Nowhere to Run (11 page)

"What's the big mystery?" Joe asked. He sat in the chair next to Frank's and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"How did Fat Harold know someone would be at Frost's apartment—and where to find Callie and Sue?" Frank asked.

"Someone told him," Joe answered with a yawn.

"Right — his 'little birdie.' And how did that little birdie tell him?"

Joe sat up. "What do you mean?"

"How did the little birdie contact Fat Harold?"

"By phone!"

"Right, again. Someone's been keeping tabs on us and reporting back to Fat Harold. And now for the grand prize What kind of phone calls did the little birdie make?"

"Longdistance!"

"Give the man a stuffed bear!" Frank said. Just then the computer chirped and the screen lit up. "The little birdie made two calls to Fat Harold. If he was close enough to know our every move, then he had — "

"To make the calls from Bayport," Joe finished.

"You win the bonus prize," Frank said. He turned to his computer and began punching in the code numbers for accessing long-distance phone calls.

"Sims could have known," Joe said.

"No. Whoever made the first call tried to set us up. Sims didn't know we were going to Queens. The second phone call was to inform Fat Harold about Callie and Sue and set us up again. Fat Harold was in Bayport shortly after we arrived—and we were with Sims the whole time."

The computer beeped, and Frank punched the Enter button. "Aha?" he said triumphantly.

"What is it?" Joe moved to view the screen. A seemingly endless list of phone numbers rolled before his eyes.

Frank hit a button and the list stopped scrolling. He pointed at one line. "Here's the first phone call."

"How can you tell?"

"Remember Fat Harold's crazy number?"

"Yeah. Five-five-five - BETS," Joe replied.

"BETS translates to two - three - eight - seven — and there it is."

"Here's the second," Joe said, pointing farther down the screen.

"The time of the first call was shortly before noon, about the time we were on our way to Queens. The second call was made several hours later, just after we got back to Bayport."

"The two phone calls came from different phones," Joe said with disappointment. "Probably pay phones."

"Let's find out." Frank punched in the first and second phone numbers. A second later the screen flashed with the answers.

"One's an extension at Bayport Hospital, the other is a room at the Bayport Motel," Joe said.

Frank turned to Joe. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If I am, then Sue and Callie are in danger," Joe replied.

"Let's be sure." Frank picked up the phone next to his computer and dialed the hospital number. The nurse on duty refused to give out any information about the extension number. Frank next dialed the Bayport Motel. The phone seemed to ring endlessly.

Finally a groggy voice answered, "Hello?"

It was Brandon Dalton.

"Sorry, wrong number," Frank said quickly and hung up the phone.

"Dalton," Joe said as fact.

"The B on the road map stood for Brandon, not Biker," Frank added.

"We'd better wake up Dad and Sims," Frank said.

The Hardys turned to leave, then froze. Biker stood in the doorway. Joe had never seen such rage on a human face. His friend appeared to be out of his mind with anger.

"Biker—" Joe began.

Before Joe could finish his sentence, Biker Conway slammed the door shut with such force that it cracked. Frank and Joe could hear him running up the stairs.

Joe was the first to reach the door. He pushed, but the door wouldn't budge.

"It's jammed," he yelled to Frank.

"Stand back," Frank shouted. Joe stood to one side as Frank ran and jumped at the door. His karate kick split the door in half, and he and Joe rushed up the stairs.

They were stunned to see the kitchen table and chairs scattered, as if someone had thrown them around the room. Under one upended chair lay Sims.

Frank picked up the chair. A quickly swelling bruise was taking shape below Sims's right eye.

"Biker," the bounty hunter yelled. "He's gone insane!"

A car engine roared to life outside. Joe ran to the doorway in time to see Biker peel away from the curb in Fenton's car.

"The motel," Frank shouted as he ran to the van.

Frank and Joe jumped aboard, Frank shoving the key into the ignition. But nothing happened.

"He's killed the engine," Frank yelled, slamming his fist against the dash.

Joe hopped out, ran to the front, and threw open the hood. "He ripped out some spark plug wires."

"Great," Frank said. "Are they on the ground?"

"No, he must have taken them with him." Joe slammed the hood closed. Then he yelled, "What about Sims's car?"

They dashed back to the kitchen, to find Fenton Hardy kneeling over Sims, who was still trying to pull himself together. When he heard the whole story, Fenton dug into Sims's pockets himself to find the car keys.

