No Way Out Read online

  “You must mean JoAnne and Harold Donaldson,” Kay said. “I saw them over near the food vendors just before I came here. They were in line then, so they’re probably still eating.”

  “Great,” Joe said. “Maybe I can catch them before they move on. See you later.”

  Joe left Kay with the boot maker and headed toward the large tents where the caterers served food. He saw the Donaldsons sitting alone at a large table near the edge of the tent. He grabbed a soda and joined them.

  “Welcome,” JoAnne Donaldson said. She was wearing a blue satin dress with billowing sleeves and eating a bowl of salad with blueberries.

  Joe introduced himself and told them why he wanted to talk to them.

  “We already told Officer Chester what we saw,” JoAnne said.

  “Yes, he told me,” Joe explained. “I saw someone running into the woods at about the same time. I just wanted to compare pictures with you and see if we’re talking about the same guy”

  “Well, he was about six feet, two or three inches,” Harold Donaldson said, putting down his turkey drumstick. He wore a hunter green fencing vest. A fencer’s mesh helmet lay on the table next to a plate of cheeses. “He was a big guy,” Harold added. “Stocky and thick, you know?”

  “What was he wearing?” Joe asked.

  “Some kind of costume,” JoAnne answered. “Armor or chain mail, something like that. He had on a helmet or hood—we couldn’t really see his face or his hair.”

  “Yeah, that’s about what I saw, too,” Joe said. “Was he carrying anything—an archer’s bow or a crossbow?”

  “I didn’t see anything like that. Did you, Harold?” JoAnne asked her husband.

  “No, come to think of it, he wasn’t carrying anything,” Harold said. “I’m afraid we’re not a lot of help.”

  “Well, at least we know we all saw the same guy,” Joe said.

  “It’s a terrible thing for Alan,” JoAnne added. “He’s been working so long on that maze.”

  “And he’s determined to get it open in a day or two,” Joe assured them as he stood to leave. “Thanks for your time.”

  * * * *

  While Joe was talking with Alan and then the Donaldsons, Frank and Ray milled through the bazaar, asking specific vendors if they’d seen or heard from Vincenzo Blackstone.

  After a couple of hours of negative responses, Ray left to help his dad in the stadium, and Frank headed toward the stables. When he arrived, the only other person there was a man walking one of the horses around a small ring. Frank introduced himself.

  “They told me you’d be coming by for a mount,” the man said. “I’m Shorty Garber, the trainer hereabouts. This here’s your horse, Abiyad.”

  “Man, he’s great!” Frank said. The horse was large and coal black, with huge eyes that stared right into Frank’s. “He’s a real beauty.”

  “Aye, that he is,” Shorty said. “And a champion at the games too. He’ll give you a good ride.”

  Frank peeled off his jacket, and Shorty gave him a boost up into the saddle. Frank adjusted his seat and trotted the large horse around the ring a few times. Then Shorty handed him a jousting lance.

  The Hardys had been to medieval fairs before and had even held jousting lances. Still, Frank was struck by how clumsy the wooden pole felt as he perched atop Abiyad. The lance was about ten feet long and tapered down to a rounded end in the front. The back end was much thicker and heavier, and it took him a few minutes to adjust to the weight and balance as he grasped it.

  “The trick is to hold it straight,” Shorty told him. “Make sure its parallel to the ground. If it dips down—in front or back—it’ll throw your balance off and maybe drag you down with it. And it’ll be harder for the horse to keep his footing too.”

  Shorty helped support the lance while Frank grasped it in one hand. After a few minutes, Frank found the exact place to clamp down on the shaft so that the weight was balanced and the lance was straight and horizontal. He clicked the horse back into a slow walk around the ring, and concentrated on balancing the lance. After a few more minutes he urged Abiyad into a trot, and then a canter. Most of the time he was able to hold the lance straight.

  Finally, he took a few passes at a hoop hanging from a scaffolding at the end of the ring. It took him seven tries, but he finally managed to snag the hoop onto the front end of the jousting lance.

  “Nice going!” Joe yelled from the side of the ring as Frank rode over to meet him. Joe was on a creamy white horse, cradling his jousting lance in the crook of his elbow.

