Line of Fire (8 page)

As they dropped, a gunshot rang out over their heads.

Joe closed his eyes—and suddenly found himself stopping, then bouncing in the air.

His eyes popped open. He was on a net, which was springing up and down like a trampoline.

Frank was already on his knees, pulling Joe to the safety of the floor.

"What?" Joe said as he and his brother started moving again.

"Elevator shafts," Frank explained, pointing to the hole above them. "They just haven't put the elevators in yet. The safety rules say that ; nets have to be strung across the open shafts every few floors. I figured there had to be at least one net between us and the ground." '

He pushed Joe back to the stairs. "Now come on, before George decides to drop in on us."

They dashed across the floor, Joe still shaking his head. "He thinks there'll probably be a net between us and the ground. And people think I'm the crazy one in this team."

Taking the steps two at a time, they raced down the final flight of stairs. Soon they were back on the first floor.

"Which way to the van?" Frank asked. "All this running has left me turned around."

"This way." Joe pointed. "I remember passing those big metal boxes."

Frank broke into a jog, quickly retracing their path. "We've lost him for now, but we have no idea when he might turn up again."

They reached the edge of the site, which was now crammed with workers. Mingling with the crowd, they worked their way out to the street.

"You know," Joe said to Frank, "we can cut right through that building across the way."

"The warehouse?" Frank said.

"Yeah. We're parked right on the other side. And anything that will save us a few steps ..."

"Fine," Frank agreed. "We get in the van, get out of here, then find a pay phone." He smiled grimly at his brother's puzzled expression. "We still have to tell the Philadelphia police to search for a bullet. I think an anonymous call might be better than walking up to one of the cops at the site."

Joe grinned. "I guess we might have a hard time convincing a cop to take us seriously." Frank's face was still white with concrete dust, except where running sweat had carved little streaks.

He shrugged. "Well, come on."

They crossed the street, working their way to the rear of the rapidly gathering crowd. Apparently the workers who'd been lounging in front of the warehouse had either joined the rescuers or were part of the crowd. The Hardys had no problem moving past the open double doors of the warehouse.

The first floor was huge and cavernous. It reminded Joe of an enlarged, dingier version of the Bayport records room. Bays of shelving stretched twelve feet up to the ceiling, and they were crammed with a jumbled assortment of? packing crates and cardboard boxes. Some of the boxes were broken open, displaying all sorts of paper goods. They even passed a collection of crushed party hats.

Ahead of them was another set of double doors, also standing ajar. Joe could understand why. The air inside the warehouse was musty, stagnant, and hot. Any breeze would be welcome.

Joe ran the back of his sleeve across his eyes, trying to wipe away some sweat. It would be good to get into the van. It had air conditioning, and each of them had a change of clothes stowed in a secret compartment under the floorboards.

He was stepping forward eagerly as they reached the doorway. Then he stopped sharply.

A large green car was drawn up in front of the door.

And sitting in it, his pistol aimed straight at the brothers, was George.

The wide central aisle of the warehouse stretched behind Frank and Joe. They knew that running down that open space would only earn them bullets in their backs.

So, as George got out of his car and rushed the door, Frank darted right, and Joe left.

Joe sighed as he heard heavy footfalls come after him. Just my luck. Godzilla picks on me again. How did he know where to find us anyway?

He ducked around several racks of shelves, zigzagging to make sure George couldn't get a clear shot. The strategy seemed to be working, until Joe reached an aisle that was blocked by a forklift truck.

He had to backtrack. He crept along a line of shelves, straining his eyes and ears for any sight of George. Maybe this could work out. If he could get behind George, he'd be able to sneak out the exit he'd originally been aiming for. Then he could get the cops and nail the killer.

But it didn't turn out exactly as he had planned. He was behind George, but George knew exactly where he was.

Joe's first warning came when he heard the snick of a revolver being cocked behind him. He rolled across the floor as the laser's red aiming beam flashed past his face. There was no explosion of gunfire though. George was saving his bullets for a clear shot.

