Brother Against Brother (3 page)

"Can you tell me anything more? Please try to remember," Frank Hardy said. "It's really important." He leaned across the rental car counter at Stapleton Airport. In his hand was his one slim lead to Joe, the jackalope postcard which Joe had sent him.

The clerk, a young woman with a stiff blond hairdo, thought for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry. There's a few conventions in town, plus the usual tourists. I showed you our records, so you know what kind of car he rented. But I just don't remember anything else about him."

"He may have asked directions to the mountains. Does that help?" Frank asked.

"I just can't remember your brother," the clerk said. "I mean, I remember helping someone who looks like that picture you showed me. But that was a few days ago. If he was headed for the mountains, you've got a big job ahead of you."

Frank glanced over the clerk's shoulder. On the wall was tacked a road map of Colorado and the surrounding states. And the mountains filled an enormous part of the map. If Joe were lost up there, it would take a miracle to find him, Frank thought to himself. But he knew the route Joe was supposed to follow, and now he knew what Joe was driving. That was a start.

It had taken some doing to convince his father to let him try this mission—they had argued well into the night. Finally, as much because of exhaustion as discussion, Fenton Hardy agreed to let Frank go. If they waited much longer, Joe's trail might be too cold to follow.

"We can only hope Joe's alive," Fenton finally said. "And you'll have to find our witness—and that Hitman."

frank barely had time to pack a bag before his father was hurrying him to the airport.

"I'm giving you twenty-four hours," Fenton had warned Frank. "If there's no sign of Joe or the hit man, I want you home. Understand?"

"Okay, Dad." Frank looked up at his father's pale, drawn face. "Everything will turn out all right. I promise."

The rental car clerk's voice cut through his thoughts. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help. Good luck in finding your brother."

"Thanks, anyway," Frank said, flipping the postcard against his palm. Suddenly an idea came to him.

"Can I bother you one more second?" he said to the clerk.

"No bother."

"Have you ever seen one of these?" Frank asked, showing her the postcard.

The clerk studied the postcard, then grinned. "Well, it's not too easy to see a jackalope—since it doesn't exist. It's only a gag postcard, understand. Tourists buy them by the gross."

"Where are they sold?" Frank asked.

"All over the state," the clerk said. "May I see it?"

"There's no clue on it," Frank said. "Just a joke message from Joe."

"But there's also a postmark," said the clerk. "Maybe I'll recognize where it's from."

Frank handed over the postcard, and she examined the inky postmark which had cancelled the stamp. "Summit County," she said. "I know where that is. Up in the mountains, about sixty miles due west of here. And I bet that I know exactly where your brother bought this."

"Really? Where?"

"There's a tourist shop right off the highway. It's built to look like an Indian tent. The owner loves this sort of junk."

Frank took back the postcard. "Thanks. At least it's a start."

In a rental car of his own, Frank began to trace Joe's tracks from the Denver airport. On the highway, heading west, Frank turned on the radio. It was too much to hope for news about Joe, but he wanted a weather report. Already his mind was working, trying to estimate the driving time to the mountains, taking into consideration the weather and amount of traffic.

Most of the time these mental exercises were just games. Frank knew this, but he tried to keep his mind sharp with constant practice.

At first Frank felt confident that he could findJoe. Call it a hunch, but it would not be the first time that Frank got his younger brother out of a tight spot. All too often, Joe's hot head got him into trouble, charging into situations without thinking things through. Caution was not to be found in Joe Hardy's vocabulary.

Frank smiled to himself. What dumb thing had Joe done this time? Run out of gas on a deserted mountain road? Completed his mission and then run into a few girls, forgetting altogether to call home?

The car began to lose its momentum as the incline of the road became steeper. Frank hit the accelerator, wanting to maintain a speed just below the legal limit. Ahead he saw the Rocky Mountains. Massive, imposing, endless. And Frank's optimism began to fade.

How could one person search a whole mountain range? he asked himself. It could take weeks, even months, to track Joe down. He could already be dead—or dying—before Frank reached the foothills. Still, he couldn't turn back.

