Into Thin Air Read online

  All true. Cal Nevins, the gruff ride operator and childhood friend of Hector’s, had disappeared as soon as we made it clear that we had reason to suspect him. And both Luke and Kelly said it was Cal who’d cared for them in the wake of their “disappearances”—until he disappeared himself.

  I let out a slow sigh. I hate, hate, hate catching the wrong guy.

  But had we done it this time?

  Greg looked from Frank to me, seeming to read the uncertainty in our faces. “I’d also like you to think about why we contacted you today,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. Was he serious? “To get out of jail?” I asked sarcastically. “Yes, I wonder why you’re saying you’re innocent? How unusual!”

  Greg didn’t have any visible reaction. “We only get out of jail if you catch the real criminal,” he said. “We understand the criminal justice system well enough to know that. So there’s no benefit to us in contacting you unless we’re really innocent.”

  I was still trying to wrap my mind around that when Derek spoke again. This time his voice was hoarse and serious.

  “That young girl, Daisy, disappeared last night,” he said.

  Frank nodded. “She disappeared on the ride, just like Luke and Kelly.”

  Derek’s eyes widened. “But we are in here,” he pointed out. “Don’t you see? Whoever’s behind these disappearances is still out there. While we rot away with the drug dealers and scum of the earth, the true criminal is running loose, causing real harm.”

  Frank shook his head. “But Daisy’s disappearance is different,” he said. “She was never in the little crawlspace under the ride. It sounds like this is a different crime, for a different criminal.”

  “Or is it a different crime from the same criminal?” Greg asked, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s not a different person—maybe it’s the same person, now moved into a different phase of whatever terrible thing he has planned.”

  A chill went down my spine when he said that. A different phase of whatever terrible thing . . . There was no denying that a person who’d faked Kelly’s and Luke’s disappearances as some kind of prologue to Daisy’s real disappearance—and whatever else he had planned—was a lot more sinister, and scarier, than some bozo committing a copycat crime for attention.

  I considered this for a moment before meeting Greg’s eyes.

  “We behaved inappropriately,” he said. “We realize that now. We took advantage of the disappearances. We were callous and cruel. We tried to use a real crime to gain publicity for our creation.” He stopped and leaned closer to me. “But she could get hurt,” he said. “It’s crucial that you understand the ugly truth of this crime. It isn’t a copycat crime. I fear it’s something far darker.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

  I glanced at Frank. He was staring at the table, deep inside his own mind. I knew he, too, was turning what the Piperatos had told us over and over, trying to make sense of it.

  “We understand,” I said.

  • • •

  I wondered where Daisy was as we walked out of the jail into the startlingly bright midafternoon sunlight. I wondered so hard my head hurt and I couldn’t focus on anything else. It’s such a waste, I remember thinking. I can put so much thought and brainpower into trying to save her, and still not save her. I can wish myself into knots hoping that she’s safe, and she might not be safe.

  The Piperatos’ message hadn’t made me feel any better, or any closer to finding the person who’d taken Daisy. Instead it made the world feel much bigger and darker, and much harder to understand, than it had just moments before we’d stepped into the jail.

  Frank and I do what we do because we want, in an unsentimental way, to make the world a better place.

  But what if we hadn’t this time?

  What if we’d made it worse?

  “I believe them,” Frank said, suddenly stopping dead a few yards away from our car. I could tell he’d been thinking this over since we’d left the visitation room.

  “I think I believe them too,” I said, sighing.

  Frank nodded. We kept walking to the car, both still lost in thought, and Frank unlocked the doors and started to climb in just as I pulled my door open and saw something that sent raw terror blooming through my gut.

  “Frank!” I screamed. “Stop! Get back!”

  In the driver’s seat, coiled like a snail’s shell, but with a hissing, toothy head protruding, was a live rattlesnake.

  JUNGLE FUN!

  5

  FRANK

  I DIDN’T THINK I COULD get any more shaken up after hearing what the Piperato Brothers had to say about Daisy’s disappearance.

