Joe slowly obeyed, even though he knew it would only buy him a little more time. And time for what?
As Joe began turning his pockets out, Frank Hardy sat watching the scene perched on top of the nearest set of shelves. He was just leaving the warehouse office when he had heard a gunshot and hurried to help his brother.
He hadn't found anything to help them in the office. It contained a desk, lots of papers, a pack of cigarettes and some matches, and an old-fashioned dial phone. The workmen must have been using the phone too much, because there was a lock on it. Frank couldn't even call the police.
He'd snatched up the matches on his way out of the office, however. The hazy beginnings of an idea were forming in his brain.
Now, as he watched Joe in George's line of fire, the idea was his only hope. He had to find some way to neutralize George's gun and laser sight. And his only weapons were the matches and the boxes of paper goods.
While Joe emptied his left-hand pocket, Frank cautiously tore open the carton nearest to him. Loose papers — perfect. He found another box, opened it, then slid the two boxes to the edge of the shelf.
By now, Joe stood with all his pockets turned out, his belongings in his hands. Frank tore out half the matches in the matchbook and lit the boxes of paper. They went up in flames right away.
He shoved them off the shelf and they landed right in front of George.
"Joe! Jump!" Frank yelled. Joe vaulted over] the side of the stairs as George shied back from the flames. And even as he was yelling, Frank was striking the rest of his matches and holding them up to a nozzle over his head, part of the warehouse sprinkler system.
Water started spurting down, like an indoor monsoon. It hit the burning paper, sending up a dense cloud of smoke. George coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. The red laser; beam stabbed out, but couldn't penetrate the murk.
That was all Frank needed to see. He climbed down off his shelf and took off after his brother.
Frank and Joe stumbled out of the warehouse, psoaking wet. "Well, at least it washed off that concrete dust," Joe said as they ran for their van.
'Just be glad I was carrying the keys. I was afraid you were going to give them to George," Frank shot back as he unlocked the van door.
They were pulling around the corner when George appeared at the warehouse entrance. In the rear-view mirror, Frank saw him shove the gun under his jacket and stare after them.
The ride back to Bayport was as fast as legally possible. They stopped once, long enough for Frank to make his warning call to the Philadelphia police. While he was doing that, Joe had changed into dry clothes. Frank changed in the back of the van while Joe drove.
As they reached the outskirts of Bayport, Joe turned onto the road that led to the Paysons' house.
"What's up?" Frank looked at his brother in surprise. "I thought we were going straight to the grand jury hearings."
"I wanted to see if I could catch Denny at home first," Joe said. "When he took off the way he did, I knew he was upset. It's understandable, seeing what happened to Steve Vittorio. But he was Denny's last hope for a witness. I wanted to tell him it's not all over. We have a chance of nailing Crowell through George."
"If the Philadelphia police find that spent bullet," Frank reminded him.
"Well, it's better than giving up completely— which, I'm afraid, is what Denny's going to do," Joe answered.
He pulled up in front of the house, and walked up to the front door. "Hey, Denny!" he called, ringing the bell.
The door opened, but it wasn't Denny who greeted him. It was a very pale Mrs. Payson.
"I'm sorry," Joe said. "I thought you'd be in town for the grand jury."
"Barbara and Callie wanted to take me, but I thought I should wait for Denny," Mrs. Payson said. Lines of strain showed on her face as she spoke.
Joe's stomach knotted as he looked at her. "Didn't Denny come back?" he asked.
Mrs. Payson nodded jerkily, trying to hold back tears. "He came back, yes. He pushed by me, went up to his room, then down to the cellar, then out the door and into his car. All without a word. As if I were invisible."
Joe frowned. He didn't like what he was hearing. Waving for Frank to join them, he turned to Mrs. Payson again. "Was he carrying anything?"
"He took something downstairs with him, but I couldn't see what it was." Now tears were forming in Mrs. Payson's eyes. "He had it wrapped up in a coat. I couldn't see."
