Edge of Destruction (2 page)

"Bring it up right away."

"What about security?"

Peterson thought a moment. "All right, have it checked out. But make it a rush job."

Peterson turned from his intercom and explained. “It's routine procedure for our bomb squad to check out all incoming packages."

"Terrorists?" Frank asked.

"The threat's there all the time," said Peterson.

"You think Dad's kidnappers are terrorists?" Joe asked, his voice rising. Just the word terrorist was enough to make his blood boil. Not long before, the girl he had loved, Iola Morton, had fallen victim to a terrorist firebomb. Ever since, Joe had been consumed by a passion for vengeance on terrorists, and now he had to bite his lower lip to keep the rage inside him from bursting out.

"No use guessing," said Peterson. "I have a hunch that this package will give us an idea."

The package was already open when the uniformed policeman brought it in and placed it on Peterson's desk. Reaching inside, the police chief pulled out a cassette. "It's a videotape," said Frank. "Where can we play it?"

"I've got a VCR right here in my office. It's in this cabinet." He walked to the other side of the room and opened a door of the walnut wall unit. He turned back and noticed Frank looking at the tape curiously. "What's the matter? Something wrong with this?" asked Peterson, holding up the tape.

"Probably not," said Frank. "I've just never seen that brand before. It's some kind of import."

The chief inserted the cassette into the VCR. The picture quality was extremely good, far above average.

An image of Joe and Frank's father appeared on the screen, absolutely clear, every detail sharp, and the color lifelike. Lifelike, though, was the wrong word, because Fenton Hardy was lying with his eyes closed and his arms folded over his chest.

His resting place was the red plush interior of a gleaming wooden coffin. "Those pigs were lying to me," Peterson snarled. He slammed his fist against the wall. "They were keeping me off their trail, stalling for time until they could get away clean. They've all ready killed him!"

THE THREE STARED in horror at the image of Fenton Hardy's corpse.

"Dead," said Frank in a stunned voice.

"I can't believe it," said Joe, barely able to choke out the words.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Silently, Peterson and the boys sat alone with their shock and grief. They glued their attention to the picture on the screen, as if by looking at it hard enough they could change what they saw.

Suddenly Frank leaped up from his chair and pointed. "Look!" Moving slowly onto the screen was the back of a hand. The hand was curled around something and covered Fenton Hardy's nose and mouth for a minute. Then it turned to display what it was holding.

"What?" Joe looked puzzled. "A mirror - ?"

"Yes," Frank said excitedly. "But that's not what's important. Look what's on the mirror."

Joe looked more closely. "The center is fogged over, some kind of steam." Frank shook his head. "That's not steam, it's condensation caused by breath on the glass." He hesitated. "Dad's breath." "Then he's alive." Joe went limp with relief. "Well, they picked a fine way to tell us that," Peterson-said sharply as the screen went dark. "Maybe they were trying to tell us something else, too," said Frank. "They've told me enough," said Joe. "We have to get after them-fast." "Relax, Joe." Peterson looked tired. "Believe me the department is beginning to move on this. We'll be quietly checking over the whole hotel. That way, we'll find out how your dad was taken out of the place. Then, once we've picked up the trail, we'll follow it and close in. I know you're impatient to find your dad. But trust us. We have our procedures."

Joe's grimace made it clear what he thought of the ponderous police pace. "Don't forget our agreement," Peterson said, cautioning him. "I don't want you and your brother getting mixed up in all this.” .

"Right, right," muttered Joe, without even trying to sound as if he meant it.

Before Peterson could make his point again, the phone rang, and he picked it up. He pressed a button that let the caller's voice be projected into the room.

"I hope you enjoyed the TV show," the same high pitched voice that had announced the kidnappings.

"What have you done to Fenton Hardy?" Peterson demanded. "Drugged him? Beaten him unconscious?"

"What we've done is far more interesting than that," said the voice. "The illustrious investigator has the honor of being the first human guinea pig for a powerful new virus we've developed."

"Virus?" the chief echoed.

