Double Exposure

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 22

  Double Exposure

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "BACON CHEESEBURGERS—they're the best," Joe Hardy said, licking a drop of sauce off his fingers.

  Frank Hardy shook his head at his younger brother. "I don't see how you can eat that glop, Joe. Do you have a clue as to what that sauce is made of?" He pulled his own burger from the box on the car seat between them. "At least you know where you stand with a plain burger." He took a bite.

  "Plain is dull," Joe said. "Like bland Mexican food,"

  "Plain meat," — Frank took another bite, waving his burger in front of Joe's hungry eyes — "and a plain bun." After downing the last of it, he swallowed contentedly and brushed crumbs off his jeans. "That's how the hamburger was made to be eaten."

  "I'll only agree that it was made to be eaten," Joe said, leaning over the steering wheel. "Even if this guy never shows up, finding that burger joint made the trip worth it. Let's hit it again tomorrow night."

  Frank checked his watch. Their contact was almost half an hour late. "Maybe I'll cook tomorrow night," he said. With their parents away on a fishing trip in Canada, and their Aunt Gertrude off visiting a friend, he and Joe had been eating out—and more often than not, they'd had junk food. Frank was beginning to feel unhealthy and bloated, but his lean, six-foot-one frame didn't show the effects of the past week's "diet." And , Joe, though a lot broader than Frank. "You? Cook? Please," Joe said, holding his hand over his mouth. "I just ate." "Very funny," Frank said. "Why can't Callie come over and cook for us?" Joe teased with a grin. "I think it's the least your girlfriend could do."

  "I can't believe you said that, Joe," Frank told him. "Just because Callie's a girl doesn't mean she cooks."

  "True," Joe said good-naturedly. "But she is a good cook."

  "Hopeless," Frank muttered. "I'll throw this stuff out." He picked up the trash and stepped out of the van to look for a basket.

  The street was empty and quiet, save for the slap of waves from the nearby bay. Frank shivered involuntarily, wishing that he'd worn something heavier than his windbreaker. The day had been sunny and warm, but fog and clouds had rolled in at dusk and the temperature had dropped.

  They were parked in Bayport's old port section. Seventy years ago it had been a thriving waterfront district — but now, many buildings facing the piers were run-down and abandoned, the streets covered with litter, the sidewalks cracked with weeds pushing up through them, the docks themselves silent and bare.

  Their father often told them this part of town was dangerous. And it looked it. But because of its reputation no one ventured there after dark, making it a perfect place for a secret meeting. Which is why our contact suggested it, Frank supposed. He caught sight of a dumpster about ten feet behind them and started toward it.

  "Hey!" Joe called.

  Frank turned at the sound. His brother was leaning out the side of the van, waving frantically. "Someone's coming!"

  Frank looked. Sure enough, far up the street, he could see the headlights of a car cutting a dull yellow tunnel through the light fog. He threw up the lid of the dumpster, tossed his trash inside, and dashed back to the van.

  "Action at last," Joe said as Frank slid into the passenger seat.

  "Don't be so eager," Frank said. "I would have thought that after our last escapade, you might want a bit of a rest."

  Joe smiled wickedly. "Not on your life."

  Frank shook his head. Both he and Joe had nearly gotten killed in their last case, Street Spies, working undercover in New York City. But it hadn't stopped either of them from coming to this meeting. Like it or not, adventure was a way of life for the Hardy brothers.

  "What could this guy possibly have that could clear Janosik?" Joe asked. "From what the papers are saying, it's an open-and-shut case."

  "Don't believe everything you read," Frank said. Like everyone else, he'd followed the meteoric rise of Alexander Janosik, the Czechoslovakian dissident now living in the United States whom the papers had dubbed "the conscience of the Eastern Bloc countries." Now those same papers were saying Janosik had been paid by the CIA to make trouble for his native land. But Frank was standing by his original opinion of the man.

  "You've seen him make those speeches, Joe," Frank said. "Do you think he said those things for money?"

  "If it was a lot of money,' Joe pointed out.