"I think we'd better go up to Denny's room," · Frank suggested quietly. "Maybe we can figure out what it was that Denny took." They reached the top of the stairs, and turned into Denny's bedroom. Sitting on his desk was the answer to their question. Joe sighed. He'd been wrong. Denny wasn't about to give up his war against Lucius Crowell.
On his desk was the presentation case for his new gun.
But the gun and the laser sight were both missing.
Chapter 12
Frank Hardy turned to Mrs. Payson, who stood white-faced in the doorway. "Do you know where he went?" he asked.
"After Lucius Crowell," Mrs. Payson whispered. She was obviously on the edge of falling to pieces.
"He won't catch him," Frank said quickly. "I called my dad. The grand jury is still hearing testimony. They'll be in session until about six. And no matter how angry or desperate Denny might be, I can't see him walking into the courtroom to shoot Crowell."
He immediately regretted his words when he saw the look on Mrs. Payson's face.
"Mrs. Payson," Frank said gently, "we don't want Denny to do anything stupid, or have anything stupid happen to him. But if we're going to head him off, we've got to find him as soon as possible."
"Where do you think he might have gone?" Joe asked.
"I — I just don't know," Mrs. Payson said. She looked up hopefully. "Maybe he went over to Barbara's?"
Frank shook his head; he had called on the car phone. Barbara wasn't there, and neither was Denny.
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Payson," he said.
"Please," Joe asked desperately, "think, Mrs. Payson. Is there anyplace Denny goes when he wants to think? When he wants to be alone? Maybe when he was younger?"
Mrs. Payson shook her head. "I really can't— Wait a second."
Frank and Joe turned to her.
"After the fire, Denny used to go to the old Crowell plant. I didn't like the idea, but he was stubborn. Even though I punished him, he refused to stop. He'd ride his bike over there, and just sit, looking at the ruins."
"Nobody's built there, have they?" Frank asked.
"Nope," Joe replied.
They stared at each other. "Let's go check it out," Frank said, heading out of the house and toward the van.
"Might as well," Joe said, following his brother.
Frank started up the van, heading for Shore Road. The old Crowell plant had been on Bar-met Bay. Back when the plant had been built, it had probably been the perfect place for dumping. Any chemicals they didn't want, they'd just pour into the bay.
Times had changed though. There were laws against dumping now. Frank remembered reading the federal reports about the new Crowell plant. It had an excellent reputation for the treatment and disposal of waste chemicals. But what about the old plant? What had been kept there?
Joe kept talking as they drove along. "You know, it's funny. Denny never could convince the police that Crowell and George were after him. But if we told the cops that Denny was out with his gun, you'd better believe they'd be scrambling all over town to find him."
"I hope we don't have to go that far," Frank said.
Joe's lips twisted. "If we tell the cops, Crowell wins."
"If we don't tell them, Crowell's dead," Frank said.
"This whole case stinks," Joe complained. "We've known who the bad guys were almost from the beginning, but we still can't prove a thing about them."
"And because of that, we've got a friend out there somewhere with a gun. With no one believing him, he may be desperate enough to use it." Frank
pounded his fist against the steering wheel. "We've got to find him, Joe."
They came to the road for the old Crowell plant. Frank turned the van, and they started jouncing along. The road was rutted, the pavement cracked and overgrown. In some places, it was more weeds than road.
"Looks like nobody's been around here in a long time," Joe said.
"Wrong." Frank pointed ahead of them. "See those weeds? Something came through here and squashed them all down."
"Something like a car?" Joe said.
Frank nodded. "Let's hope it turns out to be Denny's car."
They bounced farther along the road, until they came to the rusty remains of a chain-link fence. It wouldn't keep anyone out now. Some of the fence poles were completely gone, and in places the fence sagged right to the ground.
The gateposts were still up, but the gates themselves hung off at drunken angles. Frank let the van roll very slowly into the plant parking lot. The concrete there was in even worse shape than that on the road.
