The Chase for the Mystery Twister

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Did you steal the twister tape from Mr. Glover?” Jansen asked.

  “Yes, we did,” Frank admitted. “And we apologize.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Glover sneered.

  “Neither is this,” Frank replied, holding up the video cassette. “It’s a fake.”

  Frank ran the tape on a VCR in the Windstormer control room, pointing out the telltale weather vane that never moved. All eyes fell on Glover.

  “I guess it’s my turn to apologize,” Glover said, bowing his head. “I shouldn’t have accepted the authenticity of the tape so quickly.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t create it yourself?” Diana challenged.

  “No, I did not. It was brought to Glover Laboratories by a man with curly black hair and a mustache,” Glover explained.

  “The mystery man,” Frank said.

  “Not anymore,” San Dimas said. “The lab in Tulsa found strands of blond hair in the black wig.”

  “Kanner had brown hair,” Diana said, shaking her head, disappointed.

  “But Toby Gill was blond!” Frank said, recalling the photo they had seen in his office.

  “This strand of hair wasn’t just blond, it was dyed blond, with brown roots,” San Dimas explained. “I cut Toby Gill’s hair once, and I remember—he had blond hair but brown roots.”

  “So it was Toby Gill who created the fake tape and gave it to Mr. Glover,” Frank deduced.

  “Only he used the name Miller,” Glover told them.

  “Sounds like a man of many faces,” Jansen said.

  “And names,” Frank added. “Miller is the name of the man who swindled Henry Low River.”

  “I’ve dropped all charges against Henry,” San Dimas told Frank. “He’s gone home with his grandson.”

  “Good,” Jansen said. “Maybe now we can get back to the business of chasing tornadoes.”

  “Not yet,” Frank said. “Phil and my brother are missing.”

  The phone in the control room rang. “This could be them now,” Jansen said as he lifted the receiver. “Hello? . . . No, but Frank is.”

  Jansen offered Frank the phone.

  “Is it them?” Frank asked.

  “It’s your father,” Jansen replied.

  Frank slowly put the receiver to his ear. “Dad?”

  Frank listened as Fenton Hardy covered all the facts he had dug up at Joe’s request. “Five years ago Hal Kanner received two hundred twenty thousand dollars in an insurance payment on a collection of Tiffany lamps he lost in a tornado in New Mexico.”

  “New Mexico?” Frank repeated, then covered the phone to tell Jansen. “I think I’ve solved the riddle of the first mystery twister.”

  “The insurance company was Southwest Home and Auto, and the representative handling the case was—”

  “Alvin Bixby?” Frank guessed.

  “On the nose, son,” Fenton said. “We came up empty on the name Todd Allan Miller, but judging by the details of the scams Joe described, my colleague in Dallas said it sounded like a lifetime con man whose real name is Dutch Wise. He changes names like a jockey changes shirts and has been involved in insurance and real estate scams from Missouri to Texas.”

  “Sounds like our man, Dad,” Frank told him.

  “And tell Joe that Tamco is the name of a dummy company in Lone Wolf,” Mr. Hardy added. “In short, it’s a post office box and a bank account.”

  “I would like to tell Joe that,” Frank replied. “But right now we don’t know where Joe is.”

  • • •

  Joe banged his fist on the rear door of the truck, hoping someone might hear him. But the metal door was thick and solid, and Joe figured the highway noise outside would drown out any sound he could make.

  Phil was sitting up, recovering from the blow to the head Kanner had dealt him after sneaking up on him in the cab of the truck. He held a penlight, illuminating the trailer slightly.

  “Sorry, Joe,” Phil said. “Next time maybe you should be the lookout.”

  Joe smiled, covering his concern that there might not be a next time for Phil and him. Joe felt the truck shudder, and the ride got bumpy. “We’re off the main highway, Phil. Maybe even on a dirt road,” Joe reported. “Can you work any Phil Cohen magic on this door?”

  Phil shook his head. “The hydraulic cables run under the truck. Basically, we need a battering ram.”

  Joe looked at the nose and grille of the huge tractor. “Have you ever hot-wired a tractor?” Joe asked.

  “No,” Phil replied with a half-smile. “But I’m willing to try.”

