The Lazarus Plot

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 04

  The Lazarus Plot

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "GOT you!" FRANK HARDY smiled grimly. Once again, the older of the two Hardy boys had made a capture. In this case, the capture was a fish.

  Rushing water came up to the top of his hip high boots as he braced himself against the current of the Allagash River. Above the tall pines on both banks of the river, the early fall sky was a dazzling blue. Frank felt a million miles away from the world of crime fighting and danger in which he and his brother, Joe, lived-and had nearly died. The fanatic followers of the Rajah and his Cult of Crime had done their best to fit Frank and Joe for matching coffins.

  The Hardys had survived, however, and decided that a vacation was definitely in order. They'd packed their fishing and camping gear into Joe's latest pride and joy, a 1958 station wagon complete with wood paneling, which he'd lovingly reconditioned.- Next stop, the Maine north woods, for two weeks of peace, quiet, and fishing.

  "Whoa, big fella," Frank muttered as his fishing rod began to bend. He let out some line as the fish fought to escape. From the feel of the line, the fish was a big one. Then he saw it leap into the air - a trout!

  Just the right kind of adventure, he thought. Trout give you a challenge, put up a fight, and don't carry guns.

  He fought the fish on his hook, letting out the line, then reeling it in, bringing the fish ever closer to his net. Already, he could picture it grilling over the campfire.

  This is just what we need, he thought. Two weeks without having to look over our shoulders. Two weeks without racing against time to head off some disaster. Two weeks without mayhem, mystery, or murder. He grinned to himself. But will Joe be able to last two weeks without girls to chase?

  His smile faded as he thought about Joe, back in town buying supplies. Frank had always kidded his brother about belonging to the "Girl-of the-Week Club." But he knew that Joe had really and truly loved only one girl-Iola Morton. Then terrorists had bombed the Hardys' car, and Iola had disappeared in a fireball. It looked as if Joe was never going to get serious about another girl again. Would he ever get over it, Frank wondered, or would he be haunted by Iola's memory forever? Crashing noises from the nearby forest brought Frank whirling away from the riverbank. He turned just in time to see Joe Hardy tearing through the underbrush.

  Frank shook his head. "You made me lose a fish," he complained. Then he saw his brother's face. "What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost. "

  "I did," Joe said, still gasping for breath. "Iola."

  "That's impossible," Frank said patiently. "Your mind is playing tricks. Iola's gone, Joe." Frank began to get worried. Had too much hard ball with the bad guys scrambled Joe's brains?

  "I know what I saw," Joe said, stubbornly shaking his head. "I left the car and was heading back here through the woods. And suddenly she stepped out from behind a tree less than ten yards from me. I saw her face as clear as day. She was wearing a sweater and jeans, just like the ones she was wearing before ... before ... " Joe's voice trailed off.

  "You've got to face what happened," Frank said, putting his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Nothing was left of the car but a few hunks of molten metal after that bomb went off. There's no chance that Iola could have survived."

  "But remember: They didn't find a trace of Iola's body," said Joe.

  Frank saw the gleam of hope in Joe's eye. A crazy gleam, Frank thought, for a crazy hope.

  "The police said the heat was so intense that it left no traces of her," Frank reminded him gently. "Except in your memory, Joe."

  Joe's face tightened. "That wasn't a memory I just saw. It was her, as real as you or me."

  "But did she say anything or do anything to make contact with you?" Frank asked. "The real Iola would have."

  "She was about to say something," Joe said. "She saw me and opened her mouth to speak. Then all of a sudden she looked confused, like she didn't know where she was or what she was doing. Her eyes went blank, and she turned and ran. Before I could move, she'd disappeared in the forest."

  "Vanished-just like that," said Frank skeptically.

  "I don't care if you believe me or not. That's what happened," said Joe, now openly angry. "When I couldn't find her, I came back here to get you to help track her. She needs help, Frank. And if you won't help her, I'll have to do it alone."

  He turned away from his brother and strode back into the forest.

