After slamming down the phone, Nancy grabbed Ned and herded him toward the door. “I’ll explain later, you guys,” she called back to Bess and George.
In the car she told Ned about her conversation with Brenda. “We’re going to set a trap for the ‘trapper,’ ” she finished.
“Let’s just try to stay alive until we get there,” Ned said, sounding worried. “You’re going awfully fast, Nancy.”
“We have to beat him there,” Nancy insisted, maintaining her speed.
At eight fifty-two Nancy parked in the shadow of some trees by the bridge. The steel arc soared high over the Muskoka River, with tall cliffs on either side. A few yellow street lamps gave it little light.
“You stay out of sight and guard this end of the bridge,” she told Ned. “Rick should be on the other side. I’ll go meet our mystery man.”
“Nan, be careful,” Ned said. He kissed her.
“I will,” she promised.
Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the bridge. It appeared to be deserted, but there were plenty of dark, shadowy areas at both ends. Gnarled old trees hung out over the bridge, curtaining it off in a way that Nancy found sinister. She didn’t like to think it, but a dangerous man could be hiding within just a few feet of her.
Her senses extra-alert, Nancy walked under the curtain of trees and stepped onto the bridge. She paused to look around, struck by the odd feeling that someone was watching her. It’s just Ned and Rick, she told herself sternly.
Nancy had taken a few more steps out onto the bridge when suddenly something thudded down behind her. Nancy jumped to one side—but not fast enough.
Hands slammed into her back and shoved her violently. Before she could do more than scream, Nancy found herself lurching forward, then falling—right over the guardrail of the bridge!
Chapter
Thirteen
NANCY FELT the blood rush to her head as she slid headfirst over the side of the bridge, her legs scraping against the sharp edge of the rail.
“Help!”
She twisted her body in midair, and her hands shot out to make one desperate grab at a steel post. In a flash the metal was slipping through her palms, and Nancy clenched her teeth in despair.
Then, her scrabbling fingers locked around an edge of the post, and with a wrenching jerk her body stopped its fall. Pain shot through her arms, and she saw white stars behind her closed eyelids. But she wasn’t falling any longer!
Panting, Nancy hung onto the post. After a moment she worked up the courage to open her eyes. She was dangling below the level of the roadbed, amid a crisscrossing mesh of support beams and girders. Wind moaned through the steel web and whipped her hair into her eyes.
She risked a cautious peep downward—and immediately wished she hadn’t. A hundred feet below, the Muskoka sent back a faint reflection of the bridge’s lights. One small slip, and she’d be history!
The wind gusted, pulling at Nancy’s entire body. Her heart jumped as she felt her fingers slip a fraction of an inch. She wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. Think clearly, Drew, she ordered herself.
Above her there was a confused babble of voices. Nancy tried to cry for help, but all that came out was a faint croak. Swallowing to moisten her dry throat, she tried again. “Help me!”
“Nancy?” Rick Waterston’s blond head poked out over the rail. “Oh, no!” he cried as he spotted her. In an instant he had swung his long legs over the rail and was climbing down the girders. “Hang on! I’m coming!” he shouted.
Nancy’s hand slipped again, until she now clung by just the tips of her fingers. “Hurry!” she called back frantically. “I’m about to fall!”
The wind gusted again, and Nancy’s heart lurched as the metal bar slipped away from her fingers. Just in time Rick’s strong hand closed around her left wrist.
“I’m going to pull you up,” Rick told her. “Trust me—I’ve done a lot of climbing.”
Nancy’s breath came in heaving gulps. Talk about close calls! But she still wasn’t out of trouble. Looking up she could see the strain in Rick’s face as he hauled her up. At last she was high enough that her feet found a ledge to support her weight. Slowly, with Rick guiding her every inch of the way, she climbed up the web of metal and over the lip of the bridge. Finally she lay collapsed on the road, gasping.
“Thanks,” she said to Rick when she could speak again. “You saved my life.”