"It's like some sort of weird garden," Joe said, staring at clumps of weeds that rose up as high as his head. Some of them looked like young trees.
Frank hit the brakes. "Over there. A flash of gray among all those weeds."
They drove over and pulled up beside a weed patch. Hidden behind it was Denny Payson's gray car.
"Well, now we know he's here," Joe said.
"And we know he doesn't want everyone to know it." Frank was already examining the shell of the plant building. He remembered watching the fire on television. The flames had billowed out the front windows, until the metal Crowell Chemical sign had twisted off.
The scorched, melted sign was a pile of red flakes now. And the front wall of the building had completely fallen in. There was no trace of a roof. It was probably a pile of ash left on the floor inside—whatever hadn't been blown all over town.
Frank remembered reading that parts of the plant had been found miles away.
"Come on," he said to Joe. "Let's go in."
Frank picked a big open hole, ducked his head, and walked inside. Joe was right behind him.
The outside of the wrecked plant looked bizarre enough. But inside it was like something out of a bad science-fiction movie. Heat, explosions, and weird chemical reactions had rearranged everything in the building. Big mixing vats had been turned into huge misshapen blobs of metal. Parts of the floor had apparently been dissolved.
For a second Frank thought back to the day when all this wreckage had happened. It would have taken a pretty brave man to go in and try to rescue the workers. Even if the disaster had been his fault.
Would Denny Payson ever believe that?
They walked around a fallen beam. "Hey, Denny?" Joe called. "It's us, Joe and Frank Hardy. Want to come out and talk?"
The only answer they got was silence.
Joe scowled. "Of course, he wouldn't want to do this the easy way." He raised his voice. "Come on, stop fooling around. We know you're here. We're parked beside your car."
They walked farther into the building, calling Denny's name.
"You know, we're going to feel pretty stupid if he sneaks out and drives away," Joe said.
"Don't worry about that," a voice above them said.
The Hardys whirled around. Standing on what was left of the building's second floor was Denny Payson.
Frank didn't need much to know Denny wasn't happy to see them.
The glittering pistol braced in Denny's hands told him that, and a whole lot more.
Chapter 13
"Down," Denny Payson ordered. "On the ground. Sit on your hands."
Frank and Joe didn't really have a choice. The heavy Colt was trained on them. Slowly they lowered themselves to the ground, tucking their hands under their legs.
"I learned that from watching TV," Denny said. "Everybody makes their captives sit that way. It's supposed to be almost impossible to get back on your feet very quickly."
Denny grinned as he started working his way down to them, using the fallen beam as a rough ladder. But it wasn't a friendly grin, and his gun remained trained on them all the way down.
"I suppose my mom told you I'd be here," Denny said when he finally reached the ground.
He stood over them, but not too close. Not close enough for Frank or Joe to lash out and bring him down.
"This was my secret place, you know," Denny went on. "My mom is the only one who knows about it. She hated the idea of my coming here. Partly it was fear that the building would fall on me, I think." He smiled. "And, of course, she was afraid of what it would do to my mind."
He shook his head. "You know what I used to do here? I'd bring my old plinking gun and shoot at cans. Just like my dad and I used to do. I guess it made me feel he wasn't completely gone — Don't," Denny suddenly said. He aimed his gun at Joe, who had been trying to edge closer to him while he made his speech.
Joe sat very still.
"Denny — " Frank said.
But Denny ran right over his words. "Know what I've been doing here now?" he asked. "Target practice."
He pointed to a row of cans set up on some pieces of torn and pockmarked concrete. "My firing range away from home. Actually, I was testing out something I'd read in a gun magazine. Sort of a New Wave pistol silencer."
Denny kicked something between the Hardys — an empty two-liter soda bottle. It was discolored and had a hole in its bottom.
"That's your basic hardware," Denny explained. "A big plastic bottle. Of course, you have to weaken the load in your bullets, too, so they don't make as big a bang."
"Which is easy enough for you, with your own reloading machine," Frank said.
