|
After the harrowing time in the Poconos that January, I settled into the bland routine of the year. My assistantship at the
Political Science Department expired that May without a renewal in September. Eventually, I grabbed a partime position in
the Biology Department in June and remained struggling for a living throughout the summer on the unemployment credits I earned
when I played night auditor.
Early in August I switched rooms and jammed my furniture into an even smaller room, albeit with some decent windows and light.
In fact, the outside lights made my room brighter at night than the sunniest day made my former room in the daytime.
Of all my cases during my decade in State College, this one provided pivotal because I took on two apprentices quite unwillingly.
Unknown to me at the time, this situation would be the start of a long friendship and the beginning of the amelioration of
my finances.
It was the last Saturday in August, the Twentyseventh -- Lyndon Johnson's eightieth birthday. A year had passed since the
case of the August Augury. I was on maneuvers. In the foredawn darkness, I stole down the streets and into the field. Between
the darkness and my camouflage, I figured the enemy could not spot me. I pulled out my binoculars from a green case and put
then in front of my charcoal visage. I could see a good five hundred meters with the binoculars.
Still no sign of my quarry. The clear sky exposed stars in the winter constellations. In fact, Venus, Jupiter, and Mars were
the three asteroid objects visible. My enemy remained hidden, but then I noticed it was becoming light. Dawn had broken before
I could find my objective.
Flustered, I raced in my mottled raiment toward the highway. In the silhouette about four hundred meters away, someone and
a dog were walking along the road. Quickly I ducked down a street, then I tried to cut through a yard. I nearly ran smack
dab into a fence! Collecting my wits, I sneaked back out to the road. The coast was clear in the waxing light, so I jogged
as efficiently as I could. When I arrived at a complex, I searched for my prey again. Then I climbed upon the roof while still
searching for my objective. Along the brightening roof I realized that I had failed to observe my intention. -- a partial
lunar eclipse! The moon slipped behind the trees while it was still in the earth's penumbra.
Disgusted, I went inside to undress and shower. It was now six o'clock, and I prepared breakfast.
It was nearly eight when the telephone rang. I put down the newspaper and rose out of my favorite stuffed chair to answer
it on the third ring.
"Is George Król there?"
"Speaking"
"This is Bruce Reardan, president of the university. Could you come see me this morning?"
"Sure, Mister Reardan. I can be there by nine. Will you be in your office at Old Main?"
"I surely will. I hope you can solve our problem."
My mind raced as I endeavored to untangle the reason why the university president would call me to meet him on a Saturday.
I could not piece together a scenario as I redressed and walked out of the house. Whatever it was, I had an inkling that the
bureaucracy could not handle it. Of course, given the abject state of the university bureaucracy, it could be some simple
problem.
Bruce Reardan was a somewhat tall, late middle-aged man. His balding and gray head hinted that he was sexagenarian at the
peak and final stage of his academic career.
"Glad you could come at such short notice, Mister Król. I'll get right to the point," he began the dialog while indicating
a chair.
We finished shaking hands and sat down. Reardan had carefully closed his office door. His eyes glanced at it as he faced me.
"As you know, our football team is one of the best in the country."
I was so intensely interested that I leaned forward in the chair. Reardan seemed surprised at my reaction to a statement,
which should provoke uninterest. What struck me at the moment was that the football team was the reason for the circumstances
of our meeting.
"Rumor are flying that some of our players are mixed up with gamblers to the point that these scoundrels may have a critical
influences on upcoming games this fall," Reardan continued.
"What is the exact nature of these rumors?" I queried. "What do they say about the relationship between the gamblers and the
players?"
Reardan paused while appearing to decide how much to tell me. A good ten seconds later he took his hand from his mouth.
"The wildest rumor is that our quarterbacks are the ones the gamblers are bribing. We can't prove a thing, yet we can't put
these rumors to rest."
"What would be the motivation? I can
t comprehend football payers with a potential career on the line, not to mention their education, to lost for a few bribes,"
I opined.
"That's why we need your investigation. I want you to end the speculation," Reardan clarified.
I paused to digest this information.
"Alright, how much leeway do I have?"
"I'm concerned with results on one condition."
"What's that condition?"
"It's not for me," Reardan assured me that the condition was not of his design. "I owe a favor to one of my professors for
solving a previous crime on campus. Do you remember the murder of a drug dealer back in 1980?"
"Why, yes. How could I miss it with all the coverage it received?"
"Well, it was Richard Stacy who cracked the case. Stacy has three children who want to follow in their father's footsteps.
Stacy doesn't think he can give them much help while he's a professor in law enforcement and corrections."
"How old are these kids?" I inquired somewhat brusquely.
"Twelve, fourteen, and fifteen," Reardan replied somewhat embarrassedly.
I sat aghast. Finally I closed my mouth, then muttered, "You've got to be kidding. I can't run an investigation with kids!"
"Why don't you talk with Stacy first? Here's his address. I'll call him and make an appointment. When are you available this
weekend?"
Unbelievable, I thought. He actually thinks that I'm going to play nanny with this professor's kids! By this time, Reardan
had an answer to his ring.
"Hello, Rich. I have George Król here. He wants to set up an appointment with you. Fine, does three o'clock sit well with
you, George?"
Reardan broke my reverie. I reluctantly agreed to speak to Stacy personally that afternoon. On the way over, I pondered all
kinds of excuses to evade having tags. I arrived at the house in time to see two teenage boys' playing a football toss. As
soon as I arrived, they stopped and met me along the sidewalk. Despite their youthful appearance, they were both over one
eighty meters. The taller and older one introduced himself and his brother.
"Hello, Mister Król. I'm Allen, and this's Darrell."
I shook hands with the darker Allen first. Both grips indicated that the boys worked out. At the end of the porch, another
sibling, Jennifer, greeted me. Soon we were in the parlor where Richard explained the entire situation.
"I know what you're thinking," Rich Stacy began his explanation. "Nevertheless I need you to teach my boys a few practical
skills. I gave up detective work as a profession several years ago, but my boys want a try at solving real cases with their
own ventures."
"You're aware that this business could become dangerous," I reminded Stacy.
"Yes, I've prepared for it," Stacy agreed while handing me a paper. I stared at the sheet quite amazedly. I felt my eyebrows
rise as I read the agreement that I was not liable for the safety of the Stacy boys!
"I trust you will dismiss the boys should the case become dangerous," Stacy added while I read the agreement. "I also trust
my boys to be careful and to know when to get out."
I gave in when I realized the sincerity of the Stacys. Allen looked at me and asked, "When do we start, Mister Król?"
I could only smile and say, "Here's my plan."
