The Secret of Skeleton Reef (7 page)

“Swing!” Frank yelled as Rob and Davy tossed the bombs. Joe swung the skiff to port, but both bombs landed inside the skiff, right by his feet. Joe reached for the bombs, but Frank could see the flames on the fuses were almost at the glass.

“Get away from them!” Frank shouted.

Joe scurried toward the front of the skiff just as the bombs exploded. The noise made his ears ring.

“Fare thee well!” Rob shouted.

“Happy Fourth of July!” Davy bellowed.

Cackling with crazy laughter, Rob and Davy sped away from the skiff, foam spewing in their wake. The skiff rocked roughly on the waves created by the powerboat.

Except for a few minor glass cuts, the Hardys were uninjured by the bombs—but the same was not true of the skiff. “We're in trouble,” Frank said. He pointed to two long cracks on the skiff's floor. Water was seeping into the boat.

“Should we start bailing?” Joe asked.

“We'll never be able to keep up with the flow of water,” Frank said, opening a wooden supply box the boys had brought from the bungalow. He pulled out a flare gun and two flares.

As the water rose to his ankles, Frank loaded a flare into the small pistol. “Here goes,” he said,
aiming the pistol into the air. He pulled the trigger, the cylinder whistled up to the sky, and soon the cylinder was trailing a stream of red smoke.

“Why isn't anyone around?” Joe asked, still not seeing a single vessel on the horizon.

“Maybe because it's so cloudy,” Frank said, noticing more dark clouds drifting overhead.

The Hardys remained in the skiff another few minutes, hoping a vessel would come after someone spotted the red distress signal. Each tense and silent moment seemed to stretch into hours. When the stern began angling into the sea, Frank shot the second and final flare.

“After you,” Frank said to his brother in a grim tone.

Joe jumped into the water, Frank right after him. As they watched the skiff sink lower, the Hardys floated in the warm water, made buoyant by the foam in their life jackets. Having no better choices, they began swimming in the direction of St. Lucia.

After fifteen minutes the Hardys stopped to rest, floating on their backs. Frank scanned the water in every direction, seeing only a lone seagull soaring by. Then Frank saw a most unwelcome sight.

“Don't panic,” Frank told Joe, “but I see a few sharks headed our way.”

Joe turned. In the distance he saw the dorsal fins of three sharks. “It's okay,” Joe said. “I came face-to-face with a shark when I was diving earlier. He didn't bother me at all. Apparently they're mostly
dangerous to humans if the humans are near the shore or if the humans are—”

“What is it?” Frank asked, now seeing a stunned look on Joe's face.

“One of us is bleeding,” Joe said seriously.

Frank glimpsed a trail of crimson blood in the clear water. “Oh, no,” he said. “It must be the cut I got on my ankle from the anchor line. The water probably pulled off my bandage and opened the wound.”

Frank knew what Joe had been about to say before he saw the blood. Sharks were only dangerous to humans if the humans were near the shore or
if they were bleeding!
Sharks could smell blood from great distances and would usually go after a bleeding creature.

“Look,” Joe said, seeing at least a dozen dorsal fins in the water. They were about a football field away and swimming for the Hardys at a good clip.

“What a day!” Frank cried in frustration.

“This is not good at all,” Joe said, trying against all odds to stay cool. “In fact, this is—”

“Shhh,” Frank said. “I hear something.”

“What is it?” Joe asked, turning.

He saw something silver glinting over a cloud. The silver was a small airplane, and it soon began angling down, heading straight for the Hardys.

“He sees us!” Frank cried out happily. “He's coming down for us!”

“He'd better hurry,” Joe said, noticing that the sharks were only about seventy yards away.

The plane was nearing the Hardys, flying close to the water. A side door flew open, the most welcome sight Joe had ever seen. When somebody leaned out of the plane, he was amazed to see it was Jamal.

“Okay, Hardys,” Jamal called over the plane's noise. “I'll ask questions later! Here's a rope!” Jamal threw a rope from the plane. The end of it landed nearby and trailed in the water.

“You first,” Joe yelled to Frank, seeing the sharks were only fifty yards away.