"That's right, Chiefy, Virus Strain A - intended to leave its victims totally unconscious, but alive." A hoarse laugh grated through the speaker. "And you'll be happy to know it works. It works perfectly. Fenton Hardy will stay just the way you saw him until we stop feeding him through IVs or cure him with a special antibody we've created. So," the voice said after a slight pause, "are you convinced?"

"Convinced of what?" Peterson was keeping his voice calm and level, but the effort was showing.

"That we have the scientific capability of carrying out our threat. You know, for a guy that's running for mayor, you're not so smart."

Peterson ignored the slur. "I have no definite proof, but I'll have to believe you. Now may I ask what threat?"

"Well," the voice said, “Virus Strain A isn't our only weapon. We also have Virus Strain B. So far we've used it only on laboratory animals, but it kills those little rats amazingly quickly after several minutes of excruciating agony, that is."

There was a silence. Then the voice said what? No more questions? I thought for sure you would jump in with the one you should be dying to ask."

“Which is?"

“What do we plan to do with Virus B?" said the voice gleefully. Peterson took a long, deep breath. “Okay, what are you planning to do?"

“We are going to release Virus B in six of New York's largest buildings. There'll be at least fifty thousand dead-and that'll be just the beginning. The entire city will go crazy with fear. New York will turn into a madhouse-and then into a ghost town."

"You're the one who's crazy, if you expect me to believe that," said Peterson.

"You've seen what we've done to Fenton Hardy. And you said you believe us. And you also witnessed what we were able to do at your gathering this evening. It will be just as easy to fill buildings with our virus as it was to fill that room in the hotel with smoke." "Let's say for the sake of argument that you can do it," said Peterson. “Why would you?" "Once again you're not asking the right question," the voice said sharply. “The only question that should concern you is why we wouldn't do it.”

"Okay, why wouldn't you?"

"We won't do it if we receive twenty million dollars in used fifty and hundred dollar bills.”

Peterson was poker-faced as he answered, "How do you expect me to come up with that kind of money?"

"This city is filled with banks, big businesses, millionaires, and tax collectors, Mr. Police Chief.

I'm sure if you explain to certain people what they will lose if the money isn't paid, they'll decide that the price is cheap." "But all that will take time."

"We're willing to be reasonable," said the voice. "We'll give you three days to get the money together. After you've done that, we'll tell you how to deliver it."

"Three days! That's not - "

"Actually," said the voice, "if you don't get it in two days, we'll help you speed up the collection process."

"What do you mean?"

"Believe me you don't want to find out. Oh, yes," the voice went on, "one more thing. Don't try to use the time we're giving you to hunt us down. The moment we spot a single cop, Fenton Hardy dies." "But - "

"But nothing," said the voice. "Just goodbye."

"Not so fast," said Peterson. "I want - ” Then he realized he was speaking into a dead line, and his expression tensed. "I was hoping to keep him on longer," he told Joe and Frank. "But I guess he talked long enough."

Frank understood immediately. "You've got a tracer on your phone. That's it, isn't it?"

"Sharp thinking," the chief said. "The tracer is part of a computerized system. As soon as I heard the kidnapper's voice, I pressed this button here. The call was instantly traced, and the nearest patrol cars were sent to the address. We should be getting news of the capture any minute now. I can't wait to see the look on your dad's face when he learns how fast we've rescued him. That should show him how far we've come since he left the force." The phone rang. Smiling, Peterson picked up the receiver.

"Well?" he said expectantly. "You have him?" His smile vanished. "That's impossible," he said. "Check it out. And if you can't come up with anything, check it out again." Peterson slammed down the receiver. "These so-called technical experts can't do anything right!" he exploded. Then he got control of himself. "It’s the tracer system," he said in a cold, even voice. "It doesn't work."

"What's the trouble?" Frank asked anxiously. "They couldn't trace the call?"

"They traced it, all right," said Peterson. "But the computer readout said the call had been made from a spot in the middle of Lexington Avenue, between Forty-second and Forty-third streets."

Joe slumped in his chair, as his brother sat up. "Maybe the call was made from a car phone," Frank suggested.

