Countdown to Terror (2 page)

But Dundee's eyes sparkled with life as he filled the Hardys in on the investigation into the attack. "There's little enough to be said — the car was empty when we got to it. We're checking the plates, of course. And I found some blank import forms in the glove compartment."

He smiled. "We may have some sort of smuggling operation involved here." "Isn't that a little out of your line?" Joe asked. "I thought you were the local insurance liaison — "

Dundee cut him off bitterly. "I've spent years on the force — most of them on the waterfront. And my contacts down there can track these guys down faster than anyone else."

Joe shrugged, aware he had touched a nerve.

"Is there anything we can do?" Frank asked.

Dundee shook his head. "I'll take care of this investigation. If you remember anything more though, contact me."

Sergeant Dundee rose from the couch in the hotel room and headed for the door. "If you show up at my office tomorrow morning, I'll have those depositions ready." He opened the door and turned back to them. "You should be able to leave town by tomorrow afternoon."

He closed the door so sharply behind him that it was almost a slam. Frank turned to his brother. "Do you get the feeling he wants us out of his way?"

"I think he's too busy trying to prove that he's still a cop to worry about us." He stretched and patted his stomach. "Right now, I'm more worried about what's for dinner."

They went exploring the city's waterfront restoration project and found intriguing small shops and lots of restaurants. Joe stopped in front of one place that had a sign with a man in uniform scoffing up a huge meal. "The Hungry Guardsman," he said, reading the sign. "Home of the three-dollar steak. Sounds good to me."

"There are lots of people inside," Frank said, looking through the window.

"And lots of cute girls," Joe added, pressing close to the window.

They went inside, and a waitress in a striped jersey showed them to a table. "Give us a couple of Cokes," Joe said, "and two of those three-dollar steaks."

"Oh," said the girl, "I'll send the food waitress right over."

"Food waitress?" Joe gave her a puzzled look.

"I only serve from the bar," the girl said.

Joe shrugged. "Well, do what you have to do. We're here to eat." He grinned. "But I don't think another waitress could be as cute as you."

He was wrong. When the other girl arrived, she put her coworker in the shade. Mischievous blue eyes twinkled above a cute snub nose with just a sprinkling of freckles. She gave them a quick grin. "Hi, I'm Shauna MacLaren. I'm your server tonight." she said. "I hear you'd like some food." She was a tall girl, just an inch or two shorter than Joe's six feet. On her model-perfect frame the restaurant's informal uniform of striped jersey and jeans looked like a fashion statement. Her shoulder-length hair was midnight black.

"I — wow!" Joe sat back and stared.

"What my talkative friend here wanted to say was that we'd like a couple of those three-dollar steaks," Frank told Shauna.

She brought them the steaks in moments, and the boys dug in.

"Frank," — Joe looked up, his mouth half full of steak and fries — "remember how I told you never to let me fall for a waitress again?"

The second great love of Joe's life had been a Bayport waitress, Annie Shea, who'd nearly gotten him killed in the Witness to Murder case.

Frank nodded. "I remember."

"Well, I want you to forget it." Joe's eyes followed Shauna as she walked among the tables.

"I should have guessed," Frank groused. "But I warn you, she's getting you into trouble already."

"What are you talking about?" Joe demanded.

"You've been so busy keeping an eye on her, you didn't notice those guys at the table behind us. They came in right after us, and they've been watching us ever since."

Joe turned, pretending to watch Shauna while actually scanning the room. "You think we've got a tail?"

"Well, there's one way to find out." Frank abruptly rose from his seat, tossing a ten on the table. Joe gave one sad glance to what was left of his steak and stood up, too. The three guys who'd been eating behind them abandoned their meals. It was the proof the Hardys needed.

"They're between us and the door," Joe said.

"I know—we'll take another exit." Frank had already noticed another door that opened onto a small sidewalk dining area. Leading Joe, he walked through the diner, over the knee-high fence that separated the tables from the traffic, and down the street.

The tails took the same route, blank faced.

"They've got to know we're on to them," Joe whispered. "What will they do now?"

