"Megan, sweetie, are you hurt?" Laura was bending over her anxiously.

"No, I’m okay – just sore." Megan managed a rueful chuckle, which turned into a gasp of dismay. "The camera! He took the camera!"

"Well, Fenton went after him." Mrs. Hardy tried to reassure her. "He’ll try to get it back."

Indeed, Fenton Hardy had gone after the camera-thief! As the man took off through the crowd, Fenton broke into full pursuit, running as fast as he could, adrenaline rush masking the pain from his back, as determination to catch the guy fueled him.

We’ve already fended off so many attempts to get that camera – I’m not going to let ‘em get away with it now – even if the film isn’t in it anymore! he vowed, swerving to follow his quarry across a grassy lawn as the man tried to escape. Fenton kicked his speed up a notch, focusing on the camera bouncing at the end of its strap as the man ran, zoning in on it, heedless of anything other than the object of his pursuit.

Come on, come on – Fenton saw his quarry turn and dart again in the direction of the street, and he cut across the corner of a parking lot, attempting to head him off. A low hedge loomed in his path, and the detective gathered himself and leaped over it, this time feeling a definite twinge in his back but managing to ignore it. A bench barred his way next, and he vaulted over that too, still focused on the escaping thief.

Give it up, you damned…. Fenton was starting to feel winded now, his breath coming harder, and a stitch was developing in his side. But he was beginning to close the gap, just a little. The other man was running slower too, holding a hand pressed to his side; despite his muscular physique, it looked like Fenton was in a little better shape – if it hadn’t been for the back injury, he’d have caught him in short order. Why aren’t there any helpful people around who will try and stop this guy? Why is it just me? Nearly breathless, he managed a shout: "Somebody stop him!"

And to his intense surprise, in response to the yell, a man suddenly stepped from the crowd, grabbed the thief by the arm and swung him around, then wrestled him to the ground. Tourists scattered in all directions, wanting to leave the vicinity of trouble.

"Taking things that aren’t yours, are you?" Michael Ranson glared down at man beneath him. Nearby, his young wife Erica stood with her hands pressed over her mouth as she watched her new husband struggle to hold down the escaping robber. Fenton panted up and skidded to a halt beside them. "You after this guy, Hardy?" Ranson inquired.

Fenton nodded, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees while he fought for breath. The stitch in his side tore at him, and his back was now forcibly reminding him that he’d just hurt it the day before. It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to tear after the guy like he had – although it wouldn’t have stopped him, even if he had consciously thought about it beforehand!

He reached down and yanked the camcorder from the thief’s hands, and hung the strap about his neck once more. "I sure am," he panted. "He snatched this from my son’s girlfriend."

Michael Ranson levered himself off the captured man, keeping a tight hold on him, and he and Fenton hauled the thief to his feet. Fenton was glad of Ranson’s help – he evidently had a grip of iron, and he looked like a body-builder!

Fenton seized the thug’s collar and pulled him up close. "Why did you try to steal my son’s camcorder?" he demanded, although he knew exactly why – the incriminating video tape had answered that question! But he wanted to hear it for himself.

The man shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I’m not sayin’ nothin’," he muttered defiantly.

Fenton shook him slightly. "Who’s paying you, anyway?" he persisted. "This isn’t the first time someone’s gone after that camera." The only reaction he got was a belligerent glare and increased struggles against Michael Ranson’s restraining hands.

"Should we take him to the police?" Ranson asked now.

"Definitely," Fenton agreed. "Maybe they can get some answers out of him." The two shifted their grips on the man, moving to each take one arm, but just as they were about to march him to a less crowded area before calling the police, they were alarmed to hear a strident scream from Erica Ranson!

Whirling, they beheld Erica in the grasp of a second hulking man, who snarled: "Let him go! And give us that camera, or we’ll hurt her!"

Fenton looked at Michael Ranson and nodded briefly, indicating that he should obey the command. Ranson, his eyes fixed on his wife’s pale, frightened face, loosened his grip, as did the detective. Their captive stepped away, smirking triumphantly.

