Read Brother Against Brother Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Brother Against Brother (10 page)
Half an hour later Frank Hardy was still stumbling along the road, wondering if he were running in place. Corralville seemed to be as far away as ever. Although his worry for Joe kept him plodding onward, he could feel his body betraying him. He was limping even more, and a catch in his side sent pain screaming through him with every step.
If Joe had stopped in Corralville, Frank was almost afraid of what he would find there. He might arrive to discover he had a score to settle with Joe's killer, Joe having died without even knowing who he was—That nightmare vision spurred Frank into a slow-motion parody of a run. His body was just too wasted, too battered, too tired to perform the way Frank wanted it to.
Frank's feet hit a patch of loose gravel, and he lost his balance. He nearly fell flat on his face, but at the last instant he broke his fall, scraping his palms raw. "Great," he muttered, wincing at his new injury. "Can't I do anything right anymore?"
Pulling himself wearily to his feet, Frank spotted a vehicle on the road. It was coming toward him from Corralville. Frank tensed. Was it the highway patrol cruiser? Was the impostor making his getaway, heading back after finishing his job?
Frank thought he saw lights mounted on the top of the car. He glanced around desperately for some sort of weapon, even a rock to throw. He couldn't let this guy escape. But as the vehicle drew closer, he recognized the outlines of a tow truck.
Jumping up and down, waving his arms, Frank flagged it down. The tow truck rolled to a stop ahead of him, and Frank ran to it. He hopped onto the running board, leaning in the window. "Boy, am I glad to see you."
"What are you doing out here?" The driver's big, beefy face had a look that fell somewhere between scorn and suspicion. "You look like vulture meat, friend."
Frank ignored the sarcasm. "I really need a lift into Corralville," he said.
The man's eyes narrowed. "I tow cars. I'm not a taxi service."
But Frank knew that if this guy — Bert was printed on his coverall — saw the wrecked pickup, 'his problems would only be starting. Bert would be sure to recognize a local truck—and he'd have to know that Frank had stolen it.
"Hey, give me a break," Frank said. "It's very important I get there as soon as possible. A matter of life and death."
"Look, kid," Bert said coldly! "If you're so eager to get to town, you can walk from here."
"You don't understand!" Desperate to convince the man, Frank reached through the window, grabbing Bert by the arm. Bert yanked himself loose and thrust open the door, knocking Frank off the running board and onto the ground.
Frank landed heavily. By the time he scrambled to his feet, Bert had jumped out of the truck. In his hand was a large, heavy wrench.
"I thought you looked suspicious," Bert growled, hefting the wrench. "Weird things going on. Sheriff tells me we got a hit man creeping around somewhere. And I bet he's you!"
Bert moved fast for a beefy guy. He charged Frank, swinging the wrench overhand, straight for Frank's head.
Frank threw his arms over his head, crossing them and locking the forearms together.
Bert's wrist smashed into Frank's block. He grunted in surprise and pain. Frank grabbed Bert's wrist and attempted to disarm him.
But the scrapes on his palms let him down, and Frank couldn't get a good grip. Bert tore loose.
"Smart boy, huh?" Bert stepped back and swung the wrench sidearm, aiming for Frank's shoulder.
He had expected Frank to back-pedal—but instead, Frank attacked! He rammed his forearms down, moving not for the wrench but for the arm that swung it.
Bert stared in surprise as his blow was again slowed. But this time, Frank clamped down on the arm with the wrench, capturing it between his left arm and his body. His right hand rammed up heel first into Bert's chin.
Bert's head snapped back, and his whole body followed, helped along by Frank's right foot behind his ankles. Bert hit the ground with a thud, and Frank leapt on him, his hands darting for pressure spots in his neck—A moment later Frank was dragging the unconscious truck jockey to the side of the road. "So much for famous western hospitality," he said. "Sorry, Bert."
Dumping Bert in a safe spot, Frank dashed back to the tow truck and climbed in. The engine started on the first try, and soon Frank was whipping the truck in a tight U-turn. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, Frank quickly worked his way through the gears, speeding toward Corralville.
"I only hope that I'm not too late," he said to himself.
