Typhoon Island (3 page)

“Well, young lady,” Tejeda said, gazing at Angela, “I hope that
you
will support me.” He reached over the table and shook her hand. “And I hope the rest of you will enjoy your stay on our beautiful island,” he added to the others.

“Thanks,” Frank replied.

Tejeda nodded at them all and slipped back into the crowd, shaking hands as he went.

“Where there’s a crowd, there’s Tejeda,” Angela said as the politician left. “He owns the local cavern
tours business, as well as a bunch other local properties. Since he got elected, he’s hired someone to run the tours and his other businesses.”

“So he’s a full-time politician.” Joe said.

Angela nodded.
“Si.
He visits the market at least twice a week just to shake people’s hands.”

“He seemed nice enough,” Callie said.

“Let’s get going,” Frank said. “We don’t want to miss our shuttle.” He and the others picked up their bags once again.

As they began to push through the crowd, though, a panicked voice rose above the din.

“Run! Run! El Diablo is loose!”

A deafening collective scream filled the air.

The Hardys and their girlfriends turned as the crowd scattered around them. Less than a dozen yards away stood the great black bull named El Diablo. He pawed the dirt and snorted as people shoved their way out of the square. The door to his pen stood open, the marks of the bull’s horns scarring the white-painted wood.

El Diablo focused his bloodshot eyes on the stunned Americans and charged.

Frank and Joe dropped their bags and pushed their girlfriends out of the way as the bull thundered past. The beast passed between them, barely missing the Hardys. The circle of the crowd around the teens grew wider every moment, forming a living
bullring, with the four friends trapped in the center.

El Diablo wheeled around, looked at the Hardys, and lowered his head once again. The bull stomped the earth and shook his horns from side to side like a swordsman limbering up.

“Run!” Frank said to Callie and Iola. “We can hold him off until you get away.”

“But what about
you?”
Callie asked, fear in her brown eyes.

“We’ll be okay,” Joe said. “You two get out of here.”

“Come on, Callie,” Iola said, frantically pulling her friend away from the center of the impromptu arena.

Frank and Joe kept their eyes fixed on El Diablo. The bull snorted and glowered back.

“Some vacation,” Joe said quietly to his brother. “Any ideas?”

Frank shook his head.

El Diablo charged. Again Frank and Joe darted out of the way, and the bull passed between them.

“He won’t fall for that again,” Frank said as the bull wheeled around to face them once more.

“Too bad I left my red cape at home,” Joe replied.

“Hey!
Toro!”
called a voice from nearby. El Diablo turned toward the sound.

Standing near the edge of the crowd was a young man with short, curly black hair. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. In his outstretched hands he held a ragged jean jacket. He waved the jacket like
a matadors cape. “Hey,
toro!”
he repeated.

“Hey,
toro!”
said another voice. The Hardys turned and saw Jorge Tejeda with his jacket off as well. The politician waved his white coat at the enraged animal.

The bull glanced from the Hardys to the two mock matadors, unable to decide whom to charge.

“These guys have the right idea,” Joe said. “Too bad we’re not wearing jackets.”

“I think it’s the movement that attracts the bull, not the cape,” Frank said.

Joe’s blue eyes gleamed. “Let’s find out,” he said. Raising his arms, he stepped farther away from Frank and shouted, “Hey,
toro
!”

Frank stepped in the opposite direction, yelling, “Hey, bull! Hey, bull!”

Confused, the animal stamped the ground, glancing from man to man. He turned in circles, trying to find the best opponent.

The teen with the jean jacket jumped close to the beast, waving his “cape” in the bull’s face. The bull lunged at him, but he danced back out of the way.

“Hey, Frank, I’ve got an idea,” Joe said. “Follow my lead and be ready to close that gate.”

As Frank nodded the younger Hardy stripped off his T-shirt and moved closer to the enraged animal. “Yo!
Toro!”
he called, placing himself between El Diablo and the bull’s pen.

The bull turned away from the jean-clad youth,
who had danced farther out of the way, and focused on Joe.

The younger Hardy backed toward the open pen, waving his shirt and saying,
“Toro! Toro! Toro!”

