Blood Money Read online

The blizzard hit about five minutes later.

  It was as if someone was standing in the road in front of them shoveling snow onto their windshield. Within seconds it was coming down so hard Joe had to cut their speed in half. He was thankful for the new snow tires he'd put on the van and the extra set of wiper blades he had in the glove compartment. At their highest speed, the blades could barely keep the windshield free of snow long enough to give Joe a look at the road fifty feet ahead.

  "Can you see okay?" Frank asked.

  "Just barely," Joe said. "At this speed, we ought to be pretty safe." He didn't bother adding that at this speed, they'd be lucky to reach Vermont by dinnertime, much less Con Riley's cabin.

  This stretch of the interstate was almost completely straight, well-lit, and not at all crowded. Had it been anything but all three of those, Joe would have had to slow down even more. As it was, at several points during the day he had to stop completely and wait for the storm to ease up a little.

  "Decade's biggest blizzard," Frank said during one of those stops. "You can't say they didn't warn us."

  "Weather forecasters," Joe grumbled. "They're never right - except when you don't want them to be."

  They soon lost track of the passing time - the storm was so fierce, it kept playing havoc with their radio reception. They were never able to keep one station coming in clearly for very long at all. It was almost midnight when they finally crossed over into Vermont and left the interstate.

  Joe pulled the van off to the side of the road and shut down the engine.

  "It's all small roads and mountain driving from here on out," he told Frank. "And we can't go up one of those ridges in the middle of a blizzard, in the middle of the night."

  "Agreed," Frank said, yawning. "Let's get some shut-eye." They unrolled their sleeping bags and slept on the floor in the back of the van.

  ***

  In the morning Frank didn't have a single muscle that wasn't sore.

  "My neck," he muttered, climbing out of his sleeping bag and stretching. "That's the last time I sleep in this van."

  He opened the back door of the van and stepped outside.

  It had stopped snowing. The air was clean and crisp and still; the entire world looked as if it had been outlined with a white paintbrush. A few hundred feet back from the road they had parked on, huge power lines stretched off toward a range of snow-capped mountains, just barely visible in the distance.

  "That's where we're headed," Joe said quietly. He had woken silently and was standing behind Frank, leaning out the back of the van.

  "All right," Frank said. "Let's get going."

  Sleeping in the van had given them one advantage; they were able to get right back on the road. They hadn't gone far, though, before they ran into another problem.

  Their route up into the mountains was completely blocked by a huge, overturned tree.

  "It'll take us half the day to clear that away," Joe said.

  "Maybe we don't have to," Frank told him. "Look." He pointed to a signpost on the side of the road that had been partially bent by the falling tree. " 'Ranger Station - Two Miles.' They ought to have a tow truck or something."

  The station, a small concrete building, was a short, fairly painless half-hour hike up the mountain road.

  "Hello?" Frank called out, banging on the front door. "Is anyone here?"

  Joe bent down and picked up a piece of paper off the ground. He handed it to Frank.

  " 'Back at eight a. m.,' " Frank read. "It's dated today."

  "And it's after eight o'clock," Joe said. "Let's try the door."

  It swung open at his touch. Exchanging a worried glance with his brother, Joe pushed through and inside.

  The building was set up just like a police station: a front desk, with a small, open office area behind it. Two other doors led off the main room.

  "Where is everybody?" Joe asked.

  "They did just have a blizzard," Frank said. "They're probably out helping people." Joe opened one of the doors that led off the main room and stepped inside; Frank decided to try the other.

  He found himself in a bedroom, with a bunk bed and sink in the corner.

  "Nobody in here," Frank called out, swinging the door shut behind him. "You find anything - "

  The question died on his lips as Ned Nolan stepped out from the other room, carrying a revolver in his right hand.

  "Frank Hardy," he said, smiling and moving forward. Frank unconsciously backed up a step.

  "What an unexpected pleasure."

  Chapter 18

  "Where's Joe?" Frank asked. "What have you done with him?"

  "He's all right," Ned said, nodding behind him. "I expect he'll be awake again shortly." He shook his head. "I must admit, I really didn't expect to see you ever again," he said.

