Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Flesh and Blood (10 page)
Mangieri glanced into the rear-view mirror. Joe could see the fear in his eyes. Mangieri must have given the car more gas because it, too, suddenly burst forward. In a second he was putting some distance between it and the van.
"He's not going to slow down!" Frank yelled above the roar of the van's fireball engine.
"That sedan's faster than it looks."
The sedan jerked to the left, then back to the right.
Joe saw why a split second later. A large branch torn from a tree sat in the middle of the road. Joe didn't have time to turn the van. They slammed into the branch and flew into the air.
"Whoa!" Frank yelled and clutched his seat. The van smacked back down on the pavement, the shocks groaning and creaking against the sudden impact. Then the van began to swerve.
Joe fought to keep the van under control. He let up on the gas pedal and lightly pressed the brakes. The large vehicle responded to Joe's gentle touch and straightened out.
Mangieri had used the extra time to gain more distance. Joe again pressed the accelerator hard. The gap between the two vehicles slowly and steadily decreased.
Frank grabbed the CB and turned the channel button to nine, the emergency channel.
"I'm calling the cavalry," Frank announced as he pressed the button on the hand mike. "Mayday! Mayday! Any Bayport police. This is Frank Hardy. We are chasing a suspected kidnapper in a stolen car." Frank glanced at the corner street sign as the van zoomed past it. It was just a blur, but he was able to make out the letters well enough to say, "We're on Highway Nine headed west. The suspect's car is a light blue, late model sedan. Pennsylvania plates. A rental. I repeat, we are chasing a stolen car. The kidnap victim is inside, he may be hurt. Need assistance." He released the button. Frank was set to repeat the announcement when the CB buzzed.
"This is Bayport Police Department, please repeat your message. Over."
Frank began to repeat his message but was cut short.
"Frank Hardy!" boomed the angry voice of Chief Collig. "Where are - "
Frank shut off the CB.
"So much for that idea."
"Where's he headed?" Joe asked above the noise.
"Looks like away from Bayport," Frank replied.
Joe glanced at the speedometer. The digital speedometer flashed 70 MPH.
"C'mon, baby," Joe said under his breath to the van. He pressed the accelerator closer to the floor.
They inched closer to the sedan. The light blue digital speedometer flashed 75, then 80. Every nerve and muscle in Joe's body seemed to contract at once. One bad move - a quick swerve by Mangieri, another branch in the road, anything to cause Joe to lose control - and the black van would become their coffin.
When the van was a foot from the blue sedan's rear bumper, Mangieri's car responded with more speed.
Joe's eyes flashed. He couldn't safely go any faster.
Mangieri slowed a little. Joe pulled the van to the left and tried to edge up to Mangieri. He had to back off when he saw oncoming traffic headed toward him on the two-lane highway.
"Try to get on the other side of him!" Frank shouted.
Joe had been thinking the same thing. With traffic on his left and the van on the right, Mangieri would be trapped. Joe whipped the van to the right and was soon beside Mangieri.
"He's trapped!" Frank said.
Mangieri jerked his head from left to right.
Joe glanced at the car. He could see his father's leather briefcase lying on the passenger seat.
Just then Mangieri stomped the brake, sending the rear of the car into a violent fishtail. The sedan bounced off the van, and hot, white sparks shot out. The cars whipped back and made contact again. This time a high-pitched scream accompanied the crash as the sedan's fender was torn from its body.
Joe pushed his brake flat, and the van jerked, slowing.
Mangieri tried to speed up, but his car had lost its power.
"Now it's our turn," Joe announced.
"Careful," Frank warned. "Dad could be in the trunk."
"I'm just going to get in front of him," Joe said.
He pressed down on the accelerator and easily began to pull ahead of the sedan. He glanced over at Mangieri.
"Look out!" Frank yelled.
Joe jerked his eyes forward. The shoulder of the road had turned into an exit ramp, which curved sharply to the right. Joe's mind raced with decisions. Mangieri was on his left, the exit was on his right, and fifty feet straight ahead was a concrete pillar. He had to get in front of Mangieri before he hit the pillar or else he'd have to go off at the exit ramp.
Joe knew they didn't have enough time to give the van more speed to get all the way in front of Mangieri. They'd have to take the exit. He lightly pressed the brakes and felt the brake pads grab the wheel disks. They had to slow before taking the sharp right turn.
Just then Joe's foot and the brake pedal slammed to the floor as the brakes turned to mush.
"The brakes are gone!" Joe yelled. "I can't turn into the exit. We'll flip over."
Dead ahead the concrete pillar rose like a giant tombstone.
Joe pressed on the emergency brake pedal. He did it slowly or else the brakes would grip the wheels in a deadly lock that would send the van rolling like a large tin can.
