Trouble Times Two

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Sheldrake’s voice hardened. “Maybe that allowed you to coast in the other schools you attended. But the curve has caught up with you now. Your work has fallen below average . . .” Old Beady Eyes paused for a second. “Especially in chemistry.”

  The assistant principal sighed. “What are we supposed to do with you?”

  “Do?” Tom repeated. His voice had a nervous edge.

  “Schools are supposed to do things for young people,” Sheldrake said flatly. “Keep them off the streets. Educate them. Make them good citizens. Fix them, if necessary.”

  He paused. “For instance, if one of them tries to burn the school down.”

  “But I didn’t—there wasn’t—” Tom’s voice suddenly got cold. “You have no proof of that.”

  “Just suspicion,” Sheldrake agreed. “And concern. We may find ourselves in a situation where we have no choice. Where we have to call in the police . . . and Social Services.”

  “Why them?” That was definite worry coming from Tom.

  “You seemed to be a normal, good kid while you lived with your late mother,” Sheldrake said gently. “After a year and a half with your father, well . . . look where you are. As I said before, we’re expected to do something.”

  “Something like foster care.” Tom made the words sound like a curse. “Throw me into the system. You say I’m not stupid. I did a little research. How many families do you think keep teenagers. Especially—what’s that nice word—‘troubled’ ones?”

  “I can’t quote statistics.” Sheldrake’s voice was uneasy. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

  “No, you’ll just turn me into one,” Tom said bitterly. “Excuse me if I don’t help you.”

  “Then excuse me,” the assistant principal said coldly. “But I have to help you.”

  A moment later Tom was coming out the door, headed for detention. “You might consider your options,” Mr. Sheldrake said.

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “All my options.”

  The assistant principal was not in a good mood as he began interrogating Joe. “Apparently, you have a very sensitive nose, Mr. Hardy. Sally Hynde took the same staircase you were on. She didn’t smell anything.”

  “She was upstairs, I was down,” Joe replied. “Who can say how the smoke—and smell—traveled.”

  Old Beady Eyes did his best, but he didn’t get what he wanted from Joe. “I can’t say I saw anyone,” Joe insisted. “I was trying to find where the smell came from. Then I saw the smoke. That’s what I was looking at.”

  “Tom Gilliam had to be around there,” Sheldrake insisted. “And you had to see him.” He marched Joe to the detention hall next door. “Perhaps your time in here will help sharpen your memory.”

  Joe spent his silent hour about four feet from Tom Gilliam. Every once in a while, Tom would turn his way. When Joe returned the glance, he saw the oddest look in the other boy’s eyes.

  At last Sheldrake appeared in the doorway, forced to let them go. He gave both boys his sourest look. “This is not over,” he warned. “The investigation is just starting. You could do yourselves some good. Or you could do some irreparable harm to your permanent records.”

  Joe was just glad to escape. He walked quickly away from school when he realized he had a shadow. Tom Gilliam’s long legs brought him up beside Joe.

  “All right,” the redheaded boy demanded. “Why didn’t you give me up?”

  “I didn’t think it was fair,” Joe replied. “With your rep, you’d have been out of school and maybe in jail. But Kev Wylie was equally stupid, bringing that magnesium fire-starter to school, and he’d probably end up only getting a stern lecture.”

  Joe glanced over at the other boy. “I heard some of your session with Old Beady Eyes. So I know you’re not stupid. I’m cutting you a major break, here. Don’t do something to ruin your life.”

  “My life hasn’t been right for the last two years,” Tom Gilliam said. “That’s when my mom first got sick. I’ll say this for my dad. Even though my parents were divorced when I was five, he sent money to my mom for doctors.”

  Tom shrugged. “Not that it did any good. When Mom died, the life we’d built in California died with her. I wound up living like a gypsy with Dad. Five towns in the last year and a half. Four different schools.”

  “Didn’t you have any other relatives you could stay with?” Joe asked.

