Running on Empty

by Franklin W. Dixon

  A screeching metallic squeal shattered the air as the car lurched over the edge of the bridge.

  "Frank!" Emmy cried out.

  "Now!" Frank yelled.

  Frank slammed his shoulder into his door and in one smooth motion threw himself free of the falling car. He hit the asphalt pavement hard and rolled clear.

  Crumbled concrete kicked into the air as the car slid forward, as if in slow motion, and rolled off the edge of the bridge. Frank shuddered when he heard the crunch of the car as it slammed into the rocks of the dry riverbed.

  "You okay, Emmy?" Frank stood. He blinked and rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  "Yeah," she wheezed. "'I think so." She smiled.

  Frank stood up and placed his hands behind his head to relieve the pressure on his lungs and rib cage. He felt as if he had just finished a marathon race with death.

  Emmy stood up slowly. "I'm just glad these back roads are so deserted," she said.

  "Yeah, aren't we lucky?" Frank said sarcastically.

  "Let's hitch back to town and get cleaned up before I try to explain to Cronkite why his car is in the bottom of a dry riverbed."

  "Cronkite's car?" Frank would have shouted if his chest didn't hurt so much.

  "He dropped it off just before you two arrived. He wanted me to drive a newer car."

  They had walked less than a mile when an old man driving a battered pickup loaded with paint and painting equipment in the truck bed offered them a ride.

  "Watch where you sit," Emmy warned Frank as they climbed into the open back.

  Frank didn't have time to heed Emmy's warning. The pickup lurched forward and Frank sat squarely in a paint tray still wet with pink paint.

  Emmy giggled. Then she chuckled. Soon, she was laughing so hard, she was crying.

  Frank tried to look angry with a deep frown. Then he burst out laughing, too.

  "I don't know what's so funny," Frank said with a sigh. "We may have escaped back there, but we've got to face Cronkite now."

  "Yeah, I can't wait to see the look on that square face of his when I tell him his car is now a compact." Emmy let loose with another barrage of laughter, holding her sides.

  Frank joined her. In the truck's rear-view mirror, he could see the old man glance at them as if they were crazy.

  "What do you think happened?" Frank asked after several moments.

  Emmy brushed back her red hair. "The way the accelerator hit the floor, I'd say someone tampered with the throttle return spring on the carburetor. And to make sure we wouldn't stop, he or they made sure the brakes would fail."

  "Sounds elaborate."

  "I could do it to any car in under a minute."

  "Max!" Frank shouted with a slap on his knee. "He came back covered with dirt and sweat, as though he'd been working hard and fast on something."

  Emmy shook her head. "Forget it, Frank. He probably got that way from looking for the clutch plate. Besides, Max is a walking vanilla wafer. He's all peace, love, and harmony. He still thinks it's the 1960s. He's a harmless old hippie."

  "If that's true, then why didn't the car go out of control before we got to Paradise Salvage?" he asked.

  Emmy leaned against the cab and crossed her legs. "Good point. It would take only a couple of minutes to snip the throttle return spring, punch a hole in the brake line, and cut the emergency brake cable with bolt cutters."

  "And Max had more than enough time," Frank added.

  "You're right," Emmy conceded.

  They rode in silence the remainder of the way to Royce's Garage.

  "This place could use a real cleaning up," Frank said as he pushed open the office door and kicked at a pile of soiled red rags.

  "Hey! Watch how you treat my place," Emmy protested.

  "Your place? You mean the city's."

  "I mean mine, as in I own this garage."

  "Royce's Garage really does belong to you?"

  "Why is that so hard for you to believe, Frank?" Emmy stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him.

  "Who was Royce?" Frank's mind was racing.

  "He was my father," Emmy said before she could stop herself. Then she said quickly, "I've got to clean up. Bathroom's over there." She unlocked the inner office and slammed the door shut. Frank heard the lock click on the other side.

  The hot water and soap lather stung the little cuts left on his face by the sharp concrete slivers, but it felt good to wipe away the grime of the accident.