My biggest problem was to garner information from the football team. I contacted the head coach, Josh Patrico. He too was
quite concerned about the rumors and agreed with alacrity to undercover Allen and Darrell as waterboys. Then I drove them
home.
"Boys," I reminded. "Remember to get out if it should get too dangerous. You are there to blend into the woodwork. It may
take months before I get a decent lead. Then I will call in the troops and you get out."
Both boys just flashed their dimples. I knew that I was not getting through to them.
"I want to know any leads you uncover," I stressed.
"Yes, Mister Król," Allen answered from the back seat.
The following Friday night Ray Crony and I did the radio show at WPPU. Afterwards I pumped him for information.
"Well, the only thing I've heard on the street is that the first game is not on the gamblers' list because they don't want
to arouse suspicion this early in the season. So you won't learn much until later in September when the team plays Rutgers."
"Why Rutgers?" I queried.
"My suspicion is that the gamblers will be better on State's 2-0 record to drop. Then they'd lay off until past homecoming."
I frowned. "We'd be now into October without any confirmation or denial of the rumors. Reardan would not be happy with me."
The first two games did go by without incident. State was the favorite and won both, although the second one was close. Also
by that time I had questioned nearly everyone on the team. Patrico backed my investigation unequivocally. On the night of
the twentythird Allen called me. Unfortunately, I was doing another radio show that Friday night, so I did not get his message.
Right after the show, Ray Crony took me aside in the record library.
"The gamblers are betting heavily for a Rutger's upset. The odds out of Las Vegas are not even close to what they've been
offering here. Rumor had Bill Thomas to be off in his passing and Ray Tarsus to miss a few field goals."
"I don't know about you, but I'm going to be watching tomorrow's game with great interest."
One of the benefits of this investigation was a prime seat right behind the bench. I had planned to watch Thomas and Tarsus
very closely. However Bill Thomas came up to my box with a disgusted look.
"What were those kids' doing outside my house last night?"
Ray Tarsus joined him.
"Yeah, they were taking turns watching us. After I went to bed, they left my place to spy on Bill."
I was stunned.
"I don't know anything about spying," I contemplated. "But I will have a talk with the boys about it."
"If they should do it again," Thomas threatened. "I'd tell Patrico and get them kicked off the team!"
Because of the incident I was not sure of what was the cause of the ensuing disaster to State. As Crony predicted, Tarsus
missed two field goals, and Thomas was injured. Patrico had to use a freshman quarterback, Tom Sachs, to make a fourth quarter
drive. Consequently State missed a belated touchdown, and Rutgers won, 21-16.
On the way home I confronted the boys. Both listened as I relayed my information. Allen, who was sitting up front, blushed
when I gave him a sideward glance. Despite his brunneous skin, he had a lentiginous face. Abashed, his freckles stood out.
Darrell was just as embarrassed in the back seat.
"Alright guys, what gives?"
"Mister Król," Darrell began. "No one was supposed to see our spying on those payers."
"Boys," I growled. "Why didn't you call me to tell me that you were going to observe Thomas and Tarsus. I wouldn't given you
a few tips."
The Stacys brightened their visages. They smiled at each other as if to agree on something they had discussed previously.
This time Allen spoke.
"Then you're not made at us."
"Look, your father defined my role clearly. I am to pull you out of the investigation if it should become dangerous. On that
note, I want to know where you're going. Why didn't you call me?"
"We did," Darrell refuted. "No one answered. We even took the bus your apartment to make sure you weren't there. We couldn't
find a place to put a note."
"The next time it's a Friday night, call the radio station. I was on this week."
"Oh, great," Allen interjected while slapping his forehead. "It'd never occurred to us to check!"
"Well, you know now," I emphasized. "And the next time you visit, simply leave a message under the mat. If it'd be raining,
then put it in the door above the knob. The best way would be to slip it under the door, if you could. Now the next time you
investigate someone, let both your father and me know."
"Thank you for understanding, Mister Król," Darrell said graciously.
"No problem," I replied. "And call me George. We're in this case together."
We had arrived at the Stacys'. As the boys began to lait, I interrupted their motion.
"Say, aren't you going to invite me in?"
Allen looked bewildered.
"Why?"
I beamed.
"To tell me what you found out last night."
I exited the car with them. We sat in the livingroom. Jennifer was there and went to get us refreshments.
"Well, it was like this," Allen began. "Darrell and I watched the front and back exits after following Tarsus. It was just
past dusk, so we'd thought we could hide in the tenebration. Two hours later, nothing had happened, so we left.
We began watching Thomas's house. I sneaked up to his window to catch the end of a telephone conversation. Whoever was on
the other end of the line was giving Thomas fits. He was submitting to something about today's game."
"Could it be someone had threatened him to become 'injured'?" I surmised.
"Allen couldn't really tell at the time. When I tried to sneak upon the same window, he waved me back and crept back with
me into the bushes.
"Well," I congratulated. "It appears we have a lead, as slim and remote as it is."
"So we go after Thomas to find out if he had been really injured today?" Darrell concluded.
"No," I reprimanded. First I need more information. When did he see you?"
"We're not certain. We stayed back waiting for the phone to ring again. About an hour later Thomas went to bed."
"So now we have the question of how Thomas knew you were out there," I led the boys.
"Could Tarsus have called Thomas after we left Tarsus for Thomas's place?" Allen suggested.
"Unfortunately, a solid answer to that question, or better to mine, would clear up much. We're going to have to lie low until
the next gambler' throw. Then I will get some of my buddies to take up the slack" I perorated as i arose and walked outside.
"You may have blown your covers with those antics. However, it's probably safer for you."
The next two games State won fairly easily. Thomas was out for a month, leaving Tom Sachs to do almost all the quarterbacking.
Then the next week, Crony informed me that once again the bookies were slanting the odds in favor of State, supposedly because
it was a home game. Once again, on the Friday night before the game, I was on the air. This time the Stacys called me.
"George," Allen panted, "We overheard Sachs's talking to Tarsus after practice."
"Wait a minute," I cautioned. "Where was this?"
"You told us about the gamblers' slant on the odds earlier this week. Darrell and I decided to hang around Cleaver Stadium
after practice. We couldn't contact you late this afternoon, so we just informed Dad. Practice ended around five thirty. Patrico
and most of the team were gone by six.
"Darrell and I hid in our lockers while dusk settled. Then we came out in the darkness and snooped around. When we looked
out to the stadium, we saw Thomas, Sachs, and Tarsus's running along the other side. They were obviously discussing something
as they came back. By this time darkness was filling the stadium. With no lights on, we knew they'd come back soon, so we
waited until they were about fifty meters away, ducked inside, and secluded ourselves. A minute later, the locker room lights
went on. They were talking about threats. Thomas advised Sachs to heed them, and Tarsus agreed. They sounded scared."