***
The county sheriff, a short bald man with a pot belly, kicked his cowboy boots up on the desk. He leaned forward and took a sip of coffee, eyeing Joe and Rita, who were seated across the desk.
"Now, let me see if I've got your stories straight," the sheriff said. He pointed at Rita. "You're telling me that you survived the explosion that wiped out the log cabin."
"That's right," Rita said. "The explosion that killed Mark Tabor, my father."
The sheriff ran a hand along his chin. "The papers on that cabin don't say anything about a Mark Tabor."
Joe interrupted impatiently. "She explained about all that. They're under the witness protection program."
That got him a dirty look from the sheriff. The lawman studied Joe slowly.
"You have to believe us!" Rita said. "We told you exactly what happened at the cabin. Doesn't that prove anything : '
"It shows you knew a lot more about the explosion than we told the press. More than any innocent person should know." The sheriff removed his feet from the desk, then he leaned forward, thrusting his face into Joe's. "Now you tell me you survived a car wreck near Cripple Mine, escaped the explosion, fought with the hit man, and brought this girl to me. Quite a story."
He leaned back in his chair again, trying to look casual. "Now, what did you say your name was?"
"I'm telling you, I can't remember!" Joe said.
"How about some ID then?" The lawman's voice got harder.
"I must have lost it," Joe told him.
"Mighty convenient, not being able to tell me your name." The sheriff looked more suspicious now. "You have nothing you can show me?"
Joe then remembered the coded message in his pocket. "I've got something which may convince you," he said, reaching into his pocket. Mark Tabor had told him to bring it to the sheriff. Maybe the lawman could figure it out.
But Joe's pocket had not been the safest place to be during this adventure. To his horror, the paper came out as a crumpled mass, almost torn in two pieces. Joe tried to straighten it out, but the paper looked like a torn mess, its message illegible.
The lawman squinted at the paper, then looked at Joe. "This is all you've got to show?" he asked, trying hard not to smile.
"What about the hit man?" Joe said desperately. "He might still be out where we rammed his car. Can't you go and look around?"
"I will—soon as my deputy gets here." The sheriff glanced at his watch. "That'll be about an hour and a half. We'll check out your story."
"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Joe asked.
"You may be important witnesses—or suspects—in a murder. I think you should stick around." He pointed to a door at the rear of his office, and fished out some keys with one hand.
Rita and Joe both leapt from their seats.
"You're going to lock us up?" Hands clenched, Joe took one step forward.
The lawman quickly unholstered his service revolver, pointing it at Joe. "I don't want any trouble," he said. "Now stand where you are, and keep your hands where I can see them."
Having no choice, Rita and Joe did as the sheriff instructed.
The lawman motioned them around the desk, keeping the pistol pointed at Joe. He unlocked the door he'd pointed at. "Okay, you two," he said. "Come this way."
Rita and Joe moved into the back and saw two separate holding cells. The lawman unlocked one cell and told Rita, "Make yourself comfortable, little lady. I've got a few phone calls to make."
Rita walked into the cell and the lawman closed and locked the door behind her. He then unlocked the neighboring cell and motioned Joe inside. "Remember," the lawman said, "no funny stuff."
Steaming with frustration, Joe entered the cell, standing with his back toward the lawman until the door closed and he heard the lock tumble shut.
The sheriff returned to his office, tossing the keys on the desk before him. He tried to decipher the coded message again, but even an expert could make no sense of it now.
He reached out to pick up the telephone when he heard someone step up on the outside stoop. The front door opened, and a tall, thin, redheaded older man dressed in an ill-fitting highway patrol uniform entered. The man had a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
"Morning," the stranger said.
"I don't know you," the sheriff said, giving him a hard look.
"Nope. I'm the new man on the force," the stranger said. "Just dropped by to get acquainted."
"Then what's with the shotgun?" the sheriff asked, surprised at how old the stranger was.
"We're taking no chances, what with all the troubles around here lately," the redhead said, setting the weapon against a chair. "A scattergun might be just the thing to take care of some big-city hit man."
