Darkness Falls (9 page)

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We'll be ready.”

“Fine,” MacLaughlin said, calming down a little. “Now go do something useful. I have important work to do.” With that, he dismissed them. Frank and Joe left the room without another word.

“Well,” Frank said when they were outside on the stairs again. “I think we've had enough excitement for one day. How about you? Ready for a quick bite and a long swim?”

“Definitely,” Joe said. They stopped at a coffee shop for a late lunch and then hopped into their rental car.

“Let's find the most deserted beach we can,” Joe said as they drove along the city streets in the hot afternoon sun.

“Hey,” Frank said, as he glanced in the rearview mirror, “I think we're being followed. Check out the black sedan behind us.”

Joe took a quick glance over his shoulder as Frank made a right, then a left at the next corner. The black sedan was still there. “Oops,” Joe said. “I think you're right, Frank. What do you say we give them a run for their money?”

“Good idea,” Frank said, gunning the engine.
Away they went, with the black sedan burning rubber to keep up with them. Frank tried speeding up, then jamming on the brakes, taking quick rights and lefts, even a U-turn at a not busy intersection. Nothing worked. “Hang on, Joe!” Frank shouted as he made a sharp right onto a side street.

“Frank! Wait!” Joe shouted—too late.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“You missed the sign back there,” Joe informed him, as a high brick wall loomed straight ahead of them. “It said DEAD END.”

F
RANK SLAMMED
on the brakes, and the convertible fishtailed to a stop inches from the brick wall. No sooner had the brothers started to breathe normally again than the black sedan turned into the alley, blocking the only exit.

Frank and Joe slid low in their seats, not knowing what they were about to face. Then they heard the voice of Captain Kanekahana shouting to them.

“What do you two think you're doing?” he raged, walking over to them as they stood up and got out of their car. “I ought to throw you both in jail for leading me on a chase like that. Somebody could have been killed!”

“Well, sir,” Joe said, trying not to explode,
“if we'd known you were the police, we might not have tried to lose you.”

Kanekahana, flanked by two burly men in uniform, gave Joe a withering look. “All right, I'll let it go this time,” he grumbled. “But while I've got you here, let me warn you again—this is no game. I got a call from Michele Ebersol, who told me how she'd taken a sedative and fallen asleep on a surfboard. She said you came along and saved her. Now I know you're skilled detectives—but this murder investigation is dangerous. I want you out of this show
now—
understand?”

With that, he got into the car with his men and backed out. Frank and Joe stood there for a little while, waiting to cool down. “I can't stand that guy,” Joe remarked as they got back into the convertible and backed out of the alley.

“I'm not too fond of him myself,” Frank said.

“Well, there's just one thing to do,” Joe said, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Let's catch the killer and present him—or her—to Captain Kanekahana.”

“Gift wrapped and tied with a bow,” Frank said, nodding his agreement.

The next morning, after showers and a huge breakfast, the brothers took the film canister
out of their refrigerator and drove up the mountain to the observatory.

There were a surprising number of people still there. Some were taking down their tents and packing their equipment, while others were using the observatory's extensive facilities to process their data or develop and analyze their film. In the hallway that led to the observatory's darkroom, a crowd of scientists stood waiting their turns.

“It's good we got here early,” Frank said. “As it is, we're likely to be on this mountain-top all day,”

“Oh, well,” Joe said, “we have to meet MacLaughlin here at four o'clock anyway. I figure we'll be just about done by then. I brought two packs of gum. Do you want one?” he asked, pulling out the gum.

The scientists just behind them were arguing their conclusions about the data they'd gleaned from the eclipse. Most of the talk was over the Hardys' heads, but when the subject turned to Ebersol's exploded planet theory, they listened closely.

“I'd like to know if Ebersol found the ring of planetary debris he was looking for,” said a tall, middle-aged woman in a lab coat. “How ironic it would be—his greatest discovery, and he didn't live to see the proof.”

“I'd hardly call it
his
discovery, even though
he was playing it for all it's worth,” said a young man who Joe thought was about thirty.

“You're right about that. I guess he needed something new because his TV show was canceled,” a woman wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt added.

“As far as I'm concerned, the real work on the exploded planet theory was done by MacLaughlin,” the man said.

This caught Joe up short, and he could tell Frank was equally surprised to hear this.

“Well, I suppose you could say that,” the woman in the lab coat agreed. “But I'm not talking about the donkey work, all the figuring and calculations—I mean the really creative work, the actual theorizing.”

“I know that,” the young man shot back. “And I'm telling you, it's been Everett MacLaughlin all along. If you read the theoretical papers carefully, you can see the hallmarks of his style. Go back and read his Ph.D. thesis and you'll agree with me. It's as clear as day. Ebersol is—or
was,
I should say—a media star, not a brilliant theorist. He just knew how to steal the show—and the credit.”

“Maybe it was more of a symbiotic relationship,” the woman in shorts suggested. “Ebersol needed MacLaughlin's tenacity and determination, and MacLaughlin needed Ebersol's salesmanship.”