  "Joe! Wait!" said Frank, hurrying after him.

  "Stranger things than this have happened and turned out to be real. I'll come along if you want me to."

  Joe flashed a smile at his brother. "I figured you wouldn't be able to resist a mystery. Come on, Sherlock. Together, we'll be able to pick up her trail."

  "How will you find the spot where you first saw her?" Frank asked as they made their way through the forest. Sunlight filtering through the branches dappled the ground. The only sounds were the crunching of pine needles under the Hardys' feet, the buzzing of insects, and the occasional call of a bird.

  "I dropped my pack with the supplies when I saw her, so it should still be lying there," said Joe. He squinted through the trees. "There it is now." They stood beside the discarded pack.

  "So where did this girl ... Iola ... come from?" Frank asked-and then he heard it. Just a small sound. A twig snapping, maybe, or pine needles crunching.

  But it was a sound that somehow didn't belong, that made him want to dive for cover. Frank got a hold on himself, smiling at how on edge his nerves were. They were safe in the woods.

  But Joe didn't think so. He grabbed Frank's arm and dived to the ground, dragging Frank with him.

  "Joe - " Frank began, but a much louder sound drowned out his words.

  Rifle shots exploded.

  Bullets whizzed inches over their heads. "It's a trap," Joe rasped. "And we're sitting ducks!"

  Chapter 2

  "GOT TO FIND cover," Frank whispered into his brother's ear as they lay side by side, facedown, hugging the ground. There-were more rifle shots, more bullets whizzing above them.

  "Good thinking," said Joe, already starting to roll himself along the ground toward the nearest large pine.

  Frank followed him. They reached the side of the tree away from where the shooting was coming, and cautiously raised themselves to their hands and knees.

  More shots. A bullet thumped into the tree, and another ricocheted off it, showering splinters of bark.

  The Hardy boys hit the ground again. Wiggling on their stomachs, using their elbows to propel them, they retreated farther away from whoever was using them for target practice.

  The rifle shots ended. As Frank strained to cover ground, he kept his ears wide open for sounds of pursuit. But he heard none. Just the sound of Joe and him going over the blanket of pine needles, and the sound of their increasingly heavy breathing as their lungs began to burn.

  Finally, it seemed safe to stop. Concealed behind thick undergrowth, they again raised themselves to their hands and knees. With the back of his hand Frank wiped away the sweat coating his forehead.

  "Whew, close call," he whispered.

  "Hey, remember what you told me about this trip?" Joe whispered back.

  "No. What?" said Frank. " 'No bad guys, just good times,' " said Joe.

  Frank shrugged. "Okay, so I was wrong." He edged his face toward a gap in the undergrowth to peer into the forest. "Looks like they're not coming after us."

  "Then it's time for us to go after them," said Joe. His eyes were flashing like warning lights. People taking potshots at him triggered his temper.

  Frank didn't have Joe's hot temper. Instead he had cool-headed logic. But he did share his brother's dislike
of running from a fight-and Joe's determination to come out on top no matter what the odds.

  8

  "From the number of shots, it's a good bet there's more than one guy," Frank said. "We can't go straight at them, because it won't do any good to go charging into the barrels of their guns."

  "We'll make a circle and approach them from behind," said Joe. .

  "Just what I was thinking," replied Frank.

  "And it would be even better if we split up. It'll double our chances of spotting them. If one of us does, he can give a signal. How about this?" Frank pursed his lips and whistled a whippoorwill call. Joe replied with one of his own.

  "It'll do," said Frank, nodding. We'll gamble that our pals out there won't know that whippoorwills do their calling at night."

  "We won't even give them the time to think about it," said Joe. "We'll make sure they never know what hit them."

  "We'll have surprise on our side," Frank agreed. "They'll never figure that we're coming after them." Frank checked the compass on his watch, and Joe did the same. "Okay. You go five hundred paces to the southwest. I go the same distance southeast. Then we trade directions, so we meet in another five hundred paces-unless one of us makes a sighting first."

