Running on Empty Read online

  A large two-story barn sat on the edge of the front section of the salvage yard. The barn was dotted with orange and pink and purple and yellow painted flowers. Large white peace symbols from the sixties danced between the flowers. A wooden sign painted in bright pink letters announced Paradise Salvage.

  Emmy laughed at Frank's stunned expression!

  "Did I forget to tell you that Max Elburk is a little strange?" she asked as she parked the car.

  "How strange?"

  "Strange," Emmy replied. "All we have in the files is that Max Elburk once designed computer software, and then about a year ago, he got fed up with his suits and ties and oxford shoes. He bought this salvage yard, grew his hair long, and started chanting and meditating."

  "Chanting?" Frank asked, stepping from the car.

  "He claims it calms him down, puts him in touch with the 'universal soul.' "

  They stepped into the front office, which was at the front of a house. Emmy hit the bell on the counter several times, its ring echoing off the walls.

  "What's that?" Frank asked, alarmed.

  From somewhere behind the house came a steady, persistent humming and crunching.

  "That's Max's crusher," Emmy replied. "It flattens cars into thin steel wafers or squeezes them into metal squares."

  Moments later Max Elburk burst through the beaded curtain that separated the office from the rest of the house.

  Emmy hadn't exaggerated Elburk's appearance. Frank had to keep from snickering at the middle-aged hippie.

  Elburk's long, stringy gray hair reached his shoulders. Wire-rimmed glasses that were tinted purple sat perched on his thin nose and contrasted with his orange and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt.

  "Emmy! I thought I heard someone. I was in back, chanting. How you doing?" Max Elburk drawled.

  "Great," Emmy replied. "How about yourself?"

  "I feel better now."

  "Hope we didn't interrupt your meditating," Frank said.

  Elburk shot a questioning glance at Emmy.

  "This is Frank Davis, an old friend. Frank, this is Max Elburk."

  Frank stuck out his hand. "Good to meet you."

  "Pleasure," Elburk said, slapping Frank's hand instead of shaking it.

  Emmy smiled and said, "Hey, Max, I'm replacing a tranny on a Vette, and I need a plate that isn't cracked or burned. Got one on hand?"

  "Uh, don't think so," Elburk said slowly, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

  Frank was impressed with Emmy's knowledge of mechanic slang. A tranny was a transmission. A plate was a clutch plate. He was beginning to understand why Cronkite had selected this particular rookie for the chop shop undercover operation.

  "You sure?" Emmy pleaded. "I really need it. I need to have the Vette finished by this afternoon. I could look in the parts barn if you're too busy."

  "No, no, that's okay. I'll check it out for you. If I don't have it there, maybe I can get it over the wire." Elburk disappeared through the beaded curtains.

  "We may be out of luck, Frank," she said after Elburk had left.

  "Why?"

  "Chet's car was a Vette, right?"

  "Right."

  "I was hoping that if Smith was using Max to fence his chopped parts that - "

  "Perhaps Smith brought the parts from Chet's car here," Frank finished.

  "You're a fast learner, you know that?" Emmy's green eyes showed admiration for Frank.

  Frank felt himself blush.

  "However," Emmy said, "either he's holding out or he just doesn't have any. Which means he may not be fencing Smith's parts for him."

  "If he is fencing for Smith, he may know where Chet is."

  "Maybe." Emmy sighed. She walked over to a battered couch, sat down, grabbed a well-worn hot-rod magazine, and flipped through the pages. "This may take a while."

  Frank leaned against the counter. He didn't like standing around while his best friend was in danger.

  Frank decided to look around Elburk's house. He knew Emmy wouldn't like the idea, so he slowly walked backward, hoping not to distract her attention away from her magazine. He glanced through the beaded curtains and silently slipped through the opening.

  He thought he was safe inside when he heard a pair of menacing growls. He turned his eyes to his right. Just inside were two massive black mastiffs crouched in an attack stance, their black lips pulled back over large, sharp yellow teeth. Frank knew that one move on his part would be excuse enough for the dogs to attack.