"Oh, great!" I exclaimed. "We can't help them unless we find out who's behind this"
Anyway," Allen continued. "They stayed just in time to change their gear and left. We just got to a phone. Darrell and I want
to know what we should do."
"Use your judgment," I commanded. "Did Sachs sound as if he'd needed convincing?"
"Why, yes," Allen deduced. "Then we should keep an eye on his house tonight!"
"Yes," I agreed. "My show ends at ten. I'll join you boys there afterwards."
Before I left, Crony checked on the latest odds" Syracuse was a three-point underdog to State in Las Vegas. Here was just
the opposite.
"Are you sure that the locals merely favor the home team is not the case?" I asked to drive any speculation out of my mind.
"I checked the Syracuse betting, and it follows Vegas. The bookies here are slanting the odds. It takes much daring or foolishness
because if State should win, they would lose a bundle."
"I suppose you also checked for bias in the professional games."
Ray's blue eyes lit up.
"Of course! It's easier with the professionals because Vegas keeps a closer eye on them. The oddsmakers have much more information
on the professionals to make an intelligent decision."
"Yes, I remember that from a debenture finance class last summer," I confessed. "But I wanted your professional opinion to
be sure."
I invited Ray to join me, but he demurred; it just was not his interest. Leaving my gear in my office, I headed downtown to
rendezvous with my fellow reconnoiters.
Tom Sach's apartment stood along College Avenue. I expected the boys to be watching from across the street, so I approached
the building perpendicularly from a street which passed alongside it. Allen and Darrell were nowhere around!
Nonplussed I scanned the side streets. It had been nearly three house since Allen had called me. The possibility that they
had given up the surveillance entered my mind, so I looked up.
Aloft, Sach's apartment showed incandescent light. I felt confounded as I pondered why the boys left before I had arrived.
I thought that perhaps I should do the surveillance, but my gut feeling bothered me that something was amiss.
Back on campus I hurried to my office. The Müller lab greeted me in darkness with the presence of glassware and equipment.
In the hallway light my finger danced on the dial of the wall phone.
Rich Stacy answered on the third ring. I immediately gave him a succinct summary of the situation.
"I'm glad you called, George. I have the boys on another line through call-waiting. Hold on while I make this communication
three-way."
A click later I heard Rich tell him boys.
"Tell George what you just told me."
"The cops picked us up about an hour after I called you," Allen reported in a worried voice. "They took us to the municipal
building and threatened us to prosecute us for spying."
"Put the district attorney on," Rich commanded.
"Okay, Dad."
"Mister Stacy, are you coming for them?" Asked a polite and formal voice.
"No, Mister Meese. I am sending a proxy, George Król."
"Good. I've wanted to speak with Król about the charge of corrupting the morals of minors!"
"Then you'll get your chance," I interrupted angrily. "I'll be there in ten minutes!"
Before Meese had a chance to reply, I slammed the receiver onto the hook. I stepped out into the hallway, pulled the door
shut, and flipped the key clockwise in the lock. I allowed myself the luxury of storming out of the building because I knew
I'd have let out all the steam before I even reached downtown.
Sure enough, when I reached the municipal building and walked into the stationhouse, I was as cool as the proverbial cucumber.
Meese was waiting for me.
"Where are the boys?" I broached.
Meese gave me a catbird smile.
"Don't worry, I have them in the next room. I can't charge them with anything. With you, I'm not so sure."
"Cut your bluffing! I am authorized to take them out of here. You have no right to hold them. That is all I expect to transpire
on my visit here."
"Of course," Meese replied, simpering. "At this time that is all that will happen. However, if I should receive one more complaint
of harassment, I would have all three of you hauled in."
Allen and Darrell entered the room. We had a group hug and sauntered out. Darrell was going to say something when Allen shook
his head.
When we were twenty meters away from the municipal building Darrell spoke.
"I hope we'd put on a convincing show."
Allen shrugged his shoulders, which caused the streetlight glare to change patterns on his jacket.
"I think they'd thought we were scared."
"Okay, boys," I interjected. "What happened?"
"Darrell and I were watching Sach's apartment. Suddenly a patrol car cruised, stopped, and the cops got out. They came straight
at us! We just stood there in disbelief. They told us that they were arresting us for vagrancy!"
"Did you know that they had no such grounds for an arrest?" I piped in my knowledge of constitutional law.
"No, but we did know something was up," Allen smiled slyly. "So we acted the frightened kids."
"Did Sach's make the complaint?" I probed.
"We didn't find out how the cops had known were there. Nevertheless someone could have seen us leave the stadium after Thomas,
Sachs, and Tarsus. What bothers me is that Allen and I were sure that no one had been following us."
"There is one other possibility," I suggested. "Some one could have been waiting for Sachs at his apartment and saw your following
him."
"That could be!" Allen expulsed while snapping his fingers.
"Even if that be so, we've another angle to this mystery. -- Why was the district attorney involved in the arrest and why
is he threatening me?" I rhetoricated.
"Maybe he's trying to get at Dad," Darrell ideated.
"Did your dad ever have a run-in with Meese?"
"I don't think Dad ever met him," Allen answered while the wheels turned. "Have you?"
"No," I replied. "But my confrontation with the District Attorney in 1983 was phenomenal."
That statement captured their interest, so I gave a brief synopsis of the case of "Mike's Murder".
"You mean the DA was the mastermind and the murderer behind a blackmail gang in State College?" Darrell asked with wide blue
eyes. "What ever happened to him?"
"I think a jury sentenced him to death, with the blackmail ring a large aggravating circumstance. I think he's still in Rockview
Prison."
"It's a good story," Allen commented. "But it doesn't get us anywhere. We have no motive for Meese's behavior unless the gamblers
should have him too."
"Maybe he just wants ammunition to give him reason to make the office a fultime job," I added while playing devil's advocate.
"Maybe we'll find out in tomorrow's game," Darrell foreshadowed.
Saturday the Fifteenth dawned cheerlessly. The Syracuse game would be taking place that evening. I had my usual Saturday routine
chores to do before the game. I did my usual long walk for grocery shopping. By the time I returned, it was past 2 PM. My
telephone was ringing as I came in. I casually put the packages down and answered it.
"George, it's Rich Stacy. The boys left you a message that they have a lead. They're checking out a place called 'Dean's Market'."
"I suppose you could meet them there. They left me a copy of the directions."
It was well past another half hour when I perambulated to the location. I figured Allen and Darrell had arrived some ten minutes
earlier. The real puzzler was that there was no store there whatsoever. I removed my cap to scratch my head.
What appeared to be an abandoned house met my vision. I strolled to the porch to scan the area. Nonplussed I noticed a condemnation
announcement. Then I began to think that someone had lured the boys out there.
