His body arched with pain as someone shook him violently. Then he realized his swollen eyes were open. This was no dream!
Squinting, he couldn't make out who was looming over him. Was it a friend or enemy? Was it the dark-haired stranger?
Still groggy, he struck out and his hand clamped around a neck. He heard a gasp as the stranger fell to the floor.
"I'll get you!" Joe screamed, "I'll kill you with my bare hands!"
Chapter 5
Frank's shoulders slumped in defeat. For hours, well into a long, long night, he had searched for Joe. But there wasn't even one solid clue as to where Joe was. Joe had started off on the route his father had given him, and then it seemed as if he had disappeared.
The owner of the tepee tourist shop had remembered Joe, but he had provided no concrete leads.
"Sorry," he'd said. "I can't keep track of every lowlander coming this way. Sure I can't interest you in a nice silver bracelet for your girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend? What makes you think I have a girlfriend?"
That got a chuckle from the owner. "Fella like you would be sure to have a girlfriend."
But the only thing that Frank had wanted was a phone. He had called back to Bayport from the shop. His parents had nothing to report. But Fenton Hardy had reminded him that his twenty-four hours would be up the next afternoon.
Frank had answered that he wasn't going to leave Colorado without some information about Joe's fate.
After leaving the tourist shop, Frank had covered the main roads of Summit County until well past sundown. He'd stopped at gas stations and truck stops, at restaurants and motels, describing Joe's car, showing Joe's photo. He had talked with the local law, asking if anything unusual— an accident, a rock slide, a shooting—had been reported. He checked with the local hospitals. But everywhere he went, Frank had come up empty.
Finally, he couldn't drive any farther and pulled into a rest area. Under better circumstances the place would have been very restful. It was off the main road and had several picnic tables surrounded by tall, thin pines and aspens. Nearby, a stream ran downhill through a canyon.
But Frank found little rest. When his eyes closed, all he could envision were horrible scenes. Joe hurt and lost. Joe attacked by the very hit man he was trying to stop. Joe dazed and wandering. Joe ... Joe ... Joe.
Frank napped for a little while, then shook himself awake, his eyes and mouth feeling gummy. He started the car and looked for a place to eat.
Now he was sitting in a truck stop. It was late, closer to sunrise than midnight. The only other customers, truck drivers.
Frank sat at the counter, sipping a large glass of soda, barely touching the hamburger and fries in front of him. His place mat was a map of Colorado, the kind with facts about tourist attractions.
Frank pushed his food away and unfolded a road map. With a pen he marked the places he had already visited.
"Looking for a place to bed down for the night?" the waitress asked. "There's a decent motel about three miles down the road."
"No," Frank told her. "I've got to keep moving. May I have my check, please?"
The waitress totaled up Frank's bill and left it on the counter. "You look pretty tired," she said. "I hope that you're not planning to do much more driving. The roads around here can be dangerous in the dark."
Frank put some money on the counter. He shook his head, trying to come up with a new course of action. The waitress marched over to freshen the coffee for two truckers sharing a booth.
"How are you guys tonight?" she asked.
"Stuck here," one trucker said with a grin.
"How about two slices of your famous apple pie?"
"And keep the coffee coming," said the other trucker. "Might as well stay put till they get that accident cleaned up."
"Accident?" the waitress asked.
"Heard it over my CB," he said. "Road's closed up near Cripple Mine. They found some car went off the road, and they've closed it till a tow truck can pull the car up from the river. Decided to do it now, so they wouldn't block the road during the day."
Frank spun around on his stool, giving the truckers his full attention.
"Was it a bad crash?" the waitress asked.
"Yeah. But they think it happened a while ago. Some guy just reported it today, though. A buddy of mine was the last truck they let through. He was passing by just after the police had arrived. Told me about it over the CB: Strangest thing, he said the car had been picked clean of any ID. The glove compartment was stripped. No registration. Even the license plates were missing."
"Well, who was driving?" the waitress asked.
