Farming Fear (12 page)

“Good idea,” Grandpa said. “It’ll be good exercise, too. Don’t worry so much about chores today. With Bill around, I’m sure we can handle things here.”

The Hardys and their friends suited up and headed outside. The day was chilly and damp, with the temperatures hovering right around freezing. The late morning sun peeked out from between gray clouds. Occasional flurries drifted through, the snowflakes dancing on gentle breezes.

“I can’t believe they’ve sold the farm!” Chet said as soon as they were behind the barn, out of earshot of the house.

“No matter what they’ve said,” Iola added, “they clearly did this because of the trouble. They’ve always loved this place. When we got here a few days ago, they were talking about handing it over to the next generation of Mortons one day.”

“Patsy Stein sure got what she wanted out of all this,” Joe observed.

“Costello could benefit too,” Frank said, “especially if he’s the last holdout on selling, like your grandparents said. He could ask a pretty penny for that land they want, and Stein’s consortium would have to pay.”

“Extortion sounds like it’d be up Costello’s alley,” Iola said.

They trudged across the fields, their boots crunching through the melting snow, until they reached the pond where Frank and Joe had crashed.

The buggy sat with its back end tipped up in the air, its front firmly wedged in newly frozen ice. The warmth of the morning had melted most of the snow off of the vehicle, and the protective tarp remained on the engine.

“If we can drag it out,” Frank said, “I should be able to get it started.”

The teens had come prepared for the job. They’d brought shovels, a pickax, snowbrushes, and a small portable blowtorch with them. They packed some ropes as well, to assist in pulling the vehicle out, plus a small jar of gas to prime the carburetor and hopefully get the buggy running again.

“I wouldn’t mention this when the time comes to renew your driver’s license, Frank,” Chet joked as they sized up the condition of the vehicle.

Frank smiled. “It’s not going on my résumé, either,” he replied.

The four friends set to work, the hard labor taking the edge off four days of bad news and frustration.

First they used the shovels to clear the unmelted snow away from the work area. Then they worked
on the ice, using the torch to melt through a couple of tricky places.

The sky clouded over and the snow picked up as they worked.

“Just what we need,” Chet complained, “more snow.”

“I don’t think it will last,” Iola said. “The weather report said the weather was supposed to get warmer and maybe turn the snow to rain.”

“Let’s hope we get the buggy out of here before it does,” Joe said. “I’ve had enough ice-cold soakings for one week.”

Having chipped the ice away from the chassis, they brushed the remaining snow off, then fastened ropes to the frame to pull the buggy out.

It was back-breaking work, but none of them felt inclined to complain. Each of the four teens harbored the feeling that they deserved this for letting the Morton grandparents down. All of them felt they could have—and should have—done something more.

By the time they hauled the buggy out of the water, they were all tired and drenched with sweat. With a heavy sigh, Joe relit the torch and began melting out the wheel joints and connections. Frank pulled the tarp off the engine and tried to start it. Nothing happened.

“Sitting in the cold for a couple of days can’t
have done it any good,” he said to the others.

“So, do we stay here and try to fix it, cover it with the tarp again and come back for it later, or what?” Chet asked.

“The weather’s not going to get any better,” Iola said. Already the drizzle of snow had begun to mix with freezing rain.

“Let’s see if we can drag it back,” Joe said. He’d finished freeing up the wheels and steering. “Leaving it out in the rain won’t help it any.”

“I can try to work on the engine as we go,” Frank said. “Maybe if I dry it out a bit more, it’ll start up.”

“Let’s hope,” Iola said.

They fastened ropes to the front for Joe and Chet to pull. Iola pushed on the frame at the driver’s side, so she could reach in and steer when necessary. Frank pushed from the rear while at the same time trying to dry off the wet engine parts with some rags they had brought with them.

It turned out that dragging the buggy across the snow wasn’t much easier than pulling it out of the pond. They took frequent breaks, especially as the weather worsened. Soon more rain than snow was falling, and the drifts around them were turning into slush. As they all paused to catch their breath, Joe turned his head toward the distant outline of the pine forest.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“I hear something,” Joe said, listening closely.