  Pieces were beginning to fall into place, but Frank wasn't sure what the final picture would be. Emmy had personal reasons for wanting to solve this case, and Frank just hoped her reasons didn't clash with his search for Chet.

  Something in the cracked mirror caught his eye. At first he thought some giant bug with two large wings was floating behind him. He turned and stared at two photographs pinned to the wall across the bathroom.

  He patted his face dry as he neared the photos and stared.

  One of the photos was of the twisted remains of an old 1950s classic. Enough of it remained so that Frank could identify it as a Buick. Its hood was crumpled, the roof caved in, the massive chrome grille and bumper crumpled like cardboard, and the front fenders, their round chrome "portholes," smashed. The car had been rolled several times in a terrible accident.

  The other photo was older and showed the Buick in better days, its bulky chrome and black and pink paint shining like mirrors.

  Three people were gathered around the car, smiling like old friends. A teenage Emmy, her long red hair pulled back into a pony tail, sat on the massive hood. A stranger stood next to her - Royce Sauter? The third person in the photo sent chills up and down Frank's spine.

  Butch Smith!

  A thought shot through Frank's mind like a poisoned dart. Perhaps the reason why Cronkite's Auto Theft Division hadn't been able to break the chop shop ring was because the car thieves knew every move the police made - as they made them.

  Frank snatched up the older photo, put it into his shirt pocket, and headed quietly out the front door.

  Perhaps Emerson Sauter was working for her old friend, Butch Smith!

  Chapter 9

  Joe Hardy restrained the mounting anger that was growing within him. He squeezed the remote control garage door opener a block from Smith's chop shop - the plastic box cracked between his fingers.

  Snake's bump-and-rob stunt had not only frightened an old woman, it may have ended Frank and Joe's chances of finding Chet. The victim had gotten a long, good, clean look at Joe. She'd be able to give the police an accurate description.

  Cronkite wouldn't hesitate to throw Joe in the darkest, deepest pit of the Southport jail.

  Joe's timing was perfect. The garage door was wide open as he jerked the steering wheel and guided the stolen Caddy into the warehouse opening.

  Smith raised his hand in a friendly gesture. His smile and wave quickly gave way to an expression of stunned horror as Joe aimed the car for him and Snake. They scurried aside like frightened rabbits.

  Joe stomped on the brakes. He pressed the remote control and the garage door started down.

  Joe bolted from the car and headed for Snake. He stopped as Smith stepped in front of him.

  "You know what your 'partner in slime' did?" Joe protested. "He assaults an old woman, steals a second car, and leaves me there holding the bag."

  "Big deal." Smith shrugged.

  Joe glared at Smith.

  "You've got to relax, Joe, and go with the flow." Smith reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded wad of bills two inches thick. "This ought to cool you off for a while." He flipped through the bills, all hundreds, and didn't stop until he had counted off fifteen. He handed the money to Joe.

  Joe hesitated, then grabbed the bills, and stuffed them into his pocket.

  "Not bad money for a couple hours' work." Smith chuckled. "Tell your brother that the Davises are now full-fledged members of the Smith Auto Redistribution Club."

  "Thanks," Joe said with a sn
eer.

  Smith started for the cars. "These two babies will keep Snake and me busy for a while." He picked up a cutting torch and fired it to life. He adjusted the blue-and-orange flame until it was a nearly invisible pencil-thin thread of destruction. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

  Now that Frank and Joe were in, Joe decided to go one step further. He knew he was taking a risk, but he couldn't help the nagging feeling that time was running out for Chet.

  "When do we see the other end of the operation?"

  "What?" Smith asked above the roar of the torch.

  "Frank and I want in on the deliveries," Joe shouted.

  Smith shut off the torch and the warehouse became deadly silent. He walked slowly toward Joe, his eyes as cold as the silence.

  "All in due time," Smith said. "You two play your cards right and you'll be vice presidents of my Bayport operations. Until then, lay low. And don't get greedy."

  Smith relit the torch inches from Joe, the flame popping into a deadly flash. Joe remained still. Smith was testing his nerves, and Joe wasn't about to let the older man see him flinch.

  Smith laughed and returned to the two cars.

