J.M.J.
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Thanks especially to everyone who has left reviews! The next chapter will be up tomorrow. God bless!
June 28 – Wednesday
Frank was the first one up the next day. The others were still asleep, so he tried to open the trunk with the journals silently. He thought he was successful, but he suddenly found Joe at his elbow.
"You weren't thinking of solving the entire mystery without me, were you?" Joe teased him.
"There are plenty of journals for both of us to read here." Frank reached into the trunk and pulled out a handful. "Let's take them outside so we don't wake up the others."
Joe picked up the remaining journals and they took them outside. Dawn was just beginning, but it was light enough to read. The boys sat on the ground and laid out the books in front of them.
"We're not going to have much time to look at these before we need to start getting breakfast ready," Frank noted.
"Yeah, funny how much longer it takes to make breakfast when there's no fridge and no microwave," Joe said.
Frank chuckled softly and then turned his attention back to the journals. "I think we should try to get the whole story on Eli. That means we need to read these in chronological order."
"It looks like he dated all the entries, so that won't be hard to figure out." Joe started flipping the journals open and rearranging them into chronological order.
Reading the entries wasn't as easy as it sounded. Eli had used a difficult cursive and many of the pages had tears or stains in them. The Hardys could read and write in cursive—their mother had insisted it was an important skill to learn and they hadn't been too hard to convince when their dad had pointed out that detectives needed to be able to read all kinds of handwriting—but this was cramped and sloppy, even if the pages hadn't been damaged. That only made the first entry even longer and more tedious to read, and it would have been long and tedious enough in any case. Apparently, Eli had felt the need to begin his journal by writing his entire life story and hadn't seen any point in making it interesting.
They had barely worked their way through the first page without learning anything of importance except that Eli was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, on April 20, 1959, when Tony came out of the cabin and walked over toward them. He asked about their progress.
"It's slow," Joe replied dully. "Unless you want to know every minutia of Eli's life. I have a feeling we're going to get them all. Probably even how he placed in the third-grade spelling bee."
Tony chuckled. "I'll leave that to you. I'll be up the path a little bit if you need me. I still need to write down what happened yesterday."
"Don't forget the part with the snails," Frank told him with a grin.
"Uh, actually, you can forget about that." Joe shook his head. "I'm never going to hear the end of it, am I?'
Tony chuckled again, noncommittally this time, and continued on his way. Frank and Joe returned to the painful process of deciphering Eli's bad handwriting.
Phil was the next one to wake up, and he could see from the light that morning was well on its way. He shook first Chet awake and then Biff.
"Come on, guys. We've got to get breakfast," he told them.
The second sentence was the only thing that could have gotten Chet up. He hadn't thought the food they had brought on the long hike yesterday was sufficient, and then they hadn't even bothered with supper when they got back, so tired as he was, he was even more hungry. He scrambled out from under the mosquito netting. "Let's go!"
Biff covered his mouth with his hand as he yawned. "Where's everybody else?"
"Probably already getting breakfast while we've been sleeping half the morning," Phil replied.
"Nah," Chet said. "If I know the Hardys, they're already reading ol' Eli's journals and trying to solve the mystery."
Biff began pulling on his shoes. "Figures that if we had to get stranded on an island with the Hardys, there'd be a mystery on it."
"It isn't much of a mystery," Phil pointed out. Then he shrugged. "I guess it's something to think about besides being stuck, and we all need that. The rest of us can probably handle breakfast ourselves. Let's let them keep working at it."
Both Biff and Chet agreed with that plan. Then Biff volunteered to find Tony while Phil and Chet started breakfast. They met the Hardys as they came out the door, and although they seemed to feel a trifle guilty about letting their friends handle all the cooking, they were also grateful to be able to keep working on the mystery. They pointed out the direction that Tony had taken, and Biff went to look for him.
At the same time, Phil had picked up the shovel that was left in the "garden" and surveyed the potato plants. He hesitated, finding the motivation to start digging difficult to come by.
"What's the hold up?" Chet asked, pausing as he had already started picking mangoes from a nearby tree.
"I think I'm already tired of potatoes," Phil replied, still staring at the unappetizing plants.