With a glance at the environs, I entered the abandoned building. Carefully stepping across the rotting boards, I searched
the first floor. I stopped at the foot of the stairs to listen and to decide.
Although I heard nothing, I crept upstairs. The creaking step penultimate to the top sent shivers down my spine. I called
out the boys' names. Just after I shouted the cognomens, the step under my left foot began to give away. instinctively I pulled
my foot off the step as if it had scalded my foot. Simultaneously the step under my right foot commenced to cave in. The shocked
realization threw me off balance, and I felt myself hurtling backwards.
It was broad daylight outside; hence, even in the gloomy dilapidation, I could see objects to help me slacken my fall down
the stairs. I grabbed a banister on my left and used the countervailing torque of my biceps to decelerate my backflip. Because
my feet were already a meter in the air, I landed on my buttocks.
The force of the landing caused the staircase to groan and sway. I pivoted on my derričre to jerk my legs around. I felt the
board under my rear-end succumb as I pulled my body up. Holding onto both banisters, I sprinted down the stairs. I was two
meters away from the staircase as it collapsed, sending dust everywhere.
Unfortunately, I had to breathe, as a sneeze attack wreaked my body. I stumbled outside to drink the clean air. As I was blowing
my nose, I wondered where the boys had gone. It was three o'clock and the game commenced at seven. A thought that the boys
had decided that this lead was just a diversion and gone home occurred to me. A Unimart was nearby, so I decided to seek
a public phone there.
"No, George," Rich denied. "They haven't returned."
"What I can't understand is how these directions mesh with a place called Dean's Market. There's an old house in desuetude
at that address."
"There was a Dean's Market at North Atherton Street that burned down in 1978," Rich intoned.
"Yes, I remember that incident It was near the complex where I live. There's a hardware store there now. The place is open
on Saturday afternoons. I think I'll do a little snooping."
It was nearly closing time when I entered the store. The counterperson affirmed that the boys had been there.
"They asked a few questions and then decided to investigate the Atlantic and Pacific store up the street," she said.
"But that place closed in 1982!" I exclaimed incredulously. However as I left, I realized the boys' logic. Someone had disguised
the tryst through using the name of a defunct grocery store to lead them to an abandoned building where a grocery store once
stood. It was now past four o'clock, and the fear that someone was leading the boys on a wild goose chase reared its ugly
head. Perhaps the gamblers were out to scare the boys. Somehow that conclusion was not convincing.
The A&P structure was just over a kilometer away from the hardware store. The clerk had told me that the boys were about a
half hour ahead of me. Because I was passing my home, I crossed the highway to use my farspeaker.
Rich Stacy reported that no one had checked in yet. I briefed him of my progress and promised to call back after I had followed
the lead.
It was past four thirty when I approached the empty structure. For six years the building had sat in decay. Unlike the old
house, it was surrounded by woods, which made it a better ambush.
The sun had begun sinking toward the west, leaving an azure sky to contrast the colorful leaves still on the trees. I was
wearing a camouflage vest and a denim jacket to blend into the background. I decided to approach the building from the back
where there were no windows. A colonial furniture store adjacent to it had no windows facing that building. After nonchalantly
passing the structure, I left the sidewalk and went into the space between the buildings. Soon I was near the trash bin at
the bottom of the hill in back of the building. I sidled around the back to find nothing. Then I noticed steps leading to
a back door and descended them.
I almost rammed myself into the perpendicular wall when I applied over a hundred Newtons of force on the doorknob. It had
stuck slightly, but it had been unlocked. After scrutinizing my surroundings, I ducked inside.
Basement darkness greeted me. I closed my eyes to accelerate adjustment to the dimness while I shivered in the dampness. I
felt a pinprick in my nape before I opened my eyes. I pulled a dart out of my skin. My eyes could make out only the hypodermic
needle and the smell of the liquid as it dripped off the tip. Then I felt my balance leave me as I plummeted to the concrete
floor.
The next time I opened my eyes, I could barely make anything out in the dark. The coldness told me I was outside. Despite
the temperature in the single digits, I was not cold because I had found myself trussed and gagged. Someone had ingeniously
tied me to a tree with my arms and legs wrapped around the trunk. Such a position made it impossible for me to fish my knife
out of my back pocket.
A few meters was Allen and Darrell were similarly bound to trees. Allen, upon seeing I was conscious, began to signal frantically
with his eyes. I tilted my body to the right slightly to peer around the trunk. Near the tree sat a pointed rock. With Allen's
nonverbal signals, I moved my legs to the rock on the other side of the trunk. Laboriously I sawed the bonds. It took fifteen
minutes of trial and error before the rope broke.
The next part was difficult. I could not get my wrists to the same rock because the trunk was too wide to allow it. My only
recourse was to shin up the tree. About two meters up, the trunk was thin enough to allow me to get my knife out. That maneuver
took another half hour. When I finally could look at my watch, I saw it was nearly seven o'clock and dark.
I had just ungagged my mouth when I noticed the time. I threw the gag aside and began to loose Allen. I was freeing Darrell's
wrists when Allen began to explain.
"They lured us to that A&P building to keep us from interfering in the game."
"I think they'd succeeded," I remarked as I freed Darrell's ankles. "It's seven o'clock, and the game's nearly over."
"Worse," Allen frowned with disgust in his brown eyes. "We didn't get a chance to see our captors. They zapped us with darts,
and we found ourselves here with you. It was already sunset when I awoke to see you tied to that tree."
"I'd love to know what they were going to do with us after the game," Darrell intoned as he rubbed his wrists. "Shall we stay
and find out?"
"First I want to know where we are," I asserted. "Wait a minute. These woods look familiar."
We groped about a hundred meters in the dark to come upon a clearing. It was cloudy, but I did recognized where we were.
"We're in the university fields behind Atherton Street!" I explained. I led the boys out to the road. We began to traverse
a field. In the distance we could see incandescent light.
"That's Clever Stadium, about three kilometers away," I indicated.
"Great," Allen muttered. "It'll take us a good thirtyfive minutes to get there , even if we could go full speed through the
dark woods."
"I suspect we're too late anyway," I commented. "Let's go to my place. -- It's only a kilometer away. We can find out the
progress of the game and inform your dad in about fifteen minutes."
"We could make it ten in a good jog once we're out of the woods," Darrell suggested determinately.
"Great idea," Allen lauded. "Let's do it."
We powerwalked through the woods. About two hundred meters later, we broke into jogs as the dirt path gave way to the concrete
of East Aaron Drive. I could barely keep up with the boys as they friskily raced each other.