The van jerked and then slowed. At the last possible second Joe spun the wheel and made the edge of the ramp. Mangieri had disappeared over the hill. The van coasted to a stop.
Frank brought his fist down on the dash. "What happened to the brakes?" His question was almost an accusation.
"I don't know!" Joe shouted back.
He hopped from the van and dived under the front end. He rose a moment later, a small, oil-drenched twig in his hands.
"What is it?" Frank asked.
"This must have broken off the branch we hit and stuck in the brake line," he explained, showing Frank the twig.
"Brake lines are metal," Frank replied.
"Not the brake lines going directly into the brake cylinder of the wheel. They're rubber."
"Can you patch it?"
"No." Joe got in and slammed the door shut. He snapped the twig with his fingers and tossed the broken pieces out the window. "We'll have to get a new one. But not right now." Joe turned the van in a hard right turn and hit the accelerator to go back onto the highway.
Frank knew that Joe was an expert enough driver to continue the chase using the emergency brake.
"Where is he?" Joe asked as they topped a Hill. The blue sedan had vanished.
"I'll keep an eye on the exits," Frank said.
They drove for another thirty minutes but still couldn't find the blue sedan. Mangieri could have taken any number of exits heading in any number of directions.
"Head back to Bayport," Frank said after another fifteen minutes.
"What?" Joe shouted.
"Mangieri would have headed back to Bayport as soon as possible."
"Give me one good reason why. We're not going to give up searching for Dad!"
"We're not giving up searching for Dad. Use your head, Joe. Mangieri has only one place to go - Bayport!"
Joe let up on the accelerator and slowly eased the emergency brake down. The van slowed. He steered the van toward an exit. Frank made sense. Mangieri would have to head back to Bayport because that was where Stewart had to be - if Stewart was going to make good on his threat of killing all the Hardys and their friends.
"Where to now?" Joe asked as they entered Bayport.
The sky had darkened as heavy, black rain clouds closed out the sun. A light drizzle was falling. Joe flipped on the headlights.
Frank had ridden in silence, forcing himself to shut out the image of his father in the hands of Stewart.
What would drive a man to such extremes to achieve murder? Revenge? Bobby must have kept in touch with his father over the years he was in prison. Mock's hatred for Fenton Hardy festered into a madness that had infected his son, Bobby. A blood law, Joe had called it.
"What did Leonard Mock say just before he collapsed?" Frank asked, staring ahead through the water-spotted windshield.
Joe flipped on the windshield wipers. "What are you talking about?"
"He said something about everything coming full circle. What do you think he meant?"
Joe glanced at Frank. "He was talking about his son."
"Maybe not just his son. The shoot-out with Leonard Mock took place at the old National Guard Armory," Frank stated matter-of-factly.
"You think that's where Stewart, I mean Bobby, has taken Dad."
"That's exactly what I think!"
***
Bayport's old National Guard Armory was on the city's southeast edge. The Hardys were determined that it wouldn't become their father's place of execution.
They reached the large brick and stone building in under three minutes. From the outside, the armory looked like a medieval fortress, complete with towers and ramparts. Frank and Joe had often joked about the old-fashioned design of the building, but their jokes didn't seem funny right then.
Joe shut off the headlights a half mile from the armory. He turned off the engine and let the van coast in, parking it a hundred yards from the front of the building.
"If I remember right," Frank said, "the fight with the police took place behind the armory at the old practice range."
Frank and Joe trotted around to the side, then pressed themselves against the building as they neared the practice range.
Thunder rumbled. The drizzle turned into a trickle. The sky darkened more, and it looked like dusk rather than late morning.
The ground was still muddy from the rain the tornado had dumped, and now it was becoming even more sodden and difficult to walk through.
"There's the sedan," Frank said as they turned a corner of the building.
The blue car sat with its trunk lid open. Frank checked the inside. He found a small smear of blood and a tie clip he recognized as his father's.
"They've got him," Frank said grimly.
They reached the end of the side of the armory. Frank moved his head slowly around the corner.
"Take a look," Frank said to Joe, and they exchanged places.
Joe peeked around the corner.
A little flame flared. Mangieri's face was cast in an orange and yellow glow. He was leaning against the wall ten yards down from them. He brought the lighter up to a cigarette that dangled from his mouth and lit it. He turned away and stared to his left.
"He's mine," Joe whispered to Frank.
"Be my guest," Frank replied.
Joe slid around the corner and crept up on the unsuspecting thug. Mangieri's attention was directed in the opposite direction.
Joe tapped Mangieri on the shoulder.
"Got the time?" Joe asked with venom.
Mangieri turned and gasped. A split second later he fired a broad right fist into the center of Joe's stomach. Joe countered with a right of his own. Mangieri fell back against the wall and slid down into the mud, the lit cigarette still dangling from his lower lip.
