Deadfall Read online

  "Let's cross the river here and try to find him," said Joe. "That fire isn't getting any smaller."

  "We can't cross without a bridge," Frank said. "The current's too strong to swim, and it's too deep to wade across."

  "We don't have time to go to the bridge. Look, over there!" Callie pointed to what looked like a floating forest that ran from one bank of the river to the other. "That's a log raft. When the loggers cut trees down upriver they float the logs down to here. A chain strung across the river catches them and holds them like cattle in a pen."

  "You want to cross on that? It seems like a great way to end up getting wet." Frank eyed the enormous logs floating in the coursing river. There were chains on bright red floats lashed to

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  thick posts on either bank, but the logs themselves appeared to be slick and would be dangerous to step on in the fast current.

  *'It's our only chance," said Callie, flinging off her pack and starting on ahead of the Har-dys. ''Uncle Stan could be hurt!"

  Frank glanced at his younger brother. Joe shrugged. "We'd better keep up," he said, ''or she'll go without us."

  The brothers tossed their packs down next to Callie's and hurried after her to the edge of the river. The logs bucked and tossed on top of the rushing water. "Uncle Stan showed me how to do this last summer. I'll go first," Callie shouted over the noise of the river. Before Frank could stop her, she had half-stepped, half-slid onto the first enormous, algae-covered log. For a terrible moment Frank watched as she lost her footing, but she instantly caught herself and jumped lightly to the next rearing log.

  "The secret is to keep moving," she shouted back over her shoulder.

  "I'm next," Joe announced, sliding recklessly down the riverbank and barely landing on a log. When Callie was halfway across the river with Joe a few feet behind her, Frank slid down the bank to land unsteadily on a log.

  This is like dancing on ice, Frank thought.

  Moments later, muddy and wet from the spray of river water, Frank joined the other two on the top of the far bank.

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  "Let's not waste time," Joe said. 'The fire's bigger. And I still don't see Stan!"

  As the three of them ran toward the blazing mill, they heard a siren approaching. A moment later they spotted a fire truck through the trees. Men in everyday clothes and yellow helmets were hanging on to the sides of the truck. They looked as though they'd dropped whatever they were doing to come to fight the fire.

  As the teenagers neared the mill, the parking lot came into view. "Stan's truck is gone," Frank said, relieved. "He must have left before the explosion. But wouldn't he have heard it?"

  "No time to worry about that now," Joe pointed out. "This is a volunteer fire department—just the local townspeople. They could probably use our help."

  "There're more volunteers coming," Callie said, pointing down the road. "In a little town like this, everybody has to pitch in." Behind the fire truck were several cars with flashing red lights stuck on to their dashboards. The drivers and passengers were staring, awestruck, at the growing blaze.

  As they jogged toward the parking lot to meet the fire truck, Frank could hear the siren wailing in Crosscut, far down the mountain. At the same time another siren sounded and Frank spotted a police car racing up the mountain from the opposite direction. He wondered whether it would be the Sheriff Ferris that Stan had mentioned at the general store.

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  The volunteer fire fighters had piled off the truck and were unwinding the enormous fire hose and heading toward the blaze with it. Frank approached one of the men, who was already sweating under his yellow helmet. **Anything we can do to help?" he shouted over the noise of the sheriffs siren.

  ''Sure. Line up and help move the hose," the man commanded. 'Tell the others to do the same. We think somebody might still be in there."

  Callie's face went pale in spite of the incredible heat from the blaze.

  Frank put an arm around her. "Remember," he cautioned, "Stan's truck is gone. There's no reason to think it's him."

  Before Callie could respond another car pulled up beside the trio and a man and woman in jeans and T-shirts leapt out. "How can we help?" the woman demanded, her eyes switching from Frank to the enormous, frightening blaze.

  "Help with the hose," Frank told her. "We'll need all the volunteers we can get."

  By now the fire had spread throughout the mill. Two warehouses and one of the huge piles of lumber that lay at the edge of the property were also burning. More cars and trucks had arrived from town. The instant they stopped in the parking lot, loggers and other locals leapt out to help.