Less than ten minutes later, we were on my stoop. I flipped the key in the lock and turned on the radio, already tuned to
the station that broadcasted the State games. Allen grabbed the telephone receiver and called his dad. Darrell merely sat
on my bed, listening to both Allen on the telephone and the game on the radio.
My fears materialized when the station broadcasted music instead of the game. A few minutes later, the announcer repeated
the Syracuse 24-10 victory. The bookies must have cleaned up, I thought. Upon hearing the score, the boys decided to walk
home. The gamblers had won again. The next two games were at Alabama and West Virginia. I began to plan for a showdown on
5 November when Maryland came to State College.
The night before the West Virginia game was an Astronomy Club Open House. Because it was the Friday before Halloween, many
of the members agreed to dress for the occasion. Also some of the public stopped by from Halloween parties. I came clothed
in either soldier or hunter's gear, depending on how one calls it. One of our members came dressed as death incarnate and
wandered around the parapet of the roof of Davey Lab.
Near the end of the time we had allotted the event, the gamblers sent me a message. It was just past ten o'clock, when our
event had an hour left. There were three observatories on the roof. One of them we did not have open to the public. However,
we had the door to the observatory ajar to run a power cord out on the roof to the clockdrive of one of our Celestron telescopes.
About ten to ten, I was bavarding with Scott, a MacGyver lookalike at the very same Celestron when Joe Vicker, the club president,
called out from an adjacent observatory.
Eric Filbert, who was standing nearby, grabbed our attention by yelling, "Fire!". Scott and I had heard Joe's calls, but it
had been unintelligible.
About two meters away, smoke was pouring out of the observatory. I beat everyone there first and felt a cold door. When I
pulled it open, there was no heat. My flashlight beams uncovered shreds of smoke wafting from the floor. -- It was a smoke
bomb.
"What kind of nonsense is this?" Eric sneered disgustedly.
I pulled the door around to let out the smoke, which was dissipating from the dying bomb. I reached into the structure to
pick up the dud as Scott reported from behind me "What's this paper?"
I whirled to shine my flashlight on the object. On the observatory door in red letters on a white paper were the words:
"Król:
Get off our case."
"Oh, great," a voice familiar to me said.
"Darrell?"
"Yeah, George," Darrell affirmed my surmise. "We arrived five minutes ago. Someone must have been following us."
"It was a sottise," Allen agreed. "Maybe if we had dressed up, they wouldn't have noticed us."
"It does reveal something to us," I added. "They must have investigated me enough to know I am in the Astronomy Clue. From
now on, we'd better be more careful."
 The boys and I watched our step the following week to the Maryland game. Ray told me the Friday night before the game that
the touchdown spread was holding sway downtown.
"Maybe the gamblers are planning to throw the game anyway, but they like the odds too much to change them," I hypothesized.
"Impossible," Ray refuted. "Then they should slant the odds, it would show locally. They cannot control nationwide betting,
so the spread would still show the halfway point of the bets -- that is, the odds replace the mean of all the bets. The average
bettor thinks State would beat Maryland by a touchdown."
"Drat," I mildly denounced. "My friends will be here for the Pitt game in two weeks, and I thought I'd have this case solved
by then."
"Well," Ray commented. "There's no reason why you can't go to the game tomorrow to watch for something fishy."
The boys and I watched our step the following week to the Maryland game. Ray told me the Friday night before the game that
the touchdown spread was holding sway downtown.
"Maybe the gamblers are planning to throw the game anyway, but they like the odds too much to change them," I hypothesized.
"Impossible,
Ray refuted. "They they should slant the odds, it would show locally. They cannot control nationwide betting, so the spread
would still show the halfway point of the bets -- that is, the odds replace the mean of all the bets. The average bettor thinks
State would beat Maryland by a touchdown."
"Drat," I mildly denounced. "My friends will be here for the Pitt game in two weeks, and I thought I'd have this case solved
by then."
"Well," Ray commented. "There's no reason why you can't go to the game tomorrow to watch for something fishy."
I did my usual maneuvers, and the boys kept a close watch on the bench. Nothing appeared unusual, and State won by the predicted
touchdown, 17-10.
It made no sense to me until I realized that Patrico had put a new quarterback, Lon Lancegren, in. Patrico had announced the
day before that Lancegren would be his starting quarterback from then to the end of the season.
We knew they were going to strike again, for the gamblers had continued to harass us. I figured the only sure way to expose
their actions was to depend upon Ray to keep track of the local odds on the game.
The day before the Pitt game, Friday the Eighteenth, began with no promise of progress. The boys and I kept a remote watch
on Lancegren when he was in State College. We made a calculated decision not to follow him to the Notre Dame game on the assumption
that the local gamblers would not make their move in Indiana.
I did not have a radio show the evening before a home game for the first time. I had to contact Ray telephonically. Ray aroused
my soupçon immediately when I discovered another six point gap in the spread between the national and the local odds. I called
Rich at his office to pass a message to watch Lancegren that night.
After work I kept a distant watch on the Lancegren apartment while waiting for his return. There had been no indication that
the gamblers had contacted him. He arrived after four and then left for the final practice. I called the boys so that they
could keep an unsuspicious watch on Lancegren while I returned to the places I had been the weekend of the Syracuse game for
clues. The old house had fallen down, so I explored the former A&P store.
Allen and Darrell followed Lancegren from a block's distance. Patrico had ended football practice at six o'clock under the
lights of Cleaver Stadium. In the darkness the Stacy boys had little trouble following Lancegren to and from his apartment
from a close distance.
"Why do you suppose Lancegren left his apartment so quickly," Darrell wondered.
"I don't know, but if he should get into a car, we'd lose him," Allen replied.
Fortunately for the boys, Lancegren merely walked with a rapid gait. He continued along Cleaver Avenue, oblivious to his tails.
About four blocks later, the downtown area gave way to fewer buildings along the highway.
"If he should keep this path, he'd notice us," Allen observed. "I surely hope his destination is near."
Allen was still speaking when Lancegren took a sharp yaw into a junkyard. Darrell, in the lead, slipped behind some crushed
cars as Lancegren approached what appeared to be an office about thirty meters ahead. Hiding in the streetlight shadows, the
boys saw Lancegren entered the lit structure. Allen pulled out his binoculars and spied through an open window.
"I don't recognized anyone in there," Allen reported. "Let's get closer to hear what's happening."
Nearest the office were some cars, apparently on blocks. Allen and Darrell ducked behind the farthest one from the office
about ten meters away.
"I'll sneak in more closely," Darrell stated. "While you keep a watch on their body language."
Allen nodded as Darrell left him.
Allen's view commanded a fine place to observe. Allen wished he could read lips, but he read the body language enough to get
the gist of the conversation.
