No Way Out (13 page)

He didn't like having his back to the door, so he sped up his search, opening and closing cupboard doors and peering into drawers. There were a few plates and glasses, some forks, and a couple of knives. As Joe reached for the last cupboard door, his focus—and the silence—were shattered.

“Who are you?” rumbled a gravelly voice. “And what do you think you're doing?”

Joe turned slowly and faced the ghost of Baron Brighthall, standing in the dark cottage doorway.

“I asked you a question,” the man yelled. “I thought I'd chased all you young people out of here. I told you to find another place for your beach parties. Now, get out!”

“Are you Baron Whitehall?” Joe said.

The man's expression changed instantly to shock, and then what looked like fear. He backed off the little step leading into the cottage, and Joe thought he was going to run.

“You're not going anywhere,” Frank said, appearing behind the man. “Not until you answer some questions.” Joe realized that Frank had gone out the broken bedroom window and circled around to the front of the cottage.

The man's face lost the angry expression he'd
used on Joe, and he raised his hands in the air. “All right, all right, Officer,” he said. “Ill tell you what you want to know.”

“Good, go inside,” Frank said.

The man walked into the cottage and sat down in a spindly wooden chair with a broken arm. Frank walked in the front door, and Joe joined him in front of the man.

“Wait a minute,” the man said. “You're not the police.”

“It doesn't matter who we are,” Joe said. “You're still going to talk to us.”

The man looked from Joe to Frank and back to Joe. He seemed to decide that they had the upper hand, and shrugged his shoulders as he leaned back against the table. To guarantee there'd be no surprises, the Hardys tied the man's wrists and his ankles with rope. Then Frank sat down and asked the most obvious question. “Are you Baron Brighthall?”

“I suppose I am in a way,” the man said, “but probably not the one you mean. I am John Brighthall, Baron Jackson Brighthall's brother. Jackson has been dead for many years and was the rightful heir to this estate.”

“And you've been creeping around as his ghost all this time?” Joe said. “Why?”

“I have my reasons, and they're none of your concern,” Brighthall said.

“I'm afraid you're wrong there,” Frank said.
“And it will be just as much of a concern to Police Officer Chester, too.”

“All right, all right, you don't have to threaten me,” Brighthall said, waving his hand in the air. “I'm tired of haunting, anyway. I'm tired of this whole search. I've been doing this for more than ten years. Maybe it's time I turned in my bow and arrows for another gig.”

“What search?” Frank asked. The man indeed sounded very tired and as if he'd given up.

“For the treasure,” Brighthall said. “My brother always talked about a fabulous treasure buried on the estate. When he died, I decided to find it. But I've come to believe it never existed, that it was just a hoax my brother played on me.”

“We heard that your brother was murdered,” Joe said, “and that the murderer has never been found. Do you know who did it? Did
you
do it?”

“Of course not,” Brighthall said. “My brother and I weren't exactly friends, but we
were
family. He was not murdered. It was an accident. We had a fight—a physical fight—over the treasure. I swear it was an accident, but there were no witnesses.”

“Why didn't you tell all this to the police?” Joe asked.

“I didn't think they'd believe me,” Brighthall said. “So I fled to Newfoundland, where I hid out for years. I would come over occasionally and search for the treasure. A couple of trespassers came across me
once, and they assumed I was my brother's ghost. When I read the story in the local paper, I decided to capitalize on the idea in order to scare people off the estate. When I heard that Alan Horton had paid off the delinquent taxes and was the new owner, I was determined to find the treasure before he did.”

“Do you know where Alan is?” Frank asked.

For the first time, Brighthall seemed to be nervous, edgy. “Uh, no—not exactly,” he said.

The Hardys closed in, standing very close to the man in the chair. “What do you know?” Frank asked, his fists clenched at his sides.

“There's this guy,” Brighthall said. “He caught me on the property. I paid him to keep quiet. But he didn't want only money. When he found out who I was, he made me give him all my maps—maps of the marble mine beneath the property and of the estate itself, including diagrams of the house. He's coming back tonight to get the money. It took me a while to get it together.”