  The sheriff was kept busy giving orders to the volunteers, Frank noticed as he fought to hold

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  on to the bucking hose. The loggers were so organized, he had a feeling they'd been through all this before.

  'They found someone!" Callie shouted just then. ''Look! They're bringing him out now!"

  The volunteers surged forward as three men emerged from the flaming mill carrying a blanket-covered body. Frank heard another siren over the noise of the crowd and swiveled around to see an ambulance arriving.

  Almost instantly a pair of paramedics worked their way through the crowd with a stretcher and a portable oxygen tank. Frank strained to see who the victim was, but smoke and the crowd blocked his view. He knew Callie was even more anxious than he was.

  Fifteen minutes later the paramedics passed through the crowd on their way back to their ambulance, this time carrying the body of a huge man, now completely covered with the blanket.

  "It's Buster!" Frank heard everyone murmur as the stretcher passed by them. "Buster Owens! Burned in his own mill!"

  "Oh, no." Frank turned to Callie. Her face revealed a mixture of horror at Owens's death and relief that it wasn't her uncle. Suddenly she began to cry. Frank put an arm around her.

  "He must have died from smoke inhalation," Joe shouted to them, dazed. "I wonder what started the fire?"

  Before anyone could answer, they were interrupted by Stan Shaw. "Callie!" he was shouting

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  as he jogged toward them from the parking lot. '*Are you okay?"

  "Uncle Stan!" Callie broke free from Frank to run to hug her uncle. Stan Shaw looked perfectly fine, though he was obviously stunned and confused by all that was going on.

  *'I don't believe it," Stan said when Callie told him what had happened. *'I was talking with Buster less than an hour ago. Poor guy."

  Just then, another explosion sounded from the mill. Glass from several windows was blown out, and a few of the people near the front of the crowd cried out as shards dug into their skin.

  ''They've been cut!" someone shouted. "Stop the ambulance!"

  The ambulance carrying Buster Owens had already disappeared up the road, though.

  "Stan Shaw!" Freddy Zackarias, the skinny, loud-mouthed logger from the general store, shouted. "You've got a first-aid kit in your truck, don't you?"

  "Right!" Stan turned to the teenagers. "Come on! I have some blankets, too. Let someone else take over that hose."

  Frank, Joe, and Callie quickly transferred the hose to waiting hands and followed Stan at a fast jog to his truck on the edge of the lot.

  "Hey, Stan," Frank called as he caught up with the older man. "I meant to ask you something. We saw your truck here earlier. What were you—"

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  ''Yes?" Stan's hand froze as he opened the back of the truck. "What was I what, Frank?"

  Frank leaned into the truck to pull blankets out. ''What were you doing here? We thought maybe Buster Owens was—" Frank's words died on his lips. The blanket he was holding had been partially concealing something.

  Frank stared at what had been hidden beneath the blankets. There, beside a first-aid kit, was an open crate. In the crate lay more than a dozen sticks of dynamite!

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  ''What's
up?" Joe asked, reaching past his brother for the first-aid kit. When he saw what was inside he gasped out loud.

  "Excuse me, Stan. What are you doing with a truck full of dynamite?"

  "A what?" CalHe demanded, peering around Frank and Joe. As she saw the dynamite and took in the situation her mouth dropped open. "Uncle Stan," she said in a deadly calm voice, "what's that doing there?"

  "I don't know," her uncle said, sweat forming on his forehead. "I've never seen it before. I swear!"

  "Your truck was here eariier," Joe said quietly, almost as though talking to himself. "We saw it. After the explosion we noticed it was gone."

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  He was interrupted by the screech of a walkie-talkie, and spun around to see a sheriff approaching with a radio in his hand.

  "Uh, Sheriff F-Ferris!" Stan stammered, turning his back on the truck. "Can I help you?"

  ''You sure can, Stan," the sheriff said, nodding briefly to Callie and the boys. "I heard you have some first-aid supplies we can use. My deputy took my kit out and forgot to replace it. They've got all the injured folks laid out in the parking lot right now, but the nearest ambulance is thirty miles away. Looks hke we're going to have to fix 'em up ourselves."

