Read Nightmare in Angel City Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Panicked, Emma lifted the extinguisher over her head with both hands and tossed it into the room as hard as she could.
But not far enough, Joe could see. He leapt off the box spring, and, using it as a springboard, dove into the open air as if he were intercepting a pass. He snatched up the fire extinguisher just before it hit the floor, then followed through, landing with a shoulder-roll beside Frank. Joe sprang to his feet and tore the nozzle free from the extinguisher.
White foam smothered the fires. Within minutes the last flame was put out, leaving only greasy smoke lingering in the air.
Frank and Joe staggered out of the room. "Where are you going?" Emma asked as they headed for the door. "What about — "
"No time to explain," Frank said, running past Emma. "Whoever threw that firebomb might have stuck around to see what happened."
"A firebomb? In this neighborhood? You must be kidding!" Emma called after them.
As he threw open the front door, a foot slammed into Frank's chest. It sent him staggering back into Joe, who darted around him and rushed out just in time to see a figure dash around the curve of the driveway, heading up to the street. Joe sprinted up the steep curve after him. But by the time Joe reached street level, the fleeing figure had torn open the door of a red Porsche parked on the other side of the street am leapt inside.
Even before the car door had slammed shut, the motor roared to life and the Porsche screeched around the corner onto Beverly Glen-Drive. Desperately, Joe hurled himself toward the car, but it was too late. The car and the mystery man driving it sped up the twisting road and vanished around a curve.
Joe ran back to the house. Frank and Emma Beaudry were watching anxiously from the top of the driveway. "We can't let him get away!" Joe shouted, racing back to their rented car.
Frank joined him, running down the drive. "Wait a minute, Joe. I'll go. You're hurt."
Joe glowered and looked at his arm. For the first time, he noticed the angry red burns. "You mean these?" he said. "They're no problem."
"Those need some attention. Now!" He opened the car door. "You stay here. I'll catch up to our friend. Oh, here's your bag — you need clean clothes," Frank said, tossing out Joe's overnight bag.
Frank climbed into their rental car, then sped out of the driveway and onto the street, turning onto Beverly Glen Drive.
"I should've gone," Joe mumbled, watching his brother roar away. "I should've gone. Did you get a load of that Porsche he was driving?" Joe asked Emma, who had just joined him. "Whoever we're after has money," he mumbled.
"Or good taste in stolen cars."
Emma Beaudry took his arm and pulled him gently toward the house. "Let's see about those burns. Don't worry about Frank. From what Callie's told me about him, I know he'll be all right."
The canyon road rose higher and higher into the Santa Monica Mountains, twisting and turning more the farther up Frank went.
To his right, the dirt shoulder fell off into a deep gorge. He skidded along a sharp curve, his right tires off the road and on the shoulder. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, sharply edging the tires back onto the pavement.
The road straightened out as it neared the top of the mountain. Ahead, barely visible in the distance, Frank could see a lone red car. He floored the accelerator and roared after it, praying no other car would come onto the road. His speedometer needle moved farther and farther to the right, passing forty, fifty, sixty.
The road straightened and widened into four lanes as at last Frank's car caught up to the car ahead. Frank let out a soft cry of victory.
It was the red Porsche.
He slammed on the brakes, his car skidding to the left and swerving around the Porsche. Frank knew he had to cut it off.
The Porsche was jerked to the left, smashing into Frank's car.
He slammed on the brakes again, just getting the car under control before it smashed into an oncoming pickup. The Porsche wove back and forth across the road to keep him from passing.
If that's the way you want to play it, Frank thought, I won't try to pass. But there's no way you're losing me. He stayed on the Porsche's bumper.
They approached a stop sign at the top of the hill. The Porsche sped up, racing through the intersection and around a curve. Frank heard the car screech to a halt around the side of the mountain, its tires squealing wildly.
"Spun out, huh?" Frank muttered as he neared , the curve. "Now I've — Huh!"
As he rounded the curve Frank was blinded by the bright sun, shining straight into his eyes. Just ahead of him he saw the blurred shape of the Porsche. It was stopped, and it was facing him.
Frank slammed on his brakes and watched in horror as the Porsche revved up and drove straight at him.
"What the — " Crying out, Frank hit the gas and yanked the wheel hard to the right to avoid the car. But he couldn't make the turn back onto the road and crashed through the guardrail—and off the side of the mountain, flying into space to the canyon floor far below!
As THE CAR was shearing through the guardrail at the top of the cliff, Frank fumbled for the door handle. Large spots from staring at the sun still swam in front of his eyes, but his sight had returned enough to see the huge San Fernando Valley spread out below him. A weightlessness gripped the car. He was falling into that valley!
