The Hunt for Four Brothers (6 page)

As Joe Hardy fell on his back, the huge gray animal pounced on top of him, snapping at his throat.

Frank moved to help, but a second animal rushed out of the room and cornered him. Joe stuck his flashlight out to ward off the animal. He saw it was not a wolf, but a gray husky.

Chet swung his flashlight, driving the other husky away from Frank. Joe let the dog attacking him take his flashlight in its mouth. The husky shook the flashlight violently, giving Joe a few seconds to scramble to his feet.

The three boys charged for the stairs with the two huskies at their heels.

Chet suddenly stopped dead. “We're surrounded!”

Two more dogs were hurtling down the steps toward them.

“Protect!” a voice shouted from the top of the steps.

The two dogs leaped past Chet and the Hardys and tangled with the two huskies.

“It's Rob Daniels's dogs!” Frank yelled, spotting the ridges on the dogs' backs.

“Get upstairs so we can seal this basement!” Daniels growled as he reached the three teenagers.

The huskies suddenly broke off the fight and set off on a dead run up the stairs.

The ridgebacks pursued, barking and growling. “No!” Daniels shouted, and his dogs stopped immediately, trotting back to their master.

“We need your ridgebacks to track those dogs back to their owner,” Joe demanded.

“I let Clem and Beau save your skins,” Daniels said, “but I have no interest in getting them hurt chasing after a pair of Siberian huskies.”

“What made them run away?” Chet wondered.

“On the basis of their reactions and the fact that we didn't hear anyone call to them, I'd say they were responding to a dog whistle,” Joe said.

“Sounds right,” Daniels agreed. “Now, do you mind telling me what you boys are looking for up here?”

“We thought we were looking for you,” Frank said, embarrassed. He explained about Tringle's stolen money and watch, the reddish dog hairs, the blanket at the campsite, and the cigarette butts they thought might have been his.

“First, I don't smoke,” Daniels said. “Sandy could have told you that.”

“We were beginning to suspect Sandy,” Frank admitted. “He's refused to bring Sheriff Lyle in on these break-ins twice. Why is he protecting you if he knows you're innocent?”

“Last thing I did before I moved out of town,” Daniels told them, “was to park my car in Sheriff Lyle's assigned space at the police station every day for a month. Then I tore up my parking tickets.”

“Why?” Frank asked.

“I was trying to make a point that the land is everyone's to share. And there was one other reason.”

“What was that?” Chet asked.

“I don't like Sheriff Lyle,” Daniels replied. “Sandy knows if Sheriff Lyle ever sees me again, he'll throw me in jail for those unpaid tickets.”

“How do you explain the blanket full of stolen goods we found at your campsite?” Joe asked.

“That dog blanket was stolen late last night while I was off washing in the stream,” Daniels told them.

“But why did you abandon your campsite with a fire still smoldering?” Joe asked.

“Somebody else lit that fire and planted that blanket,” Daniels insisted. “I packed up and left this afternoon.”

“Why?” Joe pressed.

“Someone was trying to tag me and my dogs for something we didn't do. I came up here to find out
who owned those animals I had been hearing howl at night.”

“So those were your boot prints leading up the stairs?” Chet asked.

“I don't think so. I just got here,” Daniels replied, patting his dogs on the head. “I guess I do need to prove my innocence,” he said finally. “Come on, Beau! Come on, Clem. Let's find those huskies.”

“We'll go with you,” Frank said, checking with Joe and Chet, who both nodded.

“Thanks for the offer,” Daniels said, “but it's my bacon I'm keeping out of the frying pan. I don't know who those huskies are running home to or how dangerous he might be.”

“We've faced all kinds of criminals, Mr. Daniels,” Frank assured him.

“I believe you, Frank,” Daniels said. “But I'm still going alone.” Daniels smiled, shook their hands, and headed off with Beau and Clem.

“Do we buy his story?” Joe asked his companions after Daniels was gone.

“I do,” Chet replied quickly. “But if he didn't hide that blanket in the rocks, who did? Mr. Flatts?”