  But it’s funny how finding a live rattlesnake in your car really wakes you up and forces you into action.

  “HOLY . . . ,” I managed, staring at the slithering, hissing beast that coiled precisely where I’d been about to slide my butt just seconds ago.

  “Close the door, Frank!” Joe yelled from the passenger side. “Close it!”

  He was right. Of course he was right. I slammed the door on the reptile invader and backed away.

  “Look!” Joe said. He was pointing at the windshield, where a small white note fluttered, pinned facedown by the left wiper. It took me a minute to be brave enough to approach the car again, but I reminded myself that the snake was inside, the note was outside. I grabbed the tiny paper and backed away again.

  “What does it say?” Joe asked, running around the car to join me on the driver’s side.

  I looked down, then held it up so he could read:

  I TOLD YOU TO STOP LOOKING.

  Joe stared at the note, then stepped back and shook his head. “Well. Awesome.”

  • • •

  A few hours later we were back at the Bayport PD, having spent a couple of hours dealing with the cops, then animal control. Our slithery friend had been taken into custody and examined, while animal control officers searched missing animal reports. It turned out that our unwelcome visitor was none other than Poky, an elderly rattlesnake that lived at Funspot’s long-running Jungle Fun! exhibit. According to his handlers, Poky was a really super-nice rattlesnake who was enjoying living out his golden years on a steady diet of mice and occasional cuddling. He wasn’t super interested in biting people.

  I still did not like him. And I really did not like whoever had stuck him in my car.

  Officer Fernandez led us through reception and into Chief Olaf’s office, which was empty. I looked at Joe and sighed. When Fernandez responded to our call, he’d been reluctant to let us go after making our initial report, claiming that there were some “things we need to discuss” back at the station. Apparently these things needed to be discussed with the chief. This day was just getting better and better.

  Fernandez told us to sit and then said he’d go get the chief. A couple of minutes later Chief Olaf came back alone. He closed the door and walked over behind his desk, looking at the two of us with a serious expression.

  “Boys,” he said. “I take it you survived the rattlesnake attack?”

  I tried to smile. “It turns out Poky isn’t much of an attacker.”

  The chief nodded. “Nevertheless,” he said. “I was told that there was also a threatening note, the text of which was . . .” He paused and pulled a piece of lined paper out of his pocket. “ ‘I told you to stop looking.’ ”

  He looked from the paper to us.

  I looked at Joe.

  I wasn’t really sure what to say.

  Chief Olaf let out a long, slow sigh. “Boys, it sounds like you two might be doing some investigating. And someone is clearly aware of that fact and has started threatening you.”

  Joe cleared his throat and sat up. “We’ve had our eyes and ears open, sure,” he said. “But we’ve been careful so far.”

  The chief nodded and looked from Joe to me. His frank stare was a little unnerving. He sighed again. “Even so, for your own safety, I’m going to ask you to suspend your investigation.”
<
br />   But there are just some things Hardys can’t do. For us, not sleuthing was like not living.

  Especially in this case . . .

  Joe looked upset. He squirmed in his chair and then said, “Chief?”

  Olaf looked at him patiently. “Yes, Joe?”

  Joe sighed, clearly frustrated. “It’s just . . . we really care about Daisy. And we really want to try to find her. Isn’t that, maybe, sort of understandable?”

  I looked at the chief, curious how he would react. He touched his temples and looked down.

  “I could understand that,” he said, looking up to meet Joe’s eyes. “But boys, I need you to listen to me. You’re being threatened. We know that things aren’t always perfect in this town. You need to leave this case to the professionals—for your own good.”

  Joe frowned. He seemed to listen to the chief, but he clearly didn’t like it. “But—” he said, squirming again.

  “For your own good,” Chief Olaf repeated. He shook his head. “Look, you boys were lucky this time. But I don’t want to have to explain to your parents why you were attacked by rabid dogs or pushed off a cliff! Are we clear?”

  Joe sighed. I caught his eye, and subtly nodded.

