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  "Thanks," Joe said, his voice hard and distant.

  Minutes later the boys walked into the officers' lounge of the Bayport Police Department. Frank threw himself into a chair and stared at his brother.

  Con Riley was probably right, Mangieri's threat was only a lie, a diversion to get him out of jail. On the other hand, Joe had made sense: they couldn't take the chance that Mangieri was bluffing. All three Hardys - father and sons - had made plenty of enemies while investigating crimes.

  "You think he's telling the truth?" They were the first words Joe had spoken since arriving at the station.

  "I doubt it," Frank said with a shrug. "How would a greaseball like him get information about someone out to kill Dad?"

  Joe stared straight ahead. Frank leaned back in the blue plastic chair and locked his hands behind his head. He knew Joe's anger had reached its combustion point and was now smoldering.

  "We've got to let the police do their job," Frank said. Joe turned to meet his brother's hard stare with one of his own but said nothing. "Riley'll let us know if Mangieri is telling the truth or not," Frank added.

  "They'd better find something out - and soon!" Joe crumpled the wrapper of the candy bar he'd been eating and tossed it into a corner wastebasket. He was tired and worried.

  "Soon" stretched into a half-hour and then an hour. Joe tried several times to find out what Mangieri was telling Riley and the assistant district attorney, but all he got was a chilly warning from the desk sergeant that he and Frank would be thrown out of the police station if Joe didn't stop bothering him. He told the boys that the force was stretched thin due to the tornado. He said they should consider themselves lucky that Con was taking the time to question Mangieri then.

  Frank mentally reviewed some of Fenton Hardy's most dangerous cases. Many crooks threatened the police officers who had arrested them or the district attorney who put them in jail or the private eye who tracked them down. Therefore, Frank knew that their father had received his share of threats.

  "It's been two hours!" Joe all but shouted as he looked up at the clock on the wall. "You'd think they'd have found out something by now."

  "We have."

  Joe spun around. Officer Riley stood in the doorway, and he looked exhausted and worried. He motioned for the brothers to follow him. Frank and Joe were at his heels as he led them down the hallway past the interrogation room and into a viewing room.

  "Where's Officer Stewart?" Frank asked.

  "He asked for some time off," Riley said. "He's worked two straight shifts."

  The viewing room looked into the interrogation room through a one-way mirror. The Hardys could see Mangieri sitting alone, smoking a cigarette, his hands uncuffed.

  "What's going on?" Joe demanded. "Isn't he under arrest?"

  "For now," Officer Riley replied. "How well do you two know Mangieri?" His voice sounded as exhausted as he looked.

  "He was kicked out of school," Frank said. "Why?"

  "Either of you ever hear of Leonard Mock?"

  Frank and Joe glanced at each other and shrugged.

  "Mangieri has." Riley turned and stared into the interrogation room.

  "So?" Joe stepped up to the one-way mirror and stood next to Riley. "What's the big deal?"

  Riley rubbed his eyes. "I was a rookie cop about the time your father resigned from the New York Police Department and started P.I. work here in Bayport. One of the first cases he helped the Bayport police solve involved a con man named Leonard Mock."

  Frank's eyes suddenly lit up as he remembered why Mock's name sounded familiar. "He was selling shares in a dummy corporation that was supposed to build a theme park outside of Bayport."

  "Correct," Riley said.

  "But he's serving a life sentence for murder." Riley didn't reply. He only sighed. Frank shifted uncomfortably. "Isn't he?" he quietly demanded.

  Riley locked eyes with Frank. "He was."

  "Murder?" Joe spouted.

  Riley moved to a table across the room and sat on the edge. "When the police caught on to Mock's scam, Mock went into hiding. Your father was hired by a group of the investors, and he was able to locate Mock. When we started to arrest him, Mock tried to escape, shots were fired, and my partner was killed."

  "Wait a minute," Frank said, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean 'was' serving a life sentence? He's been paroled?"

  "I thought the mandatory sentence for a cop killer was life without parole," Joe said.

  "It is. But Mock's attorney has somehow gotten the sentence commuted, and - "

  "Mock's out of prison," Frank said, finishing Riley's sentence. The police veteran nodded silently.

