"S-sorry…sorry, Frank," he managed, at last. He slipped the cords of the travois from his shoulder, easing Frank to the ground, and then slumped down on his hands and knees, dragging in one shuddering breath after another.

That was too close…way, way too close! Joe gulped in air, and buried his aching head in his arms. If I’d fallen…. I could have killed Frank, right then and there! Oh, God, my head hurts so much.…and I’m so tired. So exhausted – I’m not sure I can go much further….

And I’m doing it again, he realized dismally. I’m just plowing ahead, not thinking things through. I didn’t plan. I thought I could just drag Frank to the road and flag a ride….but now I’m all turned around. What am I going to do? It’s a long way back to the fork in the path – and I’d have to get past that guy who tried to kill Frank….

Joe sprawled there in the dirt and sparse grass and fallen evergreen needles; Frank silent on the travois beside him; and tried to think. What’s going on, anyway? Why in the world is someone trying to kill us? We haven’t been on any cases at all – we’d just started to look into the theft cases, and we’d almost dropped it anyway, for lack of leads. And is it just Frank’s head these guys are after, or both of us? If they’re trying to kill Frank, why? What’s he done to cause anyone to want to kill him?

Joe slowly pushed himself upright, and reached for the first aid kit, tucked into the windbreaker pocket on the travois. He took out two more pain reliever pills, and swallowed them, using the smallest amount of water he could. There wasn’t much water left, and Frank needed it more than he did. Wearily, Joe lay back on the uneven ground, and laid his arm across his eyes. He wanted – no, he realized, he needed – a few minutes’ rest. Maybe if he rested for a little while, his head would stop throbbing so unmercifully. He let his thoughts run again.

The camera. Was it really someone intent on theft – or was there some other reason that someone wanted Frank’s camera? Had Frank unwittingly filmed something that he wasn’t aware of? That none of them were aware of? Maybe…maybe he had….Or it might be one of our old enemies who just happened to be in Stateline. Or one of Frank’s enemies – does Frank have enemies that I don’t have? Maybe it was someone who just didn’t like Frank’s looks. But no – no. Joe was sure it was the camera. It had to be the camera.

Joe twisted around until he was sitting upright, and leaned back against the nearest tree. The Tylenol hadn’t kicked in yet, but the few minutes’ rest had helped a little. He could focus again; things weren’t quite so confusing.

As if awakened by Joe’s movement, Frank stirred on the travois, and started to struggle against the vines holding him secured to it. Joe moved to kneel beside it, and untied the restraints.

"Easy now—" Very gently, Joe raised Frank to a sitting position, supporting him against his shoulder. He held the water bottle to Frank’s lips, tilting it so that the scant amount of liquid flowed easily into his brother’s mouth. "That’s it…just swallow…there you go."

"Thanks…" Frank murmured, without opening his eyes.

Still using the greatest care, Joe eased him back down, and cautiously examined the wound in his arm. The bandages he’d stuffed around the stick earlier were soaked in blood, and Frank’s sleeve was sopping wet with it. Joe reached for the first aid kit and pulled out what was left of the gauze padding, and the tape. He removed the blood-soaked gauze from around the stick, and replaced it, then re-taped the whole thing.

"How’s that feel?" he asked finally, resettling Frank’s arm in the sling.

"Don’t ask…" Frank groaned. "Stop fussing with it, huh…? How much further is it to the road?"

Guilt plunged a knife of remorse into Joe’s vitals. "I don’t know," he admitted. "I got turned around somewhere. We may be lost. I took the wrong fork in the trail, and it’s a long way back – and no, I’m not going to leave you here, so don’t even say it!"

"You’re being…too stubborn." Frank breathed. But he didn’t say any more.

Joe gazed down at his brother in remorseful silence. His head must hurt as much as mine does…he’s got that crease in the middle of his forehead that he gets when he’s got a bad headache….

"Joe?" Surprisingly, Frank sounded more alert. "Do you remember which direction Mount Rose Highway runs in?"

Joe thought about it for a minute, trying to remember the map Frank had shown him. Finally he managed to visualize the lines. "Southwest to northeast, I think."

Frank fell silent once more, but Joe could tell he was still conscious, and was thinking. Finally he spoke again: "Do you remember which direction the access road ran in?"

"No…not offhand. Let me think." Joe shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. Why can’t I remember this? It’s important…come on, remember! The main road went there…and the access road was off to the left…wasn’t it? At last he thought he had it. "West….No, wait. It was more north. The highway was running more due east right then. The access road jigged to the northwest, about a half mile in."

