Nightmare in Angel City

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 19

  Nightmare in Angel City

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "NICE VIEW," JOE HARDY said to his older brother, Frank. "But that first step's a killer." He turned back to the airplane window. Below him, Los Angeles stretched in all directions as far ] as he could see. A soft haze hung over the city while, to the west, sailboats rolled on the calm water of the Pacific Ocean and the sun burned huge and bright above the flat horizon. Just then Joe thought it was the most striking place he had ever seen. Half an hour later Joe and Frank Hardy were traveling in a rented car bumper-to-bumper on the freeway away from Los Angeles International Airport. "So far it doesn't look like the Los Angeles you see in the movies," Joe said to Frank, who was behind the wheel. Joe peered out at the monotonous row of apartment buildings and shabby bungalows that lined the highway.

  "I mean, we're talking Hollywood here," Joe went on. "Where's the glitter? That's what I want to know."

  Frank didn't respond to Joe, so Joe let it drop. He knew Frank was worried. But only Joe would be able to detect the signs of strain in Frank's level gaze and see the tension in his lean body as he hunched slightly forward over the wheel.

  Frank's dark brown hair had fallen onto his forehead as he concentrated on following the traffic with his eyes. His mind, though, was far away—on his girlfriend, Callie Shaw, to be specific. What trouble was she in, Frank was wondering. He and Joe had just finished a case at their home in Bayport, New York, when Callie called with an S.O.S. from California.

  Tired of watching the rear of the car in front of him and disappointed by the roadside sights, Joe scrunched his stocky body up against the door on the passenger side and closed his blue eyes. Joe, seventeen and a year younger than Frank, became drowsy in the hot sun, which was burning into his blond hair.

  As Joe drifted off to sleep, he thought back to that morning, when this unexpected case had begun....

  Gertrude Hardy had been sitting at the kitchen table, jokingly wagging her finger at Frank. "You should go out and have some fun," she'd said, more like a command than a suggestion. Their aunt Gertrude had lived with them for years, and throughout Frank and Joe's childhood she'd been like a second mother. "How am I supposed to get any work done with you hanging around the house all the time? This is summer! You're supposed to be off enjoying yourself!"

  "I had a double date planned for us with the Basson sisters," Joe said with a sly grin at his brother. "But you know Frank. He has eyes only for Callie."

  Frank and Callie had gone together for as long as Joe could remember, and deep down he secretly admired their commitment to each other. But Joe saw no reason to let Frank know that. With a twang he began to sing a country-western song about long-distance love until Frank picked a pillow off the window seat and threw it at him. "Okay, I know you and Callie will never be best buddies," Frank shot back. "But because she's off on the West Coast taking a course in broadcast journalism doesn't mean I can forget about her. She'll be back in three weeks."

  "Right," Aunt Gertrude said. "And I'm sure she wants you to go out and have a good time. I'm not telling you to chase girls with Joe. I just think that you need a break."

  Aunt Gertrude tended to worry about her nephews, and on the advice of their father — Fenton Hardy, the famous detective — they told her only what they had to about their dangerous exploits.

  Frank was relieved when the phone rang and stopped his aunt cold. "I'll get it," Joe shouted, but Frank thrust an arm in his brother's way, cutting him off.

  "I'll get it," Frank told his brother. The telephone hung on the wall near the kitchen door.

  Frank lifted the receiver. "Hello," he said. "Hardy residence."

  "Frank?" came a distant female voice. "Boy, am I glad you're home!"

  He couldn't help smiling as he recognized the voice. "Callie!" he said loudly. "I've been wanting you to call."

  "I don't have time to chat, Frank," Callie said bluntly. She sounded breathless and frightened, "Listen. I'm in trouble. I've fallen into some kind of nasty business, and I really need your help." Frank's expression changed immediately — he was totally focused on the phone call now. "Okay, Callie," he said, scrambling for paper and a pencil. "Tell me exactly where you — "

  Before he could finish his sentence, Frank heard Callie cry out. Then her voice was cut off with a clunk! "Callie!" Frank shouted. She must have dropped the phone, he told himself. She'd be back in a moment. "Callie!"