“Don’t thank me. I blew it,” he said gruffly. “And our man clobbered Ned and got away before I could grab him.”
“Is Ned hurt?” Nancy asked anxiously.
“I don’t know. Brenda’s checking,” Rick said.
“Brenda?” Nancy repeated, suddenly wary. “What’s she doing here?”
At that moment Brenda herself appeared from the shadows, supporting a limping, scowling Ned.
Jumping to her feet, Nancy ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Ned, are you okay?”
“I’m all right.” Ned held her close. He spoke lightly, but Nancy heard a tremor in his voice. “I thought you were a goner, though, Nan.”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Now, tell me what happened.”
Ned’s face immediately darkened again. “Ask Brenda. She’s the only one who saw anything, after that stupid camera flash of hers blinded me.”
“Brenda!” Nancy exclaimed.
Beside Ned, Brenda flipped her dark hair back defiantly. “I was only trying to help,” she muttered. “I thought it might be a good idea to come and get a picture, in case you guys let the crook get away.”
“He wouldn’t have gotten away if I had been able to see him!” Ned retorted furiously. “But I couldn’t see a thing. The guy swung out of the trees and attacked you,” he told Nancy. “I was running for him when Brenda popped up behind him and clicked her camera. The flash went off in my eyes, and the guy bolted. On the way he took time to flatten me.” Ned rubbed his jaw and winced.
“Brenda, how did you get here?” Nancy asked, facing her.
Brenda’s eyes flicked toward Rick, who stepped up beside Nancy.
“I brought her,” Rick confessed in response to Nancy’s questioning glance. “She really wanted to come, and I didn’t think it would do any harm as long as she stayed in the car.” He gave Brenda an angry look. “You promised you would,” he reminded her.
Brenda hung her head and said nothing.
“Well,” Nancy said with a sigh, “it’s done. At least none of us got seriously hurt.” Turning to Brenda, she added, “Get your film developed right away,” she said. “Maybe there’ll be a clear shot of our mystery man.”
“Why do you keep calling him the mystery man?” Rick wanted to know. “There’s no question that it’s Uncle Bill, is there?”
“Yes, there is,” Nancy told him. “First, we still have no hard evidence that this case involves the Keatings at all. Second,” she went on, thinking out loud as she spoke, “even if it does involve them, there’s still a lot of unexplained stuff going on. I’m pretty sure Chris Trout fits into this, but I’m not sure how.”
She turned to Rick, remembering something else. “You knew it was him outside your aunt’s house the other night,” she said. “Why didn’t you want to admit it?”
Rick’s face took on an apologetic expression. “I didn’t even know Uncle Wilford’s brother was around until you described him. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing there, but the whole thing really got me scared. Aunt Maggie’s been so afraid to talk about what’s going on that I guess I just clammed up, too. I was afraid something terrible might happen if I said anything—I’m not sure why.”
He shook his head slowly, as if confused by his own actions. “And then I was so freaked out by Brenda’s accident and what you told me about my aunt’s insurance, I forgot all about Uncle Chris.”
“Well, there’s a chance he could have set up this meeting,” Nancy said, trying to piece things together in her mind. She thought of the brake shoe and Trout’s words
about getting it to “the right people.” Could he have meant Brenda? But why would he want to give it to her?
“Speaking of hard evidence,” Rick said, breaking into Nancy’s train of thought, “all I found when I searched Uncle Bill’s study today is evidence that he’s weird.”
“What do you mean?” Ned asked him.
Rick shrugged. “He has this folder full of clippings. Mostly it was stuff about the military, but there were lots of articles about tornadoes.”
“Tornadoes?” Nancy was puzzled.
“Well, not tornadoes, exactly,” Rick corrected himself. “Actually, they were all about microbursts. You know, those minitornadoes that all the meteorologists are warning about these days. The ones that appear out of nowhere, zap your house, and disappear before you even see what hit you.” He grinned sourly. “Maybe Uncle Bill is trying to come up with some way to develop them into the army’s newest secret weapon.”
