The Deadliest Dare (5 page)

Frank stared down at the paper sample on the desk. "Interesting. But it doesn't look like it's locked in a desk anymore. I wonder what else is going on up there?"

Frank left the professor's house and headed down the rickety front steps and across the weedy, overgrown lawn. The house was on a steep hill on a quiet, side street. A low, lopsided picket fence encircled it.

Stepping through the creaking white gate, Frank followed the road down to where he'd parked. He'd done Callie a favor that day and picked up her car from the body shop. The Hardys were good customers there — somehow, every one of their cases wound up with a car needing repair work. Frank had decided to use the extra set of wheels to get to Professor Marschall while Joe took the van to Kirkland.

Frank slowed as he got close to the little green Nova. Something was bothering him.

Frank's glance took in a wide circle.

There were only two other cars parked on the block, both of them empty. An old man was slowly pushing a nearly empty shopping cart uphill across the street, a collie dog was drowsing on the front lawn of the neat shingle cottage across the way. There were no other people or animals around.

The breeze picked up a little, and Frank saw something move by the driver's door of Callie's car. The door was not quite shut. In fact, it couldn't close. The safety belt was dangling out, holding it slightly ajar. The silver buckle glinted.

Frank's frown deepened. He hadn't locked the car, but he knew he'd shut the door tightly.

Walking up to the car, he yanked on the door and saw immediately that the glove compartment had been ransacked. Papers, garage receipts, the driver's manual, and a brush and comb belonging to Callie were spilled out on the passenger seat and the floor.

After scanning the afternoon street again, Frank slid into the driver's seat. He gathered up the scattered stuff, put it back in order, and returned everything to the glove compartment.

Doesn't seem like they took anything, Frank said to himself.

He went to thrust the key into the ignition, then hesitated. Instead, he pulled the hood release and got out to check the engine. After a long, slow look, he slammed the hood down.

"No sign of tampering," he told himself out loud, "and nobody's planted anything."

Frank got back inside the car and drove off. He turned right at the corner and before too long was on a winding road that cut through a stretch of wooded hills.

I'm probably getting too suspicious, he thought. Frank shook his head as he drove. Somebody did search the car, sure, but I don't think we're actually involved anybody who'd put a bomb under my - The roar of a powerful car sounded through his thoughts.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. "Uh - oh!"

Frank stomped on the brake and slid a little lower in his seat.

I wasn't as paranoid as I thought, he decided as the car screeched along the road. The other car came roaring up behind him.

Again, the throbbing of its engine was drowned out—this time, by two shots.

Frank glanced into the outside side-view mirror as a bullet tore into it.

He couldn't see where the next shot was coming from.

The room was small, shadowy, and window-less. It went in and out of focus, as if someone were using a zoom lens—and not doing a very good job with it.

Joe Hardy wondered what the movie was. Then he realized it wasn't a movie. It was real — painfully real—life.

He groaned, managed to open his eyes fully, and ran his tongue over his teeth. He discovered, at just about the same time, that he had a horrendous headache and that he was tied to a straight-back wooden chair.

There was old furniture piled everywhere. Joe saw nests of wooden chairs, a gilded love-seat, rolled-up carpets, huge vases, marble Venuses—one of them had a gold clock built into her stomach—and a lot of dust.

Nobody else seemed to be in the storeroom, as far as he could tell, but the shadows in the corners could have hidden an army. And the entire supply of light came from a bare forty-watt bulb dangling from a twist of black cord just over his head.

Since his hands were tied behind him, there was no way to get a look at his wristwatch to find out what time it was. The clock in the Venus's stomach wasn't running. The clock in Joe's stomach told him it had been a long time since he'd had that hot dog in beautiful downtown Kirkland.

Exactly how long have I been unconscious? Joe wondered, then shrugged. I guess there's no way to tell.

He gave a tug at his bonds — there was no give at all. Someone had lashed him to the chair with plastic line, and the knots felt strong and tight.

I wonder if this is the Goodhill Antiques shop, he thought, remembering the truck that had been parked outside the Sinclair place.

Whoever had knocked out the Sinclair butler had probably done the job on Joe. There was no trace of the butler—apparently he'd been left in the Sinclair estate.

Joe blinked, his head still throbbing. That made sense. But why had the kidnappers taken Joe along? Why not leave him at the scene of the crime, too? And what about Jeanne Sinclair? She was probably a member of a group of pranksters calling themselves the Circle. She'd gotten scared and alerted Joe and Frank—in a sort of roundabout way.

Joe had a strong suspicion that the slugger with the blackjack had been at the house either to scare Jeanne Sinclair—or to kidnap her. Either way, he'd walked in at the wrong moment and now he was tangled up in the whole mess, too.

Okay, so far everything fits together pretty well, Joe told himself. At least as well as my broken head can put it all together.

But then he stopped and thought. Practical jokers, even slightly dangerous ones, didn't usually go around with blackjacks in their pockets. They didn't knock people out, and they probably wouldn't go in for kidnapping because there wouldn't be much joke in that.

So who had bopped Joe on the head? Why had he been snatched? Joe knew he'd never find out if he didn't get away.

Although his head hurt when he turned, Joe looked around, trying to spot something he could use to cut the ropes. A fragment of a vase might do, but the vases were across the room and out of reach. If he'd been closer, he could have knocked one over.

He glanced to the left, then to the right.

Sure, he had enough room on each side of him. Joe shifted his weight, first one way, then the other. With luck, and patience, he could tip this chair over. It was an antique and didn't look all that sturdy. The fall ought to break it, and then he could slip free of the bonds.

Every time he rocked, the throbbing in his head got worse. He kept at it, anyway.

Finally, after what felt like half an hour, Joe succeeded in getting the old wooden chair to fall to the right. It hit the cement floor hard. Joe winced at the jolt, jagged little lightning bolts of pain shooting around behind his tight-shut eyes.

But he also heard the satisfying sound of wood cracking and splintering.

Joe strained against his bonds. Yes, one arm of the chair was shattered. He could move his right hand. He wiggled, twisted, and succeeded in working free of the twists of plastic line. He stood at last, shedding rope and fragments of chair.

Glancing at the closed door, Joe grabbed a chair leg and hid in the shadows. He'd made a lot of noise getting free. It was possible somebody would burst in on him.

But no one appeared.

Very carefully and quietly Joe picked his way across the room. Finally he reached the single entrance, a blank wooden door.

Dropping to one knee, he risked a peek through the rusty keyhole. All he could tell about the next room was that it was also a storeroom, just about as cluttered and poorly lit as the one he was in. No reason to stay here, he decided. To his surprise, the door wasn't locked. Joe turned the knob very slowly, pushed the door open, and crossed into the next room. "Hello, Joe," said a vaguely familiar voice. He spun, giving himself a new pain in his skull. "Jeanne Sinclair," he said.

A pretty, dark-haired young woman was sitting on an old-fashioned striped sofa. Joe noticed she wasn't tied.

"So what's the story?" he asked. "Are you really into old-fashioned furniture, or were you just waiting for me to wake up and lead the way out?"

Jeanne shrugged, staring down at her hands clasped tight in her lap. "I — I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know what to do."

"Well, we'd better start deciding." Still rubbing his aching head, Joe looked around the tiny room. At the far side was still another wooden door. Joe pointed, asking, "Is that door locked?"

"That one isn't, no," Jeanne answered. She stayed huddled on the old sofa, her voice low.

"But the door on the other side of that one is made out of solid steel—and it's locked and bolted."