“Alice, where’d ya hide my smokes?” Job Thomas called as he searched through the trailer he and his wife called home.

“They’re by your chair where you always leave ‘em,” Alice yelled back from the kitchen.  Job searched around the chair and the small table beside it again.  The cigarettes were not to be found.

“Dag-nabbit!” Job said disgustedly.  He walked out to the kitchen and confronted Alice.

“I don’t have the stupid things, Job!  Maybe you smoked the last of ‘em or maybe you left ‘em in your truck,” Alice suggested. 

Job inhaled sharply, and then slapped the side of the woman’s head sharply.  He swore under his breath as he heard her softly sobbing.

“I’ll check the truck, but if they ain’t there I’ll be goin’ into town to get some more,” Job mumbled and headed outside.

He searched the truck, but there was no sign of the missing Marlboros.  With a sigh, Job started his truck and headed for the main street of Moundville. 

It wasn’t until after he purchased a new pack at the ‘Stop’N’Shop’ gas station, that Job realized his silver lighter was missing, too.

* * *

Sean Prescott wasn’t surprised to see the black van following him.  But he was surprised that the driver was doing an excellent job tailing him.  If he hadn’t been looking for a tail, he probably would never have noticed.

After making sure the van really was tailing him, he decided a confrontation was in order.  He pulled into the parking lot of a farmer’s market and disappeared inside.

While he couldn’t see them clearly from the distance, he guessed the two young men entering the building were his tails.  They looked as out of place in the market as he did.

He positioned himself behind a display of potted geraniums and waited.  When the timing was right, Sean reached out and grabbed the boy closest to him, quickly pulling his small Beretta from the hidden shoulder holster under his suit coat.  He was thankful that he’d retrieved the gun from his glove compartment as soon as he’d gotten back into the car after talking with his new client.

Now he had the small handgun pointed at the head of one of the young men.  He stared intently at the other youth.

“Just stand right there, buddy,” Sean ordered Frank Hardy.

“Easy,” Frank responded, taking a small step backwards and putting up his hands slightly.  “If you put a hole in my brother’s head, I’ll have a hard time explaining it to our parents.”

Sean continued to look at Frank for another minute, but then he smiled.  “You’re Fenton Hardy’s son!”  He immediately let go of Joe.

“I’m sorry,” Sean apologized and introduced himself to the boys.  “Dad said I should look for you.  I didn’t expect you to follow me from the police station, though.”

“The police wouldn’t let us see our friend Chet,” Joe began to explain.  “They told us he was with his lawyer.”

“So,” Frank took up the story, “we thought we’d wait and talk to you, but were afraid if we’d approached you at the station, you would think we were just more reporters.”

Sean laughed.  “You’re probably right about that.

“Look, again I’m sorry.  I expected to be followed by the cops or maybe some zealous reporters.  Maybe even those goons that were on the bridge with Chet and his cousin.”

“Someone else was on the bridge with Chet and Lydia?” Frank asked.

Sean glanced around at the scattered shoppers in the small market.  “Look, I’ve got a hotel room up in Tuscaloosa, about 15 minutes north of here.  I’m supposed to be meeting with your daddy tonight.

“Follow me and I’ll buy you boys some supper.  I’ll fill you in on what’s happening to Chet over the best ribs this side of the Mississippi.”

* * *

Fenton Hardy led Chester Morton out to the rental car outside of the Birmingham airport.

“We’re going down to Tuscaloosa,” Fenton told Chet’s father.  “We’ve got a meeting at eight with Sean Prescott.  He’s a terrific young criminal lawyer and that’s where he’s staying.

“He’s probably already seen Chet by now,” Fenton added.

Chester nodded numbly.  Fenton was afraid his friend was in shock from all that had transpired in the past two days.

“Why don’t you try and get some sleep?” Fenton suggested.  “We’re about 40 minutes from Tuscaloosa.”

* * *

Vernon Dixon watched out the window as Job Thomas drove off in his battered Ford pick-up.  He gulped down what was left of his beer and tossed the can toward the overflowing trash can near the door.  It clattered to the floor, causing the skinny calico cat to run for cover under the kitchen table.

He picked up the pack of cigarettes on the window sill and leaned against the door frame.  He could see Job’s wife through the kitchen window of their trailer next door.  He watched as she left the kitchen and walked to the bedroom in the rear of the trailer.

Sucking on the Marlboro, he decided to pay her a visit before Job got home.

* * *

“Hey kid.  You get any action before you killed that chick?”

“Yeah, was she good?”

Chet Morton was miserable.  He was lying on a dirty mattress in a small cell, surrounded on three sides by iron bars.  He was alone in his cell, but the cells on either side were occupied.  The men residing in the other two holding cells took great delight in taunting Chet.

‘Some cop’s idea of fun and games, no doubt,’ the stout youth thought as he tried to block out their words.  He wanted so badly to sleep, but the other two men kept up a constant banter, making it impossible.

‘Oh God,’ Chet silently prayed, ‘if I ever needed Your help, I sure need it now!’

* * *

“That lawyer’s bound to stir up trouble,” said Detective Chris Masters, chewing on the end of a pencil.

His partner, Everett Calhoun, finished off his cup of coffee.  The two detectives were having their evening meal together at a diner on the main street of Moundville.

“The kid confessed, pure and simple,” Calhoun stated with a smile.

“You think there was anybody else on that bridge?” Masters asked.

“Who knows?  If there was, they ain’t gonna be any too anxious to come forward, will they?” Calhoun answered.