"Not a chance," Peterson came back. "The person making the call didn't move one inch. And not even a city traffic jam would result in a car's sitting in one place that long-at least, not without our knowing about it."

"Then what's going on?" Joe wondered.

"A snafu," said Peterson bitterly. "We're back where we were before we started. Square zero." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse. "Actually, we're worse off. We can't make a move without putting your dad's, life on the line. You can bet that from now on those scum will be watching for any sign of our coming after them. So for the time being, we're paralyzed. "

Frank suddenly got to his feet, his abruptness startling not only Peterson but Joe as well. "Well," he said, "if we can't do anything but wait, there's no sense in our hanging around. We might as well head back to Bayport. At least that way we'll be able to make excuses for Dad's absence if it lasts more than a few days."

"But we can't leave the city” Joe protested. "I'm sorry, but Frank's right," Peterson said. "There's nothing you kids can do here."

"That's what you say," said Joe, his temper flaring.

"Come on,” Frank said, pulling at him. "You know, it's really a drag always have to keep cool for both of us."

"What's really a drag is you playing Mr. Goody Goody all the time," Joe answered, the expression in his eyes furious.

"Look," Peterson said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, "I know how upset you must be, but I don't have time to waste listening to your squabbles. I've got things to do, people to contact. "

"What do you mean, 'people to contact'?" Joe snapped. "I thought we were paralyzed."

"I'll be talking to people about raising the ransom," Peterson said. "I don't intend to pay those scum" his eyes went down "but I don't want to let your father or the city down, either."

Frank nodded. He tugged at Joe's arm. "We might as well get out of here and let Chief Peterson do what he has to."

Joe's first reaction" was to shake Frank off, but then he caught the message in his brother's eyes.

"Okay, big brother, don't push too far," Joe said, angry for Peterson's benefit. "I'm coming. We'll settle this outside."

Peterson shook hands with both boys. Then he put an arm around each of them as they walked to the door.

"Remember, Frank," he said, "keep your head and make sure your brother hangs on to his."

"I'll do my best," Frank promised convincingly.

"All right, what's up?" Joe demanded as soon as they were out of Peterson's office. "I could see from that look you gave me that something's going on in that busy brain of yours.

"We need a good night's sleep," Frank said. "We're going to a hotel, and tomorrow we're going into action!"

OUTSIDE IN THE morning Joe had only one question. "Where to?" He felt too tired to say more than that. He had spent an awful night, twisting and turning. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father lyihg in that coffin, barely breathing.

Frank too, hadn't slept well. He had had nightmares about searching for his father through scenes of plague and desolation. New Yorkers Were struggling like rats in traps, spreading the deadly virus until the whole city was exterminated. He blinked his eyes and finally answered his brother's question. "Grand Central Station."

"Great," Joe complained, looking at the crowded sidewalks. “We'll never get there."

"If we don't crack this case; there won't be anyone in the streets," Frank muttered, pulling his brother into a subway entrance. “The police can't make a move without putting Dad in deadly danger, so it's up to us to track down the kidnappers."

"Call them terrorists because that's what they are," said Joe, his fists clenched.

"Whatever you call them, they won’t be on the lookout for us," said Frank quietly, and he ran to buy two tokens. "That's why I didn't tell Peterson about the lead I thought of. He might have been tempted to send cops out to follow it up," he said after he and Joe were on the train.

"Brilliant observation, Sherlock," said Joe. "But tell me one other thing. What's this lead of yours? Or do you want to keep me in the dark too?"

"I'm surprised you didn't spot it right away," Frank said in the maddening manner he sometimes had.

"I was too busy seeing red. Frank, just thinking about those terrorists made me - "

"You know," Frank broke in, "if you saw less red, you might see more clues."

"Look," Joe snapped, "forget the big brother lecture and just give me the lowdown." "Always so impatient." Frank sighed. "But, if you insist, it was the videotape, Mr. Detective. A weird off-brand. Kajimaki Industries, it said. There can't be many stores that carry it and maybe we can find out if a clerk remembers anyone buying some recently. The brand's unusual enough so that it might stick in someone's mind. The lead's worth checking anyway seeing as we have nothing else to go on."