  "Is something wrong?" Joe asked.

  "Quiet," said Frank, cupping a hand over his ear to blot out his brother's voice. Just then a male voice came on the line.

  "Who's this?" said the voice.

  "Who's this?" Frank demanded back. There was a pause, then a click. Frank was listening to a dial tone.

  Furious, Frank slammed down the handset. He turned to face Joe and Aunt Gertrude, who both looked startled by his behavior. After he described the phone call, their expressions changed from surprise to worry. "Callie needs us," Frank finished simply.

  Joe raised his eyebrows as Aunt Gertrude vanished down the hall. "She's asking us for help? The Callie Shaw I know can take care of herself."

  Frank shot an angry glance at him, and the grin fell from Joe's face. "Sorry. But what could have happened to her?"

  "That's what I'm going to find out," Frank said, moving toward the door. "You want to come, fine. If not, I'm going anyway."

  Joe put a hand on his brother's arm, stopping him. "Hold on, Frank," he said, trying to calm him down. "If you want to fly to Los Angeles, I'm all for it. My only question is, what do we tell Mom and Dad?"

  "I'll take care of that," Aunt Gertrude said, reappearing with an overnight bag in each hand. She gave one to each of the boys. "If I know Callie, she wouldn't call for help without a good reason. Go pack, you two. Now."

  ***

  "Joe," Frank said, nudging his brother with an elbow. "Wake up."

  Reluctantly, Joe uncoiled himself and wondered where he was. He looked out the window and remembered they were in California. The road they were on was in shadow as it led up toward the top of a narrow, snaking canyon. "Where are we?" he asked with a yawn.

  With one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, Frank picked up a map of Los Angeles and glanced at it. "Beverly Canyon, in the Santa Monica Mountains," he replied. "Callie's aunt is an actress. She has a house up here, and this is where Callie's staying. I tried to call from Bayport and from the airport, but the phone was always busy." He handed Joe the map. "I wrote the address in the margin. Tell me what it is, okay?"

  Joe took the map and found the four numbers. "Yeah, it's 1439." He gazed at the homes they passed. There were no numbers on the doors. Then he realized they were painted on the curb-side. "Fourteen twenty-three — thirty-one — there it is."

  They pulled into the steep, curved, gravel driveway of a sprawling split-level house, set below the level of the street and nestled back among well-tended bushes and small trees. Joe nodded approvingly. The large redwood-and-brick house was exactly what he had expected to see in California.

  After he had parked the car, Frank got out and rang the doorbell.

  There was a small click inside, and Frank realized he was being scrutinized through a peephole in the front door. "Who is it?" came a woman's voice.

  "Ms. Beaudry? It's Frank Hardy. I'm a friend of Callie's. Maybe she's mentioned me?"

  The door swung open. In the doorway stood a beautiful woman with bleached-blond hair. She wore tight blue jeans and a black satin shirt. She looked about thirty years old, but Frank knew she was older. She smiled brightly at Frank.

  "She certainly has," Ms. Beaudry said with a grin. She notic
ed Joe, still sitting in the car. "And that must be Joe!" she added dramatically, bending down to peer into the car.

  "That's right," Joe managed to stammer as he got out. He'd expected to meet an aunt, not a California girl.

  "Won't you come in?" she asked.

  "Thanks, ma'am," Frank said. The boys followed her inside.

  As she shut the door, Ms. Beaudry said, "Oh, - for pete's sake, call me Emma!"

  Emma's house was even more pleasant inside than out. Light and airy, it was decorated in1 pastel pinks and greens, with sliding glass doors offering a beautiful view of the light-filled canyon. Soft rock was playing on a radio somewhere in the house. What trouble could Callie have gotten into here, Frank wondered.

  "What can I do for you?" Emma asked. "Would you like a soda? Seltzer? It might be a while before Callie — "

  "That's what we came for," Frank interrupted eagerly. "I was hoping we could see Callie."

