Daredevils

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Contents

  * * *

  1 Hollywood or Bust

  2 Life of the Party

  3 Bad Press

  4 Dial E for Explosive

  5 Fall Down and Go Boom

  6 Terrence Drops a Load

  7 Cut and Run

  8 Strange Partners

  9 Spin City

  10 Driver’s Ed

  11 Smash-Up Derby

  12 Safety First

  13 Where Have All the Parents Gone?

  14 All Locked Up with Someplace to Go

  15 One Last Stunt

  16 One Last Bang

  1 Hollywood or Bust

  * * *

  Fire. There was fire everywhere. Frank Hardy stole a furtive glance at his younger brother, Joe. Frank, the dark-haired older son of Laura and Fenton Hardy, was sweating, wishing he could be safe at home instead of trapped like a rat. Joe, who was seventeen and a year younger than Frank, looked completely cool.

  He’s drinking this in, Frank thought. He looks as if he’s in seventh heaven.

  Frank stared into the flames. Are we ever going to get out of here? he thought. Is this ordeal ever going to end?

  Then a lone figure emerged from the flames. The man—tall, with a rugged face apparent despite a coating of ash and soot—headed straight for the brothers. He paused to glance back over his shoulder at the raging inferno. Holding his hand out, he uttered the words Frank Hardy had longed to hear since he had become trapped in this building nearly two hours earlier.

  “I’ve had enough of this heat,” the man said with a toothy grin. “Let’s get out of here and into someplace cool.”

  “I’ll second that,” Frank whispered. He stood up and stretched his back. “Come on, Joe.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joe replied. “I want to see the credits.”

  Frank stared for a heartbeat at his brother. Then, knowing that protest would be futile, he sat back down. When the lights finally came on inside the Bayport Multiplex, Frank offered up a prayer of thanks.

  “Now can we go?” he asked his brother.

  “I take it you didn’t like the movie,” Joe said as he stood up.

  “What was there to like?” Frank asked. He reached down to the floor and retrieved an empty popcorn bag. “Flame Broiled was definitely half-baked.”

  “I admit the movie wasn’t great,” Joe replied, “but it was just an action flick. And some of the action was really good.”

  “It did have some awesome stunts,” Frank said as he stood. “But the plot was so thin you could see right through it.” He glanced at the floor around him. “Did we pick up all our garbage?”

  “Got it all,” Joe said.

  “I especially liked the stunt where Michael Shannon used the emergency fire hose to swing from one ledge to the other to rescue the cat,” Frank said as they emerged onto the street. “But a stunt should not be the only likable part of a whole movie.”

  It was a hot summer day in Bayport, and though he had wished to be out of the theater only moments before, he now regretted leaving the building’s air conditioning.

  “Actually, that wasn’t Michael Shannon in that scene,” Joe said as he rooted in his pockets for the keys to the brothers’ van. “At least I don’t think it was.”

  “What do you mean? I thought Michael Shannon was one of those actors who always did his own stunts,” Frank asked.

  “He used to,” Joe responded. “But I read in a review that the studio had brought in a stuntman because of the difficulty and danger of some of the action.”

  “You read a review of this movie and we still went to see it? Just for that, you ride and I’ll drive.”

  Joe handed his brother the keys. “Ah, who listens to reviews these days?” Joe got into the van. “Anyway,” he added, “that’s why I wanted to see the movie credits. I wanted to see who did the primary stunts.”

  “Like you know one stuntman from another,” Frank said with a laugh.

  “Hey, some guy’s job is to jump into fires, drive in high-speed chases, and fall from a cliff, I figure the least I can do is show him some respect by learning his name.”

  “And?” Frank asked after a moment of silence.

  “And what?”

  “And what was his name?”

  “Oh,” Joe said. “Terrence. Terrence McCauley.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later Frank and Joe were standing in the living room of their home. Fenton Hardy was on the phone, and by the former police officer’s somber tone, his sons could tell that something was seriously wrong.