As the rope approached, swaying back and forth, Frank reached out for it but missed. Then he watched the plane carry the rope farther away, knowing planes, unlike helicopters, couldn't stop their forward motion and hover. Frank had no choice but to float in place while Jamal banked the plane sideways in order to circle back.

Joe took a deep breath. The sharks were maybe a minute away from reaching the Hardys. Joe tried not to imagine how fast their sharp triangular teeth could rip him to shreds.

When Jamal returned, he nosed the plane downward to give Frank more time near the rope. Frank reached for the swaying rope but missed again. As the rope swung back toward him, Frank dived for it, this time grabbing it.

The plane began dragging Frank in a circle through the water as Jamal banked the plane again
to return for Joe. While Frank was being pulled, he struggled to shimmy up the rope.

Joe glanced from the plane back to the sharks. Through the crystal-clear water he could see their sleek bluish gray bodies approaching—closer, closer. Thirty seconds, he figured.

Joe turned back to the plane, which was flying right toward him. Frank was dangling from the rope, halfway up, his ankle dripping with blood. Without looking back, Joe knew the sharks were no more than a few yards out.

The rope was swinging wildly from Frank's weight, but Joe knew he had only one shot at it. He knew Jamal would bring the rope as close as possible, and Joe began focusing every inch of his mental power on catching it.

Forget the sharks, Joe thought. Catch the rope. Just catch the rope. Just catch the rope.

The rope swung by—and Joe grabbed it with one hand, then the other.

“Up!” Frank shouted over the plane's buzz. The plane nosed upward, lifting Joe clear out of the water. Gripping the rough fibers of the rope, Joe looked down to see the numerous dorsal fins swimming in circles. He figured the sharks were probably wondering who had stolen their lunch.

As the plane flew slowly forward, Frank and Joe climbed their way up the rope, then Jamal helped pull them into the plane. Jamal was alone in the cramped four-seat cabin, and Frank saw that the
end of the rope had been tied around one of the metal seats.

“I saw the flares and went straight for them,” Jamal said, returning to the wheel.

“Glad you did,” Joe said.

“And I've got a funny feeling something happened to my uncle's boat,” Jamal said with a sideways look.

“You know, that old skiff was way past its prime,” Frank said, sitting down beside Jamal. “What do you say we buy your uncle a shiny new one?”

“I'd say he'd like that.” As Jamal flew the plane back to St. Lucia, the Hardys informed him of everything that had happened. When Jamal flew by the towering Pitons, he acrobatically signed a cursive J in the air, his flying signature.

“It always makes me sick to my stomach when you do that,” Joe said from the backseat.

“Consider it revenge for the boat,” Jamal said with a grin.

• • •

Around six the boys returned to the bungalow. Frank and Jamal sat on a worn-out couch drinking coconut soda while Joe made some telephone calls in the kitchen. The soda came in the same brown bottles as Rob and Davy's homemade bombs. Frank decided to put the thought out of his mind.

“Mom and Dad say hi,” Joe said, back in the living room. “I told Dad a little about the case but
played things down so he wouldn't worry too much.”

“If anybody's parents should be used to worrying,” Jamal said after a sip of soda, “it's Mr. and Mrs. Fenton Hardy of Bayport.”

“Speaking of parents,” Frank said, “did you reach Chrissy's folks in Virginia?”

“I sure did,” Joe said. “I called the next-of-kin number on that sheet you gave me and got Mrs. Peters, Chrissy's mother. I pretended I was a friend looking for Chrissy. Mrs. Peters said she hasn't spoken to Chrissy in about a month. I poked around some, trying to see if there was any hint of danger or trouble in Chrissy's life, but I didn't find out anything.”

“Not that her mother would be the first to know,” Frank said, leaning back on the sofa.

“Her mother sounded real friendly,” Joe said. “It makes me sick to think any day now she may get a call telling her Chrissy is . . . ”

“She won't get that call,” Frank said firmly. “We're going to solve this thing, and Chrissy is going to be all right.”

“We should probably make some attempt to locate Chrissy,” Jamal suggested. “Maybe I'll do that tomorrow while you guys find some other ridiculous situation to—”

The sound of shattering glass cut Jamal off and made everyone jump. A bottle came flying through
the living room window. It was another brown coconut soda bottle.

