Collision Course

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Scott smiled weakly. "No, that's all right. I think I'll just tag along. Even if I'm not in the race, I have to see it. It's in my blood."

  Traffic was much heavier than usual. Bayport was crammed with vehicles, all headed in the same direction as the Hardys' van. The pace soon slowed to an agonizing stop - and - then to a crawl.

  Frank gazed out the window and chuckled. "People from all over pile into their cars to go two miles an hour, so they can go watch somebody else drive two hundred miles an hour. Unbelievable."

  Finally they reached a police barricade. It was just a wood two-by-four that slanted down from a simple frame and rested on the pavement. On the side of the wood beam was stenciled: Police Line — Do Not Cross. It would be easy to move it out of the way—but the police officer guarding it made sure that no one did.

  On the other side was the street that passed right through the middle of downtown Bayport. Scott showed his racing pass to the officer guarding the barricade, and the man picked up the end of the beam and swung it aside to let the van' through.

  In a few hours the street they were on would be full of screaming race cars, but for now they had it all to themselves. It was clear sailing until they got near the fairgrounds. There they ran into another kind of traffic jam — pedestrians.

  Joe maneuvered the van slowly through the bustling congestion of mechanics, drivers, and race cars dotting the fairgrounds. They eventually worked their way to the shed that housed what was left of the McCoy Racing team and parked next to it. As they got out, Joe looked over at his brother. "Where's Callie?" he asked.

  "She fell asleep in the back," Frank replied. "I didn't have the heart to wake her."

  Reinhart Voss was in the shed, crawling around the huge rear wheels of his car, peering underneath the chassis, making his final inspection for the race. He saw Scott and got up, dusting off his knees and wiping off his hands. "I am glad you are here, Scott," he said. "There is something I would like to talk to you about."

  "Before you get started," Frank interrupted. "We're looking for the writer, T. B. Martin. Have you seen him?"

  "Yes." Voss nodded. "He was here, but he forgot his tape recorder and went back to the motel to get it."

  "Then that's where we're going," Frank said.

  "Catch you later!" Joe called back to Scott as he hurried off after his brother.

  The Hardys threaded their way back to the Bayport Motel and headed for the front desk. Frank approached the clerk behind the counter and smiled. "I'm T. B. Martin. Could I have my room key, please?"

  The clerk turned to a honeycomb of cubby holes on the wall, each with a number below it. He reached for one and then turned back to Frank, empty-handed. "Your key isn't in your slot," he said with a frown. "Could I see some kind of identification?"

  "Sure thing," Frank agreed cheerfully, reaching into his right back pocket. His smile faded as he tried his other back pocket. "Uh - oh. I must've left my wallet in the car. I'll be right back."

  Frank and Joe turned around and headed back in the direction of the front door. When they were sure the desk clerk wasn't watching, they swerved over to the elevators.

  "Eighth floor," Frank said, stepping into the elevator after his brother.

  "Right," Joe replied, running his finger down the bank of numbers and pressing one of the recessed buttons. A tiny light winked on to indicate the one he had touched. "The clerk reached for the slot marked eight-thirteen. That must be Martin's room."

  The light inside the button marked 8 winked off as the elevator door slid open and the Hardys got off. "Wouldn't it have been easier to just call him from the lobby?" Joe asked as they walked down the hall.

  "That would spoil the surprise," Frank said.

  They passed Room 811 on the left and Room 812 on the right. At the next door on the left, Frank stopped and raised his hand to knock. But the door swung open before he could complete the motion.

  T. B. Martin strode out, clutching a small portable tape recorder in one hand. "Well, if it isn't the Hardy brothers," he said. "I hope you guys weren't coming to see me. I'm in kind of a hurry."

  He closed the door to his room and brushed past the Hardys, walking toward the elevator. Then he paused, turned around, and looked at Frank. "You know," he said, "I was just thinking about you. Well, not so much you personally, but something you asked me about the other day."

  Frank raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might that be?"

  "You were asking me about McCoy's share of the profits on his book," Martin replied. "I told you about the contract and Clarco Industries."

