Deathgame (6 page)

"You'd have put me in bad with Major Brand," Collins said harshly. "I could have lost my job. He could have lost faith in me."

"Gee," Joe said as politely as he could, "I wouldn't want a thing like that to happen."

He could feel Collins glaring at him, all the way to the bottom of the mountain.

The next part of the plan was a little more complicated. Joe had to break into Collins's room and search for the goggles without getting caught.

Still, he decided, it had to be easier than Frank's job: making conversation with Collins.

It was dark in front of the rec hall. The trainees were inside, watching a double feature — The Killer Commandos and Return of the Killer Commandos. Except for Collins, who always ran the projector and claimed to have seen both films more than a hundred times, the instructors had taken off on their own.

"Hi," Frank said as he stepped in front of Collins.

Collins grunted, trying to move around Frank. Machine-gun sound effects and explosions punctuated the night from the rec room.

"I just wanted to thank you for saving my brother's life out there," said Frank.

"Just my job, kid," Collins muttered and again tried to push past him.

But Frank was instantly in front of him again. "Look," he went on, "don't hold it against him, will you? Jim just hasn't done much rappelling. He — "

"Don't worry about it," Collins interrupted. He shoved Frank aside. "Now, do you mind getting out of my way?"

Inside Collins's dark room, Joe Hardy could hear Frank and Collins talking. His heart was pounding.

He surveyed the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He didn't dare even turn on a flashlight. First he checked under the military cot in the center of the room. He could have bounced quarters off the tightly made bed.

Carefully, he slipped his hand under the mattress, making a wide, slow sweep to see if anything was hidden there.

Nothing.

Collins climbed the stairs that led to his room. Frank dashed up the steps and grabbed his arm. Collins whirled about and glared at him. "What is it now?" he asked.

Frank hesitated. What was he going to say now? "I — I was just wondering about tomorrow," he finally got out. "I thought maybe if you could tell me what's on the schedule, I could make sure my brother is better prepared."

Collins gave him a long, hard look. "Cassidy, I'll let you know what the schedule is when I let everybody else know. Now, either get back to the movie or go get some sleep. You'll need it." He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

Joe was searching through the bureau drawers when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

Not enough time! he thought.

Then in the next instant he heard the doorknob turning!

Frank firmly placed his hand on top of Collins's and pulled the man's hand off the doorknob. Collins turned to look at him as if Frank were crazy. In the moonlight, the scar on Collins's skull appeared very livid.

"Get your hands off me, you little creep," Collins snarled.

"I'm sorry," Frank said. "I just wanted to ask you a question."

"What question?" Collins asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm going rock climbing next month," Frank said in desperation. "In Washington State."

"That's lovely," Collins drawled. "Enjoy yourself."

Frank smiled again, the most pleasant smile he could manage while making conversation with this glowering bozo. It made his face hurt.

"What I wanted to ask you," he pressed on, "is if you've ever played in the Cascades. I mean, do you have any tips about the area — things to watch out for, rope techniques ... "

"Cassidy." Collins's voice hovered between boredom and outright irritation. "I don't think much of you or your brother. He's a pain in the behind, an awkward grunt. You're a little better — the best in the squad. You don't need my advice. So why are you trying to butter me up?"

Frank faked all the indignation he could dig up. "Butter you up? I thought I was talking one climber to another. I — "

Collins turned back to the door. "Kid," he said, beginning to turn the knob, "if you're not sucking up, I think you're crazy."

Joe finally found the hidden treasure in a shoebox tucked away on the top shelf of the closet. There were more wristwatches than an octopus could wear, all kinds of jewelry, different kinds of camping equipment—and a pair of octagonal goggles, with the initials B.H.!

I've got you, Collins! he thought. Then he heard the door start to open and knew he was going to be discovered.

"How about the Negev?" At this point Frank was willing to try anything.

Collins stopped. He stood with his back to Frank for such a long time that Frank was positive he wasn't going to reply. Then, Collins turned. Frank saw a really baffled look cross the sergeant's face.

"The Negev is in Israel," he said, trying hard to keep his patience.

