J.M.J.

Chapter XIII

Tuesday, May 4

Day Four

"Are you sure you didn't see anything about his face, Phil?" There was practically a pleading look in Joe's eyes.

Regretfully, Phil shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, but it was half dark and he had on a hood on. To be honest, I can't even swear that it was a he and not a she."

"That's all right," Lieutenant Durant said. "It's only going to help if you tell us what you saw, not what we want you to see."

Fenton, Frank, and Joe had driven to Southport early that morning. They had been planning to anyway, but when Phil had called to tell them about his adventure the night before, it made their resolve even firmer. It was about mid-morning now and, along with Phil and Tony, they were gathered in Lieutenant Durant's office. The knife that Phil had found had already been sent to the state police for forensic testing, and Phil had just finished describing the events of the night before one more time.

"There's no evidence anyway that the knife and the person that Phil saw had anything to do with the so-called 'Southport Slayer,'" Lieutenant Durant went on.

"Yeah, yeah," Joe said. "We've heard that tune before. But seriously, lieutenant, how many murderers do you have running around this town?"

"Who says anyone murdered somebody with that knife?" Durant interjected.

"It had blood all over it," Joe retorted, keeping his calm with difficulty. In his mind, there could be no real doubt that the person Phil had seen was the killer. He didn't know why the killer would turn up at Phil dorm, of all places, but that would be explained once they caught the fellow. Since hearing about the knife, Joe was more impatient than ever to do so. He knew that if the blood had come from the source he feared it had, their search was already too late, but somehow he felt that it would help if they hurried.

"There are other possible reasons for that," Durant maintained. "The person could have cut themselves with it by accident. It wasn't exactly what I'd call covered in blood. Then, too, we don't know for sure yet that it was human blood or blood at all."

"You know, I've been thinking," Phil said suddenly. "I mean, like I said, I didn't see the guy's face, but have a feeling I know who it was and where the blood came from. I think it was a guy who lives in the dorms named Rhett. You remember him, Tony? The creepy guy?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah, the one that asked all the questions about Allison. Why him?"

"Well, just before I saw the guy, I was talking to Rhett's roommate. He said that Rhett had been missing all of the night before last. Then, too, Rhett's kind of a slender, not super tall guy, and that's the impression I got of the person I saw."

"That's pretty vague," Fenton told him. "Do you have anything more definite than that?"

"No, not really," Phil admitted. "It's more of a hunch, I guess. But he was terribly interested in Allison. What if he's the guy who attacked her on Saturday? Didn't Mario get cut? The blood on the knife blade could be his."

Durant rubbed his chin. "It's about a one in a thousand chance, but it's worth looking into. I'll see if Mario would be willing to do a DNA comparison with the blood on the knife. Does this Rhett person have a last name?"

"I'm sure he does, but I never heard what it was," Phil replied.

"Me, neither," Tony added, as a few glances shifted to him.

"It shouldn't be too hard tracking him down anyway," Durant said. "Well, Mr. Hardy, what are you planning to do now?"

"I was hoping that you would let the boys and me take a look at your old files from the Tara Michaels case," Fenton replied. "We think there might be a connection."

"It could be," Durant admitted. "Chief Osmund already said that you could have anything you needed, so I'll have someone pull those out for you. If you find anything, let me know."

Before long, the Hardys were sitting down in another room of the police headquarters to look through the files. Phil and Tony would have stayed, but they both had to go to classes and Fenton insisted that they didn't skip them.

"It's bad enough that both of you are skipping school," Fenton commented after they had gone.

"Yeah," Frank replied, thinking of his impending finals the following week. At least, he told himself, they were sure to find Iola before then and he wouldn't have to worry about potentially missing any finals.

Joe had completely missed the exchange. He was already absorbed in reading the material in the file. Fenton and Frank quickly joined him and they were silent for a few minutes as they read.

"Hey," Frank said after a little while. "It says here that Tara was majoring in journalism and that she mentioned to one of her co-workers that she was working on a big, freelance story that she was going to try to sell to the Southport Chronicle."

"So?" Joe asked.

"So maybe that story had something to do with what happened to her. It doesn't sound like the police thought so, since it was just jotted down as a note, but they obviously missed something in their investigation."

Fenton nodded, following Frank's train of thought. "If that story got published, that could shed some light on this case, and if it didn't, someone at the Chronicle might still know something about it."

"I'm all for following up any clues that we find, but I sure hope that Kelly Alston doesn't try to write another story about us," Joe said.