His face was gray as he passed the keys to his sons. "You'd better find Biker quickly," he said, pointing to the stunned bounty hunter's empty holster.

"Biker left the keys, but he took Sims's gun."

THE BATTERED CHEVY screeched to a stop just outside Brandon's motel room. The door stood wide open. Fenton Hardy's car was parked in the space right in front.

The door to Sue's room flew open and Sue ran out, followed by Callie.

"Your father just phoned," Sue said, sobbing, as Frank and Joe hopped from the car.

Joe grabbed her by the shoulders. "Where's Biker?" he shouted.

"H - h - he showed up a few minutes ago. He told Brandon he wanted to show him where the pits were." Sue burst into tears.

Joe shook her. "Did you see a gun?"

Sue's eyes widened. "No."

"How did they leave?" Frank asked.

"They took Brandon's bike," Callie replied.

Joe threw his sling off. "Give me your keys," he said, flexing his arm. Sue pulled her bike keys from her pocket. Joe grabbed them and ran to Sue's cycle.

"Where do you think you're going?" Frank yelled after his brother. "Your arm — you can't drive a bike."

Joe kicked the cycle to life. "Watch me. Follow me in Sims's car. We're going to the pits." He shifted to first and zoomed out of the parking lot.

Frank, Callie, and Sue hopped in Sims's Chevy and followed. Joe quickly became a small dot to them and then disappeared altogether.

Joe was at the pits in a matter of minutes. He shot through the entrance and guided the cycle around potholes and gravel mounds. He knew that Biker's favorite practice spot was the largest hole near the rear of the quarry. It was also the most secluded. Nice place for a murder, Joe thought.

A gunshot echoed throughout the quarry. Joe gunned the throttle and jumped a ridge. Before the echo of the shot had died, he'd stopped the cycle at the edge of the large pit and shut the engine off. He gasped.

Biker was on his knees, a widening stain of red on his shirt. Brandon stood over Biker waving two weapons — Sims's 9 mm and a snubnose .38 pistol. Joe recognized the .38 as the same gun that had been fired at them at the gas station. Brandon was shouting hysterically at the slumping Biker.

"Then my old man cut my salary after you finked on me about the salesmen phoning in. He said he was going to fire me if I fouled up again. I'm the son of the company's owner. I have an image to maintain. Frost promised me some easy money—fast. And, yeah, I used your name. You're just a low-life mechanic who tried to be a big shot."

Brandon paced back and forth in front of Biker, swinging his arms wildly. Biker fell to his side. Brandon grabbed Biker's collar and pulled him up.

"It was easy to talk Frost into pulling the hijacking while you were away. But why should I pay Fat Harold? He thought Biker Conway owed him the money. By planting your wallet next to Frost's body, I made sure that you'd be blamed for the murder, too."

Brandon laughed and let Biker fall to the ground.

"I'm the only one who knows where the watches are. My dad's company will get the insurance money, but I'll be able to live up to my image after I sell the watches."

He aimed the two pistols at Biker.

"Of course, you'll have to die. I'll plead self-defense. After all, everyone from Bayport to Queens knows about your hot temper."

Brandon locked the hammers of the guns. An evil grin crossed his face.

Joe kicked the bike to life, jerked the throttle open, and flew down the hill. Brandon turned, his face twisted in confusion and fear. He fired wildly at Joe. Joe zigzagged the bike so Brandon couldn't draw a bead on him.

Brandon seemed to realize he was wasting bullets. He threw the .38 aside, crouched in a shooting position, and carefully aimed the 9 mm at the onrushing Joe.

Joe ducked low over the cycle and let up on the throttle. He stomped on the rear brake and turned the bike to the left, skidding into Brandon. The rich kid jerked backward as the 9 mm roared. His bullet whizzed past Joe's head, knocking Joe from his bike and slamming him into the hard ground on his left arm. Pain from his earlier injury shot through his body like a thousand volts of electricity.

Brandon took the opportunity to run. As Joe lay dazed, Dalton hopped on his bike and sped away.

Joe stood and stumbled toward the bleeding Biker. Biker, his eyes glazed, pointed after Brandon.

"Get him," he gasped, then fainted.

Joe jerked his bike up and kicked it into a roar.

