little," he said. "So when do I get to meet this new brother of yours?"

Frank stood. "You'd both better let Joe and me talk to him first. He may be a little nervous."

The two brothers went upstairs to the guest room. "I don't care how nervous he is," Joe said, knocking heavily on the door. "We need to start getting some answers."

There was no answer from inside.

"Chris? You in there?" Frank called.

He turned the knob slowly. The door swung open.

"I don't believe it," Frank groaned.

Joe slammed his hand against the wall.

The blankets lay on the floor. The sheets had been rolled tight and tied together. One end was knotted around the bedpost. The other hung out of sight—out the window.

Chris was gone.

"So MUCH FOR ANSWERING all our questions in the morning," Frank said, surveying the room.

Callie and Phil joined them after hearing Joe's outburst. "So what are you going to do now?" Callie asked. Frank pulled the sheets back into the room, untied them, and bundled them up in his arms.

"I think Joe had the right idea before," he said, leading them all downstairs and dropping the sheets in the laundry. "Find out who Chris really is."

"And how are we going to do that? We still don't know anything about him!" Joe protested.

"We do know one thing—where he lives."

"Right—if the address on his license isn't a fake," Phil pointed out.

"We can check with the phone company to see if he's listed there," Callie said. She picked up the phone.

"You could also try to find out more about Krc and Liehm," Phil suggested. "Maybe the Czech embassy knows something about them."

"About the STB?" Joe shook his head. "Not very likely."

"And they wouldn't tell us if they did," Frank said. "Especially if those two are involved in a plot to smear Janosik."

Callie hung up the phone. "There is someone named Hardy in Northampton on Smith Street," she said. "But the number's unlisted."

"Which leaves us with only one way to find out if it's Chris," Frank said. He turned to Joe. "Can we take the van?"

Joe frowned. "I had to take the window on the driver's side off completely."

"You'd better get it replaced if we're going to drive all the way to Massachusetts," Callie said. "The weather report said it might rain."

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Joe asked. "This case may be too dangerous for you."

Frank nodded. "I'm afraid Joe's right, Callie."

Callie glared at both of them. "Forget what I said about getting that window replaced. You're both all wet already!"

"Ouch," Joe said, shaking his head. "I'll check the repair shops."

It took them almost an hour to find a shop that could replace the window, and another five hours of steady driving before they reached the outskirts of Northampton. They had stayed off the big interstate highways and stuck to smaller roads, which made for a more scenic drive if a longer one. By the time they drove into Northampton, both of them were anxious to get out and stretch.

"Hey," Joe said, pointing ahead. A huge shopping mall sprawled on both sides of the road. "Let's stop and get something to eat before we look for Chris."

Frank yawned. His lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him. "I guess I could use a cup of coffee."

They locked the van and entered the mall. "All right!" Joe pointed to a sign ahead that said, "Humongous Hamburgers." He grinned. "I see what I want!"

"You go ahead," Frank said, catching sight of a coffee shop. "I'll meet you back here."

He strolled over and stood in the entrance for a moment. The coffee shop was empty, except for a waitress who sat on a stool at the far end of the counter. Her back to the door, she was counting out change and watching a small black-and-white television set. Frank walked in. "Excuse me," he called. The clatter of a fresh handful of change from her apron drowned out his voice.

Frank walked toward the counter. He was about to tap her on the shoulder when he noticed a newspaper lying in the last booth. It was a Boston paper — the Tribune—and it was opened to the international page. The headline had caught Frank's eye "Bum Czech?" The byline was Jean Eykis's. He read on.

"Alexander Janosik, the noted Czechoslovakian dissident, will deliver the keynote address at a special Harvard symposium on Saturday. Janosik, whose vigorous opposition to the repressive policies of the Czech government has made him a hero here and in Europe, has recently been accused of accepting money from the CIA in exchange for his anti-Czech speeches. Exclusive sources have promised to provide this reporter with proof of Janosik's guilt before he addresses the symposium on Saturday."

