Brother Against Brother

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 3

  "Any word yet?" Frank Hardy couldn't keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Has Joe called?"

  His mother shook her head. "No word. This isn't like Joe. It's been two whole days."

  "Where's Dad?" Frank asked, sitting down at the kitchen table in their Bayport home.

  "Notifying the authorities of Joe's disappearance." Laura Hardy stared at her son for a long moment. "Frank, what's going on?"

  Frank avoided her eyes. "Where's Aunt Gertrude?"

  "Don't change the subject. I'm worried about Joe." Laura Hardy said sharply. She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, Frank. I guess we're all wound up a bit too tight over this."

  "It's all right, Mom," Frank said. "I'm worried about Joe, too." He reached across the table and took an apple from a bowl of fruit. But he wasn't really hungry. "I think I'll go for a run," he finally said.

  The morning air was salty as Frank ran along the beach of Barmet Bay. Most mornings, before breakfast, Frank and Joe would run together to the beach and back. And, most mornings, Joe won.

  Frank hated to admit it, but it drove him crazy. He spent his mornings exercising, doing weight training and karate workouts. Joe rolled out of bed an hour after him, and did nothing but play a little football or baseball. He was as good an athlete—or better—than Frank.

  Joe jokingly referred to Frank as the brains of their operation and himself as the brawn. He was slightly shorter than Frank but stockier and more muscular. They made an excellent team. Frank sometimes wondered if the underlying competition between them was what made their team so successful.

  Frank smiled, pushing himself to run faster. No, that wasn't it. They worked together so well because their abilities meshed perfectly. Because they were brothers. He'd hate to see what would happen if they ever found themselves on opposite sides.

  Just as Frank returned home from his run, Fenton Hardy walked into the kitchen, where his wife was sipping coffee.

  Frank poured himself a glass of juice and joined his parents at the table.

  "Is there any news?" Laura finally asked.

  Fenton Hardy shook his head.

  Laura Hardy shrank in her chair. "In that case, I think I'll go for a walk. I could use a little fresh air, too," she told Frank.

  Frank waited for his mother to leave before he asked his father, "Nothing at all?"

  "No word from Joe," Fenton said. "And no word about the hit man, either." At a look from Frank, Fenton added, "I'm doing everything I can."

  Frank gripped the edge of the table, trying to stay calm. "I should have gone with Joe. It wasn't a good idea to send him alone."

  Fenton Hardy shook his head. "Two people traveling together might have attracted attention. We agreed on that. And Joe won the draw to go," Fenton reminded Frank. "If we're going to play might-have-been, I should have gone."

  "Come on, Dad. Any hood would be sure to know you. They'd follow you straight to the witness: That's why it had to be either Joe or me." He shook his head. "Joe is just too hot-headed. If he got himself into something ... "

  Fenton's eyes drifted toward the phone. "I hope not, Frank. The hoods on this case are very dangerous. Organized crime types."

  "Are we going to sit here and do nothing?" Frank asked.

  "I'll be in my study," Fenton said, abruptly rising to his feet. "Leave the phone line open, in case Joe calls."

  The next hours were the longest in Frank's life. The kitchen phone never rang. All day Fenton shut himself up in his study. Frank could hear him talking over the private line, phone call after phone call. Laura Hardy came home and disappeared upstairs. Frank tried watching TV, then listening to music, but he couldn't get his mind off Joe.

  When Fenton didn't show up for supper, Frank went to his study and knocked on the door. "I'm going after Joe," he told his father.

  "I'm not sending another son out," Fenton Hardy told him firmly.

  "Come on, Dad," Frank begged. "The only word we received today was some silly postcard that Joe sent two days ago! Besides, someone still has to deliver the warning to the witness."

  The door opened. Fenton Hardy stared at his son. "I don't like your idea one bit," he said quietly. "But I will think about it." With that, he disappeared back into his study.

  "Well, I'm not hanging around here," Frank said to himself.