Frank reached in his pocket and pulled out the photo of Bruce MacLaren that Joe had printed from his computer. “Is this the guy?”

Brighthall squinted at the photo. “No, my man's clean-shaven—no beard, no mustache.”

“Imagine this guy without the red fuzz,” Joe said.

“Okay, yeah, that could be him. What's going on? What's he done?”

“He may have kidnapped Alan Horton,” Frank
said. “And since you gave him the maps he might have used to pull off the crime, that makes you an accessory. You can go to prison for a long time as an accessory to kidnapping—or worse.”

“And when they figure in that you might have killed your brother, too …” Joe added.

“Okay, what do you want me to do?” Brighthall asked. “I don't know what happened to Alan—although I hope it's nothing bad. He's really a pretty decent fellow. Puts on a whale of a show.”

“When is MacLaren coming by?” Frank asked.

“Eight thirty.”

“That's an hour and a half from now. We've got time to set a trap for him. But first we have to make sure we find out where Alan is. You've got to help us and, by doing so, you'll help yourself, too.”

Frank called Officer Chester and told him about Brighthall. He also laid out his idea for capturing MacLaren and finding Alan. “He wants to talk to you,” Frank said, holding his cell phone next to Brighthall's ear.

“Yes, yes,” Brighthall said, nodding his head. “Yes, I swear I will. I'm offended that my maps were used to hurt the Hortons. I just wanted to scare them away. I never meant for any harm to come to them. Yes, I will.”

Frank took the phone back, spoke to the policeman for another few minutes, and then hung up. ‘We're going to untie you now,” he said, loosening
the knot on one of Brighthall's ropes. “Officer Chester said you two have a deal. He's on his way out, and should be here in about forty-five minutes.”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to run,” Brighthall said, standing and flexing his arms. “I'm in this to the finish. What do I do first?”

“Just practice your act,” Frank said. “Remember—you tell MacLaren that you found Joe in the cottage and he's figured out everything. Tell him that you know he's kidnapped Alan, and suggest that the two of you kidnap Joe, too. Tell him that Joe's pretty well-known in America and might be worth a healthy ransom. You have to convince him to kidnap Joe and take him to the same place he's keeping Alan. We'll do the rest.”

Brighthall began pacing the room, rehearsing his lines and adding appropriate facial expressions and gestures.

“You're sure you're okay with this?” Frank asked his brother.

“Absolutely,” Joe said. “We've got to find Alan and get him home alive and safe. You'll have to do the bandage.” He dropped his jeans and leaned over the table. He heard Frank ask if he was ready. Joe gritted his teeth and nodded.

With one quick yank, Frank peeled back a corner of the large taped dressing on Joe's calf. Then he reached in his sports bag and took out his GPS. He placed the tracker on Joe's calf, making sure it was
far from his healing wound. Then he rolled the tape down and closed the dressing, concealing the tracker.

His teeth still tightly clenched, Joe pulled up his jeans and nodded to Frank. Then Frank tied Joe's wrists with a slipknot so that he could get out of the binding quickly if he had to.

“Remember,” Frank said to Joe and Brighthall, “just yell if you get in trouble. The police will have people stationed all along the road back to the house; a roadblock at the main gate; and a couple of boats in the lake. They'll be covering you all the way.”

“Do we know where the Hortons are?” Joe asked.

“They're at the stadium,” Frank said. “Officer Chester said that when it didn't rain after all, they decided to go on with the games.”

“I'm going out now,” Frank said. “I'll catch Officer Chester and he can wait in the woods with me. It's really dark out, so it'll be perfect.”

“Don't forget the shortcut back to the house that I told you about,” Brighthall said.

“I won't,” Frank answered. “And don't you forget your lines—and whose side you're on now.” He turned to his brother, tied with the fake binding. “See you soon,” he said.

“Soon,” Joe repeated.