Fenton started to slowly remove the camera strap from around his neck, but suddenly, he lashed out with one leg, and connected solidly with the stomach of the man holding Erica! The goon doubled over, grunting with the pain of impact, and lost his grip on Erica. Michael Ranson leaped forward and pulled his wife away, and inexplicably, the two thugs took off running once more, heading for the lake shore and the docks. Moments later, the tell-tale whine of jet-ski engines echoed.

Fenton watched them go, disgusted. He beat a fist against his open palm in fury. I was so close! We almost had one, and we might have gotten some answers as to who’s behind this! Sighing, he turned to the Ransons.

"Mrs. Ranson, are you all right?" he inquired.

Michael Ranson was holding his bride tightly in his arms, stroking her hair tenderly, while she sobbed on his shoulder, repeating over and over again how frightened she had been, for him and for herself. But when Mr. Hardy spoke to her, Erica raised her head and managed an answer.

"I’m – I’m – I’ll be all right. It was just so scary!" she gulped.

"You’ve had a more exciting honeymoon than you expected, haven’t you? I’m glad you weren’t hurt. And Mr. Ranson, thank you very much for the assistance – I appreciate it more than you know." Fenton patted Frank’s camera significantly, and smiled at the couple in farewell. "Hope we see you around again, in better circumstances!" he said, and turned to make his way back to Caesars Palace.

When he reached the hotel once more, Fenton found Laura and the girls sitting on one of the seats in the shady colonnade. They were extremely relieved to see his safe return, and Laura stood up and hugged him, at the same time gently scolding him for over-exerting his injured back with the impetuous chase.

"Frank got your looks, but I think Joe’s impulsive streak is a direct inheritance from you, too!" she remarked ruefully.

Fenton removed the camcorder strap from about his neck and formally presented the little device to Vanessa. "Here – please, take this to the front desk and ask them to put it in the hotel safe!" he requested. "I’m not going to risk carrying it around any more until we get this whole thing settled! Oh, and Vanessa—" he added, as she turned to go. "Check for phone messages, would you? I called Sam Radley from the police station, and I’m expecting to hear back from him."

As Vanessa departed, Fenton turned to Megan, who was watching him with wide, sober eyes. "Megan, you weren’t hurt, were you? That thug knocked you down – again!" He hugged her, carefully. "Frank’s going to kill me for letting you be at risk like this; I’m not going to let it happen again!"

"I’m not hurt," Megan told him, returning the hug. "I’m just sorry he got it away from me at all!"

They stood for a few minutes in the welcome shade, talking quietly about the possibility of questioning hotel guests and reenactment people who might possibly have seen the fatal stabbing without realizing what was occurring, just as Frank and the others had. Although it was a long shot, Fenton conceded, there was always a chance!

Vanessa hurried up, holding out a slip of paper. "You have a message from Sam Radley!" she said. Fenton took his cell phone from his pocket, and walked away from them to a more secluded area, punching numbers on the phone as he departed.

"Sam? It’s Fenton. What have you got for me?"

"I did the checking you wanted – called an investigator I know from the Sacramento area, and had the Claremonts checked out." Radley’s voice came over the wire. "Fenton, they’re very above-board, and Randall Claremont is considered a big community leader. They’re big into philanthropy, and doing the right thing."

"Hmmm…" Fenton commented. "Doesn’t sound like what I was looking for, does it?"

"In jail…mafia?" Fenton asked sharply.

"You got it. The Rimaldis control a big section of the San Francisco syndicate. Although," Radley went on, "the guy I talked to said that as far as anyone in Sacramento knows, the Claremonts don’t have anything to do with Lisa’s family."

Fenton groaned mentally. It was all too possible, and hit way too close to home! I can’t accuse the Claremonts outright, just because of Lisa’s family connections with a crime lord! Our family’s had the same problem! But still, that would certainly draw all the clues together nicely, now, wouldn’t it?

"Thanks, Sam. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else I need." Fenton ended the call, and stood thinking a moment. Then he returned to where Megan, Laura and Vanessa awaited him. "Well, Sam had some information for us." He softly related what Sam had told him.

