The Hunt for Four Brothers (2 page)

“How do, Rob?” Sandy said. “Frank and Joe Hardy, this is Rob Daniels. And those are his dogs, Beauregard and Clementine.”

After a moment Daniels replied, “It's late.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sandy apologized. “We had some trouble down at the resort.”

“Resort?” Daniels huffed. “It's a summer camp for grown-ups.”

“That's probably closer to the truth,” Sandy replied, smiling. Sandy was acting timid and cautious around Daniels, Joe thought, considering the two were supposed to be friends.

“Someone with a wolf or a dog was prowling around in one of the guest cottages,” Sandy continued.

“Not me,” Daniels said after a moment.

“I didn't think it was you,” Sandy said.

“Then why'd you come up here, Sandy?” Daniels asked.

“My job. Other folks think you're dangerous,” Sandy explained. “Mr. Craven would have called Sheriff Lyle.”

Daniels didn't respond for a moment. “I've heard baying the last few nights from farther up the mountain. I'd look up there.”

“Thank you, Rob,” Sandy said. “Maybe if you came down and talked this through with Mr. Craven—”

“I don't see that happening,” Daniels interrupted.

“I'm warning you, Rob,” Sandy said more sternly, “Craven owns this whole mountain, and if he—”

“I don't believe a man can
own
a part of the earth, let alone a whole mountain,” Daniels stated. “You've warned me, Sandy, now go home.”

•   •   •

Joe and Frank found the downhill climb harder than the uphill. They moved haltingly in the dark, a few steps at a time. Frank grabbed Joe's arm and steadied him as he started to slide.

“Do you think Mr. Daniels is lying about breaking into Mrs. Gregory's cottage?” Joe quietly asked Frank.

“He didn't offer an alibi,” Frank pointed out. “He just denied the accusation, and Sandy seemed to buy it.”

“I bought it,” Sandy interjected, “because breaking and entering isn't something Rob Daniels would do.”

“How do you know so much about him?” Frank wondered.

“Rob Daniels went to school with me,” Sandy replied.

Frank's eyes opened wide. “You mean at college?”

“Right,” Sandy said, holding on to a small maple sapling in order to maneuver down a steep gully. “Rob studied agriculture at North Carolina A and T.”

“What went wrong?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” Sandy replied. “He studied farming so that he could grow his own food. This is all Rob ever wanted, to be able to live off the earth without money.”

They heard a sound behind them. A metallic
ching.
“Does Rob own a gun?” Joe quietly asked Sandy.

“I'd step out here if you know what's good for you!” Sandy called into the woods.

“Sandy, he may be armed,” Frank warned.

Sandy cautiously moved into the brush, and Joe and Frank fanned out on either side of him, searching for whatever had made the sound.

Frank's nostrils flared as he detected the smell of cigarette smoke in the air. Shining his flashlight over the ground, he spotted a crushed cigarette still smoldering. “Over here!” he called to his companions.

“Looks like someone lit it, then stomped it out right away,” Joe said, holding the cigarette butt in front of his flashlight.

“That noise we heard sounded familiar,” Frank said. “Like someone striking an old-fashioned lighter.”

“Could be, Frank. Hmm . . . I've never seen this brand,” Sandy said, taking the cigarette butt from Joe and pointing to a gold emblem of a bear on the filter.

“Whoever it belongs to was following us,” Frank said.

“Maybe all the way from Konawa,” Joe added, reminding them of the sounds they had heard on their way up the mountain.

“It is very strange,” Sandy said, pocketing the
cigarette butt. “You boys have an early day tomorrow. Let's get home.”

“Home” for the teenage male staff was a long wooden building beyond the athletic field at the edge of the resort's boundary. The place was nicknamed the Sweatbox. The rooms were very small; some had only tiny windows.

The Hardys had arrived early and staked a claim to a corner room with a good-size window. Chet had not been so lucky. The boys found him in bed, reading.

Joe read the book's title aloud.
“Creepy Tales From Konawa County.
No wonder you have werewolf on the brain.”

“The story I'm reading now is more probable,” Chet explained. “About a lunatic who escaped from the Timber Gap Asylum and lurks high in trees, waiting to drop on lost campers.”