“Flatts wouldn't have had time to fake a robbery, set a campfire, climb down the mountain to show up at the scene, and climb back up the mountain with us,” Frank pointed out. “The campfire would have been cold.”

“Besides, I've never seen him with a cigarette,” Joe added. “He's in a no-smoking room.”

“So there must be a third person we haven't uncovered,” Frank assumed.

“Great. Can we finally vacate the area?” Chet asked, staring up at eerie tiers of cells.

“Sure,” Frank replied. “As soon as we check out the room where those huskies came from.”

Joe picked his flashlight up off the basement floor. Though marred with teeth marks, it was still working.

The storage room that had housed the huskies had only an empty bag of dog food. “That could explain why the dogs were howling,” Joe guessed. “They were hungry.”

Frank picked up a huge, worn overcoat that lay on top of a sleeping bag. “Someone's been camping out here,” he said, shining his light on a heap of opened and empty canned food in the corner.

“Someone extra-extra-extra large,” Chet added, checking the size of the coat.

“Maybe there's some identification in the pockets,” Joe suggested, reaching into all the pockets. In an inner pocket he found an envelope for an airline ticket. “It's empty.”

“Check the back, Joe,” Frank said excitedly. Stapled to the envelope were three luggage tags. “A flight from IEV to ASH.”

“The matching stubs to the tags on the luggage in Gus Jons's house,” Joe guessed.

Frank gave Joe a thumbs-up sign. “Looks like we've found the third person.”

•   •   •

The three boys returned to the old road. Halfway down, they spotted half a dozen flashlights bobbing up through the trees toward them.

“Who is that?” someone called.

Joe recognized Sandy's voice. “Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton!” he called back.

“You kids are in big trouble,” Jim Craven called back.

The boys hurried to meet up with the search party, which included a number of their friends on the staff.

“Sandy, Katie, Julia, Phil!” Joe called. “Boy, are we glad to see you.”

Ten minutes later when they had reached Daniels's old campsite, Craven was still railing at them.

“We're sorry, Mr. Craven,” Frank apologized, “but if you'd let us tell you why we did it, maybe you'd understand.” Frank told Craven about their suspicions that Daniels was being set up and about their encounter at the asylum with the huskies.

“That could explain the ‘wolf' Mrs. Gregory saw,” Craven agreed. “But who do they belong to?”

Joe told Craven about the luggage tags that matched the ones he saw at Gus Jons's cabin. “We think Jons is working with someone on the Konawa grounds.”

Frank showed Craven the decoded messages. “I
took down the dots and dashes from a message sent from the inn to the asylum.”

Craven stopped hiking to scan the paper.

“We think L.T. might stand for Larry Tringle,” Joe told him.

“This says, ‘Discuss first and fourth brother tomorrow, midnight, lakeside cottages,' ” Craven said.

“You read Morse code?” Katie asked, impressed.

“Four years in the military,” Craven replied.

“That message was being sent to Gus Jons from his accomplice at the inn,” Joe said.

“Was it really?” Craven asked.

“Yes! Chet saw Mr. Jons outside the asylum tonight. We followed his boot tracks!” Joe added.

“You couldn't have. Gus Jons was in the lobby talking to one of the guests most of the evening,” Craven told them.

“Oh,” Joe said, his face flushing a bit.

“Jons was talking to Milo Flatts, right?” Frank guessed.

“Wrong. This is the kind of thing that makes me nervous,” Craven warned them. “I don't want you stirring up trouble. Sheriff Lyle can sort through all of this without members of my staff—teenagers at that—making accusations about our guests and neighbors.”

“But—” Joe started to protest.

“Yes, sir,” Frank said, cutting off his brother.

“I'm telling you, fall in line or, so help me, you'll
find yourself back home for the summer,” Craven barked, then turned on his heels and started back down the mountain.

“Why did you back down, Frank?” Chet asked.

“We need to collect solid evidence before we ever bring up Jons or any other suspect to Mr. Craven again.”

“
If
we can trust Mr. Craven,” Joe added. “He's tried to play down every lead we've hit on. Maybe Jim Craven doesn't want this mystery solved.”

