Joe let up on the accelerator and slowly eased the emergency brake down. The van slowed. He steered the van toward an exit. Frank made sense. Mangieri would have to head back to Bayport because that was where Stewart had to be - if Stewart was going to make good on his threat of killing all the Hardys and their friends.
"Where to now?" Joe asked as they entered Bayport.
The sky had darkened as heavy, black rain clouds closed out the sun. A light drizzle was falling. Joe flipped on the headlights.
Frank had ridden in silence, forcing himself to shut out the image of his father in the hands of Stewart.
What would drive a man to such extremes to achieve murder? Revenge? Bobby must have kept in touch with his father over the years he was in prison. Mock's hatred for Fenton Hardy festered into a madness that had infected his son, Bobby. A blood law, Joe had called it.
"What did Leonard Mock say just before he collapsed?" Frank asked, staring ahead through the water-spotted windshield.
Joe flipped on the windshield wipers. "What are you talking about?"
"He said something about everything coming full circle. What do you think he meant?"
Joe glanced at Frank. "He was talking about his son."
"Maybe not just his son. The shoot-out with Leonard Mock took place at the old National Guard Armory," Frank stated matter-of-factly.
"You think that's where Stewart, I mean Bobby, has taken Dad."
"That's exactly what I think!"
***
Bayport's old National Guard Armory was on the city's southeast edge. The Hardys were determined that it wouldn't become their father's place of execution.
They reached the large brick and stone building in under three minutes. From the outside, the armory looked like a medieval fortress, complete with towers and ramparts. Frank and Joe had often joked about the old-fashioned design of the building, but their jokes didn't seem funny right then.
Joe shut off the headlights a half mile from the armory. He turned off the engine and let the van coast in, parking it a hundred yards from the front of the building.
"If I remember right," Frank said, "the fight with the police took place behind the armory at the old practice range."
Frank and Joe trotted around to the side, then pressed themselves against the building as they neared the practice range.
Thunder rumbled. The drizzle turned into a trickle. The sky darkened more, and it looked like dusk rather than late morning.
The ground was still muddy from the rain the tornado had dumped, and now it was becoming even more sodden and difficult to walk through.
"There's the sedan," Frank said as they turned a corner of the building.
The blue car sat with its trunk lid open. Frank checked the inside. He found a small smear of blood and a tie clip he recognized as his father's.
"They've got him," Frank said grimly.
They reached the end of the side of the armory. Frank moved his head slowly around the corner.
"Take a look," Frank said to Joe, and they exchanged places.
Joe peeked around the corner.
A little flame flared. Mangieri's face was cast in an orange and yellow glow. He was leaning against the wall ten yards down from them. He brought the lighter up to a cigarette that dangled from his mouth and lit it. He turned away and stared to his left.
"He's mine," Joe whispered to Frank.
"Be my guest," Frank replied.
Joe slid around the corner and crept up on the unsuspecting thug. Mangieri's attention was directed in the opposite direction.
Joe tapped Mangieri on the shoulder.
"Got the time?" Joe asked with venom.
Mangieri turned and gasped. A split second later he fired a broad right fist into the center of Joe's stomach. Joe countered with a right of his own. Mangieri fell back against the wall and slid down into the mud, the lit cigarette still dangling from his lower lip.
Joe rubbed his knuckles. "He's not going anywhere for a while," he said with a smile as Frank joined him.
Frank patted Mangieri's leather jacket to check for a gun. "Empty," he told Joe.
"Too bad," Joe said.
They continued along the back of the building until they reached the far corner.
"The practice range," Frank announced. He peered around the corner, then gasped. "Dad!" Frank whispered, trying to suppress a shout.
Fenton Hardy was tied to a lamppost some fifty yards away, his hands tied over his head, the rope hanging from a hook. His head hung down, his feet slightly off the ground. The glare from the light and the drizzle of rain created an eerie halo about him, giving him a ghostlike appearance.
"I don't see Stewart," Frank told Joe.
They moved out slowly, hoping the darkness of the oncoming storm would hide them long enough to make a run for their father.
They were halfway to him when Stewart suddenly appeared, the deadly .357 magnum hanging at his side.
Frank and Joe froze.
"I've been waiting for you."
The boys moved slowly toward him, keeping their eyes on him and the magnum at his side. They stopped at the edge of the circle of light.
Fenton raised his head. "I'm okay," he said weakly to Frank and Joe.
"Shut up!" Stewart barked.
Fenton slumped forward again.
Frank and Joe moved a step closer to Stewart.
The magnum was up and fired instantly, mud splattering Frank and Joe.
"That was just a warning. The next shot drops one of you dead."
"Let - them - go," Fenton groaned.
"Say, 'please.' " Frank and Joe were stunned to hear Stewart's childlike voice.
Stewart laughed again. This time it was more hysterical and higher-pitched. Stewart reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the black ski mask, which he slipped over his head.
"You don't need the disguise anymore, Bobby," Frank said.
"I'm disappointed in you, Frank. You have such a brilliant, logical mind. This isn't a disguise. It's an executioner's hood."
"You're not going to get away with this," Joe said with great control.
Stewart's laugh was just as hysterical, just as high-pitched as before.
"An empty threat from an empty head. You should have spent more time exercising the muscle between your ears, Joe Hardy."
Frank reached out and grabbed Joe before the younger Hardy could make a move toward Stewart.
"You see," Stewart said gleefully, "Frank is the smart one."
"If you're wearing an executioner's hood, what are the charges, when was the trial and the sentencing?" Frank glanced quickly at Joe and moved his eyes toward Stewart.