As Joe and Jamal raced outside, Frank picked up the bottle. Instead of soda or gunpowder, the bottle contained a folded piece of paper. Using a pocketknife, Frank pulled the paper out and unfolded it. There was nothing on the paper except a solid black circle, drawn with ink.

“We didn't see anyone,” Joe said as he and Jamal breathlessly returned to the room. “The person must have run away real fast or hidden somewhere.”

“This was in the bottle,” Frank said, showing the paper to Joe and Jamal.

“What does this mean?” Joe asked, puzzled.

“I think I know,” Jamal said. “It's a reference to the book
Treasure Island
. When the pirates are planning to kill someone in the book, they first send the victim a ‘black spot.' It looks just like this.”

“The black spot . . . ” Joe said, fishing through his grade-school memories. “I remember that now.”

Frank stared at the solid black circle. Someone had marked him and Joe, and possibly Jamal, for death.

“Who is planning to kill us?” Joe said, plopping onto the sofa, “or at least threatening to? And why?”

“I don't know who is after us, but I can guess why. Someone knows we're investigating the attempted murder of Chrissy Peters,” Frank said, running a hand through his brown hair. “And that someone is telling us to back off.”

“Because the person who sent us the black spot,” Jamal said, picking up the brown bottle, “is probably the same person who tried to kill Chrissy Peters.”

“Right,” Frank said.

“How about we get something to eat?” Joe said,
bouncing up from the sofa. “I always get hungry when someone threatens my life.”

After the boys showered and changed into long pants and fresh T-shirts, Jamal took the Hardys to the Parrot's Paradise, a small restaurant in Soufrière. Colorful murals were painted on the walls, and fishing nets hung from the ceiling. The place was crowded and loud with chatter.

“Let's review everything we've got so far,” Frank said, examining his bowl of Creole goat stew. “Then we'll figure out what the next step should be.”

“Our two leading suspects,” Joe said, glancing warily at Frank's bowl, “are Pierre Montclare and Peg Riley. We don't have a motive on Montclare, but he was supposedly the last person to see Chrissy before she disappeared. On top of that, he didn't seem to want us on the boat today, and he might have even injured Frank to make his point.”

“And don't forget,” Frank said after tasting the stew, “he was the one who didn't want to look for Chrissy this morning. He said he didn't want to waste valuable time, but that could have been a lie. This goat stew is delicious, by the way.”

“Here's a possible motive,” Jamal said, spreading coconut sauce over his grilled fish. “Chrissy was helping Montclare with his books last night. Maybe she found something questionable in his financial records, and Montclare needed to stop her from telling anybody.”

“It's not impossible,” Joe said, slicing into his jerk chicken, a Caribbean favorite.

“Next suspect,” Frank said, “is Peg Riley. She seems nice enough, but we definitely have a motive for her. She's stealing relics from the
Laughing Moon
. Also, Chrissy is Peg's roommate and could easily have found out about this. How's the chicken, Joe?”

“Spicy!” Joe gasped, fanning his mouth.

“Would that alone prompt Peg to kill Chrissy?” Jamal asked.

“It might,” Frank answered. “Not only could Peg go to jail, but those items she's stealing are valuable. She could be hoarding thousands of dollars' worth of stuff. People have killed for much less.”

“What about Rob and Davy?” Jamal said. “Do they go on the suspect list?”

“They sure do,” Frank said. “They asked Flask if they could join the crew if something happened to any of the crew members. Maybe they figured the
Laughing Moon
site was too well guarded for them to get a chance at raiding it. Maybe they saw joining the crew as the only way to get close enough to steal some pirate treasure.”

“And they probably came after Frank and me,” Joe said, reaching for a plate of fried bananas, “because they thought we were part of the crew.”

“So what are you saying?” Jamal asked. “That they tried to kill Chrissy to create an opening on the salvage team? That sounds a bit extreme.”

“You should see these guys, Jamal,” Joe said with his mouth full. “They're complete lunatics.”

“Anyone else?” Frank asked.

“Here's something I just remembered,” Joe said. “Ted noticed the oxygen level was low on the
Destiny's
refill tank today. He wondered if Isaac and Ishmael might be doing some night diving even though they're not supposed to. Maybe they're also stealing stuff from the
Laughing Moon
site, and Chrissy found out about it.”