Running on Empty by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page B

paint.
    Emmy giggled. Then she chuckled. Soon, she was laughing so hard, she was crying.
    Frank tried to look angry with a deep frown. Then he burst out laughing, too.
    "I don't know what's so funny," Frank said with a sigh. "We may have escaped back there, but we've got to face Cronkite now."
    "Yeah, I can't wait to see the look on that square face of his when I tell him his car is now a compact." Emmy let loose with another barrage of laughter, holding her sides.
    Frank joined her. In the truck's rear-view mirror, he could see the old man glance at them as if they were crazy.
    "What do you think happened?" Frank asked after several moments.
    Emmy brushed back her red hair. "The way the accelerator hit the floor, I'd say someone tampered with the throttle return spring on the carburetor. And to make sure we wouldn't stop, he or they made sure the brakes would fail."
    "Sounds elaborate."
    "I could do it to any car in under a minute."
    "Max!" Frank shouted with a slap on his knee. "He came back covered with dirt and sweat, as though he'd been working hard and fast on something."
    Emmy shook her head. "Forget it, Frank. He probably got that way from looking for the clutch plate. Besides, Max is a walking vanilla wafer. He's all peace, love, and harmony. He still thinks it's the 1960s. He's a harmless old hippie."
    "If that's true, then why didn't the car go out of control before we got to Paradise Salvage?" he asked.
    Emmy leaned against the cab and crossed her legs. "Good point. It would take only a couple of minutes to snip the throttle return spring, punch a hole in the brake line, and cut the emergency brake cable with bolt cutters."
    "And Max had more than enough time," Frank added.
    "You're right," Emmy conceded.
    They rode in silence the remainder of the way to Royce's Garage.
    "This place could use a real cleaning up," Frank said as he pushed open the office door and kicked at a pile of soiled red rags.
    "Hey! Watch how you treat my place," Emmy protested.
    "Your place? You mean the city's."
    "I mean mine, as in I own this garage."
    "Royce's Garage really does belong to you?"
    "Why is that so hard for you to believe, Frank?" Emmy stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him.
    "Who was Royce?" Frank's mind was racing.
    "He was my father," Emmy said before she could stop herself. Then she said quickly, "I've got to clean up. Bathroom's over there." She unlocked the inner office and slammed the door shut. Frank heard the lock click on the other side.
    The hot water and soap lather stung the little cuts left on his face by the sharp concrete slivers, but it felt good to wipe away the grime of the accident.
    Pieces were beginning to fall into place, but Frank wasn't sure what the final picture would be. Emmy had personal reasons for wanting to solve this case, and Frank just hoped her reasons didn't clash with his search for Chet.
    Something in the cracked mirror caught his eye. At first he thought some giant bug with two large wings was floating behind him. He turned and stared at two photographs pinned to the wall across the bathroom.
    He patted his face dry as he neared the photos and stared.
    One of the photos was of the twisted remains of an old 1950s classic. Enough of it remained so that Frank could identify it as a Buick. Its hood was crumpled, the roof caved in, the massive chrome grille and bumper crumpled like cardboard, and the front fenders, their round chrome "portholes," smashed. The car had been rolled several times in a terrible accident.
    The other photo was older and showed the Buick in better days, its bulky chrome and black and pink paint shining like mirrors.
    Three people were gathered around the car, smiling like old friends. A teenage Emmy, her long red hair pulled back into a pony tail, sat on the massive hood. A stranger stood next to her - Royce Sauter? The third person in the photo sent chills up and down Frank's spine.
    Butch Smith!
    A thought shot through Frank's mind like a poisoned dart.