  "Now what are you going to do, Detective?" asked Emmy somewhere behind Frank. Frank heard the beaded curtain rustle. Emmy stood beside him. Frank could see she had her arms folded and stood casually, as though nothing was wrong. "Believe it or not, their names are Peace and Love. They'll attack you, all right, unless you're properly introduced to them. Peace! Love! Take it easy!"

  To Frank's surprise, the dogs relaxed, wagged their tails, and bounced over to Emmy, who knelt down and rubbed their heads.

  Frank took a long-awaited breath. "You three act like you're old friends."

  "I've been out here so often looking for old car parts that we've gotten to know each other quite well." Emmy stood. "And now, Frank Davis, I'd like to introduce you to Peace and Love. Boys, meet Frank Davis."

  The two mastiffs looked at Frank, their heads turning from side to side.

  "Go ahead, Frank. As long as you know the heel command, they're harmless."

  Frank slowly stretched out his hands and patted the dogs on their heads. The dogs wagged their tails and tried to lick Frank's hands.

  "I knew you three would make good friends." Emmy turned and walked back into the office, leaving Frank alone with the dogs. Frank glanced at the dogs and quickly followed.

  Max was just coming through the front door as Frank entered the office.

  "Oh - Max," Emmy said, covering for Frank. "I was just showing Frank your sixties record collection."

  Max eyed Emmy.

  "Yeah," Frank said. "You've got some cool old albums." Frank noticed that Max's T-shirt and jeans were now dirty, his face sweaty, and his hands greasy.

  "Sorry, babe," Max said as he walked around the counter. "No such thing. I'll put a request out over the hotline. Want me to call you later?"

  "Yeah, I guess." Emmy sighed. Her hunch hadn't panned out. "Come on, Frank."

  "Be cool, you two," Max said with a cheerful wave.

  "That's that," Emmy blurted out as she peeled away from Paradise Salvage.

  "Maybe he was just playing it cool," Frank said to console Emmy. "A Vette is stolen and chopped Friday night. You come looking for Vette parts Tuesday. Max may be a little weird, but he doesn't seem stupid."

  "Maybe you're right."

  The fastback suddenly leapt forward in a burst of speed, pressing Frank back against his seat.

  "Hey!" Frank shouted. "Slow down!" His eyes widened as they neared the paved intersection.

  "I can't," Emmy yelled. "The pedal's stuck."

  Frank watched as Emmy tried to pull the pedal up with her foot. It wouldn't budge. The car was approaching the intersection at ninety miles per hour.

  Emmy pounced on the brakes with both feet. The car jerked as it slowed down, but sped up again as the brake pedal sank to the floor.

  "Brakes are gone!" Emmy shouted.

  The intersection loomed before them like a black ribbon of death.

  Emmy stomped on the emergency brake pedal. Nothing happened.

  "Look out!" Frank shouted.

  Emmy swerved the car to the left to avoid a semitractor trailer. The car fishtailed out of control. Emmy did gain control just as they were headed for a narrow bridge.

  "Get the ignition, Frank!" Emmy yelled.

  Frank knew what Emmy wanted him to do. By shutting off the engine, the power would be cut off, and the car would eventually slow down. Emmy couldn't do it: She needed both hands on the steering wheel to control the rampaging car.

  He stripped off his shoulder seat belt, reached over, and shut off the e
ngine, quickly flipping the ignition switch backward to accessory so the steering wheel wouldn't lock.

  The high-pitched roar of the car's runaway engine died, and the fastback became strangely silent.

  Emmy gasped. Frank followed her terrified gaze. They were approaching one of the small bridge's concrete pillars at ninety miles per hour!

  Chapter 7

  "Watch this, buddy boy," Snake said.

  Joe sighed. For the umpteenth time, he watched as Snake flipped a peanut high into the air and caught it in his mouth.

  Smith had insisted that Snake accompany Joe to grade him on his performance. Joe soon decided that he would have preferred the company of real rattlesnakes to this twit.

  "Real neat," Joe sneered. "Know any disappearing tricks?"

  Snake thought for a moment, his brow knitted in thought. "No." He shrugged. "Sorry, Joe."

  Joe took a breath that whistled through gritted teeth.

