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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: Disaster for Hire
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"We don't."

"All right." Hershfield leaned across his desk. "One last warning. If you find out where your father is, you'd better inform us. If not, you'll wind up right beside him, in a nice, cold jail cell."

Chapter 8

THE NEXT MORNING was clear and bright.

Joe was at the wheel of their rented car, staring at Frank. "You suspected Jenny?"

Frank said, "President Fawcette's daughter is named Beth. I remembered that from the newspaper stories, but only after we'd been with Jenny awhile. On top of that, Jenny referred to Fawcette as President Fawcette once. That's not the way a daughter would talk about her father."

"You think Jenny was trying to set us up last night? Letting the police grab us?"

Frank shook his head. "No, I'm inclined to believe what she said in the police car."

"That she didn't want us to know who she really was until she was certain where we stood— and that she could trust us?"

"Right, and until she was convinced Dad wasn't the one who murdered her father."

Joe frowned. "That can be dangerous, playing detective the way Jenny is."

Frank laughed. "That's what Sergeant Hershfield says we're doing. But he can't be too concerned with what we're up to. As far as I can tell, we haven't been tailed."

"I haven't seen one either." Joe squinted, looking at street signs. "According to the hotel clerk, we ought to be fairly close to the Selva offices."

There was a fenced-in parking lot next to the six-story brownstone building that housed the Seattle offices of the Selva Lumber Corporation.

Earlier that morning the Hardys had phoned the company and learned that the man their missing father had contacted was named Curly Weber. They'd made an appointment to talk with him at eleven. It was six minutes shy of the hour when they stepped into the old-fashioned elevator cage and started up to the fifth floor.

Curly Weber turned out to be a big, jovial man of about forty-five, without a hair on his head. His office was large and cluttered, with framed color photos of timberland and lumber mills on the walls. "I don't believe your father had anything to do with that killing," he said, shaking hands and showing them to chairs facing his desk.

"Neither do we," said Joe.

"On your office door it says Security Officer," Frank said. "Does that mean you're a sort of in-house policeman?"

Weber chuckled, rubbing at his hairless scalp. "I guess I'm a cop, a private eye, the house snoop, and an all-around trouble shooter," he answered. "The lumber business isn't as wild and woolly as it used to be, but sometimes things can get pretty rough."

Frank asked, "Why did Dad come to see you?"

"I saw Fenton twice this time. We're old friends. Well, old friends who see each other once in a blue moon. I admire the way he does business, and the way he brought you two up."

Frank nodded, all business and ready to continue. "Thanks. Can you tell us what you talked about?"

"The first time we got together, the day he arrived in town, was just for a quick dinner and a talk about old times," said Weber. "Then the afternoon this Bookman guy got killed, Fenton dropped in here. His questions really started me wondering. But he wouldn't fill me in."

Frank was looking up at the bright photos on the wall. "Did he ask if any of the Selva woodlands had been having trouble lately?"

Weber sat up straight, staring at Frank. "How'd you know?" he asked.

"A guess," said Frank.

Joe narrowed his left eye, studying his brother silently. Then he said, "This is the second secret you've kept from me."

"The third. I also figured out how Truett probably fits in," Frank said.

"Truett?" Joe frowned. "Oh, yeah, the name we found on Dad's memo. 'Another Truett?' "

Curly Weber cleared his throat. "Don't feel bad, Joe. This is all a mystery to me."

Frank grinned at him. "Sorry, Mr. Weber."

"Call me Curly."

"Okay, Curly. What Joe and I are talking about is a note of my father's that we found. It suggested that what's going on here reminded him of a case he'd worked on about three years ago."

Joe snapped his fingers. "Sure. The Truett Printing Company, in Wisconsin someplace."

"That's the one," said Frank. "Somebody was sabotaging Truett's presses. It turned out to be their major competitor. I figured Dad either suspected that someone was sabotaging the biotech lab or that there was a lumber company being sabotaged. There's no evidence of any vandalism at Farber, so timber seemed more likely."

"We're sure having problems," put in Weber, pointing at one of the framed photos on his wall. "Our pine forest some ninety miles east of here has been having trouble, expensive trouble."

"With a blight?"