  Emma laughed. "I sure didn't think you came for the seltzer," she said. "Unfortunately, I don't know where Callie is. She hasn't been around in a couple of days." She smiled at Frank's reaction. "Don't look so upset. She's spending a lot of time on a special project for her class, and she said she'd probably stay overnight with a girl friend sometimes. But I thought she'd call to let me know. When you find her, though, ask her to call me next time. Her mother's my older sister, and she'll kill me if she thinks I'm not being a good chaperon."

  "You don't understand," Frank said. "Callie called me and said she was in trouble. She asked us to help. Don't you have any idea where she might be?"

  Emma Beaudry's smile faded. "You're kidding," she said worriedly. Without her smile she looked older. "No. She hasn't called or anything. I thought it was strange. She's usually so responsible. Oh, dear, what should I do?"

  "There might be something in her room — something to tell us where she's gone." Frank tried to fight a feeling of panic. Now was not the time to get emotional, he told himself sternly. He had one job to do: find Callie, and fast. He noticed Joe giving him a sharp look and quickly rearranged his expression so he looked calm.

  "I don't know what could be in there," Emma was saying as she fingered her wooden necklace like a set of worry beads. "But you're welcome to look."

  She led them down a hallway to a closed door and swung it open. Inside were two chests of drawers painted hot pink, a brass daybed piled high with pillows, a closet, and a small, white desk. Emma switched on the ceiling light.

  "Thanks," Joe said. He eyed the furniture, looking for something out of place, but the room was perfectly neat. "Where do we start?"

  "Pick a place," Frank said. As he and Joe stepped across the threshold, the room seemed to explode in a blinding flash of hot white light.

  Bits of broken glass from the window danced in the air before they clattered to the floor, and the room filled with heavy, oily smoke. Gasoline! A firebomb!

  Joe and Frank stared, caught flat-footed.

  Emma Beaudry stood, round-eyed, gazing fixedly into space. "What's happening?" she asked, slowly turning to Joe. Her expression came alive just then, and her mouth fell open. She pointed at Joe.

  Frank pivoted and saw flames starting to lick at his brother's shirtsleeve.

  "Joe, you're on fire!" he shouted.

  Chapter 2

  JOE FELL TO the floor and began to roll back and forth on his arm. Still, the flames continued to grow and his skin was being singed.

  "Here!" Frank grabbed a blanket from the bed and wound it around Joe's arm.

  The blanket did its job — within seconds the fire was out. "You okay?" Frank asked, inspecting Joe's arm.

  "Yeah," Joe said stoically. "But we've got other problems. Look around."

  Tiny fires had started everywhere around the room—on the drapes, the bed, the area rug — wherever bits of the flaming liquid had landed. Emma scampered from blaze to blaze, trying to smother them with a pillow. But just then the area rug really caught on fire, and flames were rushing up toward the ceiling. "Help me! Please!" Emma yelled.

  The brothers sprang into action. "The mattress," shouted Frank. He and Joe grabbed the mattress, their fingers inches from the tongues of fire fanning across it. "Help me flip it," Frank ordered. "If we can bring it down hard over there — "

  ' Joe was already ahead of him. Deftly, he tossed the mattress over, burning side down, on top of the flaming rug. The curtains at the window flared up behind them. Emma tore them down in a heap on the floor. She stamped them out with her sneakers.

  Now new fires were springing up, and the walls were starting to burn. Emma ran from the room as the Hardys battled each new blaze.

  "No good," Joe called to Frank. "The fire's spreading faster than we can put it out. We'll have to make a ran for it."

  "Here!" cried Emma from the bedroom door. In her hands was a red metal canister — a fire extinguisher.

  "I can't get past the flames," Frank told her, coughing. "You'll have to throw it to me."

  Just then the mattress, which had continued smoldering, burst into flame again. This new fire cut Frank off from both Joe and the door. "Throw the canister!" Frank yelled at Emma. "We're going to roast in here!"

  Panicked, Emma lifted the extinguisher over her head with both hands and tossed it into the room as hard as she could.

  But not far enough, Joe could see. He leapt off the box spring, and, using it as a springboard, dove into the open air as if he were intercepting a pass. He snatched up the fire extinguisher just before it hit the floor, then followed through, landing with a shoulder-roll beside Frank. Joe sprang to his feet and tore the nozzle free from the extinguisher.

