Running on Empty (9 page)

Joe perked up. "Look who we have here."

A block ahead of the van, leaning against the old woman's sports car, in front of a lighted telephone booth, stood Snake.

Joe gunned the van and jumped the curb. He hit the brakes, and the van squealed to a stop inches from Snake and the telephone booth.

Snake, his small eyes wide with horror, tried to pull open the sports car's door but his hand kept slipping on the pull-up latch.

Frank and Joe hopped from the van.

"What are you doing up so early, you worm?" Joe asked.

"Hey, guys. What's happening?" Snake's nose wrinkled up as Frank and Joe stood closer. "Pee-yew!" Snake tried to turn his head.

Joe jerked him back around. "Never mind that. Did you just torch the chop shop?"

Snake's beady black eyes shot back and forth between Frank and Joe.

"Y - y - yes!" He tried to smile.

"Why?" Frank demanded.

Snake swallowed hard. "Butch said that the cops were going to bust the place at sunrise."

"How did he know that?" Frank asked.

"I - I - don't know, man. Butch just said he wanted to give the cops a warm reception, that's all."

"What are you doing with the old woman's car?" Joe asked.

"We didn't have time to chop it. Butch said we'll do it at our new place."

"What new place?" Frank growled. He was getting tired of playing twenty questions.

"He - he said that we'd have another place pretty soon."

"Did Smith take a computer with him when you two cleared out?" Frank asked.

"Yeah."

"Where's this new place?" Joe asked.

"I don't know. He just said that we'd have a new place after that chick cop was dead."

Frank's eyes widened. "What chick cop?"

"That Sauter creep, the one who's been bugging him. She's an undercover cop."

"Who told you she was a cop?" Frank asked, his eyes narrow slits of anger.

"Butch did. He's got someone working on the inside for him." He turned to leave, only to be stopped by Frank.

"You're coming with us," Frank said.

Snake twisted to pull away from Frank. He took a roundhouse swing at Frank's head, and as close as they were, he missed.

With one quick karate jab, Frank sent Snake to dreamland. Then he hoisted Snake on one shoulder and dumped him into the back of the van. He tied Snake's ankles and wrists together and then joined Joe in the front.

"We're going to need some support if we raid Paradise Salvage," Frank said, his mind scheming the best way to get into the salvage yard unseen by Max or Smith.

"Emmy?" Joe asked.

"Yes."

"What about Cronkite?" Joe steered the van onto Main Street.

"I don't trust him."

"If he's the fourth member of the gang, the police mole, why would he tell us about the bust? Wouldn't he just tell Smith and let Smith torch the place?"

"That's a good point," Frank said. "I'm interested in seeing Cronkite's reaction when we bring Snake in. If Smith and Cronkite are partners, Cronkite will be upset to see Snake in custody."

"And if Snake is able to slither out of jail, we might have proof that Cronkite is working on the inside," Joe added.

"First," Frank said, holding his nose, "let's get rid of this smell and shower and change clothes."

Joe wrinkled his nose in agreement, and minutes later they were at the motel. While Joe headed up to the second-floor room, Frank jumped in the back of the van to check Snake. He was still out cold, the ropes tight around his wrists and ankles.

Frank stepped from the van and stretched. The sun was cresting behind the motel. A good hot shower and clean clothes sounded great.

He headed up the stairs to the second floor and was nearly knocked over by a man in a gray suit limping past him.

"Excuse me," Frank apologized.

The man hurried on, not bothering to acknowledge Frank's presence, let alone his apology.

Frank shook his head and climbed the stairs. He was too tired and too concerned about Chet to worry about the rudeness of the red-haired man.

Red!

Frank twisted around. "Hey!" he shouted.

Red hobbled away as fast as he could. Frank began to chase after him when he suddenly realized that he hadn't seen Joe on the second-floor landing.

He was up the stairs in three leaps. Joe lay in a crumpled heap half in, half out of their room. Frank dashed down the corridor. As he neared, he heard Joe groan.

"Easy," Frank said as he helped Joe to his feet.

Joe swayed. "Thanks," he moaned. "What happened?"

"From the lump on your head, I'd say Red thumped you a good one."

"Red?"

"Yeah. I guess he heard me coming and decided he couldn't handle both of us."

The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel shattered the silence of the motel court. Frank watched as a dark Camaro peeled away from the Hardys' van.

A queasy feeling rumbled through Frank's stomach. He darted down the stairs and straight to the rear of the van.

Frank took a deep breath, hesitated, and threw open the doors.

Snake was on his side, just as Frank had left him. The early-morning sun highlighted the rattlesnake tattoo and its Born to Die motto on Snake's thin, pale arm. He lay motionless, his wrists and ankles bound, just as Frank had left him - almost.

Wrapped deadly tight around Snake's throat was an extra coil of rope.

Frank sat on the hard mattress of the jail cell staring at the graffiti-covered, whitewashed walls. It was close to nine a.m. when the homicide detectives had brought Frank and Joe in. Frank spent two grueling hours trying to convince a skeptical and nearly hysterical Cronkite, as well as a hardboiled homicide detective, that he and Joe had not torched Smith's chop shop or killed Snake.

Cronkite wasn't convinced.

Then it had been Joe's turn.

Frank stood, stretched, and shook his head. He faced a cell wall, leaned against it, and began stretching his legs. They had to escape. They had to find Chet.

