“Don’t worry,” Frank said, “no more bull wrangling for us.”
“Well,” Angela said, “since you’re okay, I should get back to work. Call me when you get a chance.”
“We’ll need some downtime first,” Iola said. “But we’ll definitely call.”
Angela went back to her booth, and the Bayport teens all took a moment to catch their breath.
“Make sure this pen doesn’t get open again,” Frank said to the short, dark-haired man tending El Diablo.
“Sí, señor” the man replied, bowing slightly. “I am very sorry for the trouble. I cannot imagine how it happened.”
The brothers and their girlfriends gathered their luggage and walked toward the shuttle bus stop.
“That’s enough excitement for this vacation, thank you very much,” Iola remarked. She gave the brothers a weary half smile.
“Next time,” Joe said, “tell the bull.” He gave her a reassuring hug and then pointed to a towering, coral-colored building across the bay. “Do you think that’s our hotel?”
Callie shook her head. “According to the literature, the Casa Bonita is farther up the coast,” she said.
“That has to be the Hotel San Esteban,” Iola added. “It’s supposed to be the biggest building in Nuevo Esteban. We thought about booking there, but you should see the rates!”
“They must be something,” Frank said, “considering what we’re paying already.”
“Believe me,” Callie said, “Casa Bonita is a much better deal. The rates are cheaper and not bad—after all, we’ve got private bungalows near the water.”
“I’m all for that,” Joe said. “I could already use some peace and quiet.”
They got to the bus stop just a few minutes before the bus arrived. Rather than a sleek, modern vehicle, the Casa Bonita shuttle was a renovated school bus, painted white, with blue-and-green decorations and lettering.
The Hardys and their girlfriends climbed onto the bus, stowed their luggage in the overhead racks, and sat back to enjoy the ride. The rickety shuttle wound through the crowded streets and then down the narrow highway toward the north coast. They soon passed the large coral building, which, sure enough, had a big HOTEL SAN ESTEBAN sign in front of it.
They caught a glimpse of a long, white-sand beach beyond the hotel. A number of small, cabin-like bungalows peeked through the palm trees lining the coast. They passed over a wide, swift-moving river and a few minutes later pulled up in front of Casa Bonita.
This hotel was not nearly as large or impressive as the Hotel San Esteban. The architecture was from an older period, and the building looked slightly dingy, despite new coats of white, blue, and green paint. Still, it was close to the waterfront, and it had a nice view of the green mountains and the cliffs to the north.
“The beach is the same one that runs past the Hotel San Esteban,” Iola said. “Though the river divides it in the middle.”
“The hotels share the breakwater to the north and the recreation facilities in between,” Callie explained. “All the bungalows south of here belong to the Hotel San Esteban. Water taxis shuttle their guests up the coast.”
“So our bungalows are to the north, then?” Frank asked.
Callie nodded. “They have a beautiful view,” she said, “but we’ll have to come back here for swimming.”
“Unless you’re into cliff diving,” Iola added.
Joe and Frank smiled at each other. “That could work,” Joe said.
“It worked for Elvis Presley,” Frank agreed.
“Though he probably had a stunt double,” Joe concluded.
“I do not want to spend my vacation waiting in the emergency room!” Callie said, smiling. “There are plenty of less dangerous sports you two can try while we’re here.”
Iola looped her arm around Joe’s. “Let’s check in before these two think of any, hmm?” she said.
The four teens registered at Casa Bonita’s desk and got the keys to their cabins. The girl behind the counter couldn’t locate their rental car, so they had to talk with the hotel’s owner and manager, Renee Aranya.
Aranya was a short, thin, middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and hazel eyes. She quickly turned up the Jeep reserved for the vacationers from Bayport.
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Aranya said, “but things have been so hectic around here lately!” She helped load the teens’ luggage into the back of the Jeep. “Is there anything else I can help with?”
“We’ll call if we need anything,” Frank said.