"No sign of anyone." The trucker shrugged. "I can't figure it."
The truckers and waitress continued to talk, but Frank turned back to the road map before him.
"Cripple Mine," he whispered to himself, tracing over his map. His finger had strayed across the border into Utah before he shook his head, realizing he was too tired to use common sense.
He turned the map around to check the directory of places listed on the back. Sure enough, there was a Cripple Mine.
Using the location code, Frank first circled the general area, then, peering closer he zeroed in on Cripple Mine. He circled it with a pen. Using the mileage legend he figured that he could reach Cripple Mine by sunrise.
Frank quietly folded the map and left. He was feeling some hope, even though that accident sounded bad. What if he finally found Joe's car, only to learn that something horrible had happened to his brother?
***
Joe Hardy had tumbled to the floor, a cold grip around his enemy's throat. Hands were feebly beating against his wrists, but they couldn't break his hold. The dark-haired stranger wasn't so strong now! He'd kill him!
He stared at his enemy—and leapt back, blinking. "Am I dreaming?" he whispered to himself. The stranger had disappeared. Instead, his hands were locked on the throat of an auburn-haired girl with lovely green eyes — apprehensive eyes at that moment, as she huddled on the floor, arms raised to protect herself.
He reached up and felt a bandage wrapped around his head. "Wha - what's going on?" he asked, his voice thin and reedy.
· "You began shouting and tossing around on the bed," the girl said. "I tried to shake you awake— and you started strangling me!" She looked at him nervously. "Do you always wake up like that?"
Joe leaned back against the bed, his head spinning. Little by little, he took in his surroundings. A rustic cabin with log walls. A small, single room equipped with a wooden table and chairs, one bed and several folding cots, and a cast iron : wood-burning stove.
"I'm sorry if I scared you," he finally said.
The girl dropped her defensive pose. "You could make a career out of scaring people—like when you came up to the river."
: Joe rubbed his head. "You — you were the girl in the water!"
Her face went red. "I was — um — skinny-dipping, and then you came lurching out of the rocks at me like some kind of monster. My dog, Lucky, ran at you — he's a good watchdog. I thought he'd have to attack you. But you just fell on your face."
The girl helped Joe back onto the bed. "I could see that you were pretty badly banged up, especially when I couldn't revive you. I heard later about a car half-buried in the river. Was that yours?"
For an instant Joe remembered tumbling through the air. "Yeah," he muttered.
"You were lucky you survived." Joe nodded.
"Anyway, I dragged you back here. It took a while, because you were bleeding pretty badly, and you weighed a ton! I was afraid you wouldn't make it." She smiled sweetly and began readjusting Joe's bandage.
"Once I got you here," she continued, "my Uncle Delbert helped me get you into bed and worked on your wounds. We didn't dare move you. The closest hospital is miles and miles away."
"I owe you and your uncle a lot," Joe said. "Thanks."
The girl smiled at him. "My name is Rita, by the way. My uncle's not here right now. He wen
t out for, uh, supplies."
"I don't know how I can thank you." Joe tried to sit up. Pain brought his hands to his temples and forehead.
"You kept muttering in your sleep. I thought that maybe we should take our chances and move you to a hospital — even with the long drive."
"Long drive? We must really be isolated," Joe said.
Rita nodded. "Uncle Delbert likes the quiet." She dampened a cloth and lightly ran it over Joe's face. "You're looking a lot better. How do you feel?"
"Like I was hit with a ton of bricks," Joe said. He attempted a smile, but a sudden pain in his head made him groan instead.
"Well, you'll need a lot more rest. Your body will need time to heal," Rita said. She collected the cloth and bowl of water and began to move away. "You know," she said, stopping, "you haven't told me your name."
"I'm — I'm — " Joe began to say, expecting his name to naturally follow. He rubbed his head. "I can't remember!"
"What?" Rita said. "Are you joking?"
"I can't remember!" Joe rose up in panic.