•   •   •

When Frank and Joe walked into Chet's room the next morning, their friend was sleepy and grumpy. “It's only five-thirty, and this is my day off.”

“Chet, we need another favor,” Frank began gently. “It's your and Joe's day off, but I need to go to town with Joe to do some research, and we were wondering if you would swap days off with me.”

“When's your day off?” Chet asked.

“Friday,” Frank replied.

Chet groaned and rolled over. “That's too far away.”

“We also need you to snoop around here to see what you can dig up on Milo Flatts and Larry Tringle,” Joe added.

Chet raised his head, perking up. “What kind of info?”

“Where they're from, what people know about their past, anything that could help us connect them to the break-ins,” Joe explained.

“Work a day on maintenance?” Chet pondered aloud. “For the sake of the investigation . . . I'll do it.”

Frank got into the passenger seat of Katie Haskell's compact car and looked at Joe, who was behind the wheel. “She's letting you borrow it for the day?”

“Yeah, she offered. Wasn't that nice of her?” Joe replied, and turned the ignition key to drive out of the parking lot.

“Joe, in case you haven't figured it out, Katie has a major crush on you,” Frank said, smiling.

“Are you kidding? She tried to drown me yesterday,” Joe protested.

“That was her way of flirting,” Frank said.

“I already have a girlfriend,” Joe said. “And Iola prefers holding hands to dragging me underwater.”

After a thirty-minute drive, the Hardys reached Main Street, Konawaville, and stopped at the local tobacco shop.

“A gold bear,” the shop owner said, looking at the fragment of foil Frank had handed him. “I don't recall ever seeing that, and I carry every brand made in America.”

“What about from other countries?” Joe wondered.

“Just a few English brands,” the shop owner replied. “You should try one of the big importers in New York City,” he suggested, handing the foil back to Frank.

“Strike one,” Frank said to Joe as they got back into the car. “Let's hope we have better luck at the library.”

After entering tiny Konawaville Library, Joe stopped at the front desk. “Go ahead and check for airport codes, Frank. I have an idea.”

“May I help you?” the librarian asked Joe.

“Do you have a fax machine?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” the librarian replied, “but we have to charge two dollars per page for you to use it.”

“That's okay,” Joe said, putting two dollars on the counter. “I'm only faxing one page.” Joe taped the foil to a piece of paper and wrote a quick note of explanation below it.

The librarian produced a cover sheet, and Joe filled it out: “Attention, Fenton Hardy.”

•   •   •

Frank punched in the subject Airport Codes on one of the library computers and then typed
IEV.
The response came back a few seconds later—no match.

“Strike two,” Frank said quietly to himself, then glanced away from the monitor, thinking. Two seats down, he saw a twelve-year-old kid at another terminal that displayed a full-color image of Leonardo da Vinci. Frank rose and stepped over. The kid double-clicked on the mouse, and a picture of the
Mona Lisa
appeared. “This library's on the Internet?” Frank asked.

The kid looked up at Frank, surprised. “Sure. Isn't every place?”

The kid helped Frank access the Internet, and soon his net search brought up a list of sites related to the phrase “International Airport Codes.”

•   •   •

Joe drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for a fax back from his father, Fenton Hardy. The library fax machine beeped, then hummed to life and beeped again as the transmission was completed. The librarian handed the paper to Joe.

“Dear Joe,” the younger Hardy read silently. “I faxed your fax to a tobacco importer in New York City, who faxed me back the answer, which I'm faxing to you. Isn't modern technology wonderful? Golden Bear is a brand of cigarette manufactured in Russia.”

Joe rushed across the library, running into Frank, who was hurrying toward him. “Frank, I found out that the cigarettes are from Russia!”

“Great, Joe,” Frank said, patting his brother on the shoulder. “I have a hunch about what was in those pet carriers you saw at Gus Jons's cabin. Siberian huskies, and I mean
Siberian.”

“What?” Joe asked.

Frank held up a printout he had pulled off the Internet. “The airport code IEV is for Kiev . . . in Russia!”