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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: Disaster for Hire
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"Is that why your town is quarantined?" asked Frank.

Sheriff Yates straightened up, his face going hard. "Crosscut isn't quarantined. We're just not taking any visitors for a few days." He pointed to the Hardys' car. "You go on about your business now, boys. I've got to look after Carl."

Nodding, Frank climbed back into the car. Joe joined him.

As Frank turned on the engine, he quietly said, "I don't like this, Joe. There's man-made bacteria loose in the forest, and now people are getting sick." Frank shook his head. "I don't like this at all." His face was grim as he backed the car away.

An old man moved back and forth in an ancient rocking chair on what passed for a porch in front of the ramshackle inn in Reisberson's Crossing.

"Matter of fact, I happen to be the last of the Reisbersons." He grinned at Joe and Frank, showing off a few teeth in his long, white beard. "This whole town was founded by my people. Chiefly and mostly by my granddad, Lucien S. Reisberson, and his ne'er-do-well cousin, Shifty Reisberson. His real name was Elroy, but because of his way of flimflamming, the citizens of Reisberson's Crossing took to calling him — "

"Mr. Reisberson," cut in Joe, "they told us at the general store that we could rent a room here."

"That'd be Mort Gustavson, runs the store." Reisberson tugged at his beard. "His father was named Mort Gustavson too. Except he was a taller man and had a mole on his — "

"Can we rent a room?"

"Well, certainly. That's what the sign says, doesn't it? Oh, that's right. Sign fell down during the big blizzard back . . . Let's see, it was the year Herb Green went into the service. That must've been, oh, about nineteen forty-two. No, I take that back. It was forty-three. Certainly, because I recall I was sitting over at Jerry Marcus's cafe and Herb came strolling in wearing his brand-new sailor suit."

"How about those rooms?" Frank asked desperately.

"I've got some," Reisberson said. "Whether you'll get one depends on the color of your money."

Frank got his wallet out.

"You don't seem to have any fishing gear," commented Reisberson as he took the bill Frank handed him.

"Actually, we just want to rest up and then head on east tomorrow."

Joe said, "We thought we could drive through Crosscut, but there's some kind of roadblock."

Very slowly and carefully the old man folded up the bill. When it was the size of a very fat postage stamp, he dropped it into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. "Something funny's going on in Crosscut," he said.

"Any idea what it is?" asked Frank.

Reisberson rocked back and forth twice before replying. "Sickness is what I hear," he said. "More than half the town got laid up with it. Furthermore, three of them have died."

Frank leaned forward. "What have they got?"

"It's some new kind of influenza, very serious kind. Those it doesn't usually kill, it treats mighty rough."

Frank asked, "What room shall we take, sir?"

"I've got four empty right at the moment. Go on in and pick a key off the rack in back of the desk," Reisberson told them. "Maybe you better not take Room Three. That's on account of I'm near to certain a cat crawled under the floorboards in there and died. Better be on the safe side, on account of that cat, and pick a room on the second floor. That'd either be twelve or fourteen. There's no thirteen. I'm not 'specially superstitious myself, but I find a lot of sportsmen are, so I go along with their little quirks."

"We'll take either twelve or fourteen," said Frank, and went inside.

Joe was pacing the small room on the second floor of the inn and the floor creaked with each step. "Not much to do in this town." He paused again to look out the dusty window at the street below. "Except to go exploring Crosscut." Joe went back to his pacing.

"Well, it ought to be dark in a few hours. We'll drive as close as we can to Crosscut, hide the car, and sneak in for a look around."

Joe glanced at Frank. "You think we'll find Dad there?"

"Let's not get our hopes up. Maybe we'll get a lead."

"If what Reisberson was saying is true, the people in Crosscut have been hit pretty hard by this — whatever it is." Joe's fists were clenched as he paced.

"That may be why the sheriff has set up roadblocks," said Frank. "To keep the thing from spreading."

"I think it's more than that, Frank, and so do you. He acted like he didn't want anybody to see what was going on in his town." Joe paused again at the window. "I don't quite get this, though. Crosscut's at least forty miles from the Selva timberlands that have been hit by the blight. If what's happening in Crosscut is some side effect of that, how did the bacteria get from there to here?"