The waitress looked up. "Sorry, hon, I didn't see you there. Did you want something?"

"Never mind," Frank said, bolting out the door.

He found Joe talking to a tall, pretty, dark-haired girl outside the hamburger shop.

"I don't get up here too often," Joe was saying, "but maybe if you give me your number, we could — "

The girl laughed.

"Excuse me," Frank said. He grabbed Joe by the arm. "We're leaving."

"Hey, wait a minute," Joe said, trying to plant his feet. "What's the big rush?"

"Duty calls," Frank said.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Joe said. "But look, if you're ever in Bayport — "

"I'll know who to avoid," she said, turning around and flouncing off.

Joe watched her walk off and sighed heavily. "You're ruining my life, Frank."

Frank ignored Joe's comment and told him what he'd just read.

"But Chris promised us that Janosik was being framed." Joe shook his head. "Where is this reporter going to get proof of his guilt? From Liehm and Krc?"

"Maybe," Frank said. "What we need right now is information. Let's try Chris first. Come on."

"Smith Street," Joe said, turning off the main road onto a quiet, residential block. The houses lining the street were old and small, but they looked well kept. Children were playing in one of the front yards.

"A nice enough neighborhood," Frank said. "There's number one-twelve." He pointed to a brick house with a postage-stamp garden about halfway down the block on the right side.

They drove past it slowly. "That's the one," Frank said. "The mailbox says C. Hardy."

"Our first lucky break," said Joe, parking the van. "Let's see if he's home."

They crossed the lawn to the front door, and Joe rang the bell. Frank peered in through the front window. "I don't see anyone," he said.

"And nobody's answering the bell." Joe pushed the buzzer again and then pressed his ear against the door. "I can't hear anything, either. It must be broken." He knocked heavily on the front door—and it swung open.

Frank knelt down beside the door and examined it. "The lock's been smashed."

Joe stepped past him into the house. He groped around for a light switch, found one, and flipped it on. Frank heard him breathe in sharply. "That's not all that's been smashed around here. Take a look at this!"

Frank followed him in. They stood in a small entranceway. Directly ahead of them was a staircase. To their right was the living room, which now looked like a disaster area.

Furniture had been overturned and thrown around the room, papers and books strewn across the floor, and the carpet had been ripped up from the floor in several spots.

"Wow," Joe said quietly. "Someone wanted something pretty bad."

"Here's something they didn't want — something that proves this is Chris's place, anyway," Frank whispered, picking a picture up off the floor and showing it to Joe. It was the same photo Chris had shown them last night, the picture of himself and their parents. Joe tapped Frank on the shoulder and pointed down the hall under the staircase. A light shone from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. "I think somebody's in there!" he mouthed.

They tiptoed down the hall runner, and Frank put an ear to the door.

"Someone's in there, all right," he said directly into Joe's ear. "I can hear papers rustling."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Joe whispered back. "Maybe it's Chris."

"It's probably whoever wrecked the house," Frank replied. "Let's do this carefully. We'll go in one at a time."

Joe nodded. Without waiting for Frank, he burst into the room.

Someone was standing in front of a desk with his back to the doorway, going through some papers. He turned when he heard Joe enter. "You!" the man said, looking astonished. Joe was almost as startled as he was. It was the guy from the back seat of the Mercedes.

"You know him, Joe?" Frank asked, stepping in behind his brother.

The man reached into his jacket, yanked out an automatic, and pointed it at the Hardys. "I don't know what you two are doing here, but I will most certainly call the police if — "

"Good idea," Joe said, stepping to the left side of him. Frank moved to the right, circling the man. They both began to move closer. "Yes, why don't you?" Frank chimed in. The man's gaze darted back and forth between them. "Stay where you are, or I'll shoot!" he said nervously.

Joe smiled at him. "Just take it easy, Doctor," he said soothingly. "No one's going to shoot anyone. Why don't you just put the gun down, and — "

In one swift motion, Frank's foot lashed out, striking the man's hand. The gun went skittering under the desk.

