Farming Fear (5 page)

“It wouldn’t surprise me after the trouble we had with him and his father in the woods,” Iola added.

“What trouble was that?” Mr. Morton asked.

The teens explained about the gunshots in the woods and their confrontation with the Costellos.

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Grandpa asked, going a little red in the face.

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Iola replied.

“And I certainly am worried,” Grandpa said, shaking his head. “Kidnapping a dog seems low, even for Costello, but shooting is worse,” he added. “We better call the police.”

Before the police were called, the Hardys checked
around for clues about the dog’s whereabouts, but their trudging around the doghouse had wiped out any tracks they might have found.

The Mortons called Bill Backstrom, who had gone home early in anticipation of the storm, and he hadn’t seen Bernie all afternoon. They called some of the other neighbors, including J. J. Zuis and the Costellos, to make sure Bernie hadn’t just wandered off. None of the neighbors had seen the big sheepdog. The Mortons finally decided to call the police.

An hour and a half later a Bayport PD patrol car pulled up the long driveway of the Morton farm. Two officers, a young woman and an older man, walked up the drift-covered path to the front door. The Morton grandparents let them inside and invited them into the kitchen for coffee.

The Hardys had met one of the cops before. He was an old, gruff patrolman named Gus Sullivan. The young blond officer wore a name tag that read
JULIE SCOTT
. Sullivan and Scott seated themselves at the kitchen table and listened to the Mortons’ story while sipping coffee.

“The roads are in bad shape,” Officer Sullivan explained. “We’ve been taking car-wreck calls most of the afternoon. A truck jackknifed into a telephone pole out on Highway Eleven.”

Frank and Joe glanced warily at each other. Clearly Sullivan didn’t seem happy to have come all this way for a missing dog.

“You’re sure the dog didn’t just wander off?” Officer Scott asked.

“Look at this note,” Grandma said, handing them the paper they’d found in the doghouse.

The police examined the note, glanced at each other, and nodded. “Do you know this note wasn’t there before?” Officer Sullivan asked. “It could have been left by one of those animal rights people. They don’t like to see dogs chained up outside when it’s cold. Some people think they know how to handle farm animals better than the farmers themselves.”

“There have been notes like that left in rural Bayport before,” Officer Scott agreed, “just to warn dog owners about what these activists perceive as a problem.”

“You’ll let us know if there’s a ransom demand,” Sullivan said.

“You don’t think this counts as a threat?” Chet asked, incredulous.

Officer Scott shrugged. “It could just be a stunt. Farm kids have strange senses of humor, sometimes. But neither an activist nor a kid would want to keep the dog. I expect he’ll be back in the next day or two, if he doesn’t wander back on his own sooner. These pranks never last very long.”

“If it is a prank, it’s not very funny,” Iola commented.

“Now look here, Officers,” Grandma said. “I know this may not be much to police officers like
you, but Bernie is part of our family. He’s also a purebred English sheepdog—worth quite a bit, even without his papers.”

“We don’t have any reports of other dogs going missing—purebred or otherwise,” Officer Scott replied, “but we’ll surely check into it. I’ve had a few dogs myself and I know what it’s like to lose one.”

“It may take a while,” Sullivan added, “with all the trouble this storm is brewing up.”

“We’ll appreciate whatever you can do,” Grandma said.

The officers thanked them for the coffee and then returned to their patrol car.

“Do you think they’ll actually
do
anything?” Chet asked the Hardys as the police car drove away.

“Hard to say,” Frank replied. “This storm may keep them pretty busy.”

“Even with the storm,” Iola said, “I don’t feel right just sitting here while Bernie’s missing.”

“We could take another look around,” Joe suggested. “It’ll be getting dark soon, but maybe we can turn up something before nightfall.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Frank agreed.

“You just be careful out there,” Grandma called from the kitchen. “We don’t want any missing children in addition to the missing dog.”

The brothers and the Morton teens bundled up again and headed out into the storm. They grabbed some flashlights, in case their exploration took
longer than they expected. A north wind howled around the farm, blowing dancing clouds of flakes into the air and whistling through the cracks in the old barn.

