Fenton Hardy parked his rental in the graveled space beside a dull brown house trailer.  It was quite long with a flat roof and aluminum framed windows.  Frank followed his father up the gravel ‘sidewalk’ to the rickety porch.

He was suddenly very appreciative of the large, old house he lived in on the corner of High and Elm Streets.  Frank couldn’t imagine calling this metal box “home.”

“Wha’da you want? I ain’t buyin’ nothing!”  A voice yelled from inside the dark interior.  Frank recognized the voice as Job Thomas, and told his father.

“Mr. Thomas,” Fenton began, “we aren’t here to solicit, sir. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Job Thomas made his way to the screen door and peered at the two men on his doorstep.  His angry frown deepened as he realized who they were.

Fenton put on his best professional face and introduced himself.  “I’m Fenton Hardy and this is my son, Frank.  “We’re looking into…”

“I’m no idiot,” growled Job.  “I know who you are and I know you’re tryin’ to get that killer off.  He deserves to rot away in jail or worse for killin’ that girl.”

“Sir, we only want to ask you about a lighter my brother found,” Frank interjected quickly.

“A lighter?”

“Yes,” Frank answered and held up the pictures for Job to see.  Job pushed the door open and stepped out onto the porch, taking the photos in his hand.

“Looks like mine,” Job said; his tone had softened a bit.  “Been missin’ it for a couple days now.  Where’d you say your brother found it?”

Fenton glanced at Frank, giving him a silent command to not say where the lighter had been found.  He was afraid that Job would think they were accusing him of having something to do with Lydia’s death.

“So you haven’t seen it for a few days?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Nope,” Job replied.  “Somebody could’a taken it from my truck.  Don’t lock the old rust bucket up.

“Funny though,” Job continued, “I really thought I’d left it on the table with a pack of smokes.”

* * *

Brian Jackson left Vernon Dixon’s trailer and started walking toward his old Plymouth station wagon.  He stopped when he heard Job’s voice and two others talking about a lighter.

He moved as close to the corner of Job’s trailer as he dared.  Those boys had found Job’s lighter on the County Line Bridge and now they were questioning Job about it.

Brian hurried to his car and scrunched down inside.  He peered over the steering wheel and watched two dark-haired men get into a rental car.  He recognized the younger man right away.  He had been with the other blond young man on the bridge the other day.  ‘Those kids!’ Brian thought rubbing his hand across his lower face.

Things were escalating and that made Brian very nervous.  He thought about telling Vernon what he’d just heard, but drove away instead. “Time for me t’cover my own butt,” he mumbled.

* * *

Chester Morton was getting concerned.  Fenton and Frank were due back any time, yet he still hadn’t seen or heard from his son Chet or Joe Hardy.  The town of Moundville wasn’t that big.  Surely, Chet and Joe had already covered the main street of town?

He glanced out the window of the motel, but saw no sign of the missing teenagers.  “All right boys,” Mr. Morton sighed, “where in the world are you two?”

* * *

"Ouch,” Joe Hardy moaned.  Every inch of his body hurt.  He slowly opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by diffused darkness.  “Ugh,” he grunted, forcing himself into a sitting position. 

“Where am I?” the blond teenager wondered, looking around.  High above him was a round opening.  Beyond it, Joe saw trees and a blue sky.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighed.  He remembered seeing a pit just before one of the four men cracked the back of his head with something very hard. “Bet our new residence is compliments of those guys who kidnapped us.

“Chet!”  Joe began crawling around, trying to find his friend in the darkness.  After several frantic minutes, Joe heard a soft groan.  He hurried toward the sound.

“Chet? Is that you?”

“Ow! Yeah, I think I’m me,” Chet said, trying to sit up.  “I feel like I’ve been in a blender and then got tossed down the garbage disposal.”

“Well, in a way, that’s what happened,” Joe commented, moving beside his friend.  “First we were thrown in the back of a van, marched through a swamp, conked on the head and then we were thrown down here.”

“The guy from the bridge,” Chet said softly.

“Right,” Joe agreed.  “The others called him ‘Grafton.’

“Chet, we need to get untied first.  Let’s get back to back, like in the van.”

“’Kay,” Chet grunted and scooted closer to Joe. 

“Just sit still Chet, and I’ll work on your ropes.”

Joe sighed as his fingers began working on the knot that secured Chet’s wrists together, but then he smiled.  The ground in the hole was muddy and it made the nylon rope slippery.

It was only minutes before Chet was free and rubbing his sore wrists.  “Give me a minute, and I’ll start on your ropes.”

“Take all the time you need, Chet,” Joe quipped, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chet chuckled, but then grew serious.  “This is one deep hole, buddy.  How are we going get out of this one?”

Joe stayed silent for a few minutes.  “You know, Frank and both our dads are probably searching for us as we speak.”

“Yes, probably,” Chet agreed quietly.

“C’mon Chester,” Joe said, trying to cheer his friend, “Let’s take one step at a time.  At the moment, my shoulders are really starting to ache.”

“Oh yeah.” Chet quickly moved back to back with Joe again and began working the knot.