Rising to his knees, Joe scuttled backward behind the shelter of a storage bay. He retreated across one aisle, heading toward the wall of the warehouse. Maybe he could sneak past George this way. He crept to the side of another bay, preparing to leap across the narrow alley to a third set of shelves.

Joe peeked around the corner — and found George waiting for him. Again, the laser flashed past his face, and Joe retreated. He decided to work his way toward the central aisle and slip past George that way.

But when he tried to go down another alley, George was there again, flashing his laser. Joe retreated once more.

Every time he tried to make a break for it, he ] encountered an aisle patrolled by George. Slowly he realized what was happening. George was positioning himself at the corners of bays, where he could check down two aisles at once. He was using the beam of his laser to block Joe's escape and herd him backward into a corner of the building. Once he had moved Joe back far enough, he would have no cover....

Joe didn't want to think about it. He had to figure out a way to get past George. Maybe if he showed himself, then stayed in place ... He poked his head out, then pulled it back as the familiar red flash came again. Joe counted to ten, giving George enough time to move. He peeked around again, and found that George had indeed moved—closer to him.

The red laser flash was accompanied by a bullet this time. Joe pulled back into a zigzagging retreat again. George's laughter followed him.

Of course. George would orient on the last point where he'd seen Joe. He'd walk down that alley, since Joe couldn't cross it, checking out the cross alleys so Joe couldn't sneak around. No matter which way Joe tried to go, he'd be cut off from the doors. With George moving in, whichever way Joe went, he would soon end up in a corner.

It reminded Joe of chess games he'd had with Frank, where he'd be reduced to moving his lone king around the board as Frank's pieces closed in. With every move, there were fewer and fewer safe squares.. . .

He'd never been able to come out of those games a winner. But this was real. There had to be some way to break out of his box.

Joe looked up at the wall of the warehouse, had an arrow pointing up, with a sign saying Stairs. He started running for it.

If he could reach the stairs, he'd break free of the game board. George would have to search three dimensions. If he could just make it upstairs ... There were only six steps to go when he heard the voice behind him saying, "Nice try, kid."

Slowly Joe turned around. George stood at the bottom of the stairs, his pistol out and ready. It was a chrome-plated revolver, and its barrel looked long enough to reach out and touch Joe on the chest.

"Let's have it," George said.

Joe stared at him. "Have what?"

"Look, don't play cute with me. I want the bullet you picked up."

Now Joe remembered why George was chasing him. He thought Joe was carrying the bullet that would link him to Vittorio's murder!

"I don't have it," Joe said.

The gun was aimed straight at Joe's chest, and George clicked back the hammer. "I saw you pick it up, kid. Don't try to con me."

"I pretended to pick it up, to scare you off," Joe admitted. "Then we were going to call the cops. My brother's probably doing that right now."

George cocked an ear and grinned. "I don't hear any sirens, do you? Maybe your brother messed up." His face went cold again. "Start emptying your pockets."

Joe slowly obeyed, even though he knew it would only buy him a little more time. And time for what?

As Joe began turning his pockets out, Frank Hardy sat watching the scene perched on top of the nearest set of shelves. He was just leaving the warehouse office when he had heard a gunshot and hurried to help his brother.

He hadn't found anything to help them in the office. It contained a desk, lots of papers, a pack of cigarettes and some matches, and an old-fashioned dial phone. The workmen must have been using the phone too much, because there was a lock on it. Frank couldn't even call the police.

He'd snatched up the matches on his way out of the office, however. The hazy beginnings of an idea were forming in his brain.

Now, as he watched Joe in George's line of fire, the idea was his only hope. He had to find some way to neutralize George's gun and laser sight. And his only weapons were the matches and the boxes of paper goods.

While Joe emptied his left-hand pocket, Frank cautiously tore open the carton nearest to him. Loose papers — perfect. He found another box, opened it, then slid the two boxes to the edge of the shelf.

By now, Joe stood with all his pockets turned out, his belongings in his hands. Frank tore out half the matches in the matchbook and lit the boxes of paper. They went up in flames right away.