Joe rubbed his knuckles. "He's not going anywhere for a while," he said with a smile as Frank joined him.
Frank patted Mangieri's leather jacket to check for a gun. "Empty," he told Joe.
"Too bad," Joe said.
They continued along the back of the building until they reached the far corner.
"The practice range," Frank announced. He peered around the corner, then gasped. "Dad!" Frank whispered, trying to suppress a shout.
Fenton Hardy was tied to a lamppost some fifty yards away, his hands tied over his head, the rope hanging from a hook. His head hung down, his feet slightly off the ground. The glare from the light and the drizzle of rain created an eerie halo about him, giving him a ghostlike appearance.
"I don't see Stewart," Frank told Joe.
They moved out slowly, hoping the darkness of the oncoming storm would hide them long enough to make a run for their father.
They were halfway to him when Stewart suddenly appeared, the deadly .357 magnum hanging at his side.
Frank and Joe froze.
"I've been waiting for you."
The boys moved slowly toward him, keeping their eyes on him and the magnum at his side. They stopped at the edge of the circle of light.
Fenton raised his head. "I'm okay," he said weakly to Frank and Joe.
"Shut up!" Stewart barked.
Fenton slumped forward again.
Frank and Joe moved a step closer to Stewart.
The magnum was up and fired instantly, mud splattering Frank and Joe.
"That was just a warning. The next shot drops one of you dead."
"Let - them - go," Fenton groaned.
"Say, 'please.' " Frank and Joe were stunned to hear Stewart's childlike voice.
Stewart laughed again. This time it was more hysterical and higher-pitched. Stewart reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the black ski mask, which he slipped over his head.
"You don't need the disguise anymore, Bobby," Frank said.
"I'm disappointed in you, Frank. You have such a brilliant, logical mind. This isn't a disguise. It's an executioner's hood."
"You're not going to get away with this," Joe said with great control.
Stewart's laugh was just as hysterical, just as high-pitched as before.
"An empty threat from an empty head. You should have spent more time exercising the muscle between your ears, Joe Hardy."
Frank reached out and grabbed Joe before the younger Hardy could make a move toward Stewart.
"You see," Stewart said gleefully, "Frank is the smart one."
"If you're wearing an executioner's hood, what are the charges, when was the trial and the sentencing?" Frank glanced quickly at Joe and moved his eyes toward Stewart.
Play the game, Frank was telling Joe. Play the game.
"You want charges?" Stewart shouted. "I'll give you charges." Stewart held up a finger. "One: sticking his nose into other people's business." He held up a second finger. "Two: causing a father and son to be separated for life." A third finger went up. "Three: putting that father in prison until he rots and dies from cancer."
Stewart began to pace in front of Fenton Hardy, all the time uncurling and curling his fingers around the pistol grip of the .357 magnum.
"This is the trial!" Stewart bellowed, his voice more agitated. "I, the jury, find Fenton Hardy guilty on all charges, the most serious of which is causing a son to be torn from his father."
Stewart paced for a few seconds more, then suddenly stopped, his back to Fenton. He turned slowly, raised the magnum shoulder level, and aimed it at Fenton's head.
He spoke softly, almost in rhythm to the drizzle that fell about them.
"The sentence: death. Just as my father was sentenced to death. The sentence to be carried out immediately."
Stewart squeezed the trigger.
"No!" Joe shouted and lunged at Stewart, the gun exploding as Joe and Stewart fell into the mud.
Joe gagged and spit out a small amount of mud. He grabbed Stewart's gun hand and pressed it deeper into the mud. The magnum erupted again, and Joe felt the recoil and the heat of the explosion. Joe pushed himself up with his left hand and hit Stewart with a right cross. Stewart groaned once and relaxed.
Joe was trying to pull the gun from Stewart's grip when the man suddenly kicked up and caught Joe in the side with his knee. Joe groaned and almost fell over. He caught himself instead and planted another solid right to Stewart's cheek.
A gasp came from Stewart, and this time he lay still, the .357 sliding from his hand and into the mud. Joe scooped up the gun and stepped back from the unconscious man. He glanced over at Frank.
Frank was untying his father. He tugged at the last knot, and the rope slackened. Fenton began to fall, but Frank caught him and helped him to stand.
"You okay, Dad?" Joe asked.
"Yes," Fenton Hardy answered weakly but with a smile.
Joe took the rope that had bound his father and tied Stewart's hands together.
"Dad needs to get to the hospital," Frank said. "I'll bring the van around."
"I can make it," Mr. Hardy said. When Frank let go, though, Fenton fell back. Frank reached out to steady his father.
"I'll help him," Joe said. "Go get the van."
"I'll call the police," Frank said as he started for the van.
Lightning flashed across the sky, followed close by thunder, and then the rain began to fall in large, hard drops.