Collision Course (7 page)

Phil shrugged. "I could probably tell you more if I had whatever it was connected to."

"Then I guess that's what we'll have to find," joe said. "I wanted to do a little swimming before the end of the season, anyway. How about you?" pe added, nudging his brother. "Last one in is a rotten diver."

"Wait a second," Callie protested. "Before both go leap into the bay and get sucked out to sea by the tides, how about watching a fascinating documentary over at my house?"

Joe slapped his forehead, realizing he had forgotten to tell his brother about the videocassette. That was what he wanted to talk to Frank in the first place.

"That's okay," Frank said before Joe could open his mouth. "Callie told me all about your little adventure last night. I just can't let the two of you go anywhere without me, can I?"

Frank Hardy clapped his brother on the back and laughed. Then his tone shifted. "From now on," he spoke seriously, "we stick together! wherever the trail leads. Agreed?"

"We both get in too much trouble alone." Joe chuckled and grasped his brother's outstretched right hand. "Agreed."

Joe and Frank decided to take a detour past the Bayport Fairgrounds, so they told Callie they'd meet her at her house.

"Why don't we check out Reinhart Voss," Joe suggested. "With McCoy gone, he'll get the whole team effort for the race. I don't think that's enough to make him kill the guy, but it's a start.'

"Maybe he was tired of racing in McCoy'f shadow," Frank ventured as he pulled the van into a parking space near the Bayport Motel, the closest spot they could park to the fairgrounds.

"Yeah," Joe said, opening the van door and jumping out. "And maybe he trashed Scott's engine to have an even better shot at winning the race."

They walked to the fairgrounds. Fuel and exhaust fumes drifted through the air. The entire grounds had been transformed into a giant outdoor garage, bustling with activity.

They passed one of the sheds where a Formula One engine was being revved up. The noise was deafening. "I guess mufflers are optional on these things!" Frank yelled. They found Voss with his head mechanic, making some last-minute adjustments to his car for his final time-trial run. "Is it not a beautiful thing?" The German driver smiled broadly, gesturing with both hands to indicate his 900-horsepower pride and joy. "You are just in time to watch me get the first position with the fastest qualifying time!" Joe stooped down and ran his hand over the smooth, sleek surface of the car. It was contoured to cut through the wind like a knife. "With McCoy gone and Scott Lavin's engine damaged," , he began casually, "I guess you're feeling pretty confident."

Voss's smile quickly faded. "I learned much from Angus," he said quietly. "I will miss him — and I will also miss the chance to beat him. It is good to win, but better to win against the best." "Do you really think you could have beaten him?" Frank asked. "He was getting old," Voss replied bluntly.

"Maybe I would not have beaten him here. But next year I would drive for Ferrari."

"You're leaving McCoy Racing?" Joe cut in.

"Yes," Voss said. "As long as I stayed with Angus I would have been number two, always getting the second-best equipment. So when Ferrari offered me their number-one slot, I jumped. This is my last race for McCoy. Maybe I can leave the team with a small victory. It should not be too hard."

Frank gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"This is an exhibition race," Voss explained. "Most teams are here just to test out new equipment. Some of the top drivers are not even here. This is the kind of race that gives the younger drivers a chance."

"Like Scott Lavin?" Frank suggested.

"Why, yes," Voss agreed. "A win here would look very good for Scott."

The Hardys looked at each other as the German driver climbed into the cockpit of his car and put on his crash helmet. Joe knew what Frank was thinking.

The powerful engine roared to life, and Frank put his fingers in his ears. Joe leaned into the cockpit and tapped the top of the driver's helmet. Voss flipped up the visor and cocked his head in Joe's direction. Joe cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "But Scott's out of the race, right? His engine's no good!"

In response, Voss shrugged his shoulders in the confined space and jerked his right thumb over is shoulder, pointing behind him. Then he inched the accelerator, the tires screamed and spun in protest, and the race car swerved out onto the roadway and took off down the course.

Joe and Frank both turned in the direction Voss had pointed and saw the familiar yellow-and-red Formula One barreling down the course, heading straight at them.

