Trouble Times Two Read online

  Screeching across the old linoleum floor, the four-drawer file nearly flew to the window.

  “Turn it so the drawers will be on top when we pick it up,” Frank ordered.

  Frank set a foot against the back of the cabinet. Russ Gilliam heaved at the top. Four sets of hands stood ready to take the weight as the cabinet angled back, back . . .

  “We’ve got the top!” Joe shouted from where he and Kev struggled for a hold.

  “Here comes the bottom!” Don Wylie grunted with effort as he and Tom fought to pick up the weight. Frank scrambled to help them. Now they had the file cabinet parallel with the floor.

  “We’ll all have to move together,” Frank warned. “Okay, on my count. One step back . . . two steps . . .”

  They staggered back under the weight of their makeshift battering ram.

  “Now—charge!”

  Desperately, they ran across the room. The top of the cabinet smashed against the grating and bounced back.

  “Careful!” Joe yelled as the battering ram nearly leaped from their arms.

  “Back up again!” Frank ordered. “Here we go! One step . . . two . . .”

  As they repeated the moves, the teamwork became smoother. Two more thumps into the grating tore it free.

  Success almost turned to disaster. The metal grillwork fell down on Joe and Kev as they pulled the file cabinet back.

  “Let it go!” Frank shouted. “Get your hands out from under!”

  The file cabinet fell to the floor with a deafening crash. For a second, they couldn’t hear the noise of the flames in the warehouse.

  With only one usable arm, Russ Gilliam hadn’t been much help swinging the battering ram. But now he attacked the safety glass of the window with the heavy hammer Nicolai had left.

  Joe joined him, battering the wire-reinforced glass out of its fittings. Then they made sure that no sharp shards were in the way for the attack on the outside window bars.

  It was harder raising the file cabinet from where it lay flat on the floor. But working like madmen, they managed to lever the heavy weight up. Then, bracing themselves, they heaved, and heaved again . . . .

  With an unearthly screech, the metal rods began parting company with the concrete they’d been set in. Sirens of arriving fire trucks added a weird harmony.

  Firefighters were leaping off almost before the trucks came to a stop. Some ran to the warehouse entrance. Others dragged hoses and attaching them to the hydrants by the street. Gauntleted fists thundered against the office door.

  “Anyone inside?” a voice called.

  “Over here!” Frank yelled. “We’re locked inside!”

  Firefighters swarmed to the window as the bars finally popped free. Working feverishly with the newcomers, Frank and the others managed to bend the bars back, back . . .

  At last, there was enough room for those inside to wriggle free.

  The first one out was the still-unconscious guard. As Frank gently passed him into the waiting arms of the firefighters, he stared at the swollen lump on the man’s skull.

  Frank was the last out of the window. Behind him, a horrible red glow glared from all around the closed door into the warehouse. Smoke was filling the room. Frank coughed as he scrambled out and was caught by practiced hands.

  Firefighters deposited him on the sidewalk outside the warehouse. A pair of arms supported him while a surprisingly pretty firefighter pressed a mask to Frank’s face.

  Oxygen-rich air poured into Frank’s nose and mouth. Gently, the firefighter led him over to the trucks. An ambulance had arrived at some point. Frank had completely missed it.

  “You were in the longest,” the young woman said. “The paramedics will want to check you out.”

  An earth-shattering crash cut off her soothing words. Frank turned to see part of the warehouse roof fall in. Flames reared up through the hole, rising several stories into the sky.

  On the ground firefighters redirected several of their hoses. Water arced through the air, landing on the roof around the hole.

  Frank shook his head. The place looked like a complete loss. He hoped Don Wylie had been prudent with his insurance.

  Wiping an arm across his stinging eyes, Frank took in the scene around him. Where was Mr. Wylie?

  After a moment Frank found the businessman standing by a police car. Wylie was talking very intently with a patrol officer, who held up his mobile radio.

  Even as Frank watched, another police car made its way through the chaos. Con Riley emerged and made a beeline for Donald Wylie.

  Sure, Frank thought. If Kev’s dad was guilty before, he’ll be angry after Nicolai’s attempted barbecue. Con will be getting an earful about Nicolai, his gang, and their plans.

  Frank sighed, suddenly spotting Kev. The boy stood off to one side of the patrol car, watching his father. Did it help to see his father doing the right thing? Frank hoped so. Kev’s whole world had been turned on its head this evening. He had really looked up to his dad. His confidence and trust had been severely shaken by Don Wylie’s confessions.

  Frank let himself be led off for his medical check. Speaking of fathers and sons . . .

  Russ and Tom Gilliam stood by the ambulance. The older Gilliam had gotten a new sling for his arm. And off to one side was Joe, taking a sip from a cup.

  “You okay?” Joe asked, taking in the air tank and mask.

  “Fine.” Frank didn’t even cough as he answered. “I wonder if I could get hold of one of these gizmos for Bannerman’s class.”

  Joe looked baffled.

  “Believe me, sometimes you could use a shot of fresh air when he begins lecturing.”

  Joe was laughing as Tom and his dad came over.

  “I have to thank you for getting us out of—that.” Russ Gilliam’s face was serious as he nodded to the burning warehouse. Yet, somehow, he looked much younger all of a sudden.

  “We all worked together,” Frank said. “And we got some crucial help from Tom and his trusty box cutter.”

  Tom chuckled, then got more serious. “Maybe this seems like a weird time to say it, but about that project”—he cleared his throat—“I’m not going to be captain.”

  “Are you off again?” Joe asked.

  “No, we’ll be in Bayport for a bit. Dad has some stuff he needs to straighten out. But I’m not going to make any arguments against whistle-blowing.” Tom glanced at his father. “Not anymore.”

  “I’ll talk to Phil and the other kids,” Frank said. “I’m sure we can find another way to approach the project.”

  “If there’s any help I can give,” Russ Gilliam offered, “I’ll happily talk about my former profession.”

  “Former?” Frank repeated.

  The older man nodded. “If it sounds drastic, well, I had some drastic thinking to do when Tom disappeared. I realized—almost too late—that it was time to stop whistle-blowing and become a father.”

  He put his good arm around his son’s shoulders. “There’s a lot to sort out. But I have a financial cushion to do that. I’ll set up a nice, quiet accounting business. A town where no one knows me . . .”

  He turned away as a camera crew came charging out of a news van. “Which lets out Bayport, I’m afraid.”

  Frank nodded. “Do you think you’ll miss digging up trouble?”

  Gilliam watched the roaring flames consume the warehouse. “There’s such a thing as getting out while you’re ahead. I think Tom and I will have challenges enough, trying to settle down and be a family.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” Tom promised. “From now on Trouble Boy is history.”

  Frank laughed at Russ Gilliam’s reply.

  “That goes double for me, son,” he said. “That goes double for me.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or person
s, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition May 2002

  First Minstrel edition May 2001

  Copyright © 2001 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  ISBN 0-7434-0682-6

  ISBN 978-0-7434-2764-7 (eBook)