No Way Out Read online

“Shhh, I heard something in the water,” Frank whispered, motioning Joe to be quiet. But there were no sounds except the windblown waves of the lake tumbling onto the shore. Frank moved cautiously into the tiny bedroom at the back of the house.

  “Must have been a fish jumping,” Joe muttered. “By the way, I’m not picking up that greasy smell today.” He went to the little kitchen in the corner and began poking through pots and pans. Every once in a while he felt as if someone was watching him, and he turned his head around to check. But there was never anything to see but the walls of the dusty little cottage.

  He didn’t like having his back to the door, so he sped up his search, opening and closing cupboard doors and peering into drawers. There were a few plates and glasses, some forks, and a couple of knives. As Joe reached for the last cupboard door, his focus—and the silence—were shattered.

  “Who are you?” rumbled a gravelly voice. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

  Joe turned slowly and faced the ghost of Baron Brighthall, standing in the dark cottage doorway.

  14 An Unexpected Ally

  “I asked you a question,” the man yelled. “I thought I’d chased all you young people out of here. I told you to find another place for your beach parties. Now, get out!”

  “Are you Baron Whitehall?” Joe said.

  The man’s expression changed instantly to shock, and then what looked like fear. He backed off the little step leading into the cottage, and Joe thought he was going to run.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Frank said, appearing behind the man. “Not until you answer some questions.” Joe realized that Frank had gone out the broken bedroom window and circled around to the front of the cottage.

  The man’s face lost the angry expression he’d used on Joe, and he raised his hands in the air. “All right, all right, Officer,” he said. “Ill tell you what you want to know.”

  “Good, go inside,” Frank said.

  The man walked into the cottage and sat down in a spindly wooden chair with a broken arm. Frank walked in the front door, and Joe joined him in front of the man.

  “Wait a minute,” the man said. “You’re not the police.”

  “It doesn’t matter who we are,” Joe said. “You’re still going to talk to us.”

  The man looked from Joe to Frank and back to Joe. He seemed to decide that they had the upper hand, and shrugged his shoulders as he leaned back against the table. To guarantee there’d be no surprises, the Hardys tied the man’s wrists and his ankles with rope. Then Frank sat down and asked the most obvious question. “Are you Baron Brighthall?”

  “I suppose I am in a way,” the man said, “but probably not the one you mean. I am John Brighthall, Baron Jackson Brighthall’s brother. Jackson has been dead for many years and was the rightful heir to this estate.”

  “And you’ve been creeping around as his ghost all this time?” Joe said. “Why?”

  “I have my reasons, and they’re none of your concern,” Brighthall said.

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong there,” Frank said. “And it will be just as much of a concern to Police Officer Chester, too.”

  “All right, all right, you don’t have to threaten me,” Brighthall said, waving his hand in the air. “I’m tired of haunting, anyway. I’m tired of this whole search. I’ve been doing this for more than ten years. Maybe it’s time I turned in my bow and arrows for another gig.”

  “What search?” Frank asked. The man indeed sounded very tired and as if he’d given up.

  “For the treasure,” Brighthall said. “My brother always talked about a fabulous treasure buried on the estate. When he died, I decided to find it. But I’ve come to believe it never existed, that it was just a hoax my brother played on me.”

  “We heard that your brother was murdered,” Joe said, “and that the murderer has never been found. Do you know who did it? Did you do it?”

  “Of course not,” Brighthall said. “My brother and I weren’t exactly friends, but we were family. He was not murdered. It was an accident. We had a fight—a physical fight—over the treasure. I swear it was an accident, but there were no witnesses.”

  “Why didn’t you tell all this to the police?” Joe asked.

  “I didn’t think they’d believe me,” Brighthall said. “So I fled to Newfoundland, where I hid out for years. I would come over occasionally and search for the treasure. A couple of trespassers came across me once, and they assumed I was my brother’s ghost. When I read the story in the local paper, I decided to capitalize on the idea in order to scare people off the estate. When I heard that Alan Horton had paid off the delinquent taxes and was the new owner, I was determined to find the treasure before he did.”

