Line of Fire

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 3

  Frank threw himself down, then began wriggling across to Joe. Callie, Denny, and Barbara had all dropped flat, trying to stay below the hidden gunman's line of fire.

  Frank stayed low as he continued to snake his way to Joe's side. "Joe," he whispered, reaching out and fingering the large wet stain on his brother's shirt.

  "Don't sweat it." Joe grinned up at his brother. "That's root beer. Nothing wrong with me except maybe a bruise or two. This is what got hit."

  He held up the two-liter-size plastic soda bottle. Two holes showed where the bullet had passed through. Soda was still leaking out.

  "That shot packed quite a wallop," Joe said. "Nearly tore the bottle right out of my hand."

  "So instead you held on and let it knock you flat on your back." Frank shook his head in exasperation.

  Both Hardys turned as Denny Payson snatched a clip of bullets from the table. No more shots came from the woods as he slapped the magazine into the gun still gripped in his hand. He jumped to his feet, aiming the pistol at the woods.

  "Hold it a second," said Joe. "We all saw how well that guy shoots. And you want to go charging across this open yard into the woods where he's hiding?"

  "You're going to let him get away, after he shot at us?" Denny stared at the Hardys in disbelief.

  "There was no shot when you grabbed that clip. He's probably gone already." Frank frowned thoughtfully as he stared at the woods in the distance. "And he wasn't shooting at us."

  "You could have fooled me," said Callie. "Were those spitballs flying past us?"

  "No, they were bullets," Frank said. "But as you just said, they flew past. That guy was shooting around us." He pointed at the downed plates and the wounded soda bottle. "With that sight, he was able to put a bullet into each of these targets, which are a lot smaller than we are. If he'd wanted to, he could have nailed all of us."

  "So why didn't he?" Denny challenged.

  "Because he didn't want to," Frank answered coolly. "Or, more likely, he'd been told not to." He stared at Denny's pale face. "This was a warning, something to let you know the kind of trouble you've let yourself in for."

  "I can handle it." Denny's jaw stuck out, and he gripped his gun tighter.

  "Looks like you could use some help," Joe put in.

  Barbara Lynch looked' nervously at her boyfriend. "Denny — " she began.

  "Don't you start too, Barb," Denny burst out. He glared at the Hardys. "I don't need any help, in spite of what you all think." Turning his back on them, he stared off at the woods. "And I really don't need help that tells me to wimp out when some guy shoots at me. I thought the Hardy brothers had a better rep than that."

  Joe opened his mouth to answer, but Frank shut him up with a look.

  "Now, thanks to your so-called advice, you've kept me here while that guy got away." Denny rose to his feet, his gun ready. He started stalking toward the woods in a combat crouch. "If you want to help so much, why don't you do something useful, like call the cops?" he threw over his shoulder.

  Frank got up and took a step after him. "We shouldn't let him go alone."

  Barbara Lynch took his arm. "One of you can go with him. There's something upstairs I want you to see."

  Joe shrugged. "You go take a look. I'll babysit Captain Commando." He took off across the yard as Barbara led Frank and Callie into the house.

  "Mrs. Payson is out at the mall, shopping," Barbara explained as they entered the house through a basement door.

  "Probably just as well," Frank said, glancing around a neat, carefully tended workshop. He gazed at a vaguely familiar piece of equipment clamped to a workbench.

  "A reloading machine!" he said with interest. "So, Denny doesn't just shoot, he makes his own bullets. He must be a fanatic."

  "Fanatic," Barbara echoed. She started up the stairs. "A good way to describe Denny. I never really thought about that, until — well, I'll let you see."

  They followed her to the first floor, where Callie went to the phone to call the police. But Barbara beckoned to Frank, continuing on to the second floor, and one of the bedrooms— Denny's, from the look of it.

  "I think you should have a look at this. Since Denny's out beating the bushes, this is a good chance." She pointed at the desk facing the bedroom window—and the thick scrapbook sitting on it.