“Chet, you're going to give yourself nightmares,” Frank warned, then added, “We had quite a hike.” Then the brothers told Chet about their adventure.

“Why would anyone want to follow you guys?” Chet wondered.

“We don't know,” Joe said. “To see what we'd found out about the break-in, maybe.”

“Or to keep us from finding out about the break-in,” Frank added.

“To keep you from finding out what?” Chet wondered.

Joe shrugged, then turned to his brother. “Come on, Frank; let's turn in.”

“I'm going to catch a quick shower first,” Frank said as they entered their corner room.

Putting on his bathrobe, Frank headed down the hall past the closed doors of the sleeping staffers to the common shower room.

After washing off the dirt and grime of the day, Frank shut off the shower. In that quiet moment, he heard something in the adjoining sink room. “Joe?” he called.

Listening for a response, Frank heard only a low growl. He slipped on his robe. Suddenly the lights went out, and the shower room became pitch-black. Frank knew there was nothing he could find in there to use as a weapon. Flattening himself against the wall, Frank slipped around the corner and into the sink room. The door to the hallway was propped open, and a large figure stood motionless in the opening. With a shout, Frank tackled the man into the hallway.

Lights were turned on at the sound of the commotion, and Frank saw the assailant he had tackled—Chet!

“You?” both boys said, surprised.

“Frank, Chet, what's going on,” Joe called, hurrying down the hall to them.

“I heard a growl,” Frank said.

“So did I,” Chet agreed. “When I stepped into the hall, it was pitch-black.”

“Someone shut off the shower room lights,” Frank went on. “I thought Chet was the someone.”

Joe stepped into the sink room and flipped on the lights. The cabinets below two of the sinks were open and some of the contents had been pulled out. “Anyone know what we store under these sinks?” Joe asked.

“Yeah,” said Phil Dietz, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Toilet paper, paper towels, and soap.”

Searching all the cabinets, Frank and Joe found plenty of toilet paper and paper towels, but every bar of soap was gone. The Hardys and the other Sweatbox staff slept with the outer doors locked for the first time all summer.

•   •   •

At five-thirty the Hardys' alarm clock went off. By six, they were in the main lobby of the inn, sweeping floors, dusting tables, and putting all the chairs and rockers back into their proper places.

Joe was dragging a rocker from the fireplace room out onto the grand porch overlooking the lake when he spotted Mrs. Gregory, who was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “Good morning, Mrs. Gregory,” Joe said, grabbing his push broom.

“Good morning, Joe. Any news about last night's unpleasantness?”

“We didn't find the culprit, if that's what you mean,” Joe replied.

“Oh, I don't even know why I'm reading this,”
Mrs. Gregory said, folding her newspaper. “I come here to get away from the world.”

“What's happening outside Konawa Valley?” Joe asked, making conversation.

“Since the cease-fire in Kormia an international peacekeeping force has been in the capital keeping order,” Mrs. Gregory told Joe. “After the treaty was signed last week, ending the civil war, all the international troops were sent home.”

“That sounds like good news,” Joe said.

“It would be, except that the national museum has been looted,” Mrs. Gregory explained, “and the Kormian officials claim that someone on the peackeeping force is responsible.”

“Wow, that's bad,” Joe said.

Mrs. Gregory rose from her rocking chair. “Well, I'd better wash the newsprint off my hands before breakfast.”

“Oh,” Joe said, struck by a thought. “Did you find anything missing from your bathroom cabinet?”

“Nothing important,” Mrs. Gregory replied, heading inside.

“Anything
un
important?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Gregory paused in the doorway. “Yes—oddly enough, we're missing all our soap.”

“Joe!” Sandy called from inside the main lobby. “Front and center!”

Joe found Sandy with Frank, talking to the owner
of the Konawa Lake Inn, the tall, heavyset Jim Craven.

“Sandy and Frank were telling me about last night,” Craven said, nervously patting the top of his white-haired crew cut. “Now, the last thing I want are rumors about break-ins and mysterious wolf-dog creatures.”

“Mrs. Gregory said her soap was stolen, too,” Joe told Craven.