  “Do you know where Alan is?” Frank asked.

  For the first time, Brighthall seemed to be nervous, edgy. “Uh, no—not exactly,” he said.

  The Hardys closed in, standing very close to the man in the chair. “What do you know?” Frank asked, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “There’s this guy,” Brighthall said. “He caught me on the property. I paid him to keep quiet. But he didn’t want only money. When he found out who I was, he made me give him all my maps—maps of the marble mine beneath the property and of the estate itself, including diagrams of the house. He’s coming back tonight to get the money. It took me a while to get it together.”

  Frank reached in his pocket and pulled out the photo of Bruce MacLaren that Joe had printed from his computer. “Is this the guy?”

  Brighthall squinted at the photo. “No, my man’s clean-shaven—no beard, no mustache.”

  “Imagine this guy without the red fuzz,” Joe said.

  “Okay, yeah, that could be him. What’s going on? What’s he done?”

  “He may have kidnapped Alan Horton,” Frank said. “And since you gave him the maps he might have used to pull off the crime, that makes you an accessory. You can go to prison for a long time as an accessory to kidnapping—or worse.”

  “And when they figure in that you might have killed your brother, too …” Joe added.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?” Brighthall asked. “I don’t know what happened to Alan—although I hope it’s nothing bad. He’s really a pretty decent fellow. Puts on a whale of a show.”

  “When is MacLaren coming by?” Frank asked.

  “Eight thirty.”

  “That’s an hour and a half from now. We’ve got time to set a trap for him. But first we have to make sure we find out where Alan is. You’ve got to help us and, by doing so, you’ll help yourself, too.”

  Frank called Officer Chester and told him about Brighthall. He also laid out his idea for capturing MacLaren and finding Alan. “He wants to talk to you,” Frank said, holding his cell phone next to Brighthall’s ear.

  “Yes, yes,” Brighthall said, nodding his head. “Yes, I swear I will. I’m offended that my maps were used to hurt the Hortons. I just wanted to scare them away. I never meant for any harm to come to them. Yes, I will.”

  Frank took the phone back, spoke to the policeman for another few minutes, and then hung up. ‘We’re going to untie you now,” he said, loosening the knot on one of Brighthall’s ropes. “Officer Chester said you two have a deal. He’s on his way out, and should be here in about forty-five minutes.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to run,” Brighthall said, standing and flexing his arms. “I’m in this to the finish. What do I do first?”

  “Just practice your act,” Frank said. “Remember—you tell MacLaren that you found Joe in the cottage and he’s figured out everything. Tell him that you know he’s kidnapped Alan, and suggest that the two of you kidnap Joe, too. Tell him that Joe’s pretty well-known in America and might be worth a healthy ransom. You have to convince him to kidnap Joe and take him to the same place he’s keeping Alan. We’ll do the rest.”

  Brighthall began pacing the room, rehearsing his lines and adding appropriate facial expressions and gestures.

  �
�You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Frank asked his brother.

  “Absolutely,” Joe said. “We’ve got to find Alan and get him home alive and safe. You’ll have to do the bandage.” He dropped his jeans and leaned over the table. He heard Frank ask if he was ready. Joe gritted his teeth and nodded.

  With one quick yank, Frank peeled back a corner of the large taped dressing on Joe’s calf. Then he reached in his sports bag and took out his GPS. He placed the tracker on Joe’s calf, making sure it was far from his healing wound. Then he rolled the tape down and closed the dressing, concealing the tracker.

  His teeth still tightly clenched, Joe pulled up his jeans and nodded to Frank. Then Frank tied Joe’s wrists with a slipknot so that he could get out of the binding quickly if he had to.

  “Remember,” Frank said to Joe and Brighthall, “just yell if you get in trouble. The police will have people stationed all along the road back to the house; a roadblock at the main gate; and a couple of boats in the lake. They’ll be covering you all the way.”

  “Do we know where the Hortons are?” Joe asked.

