Fenton Hardy had almost reached the trailer where Job Thomas lived when he stopped dead in his tracks.  The trailer next door to Job’s home had an old green Impala parked in the driveway.

He glanced down the road to where Frank was standing and motioned for his son to join him.  Frank nodded and ran up the gravel road to where his father stood.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“Does that car look familiar to you at all?” Fenton nodded his head toward the sedan.

Frank’s eyes went wide.  “That’s the car!”

Frank started for the trailer, but Fenton grabbed his arm.  “Let’s talk to Job and find out who lives here.”  Frank nodded and followed his father to the next trailer and up the sidewalk.

Fenton rapped sharply on the door.

Job Thomas peered through the peep hole in the door and sneered in disgust.  The nosy detective was back.  He cracked the door open.  “Whadd'a you want, Hardy?”

“Mr. Thomas, we need to use a telephone,” Fenton quickly explained.  “It is important or we wouldn’t bother you.”

At first Job hesitated. After all, why should he want to help Hardy? But curiosity got the best of him.  He opened the door wide enough for Fenton and Frank to move inside.

“Phone’s there on the counter,” Job indicated with a nod toward the breakfast bar that separated the living room from the kitchen.  Fenton reached for it and noticed the red-haired woman sitting quietly in the kitchen.

As he punched in Sam’s cell phone number, the woman looked up.  Fenton’s stomach churned as he saw her bruised jaw and black eye.  He had no doubt that Job Thomas was a wife beater.

“Radley here.” Fenton heard Sam’s voice in his ear, pulling his attention away from the woman.

“Sam!  Sean tracked down an address for the two vehicles,” Fenton explained, keeping his voice low on purpose.  He gave Sam the address and asked him to get here as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, Frank stayed in the living room with Job.  He looked around.  The trailer was a dump from the outside, and while the furnishings were well worn and old, the place looked clean.  Frank wondered if Job cleaned it himself, or was there a Mrs. Thomas?

“Wha’cha need the phone for?” Job asked, his voice slurred from the effects of too many beers.

“My brother and our friend are missing,” Frank briefly explained.  “We think we’ve found a clue to finding them near here.”

The young detective switched gears.  “Your next door neighbor has a pretty old car.  An Impala, isn’t it?”

“That ain’t Dixon’s car,” Job stated with a deep frown.  “Belongs to one of ‘is pot-head friends.”

“Oh really?” Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “My brother really likes classic cars.  Would you know the guy’s name?”

Job peered at Frank.  “Grafton.  A slime ball with greasy black hair and a mustache.  Don’t live around here, though.”

“Does he visit Dixon often?”

“Nope,” Job replied, his tongue was looser than usual because of the alcohol, and Frank was taking advantage of the situation.  “But, he was here not too long ago.  Spent a few days with Vernon.”

“When was that, Mr. Thomas?”

“Four, five days ago,” Thomas slurred.

“Are you friends with Vernon Dixon?” Frank continued his inquiry.

Job peered at Frank with a venomous look.  “He bangs my wife and thinks I don’t know ‘bout it.  He stole my lighter, too.” Job nodded smugly.

His last words registered in Frank’s brain.  ‘The lighter Joe found on the bridge?’ Frank thought, but he asked, “Your missing lighter? Maybe the one we showed you the last time we were here?  You think Dixon stole it?”

“I bet’cha!” Job nodded and smirked.  “Bangs my woman and steals my lighter to boot!”

Fenton walked over before Job could continue.  He looked at the man with obvious disgust.  It took every bit of control in him for Fenton not to start beating the man.  What kind of a man would hit a woman like that?

Frank could sense his father’s anger and while he didn’t know why it was directed at Mr. Thomas, he knew it was time to leave.

“We’d better go, Dad,” the teenager tactfully suggested, pulling slightly on his father’s arm.  Fenton broke his stare and turned to his son.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Frank whispered hastily.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Fenton told Job. “Thanks for the use of the phone.”

As they moved quickly down the sidewalk to the road, both filled each other in on all they had discovered.

* * *

David Neel rose early in the morning, after a difficult night.  He dressed warmly against the early-hour chill he knew he would encounter by the river.  With a stride of determination, David went out to his station wagon.  He put the old car into gear and drove toward the swamp beside the Black Warrior River.

He didn’t know what he expected to find in that snake-infested swamp, but he had an ominous feeling that something bad was happening there.

* * *

Chet Morton opened his eyes and saw a pinkness coloring the sky above their prison.  Morning had arrived. 

Chet glanced at Joe, half expecting the younger Hardy boy to be dead.  Joe was slumped over, but his chest was rising and falling rapidly.  A wheezing sound could be heard as Joe seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

Chet moved beside his friend and helped Joe lie flat.  With his head back, the breathing evened out slightly, but the stressful sound continued.  Joe’s paleness, unresponsiveness and clammy skin indicated shock.  His arm was swollen almost to the shoulder now, and the discoloration had reached above the elbow.  Joe was running out of time.

The stout teenager stood and peered up the slippery walls of the hole.  If Joe didn’t get medical help within the next hour or so, it would be too late.

With a resigned sigh, Chet began climbing up the wall the same way Joe had gone last night.