A weaselly, short fellow was arguing with Lancegren. The arguer wanted Lancegren to do something from the way he thrusted
his right index finger in the air. Lancegren was definitely unconvinced. His frown and supercilious air suggested it. Apparently
Lancegren began shouting at the man and finally stormed out toward the boys. Allen hoped Darrell could hear the end of the
altercation.
Darrell had just reached the nearest car. He entered the chassis from the dark side just in time to hear the office door open.
Lancegren was shouting something that no one threatened him. After he slammed the door, Lancegren ceased talking. Nonetheless,
Darrell smiled because their surmise had been right; the gamblers were trying to throw the final game through the quarterback.
Darrell was about to egress when a grinding noise alerted him to danger. A violent, upward jerk threw him on the floor. Darrel
realized that the chassis had become airborne because the floor pushed him. Fortunately, the door from whence he had come
unhooked and hanged freely, allowing him to crawl back on the seat, around the steering wheel and out the chassis.
Darrell fell nearly two meters to the ground from an ascending chassis. His legs decelerated the impulse, and he rolled under
another chassis alee the office. Then he crawled toward Allen.
Allen nearly went into an epileptic fit when he saw the crane pick up the chassis. He had seen Darrell enter it not a minute
before in his binoculars. Because Lancegren had just stormed out of the office, Allen did not see Darrell escape. Hence he
felt absolutely helpless as the crane dropped the chassis into a crusher. The grinding noises were tearing his gut when Darrell
appeared from around the car that Allen was using as a shield to the office.
Wordlessly they hugged. Then Darrell motioned that he did procure information, and they sneaked out of the junkyard.
Lancegren was a full hundred meters ahead. The boys quickened their pace as they planned strategy.
"One of us will have to tell George about this junkyard," Allen noted. "I am quite curious to know who owns it."
"Okay," Darrell concurred. "I'll telephone George while you watch Lancegren. He might get another call before the night is
over."
Such was not the case. The lights in Lancegren's apartment were out in an hour. after fifteen more minutes, Allen and Darrell
furtively visited the apartment. They could hear Lancegren's snoring from the door as they stood in the hallway.
"It's time to go home," Allen muttered. "We'll need the rest because tomorrow's going to be a very busy day."
I had done a through search of the former grocery store along Atherton Street. I could find nothing in the dilapidated structure
to indicate that the gamblers had been there. I did feel a hylozoistic sense that the ambushers chose this place to catch
us for some reason. I recalled that the basement door had been unlocked when I first investigated the place. I had been difficult
to open, which suggested that it had been locked for a long time, perhaps since 1982. I could not conceive that the neighborhood
urchins would beave an unlocked door of a vacant building alone that long.
I shone my flashlight along the doorjamb. There were no signs of forced entry, yet the other doors of the building were still
locked. After I found no evidence of lock picking, I knnw there was only one conclusion left. Softly pulling the door behind
me closed, I ascended the stairs and headed for home.
As I booted up my computer, I called the Stacy residence. It was just past nine o'clock, so I was not surprised that Allen
and Darrell had not returned. I told Rich I'd call again at eight the next morning.
I tapped into the town files and found out the owner of the A&P lot. A local businessman named Daniel Jayforth had leased
it to the grocery chain. Since 1982, it had been virtually unmaintained property. I digested the material and retired for
that night.
I awoke at six that Saturday morning, too early to do anything but morning routine. After my run, shower, breakfast, and paper,
it was about eight, so I began serious business.
Allen and Darrell were already into serious business. Lon Lancegren left his complex just after eight o'clock. The Stacys
had to keep farther behind in broad daylight. Still Lancegren reran his nonchalant gait. The boys' mandibulae fell when Lancegren
walked into the municipal building!
The very fact that the building was open on a Saturday morning was intriguing enough. With Allen in the lead, the boys inched
their way down the corridor.
Lancegren had gone to the district attorney's office. The boys crept to the glass in the door. Although the glass was opaque,
they could hear the altercation.
"I'm telling you for the last time, Lancegren," Meese yelled in a harsh voice. "You play ball with us for this one game, and
I'll lay off."
"I don't trust you, Meese. Once I throw a game, you have another reason to keep me under your thumb. Neither you not Jayforth
will boss me around!"
Lancegren's opaque shadow approached the door, so the boys ducked into a nearby restroom. Allen had his ear pressed to the
door. When he heard Lancegren's footfalls fade into the corridor, he sighed with relief.
Allen opened the door a crack and motioned Darrell to follow. No sooner had they entered the corridor when a voice from the
front broke the tension.
"What're you kids doing here?" a rather large man nearly screamed at them. Apparently he had been in the vestibule of the
front doors when Allen had scanned for anyone present in the corridor.
With the front exit unavailable, Allen and Darrell backed up. The man looked as tall and menacing as they could imagine. He
accelerated at them while a voice from behind yelled, "Get them, Lurch!"
The boys pirouetted to the gaze of the district attorney. Coming out of his office was a taller and darker man they'd never
seen. Darrell had had thoughts of a counterrush at Lurch, but both brothers saw another chance at escape. About ten meters
toward the rear was an open staircase. They rushed toward it, but it only led up to the third floor.
Their three pursuers never fell more than ten meters behind them. They fled to another stairway to the roof, but the door
leading to the escape was locked! Neither had a lock pick, nor the time to pick the lock. Lurch appeared at the end of the
hall.
"Get them, Lurch. There's no escape!"
With no other option, the boys slipped inside the nearest room and loped to the window. Their expressions turned melancholy
as they stared at the bars across the window!
Lurch was already in the doorway, awaiting Meese to catch up Meese showed his catbird smile as he looked into the room.
I called the Stacys at eight as I had promised. Jennifer answered and relayed the adventure that Allen and Darrell had had
in the junkyard.
"Did they mention the name of the junkyard?" I asked after ingesting the information.
I overheard their telling Dad it was called simply 'Dan's Salvage'," Jennifer relayed. "Does that mean anything?"
"Just a minute. I'll find out," I stated as my fingers danced on the keyboard. "This is very interesting," I said with raised
eyebrows. "A Daniel Jayforth owns Dan's Salvage, the very same owner of the defunct A&P establishment. "
"What does that mean?" Jennifer wondered.
"It means I have a lead," I replied dryly. "Unfortunately the municipal building is closed today, so I don't know what to
do with this information. I just crossreferenced on the computer and came up with nothing."
"So what do you plan to do?" Jennifer queried.
"If I paid Mister Jayforth a visit this morning, I'd be liable to tip our hand. That leaves us with the game as our objective.
I think I'll ask the coach about this fellow and maybe someone on the team will let the cat out of the bag. Tell your dad
to meet me near the team. I'm going to take a look at Dan's Salvage in broad daylight. My friends will be here around noon.