The Hardys jumped back as Scott Lavin's car screeched to a halt right next to them. Scott was laughing as he took off his helmet. He shut down the engine and squirmed out of the cockpit, handing the crash helmet to Joe as he climbed over the side of the car.

"We're back in the race, Joe!" Scott exclaimed. "When I got the police call and came down to the garage last night, I thought it was all over. But we worked all night and half the morning to fix the engine."

Joe was staring at the ground, his hands stuffed in his hip pockets, waiting for the bomb to drop. The police report would have put Frank and Joe in the scene, and Scott was bound to want some answers. Joe swallowed hard. "About last night," he began.

"If it weren't for you guys," Scott interrupted, 'we never could have pulled it off." "Huh?" Joe mumbled. Frank kicked him, signaling him to shut up.

"I don't know how you did it, but a cop named Riley said you guys reported the breakin and chased off whoever did it before he could do any real damage.

"Anyway," Scott continued, starting to climb back into the race car, "I just wanted to say thanks." He paused with one leg in the cockpit! and the other on the ground. Then he looked at Joe and said, "Say, since you're already holding the helmet, why don't you put it on and drive this baby back to the shed?"

Joe's mouth dropped open. He could barely believe what he was hearing. Ever since he could remember, he had loved cars. He was the first person in line to get his driver's license. It seemed he had waited half his life for it. Now he was I actually getting a chance to drive the ultimate racing machine.

But as badly as Joe wanted to get behind the wheel, he remembered his promise to his brother. They had agreed to stick together, and Joe wasn't about to let a car come between Frank and him. "Thanks, anyway, Scott," Joe said, shaking his head. "But I don't think so. We've got stuff to do."

Frank knew that it took a lot of willpower for Joe to decline Scott's offer, and he was proud of him. "Oh, go ahead," he urged his brother. "I'll meet you back at the van. I want to see if I can find that writer, T. B. Martin, and ask him a few more questions."

Joe didn't need any more encouragement. He put one hand on the roll bar and the other on the screen, stepped into the cockpit, and slid into the seat. Scott reached in and grabbed the metal catch-plate attached to the "antisub-gprine" straps—the straps that come up between driver's legs. Then he helped Joe buckle in the two shoulder harnesses and both ends of the belt. The catch-plate connected all the straps together, like a six-pointed star, right over Joe's face.

Joe shifted his weight around to get comfortable in the half-sitting, half-lying position and Stared at the dizzying array of controls. "How come all these gauges are tilted?" he asked.

'We rotate them," Scott pointed out, "so the feedles point straight up at optimum levels."

'Okay." Joe nodded, scanning the dials. "I think I've got it." But something was missing. '"Hey," he said, frowning, "Where's the speedometer?"

Scott laughed. "The only speed we worry about is the other guy's. If he's going faster than you are, then you aren't going fast enough. But today let's take it nice and slow," Scott cautioned. "These monsters aren't exactly designed for idling. If you let your RPMs drop too low, it'll stall. So you'll have to kind of roll your foot between the brake and the accelerator, braking and revving the engine at the same time, okay?"

"Uh - huh." Joe nodded eagerly. "Here goes nothing."

Joe pushed in the clutch with his left foot, gripped the stick shift with his right hand, and shoved it into the first-gear position. With his right foot on the gas pedal, he watched the tachometer needle jump as he revved the engine. Then he eased his left foot off the clutch, and the car lurched into gear. .

Frank saw his brother give him a thumbs-up as he steered the race car onto the road. Scott Lavin turned to him and said, "He's pretty good. Most guys stall out the first time they get behind the wheel."

"Joe's a fast learner," Frank replied. He started to walk away but turned back when he heard a shout rise up from the small cluster of spectators. Looking around to see what had caused the commotion, Frank saw a few people standing up, pointing down the road.

A black cloud began to billow over the race course. The trail of acrid smoke led down to a burning vehicle, and Frank could see that it was the same color as the flames that engulfed it - yellow and red.

Horror crept up on Frank as he realized slowly it was Scott's car and Joe was still in it!

Joe Hardy had just been starting to get the feel of the race car when he heard a muffled explosion in the loud thrum of the engine behind him. His eyes darted from one side mirror to the other, but both showed him the same thing — billowing smoke and flame.