The sheriff grinned at that. "Yep," he said. "My little town isn't used to such a ruckus. And isn't it just like headquarters not to bother telling me about any extra patrols."
The stranger grinned back and chuckled. "Hey, sheriff, I noticed the rental car parked outside. You wouldn't happen to know where the occupants are?"
"Well, I have them under lock and key in the back," the sheriff boasted.
"You don't say," the stranger said with a nod. "Good work. I'll be sure to tell headquarters about you. I've been tracking those fugitives all night. How about a look?"
"Okay," The sheriff turned and unlocked the rear door. He swung it open. "See? They aren't going anywhere." .
The stranger stood behind the sheriff, taking in the sight of Joe and Rita, locked in separate cells.
The sheriff was enjoying his moment of triumph. "See?" he said, gesturing at his prisoners. "All right." . „
"Yup," the stranger echoed. All right, he swung the shotgun in a vicious arc, until the butt caught the sheriff in the back of the head.
Joe, Rita, and the stranger watched the sheriff topple to the floor.
Then the stranger brought the shotgun up to firing position.
"Now that the local law is asleep," the phony patrolman said, "I can finish up my real business!"
Frank roared along the last mile to Corralville, maintaining the truck's speed as he raced down Main Street. The town was deserted so early in the morning, as if everything and everyone were in storage.
Like a movie set for a western, Frank thought. The final showdown.
Frank caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror. He looked about as hard-faced and dangerous as any cowboy heading for a shootout.
His face only got harder as he sped along, searching for the sheriff's office. There it was, dead ahead and parked in front was patrol car 28. Right in front of that was the rental Joe had stolen from him. The bright morning sunlight reflected off the sheriff's office windows, denying Frank a look inside.
Frank continued past, pulling the tow truck around the corner and parking. He had to plan his next step very carefully. If the guy in the patrol car was an impostor, that meant the hit man was already in the sheriff's office. Wearing Higgins's uniform—even if it didn't fit—he could convince the sheriff that he was a legitimate lawman.
If Frank went storming in with accusations, the hit man would start shooting. Could he phone a warning in? No, the hit man might answer the phone.
Frank just didn't know what was going on inside the office. So he'd have to get the lawmen out, before he could go in. He needed some kind' of diversion. But what?
All Frank had was whatever he could find in the tow truck he'd "borrowed" from Bert. He opened the glove compartment, but found nothing but papers and maps. Checking under the seat yielded a tool kit and a few spools of wire.
Frank climbed down from the cab and searched the back. He found only a set of jumper cables, some old oily rags, and a gasoline can. Shaking the can, he heard the gasoline slosh around inside. Instantly, his mind started planning.
"Hmmmm," he said. Not much to work with but— He had the glimmering of an idea. It was the best plan Frank could come up with in a hurry. And it would make a pretty spectacular diversion.
He removed the cap of the gasoline can and stuffed the oily rags inside, leaving only a tip of cloth to serve as a fuse. To this makeshift fuse he wrapped some wire, which he then attached to one end of the jumper cables. Before leaving the truck, Frank dug out a tire iron. Then, with his homemade bomb in one hand and the steel rod in the other, he approached the sheriff's office.
Frank crept up on the stoop. Straining his ears, he could hear nothing inside. So he took a chance and peeked through the window. The front office was empty, but there was an open doorway— where Frank could see the back of a tall, redheaded man in an ill-fitting police uniform. He stood over the body of another man in uniform, and he was holding a gun!
That did it. Frank knew his adversary was in there. And he had little time to spare. He would have one chance, and only one chance, to make good.
Sneaking behind the cruiser, Frank placed his economy-size Molotov cocktail on the ground. Then he jimmied open the trunk with the tire iron.
"Well, well," Frank said in surprise. The trunk wasn't empty as he'd expected. In fact, it was quite full—of a furious, squirming Officer Higgins! The highway patrolman was in his underwear, his arms and legs bound together, his mouth gagged. He looked like a trussed-up turkey, ready for the oven.
Higgins twisted and turned, trying to say something through the gag.
"It hasn't been your day, has it?" Frank said, reaching for him.
Frank lifted the heavy officer from the trunk and eased him to the ground.