"Now," Joe said, putting a hand on the man's chest and pushing him back until he sat in the desk chair. "This is the guy who was in the back seat of the Mercedes," he said to Frank. "The driver called him Doctor — Doctor Liehm, Chris said."

Frank stared down at the man. "Maybe you can help us by answering a few questions."

"There is nothing I can tell you," Liehm said.

"Would you rather that we call the police?" Frank asked. "I'm sure they'd be interested in talking to you about that mess out there and the broken lock, to say nothing of the shooting last night, and — "

A wide smile spread across the doctor's face. "Talk to him," he said, lifting his chin and looking behind the Hardys.

Joe turned and saw Gregor filling the doorway behind them.

"Perhaps I can help you find what you're looking for," he said, advancing on the brothers.

As FRANK TURNED to face Gregor, Liehm grabbed the phone from the desk and slammed him over the head with the handset. Frank dropped to his knees.

"Frank!" Joe cried out. He turned on the doctor, who shrank back into the corner, then back toward Gregor.

Gregor raised his fists. "This time, I will make sure you do not wake up."

Gregor feinted with his left, then threw a hard right at Joe, but now Joe knew how fast he was. He dodged back and to the right, letting his left leg follow through and slam Gregor in the side. The man grunted in surprise and pain.

Joe followed with a hard right that caught Gregor full in the face. Blood begin trickling from Gregor's nose. Joe stepped back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frank struggling to his feet.

Gregor wiped his face and saw the blood on his hand. He looked at Joe with equal amounts of amazement and fury. "No one ever — " he began, his teeth clenched. "For this, you will die!"

"No, Gregor!" Joe turned to see Liehm had retrieved his gun and was holding it on both him and Frank. "Enough — the last thing we need is another murder."

Gregor ignored him. "They know too much," he said, advancing on Joe. "We must make sure they tell none of it — ever."

"Stop!" Liehm pleaded, gesturing wildly with his gun. For a minute Joe thought he might shoot Gregor. "You'll ruin the entire plan!"

Gregor halted and was silent for a moment, as he considered what Liehm had said. Finally he spoke. "All right, Doctor. We do not kill them— this time."

Joe helped Frank to his feet. He could see his brother was still dazed.

"But we will have to ensure they do not follow us," Gregor said, assuming control of the situation again. "There is no evidence here of our presence?" he asked.

"None," Liehm said.

"Good. Hand me the gun, please."

Liehm did so, slowly and uncertainly. He was terrified of what Gregor might do, Joe realized.

"Good," Gregor said, smiling. "Now—there is some rope in the kitchen. Please bring it to me."

Liehm seemed about to protest, then marched off.

"You get along well with everybody, don't you?" Joe asked.

Gregor ignored the taunt. "A very messy weapon, a gun," Gregor said, studying the barrel. "I usually prefer other ways of dealing with my problems." He smiled, revealing large white, even teeth. But the glint in his eye made him look anything but friendly. "I promise you this, though if I see you again, I will not hesitate to use this gun."

Joe wanted to reply, but the edge in Gregor's voice and the intensity on his face kept him silent. There was no sense in goading Gregor just now.

Joe promised himself he'd find a time to settle matters between the two of them—when there was no gun separating them.

Liehm returned with the rope. Gregor took it, and tied the Hardys' hands and feet—quickly, efficiently, and very tightly. When he was done, Frank and Joe were sitting back to back in the middle of the floor, securely bound.

"Better." Gregor nodded, admiring his work. "Much better." He smiled down at them. Then he calmly kicked Joe very hard in the side. Joe gasped. Gregor kicked him again—harder — then knelt at Joe's side, staring directly at his face, "Who are you, boy? Why do you follow me?"

Joe gritted his teeth and said nothing. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Gregor's gaze.

"No smart words now, eh?" Gregor asked. He pulled Joe's wallet from his pocket, flipped through it, and frowned. "Joe Hardy."