  “We’re clear,” Joe said, obviously not happy about it.

  “We’re clear,” I echoed.

  Olaf nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now, I believe Officer Fernandez has some paperwork for you to sign regarding the rattlesnake. After that, I’ve been told your car has been examined and deemed safe, so you can head home.”

  We stood and followed the chief out of his office and down the hall toward Fernandez’s desk, near the reception area. The officer looked from Olaf to us and nodded. “Boys,” he said, pulling a manila folder off his desk. “I just need your John Hancock on a few forms, and you’re free to go.”

  Olaf gave us a quick wave and disappeared back toward his office. Joe and I sat at Fernandez’s desk and quickly started passing the forms back and forth. I didn’t know about Joe, but I was ready to be home. I hoped Aunt Trudy had worked up some kind of super-comforting comfort food for dinner.

  Fernandez watched us sign. “So,” he said in a low voice, too low to be heard by anyone else in the office, “you boys been checking out the Funspot case?”

  I looked at Joe, wondering if we should share any information with Fernandez. And I had no idea why he was asking.

  Joe met my eye and furrowed his brow. “We might have heard some things,” he said noncommittally, signing away.

  “Hmm,” Fernandez said, looking around, then back to his computer. We signed a few more forms before he spoke again. “You find out anything?” he whispered.

  Joe stopped signing and looked at me. I had no idea what to say. Should we—

  “Stop it! You’re hurting me! I said I can walk myself!”

  I started at the familiar voice. Could it be?

  “I want to talk to my lawyer! I know my rights!”

  I looked up at the door. Two big, burly officers were struggling to lead in a cuffed—and angry—Hector Rodriguez!

  Joe had looked up now and his mouth dropped open, the pen falling from his hand to Fernandez’s desk. “Is that . . . ?”

  Fernandez looked up and grinned. “Yup. That’s your buddy Hector Rodriguez.”

  Joe ducked a little, and I followed suit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want Hector to know we were witnessing this.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  The officer sniffed. “He’s innocent until proven guilty,” he said, glancing at his computer and clicking around. “But it says here he was brought in on an assault charge. Guy says he showed up at his door and attacked him.”

  “Who was the guy?” Joe asked.

  Fernandez clicked again. “Some guy named Douglas Spencer.”

  CRIES FOR HELP

  6

  JOE

  AND WE’RE BACK AT DOUG Spencer,” Frank said as we pulled into our driveway. The lights were on in the kitchen, sending out a comforting yellow glow, and at the sight of them I really couldn’t wait to have a nice hot dinner and then climb into bed. I was exhausted, and I needed a break from all the horrible thoughts that kept swirling about Daisy and what might have happened to her.

  “But we know next to nothing about him,” I pointed out, opening up my door and climbing out of the car. “Except what Penelope said.”

  “Which was what?” Frank asked, looking thoughtful. I couldn’t blame him for forgetting. Lunch seemed like a million years ago.

  “He didn’t want to sell Funspot, and he was giving Daisy creepy looks when he came by the house,” I replied. Side eye, she’d called it. I really had no idea what to make of it, still. Was it a sign that Doug Spencer was dangerous? Or were his looks just innocent curiosity?

  Frank nodded as we walked toward the house.

  “So what do we do?” I asked. I was almost too tired to think about it.

  Frank smiled. “We do what we always do when we have a little bit of a clue, but not enough of a clue to know what to do.”

  When I looked at him wonderingly, he went on, “We do an Internet search.”

  • • •

  “Why would Hector attack Doug?” I asked as we settled down in front of Frank’s computer. Aunt Trudy, God bless her, was downstairs putting the finishing touches on an organic butternut squash lasagna. The smell—sort of sweet, sort of cheesy—was like a warm blanket wrapping me up in homey comfort.

  Frank opened up his Internet browser. “Good question,” he said as his favorite Internet search site came up. “We’ve been thinking about grudges Doug might have against Hector. But why would Hector want to attack Doug?”

