Blood Relations (4 page)

"Don't worry about Callie, Frank," Joe said. "After we solve this case, you can tell her all about it. Remind her that you're a hero. That'll do the trick. The trouble is, you two have started to take each other for granted. That can be fatal."

"Don't be silly. Callie doesn't need a he-man bit from me. Our relationship's more mature than that," Frank said. At the same time, though, he was thinking that he just might share some of the details of this case with Callie. She might be interested to know how Greg came to him for help. Then she'd understand who needed help and who could give it when the chips were down.

When they reached the Rawley house and Frank saw again the mansion Greg lived in, he decided he'd definitely clue Callie in. After all, Callie was only human. Seeing all this wealth could turn the most level of heads.

Forty-five minutes later, still waiting in the driveway of the Rawley house, Frank wondered what Greg was doing with Callie. Probably chauffeuring her from store to store, or maybe he and Mike had invited her to have a Coke. Greg knew Frank and Joe were waiting, but from the way Greg had looked at Callie, he could have been detoured by any request or invitation Callie made.

"Wish they'd show up," Frank muttered. "We don't have all day."

"Well, you know how pretty Callie is," Joe couldn't resist saying. "Maybe Greg got distracted."

"Look, Joe, why don't you — " Frank started to say when Greg's Porsche roared into the driveway and left a strip of burning rubber. Greg, Mike, and Callie scrambled out of the car.

"What the — ?" said Frank as he jumped out of the van.

"Callie, what are you doing here?" Joe asked, finishing the question.

"Some guy drove up behind us on a deserted street and tried to run us off the road," she said, breathless with excitement. "The first time the car came up beside us, Greg stepped on the gas, and you should have seen the Porsche accelerate — it went off like a rocket."

"I've done a little work on the engine," Greg said. "Nothing much, really, but it gives it a few more horses. It was pretty easy to get away."

"Don't be modest," Callie said. "You drove like an Indie Five Hundred winner. But what was really great was how you kept your head when he did catch up with us and smashed into our rear."

"Smashed your car?" said Joe.

"He just dented the fender some," said Greg.

"But whoever it was meant business. He tried to cut us off, but we got away."

"Thanks to the way you maneuvered the car," said Callie. "It was really cool. He almost went off the road himself once. And the way you took those turns to finally shake him. I wouldn't mind having you on hand to drive me anytime."

When Frank saw how she was looking at Greg, it was hard for him to turn his attention to the case.

"So somebody was out to get you," he said. "I wonder why." He turned to Callie. "I know you might not like this, but we can't go to the police. We're in the middle of a case, and it might put someone's life in danger."

"Greg already thought of that," Callie said as they headed for the house. "He told me all about it on the way here."

"Right, she's part of the team now," said Mike. "She said it wasn't the first time she'd gotten involved with one of your cases."

"Somehow she almost always manages to," said Joe with a sigh. Having Callie on a case bothered him. Since his girlfriend, Iola Morton, had been killed on one of their cases, Joe didn't like girls helping them. The fact that Callie had shown she was able to take care of herself time after time really didn't matter to him.

Frank decided to get the subject back on track. It was time to use his deductive powers, if only to remind Callie that solving a case demanded calm, cool brain work, not merely quick reflexes.

"I'm sure Callie can help us," he said, holding the door open for Joe and her. "But first, let's figure out why you two have become targets, since that guy certainly couldn't have been after Callie."

"Not guy, guys — I spotted two of them in the car," said Greg. "Maybe they're on my stepfather's payroll. He might not want to take the chance that Mom told us whatever she found out about him."

"That makes sense," said Callie, leading the way into the living room. "I see you think as fast as you drive."

Frank tried not to notice the look she gave Greg. "Look, just because a guy dents your car, I don't think we should assume — " Joe began, but before he could continue, the phone rang.

Greg walked into the hall to answer it. He listened, muttered something into the receiver, and hung up. Then he returned to the others.

"It was my stepfather," he told them. "He said the kidnappers have gotten in touch to tell him where to bring the cash. And he said they insisted that he bring Mike and me with him to the drop."