Aranya’s face fell. “Y-You can’t,” she said. “Your bungalows don’t have phones. Our literature was very specific on that point. Cell phones don’t work on this part of the island either.” She shrugged. “We’re not ’wired’ yet. I’m very sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Callie said.
Aranya smiled wanly. “I’m so glad you understand.” She handed them a piece of paper. “Here’s the map to the cabins. It’s a very beautiful drive.”
“I’m sure it is,” Frank said, taking the map.
“Please feel free to enjoy the hotel beach and our resort’s other facilities,” Aranya said.
“We’ll probably do so this afternoon,” Iola replied.
Aranya nodded. “Very good. We’ll see you soon, then.” She bustled back into the office as the teens all piled into the Jeep.
They drove north along the narrow road, following the directions on the map that Aranya had given them. The drive to the bungalows was beautiful, but it was also longer than they expected. The road wound through dense, junglelike forests and up the hillside. The path grew progressively more rutted and rocky as they went. By the time they reached their destination, they were all feeling very alone.
Two quaint bungalows stood in the small clearing on top of the cliff. The cabins were almost Hawaiian looking, with thatched roofs and walls, and bamboo supports and beams. The buildings seemed in good repair, and both boasted spectacular views of the sea.
Callie frowned, eyeing the dark thunderheads approaching from the northeast. “Shoot!” she said. “Mom may have been right about that storm.”
Iola put her arm around Callie’s shoulder. “Worry-wart!” she said. “We’re not going to let a little rain spoil our vacation, are we?”
Callie laughed and shook her head. “You’re right. The worrying stops now. Come on, let’s stash our bags and change into our swimsuits. We can hit the hotel beach before the storm catches up with us.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Frank replied.
The Hardys put their bags in one cabin, and the girls took the other. Despite their rustic appearance, the bungalows had modern conveniences inside. Because no power lines ran up the cliff, each cabin sported a set of solar panels on the south roofline and, in the back, a wooden box—about the size of a sideways refrigerator—filled with storage batteries.
“Not too bad,” Frank said as they stowed their towels and other gear in the Jeep for the trip downhill.
“After the hustle and bustle of Bayport, I think this is just what the doctor ordered,” Joe agreed.
They all climbed into the Jeep, and twenty minutes later they were lounging in the late-afternoon sunshine on the beach in front of the Casa Bonita.
“Now, this is more like it,” Callie said, sighing. She stretched, closed her eyes, and lay back on her beach towel. Adjusting her sunglasses, Iola did the same on the towel next to her friend.
“Want to toss the Frisbee around, Joe?” Frank asked. He’d picked up a flying disk from the hotel’s recreational equipment shack before hitting the beach.
“Maybe later,” Joe replied. “I want to take a dip first.”
“Sounds good,” Frank said. The Hardys hiked down the beach toward the surf.
As they did a shriek cut through the afternoon air. “Help! Help!” It was a woman’s voice.
A short distance up the beach a sleek powerboat lay anchored by the breakwater. Inside the boat the Hardys spotted a woman in a one-piece bathing suit s
truggling with two black-masked men. Before the Hardys could do anything, the masked men dumped the woman overboard.
4 Wave Runners
* * *
The woman fell hard, but she quickly bobbed to the surface, sputtering and coughing. The Hardys and their girlfriends sprinted up the beach toward her. The beach wasn’t very crowded, and most of the vacationers were concentrated to the south, closer to the big hotel. The Bayport teens were the only ones in a position to help.
The two attackers sat down and fired up the powerboat’s engine while their victim struggled in the water. Black nylon masks obscured the men’s features, making them impossible to recognize.
“Help the woman!” Frank shouted to Callie and Iola as they ran.
“We’ll go after the attackers,” Joe concluded.
“Check!” Iola called. She and Callie splashed into the surf and swam toward the floundering victim.
The brothers kept running up the beach. As they neared the scene the boat turned in a circle and headed out to sea.
“We’ll never catch them!” Joe said, frustration burning in his voice.
“We’re not licked yet,” Frank said. “They have to pass the breakwater to get out of the bay.”