  Joe held the penlight while Phil went to work. Using a number of different tools from the chest, Phil soon had the ignition switch dismantled and rewired.

  “Cross your fingers, Joe,” Phil said as he touched two wires together. With a sputter and a bang, the tractor engine came to life.

  Joe slapped his friend on the back, then hopped into the driver’s seat. Putting the tractor in gear, he gave it full throttle. The nose of the tractor crashed against the heavy rear door with a thundering sound.

  Joe backed up, and Phil moved in to check the progress. “Barely dented it.”

  “I need a running start,” Joe realized. Jumping off the tractor, he and Phil began moving the snowblower, wood chipper, and other cargo to the side.

  Joe backed the tractor up an extra twenty feet, then put it in gear and floored. The nose of the tractor hit the door with such impact, sunlight flashed through a crack in the top before the door bounced back into place.

  “Get it up, Joe!” Phil cheered on his friend.

  Joe rammed the door again and again. On the fifth try, the door gave way slightly.

  “We’ve breached the integrity of the seal!” Phil shouted.

  “What?” Joe asked.

  “We’ve cracked the door open!” Phil clarified.

  Joe saw that he needed to open the crack about another six inches in order for him and Phil to squeeze out.

  Suddenly, the truck came to a stop. Joe feared that at any moment Kanner would be putting another rock on the gas pedal to send the tractor-trailer into the Brafford Quarry.

  Joe backed up the tractor as far as he could, crushing the wood chipper as he backed over it. Giving it the gas one last time, Joe rammed the door with the nose of the tractor, separating it from the frame by several more inches.

  Phil stuck a leg through the opening, then squeezed his body through. “Come on, Joe!” he called, standing on the rear bumper.

  Joe jumped down from the tractor. The truck lurched forward, knocking him off his feet.

  “Hurry!” Phil shouted.

  “Go!” Joe shouted at his friend. Instead, Phil reached back through the opening, helping Joe up.

  The front of the truck dipped violently. Joe squeezed through the crack, but it was too late.

  The back of the truck had cleared the quarry’s edge and was plummeting through space with Phil and Joe clinging to it for dear life!

  14 A Hundred-Foot Drop

  * * *

  Joe watched the sheer cliff of the quarry passing by in a blur. Forcing himself to look down, he saw the surface of the water coming up fast. If they stayed glued to the truck, Joe knew they would be crushed against it when it hit. “Push off!” he yelled to Phil.

  Fighting the G-forces, Phil and Joe pushed away from the truck, landing hard in the water a safe distance away from the twenty-ton vehicle. The impact of the landing stunned him, and he could see a wall of water explode around the truck.

  Joe fought to stay conscious, searching the surface of the water for his friend. Phil was floating facedown about fifteen feet away. Putting Phil’s chin into the crook of his arm, Joe swam toward the side of the quarry, looking for a place to get out.

  The walls of the quarry were sheer rock that rose straight up out of the water. Finding no shore or rock face to climb up onto, Joe hung on to a small jut in the cliff face and floated in the water.

  Phil coughed up a mouthful of wate
r. He was still stunned by the impact, but at least he was conscious.

  “How are you doing, buddy?” Joe said.

  “I’ve been better,” Phil answered, managing a weak smile.

  Scanning the hundred-foot-high rock wall that surrounded them, Joe realized they would never be able to climb out on their own.

  “What’s the plan, amigo?” Phil asked, grabbing on to the same jutting rock as Joe.

  “Think good thoughts,” Joe told his friend. “And hope that we’re rescued.”

  • • •

  “This is an all-points bulletin.” Frank spoke into the CB radio in Diana’s Jeep. “We are still on the lookout for a light blue 1973 pickup truck, being driven by two males in their late teens.”

  “Frank, it’s Greg Glover. Still no luck. I’m going to check out Alvin Bixby’s office.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Glover. Over and out,” Frank replied. He put the CB microphone in its cradle with a sigh. He and Diana had been up and down every street in Lone Wolf but had seen no sign of Joe or Phil.

  “Where would they have gone?” Frank wondered aloud.

  “Do you want to head over to Tulip?” Diana asked.

  “Good idea,” Frank replied. “We can take a look at the Kanner farm on the way.”