  “Both Mom and Dad were only children,” Tom said. “My grandparents have passed away, except for my dad’s mother—she’s in a nursing home.” He shook his head. “My only choices are my dad . . . or foster care. They try to make the system work, but—”

  “But what?” Joe asked.

  “When I realized Mom wasn’t going to be around much longer, I did some research. Too many kids just get shuttled from home to home. Kids my age can end up little better than slaves. You’d be amazed at how many people take in teenagers to get free labor.”

  Tom’s expression was bleak. “Living like that, I might as well be in prison.”

  “Then you’d better make the best of living with your dad,” Joe said.

  “I know!” Tom angrily agreed. “But you don’t know—” He stopped. “And I can’t explain.”

  Joe decided to take a chance. He might get a punch in the mouth from the impulsive kid beside him. Then again, he might get some truth. “I know your dad is doing more than just the books at Tri-State Express,” he said. “What’s really going on there?”

  Tom Gilliam looked at him for a long moment. “Since I came here, you’re the first person who’s been straight with me.”

  He took a deep breath. “So I’ll tell you.”

  10: Whistle-blow-up!

  Joe couldn’t believe his luck in getting Tom Gilliam to talk.

  As the other boy started, however, Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “You saw how my dad lost it last Saturday when I made fun of whistle-blowers?” Tom said. “That’s because he is one!”

  “What?” Joe stared.

  “Our whole life would have been different, Mom told me,” Tom went on. “Dad was working for this high-tech company in Illinois. We had a nice home—that much I remember. Anyway, Dad was working on some defense contract. He found out his company was cheating the government.”

  “And he blew the whistle?”

  “First, he tried to talk to his bosses. They just told him to keep quiet. But he didn’t. Finally, he went to the government.” Tom gave Joe a lopsided smile. “Even then he had a hard time getting people to listen to him. But in the end, Dynodyne was socked with a big fine. They paid it—and closed the plant where my dad had worked.”

  “And?” Joe asked.

  Tom shrugged. “A lot of people in town lost their jobs, and a rumor went around that my father was responsible. Kids weren’t allowed to play with me anymore. And then, one day, our house burned down.”

  Joe stared again. “Was the fire deliberately set?”

  Tom spread his hands. “Who knows? The cops and fire department weren’t much help. But then, they all had relatives who’d just lost what were supposed to be lifetime jobs.”

  “Sounds like a good incentive to leave town,” Joe finally said.

  Tom nodded. “No way Dad was getting a job around there. The fact was, he had a hard time getting a job anywhere.”

  “Is that why your folks split up?”

  Hands in his pockets, Tom slouched along. “I guess it didn’t help. Mom always blamed Dad for ‘ruining things.’ That’s the way she put it. He wrecked his career and got us thrown out of town. And for what? Dynodyne is still around. They moved a lot of work down to Mexico.”

  Tom sighed. “And they’re probably still cheating the government. Everybody does. It’s not as though my dad got any reward for what he did. He wound up out a lot of money.”

  “So what happened?” Joe asked.

  “As you said, Mom and Dad split up. Mom got me and all their savings. Dad—well, Dad just hit the road, working wherev
er he found a job. I thought he was just a glorified bum. But then he began sending us pretty big checks.”

  Joe stared yet again. I can’t believe it! he thought. Is Frank going to turn out to be right?

  “Where did the money come from?” he asked.

  “It almost sounds funny,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Dad made a career for himself as a whistle-blower.”

  “What?”

  “He’s become a professional whistle-blower,” Tom explained. “He switches jobs often because he’s always looking for companies with dirty little secrets.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Joe burst out. “Wouldn’t your dad get—well, a reputation?”

  “If a company is clean, Dad just leaves. No reason to suspect why he was there. If not, there’s a confidentiality clause in the agreement Dad makes with the bosses. They have to shell out even more if they reveal what Dad does.”

  Joe remembered Frank mentioning the generous payments Russell Gilliam got for leaving punky little jobs. This explained a lot. “So these companies buy your father off?”

  Tom nodded. “They’re supposed to clean up whatever wrongdoing he discovered. But how can you really check up on that?”

