Collision Course (9 page)

"A little later I saw him again, starting to climb back aboard his boat. Then suddenly he kind of stepped back into the water."

Frank shook his head. "You guys were making more commotion than a breaching humpback. You probably ruined the fishing for miles around."

Frank paused for a second when Joe shot him a look that could incinerate.

"After that," he continued after a beat, "the next thing I saw was you popping up some distance away from the boat. The other guy surfaced next to it, got in, and bugged out."

Joe filled Frank in on the missing details. "Whatever it was we thought we'd find on the wreck," he said, "just sailed off into the sunset.

Frank nodded. "If he wasn't holding the device when you hauled him back into the water, he must have dropped it on the deck first. I don't suppose you got a good look at it?"

Joe shook his head.

"Okay," Frank persisted. "How about the guy? What did he look like?"

"It all happened too fast," Joe said, "and we were both wearing diving gear. I didn't get a good look at him."

Frank scowled.

"But I didn't have to," Joe added. "I got a good look at his boat, and I recognized it."

"Well?" Frank prodded.

Joe Hardy sighed. "The boat belongs to Lavin."

Frank and Joe scrambled over the rockfall and edged their way along a narrow path back to the 'ledge where the other half of the climbing rope was still tied to the tree.

"Just as I thought," Frank said, cradling the rope in his hands and holding out the end for Joe to see. "No frays or anything like that. The rope didn't break. It's a clean cut."

"It looks like you were right all along," Joe replied. "Somebody wants to win this race badly enough to kill for it."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "It seems like a miracle we're still alive." He clapped Joe on the shoulder and turned his head to study the twisted route they'd have to climb to get back to the road above.

Joe followed his brother's gaze. He laughed softly, shook his head, and said, "I'm glad this was your plan, not mine."

"Why's that?"

Joe unslung the scuba tank from his back and thrust it into Frank's arms. "Because it meant you get to lug this stuff back to the van."

"Hey, hold on a sec—" Frank started to protest.

"No, no," Joe insisted. "I'm sure I heard you say that was part of your plan. The best part, I think."

The Hardys were bone tired by the time they dragged themselves back to the van. "Let's go home," Joe suggested, slouching down in the' passenger seat and resting his feet on the dashboard. "I'll sleep while you drive."

"Remember what Callie said," Frank replied, shifting into gear and pulling hard on the steering wheel, spinning the van around on the dirt track. "The shortest distance between two points always involves a couple of stops along the way."

"I'm too wiped out to remember anything," Joe mumbled, closing his eyes and pretending to sleep as they bumped back down the road. "Bet I think I can guess where we're headed. Let me take a shot in the dark."

"Fire away!" Frank said.

"We're going to the marina to see if we catch Scott Lavin there."

"Yes and no."

"Huh?"

"Yes, we're headed for the marina, but there's not much chance of running into Scott there. He had a big head start on us." "Oh, right." Joe nodded. "We're going there to take a pleasure cruise." "No," Frank said, flicking the turn signal and pulling into the entrance of the Bayport Marina. "We're here to see if anybody saw Scott take his boat out." "Why? It didn't go out by itself." "No—but you said you didn't get a good look at the diver. We have to make sure it was Scott and not somebody else in his boat."

They pulled into a parking space and got out of the van. Frank strode over to a small building. A sign over the door read: Harbor Master. As he reached for the doorknob, Joe caught up and put a hand on his shoulder. Pointing down - the dock to one of the motorboats moored there, he said, "If someone stole Scott's boat, they were nice enough to return it." "Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?" Frank asked. "I thought Scott was your friend."

"He was," Joe replied sullenly, "until he tried to kill me." "But he didn't try to kill you," Frank pointed out. "He had a chance, and all he did was cut your air hose." "So what does that prove?" Joe demanded. "I don't know." Frank shrugged, opening the door to the small office and waving his brother inside. "Humor me for a while."

The harbor master was a grizzled old guy, a white admiral's cap perched on his wispy hair. "Old sailors never die," Joe whispered. "They just get desk jobs."

"What can I do for you youngsters?" the man asked in a friendly tone.