Frank and Joe had refrained from saying anything, not wanting to stop this very revealing conversation. But now it was their turn to enter the darkroom. As they turned the temperature down to chill the room so their film wouldn't be spoiled and got the developing chemicals ready, they discussed what they'd just heard. The air conditioner roared to life then, and it became so noisy that the boys could barely hear each other speak, even though they were shouting.

“Do you believe what they said about MacLaughlin?” Joe shouted to Frank.

“I don't know what to believe anymore,” Frank confessed, speaking right into Joe's ear. “Everyone's got a different story. Most people seem to agree that Michele is ruthless and ambitious, and we know she plans to cut out MacLaughlin and De La Rosa. But could she really have stabbed her husband while she was calmly talking to us over the intercom?”

“On the other hand, how could she have missed seeing the killer go into the tent?” Joe wondered.

“Easy,” Frank said. “She was staring up at the sky the whole time, not at what was happening on the ground.”

“I guess you're right,” Joe said, shutting off the lights before taking the infrared film out of its protective canister. Frank flipped the
switch that turned on the red light outside, indicating that there was exposed film inside and not to open the darkroom door.

“Ready to go?” he asked Joe as he carefully felt his way along the table to the first tray of chemical wash.

“Ready,” Joe said.

Before Joe could unscrew the top of the protective thermos, there was a loud blast from somewhere outside—loud enough to be heard even over the noise of the air conditioner.

“What was that?” Joe said in the darkness.

“Sounded like an explosion,” Frank said.

At that moment the door to the darkroom flew open, and something was tossed inside. Something that exploded into blinding blue-white light!

“A magnesium flare!” Frank shouted, covering his eyes.

“Yeow!” Joe yelled, reacting to the sharp pain in his eyes from the sudden exposure to light. He was seized by a sudden coughing fit. Frank, too, was coughing from the fumes.

Joe went out the door into the hallway. The blinding light had burned itself out and the smoke was thinning a little, although the acrid smell of magnesium oxide still filled the air.

As Joe stood in the hallway, catching his breath, Frank came barreling out of the room.

“It was lucky I hadn't opened the film canister when that flare was thrown in,” Joe told his brother.

“Not as lucky as you think, Joe,” Frank said. “The canister is gone. Somebody stole our last roll of film!”

J
OE FELT
the blood drain from his face. “No!” he shouted. “Come on, Frank, we've got to get it back!” Without waiting to see if Frank was following him, Joe ran down the smoky hallway to the exit. Pushing it open, he found himself staring at the back of someone.

“What was that explosion?” Joe asked him as Frank joined them. “Did someone set off a bomb?”

The man turned around, and Joe's eyes widened when he saw who it was.

“Tim Wheeler!” Joe cried. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm working on my documentary, remember?” Wheeler told them. “I can't drop my
work just because the police think I' a murderer. Anyway, come with me, I want to show you something.”

Motioning to the Hardys to follow, Wheeler led them to the front of the observatory, where he pointed to the parking lot. A vehicle that looked as if it must once have been a van was burning furiously. What little paint remained indicated that the van had been blue.

“Frank,” Joe said breathlessly, “that could be Everett MacLaughlin's van!”

“I was just thinking that,” Frank replied, biting his lip.

Surrounding the burning car at a safe distance was a crowd of people, watching in horrified fascination. Joe and Frank silently turned to Wheeler.

“I know what you're going to ask, and you're not going to like the answer. I was in the men's room when this happened. So I was all alone. Sorry, but it happens to be the truth.”

“Did you see anyone running from the scene or out of the building?” Joe asked. “Because we just had a canister of film stolen from us—from right under our noses.”

Wheeler shook his head. “Nope.”

“I hate to think about the possibility of MacLaughlin being in that van,” Frank said, looking worried.

“I know,” Tim said somberly. “And I know
this looks bad for me, too. The police will probably arrest me again when they find out I was up here. But what should I do? Make up an alibi?”

From the direction of the access road, they heard sirens screaming. Wheeler listened for a moment, then picked up the briefcase that was on the ground next to him and said, “I think it's time for me to leave.”

Giving them a nod and a tense smile, he opened the driver side door of a nearby car. Then he climbed in and drove away, passing the first fire engine on its way up.

“You know what?” Frank said to Joe. “I really don't think that guy is guilty.”

“You don't?” Joe asked, surprised.

“Nope. I think someone's trying to make him look that way. Come on, Joe. Let's see what we can find out.”

The Hardys ran over toward the burning vehicle. A group of assistants had been valiantly battling the blaze, without success. Now they were giving way to the professional fire fighters. Joe tapped the shoulder of one young man who was catching his breath. “Do you know if anyone was in the van?” he asked.

The young man shook his head. “It's impossible to tell.”

“What exactly happened?” Frank asked.

“I was in the lecture room when I heard a
tremendous explosion,” the young man explained. “We all ran out of the building to see what had happened.”

Joe nodded to Frank, who must have been thinking what he was. The explosion could have been one of two things—either a bomb intended to kill the driver of the van, or a diversion to get everyone out of the building. That would have cleared the way for the bomber to toss the magnesium flare to steal their film.