Joe didn't panic. He slammed on the brakes, reached down with his right hand, and hit the fire extinguisher release switch. Within seconds, he knew, the cockpit would be sprayed with a layer of fire-retardant chemicals, giving him time to get out safely. But nothing happened.

He hit the switch again. Still nothing. "Great," he muttered. "No protective clothes, no fire extinguisher—and no time! I've got to get out now or I'll end up the main course at a first class cookout!"

Joe slapped the release button on the rest straps, threw the shoulder harness back over his head, and grabbed the lip of the cockpit to pull himself out. "Yarrghh!" he screamed in pain, wrenching his hands away from the searing metal.

He was trapped! He was wedged so tightly in the tiny space that he couldn't move without using his hands and arms for leverage. "No pain, no gain." He grimaced, psyching himself up to take hold of the burning metal and pull himself free.

Joe reached out with both hands—and felt a cool mist pour down on him.

Frank sprinted into the nearest shed and grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall. Then he rushed back out and started running toward the burning car. He caught up with Scott Lavin, who was headed in the same direction.

"He'll be all right," Scott huffed, trying to keep up with Frank's desperate pace. "There's an on-board fire extinguisher."

"I'm not taking any chances!" Frank yelled. A small knot of onlookers blocked his way. He shoved his way through the crowd, swinging the fire extinguisher to clear a path. "Out of the way!" he bellowed. "Coming through!"

Frank emptied the fire extinguisher into the cockpit of the burning machine and tossed the canister aside. He grabbed Joe's arms, yanking out with one tremendous heave. The two brothers tumbled away from the blaze. The small crowd that had gathered at the side quickly scattered as an ambulance and fire engine rolled up. The fire fighters jumped off the truck, and within seconds the blaze was put out, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke and a smouldering heap where a high-performance race car had been a moment before. Frank helped Joe to his feet, then looked at the burned-out hulk that had been Scott Lavin's first and only Formula One car. He glimpsed Scott Standing off to one side, staring in wide-eyed disbelief, his dream disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Joe turned his gaze to his brother. "We've got to find out who's behind this before anybody else gets killed," he said grimly.

Frank and Joe showed up at Callie Shaw's house about two hours late. "You guys always seem to think that the shortest distance between two points involves two or three stops in between," she commented after hearing the story. "Does this mean you've whittled your list of suspects down to none ?"

"Well, you have to admit," Joe said, "that Scott Lavin would have to be pretty desperate to blow up his own race car."

"We need more facts," Frank replied. "Maybe the videotape of McCoy's crash will tell us something."

"I still don't see why we couldn't watch it in our own VCR at home," Joe protested as he followed Callie through the house.

"I told you," Callie said. "Mine is a professional video cassette like Arno's. It uses tape than home models. The cassette wouldn't even fit in the slot on your machine." She led the way down the basement stairs.

"My folks let me use the den down here for my video equipment," Callie said. "I've got a professional-format VCR hooked up to the wide-screen TV." She took the videocassette over to a large, black box with an imposing set of knobs and dials on the front and a maze of wires snaking out back. She pushed the cassette through a slot in the machine. "It's show time!" she announced.

Frank pulled over some folding directors' chairs, and they all sat down to watch. "Just fast forward to the part where McCoy goes through the tunnel," Frank said.

Callie pressed a button and the action flew across the screen at a breakneck speed. Joe remembered how, looking down on the scene from the air, McCoy's car hadn't seemed to be going very fast. Now it was comical the way it whizzed down the course and darted around the turns. "hey, that some kind of digital clock?" he asked, pointing to a row of changing numbers at the bottom the screen.

'Yes," Callie said. "Video master tapes have time code for editing purposes. It keeps precise record of the time down to hundredths of seconds."

"Here it comes," Frank cut in, staring intently. The race car entered the dark mouth of the tunnel. "Slow it down now." Callie pressed another button, and the tape plowed to normal speed. The digital clock slowed, too. The Hardys watched as the car disappeared inside and the helicopter swung out over ocean to record the scene from the exit point of the tunnel.