  “They’re at the stadium,” Frank said. “Officer Chester said that when it didn’t rain after all, they decided to go on with the games.”

  “I’m going out now,” Frank said. “I’ll catch Officer Chester and he can wait in the woods with me. It’s really dark out, so it’ll be perfect.”

  “Don’t forget the shortcut back to the house that I told you about,” Brighthall said.

  “I won’t,” Frank answered. “And don’t you forget your lines—and whose side you’re on now.” He turned to his brother, tied with the fake binding. “See you soon,” he said.

  “Soon,” Joe repeated.

  At 8:15 Frank hid in the birch woods and waited. Where is he? Frank wondered as the minutes passed. Officer Chester should have been here by now. Finally, he heard footsteps coming down the trail. It’s about time, he thought. MacLaren will be here any minute.

  Frank stretched up to get a better viewpoint, but even in the dark he could tell it was not Officer Chester coming toward the cottage.

  Stomping down the trail was Bruce MacLaren.

  15 The Gallant Knights

  Frank ducked back into the protective cover of the woods. He’s early, he thought. MacLaren’s early. Frank could see the cottage, but he couldn’t hear what was being said. Only ten minutes passed before the door opened again. Joe walked up the trail, followed by the clean-shaven Bruce MacLaren.

  Frank waited until they were out of sight. Then he raced into the cottage.

  “He bought it all,” Brighthall told him. “Said he was going up to the house and he’d be back in touch tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait for Officer Chester,” Frank said. “I have to move now. Wait for him and bring him up to the house when he gets here. I’m sure MacLaren’s going to the secret study, and from there maybe down to the mine. I’ll wait as long as I can before I go after them. You know that house as well as anyone. You’ll be able to find us.”

  Frank checked his GPS receiver and raced to the truck. He used the shortcut and arrived at the house a few minutes before MacLaren and Joe. He waited for Brighthall and Officer Chester as long as he could, but finally had to go inside.

  He ducked into Joe’s downstairs bedroom and heard two sets of footsteps walk through the kitchen, into the hall, and up the curved staircase. The GPS confirmed that one set belonged to Joe.

  Frank followed at a safe distance. He had already guessed where they were going, even without the GPS to tip him off. He waited twenty minutes, then sidled down the upstairs hall and through the hidden door in the back of the closet. Then he stopped at the bottom of the short stairway up to Alan’s secret study, straining to hear what was happening in the little room above.

  He heard footsteps, then a thud. That’s MacLaren jumping up on the drafting table to pull the switch that opens the pocket door, Frank guessed.

  Creaking, and then more footsteps—this time, faster. They’re heading for the elevator, he thought. He raced up the steps two at a time, and raced across the small study. Frank stayed out of sight next to the open pocket door until he heard the elevator door close and start to move. Then he raced down the wide hall, took a deep breath, and carefully stepped onto the top of the elevator as it slid down the chute.

  They’ll never feel that bounce, he assured himself, remembering the lurching, bumpy ride he and Joe had taken earlier. He held tightly to the cable and rode the roof all the way to the bottom.

  The elevator stopped with a shuddering thunk. Please don’t cave in, Frank thought as marble grit and chunky shards rained down on his head. The door below him opened, and a flashlight beam shot out. There was almost a yard between the elevator and the marble wall. He ducked over to the other side of the roof, in case MacLaren was tempted to look up. When he heard the two sets of footsteps leave the elevator, he relaxed for a minute.

  He checked his GPS. Joe had walked straight for several yards, then turned left. Frank slid off the top of the elevator and pulled his penlight from his pocket. Following the light beam and his GPS, he tracked Joe through several tunnels until he heard voices ahead. He stopped and leaned close to the dirty wall so he could hear what they said.

  In the room just ahead of Frank, Joe felt the cold marble through his shirt as he leaned against the wall. Alan Horton sat next to him on the floor. They were both tied with their wrists behind their backs, but only Joe knew that his binding was fake.

  “This is like a real room,” Joe said. There was a makeshift table made from stacked wooden pilings in the center of the round space. An old kerosene lantern sat on top of the stack, and it had actually fired up when MacLaren lit it.

