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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: Running on Empty
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Chapter 7

"Watch this, buddy boy," Snake said.

Joe sighed. For the umpteenth time, he watched as Snake flipped a peanut high into the air and caught it in his mouth.

Smith had insisted that Snake accompany Joe to grade him on his performance. Joe soon decided that he would have preferred the company of real rattlesnakes to this twit.

"Real neat," Joe sneered. "Know any disappearing tricks?"

Snake thought for a moment, his brow knitted in thought. "No." He shrugged. "Sorry, Joe."

Joe took a breath that whistled through gritted teeth.

They had walked around Southport for almost an hour. Snake had wanted to steal another Porsche, and Joe had had to explain to him that the cops would be keeping an eye out for two teenagers riding around in such an expensive car, especially a freaky-looking teenager like Snake. Snake took Joe's sarcastic remark as a compliment.

Uncle Ed had yet to deliver the Caddy to the prearranged "steal" site. If he didn't show soon, Joe would really have to steal a car just to keep Snake from getting suspicious.

A queasy feeling settled like a rock in Joe's stomach.

"Come on," Joe ordered. "Let's head down Third and see what's happening there."

They rounded a corner single-file, and Joe came to an abrupt halt as he spotted Uncle Ed several yards away, heading straight for him. Snake didn't have time to stop and ran into the back of Joe.

"Hey," Snake protested, the bag of peanuts hitting the pavement.

Joe fired a look at Uncle Ed. He jerked his head to the side. A puzzled, questioning expression creased Uncle Ed's face. Joe nodded to the side again. A sudden understanding crossed Uncle Ed's face, and he disappeared into a nearby shop.

"I think we just found our car," Joe announced.

"Really? Where?" Snake asked.

"That sports Caddy over there."

"Cool," Snake replied.

"Check the area," Joe ordered.

They strolled across the street. Joe became annoyed and angry. Snake looked too casual, walked too calmly. They would be caught for sure.

"Do it, Joe," Snake said as they reached the car.

In a split second, Joe had the driver's door open and was in the front seat, leaning over to unlock Snake's door.

"Uh - oh," Snake groaned.

Joe had spotted the steering wheel locking clamp at the same time Snake had. Without hesitation, he busted the clamp's lock and had the Cadillac's engine purring.

"Cool," Snake said.

Joe pulled out onto the street.

"Three seconds!" Snake shouted.

Joe jumped in his seat. "What's wrong?"

"It took only three seconds to boost this Caddy. You know what kind of bread we'll make for chopping this baby? Over thirty grand a second. Man, that beats minimum wage." Snake flipped on the stereo, tuned in a heavy metal station, and turned up the volume to an ear-shattering scream.

Joe just as quickly switched off the radio.

"What's your problem, man?" Snake spit out in his first real defiance toward Joe.

Joe stomped on the brake as they approached a red light. Snake slid forward, his head hitting the padded leather dash with a thud, his sunglasses flying onto the floor.

"Oooow! What do you think you're doing?" Snake growled.

"We don't need to draw attention to ourselves. Just play it cool and celebrate after we get the Caddy to the garage," Joe said.

"Okay, man," Snake groaned, putting his sunglasses back on. "That's cool." Snake leaned back and began hissing a song through his teeth.

Joe shook his head and eased the Cadillac through the intersection. Frank had been right. Snake was not only slow, he was a finalist for Pinhead of the Year.

They were several blocks from the garage and Joe was starting to feel a little easier when Snake bolted up and shouted, "All right!"

Startled, Joe looked around, expecting to see a cop somewhere nearby.

"Will you look at that," Snake said, pointing.

Joe followed Snake's gaze to a small red two-seat sports convertible several feet ahead of them. He glowered at Snake. "So?"

"That's the hottest American sports car made," Snake proclaimed. "It's worth two of these Caddies."

Joe's temples pulsed as he sensed the meaning behind Snake's statement. "We've got our quota for the day."

"You and that hotshot brother of yours ever play 'bump-and-rob'?" Snake's face was alive with excitement.

"No," Joe said quickly.

"It's simple. What's the biggest mistake people make when they have a little fender bender? I'll tell you," Snake said without waiting for Joe and whispered as if he were revealing a deep, dark secret. "They leave their keys in the ignition when they get out to inspect the damage."