"Could be somebody's using Crosscut as a way station," said Frank. "Or maybe they tried the stuff out in the woods around there first."

Joe shook his head. "I don't like any of this," he said. "Why would a scientist cook up a bug like that?"

"Maybe Professor Bookman could have explained."

Joe frowned. "Maybe he was in on it."

"I doubt it, but that's sure one reason why Jenny Bookman is digging into this," said Frank. "To make certain her father isn't guilty of anything."

Joe wandered over to the door. "There ought to be a place in town where you can get a hamburger," he said. "Want to go look?"

"I'll stay here. There are some things I want to kick around in my head."

"Want me to bring you something?"

"Oh just a soda."

Joe let himself out, went downstairs and out into the main street of Reisberson's Crossing.

Jerry's Cafe across the way seemed a likely place to try. The building was narrow, of peach-colored stucco. The name JERRY had once, long ago, been painted on the streaked glass door in gold letters. But time had faded and flaked them.

Joe was still standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of the inn when the cafe' door swung open, causing a bell to tinkle inside.

A lean dark-haired man, dressed all in black, came out into the late afternoon. He was carrying two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

That's him, Joe realized. The guy I chased at the biotech lab.

The dark-clad man walked to the corner, then headed down an alley that ran between the general store and a tackle shop.

There wasn't time to go back upstairs to alert Frank.

Joe crossed the street.

"He may know where Dad is," Joe said to himself. "I'll come back for Frank after I follow him."

He slowed down as he neared the mouth of the narrow alley. Inside Jerry's Cafe, a jukebox started to play a sad country and western song.

Risking a look into the alley, Joe didn't see any trace of his man. But at the end of the alley, about two hundred feet away, was a high board fence. The gate in it hung open a few inches.

Joe started down the alley. Too late he became aware of the scrape of a shoe on gravel. As he turned, someone struck him hard, across the temple.

Unconscious, Joe never felt the ground when he hit it.

Chapter 10

FRANK WAITED HALF AN HOUR for his soda, then decided to go out and find Joe.

Old Mr. Reisberson was still on the porch, gently rocking to and fro. He spat out his toothpick. "Decided to look over the sights, have you?"

"Have you seen my brother?"

"Oh, is that other young man your brother? I never would have guessed," said the bearded innkeeper. "You don't look much alike. It was the same with the Wepman twins. One was tall, the other short. One had a mustache, the other — "

"Did you see him come out?" Frank cut in.

"About what time would that've been?"

"Thirty minutes or so ago."

"Now, thirty minutes or so ago I was just finishing a piece of peach cobbler over at the cafe. Then I dropped in at the general store to look at the magazines. I do that each and every day unless it's raining, in which case I — "

"Was he in the cafe?"

"Not so I noticed, nor in the general store either," said Reisberson. "There was a young fellow — not as young as your brother though — in Jerry's Cafe. Had long black hair." He shook his head. "Not very friendly. I couldn't for the life of me get a conversation going. Even though I'm sure he's been through here before and isn't exactly a — "

"Was he thin, wearing black?" Frank began to have a bad feeling.

Reisberson nodded, pleased. "Dressed in black from head to toe. Friend of yours, is he?"

"Not exactly." Frank cut across the street at a run and went into the cafe.

It was narrow, with three dark brown booths and a five-stool counter. A blond man was sitting behind the counter, reading a travel magazine.

"Faraway places," he said, steepling the magazine on the counter. "That's where I'd like to be. What can I do for you? The special today is barley soup. I know it doesn't sound all that special, but this has been one of those days."

"Actually, I'm looking for my brother." Frank described Joe. "Have you see him in here?"

The counterman shook his head. "Nobody like that has been in," he answered. "Been a slow day so far. Sure you don't want anything?"

"Not right now. There was another man in here—thin, dark hair worn long?"

"Yeah, he was here all right—had a funny voice. Complained about the cream being a little bit sour. You interested in him too?"

"In a way. Do you know where he went?"

