The Children of the Lost

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Doug screamed, trying to struggle away. “What are you trying to do, man?”

  “Just stay still,” I urged, making my voice low and plain. “Unless you want to die. Stop struggling and stay exactly where you are.”

  The train was just feet away. I pushed my face down into the space of Doug’s neck, smelling the dirt and fetid water of the track bed. The train ran over us swiftly. One minute there was the bright light of the headlights and lots of track space on either side; the next we were confined in a tiny, tomblike space between the bottom of the train, its wheels, and the track bed. Doug whimpered, and again I urged, “Don’t move. It’s over, Doug. You’re caught.” The train wheezed to a stop, and I heard the brakes engage. There were a few moments of silence before I heard footsteps scrambling down the steps and over the turnstiles.

  “Freeze! NYPD! What’s going on here?”

  “We’re under the train!” I screamed.

  There was a pause. “Under the train?” the cop asked.

  I laughed. I knew it would be a good while before the cops got us out from under this train, but it was worth it.

  After all, the Hardy Boys always get their man.

  Mission: Creepy

  Frank:

  After the craziness of our subway mission, you’d think we would take a night off. Kick off our slippers. Settle in to watch a good DVD. But nooooooooo.

  The next night, Joe decided that we had to do something that, for me, is way more difficult than battling criminal super-geniuses on a live track while a subway train approaches.

  Joe:

  Joe here. You’d think he was talking about performing open heart surgery, right? Well, I’ll end the suspense. Here’s what I set up for the night after our subway mission ended:

  A double date.

  Ooooooooooh!

  Frank:

  Sure, sure, laugh all you want, Joe. But the fact is, talking to girls can be . . . a little challenging for me. Things might start off okay—“Hi,” “Hi,” “How are you,” “I’m fine”—but at some point I’ll look up and she’ll be looking at me, with big pretty eyes and a flirty smile, and the next thing I know . . . I just kind of . . .

  Joe:

  Clam up like a human Venus flytrap?

  Frank:

  Anyway. This is how we found ourselves at Pat’s Putt-putt Emporium at about seven o’clock on Friday night. We were accompanied by two lovely ladies: Joe’s date, Kirstie, a funny girl he knew from English class, and my date, Corinne, a very cute brunette girl who liked my jokes about alligators.

  Joe:

  Correction. Who tolerated his jokes about alligators.

  Frank:

  As I was saying. So far the date had been a little challenging for me. I mean, I have trouble making conversation with girls under normal circumstances, but Joe had decided to really torture me on this night: I was not allowed to bring up science, math, computers, logic . . .

  Joe:

  Basically, anything boring.

  Frank:

  Basically, anything I really like to talk about. Anyway, we were on our third or fourth hole, Kirstie was winning, and Corinne and I were chatting while Joe took his shot.

  “So then,” I told her, “the frog says, ‘I guess you’re feeling a little snappy today!’ Get it? Snappy?”

  Corinne laughed, but she seemed a little distracted. “Anyway, Frank,” she said, “how was this week in school for you?”

  This was a tough question, because normally I would say, “It was great—we dissected a worm in biology, and in my computer class, I wrote my very own spyware detection program!” But given that I had been strictly forbidden by my brother to mention such things, all I could choke out was, “Um, it was okay—we had sloppy joes for lunch today.”

  Which was true. But boring. And besides, she knew—she ate in the cafeteria like me.

  Pausing to tap her ball into the hole, she nodded slowly. “I see,” she said. “Yes, they make a mean sloppy joe. But what . . . else did you do this week, Frank? Anything fun outside of school?”

  I bit my lip. I was beginning to feel that familiar frozen, deer-in-the-headlights feeling I often get around ladies. If this were a date like any other, I would have told her about the robot I was attempting to build to clean Joe’s room, or the fact that I had wired my alarm clock to my bedside lamp the day before so it would wake me up with natural, slowly building light. Then she would have looked incredibly bored and made some excuse about needing to get home to feed her cat. And I would have had to finish out the game as a lonely team of one.