  "This Mock creep is on the streets after killing a cop? I can't believe it!" Joe thrust his hands into his pockets. "What's that got to do with Mangieri threatening Dad?"

  Riley rubbed his eyes. "Mangieri says that Mock is trying to hire a gun, someone to kill your father."

  "And Mangieri's been hired to - " Joe's voice rose in anger and he was unable to finish his sentence. He headed for the viewing room door. "That creep's not going anywhere."

  "It's not Mangieri!" Riley shouted as Joe threw open the door.

  Joe stopped in the doorway and slowly turned around. "Who?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  For the first time since he could remember, Frank thought he saw defeat on Riley's face. "We don't know."

  Frank was quiet.

  "What's your idea, Frank?" Riley asked, knowing Frank's silences meant he was thinking at computer speed.

  "My dad's file on the case is full of letters from Mock threatening to kill him if he ever got out of prison."

  "'He threatened your father in open court while Fenton was testifying against him," Riley added.

  "What if Mock is spreading a rumor about hiring a hit man to lead the police in the wrong direction? What if Mock is the killer himself?" Frank reasoned out loud.

  "Why would Mangieri rat on Mock?" Joe asked.

  "Mangieri would sell out his grandmother if he thought it would be to his advantage," Riley replied.

  "Mangieri must know where Mock is hiding out," Frank said, almost to himself.

  Riley cleared his throat. He hesitated, then said, "We know where Mock is." He paused again. "Mock checked in with a parole officer two days ago."

  "And no one told you?" Joe asked, his voice angry.

  "Paperwork takes awhile to get around, Joe. Besides, we've all been busy today with the tornado." Riley stood. "Where's your father now?"

  "In Philadelphia," Frank answered.

  "Good."

  "Where's Mock?" Joe asked.

  Riley's eyebrows lifted in a knowing glance. "Forget it, Joe. A squad car's been sent to pick up Mock. And Chief Collig has ordered me to tell you two to stay away from Mock. We've got things under control." Riley glanced at his watch.

  Frank glanced at Joe and nodded at the door. Joe returned the silent signal.

  "We'll try to call our dad in Philadelphia," Frank said, heading for the door.

  "Good idea," Riley said behind them.

  "Yeah," Joe added. "We'll stay around the house in case Dad decides to come back early."

  Frank glanced back at Officer Riley just before he stepped through the doorway. It wouldn't be the first time that he and Joe had disobeyed police orders to stay out of a case.

  "Where to?" Joe asked after they had hopped into the van and pulled away from the police station.

  "If Mock's been released," Frank began, "then he'd have to check into a halfway house for felons until he can find a job and get settled."

  "That rehabilitation place on Fulton Street?"

  "Right."

  "Suppose the police have already picked him up?"

  "Then we'll just look around," Frank replied with a knowing smile.

  Joe nodded and stomped on the accelerator. The van lurched forward.

  Minutes later Joe's enthusiasm turned into a low groan as he pulled the van up in front of what w
as left of the Bayport Rehabilitation Center. The freak summer tornado had torn parts of the roof off the building and demolished the left wing.

  "He's definitely not here now," Frank announced, just as disappointed as Joe.

  They climbed out of the van and stared at the wrecked building.

  "Let's see what we can find out, anyway," Frank suggested.

  They took in the street with two quick glances before running into the building. Clothes and papers and books and debris had been chucked about by the unforgiving twister's violent winds. Puddles of water stood inches deep up and down the hallway and gave the place a musky, moldy stench already.

  "Smells like chemistry class," Frank said, wrinkling his nose.

  Although it was early afternoon outside, it was very cloudy and the inside of the building was dark. Frank and Joe pulled out their pocket flashlights and flicked them on.

  Frank pointed to his right. "You take that room, and I'll search the office - see if I can find out where Mock's room was."

  Joe's reply was a quick jog across the hall and into the dark room. He moved his small flashlight around the room slowly, the shadows rising and falling like dark targets at a shooting gallery. The room was full of sheets, blankets, pillows, pillowcases, and towels, all thrown about.