  They had walked around Southport for almost an hour. Snake had wanted to steal another Porsche, and Joe had had to explain to him that the cops would be keeping an eye out for two teenagers riding around in such an expensive car, especially a freaky-looking teenager like Snake. Snake took Joe's sarcastic remark as a compliment.

  Uncle Ed had yet to deliver the Caddy to the prearranged "steal" site. If he didn't show soon, Joe would really have to steal a car just to keep Snake from getting suspicious.

  A queasy feeling settled like a rock in Joe's stomach.

  "Come on," Joe ordered. "Let's head down Third and see what's happening there."

  They rounded a corner single-file, and Joe came to an abrupt halt as he spotted Uncle Ed several yards away, heading straight for him. Snake didn't have time to stop and ran into the back of Joe.

  "Hey," Snake protested, the bag of peanuts hitting the pavement.

  Joe fired a look at Uncle Ed. He jerked his head to the side. A puzzled, questioning expression creased Uncle Ed's face. Joe nodded to the side again. A sudden understanding crossed Uncle Ed's face, and he disappeared into a nearby shop.

  "I think we just found our car," Joe announced.

  "Really? Where?" Snake asked.

  "That sports Caddy over there."

  "Cool," Snake replied.

  "Check the area," Joe ordered.

  They strolled across the street. Joe became annoyed and angry. Snake looked too casual, walked too calmly. They would be caught for sure.

  "Do it, Joe," Snake said as they reached the car.

  In a split second, Joe had the driver's door open and was in the front seat, leaning over to unlock Snake's door.

  "Uh - oh," Snake groaned.

  Joe had spotted the steering wheel locking clamp at the same time Snake had. Without hesitation, he busted the clamp's lock and had the Cadillac's engine purring.

  "Cool," Snake said.

  Joe pulled out onto the street.

  "Three seconds!" Snake shouted.

  Joe jumped in his seat. "What's wrong?"

  "It took only three seconds to boost this Caddy. You know what kind of bread we'll make for chopping this baby? Over thirty grand a second. Man, that beats minimum wage." Snake flipped on the stereo, tuned in a heavy metal station, and turned up the volume to an ear-shattering scream.

  Joe just as quickly switched off the radio.

  "What's your problem, man?" Snake spit out in his first real defiance toward Joe.

  Joe stomped on the brake as they approached a red light. Snake slid forward, his head hitting the padded leather dash with a thud, his sunglasses flying onto the floor.

  "Oooow! What do you think you're doing?" Snake growled.

  "We don't need to draw attention to ourselves. Just play it cool and celebrate after we get the Caddy to the garage," Joe said.

  "Okay, man," Snake groaned, putting his sunglasses back on. "That's cool." Snake leaned back and began hissing a song through his teeth.

  Joe shook his head and eased the Cadillac through the intersection. Frank had been right. Snake was not only slow, he was a finalist for Pinhead of the Year.

  They were several blocks from the garage and Joe was starting to feel a little easier when Snake bolted up and shouted, "All right!"

  Startled, Joe looked around, expecting to see a cop somewhere nearby.

  "Will you look at that," Snake said, pointing.

  Joe followed Snake's gaze to a small red two-seat sports convertible several feet ahead of them. He glowered at Snake. "So?"

  "That's the hottest American sports car made," Snake proclaimed. "It's worth two of these Caddies."

  Joe's temples pulsed as he sensed the meaning behind Snake's statement. "We've got our quota for the day."

  "You and that hotshot brother of yours ever play 'bump-and-rob'?" Snake's face was alive with excitement.

  "No," Joe said quickly.

  "It's simple. What's the biggest mistake people make when they have a little fender bender? I'll tell you," Snake said without waiting for Joe and whispered as if he were revealing a deep, dark secret. "They leave their keys in the ignition when they get out to inspect the damage."

  "Forget it," Joe shot back.

  "Man, this is perfect. No traffic. The driver's an old woman."

  "I said forget it!"

  "Okay, Joe. Okay."

  Snake leaned back in his seat. Then without warning, Snake stepped on Joe's foot, mashing the accelerator to the floor. The Cadillac jerked forward. Joe slammed on the brakes, but not before the Cadillac clipped the rear end of the woman's car.