Joe nodded, and the two of them rocketed off the beach and down the breakwater. Concrete, large rocks, and small boulders formed the base of the causeway, which had a concrete walkway for fishing along the top. The breakwater stretched out into the bay like a stony finger, protecting the hotel beaches from the ravages of the open ocean.
The cement walkway was rough and weathered. Its hot surface stung the Hardys’ bare feet as they ran down it, trying to head off the stolen boat. The attackers hadn’t noticed them yet, which gave the brothers an advantage.
The Hardys reached the end of the breakwater at the same time as the stolen boat. Frank and Joe sprang off the causeway with all their might and angled out over the rocks. They landed hard in the middle of the speedboat between the two bandits.
The two men spun to meet their followers. The man in the rear of the boat grabbed an oar and swung it at Frank’s head. Frank ducked out of the way and aimed a low kick at the man’s knee, but the boat lurched over a wave and Frank missed.
Joe moved forward to grapple with the driver of the boat. The man spun the wheel hard, and Joe toppled against the ship’s fiberglass hull. Joe staggered to his feet and lunged again. The driver was ready, though, and kicked Joe in the jaw. The younger Hardy fell hard to the deck, spots dancing before his eyes.
The man in the back of the boat steadied himself for another swing at Frank. The older Hardy sprang up and grabbed the oar with both hands. He forced the culprit back against the stern rail, near the outboard motor. The two wrestled, each trying to twist the oar from the others hands. Frank brought his knee up into the man’s thigh. The man gasped and Frank pushed hard, clouting the bandit on the chin with the oar. Stunned, the bandit lost his grip on the paddle and slumped to the deck.
At the front of the craft Joe quickly got to his feet for another go at the driver. The pirate at the controls gave three quick twists of the wheel. Still slightly dazed, the younger Hardy swayed on his feet. The boat’s final turn sent him tumbling toward the sea.
Frank realized his brother’s predicament and thrust one end of the oar toward Joe. Joe grabbed it just as the boat driver executed a high-speed turn.
Joe and Frank held tight to either end of the oar, but both lost their footing on the boat. The brothers tumbled into the surf. They popped quickly to the surface as the craft zipped away into the open ocean.
“Are you all right?” Frank asked, spitting out sea-water.
Joe nodded. “I’ve been better.” he said. “Man! We came so close to catching those guys!”
Currents near the breakwater made returning to the causeway dangerous, so the brothers swam all the way back to the beach. When they got there, they found a crowd of people gathered around their girlfriends and the rescued woman.
The local sheriff was taking notes while talking to the victim: a middle-aged blond woman named Beth Becker. Renee Aranya stood nearby, arguing with a distinguished-looking man. Lucas McGill, dressed like a beachcomber, lurked at the edges of the crowd. He gave the Hardys a thumbs-up sign and a wink as they staggered out of the water.
Callie and Iola helped the brothers to some nearby beach chairs. “Are you okay?” Callie asked.
“Just peachy,” Joe said, still angry that the pirates had gotten away.
“It’s not quite the swim I planned for this afternoon . . . ,” Frank admitted.
The girls gave the brothers a quick hug. “Heroic, but foolish,” Iola said. Callie nodded and frowned.
A dune buggy screeched out of the Casa Bonita parking lot and moved quickly down the beach. It stopped right next to the crowd. Pablo Ruiz hopped out and ran over to Beth Becker. He looked very worried.
“Ms. Becker,” he said, “are you all right?”
“Do I look all right?” Ms. Becker snapped. “I was hijacked and dumped overboard!”
“But you are not injured?” Pablo asked.
Beth Becker rubbed her neck. “They were pretty rough,” she said. “I doubt I’ll recover before flying home. Some vacation this is!”
Pablo gave Ms. Becker a sympathetic look. “And . . . my boat?”
“Stolen,” Frank interjected. “They headed north, out to sea.”
“Frank and I tried to stop them,” Joe continued, “but they threw us overboard too.”
“Lucky for you,” the sheriff said. He was a stocky, powerful-looking man wearing a khaki uniform and dark glasses. “The local pirates are ruthless. You could have been killed.”