  "Just a storage room!" Joe yelled across the hallway as he stepped out of the room. "I'm going to check the rooms down the hall." He started off, not waiting for Frank's answer.

  Joe was halfway down the hall when he heard Frank yell out. Without hesitating, he spun around and darted back toward the office, splashing pools of water against the walls, his flashlight a tiny beacon bobbing and skipping in front of him.

  He tried to stop as he reached the door, but slid on the wet floor and had to grab the door frame to keep himself upright. Joe stared into the coal black room. Frank's light should have been on.

  "Frank!" Joe yelled into the room.

  Joe heard a scuffling sound of people struggling. Then there was a fleshly slap and finally a low, deep moan.

  "Frank!"

  Joe adjusted the lens on the small flashlight so that it made a larger circle. Then he stepped into the room.

  The office was as littered as the storage room. Joe swept the circle of light from his left to his right, slowly moving the telltale beam across overturned desks, chairs, file cabinets, and piles of wet and crumpled files.

  Another deep moan caused him to jump, and he flipped the beam to his far right.

  Frank lay on the floor holding his left side, his face twisted in pain.

  A pale and gaunt man stood over Frank, a broken section of a board gripped in his hands like a club. Several rusted and twisted nails poked out of the end of the board.

  "Time to die," the man wheezed. He brought the board down in a deadly arc toward Frank's head.

  Chapter 3

  Frank's eyes widened in horror as he watched the board with the nails arcing down toward him. At the last possible second he rolled to his right, pain shooting through his left side like tiny needles. The board slammed down inches from his chest, the nails sinking into the floor.

  "Aaargh!" the man screamed as the broken board splintered in his hands.

  Joe dropped his flashlight and lunged at the gaunt figure. The two hurtled backward and crashed on top of a desk. A sickening gasp erupted from the stranger, and Joe knew that the breath had been knocked out of him. The room was as silent then as it was dark.

  "Joe? You okay?" Frank asked in a forced, strained whisper.

  "Yes." Joe stood. "I dropped my flashlight."

  "I've got mine." A light flickered on. Frank stood and trained the beam on his attacker.

  The man groaned and threw his arms over his face as the beam hit his eyes.

  Joe reached down and pulled the man to his feet. He was surprised at how light the man was.

  "Let's get him outside," Frank said.

  Joe gave the man a slight nudge forward.

  "Easy," the man said with a groan.

  Guided by the beam of Frank's flashlight, Joe forced the man ahead of him.

  Outside, he spun the man around. "All right, mister. Why did you attack - " Joe's sentence ended in a gasp. The man's appearance startled him, and he took a step backward.

  The man was as tall as Joe, but he was too thin for his height. Can't be more than one hundred thirty-five pounds, Joe thought.

  What stunned Joe the most was the man's face. His skin was tight against his skull and cheekbones, and small red sores stood out in contrast to the sickly yellow-white of his skin. The man's light blue eyes, which seemed to be covered with a milky substance, stared out at Joe from deep, dark sockets.

  Joe had seen the look before, but only on dead men.

  The man sucked in a deep breath through yellow clenched teeth.

  "Ssssooo, Hardyssss," the man hissed. Then he coughed, deep hacking explosions that reminded Joe of metal being twisted and torn.

  "Who are you?" Frank asked. "Why did you attack us?"

  The man smiled, his thin blue lips pulling across his face in triumph. He opened his mouth to speak but doubled over in another coughing spasm. This time he fell to his knees. Frank reached down to help the man.

  "Get - away - from - me," the man forced out through dry coughs.

  "He was probably just looking for someplace to stay. Maybe he doesn't have a home," Joe said. "I'll call an ambulance on the CB." Joe ran to the van.

  Why would a homeless person be hanging around the rehab center? Frank asked himself. Better yet, how would some stranger know our last name?

  The man's coughing increased, and he fell flat on the ground.

  Frank knelt beside him. "How can I help you?" he pleaded. "Joe, hurry!"

  The man must have some ID, Frank thought. He reached into the man's front shirt pocket, but his hand was instantly smacked away.