Nodding, Weber answered. "Yes, some germ that kills the trees. Works fast, spreads fast. We have acres and acres of prime timber dying. What's worse, none of the standard remedies work." He paused, looking at Frank. "We have no idea what's causing it."

"My guess," Frank said, "is that there's a man-made bacterium being used against Selva."

Weber scowled. "You mean something they might have dreamed up in that lab at Farber University?"

"It makes sense," said Joe. "And it explains why Bookman was killed. He either found out what was going on, or he was in on it and then had second thoughts."

"Maybe I'd better get over to that lab and have a look around," said Weber angrily. "If they're messing around with something that kills trees, I want to know."

"Wait, now," cautioned Frank. "We don't have any proof so far, and whatever is going on has been carefully covered up. Also, if you get them rattled, they may do something to Dad."

Exhaling, Weber settled back in his chair. "You think that Fenton's being held by the tree-killers?"

"We're hoping they're holding him," answered Frank. "That they haven't ... killed him."

Joe asked, "What can you tell us about Ray Garner?"

Weber made a wry face. "Typical spoiled rich man's kid. He still acts that way as a grown-up," he replied. "Old Lloyd Garner's supposed to b running things, but he's been in pretty bad shape for the past couple of years. Ray's more or less in charge. The old man was no angel, but Ray' worse. He's got a big smile, but the ethics of bulldozer. He'll plow under anybody who gets in his way."

"So Garner is Selva's chief rival?" asked Frank.

"They sure are. And they've been trying to buy us out, even before Junior took over," Webe said bitterly. "What are you getting at, Frank? You think Garner's behind this?"

"I have no proof," said Frank.

"It sure makes sense, though. Ruin enough our timber, get us on the ropes — then push for another take-over bid," Curly reasoned out loud.

"This is mostly theory so far, Curly. Please don't go spreading it around," Frank said.

"Yeah, I know. Fenton's my friend. I won't do anything to put him in danger." Curly made a fist and tapped his desktop. "But Selva's losing money, a lot of money, every day. The soone we can — "

"We're working against time too," said Joe.

"Sure, I realize that, but— Okay, I'll sit on it,' promised Curly Weber. "But as soon as you guys find your dad, let me know. Then I'm going to start an investigation on my own."

"Of course," said Frank.

Joe asked, "Did you and Dad talk about anything else, Curly?"

"He wanted to know how to get to a town called Crosscut. It's about fifty miles east of us," said the bald security officer. "Not many people live there anymore. Once there was a thriving lumber mill near Crosscut, but it folded up years ago."

"Why'd he want to go there?"

"I'm not sure. He told me he'd explain when he got back."

"Was he going that same day?"

"I'm not sure of that either," said Weber. "He did mention he had some other people to see around Seattle."

"Can you tell us how to get there?" asked Joe.

"I can do better than that." Weber pulled out a yellow legal pad. "I'll draw you a map."

 

***

 

The forest had long since closed in on Frank and Joe. Tall pine trees rose high on both sides of the winding two-lane road. Branches of the towering trees interlocked and the afternoon woodlands were filled with deep shadows, crisscrossed with long slanting beams of sunlight. Broadleaf shrubs grew among the trees and spilled out to the road edge. Overhead a small flock of dusty-gray pigeons fluttered by.

While Frank drove, Joe sat slouched in his seat, hands locked behind his head. "This really is the wilderness," Joe commented. "We haven't seen another car or living soul for over a half hour."

"Yes, there's still a lot of unspoiled land around here," agreed Frank.

"Except that somebody is trying to spoil Selva's timberlands."

"And if it's man-made bacteria they're using, there can be some dangerous side effects," Frank said.

"Such as?"

"It sounds to me like whoever cooked this up rushed it through. That means they're probably using a genetically engineered bacterium that hasn't been tested thoroughly. It may not be stable once it gets out here in the real world. It could mutate—and there's no telling what it could become."

Joe said, "You're thinking it could do more than just damage pine trees?"

"Sure, it could be dangerous to the wildlife— or even people."

"Nice," Joe said. "The trouble is, bacteria don't play fair. You can't see them coming."

The next couple of miles of road were rutted, causing their car to rattle and bounce.

