Brother Against Brother (7 page)

Frantically trying to outrace the thundering rock slide, Frank dashed for the far wall of the canyon. He scrambled up the steep rocky face on his hands and knees, trying to secure toeholds and handholds. His numb arm slowed him as he dragged himself up.

Now I know how a target in a shooting gallery feels, he thought as rock fragments pinged off the canyon wall. He tried to pull himself up with his bad arm, but it betrayed him. Frank slipped down. He yanked with his good arm and just cleared the spot where a stone smashed against the wall.

Frank struggled upward as the rock slide buried the Jeep. Vibrations brought more rocks down— on both sides of the canyon. As he clawed his way to safety, Frank had to hug the wall, covering his head and neck. Minislides rattled over him. Stones tore at his handholds, bashing his body with the force of punches. Rock dust choked him.

Then, as suddenly as the slide had begun—it stopped. A cloud of dust settled on Frank as he clung precariously to a ledge, waiting for aftershocks. But, after a moment, the night was eerily still.

Frank dragged himself to his feet, fighting to catch his breath. "That was no accident," he muttered to himself.

As if to confirm Frank's suspicions, a mechanical noise came from the road above him. A car engine. Frank's rental car? He lay low, just in case a light might pan the ravine below. Instead he heard someone gas the car, rev the motor, and drive away.

Frank groaned. He was much too far away to make any effective objection to the theft.

He sat up and started scouting his surroundings. The Jeep at the bottom of the ravine had disappeared, buried under tons of boulders and rocks.

But Frank now had a suspicion as to why he had found the Jeep empty. Imagine the nerve of that killer, he thought. He's done something to Joe and the girl and driven off in their Jeep!

Then when the Jeep stalled, he set up a trap, sure to lure any motorist to certain death in the ravine.

Frank's face went grim as he realized what he had just thought. Joe could be dead!

But Frank had survived and that gave him a temporary edge over the man.

"Some edge." Frank snorted. "No flashlight. No map. No car. But I'll have the advantage of surprise if I can run fast enough to catch up with him," he said ironically.

The killer hadn't even bothered coming down for a closer look. He'd just assumed that the rockslide had done Frank in.

Frank wished he hadn't dropped the flashlight because the darkness made for a slow climb. Only the dimmest starlight penetrated the deep ravine.

Carefully, Frank stepped across the still-shifting boulders, which now filled the canyon floor. "This could have been my grave," he muttered. Another climb up the opposite wall brought him to the deserted road above.

He started walking down the road. In his mind he recreated the map he had left in the car. As far as he could remember, the road got narrower and more winding, until it curved around a flat stretch of private land.

Concluding that he could save time by cutting across the land, Frank ducked under barbed wire and set off across a patch of grassy flatland. It was relatively easy for him to find his way.

About halfway across, he heard something large stirring nearby. The rising moon threw light on the scene. He laughed to find himself in the midst of a herd of cows. Apparently he was crossing private grazing land.

Quietly he moved past the herd, trying not to disturb the beasts. Up ahead he saw some lights. A ranch house? No, the lights were moving. A car. His calculations had been right! By going crosscountry he had saved himself miles of walking.

Frank broke into a trot, then a run, trying to reach the road before the car passed. He ducked under another barbed wire fence and hid himself in some tall grass by the roadside.

The car approached, its headlights on bright. Frank squinted, so the glare wouldn't destroy his night vision. The car was almost on top of him before he recognized it. It was his own rental car!

Frank strained to see the driver, wanting to be able to identify the hit man. The face behind the wheel was revealed by the moonlight — his brother!

"Hey!" Frank shouted, getting to his feet and running into the road. "Stop! Joe! Stop! Stop!"

The car's brakes screeched as the wheels locked. It slowed to a stop.

"Joe! It's me, Frank!" he called, running toward the car.

The car did a three-point turn and slowly returned to Frank like a lumbering beast. Frank was engulfed by the headlights. The car stopped, but the engine was left to idle.

Joe warily got out and planted his feet. Instinctively he rose to a defensive position. The face approaching him looked familiar.

Joe tended, trying to place the face of the stranger walking toward him. He knew he had seen it often—but where? Those confusing dreams flashed again. The dark-haired guy who struggled against him. That grim face, aiming a gun!

"I was afraid you'd gotten away from me—that I'd never catch up with you," Frank said, smiling.

That was all Joe needed to hear. He rushed like a charging bull, tackling his enemy before he could pull his gun. Both of them went spilling into a dry gully off the road.