  "You - want - to - help - me?" the man wheezed. '"Then - die, Frank Hardy!"

  "What?" Frank wasn't sure he had heard the man correctly.

  "An ambulance is on its way," Joe said, rejoining Frank. He stared down at the man. "How is he?"

  "Delirious. I think he just told me to die."

  "That'ssss - right." The man's coughing had stopped, and he was now breathing sporadically in screeching gasps.

  Joe knelt on one knee. "Who are you?"

  "Leonard Mock." The man swallowed hard.

  "Mock?" Joe glanced at his brother and then back down at the pale figure of Leonard Mock. "What are you doing here? The police - "

  "Came by the rehab center and went," Mock interrupted. "They couldn't find me, just like before."

  "Before?" Frank was puzzled. "Before what?"

  "Just like before. The first time. The first ti - " Again Mock succumbed to a fit of dry, hacking coughs.

  "What are you doing here in Bayport?" Joe asked once Mock had stopped.

  "Waiting for Fenton Hardy." Mock's hollow, dead eyes flicked from Frank to Joe. "But you two will do. You'll do just fine."

  Frank knew they had very little time. Once the ambulance arrived, the police would take over and the Hardys would be forbidden to question Mock.

  "You've come back to Bayport to kill Fenton Hardy," Frank stated.

  The man attempted a laugh but only coughed. "No," he finally gasped.

  "Then why?" Joe asked, anger replacing his impatience.

  "I - came - to die," Mock announced.

  "What?" Joe blasted back.

  Mock swallowed and the grimace on his face and shudder of his body told Frank that the man's pain ran deep and hard.

  "Cancer," Mock forced out.

  "That's why they commuted your sentence," Frank said.

  Mock turned to Frank and smiled. "You're the smart one, aren't you? The governor couldn't keep a dying man in prison. It's inhuman." Mock's head jerked back as he bellowed a laugh; the laugh was replaced by a deep, bone-jarring gasp that Frank thought would be the man's last breath.

  "If you didn't plan on k
illing our father, why did you come back here? Why did you attack Frank?" Joe demanded.

  "You startled me. I thought you were looters."

  "How do you know who we are?" Joe continued.

  "I know all about Fenton Hardy and his famous detective sons. Like father, like sons, huh?" Mock smacked his dry lips. "I subscribed to the local hometown paper. Couldn't miss an exciting issue."

  "Do you know Martin Mangieri?" Frank asked.

  "No." Mock's voice was suddenly weak and soft.

  "He's a two-bit crook who says he's got street news that you plan to kill our father."

  "Had planned," Mock replied, his eyes widening. Then more softly he repeated, "Had planned. Your old man sent me to prison for life. I wanted him dead. Then I got cancer."

  Mock closed his eyes and swallowed. Again his body shook, and he clenched his teeth against the pain.

  Thunder rumbled low and deep in the distance. The faint shrill of the ambulance's siren could be heard several blocks away.

  Frank knew they had little time left. "You mean that you don't blame our father for cracking the case against you?"

  "Want to hear a little joke?" Mock replied. "The closer you get to death, the more you think about life. Real funny, huh? Well, I've made peace with my hate and anger."

  "Good," Joe said with a sigh. He suddenly felt sorry for the man. "Can we help you? Can we do anything for you?"

  Mock let out a screeching laugh that stunned the Hardys.

  "You fools," Mock groaned. "I've only said that I've made my peace with myself, not with your father. I may not kill him, but I still want him dead!"

  Joe reached out to grab the man, but Frank knocked his younger brother's hand away.

  "You want to hit me, don't you, Joe Hardy? You want to do something to hurt me. Now multiply that hatred by a lifetime sentence, and you'll have a little taste of the hatred that has eaten at me."

  "Why?" Frank fired back. "Why do you want our father dead?" The ambulance was getting closer.

  Mock's light blue eyes widened. "I rotted in that prison for years. Can you understand that? Fenton Hardy was free. Free to see his two sons grow up." Mock closed his eyes and swallowed. "To see his sons grow up. My son - my own son - "

  Mock gasped and then choked, trying to suck in air.