Frank rammed his shoulder into the door. His seat belt unbuckled, he took a deep breath and hurled himself into space.
He groped wildly, desperate for any handhold. One miraculous snatch and he did get his fingers around a tree branch. Twisting his body, he fought to grab on with the other hand. He continued dropping for a few seconds, then a shock jolted through his arms as he abruptly stopped The limb held!
From beneath him came the screams of metal tearing on rock until one huge explosion echoed through the air, and only the crackle of fire broke the welcome silence.
Relaxed by the quiet, Frank began to drift off, his grip on the tree loosening. He shook himselff violently. It's shock, he told himself. I have to stay awake. He looked down and saw where he was, dangling from a tree limb over a deep ravine. Pain shooting through his arms and shoulders, he pulled himself up on the branch and lay there for a minute before shinnying down the trunk.
Minutes later he scrambled up the hill to the road. The red Porsche was long gone. With no one in sight he began the lengthy walk to a police station.
***
I hope Frank's all right, Joe Hardy thought for the thousandth time in several hours. He sat in an easy chair in Emma Beaudry's living room, his burned arm wrapped in cold wet towels. The VCR was on, and Joe was fast-forwarding through videotapes with a remote control. He and Emma had found the tapes in an unburned-bureau in Callie's room and decided to look through them for clues. There was nothing suspicious or unusual about them. They appeared to be tapes Callie had made in her broadcast journalism class.
Right then Joe was watching a press conference that had also been filmed by all the major networks. None of the tapes seemed to be a reason for trying to burn down a house.
Callie's aunt appeared, carrying a tray. She set it down and poured each of them a glass of iced tea.
"Ms. Beaudry? Don't you know the names of any of Callie's friends here? Someone we could call?"
"Call me Emma, please," she insisted, smiling wearily. "As I said before, Callie spent all her time working on her class. She didn't bring any of her friends back here. All I know for certain is that she was very excited about her final project. She had to make a short news feature."
"Great," Joe replied. He sipped at his tea. "Nothing else?"
Emma shook her head. "No. The last time I saw her was a couple of days ago. She asked if I had any old clothes I didn't need anymore. I gave some to her, and she left for school."
"Where is that?" Joe asked, glancing at his watch nervously. It was getting late now. He wished he had some way to contact Frank.
"UCLA," Ms. Beaudry replied. "The University of California at Los Angeles. Over in Westwood. It's one of the largest in the country." Joe continued to stare at the television, expressionless. She raised her voice. "Surely you've heard of it?"
"What?" Joe asked. "Sorry. I was distracted. I'm worried about Frank. Listen," he said. "Maybe we should call Callie's parents. They deserve to know that their daughter may be in trouble."
"Please, no!" Emma said, her sophisticated air disappearing. "Really, my sister would kill me. Can't you boys handle this? You're hotshot detectives, aren't you? You were so wonderful with the police."
Emma had summoned the Beverly Glen police to witness the damage to her house before she called her insurance company.
Joe frowned. He had no idea who'd want to firebomb Emma's house, or why. He'd kept his suspicions—that the fire had something to do with Callie's absence or that it was a move to destroy evidence or even to scare the Hardys away—to himself. Now Joe wondered if he shouldn't have shared his hunches with the police because he was beginning to think that Frank's life might be at stake. He checked his watch again. Eight o'clock!
The doorbell rang, cutting off Joe's thoughts. "I'll get it," Emma said, jumping up from the couch.
"No, I will," Joe said. They raced together for the door.
On the front porch Frank was standing, his clothes torn and bloody, his face pale with exhaustion. Behind him, a cab backed out of the driveway and drove off.
Joe helped him to a chair. "What happened to you? And where's the car?"
"Don't ask. I just spent an hour at the car rental office trying to convince them and a policeman that our car went over a cliff because I was trying to avoid hitting a dog. They didn't offer me another car," he said flatly, and explained what happened.
"What about the guy you were chasing?" Joe asked.
"He got away. But I did learn something— maybe. I think he was a cop. I got one good look at him when he turned around to check me out. I think he was wearing a patrolman's uniform."
Joe looked puzzled. "Why?" he said, asking the question for all of them. After they were seated in the living room, Joe told Frank about the tapes.
"But you found nothing on them?" Frank asked.
"Absolutely nothing," said Joe, shaking his head. "No coded messages, no dangerous news stories — nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing in Callie's room worth the gasoline forj that bomb."