  "Money isn't everything," Frank said. "What I'm wondering is why our contact wants to keep this meeting secret—and why he insisted on seeing Dad alone." The boys had been monitoring their dad's answering machine while he was away and decided this call was urgent and demanded their immediate attention.

  "Well, we'll know in a second," Joe said. "Here he comes."

  The headlights were inching toward them slowly — maybe ten miles an hour, Frank guessed,

  although he could barely see the car because of the fog and the glare of the headlights.

  "Wow," Joe said, raising a hand to just above his eyes. He wanted to shield them from the glare. "Is that — yeah, it is." He nodded to himself. "A fifty-six Mercedes SL. You don't usually see one of those outside a museum." Joe was always fascinated by cars, especially expensive ones.

  "Tinted glass," Frank noticed as the car nosed up next to them on Joe's side. The driver's window slid slowly down—and Frank and Joe found themselves face-to-face with one of the most formidable-looking men they'd ever seen.

  Just sitting there, the guy gave off an aura of strength. Joe guessed he had to be over six feet, probably closer to six-six. Of course he could have short legs. But he had to weigh two hundred and fifty, judging by his beefy hands and the way his turtleneck strained across the muscles in his arms. His dark hair was clipped close in a way usually seen at army bases or prisons. But what truly made the man remarkable were his eyes.

  His glance flicked over everything, but he seemed to look right through what he saw—as if the Hardys weren't any different from the Dumpster behind them. Those eyes turned people into things.

  "Hi," Joe said hesitantly. Could this be their contact?

  The man glanced at Joe, then Frank, then half turned his head to the back seat.

  "Kids," he said in an accent Frank couldn't place.

  The reply from the back seat was muffled, but its meaning was clear. Not even giving the Hardys a second look, the driver slid his window up and the Mercedes pulled away.

  The brothers stared at each other. "Wow," Joe said. "Who was that?"

  "Well, he wasn't our contact," Frank said, exhaling a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.

  "I'm glad," Joe replied. "Talk about creepy." "You can say that again," Frank said, leaning back. "Still — "

  "What was he doing here?" Joe asked, anticipating Frank's question. "I hope we never find out."

  Frank grinned and checked his watch again. "I don't think we're going to find out anything tonight. It doesn't look like our mysterious caller is going to show."

  "Let's get back home then," Joe said, starting up the van. "We can rent a movie for the VCR, Callie can come over and make us some nachos — " He turned to Frank and smiled. "Just kidding." Frank shook his head. "Hopeless." Joe fastened his seat belt and checked the view in the van's mirrors. He reached out the window to adjust the side-view mirror. A hand grasped his wrist. "Don't be alarmed." A man had emerged out of the fog, leaning in through Joe's window. The upturned collar of his coat didn't give him much protection from the breeze that had come up. His sandy-colored hair was blowing across his forehead as he stared at Joe with gray, intelligent eyes. "You have blond hair." He spoke quietly, with the slightest trace of an English accent. "You must be Joe Hardy."

  The man peered into the van. "And you have dark hair—so you're Frank." He shook his head. "I expected your father."

  "He's away and we've been answering his messages," Joe said, his heart still racing from being startled by the man's sudden appearance. "How'd you know who we were?" he demanded.

  "I asked Fenton to come, and two young men who resemble him have been parked here for an hour. I can add two and two."

  Frank stepped out of the van and crossed around the front of it. Now that he was closer, he saw the man was younger than he'd first thought—twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Though his manners were formal, there was a sparkle in his eyes as he studied Frank—almost as if he were looking at an old friend, instead of someone he'd just met.

  "You said on Dad's machine that you have information that will prove Janosik is being framed," Frank said.

  The stranger stared at him silently for a moment. "Yes," he finally said. "I suppose I should trust you, too." He smiled. "After all, we're family."

  Frank raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. "Who are you?" "Call me Chris," the man said. "I'm — "

  Just then the van, the Hardys, and their contact were bathed in a blinding light.

  "What?" The stranger turned, raising an arm to shield his face from the glare.