He shoved them off the shelf and they landed right in front of George.

"Joe! Jump!" Frank yelled. Joe vaulted over] the side of the stairs as George shied back from the flames. And even as he was yelling, Frank was striking the rest of his matches and holding them up to a nozzle over his head, part of the warehouse sprinkler system.

Water started spurting down, like an indoor monsoon. It hit the burning paper, sending up a dense cloud of smoke. George coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. The red laser; beam stabbed out, but couldn't penetrate the murk.

That was all Frank needed to see. He climbed down off his shelf and took off after his brother.

Frank and Joe stumbled out of the warehouse, psoaking wet. "Well, at least it washed off that concrete dust," Joe said as they ran for their van.

'Just be glad I was carrying the keys. I was afraid you were going to give them to George," Frank shot back as he unlocked the van door.

They were pulling around the corner when George appeared at the warehouse entrance. In the rear-view mirror, Frank saw him shove the gun under his jacket and stare after them.

The ride back to Bayport was as fast as legally possible. They stopped once, long enough for Frank to make his warning call to the Philadelphia police. While he was doing that, Joe had changed into dry clothes. Frank changed in the back of the van while Joe drove.

As they reached the outskirts of Bayport, Joe turned onto the road that led to the Paysons' house.

"What's up?" Frank looked at his brother in surprise. "I thought we were going straight to the grand jury hearings."

"I wanted to see if I could catch Denny at home first," Joe said. "When he took off the way he did, I knew he was upset. It's understandable, seeing what happened to Steve Vittorio. But he was Denny's last hope for a witness. I wanted to tell him it's not all over. We have a chance of nailing Crowell through George."

"If the Philadelphia police find that spent bullet," Frank reminded him.

"Well, it's better than giving up completely— which, I'm afraid, is what Denny's going to do," Joe answered.

He pulled up in front of the house, and walked up to the front door. "Hey, Denny!" he called, ringing the bell.

The door opened, but it wasn't Denny who greeted him. It was a very pale Mrs. Payson.

"I'm sorry," Joe said. "I thought you'd be in town for the grand jury."

"Barbara and Callie wanted to take me, but I thought I should wait for Denny," Mrs. Payson said. Lines of strain showed on her face as she spoke.

Joe's stomach knotted as he looked at her. "Didn't Denny come back?" he asked.

Mrs. Payson nodded jerkily, trying to hold back tears. "He came back, yes. He pushed by me, went up to his room, then down to the cellar, then out the door and into his car. All without a word. As if I were invisible."

Joe frowned. He didn't like what he was hearing. Waving for Frank to join them, he turned to Mrs. Payson again. "Was he carrying anything?"

"He took something downstairs with him, but I couldn't see what it was." Now tears were forming in Mrs. Payson's eyes. "He had it wrapped up in a coat. I couldn't see."

"I think we'd better go up to Denny's room," · Frank suggested quietly. "Maybe we can figure out what it was that Denny took." They reached the top of the stairs, and turned into Denny's bedroom. Sitting on his desk was the answer to their question. Joe sighed. He'd been wrong. Denny wasn't about to give up his war against Lucius Crowell.

On his desk was the presentation case for his new gun.

But the gun and the laser sight were both missing.

Frank Hardy turned to Mrs. Payson, who stood white-faced in the doorway. "Do you know where he went?" he asked.

"After Lucius Crowell," Mrs. Payson whispered. She was obviously on the edge of falling to pieces.

"He won't catch him," Frank said quickly. "I called my dad. The grand jury is still hearing testimony. They'll be in session until about six. And no matter how angry or desperate Denny might be, I can't see him walking into the courtroom to shoot Crowell."

He immediately regretted his words when he saw the look on Mrs. Payson's face.

"Mrs. Payson," Frank said gently, "we don't want Denny to do anything stupid, or have anything stupid happen to him. But if we're going to head him off, we've got to find him as soon as possible."

"Where do you think he might have gone?" Joe asked.

"I — I just don't know," Mrs. Payson said. She looked up hopefully. "Maybe he went over to Barbara's?"