  “You’re right, Brian,” Mr. Hardy said into the mouthpiece. He sat next to the coffee table, looking down at some notes he had hastily scribbled on a small pad.

  Rope—cut?

  Window—glass

  Empty extinguisher!

  “When did you get the last call?” Mr. Hardy asked. “Yesterday?” he inquired as he jotted down the words. “Two on Tuesday.”

  Frank and Joe gave each other questioning looks, but neither had any idea why their father was so concerned. Since retiring from the police force, their dad had been a private detective. Obviously, the conversation had something to do with a case, but what they were hearing didn’t seem to fit what the two knew about the cases their father was currently working to solve.

  “I see, Brian,” Mr. Hardy said. “Not a problem. I owe you one anyway. I’ll make the arrangements and get back to you with the details. Until then, keep your eyes peeled and keep him safe.”

  Mr. Hardy hung up the phone.

  “Keep who safe?” Laura Hardy asked as she entered the living room. Frank and Joe’s mother had become accustomed to the occasional danger the men in her life found themselves in.

  “Brian McCauley’s son,” Mr. Hardy replied. “You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Little Terrence?” Mrs. Hardy was surprised. “What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into?”

  “Terrence McCauley!” Frank shouted. “What a coincidence.”

  Mr. Hardy looked at his older son. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “We just saw Flame Broiled,” Frank answered. “And Terrence McCauley was the stunt double for the star, Michael Shannon.”

  “Stunt double,” the boys’ mom said. “So he followed in his father’s footsteps.”

  “You sure have a memory for details, dear,” Mr. Hardy said with a smile.

  “Speaking of details, Dad,” Joe said, “how about filling us in. What kind of trouble has this Terrence McCauley gotten into?”

  “Well, first of all, it’s not so much trouble that he got himself into,” Mr. Hardy started. “It’s more the trouble that somebody else wants to put him in.”

  Mr. Hardy sat on an armchair across from his two sons. Mrs. Hardy sat next to her husband on another chair.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I know how you two like to get all the background details on a case.”

  Frank reached over and took the writing pad and pen from the coffee table. “Shoot, Dad,” he said when he was ready to take notes.

  “I met Terrence’s father some twenty-two years ago while he was in New York making a movie. I was working as a detective with the NYPD. There had been a robbery near the movie set. I was chasing down the thief on foot, and without knowing it, we both ran into a building that had been rigged with explosives for a stunt in the movie. Brian saved me and the thief when the building began to crumble.”

  “So that’s how you two became friends?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hardy said. “We kept in touch over the years. Your mom and I even went out to visit Brian and his family in California once. We were there when . . . ”

  Mr. Hardy’s voice trailed off. His wife reached over an
d gave his knee a loving squeeze.

  “We were there when his wife died in a car accident,” Laura finished for her husband.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “So what’s going on now?” Joe asked.

  “Well, Brian raised Terrence alone since the boy was three. The first thing Brian did was quit being a stuntman. He didn’t want to risk his life anymore because his death would leave Terrence an orphan.”

  “So what did he do?” Frank asked.

  “Brian stayed in the movie business,” Mr. Hardy continued. “He became a stunt coordinator.”

  “So Terrence grew up around action movie sets?” Joe inquired.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Hardy responded. “And when the boy turned sixteen just five years ago, he became a stuntman—against his dad’s better wishes, I might add.”

  “Why didn’t Brian McCauley want his son to become a stuntman?” Joe asked. “Because of the danger?”

  “Brian had so convinced himself that stunt work was deadly dangerous, probably as a way to rationalize giving up the work himself, that he didn’t want Terrence to be a stuntman,” Mr. Hardy answered.

  “So what happened?” Frank asked.

  “In the end Brian gave in. Terrence threatened to move out and do it anyway. Brian realized it was better to keep the boy close at hand and try to be the stunt coordinator on some of his jobs so he could watch out for him.”