  Riding down the highway toward Tulip as the sun began to set, Frank spoke aloud to help him think. “Let’s say I’m Joe. I find out Toby Gill is an impostor. I want to find the impostor. What do I do?”

  Frank’s train of thought was broken when he spotted the Parlette mailbox at the end of the dirt drive leading to their farm. “Pull in here,” Frank told Diana. “Maybe Snowdon knows something.”

  Frank and Diana found Snowdon and his grandfather sitting on the farmhouse porch with Bullet, the hound dog. Snowdon was laughing over a story Mr. Low River was telling him. When Frank approached and explained that Joe was missing, the two men grew serious.

  “I owe Joe big-time,” Low River said. He told Frank about his last conversation with Joe. “When I mentioned how Gill—or, rather, Miller—disappeared behind the truck stop, Joe took off like a rocket.”

  “The truck stop—of course!” Frank shouted. “Come on, Diana.”

  “I know the owner of the Dust Bowl,” Snowdon said. “I’ll call ahead.”

  Frank paced nervously while Snowdon spoke on the phone with his friend at the Dust Bowl.

  “Light blue, uh-huh,” Snowdon said. “It’s there?” Snowdon gave Frank the thumbs-up sign. “Oh, you haven’t?”

  Frank could tell by Snowdon’s tone that something was wrong.

  Snowdon thanked his friend and hung up. “The blue pickup is there,” Snowdon told Frank, “but no one’s seen Phil or your brother since about four-thirty this afternoon.”

  Franked checked his watch. It was nearly 7:00 P.M.

  • • •

  Joe looked up at the cloudy, starless night sky, framed by the dark edges of the Brafford Quarry. Sometime, long ago, Joe thought, slate or granite had been mined there. Over the years the bottom of the quarry had gradually filled with rainwater.

  Joe winced. His attempts to keep his mind off the pain and weakness he felt in his arms were not working. After three hours in the water, he and Phil were waterlogged and as wrinkled as prunes. “Got any more jokes, Phil?”

  “None that I have the strength to tell,” Phil replied.

  Joe heard distant thunder, then another sound. He pricked up his ears. “Listen.”

  The two could hear a distant, mournful howl. “Unless it’s Lassie, I doubt that a dog’s going to be able to save us.”

  “The sound is getting closer,” Joe said. “And it sounds pretty frantic, too.”

  “Slow down, Bullet,” a voice echoed from above.

  “Phil, it’s Bullet!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Who?” Phil asked.

  “Snowdon’s dog!” Joe shouted. “Hello!” he called. “We’re down here!”

  A few minutes later, a flashlight tied to the end of a long rope was lowered to Joe. Joe knew Phil was in worse shape than he was, so he tied the rope around his friend’s waist.

  “Ready!” Joe shouted. “Pull him up!”

  Joe watched as Phil ascended, rappelling like a mountain climber off the edge of the quarry as he was pulled up and out of sight.

  Finally, the rope reappeared, and Joe tied it around his own waist. Every inch of his body ached from the bumps, scrapes, cold, and fatigue he had endured. He started up.

  “Joe, it’s Henry Low River!” a voice called down. “Listen, if this rope breaks, you need to—”

  “Forget it!” Joe interrupted with a shout. “If this rope breaks, I quit!”

  Joe heard laughter from above and couldn’t help but smile himself. When he reached the top, Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him over the edge to safety.

  “Joe!” Frank exclaimed, hugging his brother.

  “Are you okay?” Diana asked.

  Joe nodded, smiling.

  “Here we are hot on the trail of three criminals, and you and Phil are off taking a swim,” Frank joked, setting everyone laughing again.

  • • •

  Wrapped in blankets and riding in the back of Snowdon’s pickup, Joe and Phil listened as Frank and Mr. Low River explained how they had tracked them to the quarry.

  “The owner of the Dust Bowl had seen the white truck leave and head north on the highway,” Frank continued.

  “So with Snowdon and me in the pickup and Frank and Diana in the Jeep, we began hopscotching exits,” Low River said, picking up the story. “Then finally, at the seventh exit, the guy at the taco stand remembered seeing the truck.”

  “Mr. Low River is the one who spotted the tire tracks where Kanner had pulled off the paved road,” Frank explained.

