Typhoon Island

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The plane veered right, responding to Franks controls. It slowed down quickly as it bumped over the unpaved runway. The engine sputtered and nearly died again as the plane ground to a halt.

  Frank, Joe, Callie, and Iola let out a collective sigh of relief. Frank taxied the old plane across the grassy field toward the buildings on the far side of the airport. As they went rescue teams ran out onto the runway. Frank gave the rescue workers the thumbs-up. The workers kept their distance until the plane had stopped near the control tower.

  As the teens opened the door a thin, dark-haired man ran up to greet them.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “I am so sorry about this. I am Pablo Ruiz, owner of Ruiz Rentals.” The four friends could see the resemblance to his brother, Jose—though Pablo was taller and more handsome.

  “We’re fine,” Joe said.

  “Just a few rattled nerves,” Callie added.

  “I think there might be some kind of short circuit in the landing gear,” Frank said. “We didn’t have any trouble before throwing the switch to bring it down.”

  “And the left wheel screeched something awful when we landed,” Iola said.

  Frank nodded. “The plane pulled that way when we landed, too.”

  “I’ll check right into it,” Pablo said.

  As the teens and the plane’s owner chatted, the rescue service team came and checked the plane. Finding no fires, leaking fuel, or other obvious hazards, they soon packed up their gear and headed for another call.

  Pablo scratched his head. “I am very glad none of you were hurt,” he said. “But why did you choose to fly this aircraft rather than the one the travel agency requested?”

  “Jose said the Sullivan Brothers amphibian had engine trouble,” Joe replied.

  Pablo Ruiz rolled his eyes. “My brother, Jose!” he said. “I wish he would tell me as much as he tells my customers.”

  “Is he unreliable?” Frank asked.

  “He is a very good mechanic,” Pablo said, “but not so good behind a desk. Office help is so hard to find around here. I will have a temp working on Kendall Key later today, but until then . . .” He shrugged. “Our assistant quit last week. I hope to hire someone new soon—someone who will call and tell me when problems happen. Jose tells me when it suits him. He will get an earful later tonight.” He tried a smile. “Let me help you with your luggage.”

  Pablo and the Hardys quickly unloaded the plane. The rental owner then checked the landing gear. “It is hard to tell because of the pontoon,” he said, “but that wheel definitely looks stuck. I’ll have Jose work on it when he comes back to the island tonight.”

  “I’m sure your next customers will appreciate it,” Joe said.

  Pablo frowned. “Please do not go away angry,” he said. “Because of this trouble there is no charge for today. I will refund your money to your credit card. Plus I will give you a free afternoon rental of any of our boats or planes, or a free guided tour of your choice.”

  “That sounds fair,” Frank said. “For now, though, I think we need to get to our hotel.”

  “Can I use your phone?” Iola asked Pablo. “I need to arrange for my cousin to meet us.”

  “Sure thing,” said Pablo. “The phone is on the desk in my office, over there.” He pointed to a prefab metal building near the water. A big RUIZ RENTALS sign hung over the door. The building looked somewhat more reputable than the branch office on Kendall Key.

  Pablo got in the crippled plane and taxied it to a hangar near his office while Iola went and made the call.

  When she returned, she said, “Angela will be here in a couple of minutes. She’s coming from her job in the open-air market, and it’s not too far from here. The shuttle bus to our hotel leaves from there, too.”

  “That’s convenient,” said Joe. He and Frank hefted the heavier travel bags over their shoulders, while Callie and Iola grabbed the rest. They all walked to the airport’s front entrance. A few minutes later a teenager in a long, brightly colored dress and white blouse rode up on a bicycle. She had long, wavy black hair and brown eyes. Her complexion was darker than Iola’s or Chet’s, but it was still easy to see her resemblance to the Morton family.

  “Hi, Cuz!” Iola called to the girl. She stopped next to the teenagers, got off the bike, and gave Iola a hug.

