Chapter 8
Con Riley stared open-mouthed at Sam Radley as he finished explaining why Con was standing in Fenton Hardy's house at three thirty in the morning.
"Are you serious?" Con exclaimed.
"I've never been more serious in my life!" said Sam shortly.
Con glanced at Fenton. His pale, haggard face told Con that Sam was telling the truth.
Unbelievable! he thought.
Although Con wasn't working the Hanley case, he knew a lot about it. Everyone in the Bayport Police Department did. It was one of the biggest cases in recent years and, because of Fenton, much of the action was happening right here in Bayport.
Fenton Hardy had started working with the FBI nearly five months ago, when it was discovered that one of his own cases had ties to a drugs gang in New York.
The drugs gang in question was suspected by the FBI as being run by Alan Troy, a high profile business man with suggested mafia connections. However, Alan Troy was a powerful man with powerful friends. Despite their suspicions, the FBI had never been able to pin anything on him.
And then Fenton Hardy came along. In two weeks, his investigations had led to the arrests of two gang members; Kenneth Williams and Tim Hanley. The FBI quickly began to put pressure on the men to talk, but they maintained a steadfast silence.
Then Kenneth Williams had been found dead in his prison cell under suspicious circumstances, and the whole case was blown wide open.
Suddenly, Tim Hanley discovered that fear was a great incentive for speech. In return for the state's protection, he began to spill all he knew about the gang. Within a month, half of the gangs most prominent members were either dead or in prison. Within three months, four more related gangs across the country had been discovered and smashed, including one near Bayport.
And now the FBI were closing in on Alan Troy, gathering evidence that threatened to connect him to the mafia and several drug smuggling operations across the country. Evidence that also threatened to expose many of his powerful friends; some of whom were politicians and court judges.
All because of Tim Hanley.
Con could only imagine what the bounty on his head was.
"Will you help us?" Fenton interrupted his thoughts.
"I'll try," said Con unhappily. "But I don't know what you think I can do…"
"You know some of the guards at the Delta Penitentiary," said Sam. "Can you talk to them?"
"And say what?" demanded Con. "Excuse me, but I need to borrow one of your most high profile prisoners?"
Sam winced. "That's not what I meant. I was hoping you could get some information on the kind of security surrounding Tim Hanley…"
"So you can make some crazy attempt to bust him out? I don't think so!" Con exploded. "You'd get yourselves killed doing it!"
"What else can we do?" interjected Fenton. "I have only three days and there's very little I can do in three days. This man may be my only hope of getting my family back."
"You'd be signing Tim Hanley's death sentence," said Con.
"So you think some dead-beat criminal's life is more important than that of my family?" asked Fenton angrily.
"No I don't!" Con answered sharply. "But Tim Hanley's testimony will save the lives of a lot of families if it puts Alan Troy away."
"Call me selfish," Fenton snorted, "but the life of my family is worth more than any other family!"
"The life of your family is worth nothing once those men get their hands on Tim Hanley," said Con. "Think, Fenton! You've been instrumental in Tim Hanley's arrest and the breaking of those drugs rings, not to mention the evidence you've helped to gather against Alan Troy. Do you really think they're going to let you live happily ever after?"
Stricken, Fenton looked at him.
"What do you suggest we do?" said Sam, furiously. "Leave Laura and the boys to die?"
"Certainly not!" replied Con. "I suggest we find them before the three days are up."
"How?" Fenton spluttered.
"We start by having a look around the cabin that they were staying in," said Con calmly.
"That's a six hour drive from here!" Fenton exclaimed. "And they've been moved elsewhere! It's a waste of valuable time!"
"It might be a six hour drive but that doesn't matter, we won't be driving," Con told him.
"We won't?" Sam was incredulous. "Con, what are you talking about?"
"There's a little airfield about fifteen miles south of Lake Adams," Con informed them. "We'll be flying there."
Fenton and Sam just stared at him.
"We'll need to charter a plane of course, there probably aren't too many commercial flights heading up there," Con continued. "But the flight should only take about an hour."
Fenton was looking at Con with hope in his eyes. "What do we have to do?"
"Head to the airport. But I need one of you to drive," said Con, as he pulled a cell phone from his jacket. "I need to make a call."
Things were going from bad to worse for Laura.
She had felt cold and ill when she woke up, but by late morning Laura found herself becoming positively death-like.
She had spent most of the morning trying to entertain the boys with games of I-Spy and stories, trying desperately to ignore the increasing rawness of her throat.
It was only when her voice literally broke in the middle of a story, leaving her with nothing other than a whispered cackle in its place, that Laura gave up.
