Deception on the Set (8 page)

“Where did they go?” I asked.

“There!” Frank pointed to a door at the other end of the open room. We hopped over several large pipes as we crossed the space. I beat Frank to the door and grabbed the knob. It wouldn't budge.

We looked all around the open structure. Support boards crisscrossed everywhere, but there was no place for one person to hide, let alone two.

My eyes fell on the large pipes littering the floor. They were capped but had huge holes drilled into the sides. Thin brown wires snaked out of the caps and wound their way through small holes in the walls. Other wires connected to bags of liquid taped under the front windows. I recognized those wires right away and realized where they led: right to the small controller box in Bob Trevino's hands.

My stomach dropped to around my knees as I realized that this place was rigged to blow.

Outside, a distant voice shouted, “Okay, here we go!” It was Bill Daines.

Frank's eyes widened. We ran back to the front door. This time Frank got there first. He grasped the knob and turned. Nothing happened. He pulled and jerked the doorknob frantically. Nothing.

We were trapped inside.

Back with the crew, another shout. “And . . . action!”

I
POUNDED ON THE FRONT
door. “Hey!” I shouted. “We're in here!”

“They're not going to hear you over the zombie groans,” said Joe. “Remember how loud it was out there?”

He was right. We were far away from the zombie horde outside—triple the distance past the debris field, from what Bob Trevino had said. A safe distance away.

That is,
they
were a safe distance away. Joe and I were at ground zero.

“Try the other door again,” I ordered.

Joe ran across the open house and jerked at the back door. He even kicked it a few times. “It's not moving,” he reported. He ran back to me and pointed at one of the windows in the front. “Let's try the window.”

“Good idea,” I said. After all, if we couldn't open it, at least we could break through.

As we moved toward the window, we heard Bill shout again. “Okay, Bob. Cue the fire.”

There was a loud pop near the window, and then flames erupted under the sill. They raced up both sides, blocking our escape. Another pop and the second window was engulfed in more flames. Joe and I moved to the center of the structure as fire burst around us.

“We have to get out of here, bro!” cried Joe. “This thing is going to blow.”

“Ram the door, on three,” I said. “One, two, three!”

We slammed into the door. Pain erupted in my shoulder, but the door barely budged.

“What else you got?” sputtered Joe, coughing as smoke filled the room.

Both of us backed away from the burning walls. The heat was unbearable. I glanced around, looking for any way out. Then I spotted two white buckets near a wall that wasn't covered with flames. I ran to them and threw off one of the lids. The bucket was full of a clear substance. I thrust my hand inside and felt a thick gel.

“Come here!” I ordered as I picked up the bucket. When Joe was near, I dumped the contents over his head.

“Stunt gel!” exclaimed Joe.

I pointed to the other bucket. “Now, do me.”

Joe grabbed the other bucket, ripped off the lid, and
poured its contents over my head. Immediately, everything felt cooler.

“This helps, but I don't think it's going to protect us from the explosion,” I said.

Joe pointed to one of the walls. “Look!”

The smoke was thick, but I could just make out the crisscross pattern on one wall. Flames licked up the sides, but it didn't burn. It was Sheetrock. And the pattern was similar to the ones Bob Trevino's assistant had been making with the circular saw.

“That's our shot,” I said. “On three . . .”

“On one!” Joe corrected. “One!”

We ran full speed for the wall. I fought every instinct to slow down as we neared it. We had to trust that the wall was scored for a reason. We hit the wall hard but didn't stop, bursting through the Sheetrock and into the cool air outside. Joe and I tumbled to the ground. I scrambled to my feet and pulled him up behind me. We ran ten more feet, then . . .

KA-BOOM!

Light bloomed around us as we were shoved forward by the blast. We hit the ground hard and tumbled as bits of splintered wood rained down on us. Luckily, Bob had been right; the light balsa debris didn't hurt at all.

“And cut!” Josh shouted.