  White foam smothered the fires. Within minutes the last flame was put out, leaving only greasy smoke lingering in the air.

  Frank and Joe staggered out of the room. "Where are you going?" Emma asked as they headed for the door. "What about — "

  "No time to explain," Frank said, running past Emma. "Whoever threw that firebomb might have stuck around to see what happened."

  "A firebomb? In this neighborhood? You must be kidding!" Emma called after them.

  As he threw open the front door, a foot slammed into Frank's chest. It sent him staggering back into Joe, who darted around him and rushed out just in time to see a figure dash around the curve of the driveway, heading up to the street. Joe sprinted up the steep curve after him. But by the time Joe reached street level, the fleeing figure had torn open the door of a red Porsche parked on the other side of the street am leapt inside.

  Even before the car door had slammed shut, the motor roared to life and the Porsche screeched around the corner onto Beverly Glen-Drive. Desperately, Joe hurled himself toward the car, but it was too late. The car and the mystery man driving it sped up the twisting road and vanished around a curve.

  Joe ran back to the house. Frank and Emma Beaudry were watching anxiously from the top of the driveway. "We can't let him get away!" Joe shouted, racing back to their rented car.

  Frank joined him, running down the drive. "Wait a minute, Joe. I'll go. You're hurt."

  Joe glowered and looked at his arm. For the first time, he noticed the angry red burns. "You mean these?" he said. "They're no problem."

  "Those need some attention. Now!" He opened the car door. "You stay here. I'll catch up to our friend. Oh, here's your bag — you need clean clothes," Frank said, tossing out Joe's overnight bag.

  Frank climbed into their rental car, then sped out of the driveway and onto the street, turning onto Beverly Glen Drive.

  "I should've gone," Joe mumbled, watching his brother roar away. "I should've gone. Did you get a load of that Porsche he was driving?" Joe asked Emma, who had just joined him. "Whoever we're after has money," he mumbled.

  "Or good taste in stolen cars."

  Emma Beaudry took his arm and pulled him gently toward the house. "Let's see about those burns. Don't worry about Frank. From what Callie's told me about him, I know he'll be all right."

  The canyon roa
d rose higher and higher into the Santa Monica Mountains, twisting and turning more the farther up Frank went.

  To his right, the dirt shoulder fell off into a deep gorge. He skidded along a sharp curve, his right tires off the road and on the shoulder. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, sharply edging the tires back onto the pavement.

  The road straightened out as it neared the top of the mountain. Ahead, barely visible in the distance, Frank could see a lone red car. He floored the accelerator and roared after it, praying no other car would come onto the road. His speedometer needle moved farther and farther to the right, passing forty, fifty, sixty.

  The road straightened and widened into four lanes as at last Frank's car caught up to the car ahead. Frank let out a soft cry of victory.

  It was the red Porsche.

  He slammed on the brakes, his car skidding to the left and swerving around the Porsche. Frank knew he had to cut it off.

  The Porsche was jerked to the left, smashing into Frank's car.

  He slammed on the brakes again, just getting the car under control before it smashed into an oncoming pickup. The Porsche wove back and forth across the road to keep him from passing.

  If that's the way you want to play it, Frank thought, I won't try to pass. But there's no way you're losing me. He stayed on the Porsche's bumper.

  They approached a stop sign at the top of the hill. The Porsche sped up, racing through the intersection and around a curve. Frank heard the car screech to a halt around the side of the mountain, its tires squealing wildly.

  "Spun out, huh?" Frank muttered as he neared , the curve. "Now I've — Huh!"

  As he rounded the curve Frank was blinded by the bright sun, shining straight into his eyes. Just ahead of him he saw the blurred shape of the Porsche. It was stopped, and it was facing him.

  Frank slammed on his brakes and watched in horror as the Porsche revved up and drove straight at him.

  "What the — " Crying out, Frank hit the gas and yanked the wheel hard to the right to avoid the car. But he couldn't make the turn back onto the road and crashed through the guardrail—and off the side of the mountain, flying into space to the canyon floor far below!