  He drove his van around aimlessly, up and down the streets of Bayport. All he wanted to do was help Joe. But he had to respect his father's wishes. At a train crossing, the barriers came down, lights flashing, bells clanging. Frank braked and watched the New York City express barrel past on the tracks. At least it was going someplace! He slammed the steering wheel in frustration. I'm beginning to act just like Joe, he thought.

  As he was driving past the mall, Frank saw Callie Shaw, Chet Morton, and Liz Webling leaving the movies. Frank pulled up and waved to them.

  "What do you say we go over to Mr. Pizza?" Chet suggested. "I'm feeling a little hungry."

  "You're always hungry," Callie kidded him.

  "That's how I maintain my figure." Chet chuckled, grabbing his middle. "Hey, Frank, why don't you come along?"

  Frank shook his head. "Actually, I was hoping to take Callie away from all this."

  Liz grinned and took Chet's arm. "I can take a hint," she said. "Come on, pal, lead me to that pizza."

  Callie climbed in, and the van took off. The breeze from the window ruffled her blond hair as she looked at Frank. "Something's bothering you. What is it?" she asked.

  Frank told her about Joe. "I want to go after him," he said.

  "Sounds dangerous." Callie frowned. "Besides, you don't know for sure what happened to Joe. Maybe he's out of touch to avoid trouble. You should have an idea of what you'll be fighting before you jump in the middle of it."

  "I guess you're right," Frank said, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

  She shuddered a little. "I always get a bad feeling in this place." She looked out across the parking lot. "It's where your car blew up—with Iola." Her voice was very quiet. "I hope Joe's all right."

  Frank sat quietly for a moment, his face set. I can't stand by and do nothing, he decided.

  Callie was studying him. "Frank? Are you okay?" she asked quietly. But lost in his troubled thoughts, Frank didn't answer.

  ***

  It was like a nightmare playing over and over in his mind. Joe saw himself trapped in the car trunk, tumbling down the canyon wall again and again. He tried to open his eyes to stop the dreaming, but he couldn't. No,' he could do nothing but live through the confusion and fear again and again.

  How long ago had it actually happened? It could have been hours, days, or weeks. Joe had lost all notion of time. All he remembered was trying frantically to get out of the open trunk as the car tumbled toward the river. He was right above the gas tank. If it hit a boulder and exploded, he'd be splattered all over the landscape.

  He'd made one desperate jump, hitting his shoulder as the lid swung closed. But he'd gotten free of the car, even if he plummeted down the slope helplessly. The last thing he saw was the blunt edge of a boulder, flying up to meet him.

  He twisted desperately in midair, but all that followed was this dark trance.

  He had clawed his way back to consciousness. Sharp, piercing pain held him paralyzed. His body and limbs were bruised and bloody. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Instinct alone got him to his feet and forced him to hobble away. Whoever had pushed him down would come to check the accident site—and maybe finish the job.

  Staggering drunkenly, Joe forced his battered « body along the riverbank. Stopping by a still pool of water, he looked at his reflection. It looked like something out of a splatter movie. A deep cut in his scalp had left a mask of blood over half his face, making it completely unrecognizable.

  He stared at the frightening stranger in the water, then stumbled on. The river flattened and slowed. Joe stopped. Maybe he could enter the water. Perhaps its coolness would soothe h
is aching hurts. Moving like an old man, he gingerly climbed over some boulders lining the shore. Then he heard something duck underwater.

  Leaning against a boulder, Joe blinked, trying to focus his eyes. Concentric ripples in the water marked the spot where whatever it was had disappeared. Would it surface again?

  It did—and Joe gasped in amazement as a human head broke through the water, tossing long, water-soaked hair over tanned shoulders. A girl, and a pretty one! Then she saw him and crouched in the water up to her chin!'

  Reeling forward, he stretched his hands toward the girl.

  She reacted as if he were the star of a horror movie, moving quickly to grab for a towel lying on a boulder. Covering herself with the cloth, she climbed out of the water.

  "Please," Joe tried to say, but it just came out as a moan. Then a golden retriever, teeth bared, came splashing through the water, snarling at him.

