As they passed the motel in town, they saw the yellow van parked where it had been earlier. Beside it was Kidwell’s truck.
“There!” Frank said, pointing. “On the other side of the parking lot. See it? Grish’s truck. He’s here.”
Joe continued driving for another block and then parked as they devised a plan.
“No sign of the big trucks, though,” Frank said. “I wonder what that means.”
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Maybe they came back here after I saw them leave, and then left again. They could already be out in Organ Pipe somewhere, getting ready to pull another job.”
“They could be anywhere,” Frank said. “Let’s catch up with Grish first.”
Joe turned around and drove back, parking around the corner from the motel so they could reconnoiter. As they approached Grish’s truck, the door to one of the bungalows was flung open. A man, hidden by the long, obviously heavy bundle he was carrying over his shoulder, shuffled out toward the open side door of the yellow van. The bundle could have been a rolled-up carpet or a small cactus. More likely, though, it could have been a body wrapped in a blanket.
With a shout, the boys bolted toward the man, who hefted the bundle into the van and stepped in after it. He pulled the door shut behind him. Before the boys could reach him, he started the engine and backed the van straight toward them. As they dodged to keep from getting run over, he sped past them, swerved around, and then tore away down the street. When he swerved, they saw that Grish was driving.
“C’mon, Frank,” Joe called as they ran to their car. They jumped in and raced after the van. “That might have been Dad he was loading in there,” Joe said. “How can we make him stop without getting Dad hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “Wait, look! He’s pulling over. This is way too easy. Something must be wrong.”
The van swerved to the side of the road, and as they came up behind it, the bundle was tossed out the side and the van sped away.
Joe slammed on the brakes, then pulled off the road. Frank jumped out and ran to the bundle. “Dad?” he called. “Dad, are you in there? Are you okay? Oh, man, I hope you’re okay.”
Leaving the engine running, Joe jumped out to join his brother. “Be careful, Frank,” he said. “Dad, can you hear me? Dad?”
There was no answer. The van was disappearing in the distance.
“Take a corner of the carpet,” Frank said. “We’ll open it slowly so we don’t hurt him.”
Together they peeled back the carpet, turning it slowly and unrolling it. Finally they unwrapped enough to see there was a person inside, with his mouth, wrists, and ankles taped.
But it wasn’t Fenton. It was David Kidwell.
15 Making a Run for It
* * *
Frank removed the tape from Kidwell’s mouth while Joe cut the tape from his wrists and ankles with his pocketknife. Kidwell seemed to have been drugged. He could hardly move and could only mumble unintelligibly.
“Let’s get him in the car,” Frank said. They lifted Kidwell and deposited him in the backseat. As Joe got the car on the road again, speeding after the van, Frank leaned over the back of the passenger seat and tried to talk to Kidwell.
“David, where were they taking you?” he asked.
Kidwell’s mumbling was louder now as he made an effort to speak, but he was still incoherent.
“It’s okay, David,” Frank said. “We’ll get you to a doctor soon.”
Kidwell groaned and tried to sit up.
“David,” Frank said, “Grish and those other guys have our father somewhere. We’re trying to catch up, but we’ve lost them. Do you know where they were taking you?”
Kidwell became quiet, then finally muttered a word.
“What was that?” he asked. “I couldn’t understand you.”
Kidwell opened his mouth and slowly repeated the word. “A-la-mo,” he said.
“Alamo?” Frank asked him. “Is that what you said? Is that the name of a place?”
“A-la-mo,” Kidwell repeated, waving his hand as if to point.
Joe said, “Maybe there’s a place on the map called Alamo. Grab the map, Frank.”
Joe turned on the dome light as Frank unfolded the map.
“It could be anywhere,” Frank said, scanning the topographic map. “Let’s hope it’s close by. Wait, here’s something, not far from the highway through the park. Alamo Wash, it’s called.”
“Sounds like a Laundromat,” Joe said.
“A wash is a dry riverbed,” Frank said. “David, can you hear me? Is Alamo Wash what we’re looking for?”
