Read Nightmare in Angel City Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
With a yelp of pain he hopped back and clutched at his leg. A cold rage suffused his face as Callie got back to her feet, holding the lid in front of her like a shield. "No one around, Callie," he repeated. "Can't get away from me." He stared at her, and she felt a shiver of fear ripple through her.
Her eyes fell on the switchblade lying on the pavement, and for a second she considered making a run for it. But Patch was closer to the knife. The instant she made her move he'd go for it, and she knew he'd get there first. The end of the mall seemed a million miles away.
"Come on," Patch said, beckoning her to him. "Let's finish it."
"No!" Callie screamed. She spun around and hurled the metal lid at the nearest store window like a Frisbee. A security grate kept the window from breaking, but huge cracks appeared up and down the length of it, and from inside the store came the shrill ringing of a burglar alarm.
Callie turned and ran, but her legs grew heavier with each step. The end of the mall appeared as in a dream — so close but unreachable. Her lungs were burning and she couldn't think of anything but reaching the end of the mall.
Just then rough hands reached out and grabbed her shoulders, yanking her backward. Callie felt Patch's hot, stale breath on the side of her face and heard his crude laughter in her ear. She tried to dig her fingers into his arms as he shifted and wrapped his arm around her throat. But her strength was gone. As he slowly squeezed the air from her, she thought she heard the long, loud screeching of birds.
No, a police siren, she realized. The alarm had attracted help. The police are coming.
The thought energized her, and she felt Patch hesitate and loosen his grip on her throat. She shot her arm straight out and brought it back in again, cannonballing her elbow straight into Patch's ribs and knocking the wind out of him. He let her go. Seeing him stagger, she turned and quickly pulled the videotape from his pocket, then jumped back out of his reach. As the sirens grew louder, he bolted, stopping only long enough to pick up the switchblade. Exhausted, Callie stumbled back against a building and waited for the police to arrive.
No, the police mustn't catch me either, she thought. One cop already wanted to get his hands on her, and she knew she wasn't willing to tell anyone about Patch until she got to the bottom of the mystery. Quickly, she slipped into the shadows and headed back to the beach before the police arrived.
***
Car lights switched on, flooding the ground around the old boat house. Frank Hardy lay facedown in the sand, his eyes closed, his arms spread to either side. A few feet away Joe Hardy sprawled just under the open window, a trickle of blood rolling down his temple. Neither of them moved.
Frank opened his eyes a slit and watched as a tall, mustached man stepped in front of the headlights. He was dressed in a police patrolman's uniform. Despite the midnight darkness, he wore wire-framed aviator sunglasses, and in his hand was a nine-millimeter automatic. As he walked toward the Hardys, he drew the clip from the pistol and slipped in a new one.
The man stood over the Hardys and studied them. Then he crouched down and nudged Joe with the barrel of the gun. No response. The man kicked him, and when again there was no response, he snickered and turned his attention to Frank.
"Wake up," the man said gruffly, and nudged Frank in the shoulder with his toe. Satisfied that Frank was out, he wedged his foot between Frank and the sand, and rolled him over for a good look at him.
As he rolled, Frank grabbed a handful of sand and flung it up into the policeman's face.
With a howl the cop staggered back and rubbed his eyes while trying to take aim at Frank.
The first shot spat sand into Frank's hair, and Frank swung his legs around, catching the cop around the ankles and pitching him to the ground.
At once Frank was on him, grappling for the gun. The policeman writhed, but Frank pinned him with his arms and legs, and crept his hand up the man's arm to his gun. As they struggled, another shot spat out, smashing into the boat house.
"Who are you?" Frank asked, peering down at the policeman's face.
For an answer the policeman slammed his knee up into Frank's back, and Frank pitched forward. Pain rushed through him as the policeman landed a haymaker in his stomach, but Frank kept his hand on the gun.
Like gladiators joined at the wrist, they rose together, each keeping a grip on the pistol. The policeman slammed an awkward left into Frank's jaw. Frank staggered back toward the surf, his hold on the pistol beginning to weaken.
Then he collected himself and tightened his hand around the man's trigger finger.