His answer came as four more rugged-looking types joined the three guys.

"I don't like this," Frank said. "Come on!"

He darted into traffic and across the street, then turned right. They were on a very busy boulevard that led up a steep hill to an open park. The seven trackers began closing in.

Joe glanced over at his brother. "If we're going to run, it's easier downhill," he said.

Frank nodded. "On the count of three, we cross back, and run down. One — two — "

He waited until a bus blocked the pursuers from crossing the road, then called, "Three!"

Frank and Joe dashed in front of the bus, then down the hill.

The tails were caught flat-footed and couldn't pursue until after Frank and Joe had a decent lead.

Joe glanced back, grinning at the guys behind them. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"We stop," Frank said.

Joe stared at his brother. "Why?"

"We just ran out of running room," Frank answered.

Their escape route dead-ended—right into Halifax Harbor.

THE HARDYS HAD only two ways out of this disaster — to the right or to the left, along the water.

To the left Joe saw quays and tourist joints. Far in the distance rose the Harbour Hotel, a possible haven that might as well be on Mars.

"This way!" Frank was looking right—to a sign that read Ferry Passengers.

The ferry terminal was just beyond that, and beyond that the ferry. Late commuters were boarding, and it was obvious the ship was about to leave.

Joe didn't need to be told twice. Both Hardys darted to the right. As they entered the terminal building, they were confronted by a line of turnstiles. But Joe saw a sign by the snack bar that said Tokens. Still on the run, he slapped down the necessary fares and got two tokens.

He and Frank were through the turnstiles and boarding just as the pursuing posse stormed into the terminal. The loading gates came up, and the ferry pulled away. Joe waved goodbye to the seven furious faces.

"Looks like they missed the boat," he said.

Frank nodded. "I just wonder where we're going." He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with a guidebook. Paging through, he smiled. "We're going to a town called Dartmouth, just across the harbor. And I know exactly where we're heading once we get there."

Joe stared at him. "Where?"

"To a phone — we've got to call Sergeant Dundee."

Until then, they enjoyed the view of Halifax Harbor—from the middle of the water.

When the ferry pulled into Dartmouth Terminal, Frank and Joe joined the stream of commuters onto dry land again. There was a pay phone in the terminal building, and Frank dialed Dundee's number.

On the third ring the phone was picked up. "Dundee's line," a clipped voice on the other end answered from what was obviously a squad room.

Frank identified himself and asked for Sergeant Dundee. He was told the policeman wasn't in at the moment, but that he'd return Frank's call if he'd leave a number. "If you mean right away, he can get us at 555-8912," Frank said, reading the number on the phone. "It's a pay phone."

"We'll get him," the voice promised.

The police were as good as their word. Almost as soon as Frank hung up, the phone rang. Gerry Dundee was on the other end.

"Sergeant Dundee, Frank Hardy here," Frank said. "I've got a follow-up report for you." He went on to explain how he and Joe had been followed and how they'd escaped.

"So now you're in the ferry terminal on the Dartmouth side, eh?" Dundee said. "Cross the rail line there, cross Windmill Road, then head up Portland Street. The first place on the right-hand side is a cops' hangout. Wait for me there and you shouldn't have any trouble. I'll be along in fifteen to twenty minutes."

Frank hung up the phone, turned to Joe, and said, "We get to take a little walk."

They followed Dundee's directions, found the place, and spent the next few minutes peering out the window at the street one floor below. It wasn't long before an unmarked car pulled up outside the place. Gerry Dundee stepped out.

He was in a very good mood when he met the Hardys. "So you had to cut your dinner short over there across the water," he said. "Let's make up for it over here — my treat."

Dundee ushered them over to a table, and moments later they were sitting in front of thick, steaming steaks. "Always a favorite of mine," he said, tucking in with the gusto of a man twenty years younger.

He smiled at Joe's slightly surprised look. "The smart mouths in the department wonder how I can tackle these, too," he said. "In their books, old crocks like myself don't have the teeth—or the brains—for real meat or real cases."