But Kidwell did not stir.
“They must have drugged him,” Frank said. “Let’s head for Alamo Wash and hope that’s where they’ve taken Dad. Take the turnoff for the park. The wash crosses the highway about three or four miles inside. In the meantime I’m going to try the CB. If Perez is scanning, he can let the police know where we’re going.”
He took the walkie-talkie from beneath the seat. Switching it on, he said, “Break five. Break five. Perez, are you out there?” He paused to listen to the static hiss, hoping Perez would answer.
Joe said, “We were in such a hurry we didn’t designate a channel.”
“I know,” Frank said. “But he’s got that scanner in his trailer. It automatically switches from channel to channel until it comes to a signal.” Pushing the transmit key, he tried again. “Break five. Break five. Perez, come back. Do you read, Perez? This is Frank. Over.”
“Go, Frank,” Perez’s voice came back through the hiss. “Where are you?”
“We’re on the highway,” Frank told Perez. “We’re headed to a place called Alamo Wash. It’s about three or four miles inside the park. Did you get hold of the police? Over.”
“Roger on that,” Perez said. “Diane is waiting at the office with her dad. The police are sending a medevac helicopter. And the cops are on their way, too.”
“Great,” Frank said. “Tell them to find Alamo Wash. That’s where Grish and his gang must have gone. We should be there in a few minutes. We’ve got David Kidwell with us. I think they drugged him. Over.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Perez asked.
Frank glanced back over the seat. Under the dome light, Kidwell looked as if he was sleeping. “Maybe,” Frank said. “You should tell the authorities we need medical help at Alamo Wash, too. Over.”
“Roger,” Perez said. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “Out.” He drew a long breath. “I hope we’re headed to the right place,” he said to Joe. “We probably won’t get a second chance.”
Joe did not answer as he stared ahead at the highway. Moments later they came to the turnoff that led south through Organ Pipe and on to the Mexican border. He slowed down and turned off the headlights when he passed the sign indicating the entrance to the park. In the moonlight, the road stretched out before them like a black ribbon through the dark desert.
“I think dousing the lights will make it easier to spot any lights off to the side,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.”
They both understood that Grish had the advantage. He probably knew every road, marked and unmarked, and every path and wash.
“What’s that sign, Joe?” Frank asked.
Joe slowed to a stop, then backed up. Frank shone the flashlight on the sign, which read Alamo Wash. He swung the beam of light off to the left, where they could make out a dirt road turnoff.
“That’s it,” Joe said. “Let’s pull up a little, so if they come out they won’t spot the car.” He drove a hundred yards forward, then pulled off the road and parked.
“Let’s go,” Frank said. “I’ll take the flashlight and the CB. David, you stay here. . . . David?”
Kidwell didn’t answer. The Hardys could only hope he’d be all right until help arrived. They had no choice but to leave him—their father’s situation was urgent. Frank and Joe walked cautiously along the road for about a quarter of a mi
le, until they saw the glow of lights behind a hill up ahead.
“We found them!” Joe whispered.
“Yes,” Frank whispered back. “Let’s get off the road and head for that hill.” They started off across the desert, moving carefully because the moon was not yet up and they didn’t want to stumble through any cacti. They climbed the hill and looked down on the scene they had hoped to find. Below them, the headlights of the flatbed truck spotlighted an organ pipe cactus. Slim and the man in the plaid shirt were feverishly digging around the base of it. Frank could hear the sound of the flatbed truck engine, but even more clearly he could hear the diesel idling of the semi.
On the ground next to the cactus were some boards, probably to be used to frame the cactus once it was dug up. Grish walked into the light and seemed to be giving orders. He pointed at the base of the cactus.
The boys saw no sign of their father. They began a slow, careful descent of the hill, moving toward the thieves, trying to avoid slipping on the gravelly desert soil. They made their way around to the far side of the semi, where they saw the yellow van.