  “You must be Angela Martinez,” Callie said, shaking the girl’s hand. “I’m Callie Shaw, and these are our friends Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  “The famous Hardy boys,” Angela said, a twinkle in her eye. “Iola’s written me a lot of e-mails about you two.” A friendly Caribbean accent tinged her voice—which sounded very much like Iola’s.

  Joe grinned and shook Angela’s hand. “At least you didn’t say infamous,” he said.

  Frank shook hands as well. “We’re not really famous,” the elder Hardy added.

  The warm breeze tossed Angela’s wavy hair. “So, Iola, which one is yours?”

  “The blond,” Iola replied. She gave Joe a quick hug. “Isn’t he a hunk?”

  “The dark-haired one isn’t that bad either,” Callie added, putting her arm around Frank’s shoulder.

  Angela laughed. “We better get going,” she said, “I need to get back to my job. Do you need a hand with your things?”

  “We’re fine,” Frank replied.

  Joe adjusted one of the bags on his shoulder. “Unless your job is a long way off,” he said.

  “No,” Angela replied. “Both the marketplace and the shuttle stop are close by. Nothing in Nuevo Esteban is very far. Our city is not very large. Follow me.”

  The four teens walked out of the airport and through the bustling streets of Nuevo Esteban. They followed Angela as she walked her bike. Most of the people they saw seemed to be local residents going about their daily business. Bicycles, rather than cars, were the main means of transportation. Traffic moved at its own pace, largely without the aid of traffic lights.

  None of the buildings they saw were more than two stories high. Most were painted white and had a storefront on the first floor. Colorful hand-painted signs hawking all manner of goods adorned the store windows. Small groups of tourists milled through the streets. Some stopped in the shops and were buying souvenirs and other items unique to the small island. The percentage of sightseers seemed to grow larger as the teens approached the open-air marketplace.

  Just as Angela had said, the market wasn’t very far from the Ruiz Rentals office. The marketplace occupied the same jutting cape of land as the airstrip, with only a few busy streets in between the two. Brightly colored banners and tentlike stalls occupied nearly every inch of the wide, open square that formed the market. Tourists and local people bustled between the businesses, buying, selling, and trading wares.

  “This is quite a place,” Iola said, glancing around at all the things for sale.

  Nearly everything under the sun seemed to be offered in the market. Clothing, jewelry, fresh food, tourist knickknacks, and even live animals were for sale. Men wearing advertisements on sandwich boards wove through the shoppers. Numerous sales-people loudly hawked their wares, and a white-hatted man seemed to be shaking hands with nearly everyone in the square. The sounds of shopping and music, both live and recorded, filled the air. The peaceful green mountains on the other side of the nearby bay formed a serene backdrop to all the commotion.

  “You can find almost anything you want to buy here,” Angela said, speaking loudly to make herself heard above the din.

  “If you don’t get lost looking,” Callie observed.

  Angela deftly steered the group through the hustle and bustle toward a clothing stall near one side of the square. To the left of the shop stood a pay phone stall. To the right stood a cluster of live-animal retailers. Most sold chickens and other animals. One shop, though, featured a live bull in a large wooden pen. The sign above the pen read EL DIABLO. The bull, a huge, jet-black brute, seemed to deserve his name. He pawed the ground, snorted, and bellowed before pacing around his cage.
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br />   “Nice neighbors,” Joe said wryly as Angela settled in behind her sales table.

  “Every day it’s something new,” Iola’s cousin replied. “Last week it was big snakes. The bull is a nice change. If you want to buy some of our clothing, I can get you a good price.” She smiled.

  “These things are all lovely!” Callie said, holding up a flower-print skirt.

  “I think for now we’d better check in at our hotel,” Frank said.

  “We’ll come shopping later, though,” Iola added.

  “Which way is it to the shuttle bus stop?” Joe asked.

  “Just over there,” Angela said, pointing toward the far side of the market. “You can almost see the sign from here. It’s right behind the stand that sells the big kites.”

  “Got it,” Frank said. “Thanks. We’ll check back with you later.”

  “Maybe we could go somewhere tonight?” Iola suggested.