  Joe knew he had to find Frank and tell him they were in the gang. He didn't look forward to telling his older brother about the bump-and-rob.

  Joe hopped in the van and pulled away from the curb.

  "You boys certainly have some high-tech stuff back here," came a voice from the rear of the van.

  Joe twisted around just enough to keep one eye on the street and peer back into the van with the other.

  Cronkite waddled to the front and sat in the passenger seat.

  "What are you doing here?" Joe asked nervously. He sensed that Cronkite knew about the bump-and-rob. "I can explain about the sports car," Joe quickly added.

  "I'll just bet you can," Cronkite said as he propped one foot on the van's clean dash. "But save it. There's something I want to tell you and your brother."

  "Where is Frank?"

  "I had a patrol car pick him up as he was leaving Royce's. He's waiting for us at Don's Daylight Donuts. Turn here." Cronkite pointed.

  Minutes later Frank and Joe sat in a dingy booth at Don's Daylight Donuts. The bakery was old, and the walls were dark with dirt and the grime of years of greasy smoke. Cronkite sat across from the Hardys, stuffing a jelly doughnut into his mouth.

  "Give me one, just one good reason why I shouldn't yank you two off this case, and I mean now," Cronkite mumbled through the doughnut.

  "How about - " Joe began.

  "How about keeping your mouth shut!" Cronkite fired back. "You can't give me any reason to keep you yahoos in Southport any longer. While Frank was running my car off a bridge and into a dry riverbed, Joe was playing bump-and-rob with Snake. They nearly killed an old woman in the process."

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances. They had a lot to tell each other.

  "What are you two? A wrecking crew?" Cronkite leaned back in his chair. "You going to eat that doughnut?" he asked Frank.

  "We didn't come here to stuff our faces, Detective," Frank replied.

  Cronkite snatched the doughnut and bit into it. "You're just lucky that old woman wasn't wearing her glasses or she would have given our police artist a better description of you. As it is, we're all out looking for a short, fat teenager with freckles and his partner, a skinny long-haired kid with large black eyes. I ought to take you both in."

  "You won't do that," Joe said, his arms crossed.

  "Oh, yeah? And why not, wiseguy?"

  "Well, for one thing, you'll have a hard time explaining to your captain why you allowed two 'kids' to go undercover on a dangerous chop shop operation," Frank remarked.

  Cronkite began coughing as he choked on his mouthful.

  "And for another," Joe added, "Frank and I are one step away from discovering who's fencing Smith's chopped parts."

  Cronkite cleared his throat. His eyes had watered, and his voice cracked. "How close?"

  "We'll make you a deal," Frank spoke up. "You stop interfering and we'll deliver Smith and his silent partner in forty-eight hours."

  Cronkite stared at Frank. "Forty-eight hours?"

  "Just two days," Joe said.

  "Don't get smart, wiseguy," Cronkite shot back. "Okay," he conceded. "But if you two don't have something by late Thursday, I'm yanking you off the case."

  ***

  "You sure you haven't promised something we can't deliver?" Joe asked Frank as they drove back to their motel.

  "We need time to find Chet," Frank answered. "Is Smith happy with our talents?"

  "Tickled pink. In fact" - Joe reached into his front pocket - "he's given us some cash."

  Frank whistled as he counted off the bills. "We should have given this to Cronkite to mark as evidence."

  "I know. But I was so intent on convincing Cronkite to keep us on, I forgot about it. We can give it to him later."

  The digital car phone chirped, and Frank snatched it up.

  "Hello."

  "Frank? Joe? This is Uncle Ed." The tremble in the man's voice told Frank that Uncle Ed was in a near panic.

  "What is it, Uncle Ed?"

  "I got ... another phone call, He - the kidnapper - is going to kill Chet if I don't do as he says."

  "Where are you?"

  "At my office."

  "Stay there. We're on our way."

  Ten minutes later the van pulled into the parking lot of AutoHaus Emporium. Frank and Joe found Uncle Ed pacing in circles on the office carpet.

  "He called about fifteen minutes ago," Uncle Ed explained. "He sounded very mean. I know he's going to hurt Chet."