"Now, lie back and try to rest. Remember, you took an awful thump on the head." She covered him with a quilt and then pulled a chair beside the bed and held his hand. "Just take it easy," she said. "Don't try to force anything. It'll all come back to you."
"I can't remember my own name!" Joe began to push himself off the bed.
Rita gently pushed him back. "Where do you think you're going? You can't travel."
"You don't understand," Joe's voice rose. "There's something I have to do!"
"What's that?" Rita asked.
"I—can't remember!" Joe said.
"Then you can't do it, can you?" Rita said, trying to calm him. "First you have to remember your name."
"But I can't!" Joe's whole body was quivering.
"Calm down!" she said gently. "I'm here to help you. Just close your eyes. Relax, and tell me what comes into your mind."
Joe closed his eyes and sank back into the soft pillow. At first his mind was a clean slate — then a hazy image appeared. Slowly it became clearer — a girl seated in a sedan. "Iola," he whispered sadly.
"Iola?" Rita said. "That's an interesting name. Is that the name of your hometown or something?"
"No, no. It's the name of a girl," he said. "Your sister?" Rita asked. "Your girlfriend, perhaps?"
Then he saw the flames, and the dark stranger's face, just like in his dream. "Iola, I - I've got to help her," Joe stammered. "He's stopping me!" "He?" Rita echoed. "Who is 'he'?" "There's danger. Awful danger!" Joe opened his eyes and sat up. "Something evil is outside."
"Please, please calm down," Rita said. "That's only the wind moving through the trees. Believe me, we're miles from the nearest neighbors."
"No!" Joe told her. "You've got to believe me. It's lurking outside, ready to hurt us!" He lurched up from the bed and stumbled to the door, pulling on the handle.
The heavy wooden door swung open—to reveal a man standing on the porch, a rifle in his hands.
"Hold it right there, buddy," the man said. "You make a move and I'll use this thing!"
Chapter 6
Frank Hardy drove frantically through the Rocky Mountain dawn. Sunlight was a long time coming to the low canyons where his route took him. The sun had been up for an hour before it was high enough in the sky to climb over the craggy mountaintops.
Till then, Frank had driven through a faint glow. Little by little, though, the glow increased, bringing a pink tone to the rocks around him. Then, as more light hit the rocks, the pink intensified into reddish brown.
The air began to warm, and Frank realized he no longer needed the car heater. He turned it off and opened a window. Cool, dry breezes filled the car, bringing with them a scent of pine.
It was a beautiful spectacle — but Frank hardly noticed. Except for a brief nap, he had been up all night. His whole body ached from lack of sleep. His stomach rumbled, his neck and back were shot through with pain. His mind buzzed with a series of unanswerable "what ifs."
"What if I can't locate Cripple Mine?"
"What if the cops don't let me through?"
"What if the car's already been towed away?"
"What if I'm forced to return to Bayport without Joe?"
"What if I find Joe dead?"
"What if the hit man is lying in wait for me.
The road passed through some woods. For just a moment Frank thought about stopping the car, walking through the woods, kneeling beside a brook, and rubbing some of its icy water over his tired face. But he drove on.
"Hang on, Joe," Frank whispered. "I'm coming. I'm coming, brother."
He curved around a bend in the highway to find a patrolman removing a wobden barricade, to open the road to traffic again.
Frank slowed, checking out the scene. Through the open window he heard the roar of a raging river. Beside him he saw the steel guardrail smashed apart, with tire tracks rolling off the road's edge and disappearing into the ravine.
Just ahead of this, parked at the side of the ravine, were a tow truck carrying a wreck and a highway patrol car. An officer was jotting notes down, while the tow truck operator waited.
Frank stopped and shouted out the window, "Excuse me. Is this near Cripple Mine?"
"Yes, it is. But just keep moving, son," the officer said. "Got to keep the road clear."
"Looks like some accident," Frank said. "How did the guy who was driving come out?"
"We found nothing but the wreck itself," the officer said. "No body, no identification."