The clanking of the cell door startled Frank.

Joe stood at the bars, a fuming Cronkite on the other side. Frank joined them.

"I'd hate to be in your shoes right now," Cronkite said with a laugh. "The district attorney says this will be the easiest case he's had in years."

"All we tried to do," Frank began, "is find our friend. He's still in danger, and we think we know where he is."

"You beat everything, you know that? You're in jail on suspicion of arson and murder, and you're still trying to run the show. You think phone bills and a missing computer are proof? Smith's front was that he ran a repair shop. Of course he's going to call that nincompoop to ask about parts." Cronkite's voice cracked as he threw his hands up in disbelief.

"Just check it out," Frank said.

"Forget it.' Cronkite glanced at his watch. "When homicide is done with your van, I want you two and that armor-plated tank out of Southport." Cronkite stormed out through a steel door that separated the squad room from the holding cell.

Joe sat on the bunk and stared at his brother. Frank remained standing, leaning against the bars. They compared notes from their separate interrogations. They had told the same story, but Cronkite still blamed the Hardys for blowing the chop shop investigation.

"One good note," Frank said.

"What's that?" Joe grunted.

"We're not charged with arson or murder."

"How do you know that?"

"Would Cronkite be releasing us and the van if he really believed we were guilty of murder."

"No," Joe agreed.

"I rest my case."

"Well, you two are living proof that good looks and brains don't necessarily go together."

Frank and Joe spun around. Emmy stood at the opposite end of the corridor, two large manila envelopes in her hands.

Emmy strolled up to the cell. "Here." She pushed the manila envelopes through the bars. One was marked Frank Hardy, the other Joe Hardy.

"How'd you get our stuff?" Joe asked.

"I pulled in a lot of favors to get you two out of here," Emmy announced. She walked over to the steel door and pressed a button.

The cell lock clicked, and Frank pushed open the door. He and Joe headed for the steel door.

"Other way, guys," Emmy said, pointing behind them. "I don't think you want to run into Cronkite right now. He doesn't know you're getting out this early."

"Where's the tape?" Frank asked.

"It's on Cronkite's desk," Emmy explained. "I couldn't palm it with him sitting there."

"That tape is the only clue we have to Chet's location." Frank wadded his empty envelope and tossed it away.

"Sorry," Emmy said softly.

They followed Emmy through a series of hallways and then out a back door.

"Fresh air and sunshine." Joe breathed in deeply.

"You guys really need a bath," Emmy said, wrinkling up her nose.

"No time," Frank said as he adjusted his watch band. "We've got to get to Paradise Salvage."

"I know," Emmy said. "I heard Cronkite ranting and raving about your theory in the squad room. I tend to agree with him. The phone bills are not evidence that Chet is at Paradise Salvage. It does help my theory, however, that Smith was moving stolen parts through Max's place. Probably sending orders over that computer hotline."

"We've got to check out Paradise Salvage," Joe said.

"Yes," Emmy replied.

They walked on in silence for a few moments.

"Hey, where are we?" Joe suddenly asked.

Emmy had led the Hardys several blocks from the police station to a large fenced-in parking lot. Dozens of cars, motorcycles, trucks, and other vehicles filled the area. A sign identified the place as the Southport P.D. Impound Complex.

"Your van won't be released for a couple more hours," Emmy said. "I thought perhaps you might need something from it."

"How are we going to raid Paradise Salvage without the van?" Joe asked, disappointment in his voice.

"We'll use my wheels," Emmy replied as she walked toward a small building. "I'll meet you two out front."

"Man, look at this damage," Joe groaned as they walked up to the van.

The van's armored siding had kept the shotgun blasts from piercing the van's shell but had left several sizable dents. Paint was blown away to reveal quarter-inch deep steel dimples.

While Joe inspected the damage, Frank grabbed a small tool box and another set of dark clothes. Then he and Joe walked to the front gate.

A low rumble caused Frank and Joe to turn. They were stunned by the sight of Emmy's car. A long, low, two-door, black-and-pink 1955 Buick pulled up beside the pair.

"Hop in," she yelled over the engine roar.

Frank recognized it as the restored Buick in the photos. He opened the passenger door, pulled up the seat, and offered the backseat to Joe. Joe raised an eyebrow and reluctantly crawled in back.

Emmy peeled away from the curb.

"Does this dinosaur have a radio?" Joe asked.

"Sure," Emmy said, laughing. She flipped on the radio. A minute later, Buddy Holly belted out the driving rhythm of "Peggy Sue" through squeaky old speakers.

"Don't you have any newer tunes?" Joe asked over the speakers and the engine. "Say from this century."

"Sorry, Joe," Emmy replied. "This radio refuses to play anything other than fifties classics."

"Why are you doing all this for us?" Frank asked.

Emmy didn't answer for several moments. Then she said calmly, "I need your help. If we don't work together on this, you may never see your friend again, and I'll never bring my father's killer to justice."

The word justice hissed through Emmy's teeth like a snake ready to strike. She may have said justice, but the tone said revenge.

A chill raced down Frank's spine. Emmy was willing to sacrifice everything to find her father's killer - maybe even Chet.

"We should be at AutoHaus Emporium when the kidnapper calls at three," Frank suggested. He glanced at his watch. "It's one-thirty now. Meet us back at the motel room in an hour."

"Sounds good to me," Emmy replied.