  "Catch you later," said Joe. He moved off, quiet as a cat, his expression alert and intent, like a tiger on the prowl.

  Frank was just as alert. As he moved silently through the forest, he did a mental check on himself, as his karate teacher, Kim Sung, had told him to do in the moments before possible combat. He made sure his breathing was smooth and deep, his muscles relaxed and supple, his heartbeat slow and steady. That done, he went into the final stage of readiness, wiping all thoughts from his mind, so that his senses of sight, hearing, and smell would be clear and he could instantly react to danger. .

  Then he saw it-the glint of sunlight striking metal. He knew what that metal was. It was the metal of a rifle. Frank pursed his mouth to whistle, but it was too late.

  A man stepped out from behind a tree. He was big, bald, and black bearded, over six feet tall and a good two hundred pounds. He looked like he had been outfitted from head to toe by L. L. Bean, complete with red-and-black-checked flannel shirt and hunting cap. But Frank barely noticed what the man looked like. All he was interested in was the rifle in the man's hands, pointed straight at him. Frank had only a split second to make his move and he made it. He stepped toward the man, raising his hands in surrender.

  Then, without a break in movement, his leg shot upward, the tip of his boot catching the man square on the chin. The instant Frank felt his boot make solid contact, he twirled to one side, away from the rifle. His flow was perfect. Kim Sung would have been pleased.

  The rifle dropped from the bearded man's hands as the man went down as if pole-axed, right into a thick patch of wild blueberries.

  Direct hit, thought Frank-and that was his mistake.

  Too late he remembered another of Kim Sung's teachings. Never let success distract you. Never congratulate yourself on doing well, because when you do that, you relax your guard.

  Too late Frank realized someone had come up behind him. He only had time to half-turn before he saw the face of an angry man, his hands high above his head, and then the blurred shape of something - a rifle barrel, perhaps-coming down. Then there was a sharp pain, and blackness.

  Joe, moving silently through the forest, heard a crashing noise.

  It might have been an animal running through the undergrowth.

  On the other hand, it might have been a body falling to the ground.

  Joe headed in the direction of the sound. He watched every step he took and kept close to every tree he went by.

  After a moment, he heard voices and headed toward them. The voices became more and more distinct, but he couldn't understand a word.

  A foreign language, he thought as he pressed against a thick tree, then peered around it.

  He saw two men - a big, bald, bearded one, with hands bleeding from some kind of scratches, and a wiry, redheaded one-standing over a body on the ground.

  Joe recognized the body at the same time that he recognized the language the men were speaking. It was Frank who was lying on the ground. And it was French the men were speaking.

  Were the men survivors of the French gang that the Hardy boys had broken up in their case Evil, Inc.? Were they out for revenge?

  Joe let out his breath in relief when he saw Frank's head make a slight movement, his body give a tiny twitch. At least Frank was still alive.

  The bearded man grinned. While the other man kept his rifle trained on Frank, the bearded man unhooked a canteen from his belt and poured water from it onto Frank's face.

  Frank shook his head as he opened his eyes. Then the bearded man leaned down, grabbed Frank by the arm, and lifted him to his feet like a limp doll. When he let go, Frank stood there, weaving groggily, like a battered fighter set up for a knock-out punch.

  As Joe grimaced in horror, he saw the wiry man get set to deliver it.

  12

  The man parted his lips in a snarl, lifted his rifle, and pressed the tip of the barrel against Frank's head, just behind his ear.

  Joe could wait no longer. He moved out from behind the tree and charged.

  He had never moved faster in his life-not on the football field going for a touchdown, not on the baseball diamond stretching a single into a double, not on a track heading for the tape in his specialty, the hundred-yard dash.

  But even as his knees pumped and his feet flew faster and faster, he knew he couldn't reach Frank in time. At the first crunch of Joe's feet on the pine needles, the wiry man wheeled around and leveled his gun at Joe. This was one race Joe couldn't win. He couldn't move faster than a bullet. All Joe could do was brace himself to die.