The bull charged. Joe turned and sprinted toward the pen, El Diablo in hot pursuit. Frank realized what Joe was doing, and ran toward the side of the pen where the gate stood open.

“Crazy
Americano!”
shouted Jorge Tejeda as the bull closed in on Joe.

Joe could almost feel El Diablo’s hot breath on his back as he ran into the pen. He didn’t dare look back; the enraged beast might catch him if he did. He heard an angry snort and the animal’s hooves thundering closer.

At the last second Joe threw himself sideways, vaulting over the pen’s fence.

El Diablo bellowed with rage, having lost his victim. Frank slammed the gate shut behind the bull, trapping El Diablo in the pen.

A cheer went up from the crowd as the elder Hardy raced to his brother’s side. “Are you okay, Joe?” he asked.

Joe got up and dusted himself off. “Good thing I like to high-jump,” he said, grinning broadly. As he put his shirt back on, Iola and Callie raced up and gave both brothers a hug.

“The way I see it,” said a hawk-faced man standing nearby, “you boys have done
two
foolish things
this morning.” He pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the pen, and stood next to the brothers. His skin was tan and weathered like old leather. About four days’ growth of salt-and-pepper beard decorated his chin. The humid island breeze made the man’s long, stringy gray hair dance around his face. His blue eyes flashed brightly.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked, annoyed.

“Toying with the bull was bad enough,” the man said. “But you also took the limelight away from Jamie Escobar. That’s doubly dangerous.”

“Who’s Jamie Escobar?” Frank asked. “And who are you?”

“My name is Lucas McGill,” the man said, “though most people know me as The Gringo.” He smiled and his face turned into a mass of leathery wrinkles. “As for Escobar, he’s the young guy in the jean jacket.”

The Hardys and their girlfriends looked at the teen who had first confronted the bull. Though he was surrounded by a crowd admiring his bravery, Jamie Escobar didn’t look too pleased.

Nearby Jorge Tejeda had gone back to shaking hands. He paused just long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead and put on his white jacket once more. Then he went back to socializing.

“Tejeda may get a bump in the polls from this,” The Gringo said wryly. “Politicians are always looking for ways to be seen as heroes. Riling Escobar,
though . . . that could make your stay on San Esteban . . . unpleasant.”

“What does it matter to you?” Joe asked suspiciously.

The Gringo winked. “We Americans have to stick together down here,” he said. “Keep out of the way of the locals. They play rough.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Frank said. “We’re not looking for any trouble.”

“In San Esteban trouble finds you,” The Gringo replied. He turned and vanished back into the crowd as quickly as he’d come.

“What a strange man,” Callie said, trying to suppress a shudder.

With the excitement over, the crowd returned to their business. As the others left Angela pushed her way to her cousin’s side.

“Are any of you hurt?” she asked.

“We’re all fine,” Iola replied.

“Though not for lack of trying,” Callie added, giving the brothers a reprimanding look.

“Don’t worry,” Frank said, “no more bull wrangling for us.”

“Well,” Angela said, “since you’re okay, I should get back to work. Call me when you get a chance.”

“We’ll need some downtime first,” Iola said. “But we’ll definitely call.”

Angela went back to her booth, and the Bayport teens all took a moment to catch their breath.

“Make sure this pen doesn’t get open again,” Frank said to the short, dark-haired man tending El Diablo.

“Sí, señor”
the man replied, bowing slightly. “I am very sorry for the trouble. I cannot imagine how it happened.”

The brothers and their girlfriends gathered their luggage and walked toward the shuttle bus stop.

“That’s enough excitement for this vacation, thank you very much,” Iola remarked. She gave the brothers a weary half smile.

“Next time,” Joe said, “tell the bull.” He gave her a reassuring hug and then pointed to a towering, coral-colored building across the bay. “Do you think that’s our hotel?”

Callie shook her head. “According to the literature, the Casa Bonita is farther up the coast,” she said.

“That has to be the Hotel San Esteban,” Iola added. “It’s supposed to be the biggest building in Nuevo Esteban. We thought about booking there, but you should see the rates!”

“They must be something,” Frank said, “considering what we’re paying already.”

“Believe me,” Callie said, “Casa Bonita is a much better deal. The rates are cheaper and not bad—after all, we’ve got private bungalows near the water.”