  "Right. Uh, you know my niece, Callie." As Joe watched, Stan pulled Callie in front of him and used her almost as a shield. "And these two boys are friends of hers from back East. Frank and Joe Hardy—their dad's a detective!"

  "Pleased to meet you," the sheriff said hurriedly, touching his hat to the Hardys. He hesitated midgesture. "Your dad's not Fenton Hardy, is he? The guy who solved that big show-business case down in Los Angeles a few years back?"

  "Yes, sir," Joe said.

  "Well, well! It's a shame he's not here now to help investigate this catastrophe," the sheriff said. "There must be half a million dollars' worth of damage here so far, and that's just to the buildings alone. We can thank our stars the place was closed today."

  He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his

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  brow. When he took it down it was black from soot and sweat. '"Vd better get those supplies. You don't mind, do you?" he asked Stan as he edged past him to the truck.

  Stan, Callie, and the Hardys watched helplessly as the sheriff leaned inside.

  He froze. Behind him, Stan coughed.

  '*Stan,'' the sheriff said gravely, straightening up. "What's this dynamite doing in here?"

  "I—1—1 don't know. Sheriff. I've never seen it b-before," Stan stammered, turning pale.

  '*Someone must have planted it on him," Callie defended her uncle. 'They're trying to get him blamed for this fire."

  The sheriff stepped away from the car, all of a sudden very professional and serious. 'There are half a dozen sticks missing. Why?"

  ''He told you he doesn't know!" Joe broke in. "Anyway, you don't know that the fire was started by dynamite, do you?"

  The sheriff shook his head. "1 radioed the county seat for a couple of fire investigators. 1 admit I don't know much about fires, but I do know that this got started too fast and too loud to be anything natural. My guess is that an explosive of some kind had to be used. Also, the longer this mill's closed, the longer your trees stay up, right, Stan?"

  Joe turned to Stan, wondering why he didn't speak up in his own defense. The conservationist had turned an unhealthy shade of gray and seemed to be too stunned to speak.

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  "How about if my brother and I take the first-aid supplies to the volunteers while you talk to Mr. Shaw?" Frank said, breaking the awkward silence.

  ''Good idea," the sheriff said, shooing them away.

  'Tm staying," Callie insisted. ''I know my uncle Stan couldn't have had anything to do with this."

  'Tine." Joe lifted the heavy first-aid kit out while Frank grabbed some blankets. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Joe said to his brother, "Okay, what gives? You were so eager to get away from there I could practically smell the rubber burning on your hiking boots."

  "I might be wrong," Frank said as they hurried toward the group of injured people, "but Stan Shaw seems like a straightforward guy to me. If he says he doesn't know how that dynamite got in his truck, he doesn't. That means somebody planted it on him."

  "But why didn't he even try to defend himself?" Joe asked. "He practically surrendered to the sheriff before the guy even suspected anything!"

  "He must have panicked," Frank replied. "I mean, think about it. You live in a town where no one really likes you, and you're caught at an explosion with a bunch of dynamite. He must already be figuring how he'll come up with bail."

  "But if he didn't do it—" Joe said.

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  "Whoever did planted that dynamite in the last half hour," Frank interrupted. ''Now the faster we start tracking down who did it, the better our chances are."

  ''But who would do a thing like that?" Joe demanded. "Were they out to get Buster, or did he just happen to get caught in the blast?"

  "Finding that out," Frank answered, "is how we pay for those pancakes you ate. Here's the first-aid kit you asked for," Frank said to a volunteer standing with the injured. "We have blankets, too. Is there anything else you want or need?"

  "We didn't ask for anything." A busy woman glanced up from where she was bandaging a young man's arm. "We used the supplies from the fire truck. 1 think everybody's just about taken care of now."

  "But the sheriff said ..." Joe's voice trailed off. He was puzzled.

  "If anyone shows up with a case of soda, though, you can bring that right on over," the woman joked, turning back to her patient.