  "Right," Frank nodded. "I remember." "Well, I just got a registered letter this morning from the Clarco offices. It appears the company · has gone belly-up — bankrupt—and the book contract was bought by some guy named Jason Drake."

  "Do you have any idea who this Drake character is?" Joe asked.

  Martin shook his head. "None whatsoever. So now I've got a silent, invisible partner." He paused as a large grin spread across his face. "With any luck, he'll stay that way, and I can write this biography my way.

  "Are you guys going to the race?" he asked as he turned to walk down the hall.

  "Not right now," Frank responded, nudging Joe and following the writer. "But we'll ride down in the elevator with you."

  "Okay," Martin said as they descended to the lobby. "But don't forget you still owe me an interview."

  The Hardys watched Martin leave the hotel and head off in the direction of the fairgrounds. Then they strolled back into the lobby and found a couple of empty chairs.

  "What now?" Joe asked, slouching down in a seat facing his brother. "We know the name McCoy is using—but we don't know where to find him."

  Frank closed his eyes, lost in thought.

  "McCoy must have gone to a lot of trouble to set up a new identity," Frank finally said after a long pause. "And we know he was still in town a couple of hours ago."

  "Right," Joe agreed. "He took a couple of whacks at us with a high-powered rifle and hit Arno by mistake."

  "He probably has some kind of disguise, Frank continued, "but he still wouldn't want to be seen in public too much. So he'd need a place to stay."

  "Well, we're sitting in the lobby of the nearest place to do that," Joe observed.

  "Exactly," Frank said with a grin.

  Joe sat up straight in his seat. "You mean you think he's here?"

  "There's an easy way to find out," Frank replied.

  He got up and walked over to the front desk. Joe was right behind him. "Excuse me," Frank addressed the desk clerk. "Could you tell me if you have a Jason Drake registered at the hotel?

  The man behind the counter squinted suspiciously at Frank. "Haven't I seen you before?

  "Not likely," Joe cut in. "We just flew in from catello, Idaho. Ever been to Focatello?"

  "Ahhh — no," the clerk replied in a flustered tone. "I'm sorry, I must have been mistaken. He looked down at his computer console and started typing on the keyboard. "Let's see—Mr. Drake checked out. In fact, I just sent a bellhop up to his room to help him carry down his bags."

  "And what room might that be?" Frank asked, leaning across the counter and craning his neck to get a look at the computer screen.

  "Now I remember you!" the clerk exclaimed. You were here a little while ago. You told me you were — "

  "Got to go!" Joe interrupted, grabbing Frank's arm and hauling him away from the counter. "Don't want to miss our flight back to Idaho!"

  They turned and walked quickly out the front door, leaving the desk clerk spluttering to himself.

  "How do we find Drake now?" Joe asked. "Follow everybody who leaves the hotel?"

  "We don't have to find him," Frank replied. "He's going to find us."

  Joe glanced at his brother. "And where is he going to find us?"

  "Over there," Frank said, pointing to the motel parking garage.

  It wasn't hard to find the silver gray Lotus. Joe and Frank spotted it right away. They crouched
behind the car next to it and waited.

  "How do we know he won't have the parking attendant drive it around to the front entrance?" Joe asked.

  "When you own a car like that," Frank said, "you don't let anybody else even touch it."

  "The guy goes to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity," Joe whispered, "and then he drives around in a flashy sports car." Frank shrugged. "Old habits die hard." They heard footsteps echoing through the garage, moving in their direction. Frank put his index finger to his lips, and Joe nodded. The footsteps grew louder and then stopped nearby. There was a jingle of keys and the sound of a car door being unlocked. Frank got down on his hands and knees and peered under the car. All he could see was a pair of expensive leather boots against the open door of the silver gray sports car.

  Frank signaled to Joe, and they both circled around the car from opposite sides, trapping the man between them.

  Frank smiled. "Angus McCoy, I presume."

  Chapter 16

  The man standing next to the sports car froze, his back to Frank. "You've made some kind of mistake," he said with a slight British accent. "My name is Drake."