"Okay…" Frank bit his lip, as pain jabbed at him. He was silent a little while longer, then said. "Do you know what direction we’ve been heading?"

Joe gazed around, searching for the sun as it settled toward the horizon. "I think we ended up heading southwest. We’ve been paralleling the highway!" he realized, with a start. "If we head due south, or southeast, we can get to the highway!"

With renewed energy, Joe got to his feet. "I’ll be right back," he assured Frank, who nodded and smiled slightly, without opening his eyes. Joe walked back down the path, the way they had come, and a short distance away, found another path that seemed to go in the direction he wanted.

But it’s so narrow! I’d never get the travois through here…never! The trees were close together, and their branches hung low over the path. There’s no room…and this is the direction we have to go!

Joe returned to Frank’s side and told him what he’d found. "Frank, if I go look for another path – one that’s wider – it’ll take longer. I don’t know how much longer…."

Frank’s reply was so soft that Joe barely heard it. "Then we’ll have to hike out."

"Frank…"

"I can make it, Joe. I can."

Joe dropped his face in his hands again, shaking his head. I don’t like this…not at all! Frank’s still bleeding…a lot. What if it gets worse? I don’t like this!

Joe felt trapped – as if his choices had all been taken away. Finally, seeing no other possible solution, he stood up and as carefully as possible, lifted Frank to his feet. Frank inhaled sharply, then groaned in pain, but clung to Joe as best he could with his good arm. Joe wrapped his arm about Frank’s waist, and took his weight against his side. Leaving the travois behind, they set out along the narrow path. Frank’s breath rasped in Joe’s ear…more gasps of pain than breathing.

"Frank, let me know if it gets too hard," Joe murmured. "Just tell me, and we’ll stop and rest, any time you need to."

The going was marginally faster now, although Joe was half-carrying, half-pulling Frank along the narrow trail. The underbrush pulled at them, snagging their clothing and slowing their progress, and brambles and roots wound across the trail, waiting to trip their stumbling feet. More than once, Frank’s sagging weight nearly pulled Joe from his feet, and an unwary step caused Joe to stagger smack into a tree. Both boys picked up more than a few jagged scratches, to add to their misery.

As they struggled through the brush, Joe suddenly felt and heard his stomach growl. No wonder I’m so bushed! he realized. I haven’t had anything to eat since six this morning – Frank either!

"Frank," he said, pausing to unhook a thorny berry vine from his jeans. "I’m hungry." Might as well complain about that as anything else….

Frank’s reply combined a snort of laughter and a whimper of pain. "If you – think that I – have food in my pockets…you’re out of luck," he grated. "Who do you – think I am…Chet Morton?"

"No, but I…" Joe simultaneously stopped speaking, and stopped trying to shove his way through the underbrush. "Listen!"

They were both quiet…and the near silence of the forest was broken, by the rushing sound of a car as it sailed along the highway. Highway noises!

"We’re almost there!" Joe cried. "Just a little further!" Spurred by the sound, buoyed by hope, he plunged ahead, able to go faster on this last bit of adrenaline. He was practically carrying Frank now; Frank’s head was lolling limply against Joe’s shoulder, and he was slipping in and out of unconsciousness…but it didn’t matter, not now. They were nearly there!

Joe made one more push through the undergrowth, and emerged into a small clearing near the highway. The occasional roar and rush of a passing car seemed to fill his ears…and then there was more roar than rush. He stumbled forward several steps, still supporting Frank’s drooping form; and then Joe Hardy let his brother slip to the ground, and collapsed beside him…unable to move another step. Oh please…someone…please….

Joe heard a car pull to a stop, somewhere near him, and he tried desperately to force his eyes open. He could hear voices murmuring somewhere close to him, but he couldn’t make out the words through the roaring in his ears and the throbbing ache that pounded through his head.

"…boys beside the highway…" It was a man’s voice, terse with concern. "…have to get them to help."

Joe stared dazedly upward, and glimpsed a man in slacks and a polo shirt bending over him. He tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. The stranger gazed down at him, then turned his head and spoke again:

"Lisa! Get over here! I need your help!"

*****

Laura, Fenton, Megan and Vanessa stared at the rental car, momentarily stricken to silence. Then Fenton swore, and smacked his hand against the hood. He re-read the message, and looked around the parking lot. There were people everywhere, getting in and out of cars, but no one in the immediate vicinity, and no one that looked even remotely interested in what the Hardy group was doing. He shook his head – this could have been done hours ago; no clues here!

"We’ll just have to get another car; we can’t afford to waste time." Laura said urgently, for she was beginning to feel very apprehensive about her sons.