  “I have to work pretty late,” Angela said. “But we’ll see.”

  “Thanks again,” Joe said.

  As the four friends turned to go they bumped into the tall man in a white hat and coat. The man grabbed Iola’s hand and shook it. “I’m Jorge Tejeda,” he said to a surprised Iola. “I would appreciate your support in the upcoming election.”

  “B-But I’m just a tourist,” Iola said.

  “Really?” Tejeda replied in a suave voice. “I thought I had seen you around before.” As he glanced over Iola’s shoulder his face brightened. “Ah! I see,” he said. “You must be visiting your sister.”

  “Cousin, actually,” Joe replied, looking the politician over carefully. Tejeda’s white suit was clean and well pressed, his goatee perfectly trimmed. His hands were large and callused, as though he’d spent much of his life working hard with his hands. His dark eyes sparkled. His smile was the practiced grin of someone who’d spent long years wooing constituents.

  “Well, young lady,” Tejeda said, gazing at Angela, “I hope that you will support me.” He reached over the table and shook her hand. “And I hope the rest of you will enjoy your stay on our beautiful island,” he added to the others.

  “Thanks,” Frank replied.

  Tejeda nodded at them all and slipped back into the crowd, shaking hands as he went.

  “Where there’s a crowd, there’s Tejeda,” Angela said as the politician left. “He owns the local cavern tours business, as well as a bunch other local properties. Since he got elected, he’s hired someone to run the tours and his other businesses.”

  “So he’s a full-time politician.” Joe said.

  Angela nodded. “Si. He visits the market at least twice a week just to shake people’s hands.”

  “He seemed nice enough,” Callie said.

  “Let’s get going,” Frank said. “We don’t want to miss our shuttle.” He and the others picked up their bags once again.

  As they began to push through the crowd, though, a panicked voice rose above the din.

  “Run! Run! El Diablo is loose!”

  3 Are We Having Fun Yet?

  * * *

  A deafening collective scream filled the air.

  The Hardys and their girlfriends turned as the crowd scattered around them. Less than a dozen yards away stood the great black bull named El Diablo. He pawed the dirt and snorted as people shoved their way out of the square. The door to his pen stood open, the marks of the bull’s horns scarring the white-painted wood.

  El Diablo focused his bloodshot eyes on the stunned Americans and charged.

  Frank and Joe dropped their bags and pushed their girlfriends out of the way as the bull thundered past. The beast passed between them, barely missing the Hardys. The circle of the crowd around the teens grew wider every moment, forming a living bullring, with the four friends trapped in the center.

  El Diablo wheeled around, looked at the Hardys, and lowered his head once again. The bull stomped the earth and shook his horns from side to side like a swordsman limbering up.

  “Run!” Frank said to Callie and Iola. “We can hold him off until you get away.”

  “But what about you?” Callie asked, fear in her brown eyes.

  “We’ll be okay,” Joe said. “You two get out of here.”

  “Come on, Callie,” Iola said, frantically pulling her friend away from the center of the impromptu arena.

  Frank and Joe kept their eyes fixed on El Diablo. The bull snorted and glowered back.

  “Some vacation,” Joe said quietly to his brother. “Any ideas?”

  Frank shook his head.

  El Diablo charged. Again Frank and Joe darted out of the way, and the bull passed between them.

  “He won’t fall for that again,” Frank said as the bull wheeled around to face them once more.

  “Too bad I left my red cape at home,” Joe replied.

  “Hey! Toro!” called a voice from nearby. El Diablo turned toward the sound.

  Standing near the edge of the crowd was a young man with short, curly black hair. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. In his outstretched hands he held a ragged jean jacket. He waved the jacket like a matadors cape. “Hey, toro!” he repeated.

  “Hey, toro!” said another voice. The Hardys turned and saw Jorge Tejeda with his jacket off as well. The politician waved his white coat at the enraged animal.

  The bull glanced from the Hardys to the two mock matadors, unable to decide whom to charge.

  “These guys have the right idea,” Joe said. “Too bad we’re not wearing jackets.”