Croakily informing the boys that she had a little cold and would feel better after a small nap, Laura suggested that they draw pictures with the pens and paper that the kidnappers had left. Then she lay down to sleep.
She slept fitfully. Her head pounded relentlessly, her throat felt like sandpaper and her whole body ached painfully. She also felt helplessly weak, and her body ranged from burning hot to blood-numbingly cold.
She had never felt so ill in her life and couldn't understand how she had gotten so sick so quickly. After all, she had been fine yesterday.
Or had she?
Trying to make her fog-heavy brain work, Laura realised that she had been feeling tired for several days now, ever since she had been to see her old neighbour, Angelina Johnston.
Laura groaned inwardly. Mrs. Johnston had been dangerously ill with a diabolical flu and Laura had gone to see her after she had been released from hospital to see if there was anything she could do. She must have caught the flu then.
Laura knew that the soaking she had received yesterday, and the shock, stress and worry of the last few hours had also contributed to her weakened condition. She was too ill to be angry that this was happening to her when the boys needed her most.
As she drifted off into a fever induced sleep, Laura hoped vaguely that the boys wouldn't get sick.
Fenton, Sam and Con were finding out that hiring a private plane was harder than they had expected.
The three men had arrived at the airport and asked to charter a private plane to Mount. Trenton, the little airfield south of Lake Adams. The woman at the desk was about fifty with dark, slightly greying, hair and she had haughtily informed them that they would be unable to charter a plane that night.
"But this is important!" Fenton told her.
"I don't care," she answered sniffily. "There is just one private pilot operating at this time of night. Therefore, we are more cautious about where we send him. Aside from the fact that you're not one of our regular customers, we have no idea what you require the plane for."
"It's a business matter," said Sam shortly.
"And we have our passports with us!" Fenton added. "We're also all residents of Bayport."
"That may be so, but it will still take several hours for your clearance to come through," she answered. "There are certain security precautions we need to take when it comes to chartering a plane. If it were as simple to hire a plane as to hire a car then everyone would be doing it."
Yeah right, and everyone can really afford to snap their fingers and hire a plane! thought Sam, shaking his head. The woman was being ridiculous.
"Please!" said Fenton desperately. "This is very important!"
"I'm aware that the matter must be important," she told him. "Why else would you be here at this hour of the morning?"
"Then why can't you cut us some slack?" asked Sam in irritation. "Do we look like we're going to hijack the plane or something?"
"There's no need to take that tone of voice with me, Sir," the woman responded in the same professional monotone. "I'm just following procedure."
"To hell with procedure!" growled Fenton angrily. They were wasting valuable time.
The woman shot him a sharp glance. "Sir, you need to calm down or I will call Security and have you removed from the premises."
Fenton shot a desperate look at Sam and Con. This was getting them nowhere.
Con sighed and stepped up to the counter. Slowly, he withdrew his badge from his pocket and flashed it at the woman.
"Con Riley of the Bayport Police Department," he informed her coolly. "My companions are Fenton Hardy and Sam Radley, private detectives. I daresay you've heard of them?"
She stared at them suspiciously. "And do you have proof to that effect?"
Quickly, Fenton and Sam produced their passports. Con also placed his on the counter. The woman studied them closely.
Finally she looked up. "You are who you say you are," she admitted. "However, that doesn't mean I can make allowances. We have strict procedure…"
"Then perhaps you'd like to get Chief Collig out of bed at this hour of the morning and explain to him why procedure is hindering a police investigation," interrupted Con, deciding on a daring bluff.
Fenton and Sam were careful to keep their expressions neutral.
"I can't…I mean…" The woman was unsure now.
"I can give you his home number," said Con taking out his cell phone. "Maybe you should get the Night Manager? It's probably better if he wakes the Chief of Police to explain the delay."
"We don't have a Night Manager," said the woman, looking extremely flustered.
"Well then you'll have to do it," said Con handing her the number and mentally crossing his fingers. "But I should warn you, he's not going to like it."
The woman stared at the number...then handed it back to Con. "Let me see what I can do," she told him.
Ten minutes later, Fenton, Sam and Con were heading for hanger seven.
"I can't believe you just did that!" said Sam shaking his head, as they made their way across the airport.
"Me neither," Con grinned. "Just don't tell Chief Collig! He might think I was abusing my position..."
"Can't imagine why," said Fenton dryly. Then he smiled. "Thanks, Con, for everything you've done tonight."
"No problem," Con replied.