  "All right!" Snake cheered. He jumped from the car before Joe could protest. "Wait for my signal, man, and then haul out of here."

  Joe tried in vain to grab Snake and pull him back into the car.

  "Hey, what's your problem, lady?" Snake yelled at the woman as she scampered back to the rear of her car.

  "Oh, dear me. Oh, my," she cried out, confusion and fear in her voice.

  Joe was surprised to see such an old woman driving an expensive sports car. She was dressed as though she were having tea with her bridge club. She wrung her hands and looked helpless as Snake continued to yell at her.

  She reminded Joe of Aunt Gertrude.

  "When's the last time you had those brake lights checked, huh?" Snake yelled at her.

  "Well, I, oh my," the woman whimpered.

  "Where'd you get your license? A convenience store?"

  Joe had heard enough. He got out of the car. He'd get Snake back into the Cadillac if he had to break the creep's neck doing it.

  Just as Joe stepped toward the woman, Snake yelled out, "Now!" He shoved the old woman to the ground, and jumped into the woman's car. He fired up the engine and with a loud cackle and wave, peeled away.

  Joe reached down to help the woman up, but she slapped his hands away.

  She slowly got up and stared at Joe, her face grief-stricken. She looked at Joe with hate in her eyes.

  Then she screamed, "Thief! Thief!"

  The old woman sobbed and covered her face.

  Despite his desire to help the woman, he had to leave quickly before a crowd gathered. If caught, Cronkite wouldn't hesitate to charge him with auto theft and assault-and-battery and anything else the crusty detective could invent. As soon as he could, he'd call the police and tell them about the stolen car, but he'd do it anonymously.

  Joe jumped back into the Cadillac, gently guided it around the woman, and sped away.

  A cold, sharp metallic claw gripped Joe's spine. He shuddered at the image of the woman's dark, hateful stare.

  For the first time in his life, Joe Hardy felt like a genuine thief.

  Chapter 8

  Frank had to slow the car down quickly or they'd disintegrate when they hit the concrete pillar.

  He grabbed the column shift lever and slammed the transmission into reverse. He was using the transmission's reverse gear as a brake. The gears crunched like some metallic monster devouring a scrap-iron victim.

  It took all of Frank's strength to hol
d the shift lever in the reverse position. They were still approaching the bridge and the concrete pillar at over seventy miles per hour.

  Keeping one hand on the shift lever, Frank grabbed the steering wheel and twisted it slightly to the left.

  The car glanced off the side of the pillar and shot onto the bridge. It caromed from one side of the bridge to the other, slamming into concrete-and-steel pillars with piercing metallic screams.

  Sparks and razor-sharp concrete splinters flew into the windows like angry darts and hit Emmy and Frank in the face and arms.

  Frank tried to keep the wheel straight. If they could make it across the bridge, they had a good chance of running the car into a field, where it could get bogged down in dirt and high grass.

  The car slammed into a pillar, bounced off like a rubber ball, spun several times, and came to an abrupt stop.

  Frank's head hit the steering wheel, dazing him. He leaned back in his seat and tried to focus on the car's windshield. A multitude of spiderwebs spread out across the glass. The shatterproof glass must have been hit by the flying concrete, creating the spiderweb effect.

  Something warm trickled down his forehead. His vision was blurred by a red haze. Blood!

  Emmy gasped.

  Frank was suddenly aware of a new and immediate danger.

  The car had indeed stopped. It had smashed through one of the bridge's aluminum railings and sat teetering above a dry, rocky riverbed fifty feet below. Every move that Emmy and Frank made, no matter how slight, caused the car to seesaw and inch closer toward the fifty-foot drop.

  "Don't move," Frank warned. He took a deep breath to help clear his throbbing head. Seconds passed like minutes.

  "All right," he finally said. "Move when I do, as I do, and when I tell you to."

  He steadied his breathing and fought off visions of Emmy and him and the car sliding off the bridge and smashing onto the rocks below.

  "Put your left hand on the door handle."

  Emmy watched Frank from the corner of her eye.

  "Pull the handle up slowly. Easy!"

  Like twin reflections in a mirror, Frank and Emmy moved together. The inner latches of the two door locks clicked simultaneously.