"Straight to — Wait a sec." He hunched, glancing at the streaked door. "I think I did see this brother of yours. Blond, husky kid, you say?"

"That's him, yes. Where did he go?"

"Just after that grouch went out, I happened to be looking out the window. I noticed your brother coming across the street."

"Do you have any idea where he went?"

The counterman pointed with his left hand. "Same direction as the other fellow, toward Mae-der's General Store," he said. "Care for a piece of pie?"

"Maybe later. Thanks." Frank hurried out.

He made his way along the street to the general store. There was a sign in the front window saying, "Back in 15 Min."

Shaking his head, he continued on. He hesitated at the mouth of a narrow alley. Better check down here, too, Frank decided.

About halfway to the wooden fence at the alley's end, Frank slowed and then halted.

The gravel was scuffed, as if something or someone had been dragged along the ground.

Crouching slightly, Frank followed the trail. It led him through a gate in the fence. Beyond was a small weedy lot, then a dirt road that led around to the main street.

A body—alive, I hope — was dragged to here, where a car had been parked, Frank thought as he studied the signs in the tall grass. No, bigger than a car. A van, maybe.

Maybe the man in black had grabbed Joe, taken him back here and loaded him in a van. The question was, where had he gone?

Crosscut. It had to be.

A sudden noise straightened Frank up. He took the few steps back to the fence and flattened himself against it just as the gate creaked open. Just before he jumped at the figure stepping through, Frank stopped. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Following you at the moment," came the reply.

It was Jenny Bookman, wearing a denim skirt and a dark cardigan. Her long blond hair was tied back with a twist of scarlet ribbon.

"You followed us all the way from Seattle?"

She shook her head. "I was following Dr. Winter," Jenny explained. "He's behind what's going on—and what happened to my father."

"Is Winter here?"

"No, he drove on into a town called Crosscut. But they had a roadblock and wouldn't let me through," she answered. "I came here to wait until dark. Then I'm going to try to slip into Crosscut through the woods."

"Fine, Jenny," Frank said. "But that doesn't explain one thing. Why were you tailing me?"

"I just got here and spotted your car in front of the inn. As I was talking to the old man on the porch, I saw you come out of the cafe." She paused, spreading her hands wide. "I followed and caught up with you here." She looked around the alley. "So what's going on?"

"I'm hunting for Joe."

"Joe?" Jenny's eyes widened in shock. "Has something happened to him?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm not sure, but it looks like the bad guys have grabbed him," said Frank. "He went out to get something to eat and didn't come back."

"You think they've taken him into Crosscut?" Jenny asked.

"I'm betting they did."

"That's another reason for us to go there."

Frank's eyebrows went up. "Us?"

"Don't you think it makes sense for us to team up, Frank?"

He looked at Jenny thoughtfully. "To be honest, I'm still not sure I can trust you."

"You'll just have to chance it," she said, smiling at him. "I'm the closest thing to an ally you're going to find around here."

After a few seconds Frank grinned. "Okay, we'll join forces." He held out his hand.

She shook it. "I can be a help," she assured him. "You'll see."

 

***

 

Joe slept through most of the rough ride. He awoke to find himself bouncing on the hard metal ridges of a van floor.

His ankles were tightly bound with plastic clothesline, and his hands were tied behind his back. A wrinkled red bandanna served as a gag.

There was nothing back here with him but three empty cardboard boxes, a dirty candy-striped pillow, and a banjo case. When the van bounced, all of that—and Joe—bounced too.

Stupid, Joe thought. I was really stupid to let somebody get the jump on me.

Twisting, Joe managed a look up front. The lean dark-haired man was driving. His husky buddy sat next to him, eating chocolate-coated peanuts.

"I don't want to hear about it anymore, mate," said the black-clad man. He spoke with a slight British accent.

"Okay," said the other one. "Except you could've killed him, hitting him that hard."

"Well, that's what we'll be doing with him anyway, isn't it?"

"Only if the Doc says so, Leon."

Leon snickered. "I really didn't hit our boy detective all that hard, Washburn. So save your tears. Let's drop the whole subject."

"Okay." Washburn ate some more peanuts. "Except the Doc gets mad when you kill somebody and he didn't tell you to. When he gets mad at you, he yells at me too. That's the part I don't much like."