  Another memory popped into Joe’s head—a depressed Frank working at his computer. What had Frank said about whistle-blowers? “After all their sacrifices, they still end up not making a difference.”

  Maybe so, but it looked as though Russ Gilliam had discovered a way to make a living. “I guess your dad doesn’t have to worry about job references. But why would a company hire a guy with three other jobs in the same year?”

  “That’s the beauty of his scheme. The fact that he doesn’t look like a really steady type helps get him jobs. Companies pulling scams prefer workers who are just passing through.” Tom laughed. “They’re less likely to dig too deeply into a crooked operation.”

  Tom eagerly went on. “Sometimes, stockholders bring Dad in to check their companies out. That’s sort of like what your dad does as a private eye. But—”

  A worried frown appeared on Tom’s face. “I think Dad’s been doing this too long. He doesn’t talk about making things right anymore. It’s all about the payoffs.” Tom slouched even more, jamming his hands in his pockets. He spoke so softly, Joe could hardly hear. “Where do you draw the line between being an idealist and being an extortionist?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Joe admitted, feeling the other boy’s concern. “Do you think it might help to talk things over with my dad?”

  “Maybe . . .” Tom said slowly. Then he grinned. “It would have to beat having a little chat with Mr. Sheldrake!”

  The boys headed over to Oak Street and the Hardy home. Joe opened the front door. “Dad?” he called.

  “Not in,” Callie Shaw said, popping out of the living room. “He took your mom and Aunt Gertrude—oh.”

  She’d just spotted Tom Gilliam. Tom bristled in response.

  “Joe? I invited the group—” Frank Hardy also seemed to run out of words when he spotted Tom.

  Liz Webling appeared, her hands full of printouts. Then came Phil with some photos. Last of all came Kev Wylie.

  His face went stiff when he saw Joe’s companion. “Late as usual, huh, Gilliam?”

  “Yeah,” Tom shot back. “I had some burning issues to discuss back in school.”

  “So I heard,” Kev snarled. “I guess a trial for arson is much more important than our dippy little project.”

  “Knock it off!” Joe demanded. “Nobody’s going to trial. And who brought the hazardous metal and left it in his locker?”

  “I—” Kev’s mouth hung open until he closed it with a snap. “I guess Dad and I will have to talk about that with Mr. Sheldrake.”

  He swung round toward Tom again. “But that doesn’t mean I have to—”

  “Why don’t you shut up and listen for a minute?” Tom demanded. “I came here to ask Mr. Hardy for some advice. But since you’re here, I’ll just go ahead and do what I was thinking about.”

  He took a deep breath. “The reason I know about whistle-blowers is because my dad is one. And, Kev, I think he’s trying to get something on your dad’s company.”

  Kev Wylie opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out. To Joe, the guy looked like a fish. Then words came out in a sputtering rush. “I can’t—You don’t—what kind of a lousy—”

  Kev was so indignant, he wasn’t making any sense.

  “Calm down,” Frank advised. He looked at Joe. “Can you explain this? Hopefully without insulting anyone?”

  “It seems Tom’s father is a professional whistle-blower,” Joe said. “He found some hanky-panky going on in a company he worked for—Dynodyne.”

  He knew Frank would recognize the name. No need to advertise that the Hardys had been looking into Russ Gilliam’s past.

  “It was a bad experience,” Joe went on. “But Mr. Gilliam figured out a way to turn it into a profitable business. He works for a while at various companies, checking whether they’re on the up-and-up.”

  “That’s the only way my father would run a company!” Kev Wylie burst out. “Who does your father think he is?”

  “He thinks he’s on the trail of something at Tri-State Express,” Tom said. “I figure there’s been enough trouble between us. This is my way of trying to clear things up.”

  “Do you know what your dad is on the trail of?” Liz Webling was every inch the junior reporter as she asked the question.

  “No,” Tom admitted.

  “And even if he did, it would be off the record,” Joe quickly put in.

  “I guess you’ve had a rougher time than we imagined.” Phil gave Tom a shrewd glance. “You weren’t just hitting a new town and a new school. This must be like a never-ending undercover assignment.”

