Just as they had suspected, the Moundville police were not anxious to help locate Chet Morton or Joe Hardy.  They as much as said that Chet probably took off before they could prove he killed Lydia and Joe probably helped him.

Sean Prescott did get them to allow him to use their computer databanks to check the registrations of the two vehicles they were looking for in connection to Joe’s and Chet’s disappearance.

Sean couldn’t find anything on the green Impala, but found the van was local and registered to someone named Samuel Black.  Sean wrote down the address and debated about asking one of the officers if he knew Samuel Black.  Deciding it would probably be useless, Sean left the police station and called Fenton Hardy’s cell-phone.

* * *

Fenton and Frank had just crossed the bridge at the end of town when his phone rang.  He listened with interest to what Sean had to say. 

“That address is near the trailer park where Frank and I talked to Job Thomas, the owner of the lighter,” Fenton told Sean.  “We’ll keep walking toward the trailer park.  Head this way and pick us up.”

With a possible lead to the missing boys within their grasp, the two Hardy men picked up speed as they walked along the road toward the cluster of dingy trailer homes on the far edge of Moundville.

* * *

Chet Morton once again checked his friend’s pulse.  Joe’s skin was pale and clammy to touch.  His pulse was still strong, but irregular and his breathing was shallow.  Joe wasn’t saying much anymore, but when he did speak, his words were slurred and his thoughts were jumbled.  He wasn’t making sense to Chet.

Chet checked Joe’s hand in the diminished light.  The wound was swollen, making Joe’s fingers look like fat sausages.  The swelling was gradually moving up Joe’s arm and had almost reached his elbow.

Joe stirred and opened his eyes.  He tried to focus on Chet, but his vision was blurred.  His tongue felt thick and heavy. ‘God, I’d love a drink of cold water,’ the Hardy boy thought, trying to swallow.  He felt stiff and wanted to shift positions, but something was wrong.  Joe frowned and tried to lift his arm.

“Can’t move,” he mumbled.

“What Joe? You want to move?” Chet tried to guess what Joe was saying.

Joe tried to talk again, but his thoughts were drifting and he once again lost consciousness.  Chet sighed and looked up at the dark sky through the trees, wishing he had never come to Alabama to help his uncle.

* * *

Police Detective Everett Calhoun and Detective Chris Masters sat in the bar across the street from the police station, drinking beer and cursing the name of Chester Morton, Jr. and his big-city lawyer.

“Hey Everett, hey Chris,” Sergeant Mick Bandy called out as he entered the bar after his shift was over, “You won’t believe what’s goin’ on at the station!”  He quickly told them about Sean Prescott showing up and wanting help to hunt for the two missing teenagers.

“Ain’t that a kick in the pants?” Bandy hooted, slapping his leg.  “Kid probably took off with his buddy as soon as he got the chance.  ‘Fraid somebody might find out the truth.”

Everett chuckled at the twist fate had dealt, but in the back of his mind an idea began to form.  For the first time since Lydia Morton disappeared under the waters of the Black Warrior River, he thought the Morton boy might have been telling them the truth all along.  If he was, then the real killer might need to help the Morton boy vanish.

He excused himself and pulled Chris along with him.

“What’s up? I wasn’t done with my beer yet,” Chris complained as Everett led him into the alley behind the joint.

“We’re in trouble ‘cause we messed up with that fat kid,” Calhoun reasoned.  “What if he was tellin’ the truth and the real killer snuffed him out?”

“Maybe those guys he talked about, the ones he said was on the bridge,” Chris suggested.

“I remember the descriptions,” Everett responded, “A black man with dreadlocks.  Who does that sound like to you?”

Chris thought a minute, “You know there’s a guy that hangs out at Homer’s filling station that could fit that description.  Jackson, I think.”

“Yeah, and I think he lives out on River Road, not far from the County Line Bridge.”

“What say we pay him a visit, Everett?” Chris grinned.

* * *

Sean pulled his car up beside Fenton and Frank Hardy.  “Where to, Mr. Hardy?”

“Not far,” Fenton replied.  “See the lights ahead? That’s a rundown trailer park on Dutch Road.  Our lighter owner, Mr. Job Thomas lives there.”

“And Dutch Road is where our van owner happens to live, too,” Sean grinned.  “Maybe just a coincidence, but it seems uncanny that Thomas and Black live so close to each other.”

In minutes, they had arrived at Samuel Black’s small house.  The place looked dark, but the sound of a television could be heard through the screen door.  A blue panel van sat in the driveway.

“That’s the van we saw,” Frank whispered to his dad.  He moved up beside it and peered through the open window.  It was too dark to see anything.

Frank started to pull open the passenger side door when his father stopped him. “They might see the light,” Fenton said.  Frank nodded and climbed through the open window instead.  Once inside the van, he turned on a flashlight.

A quick examination showed nothing that would tell him if Joe or Chet had been in this van.  Frank was about to move back up front when he felt something under the rubber mat on the floor.  Getting to his knees, he lifted the edge of the matt.

“They left us another clue,” Frank held the high school class ring he’d found out the window.  “This is Chet’s.  They were definitely in this van.”

“So do we go talk to the guy in the trailer?” Sean asked.

Fenton hesitated a moment.  This was their only real lead.  If they confronted this guy, would he panic and run?  Would they find him again?

“Let’s get everybody here,” the detective decided.  “I’ll call Sam.”  Fenton reached for his cell phone, but realized they were in a dead zone.

“No antenna here,” he complained.  “I’ll run down to Job Thomas’s place and see if I can use his phone.  Frank, you and Sean keep an eye on this place, I’ll be right back.”

Frank watched his father running down the gravel road toward the trailer park.  He hated waiting.  It was almost twelve hours since he had last seen his younger brother and he had a bad feeling that Joe and Chet were in real trouble.