Now suspended Police Detective Everett Calhoun and his former partner Detective Chris Masters pulled to a stop near the house that belonged to Brian Jackson. 

“Looky here,” Masters cajoled as he peered into the open back door of Jackson’s station wagon.  “Seems our buddy Jackson was headin’ outta town.  Wonder why?”

Calhoun frowned.  While he often took the easiest route in his police work, he was still a fairly good detective when he set his mind to it.  The station wagon with its door open and keys in the ignition didn’t feel right.

He knocked on the screen door to Jackson’s house.  Hearing no sound inside, he peered through the grimy screen.  There were a few lights on and another small suitcase just inside the door.  Wherever Jackson was heading, he hadn’t finished packing yet.

Everett pulled the door open and stepped inside.  “Jackson!” The former detective shouted, but there was no response.  He went back outside.

“Somethin’ ain’t right,” he muttered.  He glanced toward the Black Warrior River.  He and caught sight of something fluttering in the shrubs that lined the bank.

“Chris,” he called to his friend, “C’mon.”

“Wha’cha find, Everett?”

Calhoun held up a small piece of cloth; blue checkered cotton.  He looked toward the river and down to the shrubs around him.  Something fairly large had gone through these bushes recently.

“Start looking around,” Calhoun ordered, “But be careful.  The ground is slippery under the shrubbery.”

“Ah, Everett?”

“Yeah?”

“What we lookin’ for?”

Everett looked Chris in the eye.  “I think Jackson might’a thrown that fat kid back into the river ‘round here. We’re lookin’ for clues.”

* * *

“Sam is notifying the police,” Fenton Hardy told Sean Prescott.  He had already told the young lawyer about Job’s wife and the information Frank had obtained.

“Do we wait for the police?” Sean asked.

Frank looked up at his father.  “You know they won’t be in any hurry to come and help us.  By the time they get here, Grafton and the owner of the blue van could be long gone.”

Fenton nodded.  “We will wait for Sam though.”  As if they had been magic words, Sam pulled up the gravel road just a few seconds later.

“Sorry it took us so long.  We had to get back to the car first,” Sam Radley explained, joining the trio.  “Then we lost our antenna on the cell phone, so I had to stop along side the road to call the police.”

“Who were not thrilled to hear from us,” Chester Morton added as he joined the group.

“Are they going to show up?” Fenton asked.

“Who knows?” Sam shrugged, but then grinned in a manner that reminded Fenton so much of his missing boy, “But I’m no dummy.  I remembered the name of Sean’s friend, D.A. St. James…”

Sean felt his cheeks grow warm.

“…and I tracked her down.  She’s sending state boys to back us up, but they might be a while.”

“Since both vehicles stayed put all night, I’m guessing that both parties are probably sleeping at this point,” Fenton stated. 

“Sam and I are the only ones that can legally bust these guys,” the ace detective continued.  “Chester, get in Sam’s rental and stay put.

“Sean, you got your pea-shooter with you?”

“Yeah,” The lawyer smiled.

“Go with Sam as his back-up,” Fenton ordered.  “You two take the blue van owner, Frank and I will go for Grafton and Dixon.”

* * *

Chief of Police Cecil Struthers was not happy as he hung up the phone.  First he gets rudely awakened by Fenton Hardy’s partner, wanting him to send out officers to back them up, but then he gets a call from that know-it-all broad, St. James in the District Attorney’s office.

“Sendin’ state boys to do my job,” he snarled. “Who does she think she is?”

He quickly threw on his uniform and headed out the door.  There was no way he was going to be excluded from this bust.  It could be the only thing that would save his career.

* * *

Former Detective Chris Majors trudged through the muddy underbrush, looking for anything that would indicate that Jackson had tossed the Morton boy into the river.  Everything was wet and slippery and several times he had to grab a tree to keep from sliding down the bank.

He was just about to give up when he caught sight of a muddy cowboy boot.  He moved cautiously toward it.  Below the boot, the ground foliage was smashed and torn up.  He could see all the way into the edge of the river.

“Oh Lord,” Majors’ eyes bulged and his stomach revolted.  He turned and grabbed a tree, retching.  Just a few feet away, his body bloated and floating face upward was Brian Jackson.  Only his foot tangled in the reeds and cat tails had kept him from being carried away by the swift, muddy waters of the Warrior.

* * *

Chet Morton struggled.  While he was strong enough to climb, his weight keep him from being agile enough to reach the top.  Knowing he was Joe’s only chance of survival pushed the teenager to keep trying.

Chet looked up and almost lost his grip.  He was only about five feet from the top. He paused to rest and called down to Joe, “I’m close this time, Joe! Hang on, buddy!”

David Neel couldn’t believe his ears.  He’d heard that voice before.  It was the Morton boy he’d found along the river bank just four days ago.  He hurried deeper into the swamp, hoping he was heading in the direction of the voice.

He called out, “Hey! Where are you?”

Chet froze when he heard a voice call out.  Was it their kidnappers coming back to finish them off?  He shook his head.  No way.  Whoever was calling didn’t know where they were.

“Help!” Chet yelled as loud as he could, continuing his climb, “Over here! Help us!”

He pressed on, his muscles aching.  He had to reach the top!  Someone was here that could go and get medical help for Joe.

Finally, Chet reached his hand over the lip of the hole, hoping that Joe’s snake was long gone.  He tried to pull his girth up, but his feet began to slip. ‘No!’ His mind screamed, ‘Not now! I’m too close!’

Just when he thought he would fall, Chet felt someone grip his wrist tightly.  He peered up into the familiar face of the man who had rescued him once before.  “I-I think you m-might be an a-angel,” Chet stammered.