“I’m all for that,” Joe said. “I could already use some peace and quiet.”

They got to the bus stop just a few minutes before the bus arrived. Rather than a sleek, modern vehicle, the Casa Bonita shuttle was a renovated school bus, painted white, with blue-and-green decorations and lettering.

The Hardys and their girlfriends climbed onto the bus, stowed their luggage in the overhead racks, and sat back to enjoy the ride. The rickety shuttle wound through the crowded streets and then down the narrow highway toward the north coast. They soon passed the large coral building, which, sure enough, had a big
HOTEL SAN ESTEBAN
sign in front of it.

They caught a glimpse of a long, white-sand beach beyond the hotel. A number of small, cabin-like bungalows peeked through the palm trees lining the coast. They passed over a wide, swift-moving river and a few minutes later pulled up in front of Casa Bonita.

This hotel was not nearly as large or impressive as the Hotel San Esteban. The architecture was from an older period, and the building looked slightly dingy, despite new coats of white, blue, and green paint. Still, it was close to the waterfront, and it had a nice view of the green mountains and the cliffs to the north.

“The beach is the same one that runs past the Hotel San Esteban,” Iola said. “Though the river divides it in the middle.”

“The hotels share the breakwater to the north and the recreation facilities in between,” Callie explained. “All the bungalows south of here belong to the Hotel San Esteban. Water taxis shuttle their guests up the coast.”

“So our bungalows are to the north, then?” Frank asked.

Callie nodded. “They have a beautiful view,” she said, “but we’ll have to come back here for swimming.”

“Unless you’re into cliff diving,” Iola added.

Joe and Frank smiled at each other. “That could work,” Joe said.

“It worked for Elvis Presley,” Frank agreed.

“Though he probably had a stunt double,” Joe concluded.

“I do
not
want to spend my vacation waiting in the emergency room!” Callie said, smiling. “There are plenty of less dangerous sports you two can try while we’re here.”

Iola looped her arm around Joe’s. “Let’s check in before these two think of any, hmm?” she said.

The four teens registered at Casa Bonita’s desk and got the keys to their cabins. The girl behind the counter couldn’t locate their rental car, so they had to talk with the hotel’s owner and manager, Renee Aranya.

Aranya was a short, thin, middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and hazel eyes. She quickly
turned up the Jeep reserved for the vacationers from Bayport.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Aranya said, “but things have been so hectic around here lately!” She helped load the teens’ luggage into the back of the Jeep. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

“We’ll call if we need anything,” Frank said.

Aranya’s face fell. “Y-You can’t,” she said. “Your bungalows don’t have phones. Our literature was very specific on that point. Cell phones don’t work on this part of the island either.” She shrugged. “We’re not ’wired’ yet. I’m very sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Callie said.

Aranya smiled wanly. “I’m so glad you understand.” She handed them a piece of paper. “Here’s the map to the cabins. It’s a very beautiful drive.”

“I’m sure it is,” Frank said, taking the map.

“Please feel free to enjoy the hotel beach and our resort’s other facilities,” Aranya said.

“We’ll probably do so this afternoon,” Iola replied.

Aranya nodded. “Very good. We’ll see you soon, then.” She bustled back into the office as the teens all piled into the Jeep.

They drove north along the narrow road, following the directions on the map that Aranya had given them. The drive to the bungalows was beautiful, but it was also longer than they expected. The road wound through dense, junglelike forests and up the hillside. The path grew progressively more
rutted and rocky as they went. By the time they reached their destination, they were all feeling
very
alone.

Two quaint bungalows stood in the small clearing on top of the cliff. The cabins were almost Hawaiian looking, with thatched roofs and walls, and bamboo supports and beams. The buildings seemed in good repair, and both boasted spectacular views of the sea.

Callie frowned, eyeing the dark thunderheads approaching from the northeast. “Shoot!” she said. “Mom may have been right about that storm.”

Iola put her arm around Callie’s shoulder. “Worry-wart!” she said. “We’re not going to let a little rain spoil our vacation, are we?”

Callie laughed and shook her head. “You’re right. The worrying stops now. Come on, let’s stash our bags and change into our swimsuits. We can hit the hotel beach before the storm catches up with us.”