  I swallowed. “It had to involve Daisy,” I said. “We know Hector, and he’s not a violent guy. The only reason I can think of that Hector would try to hurt someone is to defend his child.”

  Frank frowned, looking pensive. “Hector does have a criminal record, remember,” he said. “He may not be a violent guy, but he wasn’t exactly a choirboy in his youth. Remember how he had a few run-ins with the law?”

  I sighed. “He seemed so eager to leave that behind, though.” I shook my head. “I think it’s Daisy. I feel like Hector must have had some reason to suspect Doug of having something to do with her disappearance.”

  Frank clicked on the search box and typed in “Doug Spencer, Bayport.” “Let’s see,” he said, and clicked on the search button.

  • • •

  It took hours to wade through all the results. First we had to sort out the hits that referred to our Doug Spencer—the former owner of Funspot—and not Doug Spencer, the World War II veteran, or Doug Spencer, the young hermit crab enthusiast. Then we broke for dinner. Then we came back to filter out the ones that had bad, or irrelevant, or repetitive information.

  Most of what we found had to do with Funspot. Doug Spencer had owned the park for almost thirty years. There were tons of photos and nostalgia sites for the Funspot of our youth, the well-kept, cute amusement park that I could remember our parents taking Frank and me to visit. But one link led Frank to an interesting discovery.

  “ ‘Douglas Spencer, 45 Lincoln Road, Bayport,’ ” he read. “And here’s his phone number.”

  I nodded. “Seems worth a ride over there,” I suggested, even though I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

  “But wait—look,” said Frank, jumping back to the search results and scrolling down to a different one. It was the website for the local Kiwanis Club, a public service club that met once a month. Doug Spencer was listed as an active member.

  “Look at the meeting time,” Frank whispered, pointing.

  It was the second Saturday of every month—which would be tomorrow.

  “If we wait till tomorrow morning, we can check out his house when he’s not home,” I said.

  Frank nodded. “I think that’s the way to go,” he replied. “Though I guess you could argue, if he really is keeping Daisy in his closet, he might not show
up for the Kiwanis meeting.”

  I shivered. I knew Frank was kidding, but I hated to think of Daisy being kept in a closet.

  My brother glanced at me, and his brow furrowed with sympathy. “Sorry, Joe. Look, let’s both get some sleep. We need it. Then we’ll leave the house tomorrow by eight thirty. Sound good?”

  I nodded. “It’s a plan,” I said, dragging myself off the edge of Frank’s bed and shuffling toward my room. “G’night.”

  “Night,” Frank called after me. Once I was in the hall, he added, “Joe?”

  “Yeah?”

  His voice took on a tone of certainty. “We’ll find her,” he said.

  I gulped. I wanted to believe my brother, but I just wasn’t sure. “See you in the morning.”

  • • •

  I thought I’d be too keyed up to sleep again, but I guess my body knew better: Within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I fell into a deep sleep. I awoke with the sun streaming through my window and a puddle of drool on my pillow. I slowly rose up, stretched, and looked around. I couldn’t remember dreaming at all—for which I was grateful.

  I checked my phone: seven thirty. Just enough time to shower, throw on clothes, and wolf down some of Aunt Trudy’s steel-cut oatmeal before we ran out the door. I grabbed some jeans and a T-shirt and stumbled into the hall. Frank’s bedroom door was open, so I poked my head in.

  “Hey,” I called. My brother was sitting at his computer, peering at the screen, fully dressed. I wondered how long he’d been up.

  “Hey,” he replied, turning around. “It looks like Doug Spencer doesn’t live luxuriously.” He pointed to the screen, where his map website showed an image of 45 Lincoln Road. I stepped inside to take a closer look.

  The house was small, with white-painted clapboard that was flaking off in places, and a roof that seemed to sink in. The yard was small but tidy. In the background I could see the house behind, which was in worse condition, junk littering the yard.

  “Strange,” I murmured. “I know Hector paid less than Doug wanted for Funspot, but it should have been enough for Doug to buy a nice house, at least.”