  Frank sat at the desk and began turning pages. They were covered with newspaper clippings, all about the Crowell Chemical disaster. He saw pictures of the firemen fighting the flames, the shot of the smoky Lucius Crowell leading a worker to safety, and portraits of the men who had lost their lives, including Mr. Payson.

  He went on through the pages, finding maps and diagrams, then stories about the building of a new, modern Crowell plant. "He must have everything that was ever printed about the fire and Crowell Chemical. There are even stories about Lucius Crowell's campaign for supervisor." He flipped through the book again. "And the pages are pretty worn. He must go over them a lot."

  "All the time," Barbara said. "He keeps reading and rereading those stories, still trying to make sense of it all."

  The scrapbook fell open to one page. It was a story about the lost workers. Lined up at the top were five photos, evidently collected from their families.' Frank looked from the picture of Mr. Payson smiling up at him to the wall, where the same picture was framed.

  Over it hung a long-barreled pistol. "A plinking gun," Barbara said, following Frank's eyes.

  "Denny's last present from his dad. They used to go out in the forest and knock over tin cans."

  She took a deep breath. "The two biggest things in Denny's life are his shooting and what he calls the mystery of the fire. Everything else takes second place, even me. I mean, I love him, and he loves me. But — well, yesterday proved it."

  Frank shut the book. "What got him started on Mr. Crowell?"

  Barbara shook her head. "I don't know. I was supposed to take him out, so Mrs. Payson could get ready for the party. We went downtown first, to the town hall to look at some records—"

  "Then to the county and state offices, and then over to the federal center?" Frank asked.

  Barbara stared. "How did you — ?"

  "I should have guessed. It makes sense, now that I've seen this," Frank tapped the scrapbook. "Denny's been collecting everything he can get his hands on about the Crowell fire. He just turned eighteen. That means he can finally get access to government files. I'll bet he wrote letters months in advance, setting up those visits. And whatever he saw — "

  Frank abruptly cut himself off and got up from the desk. "I can see Denny coming back. Don't tell him you told us, okay?"

  "Are you kidding?" Barbara said. "If he found out, he'd kill me."

  "I'd hate to put it that way," Frank said, heading downstairs.«

  As they reached the first floor, the phone began to ring. Callie picked it up. "Just wait a second," she said as Denny came in the front door.

  Callie held out the phone. "For you."

  Denny took it, listened for a moment, then began to shout. "You're not going to scare me off, and you can tell that to your boss. People besides me are starting to ask for a grand jury investigation. And I can prove — "

  He stared at the phone for a second, listening, then yelled, "You'll do what? You slimy — "

  White-faced, he smashed the handset down on its cradle.

  "That was the guy who shot at me. He described it all. Told me I should forget about my stupid accusations."

  Joe nodded. "That's when you began shouting, I guess."

  "I'm more interested in what he said to make you shut up," Frank said.

  "He told me I might not be the only one to get hurt if I keep on going," Denny said. "Asked if I wasn't alone enough in the world as it was."

  Callie sucked in her breath.

  "Sounds like a really nice guy," Joe said quietly.

  "I don't care — " Denny began. 'Well, you'd better start caring," Frank cut off. "You're in a game where t
he other side plays dirty, and you can't win all by yourself."

  "So I should put myself in your hands, the way my mom let Crowell take over our lives?" Denny was about to go on when a loud creaking bounded outside.

  "Old board on the porch," Denny whispered as he homed in on the sound. He moved the target pistol up easily, like a natural extension of his body.

  Joe slipped silently to the side of the door and reached out to grasp the doorknob. Frank herded the girls to the other side, out of the line of fire.

  Then Joe threw the door open, revealing a tall figure in a police uniform, about to knock on the door.

  The man caught sight of Denny, yelled, "What the — ?" and went into a crouch.

  With one hand he grabbed the door and pulled it closed again. While his other hand streaked for the gun in his holster.

  Chapter 4

  "Hold it!" Frank Hardy yelled at the top of his lungs. He leapt on Denny, wrestling his gun upward. "Joe, open the door slowly. Con Riley's out there!"

  The door swung open again, this time revealing Patrolman Con Riley and his partner, both in firing positions.