"But why?" Callie asked.

"The kidnappers claim they want to keep the whole family in sight so we don't try to pull a fast one. But I have a different idea."

"I think I have the same idea," said Mike. "That our stepfather is luring us into a trap?"

"Yeah," said Greg grimly. "A death trap."

THE THREE OF them were standing under an unlit streetlight on a deserted midnight street in a rundown part of New York City. They looked completely out of place: a well-dressed, middle-aged man and two teenagers in windbreakers and neatly pressed jeans.

They hoped they also looked like Walter Raw-ley and his stepsons, Greg and Mike.

That was their plan. It was a long shot, but the only shot they had. It had been Dunn's idea.

He had phoned the Rawleys' right after Walter Rawley had called about the ransom demand. Through the tap on the phones, Dunn had heard everything.

He had left for Bayport immediately and must have broken all the speed limits driving there. He had arrived at the Rawleys' a little over an hour after the calls. They had decided to meet there since Walter Rawley had said he wouldn't come home that night. He had to go into New York to gather the ransom money. Greg and Mike were to meet him in the city later when the ransom was to be delivered.

They all sat in the living room to discuss Dunn's plan. "I'd have bet that the kidnapping story was a phony," said Greg, shaking his head.

"It still might be," said Dunn carefully. "Your stepfather could be covering his tracks because any kidnapping investigation would cover everything." He paused a second. "Especially if the victim turns up dead."

Mike raised an eyebrow at his brother.

Frank, who caught the look exchanged by the brothers, nodded. "Sure, Mr. Rawley could have staged the ransom call and put it on tape. That way he'd have proof that his story was genuine."

At this Joe raised a hand, palm out. "Hey, Frank, nobody knows Rawley's the bad guy. He's always been our friend, remember. We have to keep an open mind."

"Right," said Frank. "But we also have to explore all the possibilities. We can't let our feelings blind us."

Dunn smiled at Frank. "It's good to be working with a pro. Now listen to my plan. If there are any weaknesses, maybe you can spot them, even suggest something better."

"Sure," said Frank, and he and the others listened to Dunn outline his scheme.

Dunn had already put part of it into operation. As soon as Rawley had called the boys, Dunn called Rawley at his office and, in approximately the same muffled voice that the kidnapper had used, told him that the ransom drop-off had been pushed back from midnight to two A. M. , and hung up. Then, using his contacts, he had had Raw-ley's phone cut off in case the kidnappers tried to reach him again.

"That'll give us the time we need," said Dunn. "I'm about the same size as Rawley. Frank and Joe, you're about the same sizes as Greg and Mike. If we wear their clothes, at a distance we could pass for them."

"But what happens when the kidnappers do get close enough to finger us?" asked Frank.

"This happens," said Dunn, and pulled his .45 out of his briefcase. "I'll have it in here where the money's supposed to be. Rawley's a businessman and may even be on their side, so they'll never expect him to carry a gun. I should be able to get the drop on them. I hope the gun will loosen their tongues."

Frank bit his lip and thought a moment. "Of course, if it fails, we might be putting Mrs. Raw-ley's life in extra danger."

"Yeah, I know," said Dunn, his voice wavering for a second. "But that's something that Greg and Mike have to think about. They have to decide if it's worth the chance. One other thing to consider—they might have killed her already. It's up to you to call it, boys."

He paused as Greg and Mike sucked in their breath together. Their eyes met, and then they looked back at Dunn. They each nodded once, giving him the okay.

"Okay," Dunn said softly. "But we do have to face the facts. If she is still alive, I don't know if they'll release her under any circumstances. Kidnappers rarely do." He then turned to Frank and Joe. "I'd give you two guns too, but you don't have licenses. You understand how it is."

"Right," said Frank. "We're okay without them."

Joe slapped the heavy ring of keys in his jacket and, grinning, said, "We could always do our quick-draw routine again."

Dunn remembered how the boys had disarmed him and sheepishly returned Joe's grin.

Six hours later they were standing on the dark New York street: Joe clenching and unclenching his hands impatiently, and Frank pacing in a tight little circle.