  Instead, I tried to think of what someone else might say. Someone with more . . . lady-friendly hobbies. “Oh yeah,” I said, racking my brain. “I, uh . . . I made cupcakes.”

  Save! Everyone loves cupcakes, but especially girls.

  Corinne looked surprised. “Cupcakes, huh? What did you make them out of?”

  Shoot. “Oh, you know,” I said with a shrug, moving forward to take another shot at my ball. “Stuff?”

  I hit the ball with a little too much force, and it vaulted over the curb that surrounded the green and into a shallow pond.

  “Nice one, Frank,” Joe said with a grin, shaking his head. “I guess mini golf isn’t your game.”

  I sighed. “Guess not.” I went to retrieve my ball, and when I came back, my group had moved on to the next hole.

  “We just gave you a six, Frank,” Kirstie explained, giving me an apologetic look. “You were already at the stroke limit.”

  I nodded. “No problem.”

  After we’d taken our first strokes, Corinne caught up with me as I leaned against a huge wooden windmill.

  “You want to know what I did this week?” she asked with an impish grin.

  I nodded my head. “What? I would love to know.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I watched this special on television,” she explained. “It was on one of the science channels? I watch them all the time. Anyway, this one was about global warming, and all the ways—”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “I saw that!” I cried. “The one with the French scientists and the computerized simulation—”

  “Of what life would be like in Manhattan in fifty, one hundred, and two hundred years!” She grinned.

  I nodded furiously. “Except that it wouldn’t be there in two hundred years! It would be underwater!”

  Corinne nodded in agreement. “Really, the whole thing made me want to live so much more greenly . . .”

  “Well,” I said, “I did see some problems with a few of their assumptions . . .”

  Her eyes widened in recognition. “Like fuel standards staying the same in the U.S.! I just can’t see—”

  “Frank!” I turned around to see my brother trying to get my attention from across the green and looking a bit exasperated. Kirstie looked amused.

  “Yes?” I asked innocently. But I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say. I had broken the rules—I had talked about science with Corinne. And yet she hadn’t looked bored and tried to leave. What was that about?

  “What are you guys talking about?” Kirstie asked, looking curiously at Corinne. “I haven’t seen you guys get that animated since, well . . .”

  “Ever?” Corinne laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m probably boring Frank. I’m just such a big dork; I love to talk about these science specials I watch on cable.”

  “No, no, no!” I insisted, turning away from my brother and looking into Corinne’s eyes as sincerely as I could. “You weren’t boring me at all! I love to talk about this stuff! In fact, I was just reading this book about global warming; it just came out . . .”

  Corinne grinned. “Is it called Earth in Peril? Because I just checked that out of the library.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “That’s exactly it,” I replied. This was unreal. Not only was I talking to a girl . . . I was actually talking about a subject I loved and she seemed to love it just as much as I did! Was I dreaming?

  “Psssst.”


  I startled. I had definitely just heard a noise, most likely human in origin . . . but Corinne was looking straight ahead, watching Kirstie putt, and her mouth was shut. Joe was leaning over, giving Kirstie some kind of instructions (typical Joe—she’s beating him and he still has to put in his two cents), and Kirstie was biting her lip, using her club to figure out the exact direction in which she needed to aim. None of the people I was standing with had just spoken, and we were the only group in the immediate area. So who . . .

  “Pssst,” the voice came again. I jumped this time; it was coming from inside the windmill I was leaning against! “Agent Hardy, look in the waterfall. Repeat, look in the waterfall. Do you read me?”

  I sighed. Really? Joe and I had just finished the subway mission—did ATAC really need us again so soon? And in the middle of this actually-really-fun date?

  “Do you read me?” the voice hissed again, more insistent this time.

  “I read you,” I whispered, dropping my voice low enough so Corinne wouldn’t hear. “I read you loud and clear.”