"Let’s go in and talk to the concierge, and have him call the police," Fenton suggested. "I want this car gone over with a fine-tooth comb – and I’ll call the rental agency and tell them what happened with the car."

They returned to the hotel, and sought out the concierge’s desk.

"Isn’t it ironic," Vanessa said with a bitter smile as they walked through the lobby, "that whoever did that to the car told you to get out of town – but then slit the tires, so that it’s impossible to leave! What did they expect us to do, flap our arms and fly out, or something?"

"But we haven’t done anything!" Megan sputtered. "For days now we’ve been getting pushed around, and picked on, and harassed…for no reason!" Her lips were set in a tight line, and no dimple was evident now. "Well…we didn’t know of a reason, anyway." she added, recalling the video tape.

"Someone thought we knew more than we did," Mr. Hardy commented sagely. He stepped up to the desk and beckoned the concierge, Jorge, over.

"We’ve got to get another car right away." Laura fretted, her mind still on Frank and Joe and their prolonged absence. She watched anxiously as Fenton began his conversation with Jorge.

Megan put an arm about her shoulders. "We will – I’m sure the concierge can get you another car soon, and then we’ll be out of here to look for them."

"What could have happened to them…?" Laura murmured, scarcely hearing Megan’s comforting words.

"I’ll bet the whole trip to Mount Rose was a set-up…a trap." Vanessa speculated. "But try not to worry, Laura – we’ll find the guys, and they’ll be okay." she added optimistically.

Laura looked unconvinced. She might stop talking about it, but she wouldn’t stop worrying, not until she knew for certain that her boys were safe!

"Mr. Hardy, I’ll get you another car, but it will take a while to have one brought from the agency in Reno." Jorge was saying now.

"Why Reno? Can’t we get one here in Stateline?" Fenton demanded. "Surely there must be car rental agencies here?"

Shrugging, Jorge picked up the phone and began dialing. "It’s an odd time of day to be renting a car," he said as he waited for an answer. "They may not have anything available, but—" He broke off as the rental agency answered, and conversed briefly. But when he hung up, Jorge’s face was somber. "They’re short on cars and personnel both – can’t promise anything right away."

"Could our car be repaired, then?" Fenton demanded.

"Possibly," Jorge conceded. "I’ll do my best, Mr. Hardy. Hold on…." He picked up the receiver again, and dialed.

As they huddled near Jorge’s desk, waiting impatiently, one of the clerks from the front desk glanced up when he heard Jorge’s comment, and then came hurrying over to them.

"Mr. Hardy? Of room 818?"

"Yes…" Fenton looked at him enquiringly.

"We’ve been waiting for you to come back; you received an important telephone message. Come over to the desk and get it."

Fenton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Perhaps the boys had called, after all! He hastily went to the front desk and requested the message…and then stared down at it, frowning deeply. For all it consisted of was a telephone number – a strange number – and the words: ‘Please call right away; emergency.’

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the unfamiliar number. Two rings later, a man answered the phone.

"That you, Hardy?" The voice was familiar, but Fenton couldn’t place it. "Randall Claremont here."

"Yes, it’s Fenton Hardy," Fenton confirmed. Randall Claremont? Why would he be calling me? What’s the emergency? "What can I do for you?" he went on, cautiously.

"Yeah, Hardy…" Claremont’s voice sounded cold and far away, nothing like the friendly man they had met on the Royal Tahoe. "I found your boys by the side of the road. They’re both in bad shape."

Fenton inhaled sharply, and felt a pang in the pit of his stomach. Did Claremont find them? Or did he hurt them? But before he could respond, Claremont was forging on:

"I’ve got them in Reno, at Washoe Medical Center. If you want to see them, better get over here fast…before it’s too late." he snapped brusquely. "Better hurry, Hardy – you don’t want to wait too long!" The receiver was replaced with a click, and Fenton found himself listening to dead silence.

"What is it?" Laura, Vanessa and Megan were surrounding him, and Laura’s anxious voice cut into his troubled thoughts.

"It was Randall Claremont," he told her. "Lisa and Randall have the boys."

"Have them? What do you mean, they have them?" Laura demanded, lines of concern creasing her forehead.

"We need to get to Reno right away," Fenton stated, without answering her question directly. "That’s where Randall said they were – before he hung up on me!" He scowled. He didn’t like the way Claremont had disconnected so abruptly. It was almost as if Claremont had been challenging him – challenging him to get to Frank and Joe before something happened to them…or before he did something to them! "What if they’re holding them hostage, or something…?" he muttered.