"We were supposed to meet Scott Lavin here." Frank smiled. "Have you seen him today?"

"That I have," came the reply.

"Really? How long ago?" Joe cut in.

"Let's just check the log," the harbor master said, turning to a large book on the desk behind the counter. "It's all here, you know."

"Does the log say when he took his boat out and when he came back?" Frank asked.

"That it does." The old man nodded. "Wrote it down myself, don't you know. Ah, here it is. See for yourself." The self-styled admiral staggered under the weight of the huge volume as he brought it over and set it on the counter.

Joe and Frank both studied the most recent entries in the log. "Well, that does it," Joe said. "The times fit perfectly."

They thanked the harbor master and walked back to the van in silence. Joe was downcast, Frank lost in thought.

As they drove home, Joe finally said, "It looks like you were right about Scott from the start.

, was I a pinhead. He used me. He probably rigged that engine fire and set me up to be really toasted marshmallow." ""Possibly," Frank said, nodding. "He could have thrown away his chances of winning the race and torched his own car to throw us off the trail."

Joe nodded. "Yeah. It sure beats a murder rap—and when he saw me at the race course, he figured it was better to risk my life than his own."

"It's possible," Frank repeated as he turned the van into their driveway. "But it doesn't do much for me," he said as he switched off the ignition and killed the engine.

He opened the door and hopped out of the van without saying anything else. Joe followed him around to the back of the van. "What do you mean?" he asked as his brother opened the rear door and started piling gear into Joe's arms.

Frank stopped unloading and turned to look at Joe. "Think about it. We know Scott was the diver who took something off the wreck. We know when he left the harbor and when he returned."

"So?" Joe retorted.

"So who was up on the ledge cutting our climbing rope?" Frank turned away and walked toward the house. Opening the front door, he called back over his shoulder, "Are you coming or not? I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I'm going inside."

Joe stared at the pile of gear in his arms. "Aren't you going to help me with this stuff?"

"Sure—I'm holding the door open for you." Frank smiled. "It's all part of my plan."

Joe groaned. "Next time I'm definitely coming up with my own plan." Lugging the scuba gear into the house, he said, "Scott could have had a little help. An accomplice."

Frank started to climb the stairs. "I might have bought that two days ago," he said. "But not now."

"How come?"

"Scott didn't know we were checking things out until the day after McCoy's crash."

"So?"

"Somebody's been following us, dogging our every move since I first picked up that electronic souvenir." Frank pushed open the door to his room.

"Maybe Arno told Scott that you found something," Joe suggested.

"Maybe. But I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Frank smiled again. "Call it a hunch — gut instinct."

Joe chuckled. "Okay, you've got me there. But why did Scott dive down to the wreck and rip off evidence?"

"Beats me." Frank shrugged. "When we find him, we'll ask him."

As if in answer to Frank's statement, they heard their aunt Gertrude calling, "Boys? Are you up there? You have a visitor. It's that nice §cott Lavin."

The Hardys hurried downstairs and saw Scott Standing in the doorway.

'You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Joe growled. "What do you want?"

Scott was holding something in his hands. He tossed it at Frank, who caught it reflexively. "I want you guys to help me find out what that thing is," Scott said.

Frank turned the metal object over in his hands, shrugged, and handed it to his brother. "Where did it come from?" Frank asked casually.

"I got it off McCoy's car at the bottom of the ocean," Scott admitted.

"You almost killed me for this thing!" Joe rasped, advancing on his friend.

Scott studied Joe with a look of disbelief. Then his eyes widened as the puzzled expression changed to one of shocked surprise. "You mean that was you down there?" he exclaimed.

He shook his head. "All I knew was that someone jumped me while I was trying to get back in my boat," he continued. "I was just trying to get away. I'm sorry, Joe. I didn't know!"

Frank quickly stepped between them and put his hand on his brother's tensed arm. "Why don't we go into the living room and talk about this some more?" he suggested calmly.

"I never trusted Arno," Scott explained, as they all sat down. "After the two 'accidents' that took me out of the race, I wanted to find out if McCoy's crash was fixed, too.