  Frank pulled up and lowered the thick end of the lance to the ground. He was sweating and winded, but he felt great.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” Joe said. “I got sidetracked with Alan.” He told Frank about his meeting in the hidden room.

  “And Alan was okay with the gauntlet not being in the trunk?” Frank asked.

  “He was pretty weird about it at first, but then he said he remembered where it was. He acted really strangely about the phone call, though. He let it ring until I left before he answered it. And I remembered something else. The phone didn’t have any dialing mechanism—just two buttons.”

  “Too bad you didn’t hear more of his conversation,” Frank said.

  “I know,” Joe agreed. “When I finally got out of there, I went to the bazaar and found JoAnne and Harold Donaldson.” He reported what they had told him about the person running into the woods.

  “I didn’t have nearly as much luck,” Frank said. “No one’s seen Vincenzo Blackstone. No one’s heard from him in a while. No one knows whether he was planning to show up here. No one knows where he is now. It’s like he’s totally disappeared.”

  “Or in hiding, maybe,” Joe said. “Lying low while he plots his next move on Alan’s maze.”

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “Remember, Kay told us that when he destroyed that other maze, he hired some guys to do the dirty work. If he’s done that here, maybe something will leak out. We need to stay on it—keep bringing it up with everyone we talk to.”

  “Meanwhile, we’ve got about an hour to get into shape for these amateur games.” Joe reached down to pat the sleek neck of his creamy white horse. “Come on, Khayyam,” he said, balancing his jousting lance. “Show me what you can do.”

  The Hardys practiced for another fifty-five minutes, until they both reached a point when they were able to catch the hoop more times than they missed it. When he heard the cannon announcing the “Call to the Games,” Frank felt pumped. And he could tell from the familiar look in Joe’s eyes that he was ready to compete too.

  “You two go on over to the stadium and get registered,” Shorty told them. “We’ll bring the horses by later.”

  The stands were already filled with an exuberant crowd. Brass rings—the jousting targets—dangled and twirled from scaffolding and shot sunlit rays around the field. Heraldic flags and pennants streamed down from the scaffold end posts, adding their own vibrant colors to the scene.

  Alan and Penny sat astride their horses at the far end of the stadium. Alan was outfitted in full jousting regalia, and Penny was dressed like a medieval queen in a long purple gown. In front of them stood a bagpiper flanked by two drummers. Each of the musicians was dressed in full heraldic regalia, complete with boots and helmets with long visors to shade their faces from the afternoon sun.

  Frank and Joe checked in at the competitors’ registration table, and then joined Ray and Kay on the sidelines.

  “Looks like we’re going to have a full house after all,” Kay said. “Mom was right. It’ll take more than sparks from a flaming arrow to scare off this wild crowd.”

  The chatter of the spectators quieted as the piper blew a few practice notes. The only other sounds were flags flapping in the sea breeze, and the snorts and whinnys from the holding pen behind the stands.

  The piper began playing an old Scottish march, “Robert Bruce’s March to Bannockburn.” Alan and Penny rode slowly behind, as the drummers held a
steady beat.

  Frank moved away from his brother and the twins so that he could get a better view. When the mini-parade reached the end of the field, Alan and Penny turned their horses around to face the spectators. The musicians left the field, the drummers to the left and the piper to the right toward Frank.

  Frank watched as the man unbuckled his bagpipe and dropped it on the ground. Without looking back, the piper hurried around the corner of the stands in the direction of the horse pen.

  “Hey, Joe,” Frank called over the heads of other onlookers. “Did you see that?” It was obvious that Joe didn’t hear him. He and the twins had moved farther down the sidelines. Alan’s voice poured from the loudspeakers as he welcomed the crowd, but Frank just stared at the expensive bagpipe sitting in the dirt. “Something’s up,” he mumbled to himself. “No musician just dumps his instrument like that.”

  Frank picked up the bagpipe and started to follow the piper’s path behind the stands. As he rounded the corner, he felt the ground vibrating beneath his boots. The pounding thunder coming toward him drowned out all other noise.