Frank's shoulders slumped in defeat. For hours, well into a long, long night, he had searched for Joe. But there wasn't even one solid clue as to where Joe was. Joe had started off on the route his father had given him, and then it seemed as if he had disappeared.

The owner of the tepee tourist shop had remembered Joe, but he had provided no concrete leads.

"Sorry," he'd said. "I can't keep track of every lowlander coming this way. Sure I can't interest you in a nice silver bracelet for your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend? What makes you think I have a girlfriend?"

That got a chuckle from the owner. "Fella like you would be sure to have a girlfriend."

But the only thing that Frank had wanted was a phone. He had called back to Bayport from the shop. His parents had nothing to report. But Fenton Hardy had reminded him that his twenty-four hours would be up the next afternoon.

Frank had answered that he wasn't going to leave Colorado without some information about Joe's fate.

After leaving the tourist shop, Frank had covered the main roads of Summit County until well past sundown. He'd stopped at gas stations and truck stops, at restaurants and motels, describing Joe's car, showing Joe's photo. He had talked with the local law, asking if anything unusual— an accident, a rock slide, a shooting—had been reported. He checked with the local hospitals. But everywhere he went, Frank had come up empty.

Finally, he couldn't drive any farther and pulled into a rest area. Under better circumstances the place would have been very restful. It was off the main road and had several picnic tables surrounded by tall, thin pines and aspens. Nearby, a stream ran downhill through a canyon.

But Frank found little rest. When his eyes closed, all he could envision were horrible scenes. Joe hurt and lost. Joe attacked by the very hit man he was trying to stop. Joe dazed and wandering. Joe ... Joe ... Joe.

Frank napped for a little while, then shook himself awake, his eyes and mouth feeling gummy. He started the car and looked for a place to eat.

Now he was sitting in a truck stop. It was late, closer to sunrise than midnight. The only other customers, truck drivers.

Frank sat at the counter, sipping a large glass of soda, barely touching the hamburger and fries in front of him. His place mat was a map of Colorado, the kind with facts about tourist attractions.

Frank pushed his food away and unfolded a road map. With a pen he marked the places he had already visited.

"Looking for a place to bed down for the night?" the waitress asked. "There's a decent motel about three miles down the road."

"No," Frank told her. "I've got to keep moving. May I have my check, please?"

The waitress totaled up Frank's bill and left it on the counter. "You look pretty tired," she said. "I hope that you're not planning to do much more driving. The roads around here can be dangerous in the dark."

Frank put some money on the counter. He shook his head, trying to come up with a new course of action. The waitress marched over to freshen the coffee for two truckers sharing a booth.

"How are you guys tonight?" she asked.

"Stuck here," one trucker said with a grin.

"How about two slices of your famous apple pie?"

"And keep the coffee coming," said the other trucker. "Might as well stay put till they get that accident cleaned up."

"Accident?" the waitress asked.

"Heard it over my CB," he said. "Road's closed up near Cripple Mine. They found some car went off the road, and they've closed it till a tow truck can pull the car up from the river. Decided to do it now, so they wouldn't block the road during the day."

Frank spun around on his stool, giving the truckers his full attention.

"Was it a bad crash?" the waitress asked.

"Yeah. But they think it happened a while ago. Some guy just reported it today, though. A buddy of mine was the last truck they let through. He was passing by just after the police had arrived. Told me about it over the CB: Strangest thing, he said the car had been picked clean of any ID. The glove compartment was stripped. No registration. Even the license plates were missing."

"Well, who was driving?" the waitress asked.

"No sign of anyone." The trucker shrugged. "I can't figure it."

The truckers and waitress continued to talk, but Frank turned back to the road map before him.

"Cripple Mine," he whispered to himself, tracing over his map. His finger had strayed across the border into Utah before he shook his head, realizing he was too tired to use common sense.

He turned the map around to check the directory of places listed on the back. Sure enough, there was a Cripple Mine.

Using the location code, Frank first circled the general area, then, peering closer he zeroed in on Cripple Mine. He circled it with a pen. Using the mileage legend he figured that he could reach Cripple Mine by sunrise.