  Stepping forward, I announced, “Excuse me, I just need to . . . I’m going to run to the restroom for a second. Corinne, you can play for me.” Without waiting for an answer, I darted off toward the main building—and a huge concrete waterfall splashing with blue-dyed water. Darting low to the ground, I crept over, then peered down into the blue pool at the base. I didn’t see anything, so I reached my hand in and carefully felt alongside the rough concrete walls. Nothing there . . . nothing there . . .

  I was practically leaning into the waterfall itself when I felt it. A thin plastic package, about five inches square, duct-taped to the side of the pool. After checking to make sure that no one was watching me, I dislodged the tape and pulled out the plastic sleeve, carefully shaking it dry and shoving it into the waistband of my pants, where it would be hidden by my shirt.

  I sighed. It was official: This had to be an assignment.

  Well, no rest for the wicked.

  Without hesitating, I walked back over to Joe, Kirstie, and Corinne, who were all laughing uproariously at what looked to be a disastrous putt by my brother.

  “I’m sorry,” I announced, trying to keep my voice as emotionless as possible. “It’s just occurred to me that Joe and I haven’t fed our cat today. I’m feeling rather guilty and think we should get home and feed her as soon as possible. I’m sorry to break up our fun.”

  • • •

  “You are unbelievable, dude,” Joe huffed, shaking his head and slamming his club down on the return table as we headed back into the parking lot and toward our car. “Our cat? Our cat? If you felt uncomfortable, couldn’t you have come up with a better excuse?”

  “Joe,” I said in what I hoped was a calming tone, pulling the plastic-wrapped package out from under my shirt, “I—”

  “It seemed like you were having such a good time!” Joe whined, pulling open the passenger side door of our car and dropping himself into the seat with a thump. “You didn’t listen to me about the science thing, okay, but it seemed like you and Corinne were really getting along!”

  I opened the driver side door and settled into the driver’s seat. “We were,” I insisted, holding up the plastic package. “I’m just as disappointed as you are, believe me. But I was instructed to go get this.”

  Joe turned to look at the package and his eyes widened. “Already?” he asked. It was unusual to be called on two missions so close together.

  “Must be an emergency,” I said.

  Joe nodded. “Hurry up and play it,” he suggested, grabbing our portable DVD player from the glove compartment and shoving it in my direction.

  Taking care not to scratch the DVD, I cautiously opened up the player, placed the disk inside, and closed it—Joe sighing impatiently the whole time. When I finally pressed play, we both glued our eyes to the screen. What came up was a series of local news stories.

  In the first, a young blond reporter gripped a microphone in front of what looked like a state park. “In Misty Falls today, a child is missing, and his parents are being questioned by local police. It seems that five-year-old Justin Greer disappeared from the tent the family was sleeping in last night . . .”

  The picture jumped to another news report with a different, male reporter. “As I said, Cindy, police have reportedly found no evidence of foul play at the campsite where eight-year-old Kerry Bragg went missing last night. Her younger brother reported that she left the tent in the middle of the night to use the restroom, and apparently she never returned. Park rangers are suggesting that Kerry may have been the victim of a bear attack. Her parents . . .”

  The screen jumped again, this time to yet another reporter, still in what seemed to be the same campground. “A chilling disappearance in Misty Falls State Park tonight, where five-year-old Sarah Finnegan disappeared from the campsite where she and her older sister were sleeping outside . . .”

  Again, to yet another reporter: “ . . . seven-year-old Luke Wesson disappeared from the car where he slept with his parents . . .”

  Another reporter, another story: “ . . . four-year-old Alice disappeared, only a quarter mile from the campsite, while on a hike with her brother . . .”

  The screen kept jumping and showing new footage, all of which seemed to be from the same state park. But then, the authoritative voice of our ATAC contact drowned out the reporting.

  “Eight children disappeared in all, over the course of twelve years, all taken from their campsites along the Eagle River in Misty Falls, Idaho. Little evidence was found, and with the input of local park rangers and nature experts, all eight disappearances had been dismissed as animal attacks—most likely, bear.”