  "It is now," Frank agreed, closing the distance between them. "But a couple days ago it was — "

  Suddenly the man spun around, swinging a heavy suitcase in his outstretched right hand, and cracked Frank square on the jaw. The blow knocked Frank backward, and he sprawled across the trunk of the car behind him.

  "That's the last cheap shot you take at us!" Joe growled, coming at the man from the other side. He got a good look at "Drake." Joe guessed that he was about the same size as McCoy, although the cowboy hat perched on his head made him look a little taller. The wide brim of the hat made it hard to see the man's hair and eyes, but it was McCoy.

  "Come on," Joe said sharply, shifting his weight on his feet and gesturing with his right hand. "Just you and me now, one on one. I can take you."

  The man looked at Joe, sizing him up. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "You probably could," he agreed, and bolted for the garage entrance.

  Joe ran over to his brother and helped him to his feet. "Are you okay?"

  "I've been better," Frank muttered, rubbing his jaw. "But don't stop on account of me — let's get after him!"

  The Hardys ran out of the garage and looked up and down the street. "There he goes!" Joe yelled, pointing off in the distance. "He's headed for the fairgrounds!"

  They charged after him, running side by side. "Can't let him get too far ahead," Frank said, huffing, "or we'll lose him in the crowd."

  "I don't think that's going to be a problem," Joe replied, watching the cowboy hat bobbing and weaving through the throng of racing personnel and curious spectators. He saw the hat veer off to the right and caught a glimpse of the man as he darted into one of the nearby sheds.

  There was some muffled shouting and then the earsplitting roar of a Formula One engine. A race car lurched out of the shed, with a couple of very angry men in pursuit. One of them was obviously the guy who was supposed to be in the car, Joe noted, because he was wearing a one-piece protective driving suit.

  The sleek, low-slung racing machine swerved out onto the roadway and took off down the course. "That's him!" Joe shouted. "He just stole that car!" Then he looked at his brother and said, "Well, "we can play that game."

  "What do you mean?" Frank asked. But Joe had already surged ahead through the crowd.

  Joe ran straight for the McCoy Racing shed. He skidded to a stop out in front and peered inside. Scott Lavin and Reinhart Voss were absorbed in conversation. The mechanic was putting the last of his tools away. Joe took a deep breath and walked calmly up to the race car. He swung his right leg over the side, then his left, and sat down on something hard and uncomfortable. It was Voss's crash helmet. Joe quietly fished it out from under him and slid the rest of the way into the cockpit. Then he pulled on the helmet and strapped himself in.

  Joe held his breath and reached for the starter switch. Lucky these babies don't need keys, Joe thought, a brief smile passing over his lips. Otherwise I'd look pretty stupid sitting here.

  He flipped the switch and was rewarded with the deafening blast of the 900-horsepower engine behind him bursting into life, the painful sound reverberating off the aluminum walls of the shed.

  Frank arrived just in time to see the race car squeal out of the shed and onto the road. The sight of Reinhart Voss and Scott Lavin staring in amazement only confirmed what Frank already knew.

  He didn't waste any time. He hurried over to Voss and said, "There's a two-way radio in that thing, isn't there?"

  Voss just gave him a glazed look.

  "We can talk to him, can't we?" Frank prodded.

  "Oh, yes. Sure," Voss said after a moment. "We have a whole control center here, with a radio to communicate with the car anytime."

  "Then let me talk to him," Frank urged.

  The other driver had about a thirty-second lead on Joe, but he was hampered by scattered pedestrians on the course. The race wasn't scheduled to start for another hour, and people were still milling around, sometimes darting across the roadway, looking for a better vantage point to view the race. The lead car had cleared the way for Joe, and he could see it ahead as he rocketed down a straightaway.

  Joe was surprised at how bumpy the ride was. His head was buffeted from side to side, and he could feel every little flaw in the road. Then he remembered that the car was designed that way — the aerodynamic "ground effects" practically sucked the bottom of the car to the pavement for better handling.

  No wonder racing drivers wear helmets, he thought as his head slammed into the back of the seat and then rocked forward again. It keeps them from getting punch drunk.