  "Get away from him, Frank," Con called out. Con Riley was the Hardys' closest friend on the force. And there he was, aiming a gun at Frank.

  "Take it easy," Frank said. "It's not what it looks like."

  Denny let go of his gun, and Frank stepped back, holding it out butt-first.

  Con Riley came through the door. He hadn't put his gun away. "I get a report of somebody engaged in some illegal shooting at this address. With a ray gun, no less. Why am I not surprised to find the Hardys involved in this? Someone want to tell me what's going on around here?" he asked.

  "Somebody tried to kill us!" Denny exclaimed. "And he just called, making more threats."

  Slowly Riley looked around the room, and finally holstered his pistol. "Okay, Frank, how about you filling me in — without getting excited about it?"

  Frank reported what had happened out in the backyard, with Joe filling him in on the search through the woods.

  Riley's eyes narrowed. "You found nothing, you say? No spent shells?"

  Joe shrugged. "Nothing there. Either he was using a revolver, or he cleaned up after himself."

  "And this threatening phone call?"

  "I answered the phone," Callie said.

  "And did you hear any threats?"

  Callie shook her head. "Urn — no. Denny heard them."

  Riley looked at Denny. "Very convenient. Threats that only you can hear."

  Denny's face tightened. "And I suppose I fired those shots at us too?"

  "It wouldn't be too hard for you to arrange," Riley suggested. "A guy like you would have lots of friends who could shoot like that. And a little stunt like this," — he looked over at the Hardys and smiled — "with the right kind of witnesses, would really help any stories you might want to tell."

  "Stories?" Denny repeated.

  "Let's just say that a lot of people have heard about your, uh, conversation with Mr. Crowell."

  "Oh, I get it," Denny said. "And Crowell's been at work trying to make me look bad so I won't harm his precious reputation. Is that it?"

  "Make you look bad?" said Riley. "I don't know how he could do that. I mean, lots of people answer their doors with guns in their hands. Right?"

  "Well, you've got one way to clear out a lot of suspects," Frank put in. "This guy's gun was equipped with a laser sight. He used it when aiming his shots."

  Riley nodded. "A laser sight. That's the kind competition marksmen use."

  "It might be interesting to see if anyone else in town has one," Frank suggested.

  "It might be," Riley admitted. "Now, about this firearm ... " He reached out his hand for the Colt that Frank was now holding.

  "Hey, you can't take my gun!" Denny burst out.

  "Sure I can. Don't you remember? You were about to use it to plug a police officer."

  "Hey, Con, lighten up a little, will you?" Joe said, earning himself a dirty look from the policeman.

  Frank spoke up. "You're perfectly right, Con. Of course, you'll be putting this house under police protection."

  Riley stared at Frank. "Why?"

  "Well, you've heard about the attack here. So I hope you won't leave this isolated house defenseless, just in case someone comes out and uses it for target practice."

  Riley stopped reaching for the pistol. "Okay, keep the gun," he said to Denny. "But use your head before you draw it again!" He pulled out a notebook. "Now, I'll need to get a full statement from you .. ."

  "Do you think that maybe Con didn't exactly believe Denny's story?" Joe said as he, Frank, and Callie finally drove off. The police had left only moments before.

  "What gave you that idea?" Callie asked. "The way Con Riley cross-examined him whenever he opened his mouth?"

  "Well, it did make me a little suspicious," Joe admitted, poker-faced. "That, and the way Con tried so hard to get something out of us to contradict him."

  29

  THE HARDY BOYS CASEFILES

  They laughed, but Frank didn't join in. "It's not so funny," he said. "Denny's made himself a powerful enemy. Lucius Crowell is a real pillar of the community. The cops aren't ready to take Denny's word against his, and Denny isn't helping any. Every time he opens his mouth, his accusations get a little wilder."

  "You don't think Con could be right, do you?" Joe asked. "That Denny got a friend to help set us up to go after Crowell? Maybe I'm getting suspicious in my old age. But it reminds me of Mike and Greg in our last case."

