Read Online Strategic Moves by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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smiled and thought, I hope so.
An hour passed quickly. Frank and Ziggy were malicious in their playing, intensely scheming before making each move, teasing each other, threatening each other. At times, Joe wondered if a chess match or a shouting contest was in progress.
Joe and Petra spent the time talking about American boys and Russian girls, rock and roll, and the trouble with parents.
Joe yawned in the middle of a sentence. "Excuse me," he said, embarrassed.
Petra covered her mouth as she yawned, too. "Must be contagious." She nodded toward Frank and Ziggy.
Joe noticed for the first time that the chess players were silent and wondered when the shouting had stopped. Their heads were lowered, and Frank and Ziggy looked as though they were asleep.
Joe turned back to Petra. She had fallen asleep. I'm losing my touch, Joe thought, a thin haze covering his eyes. He blinked and tried to shake himself awake. His head began to ache with a slight but persistent pounding around the temples.
Then he noticed the room was still cold.
Joe slowly turned his head toward the furnace. The fan was softly blowing. He stood, his legs going out from under him. As he fell, he hit a small tea table, then landed on the floor.
Sleep. He wanted to sleep.
He crawled and pulled his way to the furnace. He yanked on the small vent door at the bottom of the furnace. His fingers were numb, and he lost his grip on the metal knob. After several tries, the door sprang open.
Joe looked inside. The furnace was dark. No pilot light; no flame.
Joe's head felt heavy. He laid his head on the floor. He couldn't keep his eyes open. One thought kept trying to push its way through his brain before he lost consciousness. He had to shut off the gas before they all suffocated to death.
Chapter 10
The voice was far away, an echo ricocheting inside his head like an errant bullet. Joe lifted and turned his head.
"Joe."
The voice was closer.
He opened his eyes. Petra was lying next to him, her eyes watery, her breathing shallow.
Joe pushed up, every fiber of his muscles screaming for oxygen. He crawled over to the window, grabbed the windowsill, and pulled himself up. His arms were leaden, tight, and stiff. Once he was on his feet, he tried to push the window up, but it was locked. He looked out through the panes.
Students strolling in the chilly evening were distorted by the glass and the foggy haze that drifted through Joe's mind.
Joe pounded on the window, but he was too weak to make any real noise. He looked down. Ziggy's wet towel was on the floor. He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his hands. He held his breath, balled his hands together, brought them back over his head, and swung them forward in a swift, powerful arc.
His towel-covered-fists hit the window, shattering the glass. Clear shards fell to the sidewalk below and broke again. Several students turned at the bell-like sound of glass crashing on the concrete.
Joe hit the window again. More glass went flying out and down, hitting the concrete with a dull tinkling.
Fresh air poured into Joe's lungs, and he gasped for more.
"Help," he said, his voice barely audible. Joe leaned toward the broken window, his legs like warm taffy, his lungs on fire, his head swimming in a dark nightmare of fog and distortion. He took a deep breath and screamed, "Help!"
Then he blacked out.
***
The first thing Joe saw when he came to was a dull white light in the center of the room. A dark halo surrounded the light.
Joe coughed; his lungs ached. He focused his eyes. The dark halo divided into three separate shapes, and a moment later Joe recognized the distinctive faces of Krylov, Gray, and Fitzhugh.
"Leave it to a Hardy to come back from the dead," the Gray Man said with a chuckle. "Welcome back, Joe."
"Where am I?" Joe asked. His head began to clear more quickly, and the fire in his lungs subsided.
"Oxford infirmary, lad," Fitzhugh replied.
Joe looked around. He was in a double room, but the
An hour passed quickly. Frank and Ziggy were malicious in their playing, intensely scheming before making each move, teasing each other, threatening each other. At times, Joe wondered if a chess match or a shouting contest was in progress.
Joe and Petra spent the time talking about American boys and Russian girls, rock and roll, and the trouble with parents.
Joe yawned in the middle of a sentence. "Excuse me," he said, embarrassed.
Petra covered her mouth as she yawned, too. "Must be contagious." She nodded toward Frank and Ziggy.
Joe noticed for the first time that the chess players were silent and wondered when the shouting had stopped. Their heads were lowered, and Frank and Ziggy looked as though they were asleep.
Joe turned back to Petra. She had fallen asleep. I'm losing my touch, Joe thought, a thin haze covering his eyes. He blinked and tried to shake himself awake. His head began to ache with a slight but persistent pounding around the temples.
Then he noticed the room was still cold.
Joe slowly turned his head toward the furnace. The fan was softly blowing. He stood, his legs going out from under him. As he fell, he hit a small tea table, then landed on the floor.
Sleep. He wanted to sleep.
He crawled and pulled his way to the furnace. He yanked on the small vent door at the bottom of the furnace. His fingers were numb, and he lost his grip on the metal knob. After several tries, the door sprang open.
Joe looked inside. The furnace was dark. No pilot light; no flame.
Joe's head felt heavy. He laid his head on the floor. He couldn't keep his eyes open. One thought kept trying to push its way through his brain before he lost consciousness. He had to shut off the gas before they all suffocated to death.
Chapter 10
The voice was far away, an echo ricocheting inside his head like an errant bullet. Joe lifted and turned his head.
"Joe."
The voice was closer.
He opened his eyes. Petra was lying next to him, her eyes watery, her breathing shallow.
Joe pushed up, every fiber of his muscles screaming for oxygen. He crawled over to the window, grabbed the windowsill, and pulled himself up. His arms were leaden, tight, and stiff. Once he was on his feet, he tried to push the window up, but it was locked. He looked out through the panes.
Students strolling in the chilly evening were distorted by the glass and the foggy haze that drifted through Joe's mind.
Joe pounded on the window, but he was too weak to make any real noise. He looked down. Ziggy's wet towel was on the floor. He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his hands. He held his breath, balled his hands together, brought them back over his head, and swung them forward in a swift, powerful arc.
His towel-covered-fists hit the window, shattering the glass. Clear shards fell to the sidewalk below and broke again. Several students turned at the bell-like sound of glass crashing on the concrete.
Joe hit the window again. More glass went flying out and down, hitting the concrete with a dull tinkling.
Fresh air poured into Joe's lungs, and he gasped for more.
"Help," he said, his voice barely audible. Joe leaned toward the broken window, his legs like warm taffy, his lungs on fire, his head swimming in a dark nightmare of fog and distortion. He took a deep breath and screamed, "Help!"
Then he blacked out.
***
The first thing Joe saw when he came to was a dull white light in the center of the room. A dark halo surrounded the light.
Joe coughed; his lungs ached. He focused his eyes. The dark halo divided into three separate shapes, and a moment later Joe recognized the distinctive faces of Krylov, Gray, and Fitzhugh.
"Leave it to a Hardy to come back from the dead," the Gray Man said with a chuckle. "Welcome back, Joe."
"Where am I?" Joe asked. His head began to clear more quickly, and the fire in his lungs subsided.
"Oxford infirmary, lad," Fitzhugh replied.
Joe looked around. He was in a double room, but the
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