  Blinded himself, Frank heard a car roaring toward them.

  "The Mercedes!" Joe yelled.

  Whatever it was — it was coming fast. It had to be doing sixty, Frank realized.

  "What the — " Joe began.

  A figure was leaning out the car window. As the Mercedes drove past, Frank saw that the person was holding a gun.

  "Duck!" Joe yelled.

  Gunshots rang out—a half dozen in quick succession.

  Their contact spun around, then collapsed on
the street.

  Chapter 2

  As SOON AS HE HEARD GUNFIRE, Frank flung himself down and rolled under the van. Another shot rang out, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Then the Mercedes roared past.

  "Joe!" Frank yelled, scrambling to his feet.

  The window on the driver's side had disintegrated. Joe, who had been looking out at Frank and their contact when the shots were fired, was nowhere to be seen.

  Frank's heart was racing. Had his brother been hit? "Joe! You all right?"

  Joe's head popped up in the shattered window as he brushed pieces of glass off himself. "I'm fine. But what's — " His words were cut off when he saw the contact sprawled on the ground.

  "Oh, no!" Frank knelt beside Chris and reached inside his overcoat to check the wound. He pulled out an oblong plastic box, about the size of a hardcover book. It was completely shattered — though it still held the remnants of what had obviously been a videocassette.

  Chris's eyes cracked open, and he moaned.

  "You are one lucky guy," Frank said, opening Chris's overcoat all the way. The bullet had been deflected by the videocassette and had just creased the inside of his arm. It probably stung like mad—but he was alive. "He's okay!" he called to Joe.

  Joe looked down the road. The Mercedes' tail-lights had been swallowed up by the dark and fog. "Well, I'm going to see if I can catch up with those guys," he said, revving the engine. "Nobody takes potshots at us and gets away with it!"

  "Don't be a hero!" Frank yelled after him. "We'll call the police, and — "

  He might have saved his voice. Joe had put his foot to the floor, and the van had already disappeared.

  "No police," Chris said weakly, grabbing onto Frank's shoulder. His face was white. He was still in shock from the impact of the bullet. ""Police — they can't handle — your brother will be killed."

  "Take it easy," Frank said. "Joe can take care of himself." But remembering the Mercedes' driver, he had to admit he was a little worried.

  Joe wasn't worried — he was mad. That was half the reason he was driving faster than usual down the two-lane winding coast road. The other reason was that there were no exits on the road until the next town. He wanted to get the Mercedes in sight before it turned off.

  Swinging out of a sharp curve, he found the Mercedes—parked directly across the road, blocking his path!

  Joe slammed on his brakes and the van fish-tailed to a screeching stop inches short of a collision.

  "Dumb, dumb, dumb," he told himself. "I should have guessed they'd know I'd follow them."

  "Out of the van." Joe turned and saw the driver of the Mercedes advancing toward him, holding out a gun aimed directly at him. Out of the car, he looked even bigger than Joe had guessed.

  "Now!" The man waved the barrel of his gun.

  Joe stepped cautiously out of the van.

  "Put your hands behind your back."

  He did as he was told, keeping one eye on the man.

  "Now," the driver said. "I don't know why you're following us, but I want you to remember one thing — I could have just killed you, very easily." He stared at Joe, his eyes cold and unblinking, seeing through him again. "I want you to remember just how easily."

  He walked forward till the barrel was less than an inch from Joe's head. Then he cocked the trigger. "And now I want you to remember how important it is to stay out of other people's affairs, affairs that don't concern you. Will you remember?"

  "I have an excellent memory." Joe met the guy's gaze coolly, waiting for an opening, any chance to disarm the man. "I certainly couldn't forget a face like yours, for instance."

  The man's eyes narrowed. "I see that you may need a further lesson."

  Joe smiled. "You may be right. But who is going to teach me?" He deepened his voice, mimicking the man's accent.

  The guy's eyes flashed. "I would be happy to."

  Joe nodded toward the gun. "And do you need that to do it?"

  Tightening his lips into a straight line, the man rammed his weapon into its shoulder holster.