At the other end of the lot, the movie crew erupted in applause. Meanwhile, Joe and I caught our breath and staggered to our feet.

“We almost get killed and they applaud?” Joe asked.

I would've replied, but I was still out of breath.

Bill, Josh, and several other crew members crossed the lot.

“That looked amazing!” Josh shouted. He turned to Bill. “You didn't tell me we had our stunt performers back.”

Bill frowned. “We didn't. These are the Hardys.”

Bob ran up to us. “What were you doing in there?” he asked. “That set was supposed to be cleared.”

I explained what had happened.

“There was supposed to be a stunt just like what you did,” explained Bob. “A couple of zombies were going to be stuck in the shack. We had the set prepped for that days ago, before the stunt team walked off the picture.”

I rubbed a bruised arm. “I'm glad you did. Otherwise, we'd still be in there.” I turned to look at the burning pile of lumber that had been the old shack.

A
HUGE PLATE OF BACON
appeared before me. But this wasn't any ordinary plate of bacon. The strips had been arranged to form two stars.

“Thanks, Aunt T,” I said.

“Yeah, this is great,” added Frank.

“A special breakfast for our two movie stars,” clucked Aunt Trudy.

“We're not stars, Aunt Trudy,” Frank corrected. “We're just a couple of zombie extras. Two of many.”

“Well, it's nice to have at least one morning where we can all eat breakfast together,” said Mom. “I didn't think we'd get any time with you over this spring break, with your movie work and all.”

“In a couple of days it'll be back to school, with just a banana on the go for breakfast,” Aunt Trudy added, shaking her head.

“It says here there was a big explosion on the set last night,” announced our dad from the other side of a newspaper.

Frank and I glanced at each other. We had made a pact not to tell our parents about our close call the night before. We certainly didn't want them to worry.

“It was all part of the movie,” Frank explained. “They built this old house just to blow it up for a stunt.”

“Well, even though it's not exactly my kind of movie, I can't wait to see you boys on the big screen,” said Mom with a smile.

“You won't be able to recognize us when you do,” Frank said. “We're both in zombie makeup for most of it.”

“Yeah, walking corpses,” I added. “Decomposing flesh . . . that sort of thing.”

Mom shivered. “Not at the table, dear.”

Our dad folded the paper and placed it by his plate. “You know, since that movie came to town, the
Bayport Bugle
has become a regular gossip column.”

“They're just trying to drum up business,” said Aunt Trudy, passing around a plate of scrambled eggs.

“Still,” Dad continued, “there's talk of all kinds of mayhem over there.”

I could feel Frank's gaze on me but made sure I didn't glance at him. “Oh yeah?” I asked between bites of eggs.
Our dad was a retired private investigator, after all. There wasn't much he missed.

“Probably a publicity stunt,” Aunt Trudy added.

“I'm surprised you haven't heard gossip about Chelsea Alexander dating a local guy,” I said, changing the subject. Frank's eyes widened. I shrugged and gave him a look as if to say,
Sorry, bro, you need to take one for the team right now
.

“Oh, really?” asked Mom. She looked at Frank and smiled. I guess she remembered my brother's massive childhood crush too. “Anyone we know?”

Frank shook his head. “Don't look at me.”

A small beep chirped from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and read a text. His thumbs flew over the screen as he replied.

“Not at the table,” scolded Aunt Trudy.

“Sorry, Aunt Trudy,” he apologized, typing a few more characters and then putting the phone away. “It's about the movie.” He stood and downed the rest of his juice before taking his plate to the sink. “We have to go.”

“What's up?” I asked.

Frank looked back at the table nervously. All eyes were on him. “I have to help someone run lines.”

“Run lines? What does that mean?” asked our aunt.

“That's movie talk for actors practicing their dialogue,” I explained.

“Oh?” Mom smiled at me, then up at Frank. “Run lines with whom?”

Frank's shoulders dropped, and he stared at the floor. “Chelsea Alexander.”