"I'll do my best to avoid her," Fenton told him. "Which will be easier to do if I'm the only one who goes. Anyway, we'll get more done if you two stay here and keep working on these files."

Frank and Joe agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly. It wasn't likely that there would be much excitement at the newspaper office, but it was a little more likely than here in a police station, reading through files. Nevertheless, their dad was right, and if they wanted to solve this mystery as quickly as possible, this was the way to do it.

After Fenton had left, Joe tried to concentrate on the paper he was reading, but all he could seem to see was Iola tied up somewhere dark and cold, frightened, maybe hurt, maybe even…Joe shook his head, but couldn't resist letting out a long sigh.

Frank looked up at him curiously. "What is it?"

"It's just…it's been four days already. Do…do you really think there's any hope? I mean, the kidnapper has never given us any proof of life and that knife…"

"It doesn't necessarily mean anything," Frank cut him off. "Like Lieutenant Durant said, there are other explanations for the blood on it."

Joe scoffed. "You didn't really buy any of his explanations, did you? Someone would have had to get cut pretty bad to leave that much blood on the blade. No, he's still treating us like civilians and not giving us the whole story."

"That's probably because we are civilians." Frank set the file down. "Look, Joe, I know this is extra rough on you. Iola's my very good friend, but she's more than that to you, and I understand if this has you wound up…"

"Oh, you've never had a serious girlfriend, Frank. What do you know about it?"

"Well, I…" Frank paused, weighing his words carefully. "That doesn't mean I've never cared about anyone that way before."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You mean Callie?"

Frank felt his face growing warm. He didn't realize that Joe had guessed about that and he didn't know what to say. That must have been answer enough because Joe shook his head.

"This is different than that. You've only known Callie a couple of years and you obviously don't care enough to have even asked her out yet. I've known Iola my whole life…and I can't imagine my life without her." Joe furiously tried to dash a tear away from his eye.

Frank glanced at the floor. This wasn't a typical conversation with his brother. In fact, they scarcely ever talked about things like this. Oh, sure, they would tease each other about girls, but they didn't usually talk so seriously about matters of feelings. Then, too, Frank couldn't help being just a little bit stung by Joe's comment that he didn't care so much about Callie. He cared about her more than Joe could obviously imagine. If this was Callie in the hands of a maniac instead of Iola…

"Yeah, I know," Frank said softly. "We'll find her. And, Joe, I can imagine what this is like better than you think, even if imagining is all that I can do."

Joe pretended to scratch his nose so that hopefully Frank wouldn't notice that he was actually wiping away some more tears. He cleared his throat to rid his voice of any huskiness and then said, "Okay. Sorry. I just…Anyway, let's get back to work."

Frank nodded and went back to reading without another word.

HBHBHBHBHB

The office of the Southport Chronicle was small and rundown. Fenton had expected that; it seemed to be the way everything was in Southport. He was greeted by a woman somewhat past middle age at the front desk. Her name tag identified her as Jen.

"I have a somewhat unusual request," Fenton told her. He showed her his identification. "I was wondering if there was anyone still here who might remember a young woman named Tara Michaels who may have written a freelance article for the Chronicle back in 1993."

"That's a lot of mights," Jen replied with a friendly smile. "I don't remember for sure, but that name does sound familiar."

"She was murdered on December 12, 1993."

A light of recognition flashed in the woman's eyes. "That's right. It all comes back to me now. She was a journalism student, wasn't she?"

"That's right."

Jen looked away as she tried to remember, her eyes fixing absently on a vase with several white roses in it that were beginning to wither.

"What do you want to know about her?" she asked finally.

"I'm a private investigator," Fenton explained. "I'm trying to solve the case, if I can. I know she was planning on selling a freelance story to the paper. I was hoping you could tell me if she actually did."

"No. I remember her coming and talking to the editor about it. He turned her down. He said the story she was pitching was too sensational and the Chronicle didn't print things like that."

"You don't know what the article was about?"

"No, but it must have been something big. I had never seen Mr. Scheer—the editor, you know—so worked up about anything."

"Does Mr. Scheer still work here? Or maybe you know where I can get in touch with him?"

"One of those mediums would be about the only way you could," Jen replied. "Mr. Scheer passed on, oh, must have '94 or '95. It wasn't long after the whole thing with Tara Michaels."

Fenton frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. I don't suppose you know right off how he died?"

Jen raised an eyebrow. "You're not suggesting he was murdered or something? He had a heart attack. His heart had been troubling him for years."

"It was worth asking about, anyway. Is there anyone else still here who worked here then?"