  Joe tried to pull himself together, to defend himself, but everything was swirling around him. He looked at the girl and heard a voice—his own? hers? — whispering, "Help me!"

  Then he collapsed, helplessly crumpling into darkness.

  Chapter 4

  "Can you tell me anything more? Please try to remember," Frank Hardy said. "It's really important." He leaned across the rental car counter at Stapleton Airport. In his hand was his one slim lead to Joe, the jackalope postcard which Joe had sent him.

  The clerk, a young woman with a stiff blond hairdo, thought for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry. There's a few conventions in town, plus the usual tourists. I showed you our records, so you know what kind of car he rented. But I just don't remember anything else about him."

  "He may have asked directions to the mountains. Does that help?" Frank asked.

  "I just can't remember your brother," the clerk said. "I mean, I remember helping someone who looks like that picture you showed me. But that was a few days ago. If he was headed for the mountains, you've got a big job ahead of you."

  Frank glanced over the clerk's shoulder. On the wall was tacked a road map of Colorado and the surrounding states. And the mountains filled an enormous part of the map. If Joe were lost up there, it would take a miracle to find him, Frank thought to himself. But he knew the route Joe was supposed to follow, and now he knew what Joe was driving. That was a start.

  It had taken some doing to convince his father to let him try this mission—they had argued well into the night. Finally, as much because of exhaustion as discussion, Fenton Hardy agreed to let Frank go. If they waited much longer, Joe's trail might be too cold to follow.

  "We can only hope Joe's alive," Fenton finally said. "And you'll have to find our witness—and that Hitman."

  frank barely had time to pack a bag before his father was hurrying him to the airport.

  "I'm giving you twenty-four hours," Fenton had warned Frank. "If there's no sign of Joe or the hit man, I want you home. Understand?"

  "Okay, Dad." Frank looked up at his father's pale, drawn face. "Everything will turn out all right. I promise."

  The rental car clerk's voice cut through his thoughts. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help. Good luck in finding your brother."

  "Thanks, anyway," Frank said, flipping the postcard against his palm. Suddenly an idea came to him.

  "Can I bother you one more second?" he said to the clerk.

  "No bother."

  "Have you ever seen one of these?" Frank asked, showing her the postcard.

  The clerk studied the postcard, then grinned. "Well, it's not too easy to see a jackalope—since it doesn't exist. It's only a gag postcard, understand. Tourists buy them by the gross."

  "Where are they sold?" Frank asked.

  "All over the state," the clerk said. "May I see it?"

  "There's no clue on it," Frank said. "Just a joke message from Joe."

  "But there's also a postmark," said the clerk. "Maybe I'll recognize where it's from."

  Frank handed over the postcard, and she examined the inky postmark which had cancelled the stamp. "Summit County," she said. "I know where that is. Up in the mountains, about sixty miles due west of here. And I bet that I know exactly where your brother bought this."

  "Really? Where?"

  "There's a tourist shop right off the highway. It's built to look like an Indian tent. The owner loves this sort of junk."

  Frank took back the postcard. "Thanks. At least it's a start."

  In a rental car of his own, Frank began to trace Joe's tracks from the Denver airport. On the highway, heading west, Frank turned on the radio. It was too much to hope for news about Joe, but he wanted a weather report. Already his mind was working, trying to estimate the driving time to the mountains, taking into consideration the weather and amount of traffic.

  Most of the time these mental exercises were just games. Frank knew this, but he tried to keep his mind sharp with constant practice.

  At first Frank felt confident that he could findJoe. Call it a hunch, but it would not be the first time that Frank got his younger brother out of a tight spot. All too often, Joe's hot head got him into trouble, charging into situations without thinking things through. Caution was not to be found in Joe Hardy's vocabulary.

  Frank smiled to himself. What dumb thing had Joe done this time? Run out of gas on a deserted mountain road? Completed his mission and then run into a few girls, forgetting altogether to call home?

  The car began to lose its momentum as the incline of the road became steeper. Frank hit the accelerator, wanting to maintain a speed just below the legal limit. Ahead he saw the Rocky Mountains. Massive, imposing, endless. And Frank's optimism began to fade.