"Hostage!" Laura cried. "NO!…Where in Reno?" she persisted.

Fenton looked at her grimly. "Washoe Medical Center."

"Look, perhaps you’re reading too much into this." Laura tried to catch her stampeding emotions before they overwhelmed her. "Maybe Randall was just concerned about the boys…did he say why they took them to the hospital?"

"No…maybe to keep us dangling," Fenton speculated. "Maybe to make us think they’re going to save them, when they really aren’t….But maybe he’s on the level; maybe they’re hurt….At any rate, we have to get to Reno right away. We don’t have a choice."

As they huddled close, uncertain of their next move, the automatic doors swooshed open, and another familiar figure strode lithely in: Cameron Jacobs, dapper and dashing in a dark blue suit and pale blue shirt. His silver tie was lined with the GTR crest, his blonde hair gleamed in the bright lights of the hotel lobby, and he looked very pleased with himself and his world.

"Ah, Laura – there you are!" Jacobs came up to them, smiling impartially at them all, but with his eyes fastened on Laura. "I just dropped by to make sure you were going to be able to make it to the show this evening…" He paused, evidently noting the worry on all their faces, Laura’s in particular. "Is something wrong? You look upset. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Before she quite realized what she was doing, Laura found herself blurting out the whole story: the missing boys, the rental car’s slashed tires, Randall Claremont’s disturbing telephone call, and the immediate need for them to go to Reno. Cameron Jacobs listened, his green eyes thoughtful.

"I’m so very sorry," he said, when Laura finished speaking. "I understand your worry." He thought a moment or two, and then looked up, a bright smile crossing his handsome features. "I have an idea; I think I can help you! I have a helicopter – I can take you to Reno in that!"

Laura and Fenton looked at each other dubiously for a moment. Laura would have rather had anyone else make such an offer, but the opportunity was there for the taking, and they had to get to Reno! This was a chance too good to pass up.

"All right," Fenton nodded decisively. "Let’s go for it." He turned to the concierge. "Jorge, have you got it lined up for the car being fixed?"

"Yes sir, but it will be a couple of hours." Jorge told him.

"That’s all right, it isn’t such a matter of importance now—and the police need to go over it, anyway—"

"But…Mr. Hardy—" It was Vanessa speaking. "What about us? Megan and me? We want to go…."

"Girls, there isn’t room in the helicopter," Cameron Jacobs interposed. "I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here."

"We could bring the car to Reno," Megan said softly. "I’ve got to be with Frank…I have to…."

"Honey, the rules said no one under 21 could drive it." Laura reminded her with regret.

"Mr. Hardy…please…?" That was all Megan said, but she turned to Fenton and gazed at him beseechingly, her long-lashed turquoise eyes seeming to fill her pale face. He hesitated, and glanced at Vanessa…and met the full force of equally-imploring blue-gray eyes fixed on him. Neither girl spoke again, letting Megan’s plea hang in the air.

Fenton exhaled sharply, and thrust his hand into his pants pocket. "Screw the rules!" he snapped, and tossed the keys into Megan’s trembling hands.

"Thank you!" she breathed, and he gave her a tight grin.

"Just don’t drive it off a cliff in your mad rush to get to Reno!" he warned her. "Mount Rose Highway is twisty, and you’re not familiar with the road."

"I can give them a map, and directions to the hospital." Jorge, who had been unabashedly listening to this debate, volunteered.

"We’ll come as soon as the tires are fixed and the police are done." Vanessa hugged Laura quickly. "It’ll be all right, Laura…don’t worry!"

"Come on," Cameron Jacobs was urging them toward the door, his hand on Laura’s elbow. Fenton followed them hastily.

The ride to the Grand Tahoe Resort was swift, in Jacobs’ silver Mercedes, and shortly they were parked behind the resort, close to the little private helipad.

"It will take a few minutes to warm things up," Jacobs told them, striding toward the small helicopter. "I’ll yell when I’m ready to go." To the Hardys’ relief, he was telling the truth; in barely five minutes Jacobs was waving them towards the chopper. They hurried across the tarmac and climbed aboard, hastily belting themselves into the seats. Jacobs adjusted the controls and lifted the little aircraft from the ground.

They were just flying over the parking lot, when Fenton, looking down, saw a car sweep into view. A man opened the door and got out – and to Fenton’s shock, that man looked, at this distance, like Randall Claremont. Claremont! What’s he…? How did he…? Fenton leaned forward, intending to shout to Cameron Jacobs to lower the helicopter once again – but Jacobs, seemingly oblivious, pulled the helicopter up – and they swooped away….