I have a sense that they're going to see more than a game."
I grabbed my binoculars and headed for the junkyard. As I casually passed Dan's Salvage, I peered into the property as inconspicuously
as possible. I contemplated a ruse, but I wanted to get a good look at the place first. Because the trees were bare, I had
little cover for spying. I finally found a ridge and proceeded to survey.
After two hours, I was positive that nothing was happening in the junkyard. It was ten thirty, and I had to leave. No one
appeared to be on the property, so I decided to get a closer look.
Coming from behind, I came upon an unlocked fence. Proceeding cautiously, I walked to the office. I had a velleity to search
inside, but I realized someone was watching me. I feigned a physical aporia and left. I was sure that Jayforth had been observing
me from inside the office. All I had to do was one unlawful act, and he'd have Meese on me. I also suspected that the attack
on the car in which Darrell had been was no confidence. Maybe I could cinch the case if Jayforth showed up at the game. The
boys could reveal his presence.
"What'll we do with these kids?" Lurch said as gagged the boys. They were trussed to chairs in the office of the district
attorney.
"I don't care what you do to them," the other man said to Meese. "I want Król, and this game's my chance. Let's go!"
"I suppose we can decide later," Meese mused. "First I want to get paid a big tip as a public servant."
"We'll be back to tell you the score," Lurch laughed as he closed and locked the door.
The wheels had been turning under Allen's dark hair. His brown eyes swept the desk. In a cardboard cylinder sat a few sharp
objects. As he decided to go for the letter opener, Allen realized how he would get to the desk. He began to rock the chair
until he pulled it forward enough to stand up. Keeping his center of mass as low as possible, he began to vacillate and sidled
to the desk.
Because he was bodily tied to the chair, Allen couldn't reach the cylinder. Using his nose, he pushed a book toward it, knocking
the cylinder over. Darrell, who had worked himself over to the other side of the desk, tried to catch the opener. It hit the
window ledge on the sill. Darrell zigzagged to it and soon had it in his right hand. Laboriously he sawed the bonds using
the opener invertedly. Once he had his right wrist free, he found he couldn't get his forearm free. He had to back up to
Allen and to begin cutting Allen's right arm free. Then he freed Allen's right wrist and gave the opener to Allen. Allen pulled
off his gag and smiled at his brother.
"Remind me to bring you on all of my cases" he said as he freed his left side.
Soon the boys were standing in front of the locked door. Allen stared at the barrier while Darrell returned to the desk and
obtained a card. Darrell slipped the card into the lock, and the lock opened.
"Where'd you learn to do than?" Allen asked in awe.
"I'll never tell," Darrell averred facetiously. "Besides, we'd better get to the game. It's already one thirty."
Keith, Joe, and I arrived at Cleaver Stadium without incident and totally unaware of the peripeteia awaiting us.
Keith and Joe were pleasantly surprised at the box seats, but I was unpleasantly surprised that the Stacys were absent from
the bench. Unfortunately, I discovered their absence as the game was was starting. Rich, who was with us shortly thereafter,
went to a phone.
"Jennifer reported that the boys haven't called since they left over five hours ago," he relayed to us.
"How can that be?" I asked rhetorically. "Weren't they following Lancegren?" I stretched out an arm. "Lancegren is out there!"
"The only way we're going to uncover anything is to question Lancegren during halftime," Rich advised. "They may have been
delayed and would show up before halftime."
As we watched the game proceed through the first quarter, I kept my surveillance of anything suspicious in the stands. Lancegren
could not break through the Pitt defense. From my observation, I could see that he was not throwing the game. There were no
near interceptions, and the Pitt defenders kept him under pressure. The blockers were simply unable to do their job well.
It was the same thing when Tarsus missed a field goal.
The second quarter opened with no score. I stared at my watch; it was past one thirty. I told my friends to enjoy the game
and that I would return. Rich, seeing my anxiety, joined me. He caught up to my gait and spoke.
"George, don't worry so much about them. They'll turn up."
"Maybe," I answered. "But I must do something. The Angst drives me."
"Okay," Rich agreed. "We'll survey the stadium and meet at the box when halftime begins."
Having a method of letting off steam worked fine for me. Unsuccessfully I moped back to my seat as the second quarter ended.
Then the peripeteia began.
As the teams left the field, I climbed over the barrier to talk to Patrico. I was just about to call to him when I heard Darrell
yell, "Look out!"
Everyone turned first to Darrell as he loped towards us, then to Allen, who shouted behind us, "Duck they're in the mezzanine!"
The sound of a shot exploded out of the stands. I dove behind the tarp as a bullet ricocheted off a nearby object. I crawled
toward the lockerrooms. When I reached Darrell, we sprinted off the field. From our view we saw no one had been hit.
"They were after you!" Darrell explained.
"The gamblers?" I gasped.
"No, some crazy tall and dark guy accompanying Meese."
"Renchberg," I intoned. Images of the time he had nearly executed me five years ago invaded my mind. It had nearly been perfect.
I was perched atop an electric chair trying to stop the electrocution of Michael Keller, the fall guy in the murder trial.
"The real question is where Renchberg is now," I said as we walked into the lockerromm. Patrico stared at us incredulously.
"Coach, do you know anyone named Daniel Jayforth?" I continued.
"I do," Lancegren boke the silence. "I told him and Meese to bug off."
"That was your mistake, " Meese interrupted from the other entrance to the lockerroom. "It was also Darrell's mistake to interfere
in our plans."
"Never mind the kids," Renchberg broke in. "I want Król now!"
"Now, Bill, we don't want a bloodbath in here. Let's wait until we get outside," Meese said slyly.
"I want Król now," Renchberg repeated while revealing an Uzi submachine gun. "I've waited five years -- oof!"
Allen had sneaked around the tunnel to land a kick to the back of Renchberg's knees. He had almost plummeted, and dropped
the Uzi. Meese turned to punch Allen in the face, but Darrell had leaped the two meters to crash onto him.
Renchberg reached to grab the Uzi, but I kicked it behind him and into the hall. Renchberg jumped on me, sending me backwards.
As I slammed onto the floor, Renchberg tried to strangle me. Using the floor as a lever, I landed a right roundhouse into
his jaw. One of the players grabbed Renchberg from behind. He rammed the player into the lockers. By this time, Allen had
the Uzi, so Renchberg fled.
"Don't let him escape!" I coughed.
Darrell had already let the room. Allen threw the Uzi aside and whizzed past me as I arose.
A few of the players joined the chase. Rich and my buddies tried to cut Renchberg off at the fifty-yard line. Keith just missed
a leg tackle, but Renchberg was now on the sidelines. Incredibly the stadium seemed staid as the spectators gawked at us.