At 8:15 Frank hid in the birch woods and waited.
Where
is
he?
Frank wondered as the minutes passed.
Officer Chester should have been
here by now.
Finally, he heard footsteps coming down the trail.
It's about time
, he thought.
MacLaren will be here any minute.

Frank stretched up to get a better viewpoint, but even in the dark he could tell it was not Officer Chester coming toward the cottage.

Stomping down the trail was Bruce MacLaren.

Frank ducked back into the protective cover of the woods.
He's early
, he thought.
MacLaren's early.
Frank could see the cottage, but he couldn't hear what was being said. Only ten minutes passed before the door opened again. Joe walked up the trail, followed by the clean-shaven Bruce MacLaren.

Frank waited until they were out of sight. Then he raced into the cottage.

“He bought it all,” Brighthall told him. “Said he was going up to the house and he'd be back in touch tomorrow.”

“I can't wait for Officer Chester,” Frank said. “I have to move now. Wait for him and bring him up to the house when he gets here. I'm sure MacLaren's going to the secret study, and from there maybe
down to the mine. I'll wait as long as I can before I go after them. You know that house as well as anyone. You'll be able to find us.”

Frank checked his GPS receiver and raced to the truck. He used the shortcut and arrived at the house a few minutes before MacLaren and Joe. He waited for Brighthall and Officer Chester as long as he could, but finally had to go inside.

He ducked into Joe's downstairs bedroom and heard two sets of footsteps walk through the kitchen, into the hall, and up the curved staircase. The GPS confirmed that one set belonged to Joe.

Frank followed at a safe distance. He had already guessed where they were going, even without the GPS to tip him off. He waited twenty minutes, then sidled down the upstairs hall and through the hidden door in the back of the closet. Then he stopped at the bottom of the short stairway up to Alan's secret study, straining to hear what was happening in the little room above.

He heard footsteps, then a thud.
That's MacLaren jumping up on the drafting table to pull the switch that opens the pocket door
, Frank guessed.

Creaking, and then more footsteps—this time, faster.
They're heading for the elevator
, he thought. He raced up the steps two at a time, and raced across the small study. Frank stayed out of sight next to the open pocket door until he heard the elevator door close and start to move. Then he raced
down the wide hall, took a deep breath, and carefully stepped onto the top of the elevator as it slid down the chute.

They'll never feel that bounce
, he assured himself, remembering the lurching, bumpy ride he and Joe had taken earlier. He held tightly to the cable and rode the roof all the way to the bottom.

The elevator stopped with a shuddering thunk.
Please don't cave in
, Frank thought as marble grit and chunky shards rained down on his head. The door below him opened, and a flashlight beam shot out. There was almost a yard between the elevator and the marble wall. He ducked over to the other side of the roof, in case MacLaren was tempted to look up. When he heard the two sets of footsteps leave the elevator, he relaxed for a minute.

He checked his GPS. Joe had walked straight for several yards, then turned left. Frank slid off the top of the elevator and pulled his penlight from his pocket. Following the light beam and his GPS, he tracked Joe through several tunnels until he heard voices ahead. He stopped and leaned close to the dirty wall so he could hear what they said.

In the room just ahead of Frank, Joe felt the cold marble through his shirt as he leaned against the wall. Alan Horton sat next to him on the floor. They were both tied with their wrists behind their backs, but only Joe knew that his binding was fake.

“This is like a real room,” Joe said. There was a makeshift table made from stacked wooden pilings in the center of the round space. An old kerosene lantern sat on top of the stack, and it had actually fired up when MacLaren lit it.

“I hear you're quite an archer,” Joe said to MacLaren. “An Olympian, even. Where did you get the fire for the arrow you shot on Friday night?”

“No problem, really,” MacLaren answered. “My arrow was already dipped in fuel, so a lighter was all I needed.”

“And you're also the one who set me up for the falcon attack in the stables?” Joe asked.

“Of course,” MacLaren said with a smarmy smile. “You were the logical choice since you had been such a stunning volunteer in the opening ceremonies. My family has always had falcons, so I know how to handle them. It was easy enough for me to steal one from a local hunter.”