Joe rode his enemy down, keeping him on the bottom as they slid, choking in the dust. Maybe he'd be able to overpower this hit man, bring him in to justice. . . .

But when they jolted to the bottom, Frank Hardy managed to twist free. "What are you doing?" he yelled. "Don't you — "

His words were cut off when Joe threw a handful of dust into his face. Frank clawed at his eyes, and Joe tackled him again.

Joe knocked his blinded adversary flat. As long as he couldn't draw a weapon, they could fight on fairly even terms.

But even blinded, this guy was dangerous. Before Joe could pin his arms, his enemy lashed out with a karate blow and knocked Joe flat.

Joe shook his head once quickly, as another flash of memory came to him. He remembered another blow like that, one that knocked him out as he had tried to run to the burning car where Iola was trapped.

Joe threw himself at his adversary. He didn't care anymore about hidden weapons. He just wanted to smash that face!

Frank scrambled backward, trying to block his brother's wild onslaught. Fists, elbows, and knees pounded at him in a whirlwind attack. Frank ducked as a knockout blow grazed his ear instead of connecting with the side of his head. "Have you gone crazy?" he gasped.

But Joe just kept swinging with lunatic strength.

"Okay, you asked for it." Frank swept his leg around, catching Joe behind the knees. Joe dropped to the ground, just barely bracing himself on his hands. Frank fell on him and his hands darted to the pressure points on the neck. First he'd get Joe calmed down. Then he'd ask him what was going on.

But Joe wasn't finished yet. When he felt the fingers clamping down on him, he twisted with all his might, unleashing a right-handed haymaker from the ground up.

Frank saw the blow coming and tried to block it. But he used the arm that had been injured in the rockslide — the arm that had gone numb. It was still weak, and Joe's punch brushed by it to land right on the point of Frank's chin.

Joe grinned in triumph as he watched his enemy's head snap back, his legs go limp, his entire body slump bonelessly to the ground. "Get up!" Joe shouted, grabbing his enemy's shirt. "You killed Iola. You killed Rita's father! Get up and fight!"

He tried to lift his adversary to his feet but the dark-haired guy was dead weight. Joe let him fall hard against the ground.

He'd beaten him! All he had to do was tie him up, and bring him to the sheriff. ...

But yet another memory was triggered — Joe charging out of some woods, pistol in hand, stopping when he saw the dark-haired guy sprawled motionless on the rocks, a big red stain on his shirt. Joe remembered how he had felt then—how upset he had been.

Upset? Over an enemy being shot? How could that be? This guy was a filthy murderer, a killer for hire! In a flash Joe decided there was only one way to stop him from ever killing again.

Joe picked up a large, flat rock, raising it over his head.

"This is it!" he snarled. "This time I'll finish you!"

"What's going on?" a voice called down from the road. "Wait! What are you doing? Stop!"

It was Rita. Joe heard her slide frantically down the gully, rush to him, and grab his arm. Joe let her pull the rock away, somehow glad for the interruption. His arms dropped to his sides.

Rita stooped and looked at the dark-haired guy passed out cold. She checked his pulse, shaking her head when she saw the blood on his face.

"What are you doing?" Joe asked.

"What does it look like?" Rita snapped. "He's got a split lip and a bloody nose. And I'm trying to help him!"

"I wouldn't get too close to him, Rita. He could be faking. We know he's a killer!"

"Maybe he's a killer. We don't know for sure," she said. "And he's still a human being. We can't just let him bleed."

"I go with 'An eye for an eye.' " Joe wiped the sweat and dust from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Look at him lying there," Rita protested. "He's young. He could be your brother. Why, he even looks like you."

Joe stumbled back a few steps, confused. His mind was a jumble. What was going on here? Why was he relieved that Rita had stopped him from killing the dark-haired guy? Was he losing his mind?

Rita took a clean tissue from her pocket. She gently dabbed at the guy's mouth and nose, cleaning him as well as she could, making his breathing easier. "We can't leave him here," she said quietly. "He's badly hurt."

Joe stared at her. "You're not thinking of taking him with us, are you?"

"Why not?"

"I'll tell you straight out, Rita, I wouldn't want him behind me in the car while I was driving. He wants to kill us."

"We could tie him up," Rita suggested.

"We don't have anything to tie him with." Joe turned and climbed up toward the road. After a moment he turned and saw that Rita had not moved.

"We're going to leave him," he said. "By the time he comes around, we'll be safely out of here." With that, Joe continued on his way.