“Snowmobiles!” Iola gasped.

Sure enough, the faraway whine of small, powerful engines echoed across the snow.

Joe jumped into the buggy’s driver’s seat. “Prime that carburetor, Frank,” he said. “Time to see if all that work you’ve been doing has paid off.”

Frank got their small jar of gasoline from his pocket and put some in the carburetor. Joe turned the key and pumped the gas pedal.

With a sputter and a cough, the old VW engine roared to life.

Chet and Iola cheered.

Frank hopped into the passenger seat beside his brother. “Chet, you and Iola go home and call the cops,” he said. “Joe and I will see if we can catch the snowmobilers.”

“Check,” Chet replied.

“It’ll take us about fifteen minutes to walk home,” Iola said. “We’ll get the police here as quickly as we can. Be careful.”

“We will,” Joe said.

“And don’t drive into any more ponds,” Chet cautioned.

“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “We won’t.”

He turned the buggy toward the forest and stepped on the gas.

Frank held on tight as Joe gunned the engine and roared away across the snowy field. Chet and Iola soon disappeared from view as the Hardys careened over drifts and between the trees that punctuated the broad pasture.

“We’ll have to stop to get a bearing on them,” Frank said. “I can’t hear the snowmobiles over the buggy’s engine.”

“I agree,” Joe said, “but let’s get to the forest first.”

They skidded through the field toward the rapidly approaching line of pine trees. Several times Joe skidded the buggy sideways to avoid ponds that had been hidden by drifts. “Boy,” he said,
“this is hard enough in the day time. I see why you had trouble at night during a snowstorm.”

“It’d help if we knew the area better,” Frank said, “like those bandits apparently do.”

“You’re thinking they must be locals,” Joe said, “not hired guns—like Stein’s assistants.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Joe cut the wheel and they plunged between two big pine trees and into the eastern spur of the forest. Flying through the woods, they soon reached a fork in the snow-covered trail. They knew from the day they’d been caught in the avalanche that one way led to the power lines, and the other toward the old factory.

Joe switched off the motor and both brothers listened.

“The power lines,” Frank said.

“Definitely,” Joe agreed.

He turned on the engine and veered left, heading north toward the power lines and Vic Costello’s farm. The trees whizzed by on either side of the trail—tall, red-barked poles sticking up out of the snow. The buggy plowed through several drifts that had blown across the road.

Once, they went into a skid, but Joe handled it expertly, turning into the swerve and then recovering. A tree zoomed by Frank’s side of the car, so
close that the elder Hardy could have reached out and touched it.

“That was close,” he said.

“I don’t think we’ll mention that one to Iola,” Joe said with a grin.

They broke out of the trees considerably to the east of where they’d run into Costello’s dogs. The huge metal electric towers strode like giants across the snowy landscape. More forest lay across the right-of-way to the north, Vic Costello’s land. The precipitation had turned completely to rain. Curls of cold mist rose from the drifts where water met snow. The area beneath the power lines looked like a river of slush.

Joe brought the buggy to a halt, switched off the engine, and both brothers listened again.

As they did, two snowmobiles crested a rise to the west and roared past. A big sleek, black machine came first. A smaller, red snowmobile trailed close behind. The two of them rocketed past the Hardys, following the service road.

“Let’s get them!” Frank said.

Joe turned the key, but nothing happened. The buggy sat still at the edge of the forest.

Frank unbuckled his seatbelt, ran to the back of the vehicle, and took the jar of gasoline from his pocket. There wasn’t much left—enough, he hoped, to start the engine one more time. He primed the carburetor and crossed his fingers.

Joe cranked the starter and the old VW engine roared to life once again.

“Move it!” Frank said, hopping back in and buckling up.

Joe stepped on the gas, and the buggy leaped onto the road. The trail led down the northern side of the swath, running beside the huge power towers, rather than directly beneath them.

The snowmobiles had built up a considerable lead while the buggy was stalled. But even with the rolling terrain beneath the electric lines, the criminals weren’t far enough ahead for the Hardys to lose them. Every time the brothers went down a dip they temporarily lost sight of their quarry. Every time they crested a rise, they found them again.