I cleared my plate as Frank was subjected to all kinds of questions from Mom and Aunt Trudy. You'd think that he was the star and they were paparazzi. They wanted to know all about his brush with stardom—and about Chelsea Alexander in particular. Once he'd fielded their questions with a lot of “I don't knows” and “I'll have to asks,” we gathered our things and headed outside.

As Frank led the way to his car, he shook his head. “Why did you have to tell them about Chelsea?”

“Dude, you know why,” I replied. “Dad was about to ask if we were working this case.”

Frank sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Either way, you know we can't lie to Dad,” I said. Not only was lying to our parents something we didn't want to do, but our dad had logged countless hours in the interrogation room. He would've seen right through any story we could have come up with. It was best to avoid the line of questioning entirely.

Just as we were almost to the car, we heard a voice behind us. “Boys,” our dad called from the front stoop.

“Yeah, Dad?” I asked.

He took a sip from his coffee cup. “Good luck today,” he said. “And be careful.”

“Okay, thanks,” called Frank as he climbed behind the wheel.

“Bye!” I waved.

Once both doors were shut, we looked at each other and smiled.

“He totally knows,” I said.

Frank started the car. “Can't get anything past Detective Hardy.”

As we drove across town toward the set, I asked, “So, what's the game plan?”

“I'm going to help Chelsea run lines,” Frank replied.

I raised an eyebrow. “And . . .”

“And see what she knows about what happened last night,” Frank added. “After all, she wasn't scheduled to be on set yesterday. I want to find out where she was.”

“You don't think she was one of the saboteurs, do you?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” he replied. “The fake Hardy brothers were too tall. But she still might know something. Or maybe her agent told her something.”

Frank had told me how Chelsea thought her agent might've hired us to sabotage the production. Since we know we're not the culprits, maybe her agent really did hire someone.

“I've been thinking a lot about last night,” I said. “Maybe it wasn't a trap after all.”

“It sure felt like one,” said Frank.

“No kidding. But what if the two . . . other Hardys were just planning to wreck the place?” I suggested. “Maybe they
wanted to mess with the wiring. Keep it from blowing up. Or have it blow up where someone might've been hurt.”

Frank seemed to think about this for a while. “They could've seen us coming through the windows. Maybe they ducked out the back and didn't get a chance to destroy anything.”

“It makes sense,” I agreed. “And who would know what to mess up better than a special effects guy?”

“Bob Trevino,” said Frank.

“He might know something. I'll talk to him while you talk to Chelsea,” I offered.

“Sounds like a plan.” Frank nodded.

Once we arrived, my brother took off to find Chelsea while I headed to the special effects trailer.

I found Bob and his crew cleaning equipment in the back of their trailer. The look on Bob's face when he saw me reinforced my belief that he wasn't our guy. He wore an expression of concern mixed with a hint of shame.

“Hey, Joe,” he greeted me, stepping forward to shake my hand. “How are you guys doing? And look, seems I owe you an apology. I could have sworn it was Frank I saw sneaking around behind that building set, but the police say his alibi checks out.”

“We're fine,” I replied. “And apology accepted. Right now we're trying to figure out who
is
responsible for the sabotage. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the explosion.”

The night before, Frank and I had explained that we'd seen two figures enter the building. We didn't tell them about the masks they wore; we didn't want anyone to think we were nuts, after all.

Trevino rubbed the back of his neck. “I still feel terrible about that. Safety is my main concern. I have never had anything like that happen before. I should've been watching the building more closely.”

“I understand,” I said. “What I don't understand is what someone could've done to sabotage that set.”

Bob thought for a moment. “Well, we ignited the flames using blasting caps and spark hits. Spark hits are tiny explosives that make a giant spark when they go off. The blasting caps blew apart plastic bags of flammable liquid and the sparks ignited them.”

I smiled. “Yeah, we got a front-row seat for that.” I could see guilt begin to wash over the man's face again, so I changed the subject. “So what about the explosion?”