Shielded by the trailer from the men working on the cactus, the Hardys moved in closer. Joe could see that Grish, still standing in the light near the cactus, was wearing a pistol strapped to his hip. But more important, a dark shape caught Joe’s eye near the back tires of the trailer. It had to be his father. He was tied up and had tape over his mouth. Joe nudged Frank and pointed.
Frank and Joe backed up and ducked behind a bush. “You know what we have to do,” Frank said.
“I’ll create the diversion,” Joe said. “When they come after me, you grab Dad and get out of here.”
“How will you get away?” Frank asked.
“Same as you. They can’t follow us in the dark unless they have heavy-duty flashlights. I’m guessing their minds are on digging and not on searching, so it will take them a minute to get to their flashlights. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll forget all about chasing us and make a run for it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Frank said.
They split up, with Joe moving around the perimeter of light and Frank edging in closer to the semi. Minutes passed as Frank waited. Then he heard a shout and saw the cowboy pointing into the darkness. Over the noise of the running engines, Frank couldn’t hear what kind of disturbance Joe was making, but he could see that it was effective.
Pulling out his pocketknife, he ran to his father and hastily cut the tape binding Fenton’s wrists and ankles. Then he murmured, “Sorry, Dad,” and ripped the tape from Fenton’s mouth. “Can you run?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Fenton muttered. “But my legs are stiff, so stay with me.”
Linking hands to keep from getting separated in the dark, they trotted away from the semi, avoiding the trees and bushes. They slid down the embankment into the silt of a dry arroyo.
As they hit the soft sand, Frank heard the crack of a gunshot, and a bullet whistled over their heads.
16 A Long Desert Night
* * *
Frank and Fenton ducked under a bush just as a flashlight beam appeared at the top of the embankment and shone directly on them. They heard Grish say, “I suppose you think I’m as dumb as those two yahoos back there. Well, I’m not. And if you’re not either, I suggest the two of you climb back up here just as quick as you can.”
“Let’s do it,” Fenton muttered to Frank. “I don’t think he wants to shoot anybody, but let’s not give him a reason.”
“I have five bullets left, Fenton,” Grish said, “and you’re not really up to a sprint, are you, old friend?”
Frank helped Fenton climb the embankment, and Grish motioned them back to the semi.
“Keep an eye on them,” Grish said to the two other men, who had given up chasing Joe in the darkness. “Where’s your brother, Frank?”
“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “He’s out there somewhere, waiting for you to make a wrong move.”
Grish hesitated, waving his gun vaguely toward the darkness. “Well, just let him try something. Now you know what happens to people out here who butt into other people’s business.”
“What business is that, Grish?” Frank asked. “Stealing federal property? Making a bundle off something that belongs to everyone? Or just kidnapping and drugging innocent people and attempting murder?”
“What do you know?” Grish growled. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck out here in this job? Do you know how many years I’ve put in? And now they’re talking about downsizing the Forest Service, so I’ll wind up with half as big a pension as I would have had. And I can’t even collect that amount until ten years from now. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Work in a fast-food restaurant? By selling these plants, I’m only getting what should have been mine in the first place.”
“You’ll get what you deserve!” Frank exclaimed. “The police are on their way. You can’t go anyplace but Mexico from here.”
“Mexico’s just fine with me,” Grish said. “We’re half an hour from the border. And since things are a lot cheaper in Mexico, I can live a long time there on what I’ve made on these cactus plants.”
“The police will be watching the highways for your trucks,” Fenton said. “You’ll never be able to sell these plants.”
“No problem,” Grish said. “If they catch up to us, we’ll just forget about this load. We’ve already sold seven truckloads of cacti over the last couple of months. And by the way, the authorities know nothing about any of this. I haven’t reported any of the missing cacti. And the only reason I let you boys in on the case was so I could keep track of your every move.”
“Well, the authorities know now, old friend,” Frank replied. “The cops are looking for you for injuring Professor Townsend. And when they catch up to you for that, you’ll have to pay for kidnapping David Kidwell, too.”