Spearing another hunk of medium-rare beef, he popped it into his mouth and began chewing. Then he swallowed and smiled. "They think that once you get to a certain age, you can't take it anymore."

He tapped the side of his head. "But this old brain has more experience and data locked away than all their precious computers. I've found out some stuff — "

Frank asked suddenly, not meaning to interrupt but impatient for news, "Anything said about our case?"

Dundee drew himself up, his face going stiff. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean what was the reaction from your buddies downtown. You'd think they'd show some interest when somebody involved in an attack like the one we went through gave you a call. But the guy I talked to acted as if he'd never heard of me."

Dundee didn't reply. He just stared stonily at Frank.

Frank leveled his gaze and returned the stare.

"Are you investigating this case on your own?"

Nothing. No reply.

"If I'd wanted a one-man show on this case I'd have turned to my brother Joe and let him carry the ball. But we did the right thing, we contacted the police."

Frank leaned across the table. "So, you're holding on to the report on our attack—hiding the facts in your head, with all that other great data. Well, I don't like it. I don't like being staked out like a sacrificial lamb while you try to breathe some life into your career."

"Hey, Frank," Joe began, looking from his brother to Dundee as they continued to glare at each other, "I'd like to hear what he has to say."

He turned to Dundee, but the older cop's face was still a frozen mask.

Gerald Dundee reached into his pocket, threw enough money down on the table to cover the tab, and rose abruptly from his seat. "I don't have to justify myself to anyone, especially to a kid like you," he said. "I've put in enough time on the job to know what I'm doing."

He stepped away from the table and headed for the stairs that led down to the street. "If you want a lift back to the Harbour Hotel, I'll give it to you. But we won't discuss the case."

Joe wanted to discuss it, but judging from the looks on his brother's and Dundee's faces, he knew his chance for learning anything that night was blown.

Joe looked unhappily at his half-eaten meal for the second time that night. At least the lift would get them back to their hotel quickly. Maybe the Harbour Hotel had steak on its room-service menu.

"Uh, thanks, Sergeant," Joe said. "I'd appreciate the lift." He glanced over at Frank, giving him a look that said, "Cool it — one of us should stay friendly with this guy."

They walked down the stairs to the restaurant exit, Joe walking with Dundee, Frank trailing behind. It felt funny for Joe to be playing the nice guy — especially when they were playing the game with a cop.

Dundee led the way to the unmarked car, opening the doors. "I'm afraid one of you will have to ride in the back."

Frank silently took the rear seat, usually reserved for suspects and prisoners. Joe took the shotgun seat, right in front of the car's police radio.

Gerry Dundee stepped around the car to get behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and pulled the car away from the sidewalk.

"Hand me that mike, Joe," he said as they drove down the street. "I should call in and let the dispatcher know I'm back in the car."

Joe handed over the microphone, and Dundee hit the button on the side. "Car ninety-seven to base — I'm heading back to town."

There was a brief burst of static, then a voice came back, "What's the matter, Gerry? The steak over there too tough for you nowadays?"

That got a flash of a grin from Dundee. Obviously he and the dispatcher were old friends. "Helen, life is tough — not the steaks."

While Dundee and the dispatcher bantered, Frank leaned over from the back seat, listening intently.

"What's that noise?" he asked suddenly.

Dundee glanced over his shoulder, his face hardening again. "What noise?"

They all could hear it now, over the open line—brief, tiny blips of interference, coming regularly.

Frank frowned as he listened, his eyes searching the interior of the car. "Those blips are some kind of FM broadcast—and since they're not getting any softer or louder, I guess whatever's causing them is in this car."

"So?" Dundee wanted to know.

"So," Frank answered, "the only thing I can think of that would make that noise is a radio-controlled bomb."

His face was grim as he turned to the others. "And I think we're riding right on top of it."

GERRY DUNDEE LICKED his lips nervously.

"Son," he said, "you picked a great time to tell me that."

Frank and Joe looked up from the search they'd been making of the car to stare at what was happening around them.