"Forget it," Joe shot back.

"Man, this is perfect. No traffic. The driver's an old woman."

"I said forget it!"

"Okay, Joe. Okay."

Snake leaned back in his seat. Then without warning, Snake stepped on Joe's foot, mashing the accelerator to the floor. The Cadillac jerked forward. Joe slammed on the brakes, but not before the Cadillac clipped the rear end of the woman's car.

"All right!" Snake cheered. He jumped from the car before Joe could protest. "Wait for my signal, man, and then haul out of here."

Joe tried in vain to grab Snake and pull him back into the car.

"Hey, what's your problem, lady?" Snake yelled at the woman as she scampered back to the rear of her car.

"Oh, dear me. Oh, my," she cried out, confusion and fear in her voice.

Joe was surprised to see such an old woman driving an expensive sports car. She was dressed as though she were having tea with her bridge club. She wrung her hands and looked helpless as Snake continued to yell at her.

She reminded Joe of Aunt Gertrude.

"When's the last time you had those brake lights checked, huh?" Snake yelled at her.

"Well, I, oh my," the woman whimpered.

"Where'd you get your license? A convenience store?"

Joe had heard enough. He got out of the car. He'd get Snake back into the Cadillac if he had to break the creep's neck doing it.

Just as Joe stepped toward the woman, Snake yelled out, "Now!" He shoved the old woman to the ground, and jumped into the woman's car. He fired up the engine and with a loud cackle and wave, peeled away.

Joe reached down to help the woman up, but she slapped his hands away.

She slowly got up and stared at Joe, her face grief-stricken. She looked at Joe with hate in her eyes.

Then she screamed, "Thief! Thief!"

The old woman sobbed and covered her face.

Despite his desire to help the woman, he had to leave quickly before a crowd gathered. If caught, Cronkite wouldn't hesitate to charge him with auto theft and assault-and-battery and anything else the crusty detective could invent. As soon as he could, he'd call the police and tell them about the stolen car, but he'd do it anonymously.

Joe jumped back into the Cadillac, gently guided it around the woman, and sped away.

A cold, sharp metallic claw gripped Joe's spine. He shuddered at the image of the woman's dark, hateful stare.

For the first time in his life, Joe Hardy felt like a genuine thief.

Chapter 8

Frank had to slow the car down quickly or they'd disintegrate when they hit the concrete pillar.

He grabbed the column shift lever and slammed the transmission into reverse. He was using the transmission's reverse gear as a brake. The gears crunched like some metallic monster devouring a scrap-iron victim.

It took all of Frank's strength to hold the shift lever in the reverse position. They were still approaching the bridge and the concrete pillar at over seventy miles per hour.

Keeping one hand on the shift lever, Frank grabbed the steering wheel and twisted it slightly to the left.

The car glanced off the side of the pillar and shot onto the bridge. It caromed from one side of the bridge to the other, slamming into concrete-and-steel pillars with piercing metallic screams.

Sparks and razor-sharp concrete splinters flew into the windows like angry darts and hit Emmy and Frank in the face and arms.

Frank tried to keep the wheel straight. If they could make it across the bridge, they had a good chance of running the car into a field, where it could get bogged down in dirt and high grass.

The car slammed into a pillar, bounced off like a rubber ball, spun several times, and came to an abrupt stop.

Frank's head hit the steering wheel, dazing him. He leaned back in his seat and tried to focus on the car's windshield. A multitude of spiderwebs spread out across the glass. The shatterproof glass must have been hit by the flying concrete, creating the spiderweb effect.

Something warm trickled down his forehead. His vision was blurred by a red haze. Blood!

Emmy gasped.

Frank was suddenly aware of a new and immediate danger.

The car had indeed stopped. It had smashed through one of the bridge's aluminum railings and sat teetering above a dry, rocky riverbed fifty feet below. Every move that Emmy and Frank made, no matter how slight, caused the car to seesaw and inch closer toward the fifty-foot drop.

"Don't move," Frank warned. He took a deep breath to help clear his throbbing head. Seconds passed like minutes.

"All right," he finally said. "Move when I do, as I do, and when I tell you to."