They arrived at hanger seven. It was a small, private hanger, and as they entered they were approached by a tall man with sandy hair.
"You must be the Riley party," he smiled. "What did you say to get old Marcia so riled up? She's sure got a bee in her bonnet about you lot!"
"Just let her know she shouldn't be holding up the good citizens of Bayport with damn silly procedure," smiled Con as he extended his hand. "I'm Con Riley, and this is Fenton Hardy and Sam Radley."
"Nice to meet you," said the pilot. "I'm Jack Wayne."
The day had passed in the basement without Laura waking up. It was now late evening and it was obvious to the boys that their mother was sick. Frank tried to cover her with one of the ragged blankets, while Joe put his hand to her forehead as he had seen his mother do when they were sick.
Neither boy had a clue what to do.
Their mother lay shivering on the bed, mumbling incoherently and the boys could see that she was really ill.
"Frank, what are we going to do?" Joe whispered fearfully.
"I dunno," answered Frank desperately. "I think she needs a doctor."
The boys stared pale-faced at each other trying not to panic. Their kidnappers hadn't been back since breakfast, and Frank and Joe didn't know whether to be grateful for that fact or not.
On the one hand, the kidnappers might help their mother because they still needed her. But on the other, they could kill her because they found her too much work.
Frank bit his lip. One of them needed to get out of here and go for help, but how?
Frank looked at the door. No way, it was too big and heavy for them but maybe the window?
The window was a little high for him and Frank looked around the basement for something to stand on. His eyes fell on the crate.
Quickly, Frank tried to pull the crate over to the window. He pushed and shoved it panting heavily.
Joe, meanwhile, was watching his older brother with some trepidation. Was Frank going crazy?
"Urgggh!" Frank heaved.
The box moved a couple of inches. Frank was delighted. "Joe, give me a hand!" he whispered excitedly.
Joe ran over to Frank and began to push the box with his brother. "What are we doing?" he gasped.
"I'm going to try open the window, now push!" Frank panted.
For five minutes, the two little boys pushed and shoved until finally they had the box at the window.
"Phew!" said Joe, wiping his eyes. "That box was heavy!"
Frank didn't answer, he merely scrambled up on the box and stared at the window. His heart sank. Like his mother, Frank discovered it was nailed shut. All that work for nothing. Frank turned dejectedly to his brother.
"It's nailed shut," he said mournfully.
"Well then, why can't we un-nail it?" asked Joe impatiently.
Frank opened his mouth to explain to his brother then shut it abruptly. Yes, why couldn't they un-nail it?
Frank peered at the nails and saw that they weren't really nails, they were more like small screws, like the kind his father had used when he had put together some flat pack furniture last year.
Frank attempted to twist the screws but his fingers couldn't get a grip. Then he stuck his thumbnail into the little groove on the head of one of the screws and twisted, but all he succeeded in doing was breaking his nail.
"Ouch!" he cried and jammed his thumb in his mouth.
Stupid screws! thought Frank, staring furiously at the screws. And then an idea struck him. The spoon!
Quickly, Frank whipped out the teaspoon he had taken from the bathroom earlier that day and inserted into the little grove. It fitted!
Slowly, painstakingly, Frank began to turn the screws. It was hard work. The screws were stiff and the spoon wasn't the same as a proper screwdriver and kept slipping, but Frank persevered. It took nearly twenty minutes, by which time Frank's hands were sore and bruised, but it was worth it. Frank had unscrewed the window.
Now, let's see if it opens, Frank thought, and carefully began to push the window.
To his absolute elation, it opened and didn't squeak. Holding up the glass, Frank peered through the window, and his little flicker of hope began to die. There was no way he could fit through that window.
Frank glanced back at Joe, and saw to his surprise that Joe was staring at him with something close to awe.
"Wow, Frank! That was so cool!" Joe whispered. "You were just like MacGyver!"
MacGyver was Joe's favourite TV programme; he watched it avidly every week and afterwards, tried to copy whatever gadgets or stunts MacGyver had created that week. It often got him in trouble with his mother because it usually meant something getting broken. Yet Joe risked being grounded every week.
And now he had just compared Frank to his idol.
Frank felt himself fluff up with pride. Joe had faith in him, so maybe he couldcome up with an idea to get them out of here!
Frank glanced at his brother, then back to the window, then back to his brother again. An idea began to form in his mind.
He looked around the room, his eyes falling on his mother, then he cocked his ears to listen for the men upstairs; their TV was blaring loudly.
Frank's mouth curled into a smile. Yes, his idea could work. Now, all he had to do was convince Joe.