"Enough," said Leon. "Just quit babbling, you great oaf."

"Okay."

Through the small oval back window of the rattling van, Joe glimpsed a patch of sky and forest. Twilight was coming on, the color was fading from the sky, and the trees were growing darker.

The van swayed, jerked, then stopped. "It's just us," yelled Leon out the window. "No need to flash your tin star, Sheriff."

Joe could hear Sheriff Yates's voice. "I've told you fellows before, it'd be a good idea to keep a close watch on how you talk to me."

"I'm shivering in my boots," Leon told him in his thin, nasal voice. "Do you practice that nasty look in the mirror every morning?"

"If I didn't have to put up with you, I'd — All right, I'll move the horses and you can squeeze by," Yates said. "This time see you don't scrape my truck." ·

"Who'd notice one more dent on that wreck?"

After a moment the van lurched forward. There was a twisting, ripping sound.

"You got his fender," said Washburn.

"Did I now, mate? Ain't that a shame."

Joe didn't get much of a look at Crosscut. The van drove through the small, silent town and up a hill at its edge. It climbed a wide gravel driveway and stopped.

"Fetch our CARE package, will you, Washburn?"

"You mean the kid?"

"That's what I mean, mate. Sometimes your brilliance astounds me. Truly it does."

"You don't have to make fun of me all the time."

"I know I don't, but it helps liven up the lonely hours." Leon got out of the parked van. "Now bring him along like a good lad."

Washburn headed for the back of the van, opened the door, and went inside. "Shouldn't have hit you so hard," he said, picking Joe up and carrying him outside. "Doc won't like that either."

"What are you babbling about?"

"Nothing, Leon. Just talking to myself."

"Because if that chap's awake, maybe I ought to give him another little tap on the head."

"Nan, he's still out cold."

Joe chanced a quick peek through slitted eyes.

They were on a low hill. Below, in Crosscut, dim lights shone in the gathering darkness. The house they'd come to was large and old-fashioned, made of wood and decorated with lots of intricate gingerbread wooden trim. A cold wind blew across the grounds from the woods beyond.

Joe felt himself carried up a flight of wooden steps. Then a door grated open.

The old house smelled of dust and furniture polish, but there were newer smells, too — medicinal odors and the scent of strong disinfectant.

Another door creaked open.

"Where should I put him?"

"The floor will do nicely."

Washburn set Joe on a rug. Then they left the room, shut the door, and locked it.

Joe opened his eyes.

There was a Tiffany lamp on a small marble-topped table next to the sofa he was sprawled in front of. Under other circumstances the room might have seemed cozy. There was even a small flame dancing in the stone fireplace.

Joe tried to pull his wrists farther apart, to make it easier for him to work on the knots. But the cord was tied too tightly for that.

Maybe he could use one of the metal clawfoot legs on the table to cut the cord.

Using his elbows, Joe slithered closer to the table. The wind was blowing stronger outside, starting to rattle the shutters.

Joe made it to the table, rolled himself halfway onto his side, and began trying to hook his bound wrists over a projecting piece of metal.

Just then a key rasped in the lock, and the parlor door opened to reveal Dr. Winter. No surprises. His overcoat was wrapped around him, and his curly hair windblown. "Ah, I'm pleased to find you conscious, Mr. Hardy."

Since he was gagged, Joe didn't respond.

The plump doctor knelt on one knee beside Joe. "Let's have a look at you." Using his thumb and forefinger, he pried Joe's eyes wide open. He nodded, murmuring to himself. Next he felt and poked at Joe's head. "You're in fine shape, young man, I'm happy to report." He wiped his chubby fingers together and stood up and away from Joe.

"You see, my boy, I'm almost certain I've found a cure for this unfortunate little plague. But there are certain risks involved in testing it." He nodded, smiling to himself. "I'd hate to have one of the local citizens die, just in case I've miscalculated. Therefore I need a guinea pig, someone whose life isn't all that important."

Winter's smile grew wider. "Someone just like you, as a matter of fact."

BOOK: Disaster for Hire
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