Laura looked sad, but she no longer tried to deny that just possibly, Fenton was onto something. But she hated to think of friendly Lisa being connected with all this sordid mess!

Fenton looked at his watch again. It was nearly 5:00. "Messages from Frank or Joe?" he asked Vanessa hopefully, but she shook her head.

"Nothing. Do you think something has happened to them?" Her blue-gray eyes held his, willing him to tell her no, he didn’t.

"The way this case is going," Fenton replied ruefully, "I wouldn’t be at all surprised. What do you say we take the car and make a run in the direction of Mount Rose?" He draped an arm about Laura’s shoulders. "Do any of you need anything from your room before we go?"

"Not me," Megan replied, while at the same time Vanessa was shaking her head in negation and saying: "I’ll be fine till we get back."

The four hurried towards the guest parking lot. They had all tried to conceal their growing apprehension from each other, but truthfully, they were all becoming more and more worried as time passed and nothing was heard from Frank and Joe.

"I think I’d like to stop by the police station and see if I can’t drum up some help looking for the boys." Fenton commented as they walked.

"That’s a good idea," Laura replied. "What if they aren’t on the mountain any more, and have gone somewhere else? We wouldn’t have any idea about where to look for them!"

As they neared their rental car, Megan caught her breath. "What’s all over the hood?" she demanded.

"And look at the tires!" Vanessa gasped.

The tires on the side of the car nearest them were totally flat, and what appeared to be words written in white paint decorated the hood. Fenton, scowling ferociously, examined the tires, then walked around to the other side of the car, and found the tires there were similarly flat. He bent to look at them.

"Cut!" he snapped. "All four of them! What the hell…?" He focused his attention on the car hood, and read the words covering it. ‘Leave Town or Die, Hardy!’

*****

"I told you, idiot!" Joe muttered softly, as he carefully secured Frank to the travois once more. "I told you you couldn’t do it!" He was totally relieved that he’d had the foresight to drag that travois along; he’d have hated to have to go back for it! Still, he wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the journey.

But Frank walked…he managed to stand up and walk – at least for a little while! Joe clung to that thought. If Frank was able to stand up and walk, then his back and spine were probably okay…and he didn’t have any serious leg injuries. Internal…. Joe shuddered. Frank had hit it on the head when he said "if there are, I’m already dead." There aren’t any! he assured himself. It’s bruises and cuts and stuff – and his arm! The arm was bad enough in itself…and there was still the very real possibility of Frank succumbing to blood loss.

Joe finished his task, and slipped the cords over his shoulders. If I just take it a little bit at a time, he told himself, I can do this!

And that’s how he took it…in small goals, a little at a time. Ten yards, no further. That tree…. Now that bush, the one with the flowers on it…. Now that outcropping of rock. Tug, tug, tug, pull…walk, walk, walk, walk. Over and over again. It was a repeated litany in his mind, one that he, perforce, must keep reiterating again and again. He lost all track of time, and was barely conscious of his surroundings. He didn’t care what time it was – and he knew if he stopped and looked at his watch, he’d give up. He’d simply collapse next to Frank. Keep it in terms of distance, Joe…little bits of distance, that you can control. It’s all you can control right now; concentrate on it. His head pounded unmercifully, and the shoulder with the cord looped over it was developing an intolerable ache.

Every other time he gained one of his little goals, he halted and pulled out the water bottle for a sip, and managed to get a little down Frank’s throat too.

Frank, I wish you would wake up…even delirious you were kinda company! I wish I wasn’t out here alone, trying to figure out a way to get us out of this alive! Three-quarters of a mile…I could run three-quarters of a mile in just a few minutes…! Tug…tug…pull…walk…walk…walk.

"Joe…?" This time when Joe held the water bottle to Frank’s lips, Frank swallowed gratefully, and his eyes flickered open. The faintest shadow of a smile curved his mouth. "So far…so good, right?"