Six rapid-fire shots ripped through the sky.
Enraged, the policeman pulled back, finally breaking Frank's grip. The gun smashed down against Frank's head, and Frank tumbled back, landing at the surf's edge. He was dazed, and his arms no longer worked. A fog appeared to be swallowing him, and through that fog Frank saw the policeman aiming the pistol at his head.
; Too exhausted to move, Frank merely covered his face with his hands. The policeman's finger slowly squeezed the trigger.
Click!
Frank's eyes opened wide in relief. The gun '- was empty.
As water washed onto Frank's hair, the policeman dropped to his knees, his hand pressed against Frank's face. The surf filled Frank's nose and mouth and forced its way down his throat. He sputtered and tried to rise, but the policeman was forcing him down.
Stay calm, he thought. Don't panic. He slowly exhaled the air still in his lungs to keep the water out, and concentrated, as he had learned to do in karate class. With great effort Frank focused on the policeman.
, The heel of Frank's hand snapped up, clipping the policeman in the solar plexus. The man grunted and let go, and Frank grabbed him by the collar. He rolled back, lifting the policeman with him, and the policeman flew over his head and into the water.
Frank dragged himself onto dry land. Already the cop was staggering out of the ocean. When he saw Frank he aimed at him again and pulled the trigger twice. Again there was only a clicking. Frustrated, the policeman flung the gun at Frank, but Frank knocked it aside and dove at the man. The officer sidestepped and let Frank fall into the surf. Then the policeman ran to his car, got in, and sped off.
Frank returned to the boat house and sank to his knees next to Joe. "It's okay. It's all over." Weakly, he shook his brother, but Joe didn't move.
Then Frank noticed the blood on Joe's head, and a horrifying thought sprang into his mind.
Joe wasn't unconscious. He was dead.
"FRANK?" JOE RASPED weakly. "What happened?"
He tried to sit up, but his eyes screwed shut in pain and he flopped down again, hand to his bleeding head.
"Joe!" Frank shouted, ecstatic. "You're alive! Lie still while I go get help. You've been shot."
Joe propped himself up on one arm. The pain in his head was receding into a dull throb. "Was I?" he said. "Oh, I remember now. Someone was shooting at us."
"The policeman," said Frank. "I chased him off, but I couldn't catch him."
"When I heard the shots, I dove for cover, same as you," Joe continued. Slowly, he raised himself to a sitting position, and this time he didn't collapse. "But I was diving away from the shots. There's no way a bullet could have grazed my head. My leg or arm, maybe, but not my head."
"But your head's bleeding," Frank said.
Joe began to crawl, patting the sand all around him. "Maybe I hit it when I was falling. Something sharp, metal ..." His hand slapped down near the wall of the boat house, and he let out a sharp cry. "I think I found something."
"Buried treasure on the beach," Frank said. "Give me a break." But he quickly began to brush sand away from the spot Joe indicated. An object became visible near the wall of the building. "You're right, there is something here. Looks like a file box of some sort."
"Patch's?"
"Maybe. It'd explain what the shovel in the shack was for."
Joe had almost forgotten the ache in his head as he lifted up the small green-painted metal box that was carefully sealed in a plastic bag.
"It sure wasn't deep," Joe said. "Patch isn't much at burying things."
"If it's his," Frank warned. "We don't know that yet. Anyway, he might have been in a hurry." He ran his fingers over the bag around the box. "I don't think this has been here long. How's your head?" he asked Joe as he peeled off the plastic.
"I'll live," said Joe. "What's in the box?" Frank popped open the lid. He lifted up the contents of the box to inspect them by the light of the passing cars.
"Photographs," Frank said, bewildered. "Just old photos." They were brown with age.
Joe picked one from the box and studied it intently as another car passed on the road. "The developing date was over ten years ago. Just like Patch's newspaper clippings."
In the photo in his hand were two men, one tall and handsome, with long, wavy hair, and the other slightly shorter and blond, with a broad smile. They were in swim trunks, at a beach, and were posing with their hands on each other's shoulders.
"Moran," Frank said, looking over Joe's shoulder.