  "You killed Daniel Carew," Frank said. "And the coffee vendor in the police station - that was you, too."

  Ned smiled. "That was me," he said and nodded. Frank's guess had been right. Ned was the mystery killer.

  Ned was keeping the gun down at his side - too far down to use at close quarters, Frank noted. If he could get near enough.

  "I didn't get Peterson the last time, thanks to you," Ned continued. "But I'll get him now."

  Frank took a step forward. "Why are you doing this, Ned? The money?"

  "For one thing," Ned agreed. "My father deserves the inheritance more than any of those crooks, wouldn't you agree?"

  "All right," Frank nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead, willing Ned not to notice him inching ahead. "But isn't one and a half million dollars enough for him?"

  "No!" Ned said angrily. "No amount of money can ever compensate for what they did to him - "

  "And that's why you're trying to kill them all?" Frank asked.

  "That's right," Ned said. "I think it all ties together rather nicely, actually." His voice turned cold and hard. "Don't try to stop me. I don't want to hurt you or Joe, but I will if I have to." He smiled quite suddenly, and Frank saw that his eyes were totally bloodshot.

  He looked as if he'd gone insane.

  "I will if I have to, Frank," Ned repeated. "Make no mistake about that."

  "All right," Frank said. He took another step closer. "What if - "

  Without warning, he launched himself at Ned, his arms outstretched, reaching for the gun.

  Ned spun in a sudden side-kick and slammed Frank square in the chest. Frank stumbled backward and lay sprawled out on the front desk.

  Ned was standing over him, his hand raised like an ax, poised to chop down.

  Frank rolled out of the way, just as Ned's punch connected with a loud crack on the desktop.

  Frank drew both his arms forward and jammed his elbows into Ned's side.

  Ned backhanded him viciously across the face; Frank felt his lip split and tasted blood.

  Ned raised his hand again, and Frank tried to step aside, to dodge the blow. But he was moving too slow, too slow.

  The world went black.

  ***

  Frank groaned and struggled to his feet.

  His lip was swollen; he could still taste blood in the cut. That meant he hadn't been out long.

  Ned was gone.

  Frank rushed into the other room. There, he discovered Joe and a young woman in a Park Ranger outfit lying on the floor. Joe looked like he'd be all right, but she had a nasty-looking cut on the back of her head.

  Frank found some smelling salts and brought Joe around first, and then the ranger.

  "Ow," his brother said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. "What hit me?'

  "Ned Nolan," Frank replied. He filled Joe in on what had happened.

  Next to them, the park ranger was also trying to get to her feet.

  "Who are you?" she asked, looking up at Frank. "What are you doing here?"

  Frank introduced himself and Joe. Then he told the woman - whose name was Kathleen Little - why she'd been attacked and why they needed her help.

  "We have to get to tha
t cabin first," Frank said. "Or someone else could be killed."

  "Yeah," Joe said. "We need help moving a tree that's blocking the road a couple miles back, so we can get to our van."

  "Forget your van," the forest ranger said, climbing to her feet. "I'll show you how we get around up here."

  She led them around to the back of the station - where two snowmobiles were sitting.

  "We usually have three," she said, frowning. "It looks like your friend's taken the other one. These machines are better, though."

  "Then we'll catch him," Frank said positively.

  "I hope so," the ranger said. "The trail will be covered over, but you should be okay if you just follow the line where trees have been cut. Good luck - and be careful. I'll get down the mountain and send up some help."

  "Thanks," Frank said. He turned to Joe, who had already mounted one snowmobile. "You know how to drive these things?"

  "Sure," Joe said. "Just like a motorcycle. Throttle on the left hand, brake on the right."

  "All right," Frank said. "I'll follow you."

  They gunned their motors and set them to go forward, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed.

  They rode along the silent snow-covered path through an endless sea of evergreens. The only sounds were the shush of the front skis as they cut through the snow and the low rumble of the snowmobile's tread.

  "There it is," Joe said, turning around to shout at his brother. Frank couldn't hear him, but he followed the line of Joe's arm pointing at the bottom of the next ridge. Just barely visible through the forest, Frank could see a little cabin, smoke pouring out of its chimney.