"We've been waiting here ten minutes," Joe said. "Think they'll show up?"

"Don't panic," said Dunn. "We got here a few minutes early so we would see them approach. Frank, Joe, you look down the street to the right; I'll take the left."

Frank and Joe nodded and did as told. And that was why no one saw the trouble before it came.

Not from the right. Not from the left. But from behind them, out of a pitch-black alley.

Too late Frank and Joe heard the thud and wheeled around to see Dunn crumpling to the sidewalk while a man in a black jogging suit and full black ski mask stood over him with a baseball bat in his hand. Beside him were two other men in masks; both had drawn guns, both were leveled at the Hardys.

"Hands on top of your heads—now," said one of them, while the first man knelt down and checked Dunn.

"He'll be okay," he decided. "I thought for a second I might have hit him too hard." Then he pulled out a miniature walkie-talkie from his pocket and spoke into it. "Got the kids. Let's go."

Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance, wondering if they should make a break for it.

One of the men said, "Don't even think about it. One false move, and you're dead. Keep your hands on your heads, your eyes straight ahead, and your mouths shut."

The other gunman added, "Don't worry about getting tired. You don't have long to wait."

He was telling the truth. Less than two minutes later a long black car came around the corner and pulled up beside them. The driver wore a black ski mask too.

"Now lower your hands and put them behind your backs—real slow," commanded the goon who had knocked out Dunn. At the same time the other two moved forward and pressed their guns against the Hardys' ears. First Frank, then Joe, felt cold metal handcuffs being snapped around their wrists.

"Get in the back," the man with the bat ordered.

The door slammed behind them, and one of the gunman got into the front seat beside the driver. He turned to keep his gun trained on the Hardys. "Okay, let's deliver Greg and Mike to headquarters," he ordered the driver.

The Hardys had the satisfaction of knowing that part of their plan had succeeded. The crooks believed they were the Rawleys. But Frank and Joe had to come up with a new plan now. A plan of escape.

All they could do for the moment, though, was keep a sharp lookout and be ready for any opening.

Through the window they could see the landscape, lit by the ghostly light of the moon. It looked as desolate as the moon's surface far from the glittering world of Broadway and theaters. Fields of rubble from demolished sites lay among the crumbling shells of abandoned and burnt-out buildings. The only way to save this neighborhood would be to plow it under and start over.

The car stopped in front of a building that appeared to be in decent shape—until the boys looked closely and saw that all the windows were made of cardboard painted to look like sparkling new glass protecting lovely new apartments. Frank remembered reading about buildings like this in the paper. City officials had not had the funds to make the buildings fit to live in, so they decided to spend what money they had to make the shells look inhabited. They claimed it would improve the image of the neighborhood. No one, though, had been fooled. Everyone knew the buildings were deserted.

Except this one.

Frank and Joe were herded out. Then the driver knocked three times, paused, and knocked three times again on a sheet-metal door while the gunman kept the Hardys covered. The door was opened by a tall muscle-bound man in jeans and a white T-shirt pulled taut across his pumped-up chest. They all entered, Frank and Joe went first, prodded along by the gun barrel.

Inside, dim electric lights showed that someone had set up crude living quarters in a few of the rooms off the crumbling center hallway.

"Welcome to the Hilton, kids," the man in the T-shirt said with a big, gap-toothed grin. "We hope you enjoy your stay."

"Too bad it's going to be for such a short time," said the gunman, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Well, that's this part of town for you." The driver added his bit. "Not a nice place to visit— but such an easy place to die in."

FRANK DECIDED TO start asking questions, to find out what was happening—and to postpone what seemed inevitable.

"Do you really think you're going to get the money?" he asked. "You snatch our mother, bash our stepfather till he's probably dead, and grab us. There's nobody left to pay you."

"I wouldn't worry about your stepfather," said the gap-toothed man. "He ain't dead. That was a love tap we gave him. You know, just enough to put a nice realistic bump on his head—so the cops would believe his story about being knocked out. And we already got our money."