Play the game, Frank was telling Joe. Play the game.
"You want charges?" Stewart shouted. "I'll give you charges." Stewart held up a finger. "One: sticking his nose into other people's business." He held up a second finger. "Two: causing a father and son to be separated for life." A third finger went up. "Three: putting that father in prison until he rots and dies from cancer."
Stewart began to pace in front of Fenton Hardy, all the time uncurling and curling his fingers around the pistol grip of the .357 magnum.
"This is the trial!" Stewart bellowed, his voice more agitated. "I, the jury, find Fenton Hardy guilty on all charges, the most serious of which is causing a son to be torn from his father."
Stewart paced for a few seconds more, then suddenly stopped, his back to Fenton. He turned slowly, raised the magnum shoulder level, and aimed it at Fenton's head.
He spoke softly, almost in rhythm to the drizzle that fell about them.
"The sentence: death. Just as my father was sentenced to death. The sentence to be carried out immediately."
Stewart squeezed the trigger.
"No!" Joe shouted and lunged at Stewart, the gun exploding as Joe and Stewart fell into the mud.
Joe gagged and spit out a small amount of mud. He grabbed Stewart's gun hand and pressed it deeper into the mud. The magnum erupted again, and
Joe felt the recoil and the heat of the explosion. Joe pushed himself up with his left hand and hit Stewart with a right cross. Stewart groaned once and relaxed.
Joe was trying to pull the gun from Stewart's grip when the man suddenly kicked up and caught Joe in the side with his knee. Joe groaned and almost fell over. He caught himself instead and planted another solid right to Stewart's cheek.
A gasp came from Stewart, and this time he lay still, the .357 sliding from his hand and into the mud. Joe scooped up the gun and stepped back from the unconscious man. He glanced over at Frank.
Frank was untying his father. He tugged at the last knot, and the rope slackened. Fenton began to fall, but Frank caught him and helped him to stand.
"You okay, Dad?" Joe asked.
"Yes," Fenton Hardy answered weakly but with a smile.
Joe took the rope that had bound his father and tied Stewart's hands together.
"Dad needs to get to the hospital," Frank said. "I'll bring the van around."
"I can make it," Mr. Hardy said. When Frank let go, though, Fenton fell back. Frank reached out to steady his father.
"I'll help him," Joe said. "Go get the van."
"I'll call the police," Frank said as he started for the van.
Lightning flashed across the sky, followed close by thunder, and then the rain began to fall in large, hard drops.
***
Fenton Hardy had only minor cuts and bruises and was treated and released from the hospital.
Three days later he was sitting in his favorite easy chair drinking a cup of coffee. Frank sat on the couch with Callie and Joe. Liz and Don were on the floor, and they were all watching the news on WBAY.
"And the judge refused to set bail for Robert Edward Stewart until the former Bayport police officer could undergo a psychiatric examination by a court-appointed physician."
Frank hit the Mute button on the remote control.
"Why?" Callie asked as she took the remote control away from Frank.
"Stewart's lawyer has made a motion to plead Stewart insane," Frank explained.
Chet entered from the kitchen, a large sub in his hands.
"Who's insane?" Chet asked as he chomped down on the sandwich.
"We are, for letting you eat us out of house and home," Joe replied when he saw the four-inch thick sandwich.
"I'm still amazed at the timing and the planning involved," Callie said.
Mr. Hardy stirred. "Leonard Mock was one of the most methodical crooks I've ever dealt with."
"Mangieri supplied Mock with the photos and news clippings," Frank added. "Mangieri turned state's evidence and signed a confession, but this time he didn't get any deal."
"Mock learned who had adopted his son and sent him letters over the years," Fenton said. "He blamed me for separating them." Mr. Hardy set his cup down and stood. "I'm going to pick up Con from the hospital and drive him home. You kids try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone," he said, raising one eyebrow before walking out of the room.
"The editor really liked my story," Liz said. "Thanks, Frank."
"No problem," Frank replied.
"What about me?" Joe asked, pretending to be hurt.
"You, too, Joe," Liz said with a laugh.
"Hey, look!" Chet mumbled, with a mouthful of sub, pointing with the half-eaten sandwich at the big-screen TV.
Joe Hardy appeared on the fifty-two-inch screen in living color, his blond hair plastered to his head like a wet mop, his clothes soaked and hanging on his body like rags.
Suddenly the sound blared from the stereo speakers.
"And now, news from the fashion world," the commentator was saying. "Joe Hardy, Bayport's most eligible teenage bachelor, was caught modeling the latest in tornado attire recently in downtown Bayport."
"Hey!" Joe shouted and turned his blue eyes on Callie.
Callie, the remote control in one hand, jumped up and hit the Eject button on the videotape player. She grabbed the tape that slid out and held it up.
"Looks like Newshawk Shaw captured another exclusive!" she said with a laugh.
"Give me that tape, Callie Shaw!" Joe demanded, jumping up and chasing her from the living room while the others rolled with laughter.
The End.
Frank and Joe's next case:
Surfs up in Hawaii, and the Hardy boys are riding a crime wave into danger! Somebody's trying to deep-six champion surfer Jade Roberts, and Frank and Joe are determined to keep her from going under.
From Waikiki to Diamond Head, the Hardys find themselves in hot pursuit of a powerful crime boss. In the face of bullet-spraying motorboats and killer copters, they run the risk of suffering the worst wipeout of their lives ... in Fright Wave, Case #40 in The Hardy Boys Casefiles®.
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