"She fainted," Fenton said, holding Laura's head.
"I'll go get the smelling salts," Callie volunteered and ran inside for them. While she was gone, Frank looked on the ground beside his mother and saw what she must have been looking at.
He picked up four photographs lying on the ground and looked at them. He grew deathly still, then stood and turned to face Tony McCormick. "You have one chance to get out of here alive," Frank told the man in a tone no one could ever mistake as a bluff. "Where is my brother?"
For the first time in his life, Tony McCormick was terrified. He had never seen anyone so filled with hate and anger in his life. Not even his own brother, Paul.
"Where?" Frank demanded, his expression nor voice altering from before.
"He..uh..he's in a shack," Tony told him. He cringed and tried to back up as Frank's unemotional face turned into a deep scowl and he took a step forward. "Honest!" Tony insisted, his voice high from fear. "Paul always took us there."
"Where's Paul?" Frank asked, as the sound of a siren grew in the background.
"We..we've got a room at the Bayport Inn," Tony told him. "Room 219."
Less than thirty minutes later, Tony McCormick was on his way to jail and Frank, Fenton, Biff, Tony and Phil were on their way to the Bayport Inn. Callie had stayed with Laura and the photos had been taken by the police as evidence.
"What were you guys coming over for anyway?" Frank asked as they neared the motel.
"You promised to keep us posted," Biff reminded Frank. "You never did."
"Sorry," Frank told his friends.
"Don't worry about it," Chet told him. "We understand." Frank smiled at him as Biff pulled his van into the parking lot. There were already six patrol cars there. When Frank, Fenton, and company exited the van, Seargent Riley came over to them.
"He's not here," Con told the group. "The clerk said he came in earlier tonight but left about twenty minutes later. He came back about thirty minutes ago and he never left. At least, not by the front," Con amended. "The room is a wreck. It looks like he just grabbed whatever he could and split."
"Can we check it out?" Frank asked.
Con nodded his permission. "We've put an APB out on his car. The receptionist said he was driving a '99 Subaru Legacy."
While the Hardys were busy looking for leads, Paul was on his way back to the cabin, fuming. He didn't think his brother would turn him in, but just to be sure, he was going to the cabin. Tony couldn't possibly tell anyone how to get there. Tony hated trips and usually fell asleep. He slammed the steering wheel in anger. He knew Tony had probably been caught, that's why he had left the hotel to go and see what was taking so long. When he had cruised by and seen the Hardys and their friends surrounding Tony, he knew he had to get out of town, fast.
When he arrived at the cabin he went out back and removed the ropes binding Joe to the tree. He dragged a semi-conscious Joe back into the cabin and pushed him to the floor. Angry at Fenton Hardy for taking his father, and now his brother, he started kicking Joe, shouting profanities about him and his family.
Practically frozen, on the verge of hypothermia and weak, Joe lay still and took the man's rage. Winded, Paul sat on the floor a few moments later and looked over at the trembling youth before him. "Tomorrow, you die," he promised Joe, hatred burning in his eyes.
Paul reached into the bag he had brought and removed a roll of tape. He pulled Joe's feet together and wrapped them securely with the tape. Then he pulled a quilt from the bag, which he had stolen from the motel, and laying down, covered himself up and went to sleep.
Back at the Hardy house, Frank lay awake in bed. He had started to drift off to sleep when something Tony had said hit him. A shack. It made sense, he thought, sitting up. He climbed out of his bed and flipped on the light. He started up his computer and connected to the internet. He pulled up a website for Pilfer's Mountain and clicked on a topography map for the location of Trail 109. He followed the route Joe and the others would have taken. There were three possible places he observed where the trail could be seen in it's entirety.
He pulled up an ariel view of the three positions. Zooming in on the second one, he could see a dirt road leading to a small house, a schack. He checked the third position to be sure he had found the right place. Like the first, the third was inaccessible by any form of road and no possible hiding places.
He pulled up a map of the highway nearest the dirt road and hit print. He then went to awaken his father. Returning to his room a few minutes later, he looked at the map, disconnected from the net and called Jerry who agreed to be ready and waiting in fifteen minutes.
Over two hours later, Frank, Fenton, and Jerry arrived at the shack. They parked away from the shack and made their way closer. Fenton peered in the window with Frank straining to see behind him while Jerry waited anxiously behind Frank.
Fenton saw Joe leaning against the side of the fireplace, beaten and bruised. McCormick had an open bottle of whiskey in his hand. He saw McCormick reach over and yank off the strip of tape which had been covering Joe's mouth. Joe opened his mouth wide for a deep breath of air because his nose was completely stopped up. As the air hit his lungs he began coughing. Over two minutes later, Joe had quit coughing and leaned his head back against the fireplace, watching McCormick warily to see what was next.
McCormick smiled at Joe, the way a cat would when playing with a mouse. "I guess you're thirsty, huh?" he asked in mock sympathy. He placed one hand behind Joe's neck and brought the whiskey to his lips. Joe clamped his lips together, and the whiskey spilled down his chin onto the straight jacket.
"You'd rather wear it?" McCormick asked, his eyes lightening up. "Fine," he said, and poured the remainder of the bottle on top of Joe's head. "I had wanted to play with you awhile. Take more pictures, send some souvenirs," he added with a small shrug. "But your old man's getting to close. So, I guess it will have to end now," he said, standing up and pulling a pack of matches from his shirt pocket.