  Frank shook his head. "I believe Denny is dead serious about getting to the bottom of whatever caused the Crowell Chemical disaster." He explained about the detailed scrapbook Barbara had shown him, and Denny's visits to uncover the old government records.

  "Whatever Denny found in there has set him against Lucius Crowell," Frank went on. "And as far as tricking us to help him — well, before we left, he took me off to the side. In no uncertain terms, he told me that he doesn't want us sticking our noses in."

  "Funny," Callie said. "Barbara pulled me aside and begged for any help we could give Denny."

  "Well, before we make up our minds, we'll have to do some digging." Frank turned to Callie. "Do you think Liz Webling will be at the offices of the Bayport Times?"

  Liz was a friend of Callie's, and her father was editor of the newspaper. "I want to see what they've got on Lucius Crowell—and Denny. Denny said he had proof that Crowell was behind the disaster at the factory. Maybe he passed it along to the Times."

  Callie nodded. "They'll be putting the paper to bed soon. Liz is probably there," she said. "Drop me off at the office."

  Frank nodded and drove the van downtown. As soon as Callie hopped out, Joe turned to his brother. "While Callie's digging, what are we going to do?"

  "Why don't we check out Lucius Crowell?"

  As they headed out toward the mansion district, Joe kept noticing the campaign posters in store windows. Lots of people were running for supervisor. But more posters had Lucius Crowell's face on them. Each one carried the message: "Luke Crowell — Clean Leadership for Bayport."

  "Luke?" Joe said, staring out of the window.

  "That's to show he's a man of the people. Lucius sounds too upper class."

  Joe shook his head. "I think he's trying a little too hard."

  "Maybe you'll have a chance to tell him that," Frank said as he turned into the driveway of one of the bigger mansions.

  Two tall wrought-iron gates blocked their way. They could hear video cameras whirring, focusing on Frank as he leaned out the window. He pressed a button on a box at the side of the gate.

  A tinny voice came out. "Deliveries come in the service entrance."

  "This isn't a delivery," Frank interrupted, his lips tightening. "We're here to see Mr. Crowell."

  "Do you have an appointment?"

  "No, but I think he'll see us. We've come to tell him that somebody has been taking shots at Denny Payson — i
f he doesn't know about it already."

  There was no answer. The box simply went dead. Joe looked over at Frank. "You think he's gone?"

  Frank's only answer was to put a finger to his lips.

  They sat for a moment, listening to the breeze sighing through the tree branches. Then the tinny voice came through the box again. "Drive up to the front door. Mr. Crowell will see you."

  Frank waited for the gates to swing open, and then he drove the van up the drive. He and Joe walked up to the dark green door, which was promptly opened.

  "This way." The owner of the tinny voice was much more impressive in person. His voice was deep and a little hoarse, coming from a bulllike throat. He dwarfed Frank's six feet one inch, and his shoulders brushed either side of the doorway.

  All the Hardys saw was muscle—swelling in his arms, straining the chest of his sport jacket. One of his cheeks had a scar — more like a dent, as if a chunk of muscle had been removed.

  The man's hairline had receded halfway up his head, and he looked mean. "Follow me," he said.

  As he led the way into the house, Joe noticed something else about their guide. Under the ill-fitting jacket was a distinctly unmuscular lump, certainly a pistol in a shoulder rig. And judging by the size of the lump, it had to be a pretty big pistol. Joe silently nudged Frank's elbow and pointed.

  They arrived at what was either Crowell's den or library. Lucius Crowell rose from a heavy leather chair, and for once, he wasn't in a suit and tie. Frank blinked in disbelief. They'd never seen him in anything other than a suit, except the night of the fire. But right then Lucius Crowell wore a red silk dressing gown and print ascot.

  "You came to tell me something about Denny?" he asked, looking at them. "Why do you think I should be interested?"

  "You were interested enough to ask us in," Frank answered. "After we mentioned that someone shot at him."

  Crowell's eyes flickered to the hulking character still standing in the doorway. "That'll be all, George. You may return to your duties."

  Poker-faced, George disappeared.

  "Not exactly your typical butler," Joe commented, looking after him.