Frank said, "Looks like a spot of civilization up ahead."

Joe unfolded the handmade map Curly Weber had given them. "This must be Reisberson's Crossing we're approaching," he said. "In any case we're less than fifteen miles from Crosscut."

"This isn't much of a town, is it?" Frank said, glancing around. "But Curly did say it was mostly for fishermen and hunters."

There were about a dozen buildings on each side of the roadway. Among them were a gas station, a cafe named Jerry's, a ramshackle inn whose sign had long since fallen off, and a general store.

They quickly drove through the town, and soon the road grew more twisty and bumpy. About a mile of it wasn't paved, and their wheels kicked up swirling clouds of dust.

Joe coughed. "We'll probably spot Crosscut just around the next bend in the — What's that?"

As they touched paved road again, Frank hit the brakes. Some ten yards ahead a rusty green pickup was parked across the road. The truck and two weathered sawhorses made a roadblock.

A tall, wide-shouldered man in faded jeans and a red plaid jacket came around from behind the truck and started ambling toward the Hardys' halted auto.

·Another man, thin, pale, and hunched over, appeared and moved over to lean against the dented door of the pickup. He cradled a shotgun in his arms.

The man in the plaid mackinaw stopped five feet short of their car. He spit on the road, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

Taking another step, he said, "I suggest you boys turn that car around — right quick."

Chapter 9

FRANK STEPPED OUT of the car. "What's the trouble?"

The big man scratched at the grizzled stubble on his chin. "Won't be any trouble at all, son," he said cheerfully. "You just turn around and head back the way you came."

Joe opened the passenger door to join his brother. "If we do that, we can't get to Crosscut," he said. "And that's where we're heading."

"Maybe I ought to introduce myself." The man patted his left-hand trouser pocket, then the right. "I'm Sheriff Harry S. Yates." He fished out a silver star with two of its points bent and held it out to them. "Fellow over by the truck is my deputy."

"It's important we get to Crosscut, Sheriff," Frank told the lawman.

"Why?"

"We're looking for someone."

"Who?" Yates's eyes narrowed.

"Our father."

Sheriff Yates paused to spit again. "He live in town, does he?"

"No, but we think — "

Yates cut him off. "There aren't any strangers in Crosscut just now, boys. Not a one."

"You won't allow us to visit your town?" Frank couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"That's about the size of it," answered the sheriff. "Not allowing anybody in."

Joe said, "I'm no expert on Washington state law, but I don't think this is legal, Sheriff."

"Well, now, son, there's state law and then there's Harry S. Yates's law," explained the sheriff patiently. "I really wouldn't advise you to mess with Yates's law at all. Get back in your car, turn around, and head on out of here."

"How long has this roadblock been up?" asked Frank.

"Not all that long."

"And how long will it be here?"

"Now, that's hard to tell. For a while, anyway," answered Sheriff Yates. "I wouldn't think it would be practical to wait around."

"What exactly is wrong?" Frank pressed.

"Afraid I can't answer you on that."

"Are you saying," said Joe, "that we can't even drive through your town, even if we don't stop?"

"There's nothing much beyond town. The road sort of ends there," said the sheriff, dropping his badge back into his pocket. "If you're looking for another route, I advise you to drive back to the last town and take Route Thirty."

"That's okay, Sheriff," said Frank. "Let's go, Joe. We might as well do what the — "

The blast of a shotgun cut him off.

Yates whirled around, yanking a .38 revolver from his waistband. "Carl, what's gotten into you?"

The thin, pale deputy had fallen to the ground, setting the gun off when he hit. He was on his knees now, looking a bit dazed. "I'm kind of dizzy, Harry," he muttered. "Must've fainted for a second there."

"What did you say?"

"Got dizzy and took a fall," said the deputy in a somewhat louder voice. His pale face was dotted with perspiration. "I told you before we took over this shift - I wasn't feeling right. You should've got Johnny Norment to fill in."

"Johnny's not feeling all that good himself. You just sit there until the dizziness passes." The sheriff put his gun away and turned his attention to the Hardys again. "We've had a lot of flu going around. Two of my deputies got it."

BOOK: Disaster for Hire
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