He steadied his breathing and fought off visions of Emmy and him and the car sliding off the bridge and smashing onto the rocks below.

"Put your left hand on the door handle."

Emmy watched Frank from the corner of her eye.

"Pull the handle up slowly. Easy!"

Like twin reflections in a mirror, Frank and Emmy moved together. The inner latches of the two door locks clicked simultaneously.

A screeching metallic squeal shattered the air as the car lurched over the edge of the bridge.

"Frank!" Emmy cried out.

"Now!" Frank yelled.

Frank slammed his shoulder into his door and in one smooth motion threw himself free of the falling car. He hit the asphalt pavement hard and rolled clear.

Crumbled concrete kicked into the air as the car slid forward, as if in slow motion, and rolled off the edge of the bridge. Frank shuddered when he heard the crunch of the car as it slammed into the rocks of the dry riverbed.

"You okay, Emmy?" Frank stood. He blinked and rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

"Yeah," she wheezed. "'I think so." She smiled.

Frank stood up and placed his hands behind his head to relieve the pressure on his lungs and rib cage. He felt as if he had just finished a marathon race with death.

Emmy stood up slowly. "I'm just glad these back roads are so deserted," she said.

"Yeah, aren't we lucky?" Frank said sarcastically.

"Let's hitch back to town and get cleaned up before I try to explain to Cronkite why his car is in the bottom of a dry riverbed."

"Cronkite's car?" Frank would have shouted if his chest didn't hurt so much.

"He dropped it off just before you two arrived. He wanted me to drive a newer car."

They had walked less than a mile when an old man driving a battered pickup loaded with paint and painting equipment in the truck bed offered them a ride.

"Watch where you sit," Emmy warned Frank as they climbed into the open back.

Frank didn't have time to heed Emmy's warning. The pickup lurched forward and Frank sat squarely in a paint tray still wet with pink paint.

Emmy giggled. Then she chuckled. Soon, she was laughing so hard, she was crying.

Frank tried to look angry with a deep frown. Then he burst out laughing, too.

"I don't know what's so funny," Frank said with a sigh. "We may have escaped back there, but we've got to face Cronkite now."

"Yeah, I can't wait to see the look on that square face of his when I tell him his car is now a compact." Emmy let loose with another barrage of laughter, holding her sides.

Frank joined her. In the truck's rear-view mirror, he could see the old man glance at them as if they were crazy.

"What do you think happened?" Frank asked after several moments.

Emmy brushed back her red hair. "The way the accelerator hit the floor, I'd say someone tampered with the throttle return spring on the carburetor. And to make sure we wouldn't stop, he or they made sure the brakes would fail."

"Sounds elaborate."

"I could do it to any car in under a minute."

"Max!" Frank shouted with a slap on his knee. "He came back covered with dirt and sweat, as though he'd been working hard and fast on something."

Emmy shook her head. "Forget it, Frank. He probably got that way from looking for the clutch plate. Besides, Max is a walking vanilla wafer. He's all peace, love, and harmony. He still thinks it's the 1960s. He's a harmless old hippie."

"If that's true, then why didn't the car go out of control before we got to Paradise Salvage?" he asked.

Emmy leaned against the cab and crossed her legs. "Good point. It would take only a couple of minutes to snip the throttle return spring, punch a hole in the brake line, and cut the emergency brake cable with bolt cutters."

"And Max had more than enough time," Frank added.

"You're right," Emmy conceded.

They rode in silence the remainder of the way to Royce's Garage.

"This place could use a real cleaning up," Frank said as he pushed open the office door and kicked at a pile of soiled red rags.

"Hey! Watch how you treat my place," Emmy protested.

"Your place? You mean the city's."

"I mean mine, as in I own this garage."

"Royce's Garage really does belong to you?"

"Why is that so hard for you to believe, Frank?" Emmy stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him.

"Who was Royce?" Frank's mind was racing.

"He was my father," Emmy said before she could stop herself. Then she said quickly, "I've got to clean up. Bathroom's over there." She unlocked the inner office and slammed the door shut. Frank heard the lock click on the other side.

The hot water and soap lather stung the little cuts left on his face by the sharp concrete slivers, but it felt good to wipe away the grime of the accident.

BOOK: Running on Empty
12.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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