  Mr. Hardy stood up. “Now it seems that somebody besides his father wants Terrence to give up stunt work. He’s received several threatening calls and anonymous notes telling him that his days are numbered. And there have been a few odd accidents on the sets where he’s worked. Yesterday, a rope he was using snapped and he nearly fell twenty stories. Luckily, another stuntman was there to save him.”

  “So, where do we fit in?” Joe asked.

  “We don’t fit in. I fit in.”

  “Aw, come on, Dad,” Joe protested. “We want to help on this case. Don’t we, Frank?”

  “It has been a while since we’ve been to California,” Frank said in support of his brother. “And anyway, what is Terrence, twenty-one? We’re closer in age to him than you are. We’d blend in with his crowd better, so we could keep an eye on him.”

  Mr. Hardy slowly shook his head at his wife. “How is it that our sons always have a good point?”

  “Now, if you three think you’re going off to Hollywood and leaving me here alone,” Laura scolded, “you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Mom!” Joe and Frank shouted in unison.

  Laura stared her sons straight in the eyes. “If Terrence McCauley is as stubborn as you two, he’s going to need all the people he knows looking out for him.”

  “All the people, dear?”

  “Yes, Fenton, all the people. I haven’t seen that boy or his father in a lot of years. Plus, a summer vacation in Hollywood could be a lot of fun!”

  • • •

  Forty-two hours later the Hardys arrived in what was usually known as sunny southern California. This particular Thursday, however, the normally clear summer sky was filled with thick clouds as a rare rainstorm blew in from the Pacific Ocean.

  The Hardys piled into the two cars they had rented and made their way to the Curtis Hotel. Brian McCauley had wanted them to stay at his house, but Mrs. Hardy insisted that six people would be a crowd and that she was looking forward to staying in a hotel.

  The Hardy-McCauley reunion was not delayed, though. Terrence and his father were waiting in the hotel lobby when Frank, Joe, and their parents arrived. After the introductions were made, the McCauleys and Hardys retired to their suite so the Hardys could freshen up.

  “You folks picked a good night to arrive,” Brian McCauley said. “There’s a big Hollywood party tonight, and we’re all going.”

  “What party?” Joe asked.

  “Mad Alliance Studios, the makers of Flame Broiled, are throwing a party to give the movie some more heat,” Terrence said. “Have you guys seen it?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said unenthusiastically. Then he added, “Loved the stunt with the cat. Was that you?”

  “Yup,” Terrence said. “In fact, it was my cat!”

  The group split into two to head for the party. Frank and Joe wanted to shower, so Brian McCauley took Mr. and Mrs. Hardy in his car to the party. About twenty minutes later, well after sunset, the younger men exited the hotel.

  “I called to have my car brought around,” Terrence said.

  Joe’s eyes lit up when the valet attendant pulled up in a beautiful silver sports car.

  Under the hotel awning, Joe admired the car’s sleek lines, playing his fingers across the gleaming silver exterior.

  “You want to drive?” Terrence asked.

  “Does he want to drive?” Frank laughed.

  Twenty minutes later Joe opened the car up as he guided it into the Hollywood hills. The rain was pouring down, making the roadway treacherously slick, but the sports car hugged the asphalt.

  “Supreme handling,” Joe said, beaming.

  “Uh, Joe,” Frank said from the car’s cramped backseat, “are you slowing down?”

  “Haven’t touched the brakes,” Joe replied. “Not going fast enough for you?”

  “Not me,” Frank responded, “but that truck behind us is sure coming up fast!”

  2 Life of the Party

  * * *

  Joe looked in the rearview mirror. Through the pouring rain, he could see the bright headlights of a pickup truck. Joe fixed his eyes in front of him. He was rapidly approaching a sharp curve and knew he would have to slow down a little to negotiate the bend.