  "Frank, what's that all about?" Joe asked as soon as the brothers had moved a short distance from the crowd. "Someone asked us and the sheriff for first-aid supplies nobody needed?"

  "Yeah, somebody who wanted that dynamite to be found in Stan's truck," Frank replied. "I'll bet it was the same somebody who planted it there."

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  "So you think someone's trying to frame Stan for this fire—^and for Owens's murder?"

  "It's all I can think if we believe Stan's innocent," Frank answered. "What we've got to find out, though, is what Stan was doing here before the explosion. He sure acted as if he was hiding something. Maybe whatever it is has something to do with why that dynamite turned up in his truck."

  Joe had to stop to cough to clear some of the smoke from his lungs. Then he took off at a jog to catch up with his brother, who was heading back to Stan. As they approached the truck, Joe saw he wouldn't be able to question Stan in private. The sheriff was still with him.

  "I'm sorry, Stan," the sheriff was saying as Joe and Frank joined them. "I've known you for almost ten years, but the law's the law. This truck has to be impounded so I can thoroughly search it, and you're going to have to come in for questioning."

  "My uncle's not a criminal!" Callie exploded, pulling away from Frank, who was holding her to calm her down. "He was here about an hour ago. We all saw his truck. That must have been when somebody planted the dynamite in his truck. Stan couldn't have anything to do with it!"

  The sheriff turned to Stan, who took a quick hop-step backward. "You were here earlier, Stan?" the sheriff demanded. "Before the explosion?"

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  *'Well, sure, I—I—" Stan stammered. He glanced at Callie, who clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she'd said. *'I was just—"

  "Don't say any more." The sheriff took him by the arm and steered him toward the patrol car. ''You can tell me the rest in my office— where I can read you your rights and we can get it all recorded. I think you'd better call a lawyer when we get back," he added as the two men walked away.

  Callie, Joe, and Frank stared after the sheriff and Stan. Joe noticed that Stan didn't even glance back at them. It was as though he felt guilty.

  Joe was lost in his thoughts and didn't hear the tall, athletic-looking young wom
an in khaki pants and T-shirt striding up to them. Her hair was long and blond and pulled back into a pony-tail that was covered with oily soot from the fire.

  "Ronnie," Callie was saying, "you won't believe what happened. This is my boyfriend, Frank Hardy, and his brother, Joe," she added hastily. To the Hardys she explained, "Ronnie Croft owns and edits Crosscut's weekly newspaper."

  "The Crosscut Guardian," Ronnie said proudly, shaking the Hardys' hands. "What could possibly have happened that hasn't already gone on today?" she demanded of Callie.

  As Callie told her about her uncle Stan's arrest, Ronnie's jaw dropped. "I'm going to the station," she said. "You want to come along?"

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  "Definitely," Callie said. ''Uncle Stan seems to be in shock about all this. I want to be there to help if 1 can. What about you?" she asked Frank and Joe.

  "We'll hang around here a little longer," Frank said calmly. "We'll meet you at the sheriffs later, if that's okay."

  "If I'm not there I'll be at the newspaper office," Callie agreed as she started off with Ronnie toward the newswoman's car. "Boy, am I glad you guys came with me this summer. I didn't know how much I'd need you."

  "Hear that, Frank?" Joe couldn't resist teasing as Callie and Ronnie walked away. "She needs you. A mystery to solve and a girlfriend who needs you. What more can a guy ask for in a day?"

  "Answers, for a start," Frank said with a frown. "Let's head out to where we saw Buster's truck pulled off the road. I want to see if it's still there, and if we can tell anything from it. But first we should pick up our packs. My camera's in mine, and we might need it."

  "Right, boss." Joe took off after his older brother. "Then we can catch a ride back to town for lunch. It's way past noon, and I'm starved."

  Most of the onlookers were leaving now that the fire was in the smoldering stage. The fire fighters had to stay to douse any flare-ups.

  "Hey, Joe," Frank said. "Look over there."

  Joe followed Frank's gaze to a cluster of loggers standing next to a battered station wagon,