  If they were lucky there was still a chance Ned hadn't reached the house.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack, then something clanged off Frank's snowmobile. Another crack, and something hit home on Frank's vehicle. It was as if someone had thrown rocks - Or fired bullets.

  Frank's snowmobile sputtered. He watched as a trail of gasoline streamed out of the tank. The engine coughed one last time and died.

  Frank turned in his seat to see another snowmobile roaring up the slope behind him.

  Joe took in the situation and flashed back to his brother.

  "It's Ned," Frank yelled, racing for Joe's snowmobile. He hopped on behind Joe, clapping him on the shoulder. "Go - he's got a gun!"

  Joe kicked the snowmobile into overdrive.

  Within seconds they were shooting through the woods, far faster than Joe would have liked to go. He had to forget everything but driving, concentrating on following the path where trees had been cut - or they'd crack up and end up just as dead as if Ned had shot them.

  A bullet clanged off Joe's snowmobile now - then another.

  "He's gaining," Frank said. "I thought this was supposed to be a faster machine."

  Joe shook his head, keeping his gaze forward. "Must be the two of us, weighing the machine down."

  Suddenly they burst out of the woods and into the open. For a second Joe was dazzled by the glare of sunlight on the snow. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw a ridge stretching out ahead of them. On the left it was bordered by more forest - on the right, the ridge overlooked a sheer thousand-foot drop to the valley floor below.

  And just ahead, a hundred feet ahead, the ridge bent sharply to the left, at almost a ninety-degree angle.

  At their present speed, they'd never make the turn.

  "I can't hold it!" Joe yelled. "Jump!"

  A second later, the snowmobile flew off the ridge and landed hard, ten feet down the steep slope. The gas tank exploded. The machine rolled over once, slowly, and then again, faster - and again, and again.

  It burned all the way to the bottom.

  Ned Nolan brought his snowmobile to a halt at the edge of the ridge to study the wreckage below.

  A smile of satisfaction crossed his face.

  ***

  From behind a large snow-covered boulder a bit farther up the mountain, Frank and Joe Hardy watched Ned view their supposed deaths.

  "He bought it," Joe said.

  Frank nodded. They'd just managed to get off the machine before it crashed. "There he goes," Frank said, watching the snowmobile head off toward the cabin. "Come on."

  The brothers set off in a dead run. Ten minutes later Frank burst through the front door of the cabin.

  His father and Samuel Peterson were sitting on a couch in front of a roaring fire, Hugh Nolan in a chair beside them. Ned was kneeling by the fire, turning a log.

  They were all staring at Frank with varying degrees of surprise on their faces.

  "Frank!" Fenton Hardy rose from the couch. "What are you doing here?"

  "It's a long story, Dad," Frank said. Then he raised his arm and pointed at Ned. "And he can tell you most of it."

  "Once again, I'm very surprised to see you, Frank," Ned said. "Very surprised indeed."

  Fenton Hardy's eyes went back and forth between the two of them.

  "What's going on, boys?"

  "What's going on is simple," Frank said. "You're looking at the man who killed Daniel Carew - and tried to poison Chief Peterson!"

  "Hold on a minute, Frank," Samuel Peterson said, standing. "That's a serious accusation."

  "But I'm afraid it's true," Ned said. Without warning, his arm snaked out, and he grabbed Fenton Hardy in a stranglehold.

  "Ned!" Hugh Nolan stepped forward, shock registering on his face. "What are you doing?"

  Ned pulled out his gun and pressed it to Fenton's head. "What I have to do," Dad - to make sure you get what you deserve."

  "And to stop the lies - isn't that right, Ned?"

  "Yes, Frank," Ned said. "To stop the lies."

  "Lies?" Peterson asked. "What lies?"

  "He's talking about the money Josh Moran gave Hugh Nolan to keep quiet about the fire in Jefferson Heights," Frank said.

  "That never happened!" Ned shouted. He cocked the gun and pressed it against Fenton Hardy's temple. "That never happened!"

  "Frank," Chief Peterson said, circling around next to him and whispering, "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

  "Oh, Ned," Hugh Nolan said, shaking his head slowly. "They're not lies."