  He was closing in on the other car when it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was going to do once he caught up with it. Suddenly he heard a tinny voice squawking in his ear. "Joe, are you there? Can you hear me?"

  "Great," he said out loud. "Now I'm hearing voices. Maybe it's my conscience—but why does it sound like Frank?"

  "Joe," the voice came again, "if you can hear me, hit the talk-back switch on the console."

  Joe realized it was the cockpit radio and flipped the switch. "Hey, brother!" he shouted over the roar of the wind and the engine. "What's shaking?"

  "Sounds like you are," Frank quipped over the speaker. "Listen, I've got a plan."

  "I hope it's better than mine."

  "All you have to do is keep him on the race course. He won't even try to get off until he's well away from the congested downtown area, and even then he'll have to stop the car, get out, and move a barricade out of the way."

  "I'm with you so far," Joe replied, switching his right foot from the gas to the brake and cranking the wheel hard to the left for a tight turn. He felt the back tires start to slide, and he pulled the wheel back to the right. The race car fishtailed wildly as it came out of the turn, and Joe thought he was going to lose it.

  "Whoa!" he yelled as he fought with the steering wheel.

  "Joe!" Frank cried. "Are you all right?"

  There was silence on the other end, and then, "Urn — no problem. Everything's under control now. So you were saying?"

  "All you have to do is stay close enough to prevent him from driving off the course onto some side road," Frank explained. "No heroics, okay?"

  "Hey, you know me," Joe said.

  "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," Frank replied. He handed the microphone to Scott Lavin and said, "Try to talk him through it."

  "Where are you going?" Scott asked.

  "I'm going to take a little drive myself," Frank said.

  Frank hopped in the van, which was parked outside the shed, and started heading directly across the fairgrounds. The rough ride on the open terrain jostled Callie Shaw awake. She rubbed her eyes and said, "Where are we going?"

  "McCoy stole a Formula One car and took off down the course, trying to escape. I don't have to tell you who's chasing him in Voss's car." F
rank was silent for a moment, devoting his attention to a tight turn. Then he added, "I'm going to head them off."

  Callie glanced at Frank. "In this thing? How will we even catch them, much less head them off?"

  "Simple," Frank began. "The fairgrounds are in the northwest part of Bayport. The race course runs along the eastern border of the fairgrounds and then south through downtown. Then the course swings way out to the west and up the highway before turning back east to the ocean.

  "We're taking a little shortcut to the north," he finished.

  "But that will take us right out onto the cliff road!" Callie protested.

  Frank nodded. "That's the idea."

  "How are you holding up?" Scott's voice squawked in Joe's ear.

  "I'm okay on the straightaways," Joe grumbled, "but he keeps moving farther ahead of me on every turn."

  "What did you expect?" came the reply. "He's a pro. Just remember what I told you. Slow down before you hit the curve, and don't do a lot of downshifting. Keep it in a high enough gear so you won't lose a lot of time shifting back up when you come out of the turn.

  "Keep your hands at the ten and two o'clock positions on the wheel," Scott went on. "Cross your arms on the turns if you have to, but don't move your hands."

  Joe's hands were gripping the wheel so tightly that they were turning white. "Right," he said. "I think I've got that one down right. But I've got to close the distance somehow."

  Joe saw the car ahead of him veer over to the side and slow down near a blocked-off cross street. "We'll have another driving lesson later!" he shouted. "It looks like he's making his move!"

  He punched the accelerator to the floor and tore down the road, heading straight for the other race car. McCoy saw him coming, swerved back to the middle of the road and sped up again—but not fast enough. Now Joe was right on his tail, in his slipstream.

  Joe eased off the accelerator slightly, letting the air currents in the wake of the lead car pull him along for the ride. "Got you now!" Joe yelled. "I'm hanging onto your tail, and I'm not letting go!"

  The car in front careened from one side of the road to the other and back again, trying to shake Joe off. But Joe matched it move for move. They blasted up the long north straightaway, locked in an invisible embrace. Joe knew they must be doing close to 190, but the constant bumping and rocking, with his head just a few feet off the ground, made it feel as if they were about to break the speed of sound.