"Well, that was fast," Chet teased him. "I guess we don't have to have potatoes every day, and maybe we shouldn't. If we're really going to be stuck here indefinitely, we don't want to run out."
"Right. And if we don't have potatoes and we don't have any fish caught, we don't actually have to cook breakfast at all," Phil said. "That sounds fine to me."
They found some bananas, which they both judged would be filling enough with the other fruit that they picked. When Tony and Biff arrived, they agreed that not having to wait while breakfast cooked was a good idea. The decision was relayed to the Hardys, who were perfectly willing to go along with it and took a break from their investigating to gather up some fruit. Then they all sat down while they ate and made plans for the day.
"If we're going to be here indefinitely, we need to fix this place up," Phil said. "I think we can do it with the tools that Eli left behind. It won't be a professional job by any means, but anything's better than having no door."
"We also need to cut back the vegetation around the cabin," Tony added. "There would be less to worry about from snakes that way."
"And get the garden more garden-like," Chet said. "We don't want everything in there choked out by other plants."
"Honestly, that should be one of our first priorities," Joe agreed. "Food is important, and we're going to want to keep as much variety as we can."
"I can't argue with that," Phil admitted.
There was more work than could be done in a single day or even a week, so they spent some time debating whether to divide forces or to all work on one project at a time. As they talked, Frank and Joe realized to their disappointment that these projects would have to take precedence over investigating Eli. They glanced at each other in a silent acknowledgement of the fact and then resigned themselves to it. They would find some time to think about the mystery during lunch breaks and after they quit for the night.
Tony knew the most about carpentry, followed by Phil, so they took on the door project, as well as looking for anything else in the cabin that needed fixed. The others drew straws for who would go fishing, and Biff was picked for that task. Then the Hardys and Chet went to work pulling up or cutting down all the plants in the garden area that weren't edible.
The gardening was long and monotonous, especially as the day grew hotter. They took several breaks throughout the day in addition to lunch, but Frank managed to keep the other two on task when they had rested long enough. Whenever they took a break, Frank and Joe would go straight to reading through Eli's journals. Chet took one glance at the difficult handwriting during their first break and decided to let the Hardys handle this.
"So, do you guys have it all figured out how those guys back in Hawaii made the whole murder disappear, or…" Chet asked after they had gotten back to the gardening work, pausing questioningly.
Joe shook his head. "We don't have anything to go on with that. I mean, I agree that I'd rather solve that one than just figure out what was going on with Eli if I had to choose, but on the Eli one, we've got plenty of clues right here. The murder case…I don't know."
"We're wondering if there really was a murder," Frank said.
Chet stared at him for a second.
"But we all saw the guy get killed!" Chet protested.
"You mean, we all thought we saw the guy get killed," Frank replied.
Chet folded his arms. "Come on, Frank; we weren't imagining things. And if we were, we wouldn't have all imagined the same thing."
"I'm not saying we were. What I'm saying is that maybe we misinterpreted what we saw. The Reese guy might not have been killed. I mean, there's no way to shoot a guy without there being blood, and there was no time for the blood to be cleaned up, but there was no blood."
"But there was shooting," Chet insisted.
"It could have been stun guns," Frank said. "That would explain why they were silent, and it was dark enough that I couldn't swear to it that they weren't stun guns."
"That's true," Joe agreed. "In that case, it was a kidnapping, not a murder. They must have had a really good reason for wanting him alive, considering they didn't seem too interested in leaving us that way."
"There are still a lot of questions, even if it was a kidnapping," Frank admitted. "And like you said, Joe, we don't have any way of finding out the answers. At least we can be sure Dad will figure it out."
"It'd be nice and all if your dad solved the case," Chet commented, "but I'd rather if he found us."
"He might," Joe said confidently. "I mean, he's not going to just assume we're dead and give up looking for us."
HBNDHBNDHB
It turned out that fixing the door was harder than either Phil or Tony had expected. It was cracked nearly all the way across and through. They would either have to build an entirely new door or find a way to patch it. It was an easy decision to make: without a much better selection of tools and materials, they wouldn't be able to start from scratch.
That meant that they had to find a piece of wood that they could use as a patch. They searched the cabin thoroughly, but they couldn't find anything, so they headed down to the beach to see if they could find any driftwood.