  "Did you write down his instructions?" Joe asked.

  "Write it down?" Uncle Ed seemed confused.

  "Yes," Frank said. "Did you write down what the kidnapper wanted."

  "No."

  Frank and Joe shook their heads.

  "I recorded it," Uncle Ed added.

  "Recorded it?" Frank asked.

  "Yes. My answering machine automatically records all my phone conversations. I make so many deals for specialty cars over the phone that I need a record of the transactions. Do you want to hear the conversation?"

  Frank nodded and smiled. He liked Uncle Ed, even if the older man was a bit odd.

  Uncle Ed punched the rewind and then the play button on his answering machine.

  The kidnapper's voice was rough, deep, and vicious. Frank and Joe looked at each other and shrugged. They didn't recognize the voice.

  The kidnapper's terms were simple. Uncle Ed was to hand over one hundred thousand dollars.

  Uncle Ed demanded to talk to Chet. For the first time in four days, Frank and Joe heard the voice of their old friend.

  What they heard sent chills up and down their spines.

  "H - hello," Chet said weakly.

  "Chet? Chet, are you okay?" Uncle Ed all but shouted on the tape.

  "Uncle Ed?" They could hear Chet smacking his lips and tongue, a sign that he was thirsty.

  Uncle Ed's voice was hysterical. "I'll get you out of this, son, just don't do anything foolish."

  "Uncle Ed?" Chet gasped.

  "Yes, son," Uncle Ed replied softly. "How are you?"

  "I'm - okay. Don't listen to this creep."

  "Give me that." They heard the kidnapper growl. "Stupid kid."

  The next sounds were a fleshy smack and a deep moan from Chet. The kidnapper had hit Chet.

  "One hundred thousand dollars, Brooke," the kidnapper growled.

  "W - where? When?"

  "Just get it! Be ready to go when I call again tomorrow - three p. m. If you want to see your nephew alive again."

  The phone clicked dead. A horrified gasp from Uncle Ed and the hissing static from the phone line were the last sounds on the tape.

  The recorder shut itself off with a loud click.

  Frank had promised Cronkite to deliver the fence in forty-eight hours. He was hoping to buy time to find Chet. Time, however, was not
a friendly ally to the Hardys. Uncle Ed had to have one hundred thousand dollars by the next day. Or Chet Morton would end up dead.

  Chapter 10

  Frank tapped the cassette tape in his hand. He had asked to keep it so he could listen again. Something about the conversation bothered him. But what?

  For the last half hour, Frank had sat in the motel room replaying the tape on his portable pocket cassette player. He had to control his anger as he listened over and over to the kidnapper hitting Chet.

  He had to ignore that and concentrate. He had to sift through the voices and words and noise to filter out any clues.

  Nothing.

  He stabbed at the off button and threw the tape player on his bed next to the photo he had swiped from Royce's. Another unsolved mystery.

  The door was unlocked and Joe entered, a large brown paper bag in one hand.

  "Dinner," he announced.

  "I'm not hungry." Frank stared out the window.

  "Heard nothing new on the tape?"

  Frank's silence answered Joe's question.

  Joe placed the bag on Frank's bed and sat across on his own. He opened up the bag and pulled out a hamburger, fries, and a soft drink. Frank might be able to go without food, but Joe couldn't.

  Joe picked up the photo lying next to the tape player - the photo of Emmy, an older man next to her, and Smith.

  "You really think Emmy's working both sides of the law?" Joe asked between bites of the burger.

  Frank sighed. "I don't know. She has opportunity."

  "What about motive?"

  "Oldest motive in the world."

  "Greed," Joe said in answer to his own question.

  "Right. What I haven't been able to figure out is her connection with Smith. If they're such old friends, why hasn't she been able to join his gang, work undercover in his operation instead of trying to run her own shop?"

  Joe shrugged. He looked at Frank. "What else is bothering you?"

  "That man next to Emmy. I'm positive he's her father."

  "You think he's mixed up in this somehow?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he's dead."

  "Emmy tell you that?" Joe asked.