  Storming straight at him was Abiyad, panting and stomping at full speed. Atop him sat the piper, his black eyes glaring ahead beneath the silver helmet visor. A jousting lance swayed from his clenched fist.

  “Hiyah! Hiyah!” The fury of Abiyad’s gallop was urged on by his rider’s shouts. Frank was so stunned by the sight of the huge horse that he couldn’t move at first. He couldn’t even think.

  A glob of Abiyad’s drool flung onto Frank’s cheek. Like a light punch, it kick-started his mind and body back into action. With one powerful surge, Frank vaulted into the air.

  6 Vanished!

  Still holding the bagpipe, Frank leaped to the right and out of Abiyad’s path. The horse and rider barreled past him as Frank landed with a wheezing groaning sound—half Frank, half bagpipe.

  Shaking his head to clear his mind after the hard landing, he watched Abiyad roar toward the stadium entrance, mane flying and hooves flinging sod in all directions. The piper pointed the jousting lance straight ahead, holding it.

  Frank started to run after them, but then doubled back into the horse’s pen and grabbed Khayyam’s reins from Shorty’s hand. He swung up into the saddle and urged the horse toward the stadium.

  He reached the entrance in less than a minute. Alan had finished his speech, and Penny began walking their horses back up the field. The piper entered the field and bolted after them, his lance aimed forward.

  At first the crowd cheered and whooped, thinking the man on the black horse was part of the show. When Frank flew onto the field on Khayyam, the spectators rose to their feet in an even greater wave of excitement.

  “Alan!” Frank yelled. “Behind you!” At first, he couldn’t be heard over the cheers. He urged Khayyam to a faster gallop.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of the people in the stands point and yell. The crowd noise quickly died down, and a couple of screams pierced the air.

  “Alan!” Frank called again. “Heads up!”

  This time, Alan heard Frank. And so did the piper.

  Alan and Penny wheeled their horses around. When they saw the man bearing down on them, they split, galloping off to opposite sides of the ring.

  When he heard Frank’s call, the piper whipped his head around. He lost his hold on the lance, and his bulky body dipped way down to the left. Abiyad pulled up and skidded to a sudden, hoof-clattering halt. He reared back up and lifted his powerful forelegs high into the air. The rider slid out of the saddle and slammed to the ground. The piper’s head hit the ground so hard that his helmet bounced off and a bushy shock of red hair and beard tumbled out.

  Frank pulled Khayyam to a stop and tumbled from the saddle as an explosion of whistles and yells burst from the stands. He raced toward the fallen piper, kicking the man’s lance away from the action.

  The piper rolled his body into a standing position, but he seemed unsteady as he wiped the dirt off his arms and legs. Then he appeared to get his bearings again as he looked at Frank. His glare drilled into Frank’s eyes.

  “Bruce David MacLaren!” Alan yelled, stomping up behind Frank. Joe and Ray joined them from the sidelines. “Get off my property. You’re not welcome here!”

  “You’ll not tell me what to do,” MacLaren bellowed. His bushy auburn beard bristled as he spoke.

  “I will on my own property,” Alan thundered back. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “It’s amazing how much these old costumes can hide, isn’t it?” MacLaren said with a sneer. “They make a perfect disguise.”

  As Frank watched the two men, Shorty pulled up in an all-terrain vehicle. Next to him sat one of the security guards Alan had hired for the tournament.

  “Well, your cover is blown now, and you’re not welcome on my land!” Alan repeated. “Ever! You’re through making trouble for me and my family.”

  Alan turned to the ATV. “Shorty, get him out of here,” he ordered.

  MacLaren took a step forward. Then he looked from Alan to Frank and back to Alan. He backed up and glared for a few more seconds. “This is not over, Chezleigh Alan Horton,” he finally snarled. “I know it … and you know it too.” Then he spat on the ground as a final insult and stomped away toward the exit.

  Alan nodded to Shorty, and the trainer guided the vehicle slowly behind MacLaren as he marched across the field. The spectators booed and yelled at the man being thrown out of the party. MacLaren pumped his fist at the crowd in a dramatic gesture of defiance.