He twisted the throttle and rocketed after the fleeing Brandon. Brandon wasn't a good rider — slowly but steadily, Joe closed the gap.

Desperately, Brandon fired the gun at Joe. The recoil nearly made him lose control of his cycle. When the gun emptied, he threw it at Joe, missing widely. He jumped a small hill and almost flipped the cycle.

Joe expertly jumped the hill, moving ever closer to Brandon.

The hills in this part of the quarry were more numerous and higher. With each jump, Joe narrowed the gap. On the steepest grade, Joe was able to pull up on Brandon's right side.

Brandon kicked out. Joe swerved aside, but quickly caught up to Brandon again.

Joe pulled his cycle slightly ahead of Brandon's. He reached over, grabbed the front brake handle, and squeezed. The bike jolted to a stop and flipped Brandon forward. He screamed as he flew through the air and slammed into a mound of gravel. His cycle flipped end over end, flying dangerously close to Joe. Joe swerved his cycle to the right. Brandon's bike crashed into a boulder and died with a screaming whine.

Joe turned his cycle and headed toward Brandon, who was shaken but not seriously hurt.

"On your feet," Joe ordered.

Brandon stood slowly on wobbly legs. He shook his head and stumbled.

"Let's go," Joe growled.

Brandon staggered forward with Joe following on the cycle.

Moments later, they returned to their starting place. Joe was glad to see Frank and Callie giving first aid to Biker.

"How's he doing?" Joe asked, concern in his voice.

"He'll survive," Frank replied. "Sue's gone to call an ambulance." He looked up at Brandon. "I see you got him."

"Not without a fight," Joe said. He hopped from the cycle and knelt next to Biker.

"Hey, hotshot!" Biker tried to laugh, but ended up groaning.

"Take it easy," Joe said.

"Great." Biker grimaced.

Callie picked up the .38 by the trigger guard. "Whose is this?"

"That's Brandon's." Joe took the gun from Callie. "Recognize it, Frank?"

"Sure. Well, I should, it looks like the gun from the gas station."

Joe wrapped the gun in a handkerchief. "I also heard what Brandon said to you, Biker, and I'll repeat it at his trial."

"Good work, Joe." Frank shook his head. "But I wish you'd waited for the rest of us."

"If I'd waited for you to catch up," Joe protested, "Biker might be dead."

"He still might be!" called out a tinny voice from the top of the hill.

They turned to see Fat Harold aiming a MAC-10 submachine gun at the group.

His nasal laugh echoed through the pits as he squeezed the trigger, sending a blizzard of bullets at Frank, Joe, Callie, Sue, and Biker.

"I KNEW THAT would get your attention." Fat Harold giggled as he trotted down the hill. He'd purposely aimed high over their heads. The bookie stopped just short of the group, covering them with his MAC-10. "Why the surprised look, friends? You may be on the side of law and order, but I own the keys to the courthouse. It's good business to have a few state judges on your payroll. One of them owed me, and I'm out. Although I couldn't get my friends out."

Fat Harold laughed and moved toward the frightened Brandon.

"So, I catch up with you at last, Biker Conway." Fat Harold leveled the gun at Brandon's heart as the kid cowered. "Or should I say Brandon Dalton?" "N - n - no," Brandon whimpered. "Sorry," Fat Harold said. "But you don't have the watches or the money. So I'll have to write off the debt—and erase you as well." He nodded to the others. "And I'm sorry that you five will have to join young Mr. Dalton in the bad debt column. I can't have any witnesses. You do understand."

Fat Harold gave them his thin-lipped smile as he worked the bolt on his gun. Brandon stepped back, his hands in front of him as though they could stop the lead slugs. His face was a portrait of terror.

"All bets are off." Fat Harold laughed. "It's time to cash in your chips." He stepped forward, his finger tightening on the trigger.

That step forward brought the bookie to the spot where Biker lay. In a desperate move, Biker lashed out in a kick. Fat Harold screamed as his knees buckled. As the bookie was thrown off balance, his MAC-10 sprayed shells wildly into the dirt. Brandon fell to the ground.

The Hardys moved quickly, Joe yanking the gun from Fat Harold's hands while Frank landed a powerful uppercut to the bookie's jaw. Fat Harold groaned and slithered to the ground, unconscious. Callie ran to Brandon and turned him over.

"He's okay," she yelled back to Frank and Joe. "I think he just fainted."