  Ned's gun hand wavered slightly. "I don't understand."

  "They're not lies," Hugh Nolan repeated. He faced his son. "I did take that money from Moran, and I've regretted it every day of my life. Those people who were killed . . ." He shook his head. "I still see their faces at night. I couldn't sleep for the next few years - I mean, literally. I started drinking, I - " he stopped talking and buried his face in his hands.

  Frank stepped forward.

  "Give me the gun, Ned," he said.

  "I don't think so," Ned said, backing slowly toward the front of the cabin, dragging Fenton. He reached behind him and opened the door.

  A snowball slammed into his head, knocking the gun from it.

  Another caught him in the head. His grip slackened - and Fenton Hardy broke free.

  Ned moved like lightning. Before the gun had even hit the ground, he was halfway into a side-kick, his foot aimed for Fenton Hardy's head.

  But Fenton Hardy was even quicker. He caught Ned's foot with one hand and, before Ned could react, delivered a crushing right-hand punch to the younger Nolan's jaw.

  Ned dropped as if he'd been poleaxed.

  Rubbing his neck with one hand, Fenton Hardy bent down and picked up the gun with the other.

  "Sorry, Hugh," he said.

  "Not half as sorry as I am," Nolan answered.

  Joe Hardy walked forward, carrying a snowball in each hand. "How'd I do?"

  Frank clapped his brother on the back. "Tommy Poletti couldn't have thrown a more accurate snowball, Joe."

  Fenton Hardy smiled. "And here I thought you wanted to be a running back."

  "Who knows?" Joe asked. "Maybe I'll take up another position."

  ***

  "Johnson succeeded in getting Moran's will set aside - provisionally," Peterson said, hanging up the phone.
They had returned to the ranger station to see Ned delivered into police custody - and to wrap up a few loose ends. "I suspect the money will all wind up in Emily Moran's hands eventually."

  "And I suspect she'll end up giving a lot of it away," Frank said.

  "You might be right about that," Peterson said. "I don't know how to thank you boys. You saved my life - twice."

  Frank smiled. "Believe it or not, it was our pleasure."

  Peterson snapped his fingers. "I know. You can all come back with me to New York - my treat. I'll get us tickets to a hockey game - "

  Frank shook his head. "After that snowmobile ride, no more winter-related sports for me."

  "All right," Peterson said. "How about a basketball game?"

  Joe grinned. "Now you're talking."

  "The boys can't go, I'm afraid," Fenton Hardy said. "They have work to do at home. Some papers they've been putting off writing for quite a while, I think."

  Joe's face fell.

  "Though if you're dead-set on seeing a game, Sam, I wouldn't mind going."

  "Uh - uh, Dad," Frank said. "You can't go either."

  "Oh?" Fenton Hardy said, raising an eyebrow. "And why is that, young man?"

  "The foreign film festival, remember? You promised Mom you'd take her. I'd hate to tell her you chose a basketball game over that."

  Their father opened his mouth to protest, then shut it.

  "I think you're licked, Fenton," Chief Peterson said.

  "All right," Fenton Hardy said. "But we wrap up this case, see the game, and go home. That's it."

  "Absolutely," Joe said. "We promise."

  "Then that settles that," Fenton said. He turned to go.

  "Unless, of course, something else comes up," Frank whispered.

  "What was that, Frank?" Fenton Hardy asked, turning. "Did you say something?"

  "Nothing, Dad," Frank said. "Nothing at all."

  The End.

  Frank and Joe's next case:

  Bayport is hosting its first Grand Prix race, and former world-champion driver Angus McCoy is on hand. But during his qualifying run, McCoy misses a hairpin turn, and his car plunges into the bay. When Frank and Joe try to help investigate, they are beset by a series of "accidents," including the destruction of a vital clue. The brother detectives find themselves trapped in a deadly duel of fast cars and freewheeling danger as they chase down the missing link to a murderer. If the Hardys fail to win the rat race, they'll finish in a dead heat with the grim reaper ... in Collision Course, Case #33 in The Hardy Boys Casefiles®.