"It's going to be a terrible patch job, if we can even make it," Tony commented as they neared the beach.
Phil nodded. "But as long as there's a door, it's better than what we have."
"The patch isn't going to be the only problem with that," Tony pointed out. "We've also got to figure out hinges. It looked like Eli made some out of leather, and they're all rotten now. We'll have to think of something else to use."
That would no doubt be a problem. In fact, it seemed like a nearly unsolvable problem, and they were both a bit deflated when they reached the beach. Biff was still fishing and he reported having no luck yet. He also seemed discouraged.
There had to be some way to keep bolstering morale, Phil mused as he walked up and down the beach. It was only natural that this would be a dismal day, he acknowledged. They had all been clinging to the unlikely hope that they would find something that could help them get off the island on their exploration, and so having that one remaining small hope dashed was painful. They needed to find something to lighten the mood.
"Say, Tony, what day is it?" he asked at one point when he and Tony drifted closer to each other.
"It's Wednesday, the twenty-eighth."
Phil wrinkled his brow as he tried to calculate. "June has thirty days, so that means the Fourth of July must be less than a week away. We should plan out a way to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" Biff repeated incredulously. He was near enough to hear the conversation. "What do we have to celebrate?"
"We have the Fourth of July," Phil replied laconically.
Tony snickered and even Biff had to grin.
"Okay," Biff agreed, "but what can we really do? Obviously, we don't have any fireworks and we don't have any way to make desserts or have a barbeque and besides we eat outside all the time."
"We'll just have to get more creative then," Phil said.
HBNDHBNDHB
"What do you think this meeting is about?" Sam asked Fenton in a low voice as the men waited outside Lieutenant Hikialani's office.
Fenton watched the people inside the office through the glass door. Mark Larson was in there, talking to Hikialani, despite the lieutenant's implication that Larson didn't want to be officially involved in any of this. That might still be true, considering how unhappy Larson looked with his clenched jaw. "I don't know," Fenton said. He didn't add that he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't good news.
A few minutes later, a woman in professional clothes walked down the hallway. She glanced at Fenton and Sam and then went into Hikialani's office without knocking. The two men inside looked up at her, but they must have been expecting her because they stood up and all three of them shook hands.
Then Hikialani opened the door and called for the private detectives to come in. "This is Fiona Delmont from the FBI," he introduced the woman, adding the detectives' names for Agent Delmont's benefit.
"I'm glad to meet you," she said, shaking hands with each of them. Her manner was professional, but she sounded sincere when she added, "I'm very sorry about all this, Mr. Hardy."
"Thank you," Fenton said. "Is the FBI taking over this case?"
"We're considering it a kidnapping for now," Agent Delmont replied. "So, yes, the FBI does have jurisdiction. However, we will be cooperating with the local and state police in the investigation."
"I'm glad for the help," Fenton said.
"And we will appreciate your cooperation," Agent Delmont said crisply, but with a trace of apology in her voice. "Given the nature of the case and some of the factors involved, however, my orders are that there is to be no direct civilian involvement in the investigation. I'm sorry. I know that sounds strange, considering how many times you have worked with the FBI, Mr. Hardy, but those are my orders. If I had more information about why, I would give it to you."
Fenton tightened his jaw slightly. "It sounds like you already have a good idea who's responsible."
"She should," Larson added, his eyes narrowed. "They've only had eleven years to work on this."
"That's only assuming it is the same people involved, Mark," Hikialani reminded him.
Larson gave him a withering glance. "Is there any doubt about that?"
"Agent Delmont," Sam said, breaking into the debate, "you're not trying to imply that there isn't to be any official civilian involvement, are you?"
A shadow of a smile flickered over the woman's face before she resumed her emotionless expression. "Of course. While we can't dictate what a private citizen does as long as it's not illegal and doesn't obstruct our investigation, it's my orders to discourage any investigation whatsoever."
Sam turned to Hikialani. "Your orders are the same, I assume, Lieutenant?"
"My orders are to use my best judgment and to cooperate with the FBI," Hikialani replied. "I'm sorry about this, but in some ways, it might be helpful."