“Maybe.” Nancy let out a heavy sigh. Her head was beginning to pound, and she couldn’t think straight anymore. “Let’s all go home,” she told the others. “We can start again tomorrow, after we’ve seen Brenda’s photographs.”
• • •
The sound of the telephone awakened Nancy from a deep sleep the following morning. Through bleary eyes, she checked the clock on her bedside table. Ten o’clock. Then she reached for the phone and mumbled, “ ’Lo?”
It was Rick. “I’m at Today’s Times with Brenda,” he said. “We just developed the film from last night.”
Nancy sat up in bed, shaking herself awake. “Anything?” she asked.
“Nope. It’s useless,” came Rick’s unhappy voice. “She got one shot. It shows a blur which we think is the attacker’s shoulder—but it could be something else. And there’s a great shot of Ned looking surprised.”
It wasn’t exactly good news, but Rick sounded so down Nancy decided to try to cheer him up. “Look, why don’t you two take a break. I’ll figure out our next move.”
After she hung up, Nancy got up and showered. She was a bit stiff from her adventure the night before, and the air seemed thick and close, even in the air-conditioned house. Glancing out the window, Nancy wasn’t surprised to see that the sky had a yellowish cast to it.
Tornado watch today, I’ll bet. Still wearing her towel, she went over to the clock-radio by her bed and switched it on.
“The watch is in effect for the Chicago area,” the newscaster was saying. “And for you folks in the River Heights area, look out. Twisters have been sighted heading your way, and we have reports of at least two microbursts touching down. Fortunately, no casualties have been reported. For live coverage, we go now to . . .”
As she listened to the tornado warning, several things suddenly clicked into place. The tornadoes—the folder full of clippings about microbursts—
Nancy reached down and snapped off the radio, cutting off the newscaster’s voice. Her mind was racing. She could hardly believe what she was thinking—it was too farfetched.
“Oh, no!” she groaned out loud. “Could he really do it?” She didn’t know how, but she suspected Mr. Keating was somehow going to use the tornado warnings to fake some kind of fatal “accident” for his wife.
After throwing on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, she raced downstairs and headed for the door.
“Nancy?” Hannah Gruen’s voice came from the kitchen. “Don’t you want any breakfast?”
“No time!” Nancy called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to stop a murder from happening!”
In her car Nancy floored the gas pedal. She smiled grimly. If Ned griped about my driving last night, it’s good he’s not with me now!
Five minutes later she pulled up the driveway to the Keatings’ big Victorian house. There was only one car in the garage, a white station wagon. Seeing it made Nancy pause. Suddenly she realized she had no idea what she was going to do next.
Improvise, she told herself fiercely. A woman’s life is at stake!
Nancy hurried up and rang the bell, and a moment later Mrs. Keating opened the door. She looked even more shaken up than when Nancy had spoken with her last, but at least she was alive!
“Hi,” Nancy said, vastly relieved. “May I come in?” Without waiting for a reply, she bustled inside, herding Mrs. Keating in front of her.
“You may not remember me,” she went on, speaking softly and quickly. “I’m Nancy Drew. I was there when you had the accident at the mall.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Keating said. She was wringing her hands, and her large brown eyes had a look of tense bewilderment in them.
“We don’t have much time,” Nancy hurried on. “I know this will sound strange, but I think you’ll have some idea of what I’m talking about.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any idea yet.”
“Look, I’m a detective. I know about your husband trying to kill you,” Nancy said bluntly.
Mrs. Keating’s brown eyes looked as if they might pop out of her head. “You—you know?” she whispered in a shaky voice.
“Yes. And I’m sorry to have to say this, but I think he’s about to try again. You should leave the house right away. You’re in danger here.”
Mrs. Keating was still staring, not moving. Suddenly Nancy realized that the woman wasn’t looking at her, but rather behind her. A sixth sense shouted at Nancy to turn around.
It was too late. As she started to turn, a thick cloth pad was clapped over her mouth and nose. She gasped as a bitter, acrid stench assaulted her nostrils.