‘We’ll circle around the house and barn,” Frank said, “and see if we spot anything unusual.”

The others nodded, and all four of them trudged around the house, looking for signs of Bernie or anything unusual. In the pasture on the west side of the barn, not too far from the driveway, they found a long, straight track in the snow.

“Snowmobile?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded.

“I don’t remember anyone visiting on a snowmobile today,” Chet said.

“And I don’t remember hearing one, either,” Iola added.

“We might not hear them in this wind,” Joe commented, “but the tracks don’t look very fresh. See how the drifting snow has already filled in the tread marks?”

“Whoever rode through here must have come while we were in the woods and the Mortons were away,” Frank deduced.

“That seems a reasonable conclusion,” said Joe. “And if that’s true, whoever drove this snowmobile might have something to do with Bernie’s disappearance.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Remember that metal
grommet we found earlier? Maybe it was from some
snowmobile
gear—not motorcycle gear.”

“That makes sense,” Joe said. He and the others gazed at the trail leading away from the barn.

The tracks led through the pastures to the east. The friends couldn’t tell how far they went because the snowfall limited their vision.

“Let’s follow the tracks,” Joe said.

“It’d take a while on foot, and the snow is piling up pretty quick,” Frank noted. “Iola, do you think the horses would be up to another ride?”

She shook her head. “Not in this weather,” Iola replied. “They’re probably still tired from our ride earlier.”

Chet smiled. “We don’t need horses,” he said. “We’ve got something better.”

He led the others to the barn, opened the doors, and pulled the tarp off the old car chassis. “The buggy will let us follow those tracks quicker than we could on horseback.”

“Great idea,” Frank said, “if you think it’s up to running in this snow.”

“It’ll be a blast,” Chet replied. “Though it might get a bit chilly—since the buggy doesn’t have any windows, or doors, or a body, or side panels, or . . .”

“It wouldn’t be any worse than a snowmobile,” Iola countered. ‘We’re dressed for cold weather. Let’s do it.”

Chet fetched the keys from a peg on the barn wall.
He took the wheel while Frank took the passenger seat beside him. Joe and Iola sat on the bench seat in back, and they all buckled their seat belts.

“Atomic batteries to power; turbines to speed,” Chet joked as he turned the key. Almost immediately, the old VW engine behind them sputtered to life.

They pulled out of the barn into the driveway, stopping only long enough to close the barn doors behind them. They went east to the spot where they’d found the snowmobile tracks, then barreled off through the pasture in hot pursuit.

All four teens held on tight as the buggy bounced and jostled over the snowy terrain. Snow blew hard into their faces, and finding exactly where they were going was tricky. Twice Chet barely turned in time to avoid some small farm ponds that appeared suddenly in their way.

“Whoever was on that snowmobile knew the terrain pretty well,” Joe said. “They avoided those ponds too.”

“Lucky for them,” Chet noted. “It hasn’t been cold long enough for a really good freeze. The ice on some of the larger ponds might not support a snowmobile yet.”

“Or the buggy,” Iola noted, “so you better watch where you’re going, Chet.”

“Will do, commander,” Chet replied jovially.

They followed the tracks east, into the tall stand of pines that jutted down from the forest on the
north. The trail became less distinct under the trees, but the evergreen branches sheltered the riders from the snow as well, making it easier to see.

“Chances are, the dognapper followed the old road here,” Chet said as the tracks petered out under drifting snow. A wide trail kept going east ahead of them. “Cutting through the trees would be pretty dangerous.”

“Like a high-speed slalom,” Joe said. “A fun ride, but deadly if you make a wrong turn.”

“Where does the road go?” Frank asked.

“It splits up ahead,” Chet replied. “One branch goes down to the hill by the old factory; the other heads up to the power lines.”

“Near the Costello property,” Iola added.

When they got to the fork a few minutes later, they stopped to check for signs.

“It looks like snowmobiles have been down
both
of these trails recently,” Joe said.

“That makes sense,” Iola replied. “This part of the farm is on a registered snowmobile trail. Our grandparents gave the local association permission to use it.”

“Snowmobilers usually show up the minute the ground is covered in powder,” Chet said. “They don’t want to miss a minute of riding after waiting through the summer for the first snowfall.”