"Hang in there; we’re gonna make it." Joe tried to grin encouragingly, but Frank’s face had already gone slack again, and Joe wasn’t sure he had heard the heartening words.

Frank phased in and out of consciousness during the next few stages of the trek. When he was conscious, he seemed to be lucid, but the periods of consciousness and clarity were increasingly brief. Joe’s heart ached – he wanted so badly to ease Frank’s pain and make things easier for him. Just…get to the road…I’ll get us to the road…and someone will help us….

The snap of a branch in the distance behind him made the younger Hardy freeze in place and his blood ran cold. He turned around, anticipating seeing the man with the rifle behind him once more…but there was no one there – not yet. Still too far back….

Joe made a conscious effort to go faster, shutting out the knowledge that increasing the speed made it harder on Frank. He knew he had to increase the distance between where he and Frank were, and the man in pursuit. And getting to the road was the key!

Joe felt as if he were moving in slow motion. He couldn’t believe how hard it was to pull the travois with his brother on it…couldn’t believe how slowly he was covering ground; like a turtle crawling across a highway. He couldn’t believe how hard it was becoming to take the next step…and the next…and the next. He couldn’t believe how his head ached, and his shoulder burned.

Another twig snapped, louder this time! And now Joe could hear a grumbling voice muttering behind him.

Now there was no choice. It wasn’t a question of trying to outrun this guy any more. He was going to have to take this guy out, to stop the pursuit once and for all. Joe tugged the travois to the shelter of some nearby manzanita bushes and concealed it as best he could. He found a sturdy branch that would do service as a club, and he climbed to the first branch of a large yellow pine that grew close to the path. That was all he could do.

He saw the man come into view, and flattened himself against the tree trunk, hoping – praying! – that the man didn’t look up, in his direction. He held tightly to his makeshift weapon with one hand, and to the tree with the other…and as the man came close to the tree, Joe swung down, aiming with both feet – and connected, hard!

The rifle the man had been carrying spun off into the bushes nearby, and he yelped and swore violently. Swinging from one hand, Joe brandished his club and struck hard again, connecting with his adversary’s shoulder. The man fell to his knees, and Joe dropped from the tree, his club still clutched tightly in one hand.

The other man scrambled to his feet and charged at Joe, roaring inarticulately in fury. Joe sidestepped, and slammed the branch hard against the man’s rear as he passed. This brought a howl from his foe, but the man didn’t go down, he staggered a few steps, then regained his balance and returned to the fray.

Joe was both shorter and lighter than his enemy, as well as suffering from injuries and exhaustion. Barely able to keep his feet, he kept slipping and staggering, but he kept possession of that branch, and he had the spur of desperation prodding him. He was also more agile than his opponent, despite the weariness, and he managed to land several blows with the branch, but nothing connected with enough force to knock the guy out.

Finally, he achieved a swing with some momentum behind it, and cracked the man so solidly that he fell backwards and struck his head on the rocky ground. Joe waited…but the man didn’t rise to the fight again.

Breathing heavily, Joe dropped his club, and staggered over to the man. He stripped the guy’s shirt off, and tied his legs together – and then unfastened the man’s belt, and used it to bind his arms behind him.

Shaking with weariness, Joe returned to Frank, who appeared to have slept through the whole thing. Setting his teeth, he pulled the cords over his shoulder once more, and set out down the access road.

After what seemed to the exhausted Hardy boy at least a year of walking and jerking on the travois, he paused once again to survey his surroundings…and a frisson of unease went over him. The trees seemed much thicker and grew more densely than he remembered from the road in. Oh no! Could he possibly have taken the wrong turning, back at the fork?

He frowned and looked around, trying to spot anything familiar. Well, I’ve just got to keep going, he decided. He glanced up at the sun, trying to gauge direction. I’m going roughly east or southeast, he thought. If I keep going that way, I should come to the highway pretty soon!

Joe tugged the travois through an especially thick clump of manzanita shrubs, having to yank hard to make it through. He took a step, and then another – and suddenly realized that his foot was stepping into the empty air of a crevice opening directly in front of him!