"There are a few of us still hanging on. The others are reporters, though, and they're out in the field. I could take a message for them to contact you later if they remember anything."

"Thank you, but no. It would be better if…"

Fenton was cut off by the abrupt entrance of a woman in business clothes through the front door. She went right up to the front desk and, scarcely giving Fenton a glance, addressed the woman at the desk. "Say, Jen, do you know whose car that is out front? The gray Toyota?"

Fenton stiffened, recognizing the description of his own car.

"I don't know," Jen said. She looked at Fenton. "Maybe it's yours?"

"Why?" Fenton countered, turning toward the newcomer, who finally took notice of him. "Is it parked illegally?"

"I didn't think so," the woman said. "It didn't looked like anyone had dented a fender, either, so naturally I was curious when I noticed an envelope stuck under the windshield wiper. I'm a journalist, you see. Terminal curiosity is an occupational hazard."

"I'm sure it's nothing important." Fenton nodded to Jen. "Thank you for your help." Then he headed out the door.

To his annoyance, the other woman followed him. He was starting to have a feeling who she was, which only increased after he took the envelope off the windshield and put it in his pocket.

"Aren't you going to read it?" the woman asked.

"Like I said," Fenton responded coolly, "I doubt it's anything important. I'll read it later."

"What do you think it is?" the woman insisted.

Fenton tried to disguise his annoyance that the woman wouldn't let the subject go. "Probably a love letter from a secret admirer. I'll have to try to tell her that I'm already happily married. I don't suppose you'd know any eligible bachelors I could steer her towards? Eh. No, you wouldn't. I haven't met the man yet who finds a permanent smirk an attractive feature on a woman's face."

The woman's smirk faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered herself. "Why don't you read it and give me the lady's name? I might be able to help her out."

"I doubt she'd want her personal affairs proclaimed to the whole world. After all, your name is Alston, isn't it?"

"Impressive. And yours is Hardy?"

"Considering my secret admirer put my last name on the envelope, that doesn't take any great detective skills to figure out." Fenton nodded to her once more and then climbed into his car. He could see Kelly Alston watching him in annoyance through his rearview mirror, so he didn't stop to read the message until he was well out of sight. The contents were exactly what he was expecting: a single sheet of paper with the date May 15, 1998 printed on it.

HBHBHBHBHB

Iola looked at her fingers, wrinkling her forehead as she tried to think. Whatever that guy had used to knock her out when he grabbed her was nasty stuff. It had taken a long time to completely recover from it. That was where Iola had lost track of time. She knew that this was the second day since she had really woken up, but how long had she been a prisoner before that? Certainly a day; maybe longer.

Finally, she sighed and gave up in disgust. It didn't really matter how long she had been there. The important thing was how was she going to get out? She thought about dragging herself across the floor to the door. She could pull herself up to unlock it and it look like it needed a key. From there, she just needed to scream for help until someone came and hope the kidnapper wouldn't be the first one to hear her. That shouldn't happen if today worked out like yesterday had. The kidnapper had been out all day and wouldn't have caught Iola if she had tried to escape then. Even so, there was no sense taking unnecessary risks. Maybe it would be better to wait and see if this was going to be the pattern.

On the other hand, maybe the kidnapper was planning on killing her sooner than later. Maybe it was this golden opportunity that she shouldn't risk. Then, all at once, she decided she needed to just do it. Gritting her teeth in determination, she heaved herself off the bed where she landed in a heap. It banged her shoulder, but she ignored that for now.

Then she began the painful process of scooting herself across the floor. It was harder than she thought it would be since she couldn't use her legs or feet at all. Even though her arms had gotten stronger since her accident, they were scarcely used to this kind of work. By the time she was halfway across the floor, she felt as if she was exhausted.

There was a little end table here, and she thought that if she could use it to pull herself a little ways, it might save her a bit of effort. She grabbed one of the legs, but the table wasn't as sturdy as she had thought it was and she only succeeded in pulling it over. A picture frame that had been resting on it came cascading down and when it hit the floor, it sent slivers of glass flying through the air. Iola scarcely had time to cover her face in her hands.

She hadn't lifted it again before she heard the door open and a voice she had grown to despise say, "What's this, love? Surely you don't think you can leave me."

Author's note: Once again, thank you so much for reading and especially for reviewing! I know I've been a little more sporadic about posting this one than I have in my past stories, so thank you for your patience! There will definitely be about twenty-five to twenty-six chapters in this story, so we're halfway there! I hope you're all having a great week. God bless!