  “It’s that Cherokee blood,” Low River said, grinning. “We’re excellent trackers.”

  “We used a sock we found stuffed under the seat of the Blue Bomber to give Bullet the scent, and he used his nose to find the owner,” Frank said, pointing to Phil.

  “Just think—if not for my messy nature and smelly feet, we might still be down there,” Phil said with a laugh.

  At the Dust Bowl Truck Stop, Frank, Joe, and Phil hopped out of Snowdon’s truck just as the skies opened up. Diana, who had followed Snowdon from the quarry, pulled up beside them.

  “See you back in town!” Low River called as he got into the cab of Snowdon’s pickup.

  Frank saw Diana scrambling to throw a tarp over her Jeep.

  “Why don’t you leave it here for tonight?” Frank suggested while he helped Diana batten down the tarp. “You can ride back with us.”

  Frank, Joe, Phil, and Diana all managed to squeeze into the cab of the Blue Bomber. Phil turned the key, and the engine started right up. “Hey, on the first try,” he noted. “Maybe our luck is changing.”

  Heading back down the highway toward Lone Wolf in the heavy rain, Frank and Joe filled each other in.

  “So Bixby, Kanner, and Miller were working together,” Joe concluded, “setting up in one area, pulling off insurance scams, and then moving on and starting again.”

  “That’s my guess,” Frank replied. “Bixby would just get a job with a new insurance company, Kanner would buy another home out in the country, and Miller would arrive later, starting a low-cost insurance business to compete with Bixby.”

  “Congratulations, guys,” Diana said. “I think you’ve finally put an end to their crime spree.”

  “Yeah, the only problem is, they’re probably halfway to Mexico by now,” Joe said.

  Frank saw Phil’s eyes start to close. “Phil!” he shouted.

  Phil jerked his head up. “Sorry, Frank. I don’t think I’ve been this exhausted in my life.”

  “Ten minutes and you’ll be in bed, old buddy,” Joe said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

  Phil hit the brakes suddenly, throwing Joe forward so that he clunked his head on the windshield. The Blue Bomber fishtailed and came to a halt less than
a foot away from Sheriff San Dimas’s squad car.

  “Can I say two things?” Joe asked, touching a fresh bump on his head. “Number one: ouch. Number two: I’m driving.”

  Frank saw that the side door of the squad car was caved in and the rear tire was badly twisted. “Looks like the sheriff’s been in an accident.”

  Frank and Joe got out to see if anyone needed help. Frank put his hand to the windshield of the squad car and peered in. “No one inside!” he yelled to Joe through the driving rain.

  Joe looked along the side of the road to see if anyone had been thrown from the vehicle. “No one here, either!” he yelled back. Just then, he nearly stumbled over a twisted cylinder about three feet long. Picking it up and seeing the red and white spiral stripes, he realized it was a barber’s pole.

  “I don’t get it, Frank!” he yelled. “It’s from San Dimas’s barbershop, but we’re still five miles away from Lone Wolf!”

  Frank thought for a moment His heart jumped. Running back to the Blue Bomber, he reached over Diana and turned on the radio.

  “... has devastated the town of Lone Wolf,” the radio news broadcast was saying. “Once again, our breaking story, a tornado believed to be an F four or F five has touched down in Lone Wolf, Oklahoma, and is moving northwest. . . .”

  The transmission was interrupted by static interference.

  “An F five is the most powerful tornado we know of,” Diana said. “It can have wind speeds of three hundred miles an hour.”

  “You mean the tornado lifted up the sheriff’s car and dropped it five miles away?” Joe asked.

  “With an F five, it could happen,” Diana said.

  “The question is,” Frank added, “where is the tornado now?”

  The four of them stopped and listened as the wind howled around them. Joe was looking off to the left when five cloud-to-ground lightning bolts struck at once, illuminating a tornado funnel more than a mile wide.

  “There it is!” Joe shouted. “Looks like it’s about five miles north of us. Just wait until the lightning strikes again.”

  Everyone peered into the rainy night. Thirty seconds later lightning lit up the sky. Joe thought the funnel looked even bigger.

  “It’s shifting,” Diana told them. “The tornado’s coming back this way. It’s headed right for us. We’ve got to get out of here—fast!”