"I know that," Frank said. "Haven't you ever done any desert climbing?"

"I did my desert training in the Sahara," Collins told him. "Lived for five days on one lousy canteen of water. Thought my skin was going to shrivel off in that sun."

Joe was climbing out the side window as Frank said, "What about the Himalayas? You ever done any climbing there?"

Frank and Joe were alone in the barracks, sitting on Frank's bunk, drinking Gatorade.

"Wow, 'Fred,' you made yourself look like a real jerk with Collins." Joe grinned. "But we've got him now — Collins and the whole camp."

The barracks stretched wide and long. Empty bunks stood in rows waiting for their occupants.

Joe took a swig of Gatorade. "If someone as sharp as Brand had anything to do with Biff's disappearance, you can bet he wouldn't leave any evidence around. I'll bet Brand doesn't even know Biff's goggles are around."

Frank gazed about the room. It seemed somehow ominous — too quiet, too empty.

"Okay," Joe said, "when the trainees come back in and lights go out, we wait a little while and then sneak out of here. We come back here with Sheriff Kraft and let him search Collins's room. When he finds Biff's goggles, he'll have good cause to turn this camp upside down."

Frank tilted the cup to his lips and drained his Gatorade.

"And the best thing is," Joe went on, raising his cup high, "we put it over on Brand. He doesn't suspect a thing."

Frank did not say anything. He was looking at his cup as if he were having difficulty focusing.

"What do you think, Frank?" Joe asked. "Will Brand be surprised when we come waltzing in here tomorrow or what?"

Frank let the cup drop out of his hand onto the mattress.

Joe yawned. "Hey, Frank? Why don't you say something?" He turned toward Frank and was surprised to see him half-lying on the bed, his feet still on the floor.

"What are you doing, falling asleep on me at a time like this?" Joe asked, standing.

Then he staggered. "What the — ?" Joe grabbed for the bunk edge, missed. Frank's body on the bed seemed to blur. Drugged! The thought went through his mind. Only the lowest of the low would drug the Gatorade!

Joe tried to pull himself together. Anyhow, how did Brand or his people even know we were here and drinking Gatorade?

As he slumped to the floor, Joe was aware that people were entering the room from the far end. Three, maybe four people at the most.

He could not make out their features. Flesh tones melted into cloth.

Someone knelt beside him. Was that a skeleton smiling?

No! The sunken eyes, burning darkly. He could make out the eyes — Brand's!

Brand's voice sounded very distant. "I told you I was looking forward to meeting you again."

They were the last words Joe heard. Then the world became lost in darkness.

SOMETHING HURT!

Joe Hardy heard the harsh sound of flesh striking against flesh. Pain followed immediately. Slowly, he came to. Someone was slapping him across the face.

Again, Brand backhanded Joe, and the resulting surge of pain brought him fully back to awareness. Instinctively, Joe moved to defend himself, ready to hurl himself at Brand and take him out, no matter what the consequences. But his body jerked against a restraint at his waist. He couldn't move his hands.

Joe tried to comprehend why he couldn't strike out at Brand. He looked down at his wrists. They were strapped to the arms of a seat. He was belted across the stomach into a seat of plush maroon velvet.

He became aware of the drone of an engine as Brand straightened up. They were on a private plane.

"Stop hitting him!" he heard Frank say and realized that his brother was strapped into the seat beside him.

Brand gazed from Frank to Joe. The dark eyes held a flicker of joy — an eerie thing to see on that face.

"You both thought you were so clever," Brand said smugly, his narrow lips stretching in a cruel smile. "Well, you were, in a way. I try to give credit where credit is due." He shook his head. "Too bad about Collins. You were right, Joseph, I was surprised to find out about those goggles. Collins now has a matching scar on the other side of his head."

Frank tested the straps biting into his wrists. They didn't give an inch.

"On the other hand," Brand continued, "I always review the roster sheets when I hand them out. When I spotted both a 'Fred' and a 'Jim Cassidy' listed, specifically when I did not recall interviewing any trainees with the same last name, I knew it had to be you two. I figured I'd wait you out to see what your game was."