  Chapter 3

  JOE DID NOT hear the rifle shot he was expecting. He did not feel a bullet slam into him. Instead he heard the wiry man with the rifle gasp, "Aghhh!" as Frank karate-chopped him on one forearm, then the other, in a blur of motion.

  The rifle dropped from the man's paralyzed hands, and the man dropped on top of it, after Frank chopped at the back of his neck.

  The bearded man reached for the hunting knife on his belt, but he never made it. Joe hit him in a flying tackle, smashing him back against a tree, then let him go and backed off a step. When the bearded man reached for his knife again, Joe lashed a right hook to the jaw. The man went down like a sack of flour. "Good work," said Frank as he removed the 14

  wiry man's belt and set about tying his hands behind his back with it.

  "Good work yourself," said Joe, doing the same thing to the bearded man. "I thought I was a goner. I thought you went, too. You woke up in the nick of time."

  "Actually, I came to a couple of minutes before, but I didn't see any sense in letting those guys know it," said Frank, squatting as he made sure the wiry man was securely tied. Then he stood up.

  "Playing possum, huh?" said Joe, giving his man a final check and standing up, too.

  "Right," said Frank. "I figured it might be interesting to hear what they had to say to each other when they thought I was unconscious. And of course, it would be a lot easier to make my move when their guard was down." "Did they say anything?" asked Joe. "Yeah, but I didn't understand what," said Frank.

  "They were speaking French, I think," said Joe. "You must have understood something, unless that A you got in French class last year was a joke.”

  "I just caught a stray word here and there," said Frank, shaking his head. "They were speaking with some kind of weird accent. Plus they were talking real fast, and my head was still ringing, so it all sounded like Greek to me."

  Joe laughed, then became serious. "We'll just have to wait until they come to before we find out what they're up to."

  "We can speed up the process," said Frank, unhooking his canteen from his belt. "I'll do to them what they did to me-give them a water cure."

  A minute later, the men were standing on their feet,
shaking their heads.

  "Sacre bleu, qu' est-ce qui s' est passe?" mumbled one. "Ma pauvre tete," groaned the other. "Either of you speak English?" asked Frank. "Yes, of course," the bearded man said with a heavy accent.

  "Certainly," replied the other one, with a similar accent. "We come from Quebec. We French Canadians must speak both French and English."

  "Then you can start talking," said Joe, in a hard voice. "Why were you taking target practice on us?" said Frank. "On you?" said the bearded man. "Why should we shoot at you?"

  "Think hard," said Joe, raising his fist-menacingly. "You should be able to remember. It was just about fifteen minutes ago...”

  "Mais non, that was you?" said the wiry man.

  He turned to his companion. "I told you that you were mistaken when you said you saw deer. You are always so quick on the trigger."

  "When you hunt, you must react instantly," said the bearded man defensively. "Otherwise, the deer, they get away. I saw the motion, I was sure it was the deer. Needless to say, I apologize. "

  "I must apologize, too, for hitting you over the head," the wiry man said to Frank. "But when I saw you attacking my friend Henri here, I had no choice. Who knew what kind of criminal or madman you might have been?"

  "Jacques had to do it," Henri agreed. "After all, you attacked me without any reason."

  "That gun you pointed at me seemed like reason enough," said Frank.

  "'I heard you coming through the undergrowth, and naturally I thought you were a - "

  "Don't tell me-a deer," said Frank. "Listen, before I untie you, promise you won't make any more little mistakes. The woods aren't safe with trigger-happy hunters like you around-especially before the season officially starts." Smiling grimly, he took the bullets out of the rifle he was holding, picked up the other rifle and emptied it, then frisked the men, removing all the bullets from their pockets. Meanwhile, Joe searched their backpacks, which were lying nearby, and removed the rest of the ammunition from them.

  "I suggest the two of you try fishing this time of year. It's safer for everyone concerned," said Frank as he and Joe untied the belts from Henri's and Jacques's wrists.