  “Brace yourselves!” Frank warned just as the sports car entered the curve. There was nobody ahead of them, so Joe chose not to slow down as much as he should have. Still, the car’s own speed did not prevent the impact, though it did lessen its force.

  The pickup truck smacked into the rear bumper of the sports car.

  “Hey!” Terrence yelled, even though the driver behind them could not hear.

  The force of the impact was enough to make the car swerve as it rounded the bend. Joe fought the wheel to stay in his own lane. He didn’t want to risk a collision with any cars that might be coming around the bend from the opposite direction. The tires gripped the slick road just enough to keep the car from careening into an oncoming station wagon.

  As the sports car exited the curve, the pickup truck smacked into the rear bumper again, this time with even more force. Terrence McCauley’s expensive dream machine began to fishtail toward the edge of the cliff, protected only by a metal guardrail.

  Joe worked the brake and then the accelerator to keep the car from spinning into the barrier. The pickup truck drove up next to them.

  The truck smacked the sports car on the driver’s side, sending it toward the railing once again.

  “Right rear!” Joe shouted in warning, calling out the spot on the car he knew would hit against the barrier. He successfully fought the steering wheel to lessen the impact. The car kissed off the guardrail exactly where Joe had planned. Unfortunately, the kiss was strong enough to catapult the car back into the lane at a forty-five degree angle, allowing the truck to sideswipe it again.

  This time the impact was on the driver’s side fender. Terrence groaned at the sickening crunch.

  “Straight, brakes!” Frank shouted from the backseat. His shout warned his brother that he needed to stay in his lane and slow down a bit. As the pickup truck swerved into the lane just ahead of the sports car, Joe realized why Frank had called out the instructions. There was traffic coming in the other lane and Joe needed to give the pickup truck a chance to squeeze in front of them.

  The two vehicles rounded another bend. Joe wanted to stop, but there was no place to pull over. As they entered another narrow straightaway, the pickup swerved into the now-empty left lane. It decelerated a bit and rammed its fender into the sports car’s driver’s-side door. Terrence’s car began a treacherous spin as the
pickup truck accelerated and sped away.

  Time seemed to slow down for the three young men in the silver sports car. Joe struggled with the steering wheel. He used both feet to work the accelerator and brake, subtly changing speed to try to bring the car under control. He managed to stop the spin just enough to keep the car from hitting the guardrail with too much force. The metal rail bent out over the cliff and the front of the car crumpled, but Joe had succeeded in keeping the car from breaking through the railing, thus saving them from a deadly plunge.

  “Is everybody okay?” Frank asked from the backseat.

  “My shoulder hurts a little, but it’s just a bruise,” Terrence replied.

  “My knuckles are sore from gripping the steering wheel, but otherwise I’m just peachy,” Joe answered. “Steamed, but peachy.”

  “Man, that was some great driving, Joe,” Terrence said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “You could be a professional stunt driver.”

  “Thanks,” Joe replied. “In our line of work, it’s a requirement.”

  “Yeah,” Frank added. “But the car insurance payments end up setting us back a bundle.”

  “Hey, this is California,” Terrence said. “My insurance rates are going to be higher than a mortgage payment after this.”

  Terrence and the Hardys got out of the car. “I just wish I could haul that maniac in the truck into court to make him pay for this.”

  Frank watched the sparse traffic whiz by. Though every driver slowed down to peer at the scene, not one of them stopped to help. They all just went on, leaving the three of them standing in the rain next to the heavily damaged sports car.

  “You’ll get your chance,” Frank said. “I got the truck’s plate number.”

  “During all that mayhem?” Terrence was surprised. “Boy, you guys really are good. We’ll just tell the police and let them go arrest that lunatic.”

  “Nope,” Frank said. “We keep this info to ourselves and tell the police some truck bumped us twice and we spun out on the wet road. If the cops haul him in for this, we get him on reckless driving and your life is still in danger. We need to nail him for more than a traffic incident.”