  Tom turned gratefully to Phil. “I’m tired of secrets,” he said.

  Callie stared as if she’d been punched in the jaw. Her whole view of Tom was being turned on its head.

  Kev, however, was stubborn. “I don’t know if I buy what you’re saying,” he said. “But I’ve got to talk to my dad—now!”

  Tossing the notes in his hand on an end table, he headed right out the door. The other teens looked at one another. “Maybe we ought to leave, too,” Phil said. In moments he, Liz, and Callie were at the door.

  Tom followed them, glancing back in the doorway. “Thanks, Joe,” he said. “For everything.”

  Joe was surprised. Tom’s face, usually a tight, angry mask, seemed relaxed. For the first time since Joe had seen him, Trouble Boy seemed at peace.

  • • •

  Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude arrived about half an hour later. Each carried a sack of groceries. “There are more in the car,” Fenton said.

  The boys helped unload, waiting to get their father alone so they could share this new twist in events. Fenton was concerned about the fire. But Joe was more interested in the way his dad reacted to Tom Gilliam’s strange revelation.

  “A professional whistle-blower?” Fenton said slowly. “More like an unlicensed investigator, I’d say.”

  When they got to Tom’s bombshell warning to Kev, Fenton went almost poker-faced. His eyes got a faraway look for a moment. Then Fenton stared at Joe. “Could Tom have been making any of this up—maybe stretching the truth to impress you?”

  “He sounded rock-solid, Dad,” Joe answered.

  Fenton gave a careful shrug. “Well, there’s the end of your theory, Frank.”

  As he watched his father walk away, Joe suddenly felt like Mr. Sheldrake. Mr. Hardy definitely knew more than he was letting on.

  Should I call him on it? Joe wondered. Maybe I’ll get Frank’s take first. I’ll talk to him after dinner.

  When Joe went up to Frank’s room, he found his brother at work at his computer.

  “More research?” Joe asked.

  Frank grinned, keeping his eyes on the screen. “Nope. A hack attack. Let’s see if I can find why Dad brushed
off your story so quickly.”

  Every once in a while, Frank would test the security on Fenton’s office computer. But, Joe thought, he’d never had an incentive to break in.

  Joe came round to look over Frank’s shoulder. He couldn’t make any sense out of what was on the screen, but Frank could. He squinted, frowned, fired off commands from the keyboard. A string of figures ran across the monitor.

  “Bingo!” Frank muttered. “We’ve got a window of opportunity.”

  Directory lists appeared, whizzing past at almost a blur.

  “How can you read—” Joe began, only to be shushed.

  “We could be thrown out at any second.” Frank spoke through clenched teeth. “Let’s see how far back—uh-oh!”

  He hit a couple of keys, and the screen abruptly went blank. “Busted,” Frank announced.

  But after he hit a couple more keys, a document appeared on the screen. “Dad tries to keep up with the best antisnooping software possible. But this time I actually managed to snatch a file. I was trying to see how far back in his records I could get—”

  He stopped talking at Joe’s gasp and joined in reading. The file was dated about four months earlier. “Consultation with Hal Owens,” read the title.

  Hal Owens was Kev Wylie’s grandfather, a well-off businessman with several companies.

  As Joe read through the notes, he learned of a deal Owens had done. He’d turned over a failing company—Owens Rapid Delivery—to his son-in-law. Don Wylie had been pestering Owens for a more responsible job. Owens thought Wylie would learn a good lesson—being responsible for a business crashing.

  The younger man had been whining to get more money. Owens had refused. He knew no bank would fund Wylie’s fantasies of expanding the business. Yet the business had expanded. Money had poured in.

  A nice success story? Owens thought not. He had hired Fenton Hardy to investigate his son-in-law and the business. This company should have failed months ago.

  So how was Don Wylie suddenly—and suspiciously—making money hand over fist?

  11: Hits . . .

  Frank finished reading the file he’d hacked from his dad’s computer. His lips pursed in a silent whistle. Then he looked at Joe.