Denny nodded. "You got it, Frank. It's really impressive. Hardly more than a pop when the gun goes off. But the bullets still move fast enough to do their job."
His face was grim. "It was just going to be an experiment, you know. A little reloading project. I had the forty-five shells fixed up a month ago and was waiting to borrow a friend's gun to see if the silencer really worked. Just for the fun of it."
He laughed bitterly. "Then, what luck on my birthday! I got a forty-five Army Colt from my mother. A laser sight from Crowell. And I find out the last five years are a lie. That the man who's been helping our family is the one who got my father killed."
Denny took a deep breath. "I've been a good shot for as long as I can remember. A winner at the sport of shooting." He smiled. "You know, I was never a hunter. I never felt like one. It was always a game. I've never shot at anything alive. Only at bottles or targets. And now I've got a gun, bullets, a silencer, and a reason to use them."
"You can't shoot Lucius Crowell," Frank said. "Even if he did let this place burn down."
"It's not like he lit a match, you know," Joe added. "And he did try to save everyone."
"But he didn't save everyone, did he?" Denny said. "He killed my father, just as surely as if he'd dropped him in one of the acid vats over there." Denny jerked his head toward one of the melted monstrosities in the corner.
"Oh, I know, he's spent five years trying to make it up to me. Our house. Money. Presents. He used to take me to shooting meets, getting me interested in the sport. He was even encouraging me to take up chemistry, so I could work for his company. That's how I recognized the chemicals he was keeping here, and what they would do if any ever got mixed together."
His hand was white on the grip of his gun. "It's lucky some of the stuff wound up in the bay. Otherwise, the whole town might have been blown off the map. It taught him a big lesson. Now he's got the safest plant in the country. Now, when it's too late. Well, he can try to make it up for five years or for five centuries. He won't bring my father back—and he's going to pay for it!"
"Denny—" Joe tried to calm his friend, but Denny wasn't even listening.
"And now he's running for supervisor on his record as a hero—and because he has such clean hands. The Times said as much in the Sunday editorials. Everybody I know is ready to vote for him."
He laughed again. "Hey, I was going to vote for him until my eyes were opened."
Denny stared down at the Hardys. "You and I know the truth about Lucius Crowell. He's a killer, and he'll kill anyone who tries to tell the real story about him. Look what happened to Steve Vittorio."
He shuddered. "Vittorio was the one witness who wasn't afraid of Crowell. Back when the disaster happened, he started talking about safety violations. He got fired, and he couldn't get a decent job in Bayport. When I tracked him down in Philadelphia, Crowell had him killed."
"We don't think Crowell was in on that," Frank said. "It's his security chief — "
"George Swayne," Denny said. "He's in this whole thing up to his neck."
"Maybe over his head," Frank went on. "He's going beyond Crowell's orders. Beating you up. Killing Vittorio. Trying to kill us — "
"He messed up at the construction site," Joe said. "His first shot at the cable missed, and went into a bag of concrete. We've told the Philadelphia police, and they're looking for it."
Joe shifted around, trying to get some feeling into his hands, and found himself looking down the muzzle of Denny's gun.
"So, maybe if they find the bullet, maybe they'll be able to nail George. And I suppose you'll tell me that maybe he'll talk, and take Crowell down too."
Denny's fingers were white as he gripped his pistol. "Well, maybes aren't enough for me. I'm going to see Crowell go down. Because I'm going to make it happen."
"Denny, you can't do it that way," Joe said desperately.
"No?" Denny turned on him. "That's the way you guys do things. What about that terrorist guy who killed your girlfriend? I remember the stories in the papers. You nailed him after a big fight in the mall. If it's all right for you to waste the guy who murdered your girlfriend, why can't I take care of the man who killed my father?"
"I didn't kill Al-Rousasa," Joe said. "He was on the top level of the mall, trying to assassinate a presidential candidate who was speaking below. I tried to stop him before he could shoot, and in the fight, he went over the railing. In fact, before he fell, I tried to save him."
Line of Fire Page 7