  "Gregor, no!" A small, balding man with wire-rim glasses and a loose-fitting suit burst from the back of the Mercedes. "I forbid it," he said, stepping toward them. "We cannot afford to — "

  "Security is my department, Doctor," the man-mountain said. "Besides, this will only take ' a moment." He turned back to Joe. "Now," he said, balling his hands into fists. "Let's begin - your lesson, shall we?"

  Joe feinted quickly, then stepped back. He was pleased he'd gotten the driver—Gregor, that was what the other man had called him—to put away his gun. Now if he could just hold them there till Frank came with the police—"Don't run away, my friend," Gregor said, moving toward him again. "How can I give you your lesson if you run away?" He took a halfhearted swing at Joe, trying to draw him closer.

  He's big, all right, Joe thought, but he doesn't seem fast. Joe usually depended on his strength, not his speed, but Gregor was so much bigger than he was that Joe would have to use whatever advantages he had.

  Seeing an opening, Joe darted left, tagging Gregor in the stomach with a hard right. Perfect!

  But Gregor just stood there, smiling. "That is your best punch?"

  Joe had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. That punch would have had anybody else doubled over, gasping for breath. Gregor didn't seem affected by it at all.

  "Now let me show you my best," Gregor said. With that, he swung—much faster than he'd moved before, much faster than Joe would have believed possible for a man his size. He caught Joe square on the jaw. The force of the blow spun Joe around, and he pitched face forward onto the ground. He lay there, stunned.

  Gregor stood over Joe, hands on his hips', staring down. "You are strong," he said. "But it seems you cannot take a punch. Perhaps you will need lessons in that as well."

  Joe struggled to his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Suckered, he thought. He shouldn't have assumed that Gregor was slow just because he was big.

  Gregor grabbed him by the neck of his sweatshirt and hauled him to his feet.

  "Let us finish this lesson first, though," he said, drawing back his arm.

  Joe saw Gregor's fist, about the size of the moon, hurtling toward him till it filled his field of vision.

  Then the world went black.

  Someone was shaking his shoulder.

  "Joe! Wake up!" It was a woman's voice. It must be his mother, trying to wake him up.

  "I don't think I can go to school today, Mom," Joe mumbled. "I have a terrible headache." He turned onto his side. His mattress felt awfully hard. "Maybe I should go back to sleep."

  "Do that, and you're likely to get run over." That was his brother's voice. "Frank?" Joe asked out loud. He opened his eyes.

  He was lying by the side of the road. Frank was kneeling on one side of him, and Callie Shaw on the other.

  "Oh, yeah," Joe said, rubbing his jaw. "Now I remember."

  "Are you okay? What happened?" Frank ' asked, helping him sit up.

  "The driver of that Mercedes had a hard right. That's what happened." He looked at Callie. "How'd you get here?"

  "He wouldn't let me call the police." Frank nodded toward Callie's car, which was parked by the side of the road. Chris sat in the back seat. "He said he'd tell us everything he knew, as long as we didn't bring the cops in. I asked Callie to come and get us, and we went looking for you."

  Joe shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

  "Did you get a license number?" Frank asked.

  "No, it all happened too fast. But that shouldn't matter—that guy in the back of Callie's car has to know who they were." Joe wobbled to his feet.

  "Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "Give him a chance to catch his breath before you start interrogating him."

  Joe waved his brother's concerns aside. "Relax—I have just a few simple questions for him."

  He walked over to Callie's car. Chris looked up at him through the window.

  Joe slammed his hand on the roof—hard. "All right, friend," he said, glaring at Chris. "Start talking. Who were those two guys in the Mercedes — the little man with the glasses and his king-size friend. And why were they shooting at you?"

  "Easy, Joe," Frank said, laying a hand on his brother's arm. "He's hurt."

  Chris climbed out of the car, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never meant for anyone to be hurt — especially you two." He set his jaw, and a muscle just above the bone moved in and out. "It's too dangerous — I should never have come here. I can't — I won't tell you who they are. They'll kill you!"