  “She said had,” Joe observed.

  “Intriguing,” I agreed. “That would imply that it’s changed.”

  The news reports faded, and the screen suddenly was filled with the image of a teenage boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a hospital gown and looking forlornly into the camera. “The last thing I remember is waking up in the woods outside town,” he said, his voice uncertain, as though he already knew this was the wrong answer. “That was yesterday. I don’t remember where I was before that or where I came from. I don’t know who my parents are.”

  A second voice sounded then from behind the camera: “You don’t know? Or you don’t remember?”

  The boy coughed, looking uncomfortable. He glanced down at his lap, then back at the camera, a challenging look in his eyes. “They tell me,” he said, “that my name is Justin Greer.”

  I turned to Joe. “Justin Greer!” I said. “That was the first kid who disappeared.”

  Joe looked perplexed. “So that was what . . . twelve years ago? And he’s just reappearing now?”

  The smooth voice of our ATAC contact cut off our conversation. “Two days ago, a teenage boy stumbled into downtown Misty Falls, claiming to have no idea who he was. A local police detective who worked the original disappearance case identified him as Justin Greer, and the boy’s parents have arrived and identified the boy. Justin, however, has no memory of the Greers, nor any memory of the past twelve years. His reappearance is understandably making the police re-evaluate their findings on all eight disappearances. If Justin Greer wasn’t attacked by a bear but is still alive . . . what happened to him? And what does it mean for the other missing children?”

  I let out a deep breath. “Whoa.”

  Our contact went on: “The detective who identified Justin Greer has asked for an ATAC investigation. Because the disappearances were highly publicized in the area and have led to declined tourism, there’s been a lot of finger-pointing and controversy, which led the detective to believe an undercover investigation would be most beneficial. Your mission is to travel to Misty Falls, set up a campsite in the park, and investigate both what happens there and whatever memories might be coaxed out of Justin—if he is, indeed, Justin.”

  The screen went blank. I turned to Joe, who looked less than enthusiastic. “Well?” I a
sked.

  Joe shivered. “It gives me the creeps,” he replied. “Bear, my eye—someone or something is taking those kids.”

  I sighed patiently. “Now, Joe, we don’t know that. Bears are known to—”

  But Joe held up his hand to stop me. “Whatever, whatever,” he said, “we’ll have plenty of time for this argument on the plane. For now, we’d better come up with a heckuvan excuse for Mom and Aunt Trudy. Because it looks like we’re leaving on an unexpected camping trip tomorrow.”

  Tragedy in Misty Falls

  As it turned out, coming up with a cover story for Mom and Aunt Trudy wasn’t as hard as I’d feared. Dad knows all about our ATAC missions, so he helped us convince them that we were taking two places that had opened up at the last minute for a “personal development camping trip” offered by the National Honor Society. Mom and Aunt Trudy were skeptical, but when Dad insisted that we’d be right nearby (which is not technically a lie, since it depends on your definition of “nearby”) and that it would “really look great on college applications,” they were sold.

  And so my brother and I found ourselves climbing off a tiny four-seater plane just a few miles out of Misty Falls, Idaho.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I observed, taking in the wide blue sky, the distant mountains, and the acres and acres of unspoiled forest land.

  “Big Sky Country,” Frank agreed, looking around. “That’s what they call it, and I can see why.”

  I nodded. “It seems like everything is bigger here than on the east coast—the sky, the mountains, even the trees.”

  That’s when I looked down and saw a tall, portly middle-aged guy wearing a cowboy hat watching us. He was smiling, but it didn’t look like a “Welcome to Idaho!” smile so much as a “You east coast types are heee-larious!” smile.

  “Hello,” I said cheerfully, walking down the steps to the tarmac and holding out my hand. “I’m Joe Hardy and this is my brother, Frank. You must be Detective Cole?”