  “I think it’s the movement that attracts the bull, not the cape,” Frank said.

  Joe’s blue eyes gleamed. “Let’s find out,” he said. Raising his arms, he stepped farther away from Frank and shouted, “Hey, toro!”

  Frank stepped in the opposite direction, yelling, “Hey, bull! Hey, bull!”

  Confused, the animal stamped the ground, glancing from man to man. He turned in circles, trying to find the best opponent.

  The teen with the jean jacket jumped close to the beast, waving his “cape” in the bull’s face. The bull lunged at him, but he danced back out of the way.

  “Hey, Frank, I’ve got an idea,” Joe said. “Follow my lead and be ready to close that gate.”

  As Frank nodded the younger Hardy stripped off his T-shirt and moved closer to the enraged animal. “Yo! Toro!” he called, placing himself between El Diablo and the bull’s pen.

  The bull turned away from the jean-clad youth, who had danced farther out of the way, and focused on Joe.

  The younger Hardy backed toward the open pen, waving his shirt and saying, “Toro! Toro! Toro!”

  The bull charged. Joe turned and sprinted toward the pen, El Diablo in hot pursuit. Frank realized what Joe was doing, and ran toward the side of the pen where the gate stood open.

  “Crazy Americano!” shouted Jorge Tejeda as the bull closed in on Joe.

  Joe could almost feel El Diablo’s hot breath on his back as he ran into the pen. He didn’t dare look back; the enraged beast might catch him if he did. He heard an angry snort and the animal’s hooves thundering closer.

  At the last second Joe threw himself sideways, vaulting over the pen’s fence.

  El Diablo bellowed with rage, having lost his victim. Frank slammed the gate shut behind the bull, trapping El Diablo in the pen.

  A cheer went up from the crowd as the elder Hardy raced to his brother’s side. “Are you okay, Joe?” he asked.

  Joe got up and dusted himself off. “Good thing I like to high-jump,” he said, grinning broadly. As he put his shirt back on, Iola and Callie raced up and gave both brothers a hug.

  “The way I see it,” said a hawk-faced man standing nearby, “you boys have done two foolish things this morning.” He pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the pen, and stood next to the brothers. His skin was tan and weathered like old leather. About four days’ growth of salt-and-pepper beard decorated his chin. The humid island breeze made the man’s long, stringy gray hair dance around his face. Hi
s blue eyes flashed brightly.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked, annoyed.

  “Toying with the bull was bad enough,” the man said. “But you also took the limelight away from Jamie Escobar. That’s doubly dangerous.”

  “Who’s Jamie Escobar?” Frank asked. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Lucas McGill,” the man said, “though most people know me as The Gringo.” He smiled and his face turned into a mass of leathery wrinkles. “As for Escobar, he’s the young guy in the jean jacket.”

  The Hardys and their girlfriends looked at the teen who had first confronted the bull. Though he was surrounded by a crowd admiring his bravery, Jamie Escobar didn’t look too pleased.

  Nearby Jorge Tejeda had gone back to shaking hands. He paused just long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead and put on his white jacket once more. Then he went back to socializing.

  “Tejeda may get a bump in the polls from this,” The Gringo said wryly. “Politicians are always looking for ways to be seen as heroes. Riling Escobar, though . . . that could make your stay on San Esteban . . . unpleasant.”

  “What does it matter to you?” Joe asked suspiciously.

  The Gringo winked. “We Americans have to stick together down here,” he said. “Keep out of the way of the locals. They play rough.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Frank said. “We’re not looking for any trouble.”

  “In San Esteban trouble finds you,” The Gringo replied. He turned and vanished back into the crowd as quickly as he’d come.

  “What a strange man,” Callie said, trying to suppress a shudder.

  With the excitement over, the crowd returned to their business. As the others left Angela pushed her way to her cousin’s side.

  “Are any of you hurt?” she asked.

  “We’re all fine,” Iola replied.

  “Though not for lack of trying,” Callie added, giving the brothers a reprimanding look.