  “We’ll take the horses back to the pen,” Frank offered. “They need cooling down.” Alan nodded to them with a grim half smile. Then he waved to the crowd and walked to the microphone.

  As the Hardys and Ray walked Abiyad and Khayyam off the field, Alan assured the crowd that the excitement had only just begun. “Just a little preview of the thrills in store for us all,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you this tournament would be fantastic?’ The crowd responded with more cheers and whistles.

  “Dad’s great, isn’t he?” Ray said as he walked with the Hardys. “Nothing seems to get him down for long.” In spite of his friend’s positive words, Frank could see that he was worried.

  “He’s totally cool,” Joe agreed. “But what’s the story behind this MacLaren jerk? Obviously you guys have had problems with him before. Is he another Mazemaster competitor?”

  “No, but he’s been trying to get my dad in trouble for years,” Ray said. “Dad has this fantastic collection of medieval paraphernalia and artifacts, and MacLaren’s jealous, that’s all. Plus, he’s accused Dad of purchasing some of the pieces from unscrupulous dealers.”

  “Meaning that the sellers were selling stolen goods?” Frank guessed.

  “That’s what MacLaren claimed,” Ray acknowledged. “He says the pieces were stolen from museums and private owners and then sold to Dad and other collectors.”

  “And he thinks your dad knows the stuff is stolen property?”

  “Yes,” Ray admitted. “But it’s not true, of course. My dad has always sworn that every purchase has been legal by international law and by the laws of each item’s original country.”

  “He should be able to prove that if anyone has any doubt,” Joe pointed out.

  “And he can,” Ray said. “He’s got full documentation on everything.”

  “That should be enough to satisfy MacLaren,” Frank said. “What’s his problem?”

  “He claims the documents and receipts are all fake,” Ray answered. “His father used to make the same claims against my grandfather. Bruce MacLaren insists that our family is responsible for removing historical artifacts from his country, chiefly from his family. But the real truth is that MacLaren’s ancestors were thieves and pirates. Nearly everything they ever had of value was stolen by them to begin with. In the last century, a lot of their stuff was sold off to pay attorney fees to keep them out of prison and to pay off gambling debts. Bruce MacLaren himself has quite a r
eputation around the casinos of Europe.”

  “Sounds like the bad blood between your family and MacLaren goes back for quite a while,” Joe commented.

  “Yeah, but we can handle it,” Ray said, his jaw so tight that Joe could see a muscle tremor. “He sued us last year, but the judge threw out the case.”

  As they neared the pen, Frank spotted the bagpipe. He felt a twinge in his hip as he remembered leaping out of Abiyad’s path. He reached down and picked up the instrument. As he examined it, he told Joe and Ray about chasing after MacLaren earlier.

  “One of these pipes is cracked,” he said, looking at the bagpipe. “No big surprise. Hmmm, look at this.” He wet his thumb and rubbed the side of the mouthpipe.

  Joe and Ray looked closely at the place Frank pointed to. “It’s a B,” Ray said, “in Old English script, like the one on the arrow shaft you found.”

  Frank rubbed off more of the wet dirt that had packed against the mouthpipe. “Here’s a D and an M,” he said.

  “Bruce David MacLaren,” Ray said.

  “Looks like it’s definitely his,” Joe agreed. “Bagpipes are expensive—and musicians are usually so careful with their instruments. It’s pretty amazing that he’d just throw it away like that.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said, nodding. “And this is the guy who’s supposed to be so interested in preserving artifacts and family treasures. I told you he’s a liar. I can’t believe he was able to get in here. And I wonder what happened to the piper we hired.”

  “We’d better check that out,” Joe said. “MacLaren seems pretty vicious. No telling what he might have done to keep the regular piper off the field.”

  “Could MacLaren have been the guy you saw running into the woods after the flaming arrow hit its mark, Joe?” Frank asked.

  “It’s hard to say exactly, because he was so far away, but he could have been,” Joe answered. “He’s about the same size.”

  “Does your dad still have the arrow shaft?” Frank asked Ray. “I’d like to have Officer Chester see it.”