“Keep an eye peeled, in case they veer off the trail,” Frank said.

“Sure thing,” Joe replied. The buggy began gaining speed.

The snowmobiles seemed to notice the Hardys and began swerving back and forth between the towers. Their tactic didn’t work, though. Keeping to the road, the Hardys steadily gained ground on their quarry.

As the buggy drew closer, the red snowmobile pulled up next to the black one. The black rider swerved, nearly crashing his machine into the smaller red vehicle.

“What are they doing?” Joe asked.

The red snowmobile swerved, avoiding the other one. He gunned his throttle and pulled up alongside the black rider. The red driver reached out, seemingly trying to grab the controls of the black machine.

The black driver fought back, pushing the red rider’s hands away. The red driver reached for a rifle strapped on the black-helmeted snowmobiler’s back.

The black vehicle swerved and its rider pulled his leg out of the way as the two snowmobiles smacked against one another. The black rider kept going, thrusting the red vehicle toward one of the big electric towers.

The red snowmobile turned right, weaving between the tall metal legs. He hit a wet snowdrift on the far side of the tower and lost control. His snowmobile skidded back across the road, directly in front of the Hardys.

Joe cut the wheel to the right, then left again, barely avoiding both the onrushing vehicle and the tower’s metal leg.

The red snowmobile crossed the road and nosed down into a dip. He skidded up a rise and the vehicle launched itself into the air. The driver lost his grip on the handlebars as the snowmobile flipped over in midair. Rider and machine soared in two different directions.

The snowmobile crashed into a nearby snowbank.
The helmeted man landed hard in a pile of ice and slush at the edge of the woods. He lay flat on his back, motionless.

The black snowmobiler continued down the trail next to the power line, rapidly pulling away from his fallen compatriot.

Joe skidded the buggy to a halt and turned it around. He backtracked down the trail and pulled the buggy to a stop next to the injured man. He and Frank hopped out, though they left the stripped-down VW’s engine running. They moved quickly to the side of the fallen man. Fortunately both brothers had first aid training.

“I hate letting that villain go,” Joe said, glancing at the black snowmobile as it sped away.

“Saving this guy’s life is more important,” Frank replied. “He’ll probably be able to tell us the identity of the other driver.” He studied the man lying in the snow for a few moments, then said, “I don’t see anything broken, but his helmet’s face plate is smashed.”

“We should take the helmet off,” Joe concluded, “and see if he’s hurt underneath.” He grimaced. “Now would be a great time for the cell phone to start working.”

“With these electric towers overhead?” Frank said. “Not a chance.”

The brothers cautiously removed the red rider’s helmet.

Joe nodded slowly when he saw the man’s identity. “Elan Costello.”

“This is starting to make sense,” Frank said.

“You think so?” Joe asked. “I was pretty certain he and his father were on those snowmobiles. But why would Vic Costello cause his own kid to crash?”

“He wouldn’t,” Frank replied. “If you remember the other night, the bandits had two
black
snowmobiles. Not a black one and a red one.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “You’re right! So Vic Costello’s story about his dogs getting set loose
wasn’t
just a ploy.”

“No,” Frank said. “Someone really did let them out—someone who had something to gain by pressuring both the Costellos and the Mortons.”

“And I suddenly have a pretty good idea who that person might be,” Joe said.

As the words left his lips, a deafening roar filled the rain-soaked air.

The black snowmobile barreled over a nearby rise, heading straight toward them. The snowmobile driver swiftly leveled his rifle and fired.

The shot screamed through the soggy air and burst into a nearby snow bank.

“No time to worry about Costello’s injuries,” Frank said. “Get him into the buggy or we’re all dead!”

He and Joe lifted Elan Costello and hustled him onto the back seat of the buggy. As they strapped him down with the seat belts, another shot whizzed by. This one clanked off the leg of the electric tower next to them.

The rain was getting worse, and both brothers nearly slipped as they hurried back into their seats. Joe spun the wheel and gunned the engine. The buggy raced west, away from the oncoming gunman.