"What?"
"The blond guy. His picture was in the paper. That's Sam Moran, the thief who got killed. But who's his buddy?"
"You think maybe ... " Joe began.
Frank shrugged. "The other guy could be Moran's partner. Maybe." He plucked the photo from Joe's hand, folded it down the middle, and bent it back so that only the unknown man was looking up at him, and stuffed the picture in his pocket. "I'll lay odds it's Patch. Maybe Callie can identify him for us."
Joe picked up another picture of the unknown man and closed the box. "It'll be dawn soon," he said. "We'd better get out of here before Patch decides to show up. Neither of us looks like we could bear up under another fight."
They looked at themselves in their torn, wet clothes. Frank grinned, and a single chuckle burst from his lips. Then Joe began to crack up, and Frank joined the laughter.
"Yeah, it's been a long night," Frank said when they stopped. "Otherwise none of this would seem even slightly funny. Come on, let's pack up here and go get some sleep."
They wrapped up the box and reburied it.
***
Callie stood alone in the shadow of the bottling plant. Far in the east were the first traces of morning, a faint lightening of the gray sky.
Callie paced, wondering what had become of Frank and Joe. Every sound made her jump, and now the videotape in her bag seemed too heavy for her to carry. She wanted to throw it into the ocean.
I'm just tired, she thought, and sat on a crate next to the factory to rest and close her eyes for a minute. Before she knew it, she was asleep.
She woke to distant voices. The sky was lighter — soon the sun would break the horizon. How long have I been asleep, she wondered. A rush of panic swept through her. She dug frantically through her bags for the videotape. It was still there.
The voices were gone. But now heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete sidewalk around the corner of the building, heading straight for her. She looked around for a place to hide, but there was nothing but beach, and once on the beach they would see her. Frantically, she stood and stamped her foot down on the crate, breaking it.
She picked up a flat board from the crate, crept to the corner of the building, and waited. The footsteps had stopped at the sound of the breaking crate, but then they started again. Callie sensed a presence just around the corner, not six inches away. She could feel her heart pounding. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on the board.
As a head came into view, she slammed the board down. But the figure had twisted aside at the last minute and stomped on the wood as it hit the ground. The board snapped into bits. Callie ' screamed and backed away, cuffing her arms over her face.
"Callie?" said Frank. "What are you doing? What's wrong?"
She hurled herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest. "Oh, Frank. I'm so glad you're back. It's been just an awful night."
"We know," said Joe, joining them. "It's been bad for us too. What happened to you?"
She pulled away from Frank and straightened up, trying to regain her composure. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she said defensively. "I thought something had happened to you."
"We're more or less okay," said Frank. "The big question now is: where are we going to sleep?" He looked at Joe's dirty face and torn shirt and Callie's grubby outfit, and wondered what he himself looked like. "We can't go back to your aunt's house. The policeman knows about her." He stared at the bottling plant. "I don't much like the idea of staying here but no hotel's going to let us in looking like this."
"Oh, I don't know," Callie said. She rooted through her pockets and finally came out with a credit card. "We could try. Credit talks, right? Don't leave home without it."
Frank stretched as he put on his shirt. Four hours of sleep in the once stylish but now seedy motel had refreshed him. He felt ready to follow Patch's trail. Catching Patch and the policeman was, he decided, the only way to make sure Callie would be safe.
"I'm going next door to check on Callie," he said to Joe as Joe stepped out of the shower. Still half asleep, his brother yawned and nodded, obviously too sleepy to care. Frank stepped out of the motel room and shut the door behind him.
Despite their problems, he was, he realized, in a good mood.
His mood shifted abruptly as he rapped on Callie's door. It creaked open.
No one was inside the room. The bed covers were thrown to one side, and in a pile on the floor were Callie's clothes and the bags she had been carrying. Frank pounded on the wall adjoining their rooms. "Joe! Get over here now!" When Joe, shoeless and shirtless, dashed into the room, he found Frank going through the bags. "What was all the pounding about? What's up?" Frank turned. His face was grave. "They took Callie, Joe. She's gone!"