“Kidwell,” Grish said with derision. “Now, there’s a piece of work. If you hadn’t interfered, he’d have gotten the blame for this whole thing.”
A peculiar deep beating sound filled the air, over the noise of the diesel engine.
“Chopper!” Grish exclaimed. “Quick, turn those lights off!”
The blinking lights of the helicopter filled the sky. Slim ran to the flatbed and turned out its lights.
Just when Frank began to think he’d have a chance of getting away from Grish, a rough hand grabbed his collar. Then Frank felt the cold steel of the pistol against his cheek.
“Let’s go,” Grish said roughly. “Fenton, stand up. If you don’t, I’ll put a big hole in your nosy kid’s head.”
Holding Frank firmly by the collar, Grish herded the Hardys toward the van. “You guys are on your own!” he shouted to the other two men. “Leave all this stuff behind. You know where to meet. Be there!” With that, he slid open the van door and shoved Frank inside. “On the floor,” he ordered Frank. “If I see your head pop up, you’ll be sorry. Fenton, you get in front.”
Without switching on the lights, Grish turned the van around and drove toward the highway just before the helicopter arrived above the trucks and shone a searchlight on the scene.
“That’s good,” Grish said as if to the pilot in the helicopter, his eyes on the searchlight in his rearview mirror. “You keep looking back there at the trucks. Meanwhile, the Hardys and I will head for Mexico. No funny stuff, now, Fenton. I don’t plan to hurt you. If you keep quiet when we get to the border, I’ll release you in Sonoita. That’s a little town just south of the border. You’ll have no problem getting back across. But I mean it when I say no funny stuff. You Hardys have given me more than enough trouble. This last cactus would have brought another six thousand dollars.”
“You could have gotten away before anybody figured out what you were up to,” Fenton said. “Why go to the trouble of framing Kidwell?”
Grish scarcely slowed down as he swerved from the dirt road onto the highway, his headlights still off. “Insurance,” Grish said, “in case something went wrong, wh
ich it did when you Hardys showed up. Kidwell was a ready-made scapegoat who just happened to fall into my lap. No one could miss the connection between what was going on here and what happened to his company in Phoenix. That’s why I rehired him after he slugged me. Actually, I hinted that I thought he might be involved in the thefts. That’s why he took a swing at me.”
Seconds after they passed the Hardys’ car, parked on the side of the road, a pair of bright headlights came on dead ahead. Temporarily blinded, Grish shouted as he hit the brakes and the van skidded off the road and rolled onto its side.
Frank and Fenton rolled with the van as it slid. Both were unhurt. Concerned for Frank, Fenton climbed into the back, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up to a sitting position.
Grish kicked open the door and leaped out. “Get out of the van, and don’t try anything,” he yelled. “I still have my gun.”
Grish turned to see who had caused the accident. Perez’s pickup truck was parked in the middle of the road. Beside it, Perez held up his hands. “D-don’t shoot!” he sputtered.
“Get over here with them,” Grish shouted. “Now.”
Perez walked over to Fenton and Frank, and all three raised their hands.
Grish glanced over at the pickup. “Give me the keys,” he said to Perez, who reached out and handed them over.
“Your truck should get me past the border,” Grish said. “Don’t anyone move.” He took several steps backward, watching them, and then turned to run for the truck.
When Grish was about three feet from the truck, something flew through the air and knocked him flat. Frank couldn’t believe it when he saw it was Joe, who had jumped off the top of the truck. On his back, Grish struggled to break free from Joe’s hold, but Joe released him just long enough to land a solid punch on the man’s jaw.
Next Fenton stepped over, grabbed Grish’s pistol, and pointed it at him.
“Nice timing,” Fenton said to Joe.
“Thanks,” Joe said, releasing Grish now that his father had him covered. Joe stood up, and then bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t think . . .” he gasped, “that I was . . . gonna to make it to you in time. As soon . . . as I saw Grish had you, I headed for the car, which we’d left by the side of the road. I was waiting in it when you drove by.”
The Desert Thieves Page 10