  How could one person search a whole mountain range? he asked himself. It could take weeks, even months, to track Joe down. He could already be dead—or dying—before Frank reached the foothills. Still, he couldn't turn back.

  ***

  Joe, sweaty, breathing heavily, fought against delirium. His mind, like some video machine gone berserk, kept flashing brief, violent scenes — confused memories. Voices, momentary images of faces and scenes turned over and over. The people and places were both incredibly familiar and frighteningly alien.

  Himbling in and out of darkness, Joe found himself struggling again with Al-Rousasa, the terrorist who had killed Iola Morton, He and Joe were fighting again not far from where Iola had been murdered.

  "Wait a second, this has to be a dream," Joe told himself. "This can't be happening again. Or is it happening for the very first time?"

  Joe didn't have any more time to wonder. Al-Rousasa hurled him against a concrete bench. The impact left Joe seeing stars as the terrorist knelt over him, raising his knife for the kill. Joe, cut and bleeding, got off a perfect roundhouse right straight into Al-Rousasa's face.

  The punch knocked the terrorist backward and over a safety rail, where he could drop sixty feet to the mall below. But no. Al-Rousasa had the agility of a cat. He twisted himself around in midair, snatching at the rail and catching onto the edge of the floor.

  Joe stood, glaring down at those white-knuckled hands and the dark eyes burning with hatred. A quick stomp on those hands, a kick into that despised face, and Iola's killer would be gone. ...

  Suddenly the dream shifted, and the terrorist dissolved into a cloud of fog. Out of the haze appeared the laughing face of a beautiful girl with pixielike features.

  "Iola!" Joe heard himself call. "Iola, please forgive me!"

  She turned and ran away. Joe tried to follow, but it was as if his feet were fixed in concrete. "Iola! Wait."

  Suddenly Joe felt himself swept up. He was swooping along a cliff, flying over sharp-edged rocks. He could feel the wind whipping past him, blowing the mane against his face—the mane? Now he was on a horse, galloping madly.

  Joe gripped the horse tightly with his knees and with his arms wrapped around the animal's neck. Then the gunshots came streaking past.

  The horse raced across a pasture, then down a moonlit asphalt road. Hoofbeats thundered so lou
dly that Joe had to yell to make himself heard.

  "We've done it! We've shaken them!'! he shouted triumphantly, looking over his shoulder—at what? Where were the others?

  Only an empty highway stretched behind him.

  He faced front again, to see a huge mountain of a man preparing to shoot a girl. The girl charged him, moving without a word, a knife held tightly in her hand. She would never reach the man in time. "No!" Joe screamed, but he was too late.

  The Super Blackhawk came up, fired. The bullet caught the girl in the chest, whipping her about violently. She hit the ground and lay motionless.

  Not caring if the guy shot him, too, Joe jumped for him. But the man dissolved, and Joe found himself landing on hard concrete. "Joe!"

  He scrambled to his knees, to find Iola standing where the girl had gone down. She was surrounded by flames, and calling his name.

  "You've got to save me, Joe! You can't let me die!"

  Joe hurled himself forward, but never made it to that ring of fire. Someone was in his way — a tall, dark-haired guy about his own age. He looked so familiar, but Joe didn't recognize him.

  But that didn't matter then. Joe tried to shove his way past him, to get to Iola. But the dark stranger didn't move. He held Joe back.

  The next thing Joe knew, he was throwing a punch. It didn't land. The dark-haired stranger ducked. But when Joe tried to dart past again, the stranger grabbed him.

  It was like wrestling with an octopus. Joe couldn't get loose. And all the time he fought, he could hear Iola in the background, screaming.

  He looked into his captor's face, and the stranger began laughing. Sometimes it sounded as if he were just kidding. Other times his laughter was mocking—threatening.

  The laughter became louder and louder, mingling with and drowning out Iola's screams. Then Joe was screaming, too. "Iola! It's not my fault! Stop it. Stop it!"