"Yes," Frank said bitterly. "We noticed you like to play games. With people's lives."

"You should feel honored." Brand walked over to the window and peered out at the clouds. "You are being taken to Colonel Hammerlock's private sanctuary." He turned back to stare at them. "To one of the best hunting grounds in the world."

Joe decided to goad Brand. It was a standard ploy he and Frank had agreed upon in case they were caught by an enemy: try to create a situation that might lead to a chance for escape. Keep the adversary talking — information could be a powerful weapon.

"Is that his real name, Hammerlock?" Joe asked sarcastically. "I know a wrestling coach who would love to have him on the Bayport High team."

Brand stalked impatiently past them in the center aisle of the plane. "Hammerlock is the code name he went under during the war. He was a hero then."

He leaned toward Joe, flashing his cadaverous smile. His hand whipped up, fast, before Joe could attempt to twist his head away from the blow. A vivid red mark colored Joe's face. "You shouldn't pick on people's names, Hardy," Brand went on calmly. "Especially when they aren't around. It's not polite. Do you want to make jokes about my name? Orville."

The smile disappeared, and the thin lips hardly seemed to move as he added, "When I was a teenager, my peers loved to make fun of my name. But not for long."

Frank glared directly into Brand's hate-filled eyes. "Personally," he said in a bright voice, "I love the name Orville. One of the Wright brothers was named Orville." He paused, making sure Brand was looking at him. "Too bad you dishonor the name."

Brand spun toward Frank, his hand raised. But before he could connect, Joe lifted his feet, tripping Brand. The major grunted in surprise and then, with the agility of a cat, regained his balance. He's not going to be an easy one to fight, thought Joe, noting the maneuver.

"How many missing teenagers are there besides Biff?" Joe asked, wanting to distract Brand before he went for Frank again.

Brand's right hand was clenched in a fist, and he was shaking with rage. Then, as Joe had seen on the target range, he uncurled his fingers, grew calmer and spoke with quiet tension. "A few dozen. An elite corps for the colonel."

"How'd you pull it off?" Frank asked in disbelief. "Dozens of kids disappear, and no one questions where they went?"

Brand chuckled. The sound seemed like bones scraping together deep in his throat.

"Do you know how many runaways there are in this country?" he asked, actually beginning to enjoy himself again. "No, I expect you don't. You two are nice and content in Bayport, though I suspect that friends of yours, like this Biff, perhaps are not as satisfied."

The plane started a descent. Out of the window Frank could see a stretch of ocean past the clouds.

"Some kids run to the cities," Brand continued. "Most of them are looking to get away from terrible home lives. But they find they ran to more terrible things than they ever imagined."

The plane was slanting down through the clouds now, piercing the vast cotton-candy sky.

"Some kids go looking for adventure—or a cause." Brand nodded. "That's what we offer to those who want it enough to pass the test."

"The games, you mean?" Joe guessed, wondering exactly where they were landing.

"The Ultimo Survival Camp was legitimate. It also provided a perfect recruiting system and raised generous funds for the colonel's real purposes. You two made a grave mistake when you forced us to abandon it." He ran a hand over his scalp. "You should have seen those trainees milling about as we took off from our private airstrip. They were quite beside themselves."

"I still don't understand how you and Colonel Hammerlock get away with it," Frank said, pretending admiration.

"You don't fool me with your transparent attempts to appeal to my ego," Brand snapped at him. "But there is no reason not to tell you. Where you're going is the last stop." He stared at the plane ceiling for a moment, as if considering what to tell them.

Joe rubbed his wrists against the strap. His flesh burned with the effort, but the strap remained taut as ever.

"It was all quite easy once we had the camp going. But you see, only a few applicants ever got to play the game for real. I personally selected the trainees who proved they would make superior warriors," Brand began.

Frank could see the tops of trees out the window and a stretch of lovely, deserted beach. They were approaching an island!

"Oh, no matter how good a trainee was, if he came to our course with his parents' permission—or if I found out that he had told lots of people where he was going—he was never even considered for indoctrination."