  “I hear you’re quite an archer,” Joe said to MacLaren. “An Olympian, even. Where did you get the fire for the arrow you shot on Friday night?”

  “No problem, really,” MacLaren answered. “My arrow was already dipped in fuel, so a lighter was all I needed.”

  “And you’re also the one who set me up for the falcon attack in the stables?” Joe asked.

  “Of course,” MacLaren said with a smarmy smile. “You were the logical choice since you had been such a stunning volunteer in the opening ceremonies. My family has always had falcons, so I know how to handle them. It was easy enough for me to steal one from a local hunter.”

  “He stole the gauntlet from the trunk in my study,” Alan told Joe. “I caught him up there the night before. Remember? Frank was sneaking around that night and said he saw someone at the top of the stairs. Then, when I wanted to show you the gauntlet, it wasn’t there. I knew that it had been stolen—and I was sure it was MacLaren.”

  “Is he the one who called while I was there?” Joe asked.

  “No, that was a business call,” Alan said.

  “Don’t be modest, Alan,” MacLaren said. “This young man deserves to know how you make your living, how you solve puzzles for other people.”

  “I already know all about it,” Joe said. “Is that why you kidnapped him?”

  “Of course,” MacLaren said. “Alan should fetch me quite a lot of money—either from the people he works for … or from the people he works against. I’ll just auction him off to the highest bidder.”

  “How did you find out about the house, and the hidden study, and the elevator into the mine?” Alan asked MacLaren.

  “I have my sources.”

  “We know all about him, too,” Joe said. He explained to Alan about the baron’s brother and how he was now working with the police. He could tell he had struck a nerve by the way MacLaren’s eyes narrowed and glared at him.

  “I think you’re going to be too much baggage,” MacLaren said to Joe. “I have a feeling there’s no way the ransom you’d bring me will be worth the problems you’ll cause me.” He walked over to Joe. “Let’s just take a little walk. I’m sure we can find a room for you and you alone down here—one that no one else will ever find. Stand up.”

  Jo
e wriggled up to his feet—not an easy task with his hands behind his back and the sharp pains jabbing through his calf. He wiggled his right hand free and waited until MacLaren was just close enough. Then he brought his fist around from behind his back and delivered a sledgehammer blow up into MacLaren’s chin.

  “Nice shot,” Frank declared as he ran into the room.

  MacLaren stumbled back a few feet, then seemed to regain his balance. He hurled his huge body into Frank with a vicious head-butt into his gut. Frank slammed against the marble with a groan. Joe reached into the stack of wood and yanked out a plank. With one well-aimed blow to MacLaren’s kidneys, he dropped the man to his knees. Frank delivered a two-fisted wallop to the side of MacLaren’s head, and the man toppled onto the floor like a felled tree.

  When John Brighthall finally brought Officer Chester and his deputy into the room, MacLaren had regained consciousness, but was tied up with both Alan’s and Joe’s ropes. There was no need for handcuffs.

  The two police officers, Brighthall, and MacLaren took the first elevator ride up. Then they sent the little car back down for the Hardys and Alan.

  By the time Frank, Joe, and Alan arrived downstairs in the Horton house, Brighthall and MacLaren were on their way to the police station, and Officer Chester and Shorty had brought Penny and the twins back to the house.

  Alan poured goblets of mulled cider for everyone. “Here’s a toast to Frank Hardy and Joe Hardy,” he announced, “and I hereby proclaim them Gallant Knights of EagleSpy.”

  The Hardys gently bowed their heads and smiled. Then they caught the others up to speed.

  “That reminds me, Joe,” Officer Chester said. “I asked Brighthall how he got into the maze last night. He says he didn’t—he was in Newfoundland rounding up money to give to MacLaren.”

  Reluctantly, Joe told the others about his three A.M. trip through the maze.

  “But if Brighthall was in Newfoundland, who did you see in the maze?” Ray asked Joe.

  “Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Are you saying Joe really did see a ghost?”