"Well, thank you," Frank said. He accelerated slightly, moving past the tow truck.
He nearly slammed to a stop as he studied the wrecked car — the same make and model that Joe had rented. "No one could have survived in that," he whispered to himself. The windshield and all the windows of the car had been shattered. The roof was flattened against the body. The engine was in the backseat. The sides had been punched in like a collapsed milk carton.
Frank's face was grim as he drove away. If Joe had been in there.
He drove a mile or so, then finding a place to pull off, he hid his car among some trees. Then he walked back along the road toward the accident site.
Seeing the approaching roof lights of the tow truck and patrol car, Frank ducked for cover. He crouched low in some bushes while the procession passed by. Then he jogged along the asphalt road.
He followed the guardrail until its violent break. Glancing down the rocky ravine Frank could see the tracks the wreck had made as it was winched up from the river. Gingerly Frank stepped off the edge and started down the ravine.
He picked his way carefully. One false step and he'd be unable to regain his balance. He'd tumble out of control over sharp boulders to the wild river below. He leaned into the hill, until he reached the bottom.
The sun was high over the pines now. It gave perfect light for Frank's search. His eyes focused on the ground, looking for anything the highway patrol might have missed.
Paint on some boulders and a deep indentation at the river's edge indicated to Frank where the - wreck had landed. He remembered how the wreck had looked. About the only part of the car not severely damaged had been the trunk. Maybe, if Joe had survived, he might have gotten out through there.
Moving farther downstream Frank spied a tire iron among some rocks. It couldn't have been there long — no cobwebs, moss, or rust. Frank picked up the steel bar and inspected it closely. Near the top he found what looked like a cluster of hairs glued to the iron with dried blood.
The muscles in Frank's jaw tensed as he took this in. The crash looked very little like an accident now. Whoever had stripped the car had a purpose — a deadly one.
Hefting the tire iron like a club, Frank moved on. He stopped to examine a flat boulder—and the sticky, reddish stain on it. A smear of dry blood, as if someone had stopped to rest—or die. Frank looked downstream. Someone could have followed a narrow trail up the rocky slope toward the trees. Or, someone could have walke
d along the rocks lining the river edge.
But, Frank deduced, if someone was injured and bleeding, he would follow the river trail, since it would be easier.
So Frank began to follow the river. His tiredness fell away from him now; every sense was awake and alert. He cast back and forth over the soft mud, finding one print and then another. The pattern they made looked like a drunken—or « injured—stumble. Then a new set of prints were introduced — not human. Frank knelt to examine them. They looked like the prints of a large dog.
Frank continued on and spied a new set of human prints. Small bare footprints, most likely a woman's or boy's. And, off to the side, caught in some brambles, was a white bath towel!
Climbing onto a boulder, Frank tried to get an aerial view of the three sets of prints. Yes, it all made sense. It looked as if the small prints had come from the water. Then whoever made those prints dragged the person who made the larger prints away. The larger person was probably injured. Frank crossed his fingers and barely allowed himself to hope it was Joe.
But who were they for sure? And where did they go?
Frank followed the prints until he was confronted by a massive boulder blocking the river path. The ground all around it was rocky, and the prints disappeared.
"Just my luck," Frank said. He ran across the rocky ground, which led to the edge of some woods. Casting around, Frank inspected the area, looking for any sign — a broken branch or scuffed pine needles — anything that would indicate that somebody had been dragged that way.
For the first time he felt a faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps Joe had survived the wreck and somehow had found help. Maybe Frank could find him.
But one disturbing question remained. Who had used the bloody tire iron? And if he used it once against Joe, would he be satisfied that he had done his job? Or would he try to kill Joe again?
Chapter 7
Joe was very much alive and trying to stay that way. "Now, hold on, mister," he said taking a step forward.
"No, you hold on," said the man, thrusting his rifle at Joe. "I've got a lot of questions I want answered." The rifle was pointed straight at Joe's chest.
Brother Against Brother Page 3