The football players, with their heavy gear, soon gave up the chase. By the time Renchberg left the stadium, only Rich, Keith,
Joe, Allen, Darrell, and I were in pursuit. As we passed the parking lot, Rich jumped into his car. It was a bad gamble, because
Renchberg jumped into an area where we had to pursue on foot!
Keith, Allen, and Darrell had almost caught up to Renchberg. I accelerated my pace and began to gain ground also. I was still
ten meters away when Allen ran up a rock and jumped on Renchberg. Renchberg deftly flipped Allen over his shoulders and sent
him into a bush. The exertion momentarily slowed Renchberg enough to allow Keith another attempt at a leg tackle. This time
Renchberg collided with the ground, but before any of us could do anything, he turned the tables.
Keith had rolled about two decimeters from Renchberg. He lay supinely momentarily as he could feel the bruises. Renchberg
wasted no time and unsheathed a knife from his rolled-up pants leg. We stopped dead in our tracks as Renchberg rolled over.
Keith was just about to get up when he felt the cold steel on his neck. Then Renchberg used his other arm for a headlock.
"Alright, dark little guy," Renchberg snarled. "Hold still, and maybe you'll live."
"Stop where you are," Renchberg yelled superfluously. "I'm taking your buddy as hostage!"
Keith could feel the pressure against his jugular vein. His hazel eyes saw his friends' standing helplessly as Renchberg dragged
him into the woods. Once they were out of sight, Renchberg simply said, "Good night, little man."
Keith felt his head swell as he lost consciousness.
"Some Thanksgiving this turned out to be," I wondered aloud.
"George," Joe reminded. "He'll turn up somewhere."
"Alive or dead?"
"He could still be alive after five days,"
"You don't know Renchberg. He hates me so much that he'd probably kill Keith as slowly as possible."
It seemed that nothing had gone right. Pitt had won the game, 14-7., sending State to its first losing season since 1936.
Moreover the gamblers had won their crooked deeds.
Although we caught Meese, Renchberg had escaped. No one knew how, but we suspected a private helicopter had whisked him out
of the area. There was more uncertainty concerning Keith. No one had seen him since we watched Renchberg drag him into the
woods. We found no trace of him in those woods.
Reardan had invited us to join him for a Thanksgiving dinner at the mansion of the university president. It was a somber occasion
because of the circumstances. Reardan, understanding my anguish, invited me to talk about the case over cocktails as we awaited
dinner.
"How did you make the nexus between Meese and the gamblers?" Reardan broached.
"Actually I never did until we met in the lockerroom. I probably would have done so had I been able to trace Danforth to him,"
I admitted.
"We had no clue about this connection either," Allen continued. "It was only when we followed Lancegren to the office of the
district attorney did we have any inkling why Meese had been so heavy handed on us."
"Have we uncovered how the gamblers blackmailed the players?" Reardan asked.
"It was a case of success's begetting greed," I answered. "When Renchberg and his cohorts went to jail for blackmailing the
professors in 1983, the nefarious group remained cohesive enough to go into another illegal activity. Meese was the catalyst
for the local gambling syndicate.
"Once the syndicate obtained the information that the starting quarterback, Bill Thomas, had hidden the fact that he was once
a juvenile delinquent in West Virginia, Meese invented the plan to throw the games. Then they used Thomas to lure the others
in and relayed any closet skeletons of these players.
"The biggest mistake of the syndicate was to slant the odds locally. Meese could not control his greed and that led to signal
me when the push was on."
"Meese didn't have to slant the odds, but he had such avarice he thought he couldn't get caught. It never occurred to him
that he was signaling anyone who checks that he was blackmailing the team," Darrell added. "It should have occurred to us
that the authorities were involved in the deals."
"Why?" Reardan followed.
"Because the national gamblers did not protest. After all, Meese was sucking out some of their profits, yet they did not attempt
to stop him from slanting the odds!" Allen catenated.
"I must admit you kids have courage," I lauded. "You surely taught me something when you rushed out on the field under the
gun."
"Well," Allen said with a wink. "Maybe we'll need you on our next case."
"What was Renchberg's role in this?" Reardan asked us.
"Here's where it makes no sense," Joe replied. "His sole purpose was to get revenge on George."
"Excuse me," Reardan interrupted when he saw a signal. "I think dinner is ready."
Reardan left the room for a minute and returned visibly perturbed. He stood at the doorway and announced they'd found Keith!
It was only a halfhour drive up to the Nittany Mountains to the spot where they'd found Keith. The sheriff met out car. As
I alit the vehicle, the sheriff said, "I'm sorry, Mister Król. We think Cahill is dead."
"What makes you think Keith's dead?" Joe blurted the obvious question.
"We found his jacket, his wallet, and at least a half liter of blood on the cliff. Without a body we can't tell if he had
been shot or stabbed."
"So you didn't find a body," I repeated hopefully. "Did you check to find out whether the blood is human?"
"I'm awaiting the results," the sheriff said as he guided us to the site. It surely looked as if Keith had spent his last
minutes on earth there. From the scuffle marks, it appeared Renchberg -- perhaps climbing the mountain to make an escape in
the very helicopter we suspected -- decided to unburden himself of this hostage. On the ground lay a comb, an inverted wallet,
and Keith's ripped, cerulean jacket. A meter away from the jacket was a drop of nearly a hundred meters.
"Sheriff," a voice cried. "We found the getaway car!" We raced around the bend to a tattered tan stationwagon. Rope lay in
the backseat with some cutout letters. Renchberg was going to ransom Keith!
"Apparently Renchberg eluded us enough to get into this wagon," the sheriff state. "Then he stopped here and went to climb
the mountain to escape. He had no need for Cahill."
"I'm sorry," Joe said with his right arm on my right shoulder. We embraced in the knowledge.
"I'm sorry, too", the sheriff added. "I just received a bulletin. The blood is human."
"I suppose it's useless to ask if it'd be Keith's type," I vocalized. "How long have your men been looking below for Keith?"
"George," Joe broke in. "Let's stop the sadomasochism and go back to Doctor Reardan's house."
"Well," the Sheriff answered uncertainly. "We won't risk a rappelling crew unless the helicopter crew should spot the body.
It's been over an hour since the helicopter came here. I'm afraid we may never find your friend's body."
I wished I could have taken Keith's paraphernalia, but they needed them for evidence. There were no living relatives to notify,
because both parents were dead, and so were his siblings. Joe and I were his surrogate brothers.
That night I looked through those happy times when Keith was with us buddies. Joe went back to Wilkes-Barré, and they never
found Keith's body nor Renchberg. It was a terrible loss at the time, but it gave seed to better times in 1989.
|