Frank shook his head. "Obviously, our attacker thought something was here and didn't want us to get it."
"Like what?" Emma asked. "What could Callie be hiding?"
"That's the problem," Frank replied. "The only one who knows is Callie. And if someone is throwing bombs and trying to kill me because of it, she could be in really bad trouble. We have to find her. Who else might know where she is?"
"Emma said Callie's been working on a special project at school," Joe began. "So her professors might have some idea. What do you say? Head for UCLA?"
Frank nodded.
"But it's after eight o'clock," Emma added, "None of the offices will be open."
"A little thing like that won't stop us," said Joe. He set his glass down on the tray, and he and Frank started for the door.
"Boys," Ms. Beaudry said with a smile. "UCLA is casual, but I don't think anyone will talk to Frank dressed like that."
"Maybe you should change," Joe said. "I've got something you can wear."
"I'll be quick," Frank replied grimly.
Emma Beaudry insisted she drive the boys in her car. "Thanks for everything," Joe said as they all went out.
"Call me the minute you find something," said Emma, walking out to her car. "Callie's sensible, but still—I'll be up all night worrying."
"Will do." Joe grinned reassuringly as he climbed into the passenger seat. "I'm sure you're right, Emma. Callie's probably just out chasing a scoop. We'll call you as soon as we can."
Emma Beaudry gave him a dazzling smile of gratitude and backed out of the drive.
"Look, Frank," Joe said as they trudged along a street through UCLA. The boys had been dropped off blocks earlier because the street was closed to traffic. A few students, carrying armloads of books, walked past them as they came from the direction of the library. "Emma said it was only a couple of miles to UCLA, but she never mentioned the couple of miles we'd have to walk into it. This place is the size of a small city."
Frank barely heard him. He was too intent on looking at the buildings. "There it is," he finally said, pointing to a modern building of concrete and glass. School of Journalism was posted on a large sign in front of it.
"Great," said Joe. "What do we do?"
"Callie told me she was studying with a guy named Reese. Let's see if we can find his office."
"And if he's not here?" Joe asked.
'Okay," he said.
Frank shrugged.
They walked up the front steps, and Joe pulled on the door. It opened, and the two entered the apparently deserted building. The first-floor corridor was lined with office doors bearing the names of the occupants. Near the end of the hall Frank found a plaque that read Prof. James Reese, Ph.D. "Here it is," Frank said. He knocked on the door. No answer. He tried to open the door. Locked.
Joe stepped forward and pressed his face against the glass and peered in. "No way we're getting in there tonight." He shook his head slowly.
Not even sure what they had expected to find, the boys walked out of the building feeling unbearably frustrated and dejected. The last bit of light from the setting sun still washed the sky with splashes of pale pink. "How about we go get something to eat and figure out where to sleep tonight?" Joe said, admiring the last of the color.
"I don't know if I can eat. I keep thinking about that call from Callie. We don't even know if she's alive still. We've got to do something— and quick." Frank grew steadily more agitated as he spoke.
"If you don't eat, you'll get sick and won't be able to help anyone — not even yourself," Joe reminded his brother.
Frank smiled and shrugged. "Okay," he said. lead on!"
Minutes later they stepped through the south gate of UCLA and onto a street of West wood. Brightly lit stores lined the street, and the Hardys walked down the block, looking for a restaurant. Just then a young man bumped into Frank. "Hey, watch it," Frank said, rubbing his arm while he looked at the guy. Despite the heat of the Los Angeles night, he was dressed in several layers of clothing. With fearful eyes he watched Frank as he backed away, disappearing into the night.
"Come on," Frank said, shrugging the encounter off and grabbing Joe by the arm. He pulled him toward a Mexican restaurant. "It is time for [some food." He tapped his palm against his pocket with his wallet. He stopped dead in his tracks.
"My wallet. It's gone," he said with a note of disbelief. "That kid picked my pocket." "You mean that kid?" Joe said. The young man was creeping toward an alley.
"Right. Him," Frank replied angrily. He shouted, "Hey, you! Give me back my wallet."
The young man looked up with round, startled eyes and then darted into the alley. The Hardys - tore after him but stopped when they entered the galley. The young man was no longer fleeing; he was standing halfway down the concrete canyon, watching them defiantly. Cautiously, they move forward again.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the alley, the brothers gradually picked out shapes moving in some of the darkened doorways. Joe and Frank slowed to a halt as, one by one, the shapes took human form and inched forward to surround them.
Frank clenched his fists. "Get ready," he muttered to Joe. "Looks like we're in for it."