“Unfortunately,” Frank said, “that just makes our job harder. Which way should we go?”

“The factory hill is closer than the power lines,” Chet said.

“Let’s check it first, then,” Joe suggested. “We can always backtrack if we need to.”

“Assuming the snow doesn’t get any worse,” Iola said.

They turned to the right, heading toward the slope on the eastern edge of the Morton property.

The big pine trees flew by, and a few minutes later they broke out of the forest into the open once more. Chet skidded the buggy to a quick halt.

Ahead of them, the ground dropped off in a steep hill. The slope flattened out about thirty yards down and then stretched toward an old factory about a quarter mile away.

“If we take the buggy down there,” Chet said, “we’ll have to cut over to the main road to get back to the farm. No way we’ll make it up the slope again—not in this weather.”

“I don’t see any snowmobile tracks here,” Frank said, pointing to the decline in front of them.

“Let’s check along the ridge,” Joe suggested.

“We’ll have to do it on foot,” Iola said. “There’s not enough room between the forest and the drop off to maneuver the buggy.”

“Plenty of room for a snow mobile, though,” Frank noted. “Let’s get going. If we don’t find anything, we’ll take the trail back toward the power lines.”

Chet and Iola went south, while Frank and Joe went north. They moved quickly but deliberately through the shin-high snow.

“See anything?” Chet called to the brothers. The two groups were about fifty yards apart now, with the buggy idling in between, near the trail.

“There are definitely some snowmobile tracks this way,” Frank called back. “What about you?”

“This way, too,” Iola replied. “They’re running along the edge of the woods, though, not down the slope.”

“The dognapper could have gone either way, then,” Joe concluded, “if these are even his tracks at all. Maybe he didn’t even go
down
the slope.”

“He’d have to,” Chet said. “There’s no safe way back into the forest. Though they could have followed the ridge line all the way south to the road.”

Ahead of the brothers, the trees grew progressively nearer to the slope’s edge. A snowmobile couldn’t go much farther in that direction.

“Wait a minute!” Frank said, peering through the blowing powder. “It looks like someone cut downs-lope up ahead.”

He and Joe quickly hiked toward the track the elder Hardy had spotted. A small jut of land stuck out right where the slope met the forest. The snowmobile tracks dipped over the edge of the prominence and vanished down the hill.

The brothers stopped at the edge and peered into the snow.

“Do you think we can climb down?” Joe asked.

Frank frowned. “It’s getting back up that’s probably the problem, but if Chet has some rope in the buggy, it’s worth a shot.”

Joe turned back the way they’d come and cupped his gloved hands to call to their friends. As he did, the snow beneath his feet gave way.

“Joe!” Frank gasped. He stuck out his hand to grab his brother, but it was too late. Suddenly the snow beneath Frank gave way too, and both Hardys plunged down the precipice.

“Joe! Frank!” Iola cried.

She and Chet raced to where the Hardys had disappeared over the edge of the slope, being careful not to fall themselves.

“Frank! Joe! Are you all right?” Chet called.

The Hardys couldn’t hear them.

Snow and dirt cascaded all around Frank and Joe. Chilly white powder filled the air, stinging their faces and making it hard to breathe. The Hardys tumbled head over heels, spinning and twisting, unable to resist the avalanche.

“Try to surf it out!” Frank called to his brother. He pumped his arms like a swimmer, attempting to scramble atop the mess.

“Okay, I . . .
ugh!
” Joe yelped as a loose stone struck his calf. The snowslide spun him around, and he disappeared in a cloud of white spray.

“Joe! Joe! Are you—”

Snow smothered Frank’s cry. Icy powder rumbled over his face, blinding him and filling his mouth. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tell up from down. Pieces of ice and rock pelted his body. Fortunately his heavy winter clothes blunted the impact.

He fought to reach the surface of the slide. If he got completely buried, Frank knew his chances of living were slim.

The avalanche slowed. Frank kicked up hard, pushing with his arms. The blizzard of rocks and powder fell away from his face, and he gasped fresh air once more.

“Frank! Frank!” Joe called from nearby.