"So I took a dive down to the wreck and found that thing attached to the steering column," Scott continued, gesturing to the device in Joe's hands. " "I know almost everything there is to know about Formula One design — and if that's a legit part of McCoy's steering system, I'll eat my car."

"Well, at least it's already been cooked," Joe joked halfheartedly.

"The steering system," Frank repeated. "That's it!"

Scott gave Joe a confused look. "What's he talking about?"

"Joe," Frank began, "remember what Phil said about the electronic device we found at the crash site?"

"Yeah," Joe nodded. "He said it was too complicated for a simple triggering device. It had to be part of something more complex."

"Right! Remote control steering! McCoy couldn't handle the car on the hairpin turn because someone else was steering by remote control!" Frank exclaimed, jumping up from his chair.

"But the remote operator would have to know exactly when the car got to the hairpin turn," he continued, pacing around the room as his mind unraveled the puzzle.

Joe could see where his brother's train of thought was going. "That means," he cut in, "it had to be someone who could see the car! And the only people who could see the car were — "

"The people in the helicopter." Frank finished his sentence with a smile. "Excluding you, and that leaves the writer, the cameraman, the pilot and — "

"Excuse me, boys," Gertrude interrupted, putting her head into the room. "But you have another visitor."

"Thank you, ma'am," a familiar voice came in behind her.

Russell Arno strode into the room, a coat paped over his right arm. "And now if you'll excuse us, the boys and I have some business to discuss." Gertrude smiled. "Such a nice gentleman." Then she turned and walked out. "If you need anything," she called out, "I'll be in the kitchen." "Oh, I think we have everything we need right here," Arno said coolly, pulling back the coat to reveal the automatic pistol in his hand that was levelled right at Joe. "Don't we, boys?"

All eyes in the room were riveted on the automatic pistol in Arno's hand.

"I think you have something that belongs to me," Arno said.

Joe started to stand up. "I told you what I'd do if I caught you waving that thing at me again!" he snarled.

Frank reached out, put his hand on Joe's shoulder, and said, "Sit down, Joe. If the man want something so badly, let's give it to him."

Joe glanced at Frank and caught the slight wink in his brother's eye. He felt the weight of the object in his hand and turned back to the promoter. "Sure thing," he said, and smiled. "Here—catch!"

Joe hurled the device at Arno's head as Frank surged out of his seat, making a tackling dive for the man's legs. Arno managed to dodge the chunk the metal whizzing past his head, but the diversion ' was good enough.

Frank hurtled into him, hitting him just above his knees and knocking his legs out from under him. Arno crashed to the floor, the gun still clutched in his hand. Joe hesitated for a fraction of a second and then leaped for the arm holding the weapon. The promoter swung wildly, and a blow cracked Joe on the head, the butt of the pistol slamming into his temple.

Joe fell back, dazed, pain shooting across his eyes. Everything went dark for a moment. He shook his head hard. Don't black out, he commanded himself. There's too much riding on this. He opened his eyes—and didn't like what he saw.

Arno was still on the floor, Frank's body sprawled across his legs, pinning him down. His hands were free, and in the right one he still clutched the gun. Now the barrel was pressed against the side of Frank's head.

'Move very slowly," Arno instructed. "Or your brother will have a very big hole in his head."

Joe staggered to his feet. "Look, you can have the thing," he said, pointing to the metal object lying on the floor. "Take it and get out. Just leave my brother alone."

Arno's gaze shifted to include Scott. "Hands on your head," he ordered the race car driver. 'Bring that here," he said coldly to Joe, indicating the device. "But this time, hand it to me."

Joe picked it up and walked toward him. "That's close enough," Arno warned, reaching out with his free hand. "Now get your brother off me."

"I'm all right," Frank protested. "I can get up by myself."

"I'm sure you can," the promoter said. "But I want everybody's hands where I can see them— and I want them occupied."

Arno swung the gun around to include all three boys.

"Very good. Now I want you," he continued, poking Frank in the head with the gun barrel, "to clasp your hands behind your head. And I want you," — he nodded at Joe — "to pick him up. Scott, stay where you are."