“All the more reason to keep tight lips,” Craven ordered. “I think I know who's behind this.”

“Who?” said Frank.

“One of those yo-yos down in the Sweatbox,” Craven replied. “It smells dead-on like a staff prank.”

“A prank? Breaking into a guest cottage?” Joe asked.

“Joe, I've seen these things get out of hand,” Craven explained.

“Say, Craven!” Tringle called from across the lobby.

“What now?” Craven said quietly under his breath.

“I told you
yesterday
about the wasps' nest under the north eaves,” Tringle went on. “If I get stung, you'll have a lawsuit on your hands.”

“Mr. Tringle, I'll have Sandy take care of it right away,” Craven said with a smile. After Tringle walked out on the porch, Craven said, “Larry
Tringle has been coming here fifteen years, and all he does is complain.”

“I'll have the boys knock it down,” Sandy assured Craven, who bustled off to talk with Jen Haskell, Katie's older sister, who worked behind the registration desk.

Sandy brought the boys to the side of the inn and pointed to a large, roughly circular nest under the eaves of the inn. “There she blows.”

“That's one of the biggest wasps' nests I've ever seen,” Joe said, watching dozens of wasps darting around the nest.

“Oh, that's only a baby.” Sandy grinned. “Wait till you tackle a white-faced hornets' nest.”

“How do we knock it down?” Frank asked.

“With our patented de-nester,” Sandy replied, handing him a cane fishing pole. “You should knock it down only at night and kill the wasps then, when they're all in the nest, but since Tringle is so upset, go to it now. See you at breakfast.”

The Hardys watched as Sandy walked off, smiling to himself. Frank reached up with the cane pole, which was just barely long enough to reach the nest. “Okay, Joe, on the count of three I knock it down, and we run. One, two, three!” Frank swung the pole and then ran. Looking back, he saw Joe still standing there. “Joe, what are you doing?”

“You missed it,” Joe replied calmly. “Let me take a whack.”

Joe was careful to make sure the end of the pole was touching the nest. He then nodded to Frank and whipped the pole, waiting till he saw the nest start to fall before racing off and jumping behind a low hedge with his brother. “And that's how it's done,” Joe said, peeking over the hedge.

As Joe rose up to look, Frank saw ten wasps crawling on the back of Joe's shirt.

“Don't move a muscle, Joe,” Frank said. Joe froze while Frank slowly lifted the bottom of Joe's T-shirt away from his body.

“What next?” Joe asked.

Frank knew if he tried swatting the insects away, they would both get stung. “Let's just stay still awhile, Joe,” Frank instructed.

A minute passed, then two. Then the first wasp flew away, followed quickly by a second and a third. Finally the last wasp took off.

“Into the inn!” Frank shouted, and the two boys rushed inside, closing the door behind them. “Wow, Joe—I can't believe you didn't get stung,” Frank said.

“I did get stung,” Joe said, lifting his shirt and
showing Frank the white bump swelling on his shoulder blade. “I just didn't move.”

Frank got a first-aid kit from Jen Haskell at the front desk. “This should take out some of the sting,” Frank said, rubbing ointment on Joe's back. The public address system crackled to life and played canned bugle music, calling the guests to the first meal of the day.

“All this,” Joe said, pulling his T-shirt down, “and we haven't even had breakfast yet.”

After chowing down on eggs, grits, and bacon, the Hardys left the staff dining room. They passed through the kitchen to say hi to Chet before heading off on the morning's “garbage run.”

Chet stood behind a counter, rapidly unloading steaming racks of clean dishes from a conveyor belt that carried them through the industrial dishwasher. “Ow, ow, ow,” Chet yelped, each time he grabbed a plate and stacked it on the shelf.

“Hey, this thing reminds me of the automatic car wash back in Bayport,” Joe said. “You're a one-man dish-washing army, Chet!”

“Ha, ha,” Chet replied, followed by “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Are those really that hot? Ow!” Joe cried out, as he touched one of the dishes.

“The kitchen vets say I won't even feel it once I develop calluses on my hands,” Chet said proudly.

“Well, that's something to look forward to,” Joe joked.