Pablo rubbed his head. “First the airplane trouble, now this!” he said, moaning.
“Honestly,” Ms. Becker said, raising her voice once more, “this is inexcusable! People told me there’d been problems locally. Someone should be held accountable. I’m thinking of filing a lawsuit.”
At the word lawsuit, Renee Aranya and the man she was arguing with suddenly stopped talking.
“This is your fault,” the man hissed to Aranya. “Your sloppy management is hurting my business. Now this woman talks of suing someone. Well, it won’t be me!”
“Your hotel manages this beach too, Rodrigo,” Aranya said angrily. “Those aren’t my bungalows south of Casa Bonita. Whether you like it or not, Señor Lopez, Casa Bonita and the Hotel San Esteban are in this together.”
“Everyone, please, calm down,” the sheriff said. “There is no need for lawsuits, nor any reason to cast blame on one another. Clearly neither Ms. Aranya nor Mr. Lopez is responsible for these pirates.”
“Well, someone’s got to take charge,” Beth Becker complained.
“The sheriff looks in charge to me,” Frank said.
“We should let him do his job,” Joe added.
Ms. Becker seemed to notice the Bayport teens for the first time. She smiled weakly. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I’m just upset. I haven’t even thanked you four for saving me.”
“No trouble,” Iola said.
“You’d have done the same for us,” Callie added.
Ms. Becker nodded. The look on her face, however, told the teens that she wouldn’t have been so brave.
“Remaining calm will make the investigation much easier,” the sheriff said. “Now, I will require a statement from each of you. . . .”
It was almost sunset by the time the Hardys, their girlfriends, and the other people had finished talking to the police. Deputies spoke to everyone who might have witnessed the incident, including the hotels’ guests and other beachgoers. The questioning left the four Bayport teens exhausted.
“I’ll call Angela and tell her we’re too tired to party tonight,” Iola said, heading for the hotel lobby to make the call.
“Good idea,” Callie agreed. She and the Hardys gathered their towels and other beach gear. As they did Lucas McGill, who had been hanging around the fringes of the
crowd, sauntered up.
“You didn’t follow my advice,” The Gringo said.
“Which advice was that?” Joe asked, a bit peeved.
“About staying out of the way of the locals,” McGill replied. “You haven’t even been here one day, and already you’ve tangled with a mad bull, a young tough guy, and some pirates. Your vacation could be cut short if you don’t wise up.”
Frank ignored the implied warning. “That man arguing with Ms. Aranya,” he said. “Is he the owner of the Hotel San Esteban?”
“Yes,” The Gringo replied. “Rodrigo Lopez is one of the most powerful men on the island. You should especially stay out of his way.” McGill cracked a half smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get back to your cabins.” He turned and walked down the beach toward the larger hotel. “Remember what I’ve said,” he called back. “Keep your noses clean.”
Joe scratched his head. “What do you make of that guy?” he asked Frank and Callie.
Both of them shrugged. “He’s not just a friendly beachcomber,” Frank said. “But I have no idea what his game might be.”
“Please don’t turn this vacation into a detective case,” Callie pleaded. “Can’t some people just be eccentric?”
Frank rubbed his chin and nodded.
Iola returned a few minutes later looking a bit forlorn.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.
“The weather forecast,” she said, sighing. “Callie’s mom may have been right about that storm. It’s a hurricane now, and it’s heading this way.”
“Well, we can’t control the storm,” Frank said. “We may as well enjoy ourselves and see what happens.”
“Hear, hear,” said Callie.
The sun set while they finished packing their gear into the Jeep. They grabbed some sandwiches from the hotel’s tiny beachside café for dinner. They ate in the car, and by the time they got back to their cabins, they all felt exhausted.
“I hope you don’t mind calling it a day this early,” Callie said, giving Frank a peck on the cheek.
“Nah,” the elder Hardy said. “I’m beat.”
“Me too,” agreed Joe.
Typhoon Island Page 3