Then, abruptly, there was blackness.
Chapter
Fourteen
NANCY SWAM SLOWLY UP through a sea of dark mist. “Oooh,” she groaned as her eyes fluttered open. The inside of her head felt as if someone were pounding at it with a sledgehammer.
“What . . . ?” Gradually the objects around her came into focus, and Nancy realized she was in a leather recliner in a darkened room.
Where am I? she wondered, frowning.
Heavy velvet curtains shrouded the room’s two big windows. To Nancy’s left was a massive maple rolltop desk stacked with color-coded folders. Bookshelves flanked one wall, with a lumpy-looking velvet sofa in a shadowed recess between them. The adjoining wall was covered with framed photographs.
Feeling too weak to get out of the chair, Nancy squinted to bring the photos into focus. Most of them were black-and-white group shots of men in uniform.
Soldiers . . . Bill Keating. Suddenly what just happened came flooding back.
She had come to warn Mrs. Keating. In her mind Nancy pictured the look of panic on Mrs. Keating’s face—just before those hands came from behind and held the drug-soaked cloth over Nancy’s mouth and nose to knock her out. She shuddered at the memory.
“I must be in the Keatings’ house,” she said aloud. In fact, she guessed she was in Mr. Keating’s study. Keating must have come in and caught her, she realized. But what had become of Mrs. Keating?
A slight movement from the lumpy sofa made Nancy’s eyes snap over to it. She hadn’t noticed before because the couch was set back in the shadows, but now she made out a human form lying there!
Forcing herself up and out of the recliner, Nancy made her way painfully across to the sofa. “Mrs. Keating?”
Nancy’s eyes widened as she saw not Mrs. Keating, but Chris Trout lying on the sofa. His eyes were closed, and even in the dim light she could see that he was deathly pale. A bruised swelling marked his forehead just above the left eye.
He’s out cold, Nancy realized. But why? What’s he doing here?
Suddenly a wave of dizziness hit her. She had to grab on to the bookshelf to keep herself from falling over. Clenching her teeth, she held on and waited for the spell of nausea to pass.
This is bad, Drew. If you don’t pull yourself together, you’ll never get out of here!
As she gazed around the room, the dim sound of a car engine starting floated in through the window. Nancy went over as fast as her wobbly leg
s would carry her. Pulling aside the heavy red curtain, she gazed out, shielding her eyes from the abrupt rush of sunlight.
She saw that she was in a room on the second floor that looked out over the porch roof. The white station wagon that she had seen in the garage when she arrived was now in the driveway. As she watched, the driver’s side door opened, and Bill Keating got out.
“Come on,” he called, beckoning to someone who was apparently standing on the porch below Nancy. “We don’t have time to argue about it now! Just get rid of the car. We can’t leave any evidence that the girl was here. Then get out of sight!”
His words barely registered. Nancy tried to cut through the pounding fog in her head and think clearly. Whom was he talking to? She didn’t have to wait long to find out. A second later someone hurried down the porch steps and ran to Nancy’s car.
Mrs. Keating!
Nancy’s stomach did a flip-flop. “Uh-oh,” she muttered. “I think I’ve been missing one big piece of the puzzle.”
She put a hand to her aching head. “Think, Drew!” she told herself, scowling fiercely. It wasn’t easy. Whatever Keating had used to knock her out must have been pretty strong. But even in her weakened state, some very disturbing ideas were beginning to surface.
I came here thinking that Bill Keating was trying to kill Maggie Keating to collect her insurance money, she thought. And I got that idea from reading the letter in Brenda’s column. But I know that Brenda made that letter up—it wasn’t real. She didn’t know anything about Mr. and Mrs. Keating when she wrote it.
So isn’t it reasonable to assume that the letter wasn’t right? Isn’t it possible that Brenda got part of the plan right—but was wrong about other parts?
What if Mrs. Keating isn’t Mr. Keating’s victim after all? Nancy reasoned. What if she’s his accomplice?
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