Sam nodded. "I understand. Is that all?"
"If you have any information relating to the case, of course I'll need to hear it," Agent Delmont replied.
"We've already reported everything we have to the lieutenant," Sam told her. "If we happen to hear anything, we'll be in touch."
"And as soon as we learn anything we can share, we'll let you know," Agent Delmont added.
Fenton had gathered what was happening as quickly as Sam had, and so he had retained his calm. They invited Larson to come with them, and although he seemed confused, he went. None of them said a word until they reached the parking lot.
"She knows more than she's saying," Larson said. "I didn't think Hikialani would let himself get dragged into hiding the truth."
"I'd say they were both trying to hide as little as they could," Sam replied. "What do you think, Fenton?"
"I agree. I don't know what this is about. Like Agent Delmont said, I have worked with the FBI before. They wouldn't have any reason to distrust me." Fenton bit his lip. "They did give us two important pieces of information. If they don't want us involved—officially—they must suspect that this involves people that make it extra sensitive. The other, more important information is that they know more about this than we do, and they think they boys are still alive."
"But if the FBI and the police won't tell us anything, what can we do?" Larson objected.
"If you want, you can take the chance to get out while you still can," Sam told him. "You said you didn't want to put your family in danger."
Larson let out a long breath and then looked at each man in turn. "You're going to keep investigating anyway?"
"There's nothing that could make me stop," Fenton replied.
Larson nodded slowly. "All right. Then count me in, too. What's the first step?"
"First, I'm going to call some of my contacts in the FBI and complain," Fenton said. "It might help to get us back on the case, officially, and if it doesn't, it might help convince them that we're not working on it unofficially."
"As for you and me," Sam said to Larson, "we're going to have to catch each other up on our findings so far, and a few other things. We can go back to your office."
They split up, with Fenton taking the car that he and Sam had rented and Sam riding with Larson. Fenton didn't actually leave the parking lot. Rather, he used his phone from the car to make the calls. He paused briefly before he made them, collecting himself. He had taken that more calmly than he would have expected himself to, but then keeping his emotions in check had been a skill he had learned early in his law enforcement career. Police officers and detectives who reacted to things like this with strong emotions didn't usually make it very long. It never did any good, and most of the time did a great deal of harm. For instance, in this case, if Agent Delmont was telling the truth, it wasn't her fault that the decisions had been made in this way and she wouldn't be able to change things. If she wasn't telling the truth and she had had a hand in it, tipping her off that Fenton realized that wouldn't help anything. Fenton knew numerous people in the FBI who would be more likely to be able to help him.
Before he called any of them, however, he called Laura. She answered at the first ring and asked whether Fenton had learned anything before even thinking to say hello.
"Not exactly," Fenton admitted. "In fact, we've had a setback. I'm working on getting it straightened out, but it might take a little time." He explained about the meeting with Agent Delmont and finished by saying, "The good part about this is that the FBI believes the boys are still alive, and they seem to know more about all of this than we do."
"That's something," Laura said, although it was clear from her voice that she was disappointed that it wasn't something more.
"How are you doing?" Fenton asked.
"I'm hanging in there," Laura said. "I just wish this was over."
"I know. I…" Fenton cut himself off when his phone beeped to signal another call coming in. He pulled it away from his ear to check who was calling. It was Jack Wayne. "Honey, I've got another call coming in. It could be important. I've got to take it."
"Okay. I'll keep praying. I love you."
"I love you, too." Fenton ended the call and took the other incoming one. "Jack? What is it?"
"I've been up in the air, like you asked me to," Jack reported. "I think I spotted the boys' rental car."
Fenton tried to steel himself for the bad news that was possibly coming. "Where is it?"
"The south side of the island. There…are some cliffs there. We should be able to reach it by car and we could have a better look that way. I can call the police and have them there if you want."
"No. I want to go and see first. I'll pick you up at the airport and tell you about it on the way."
HBNDHBNDHB
Mark Larson had calmed down by the time he and Sam reached his office. He gestured for Sam to sit down and then asked what this was about.
"There are a few points I want to clarify," Sam explained. "You've been investigating for eleven years, but you don't seem to have learned much. If you're holding anything back, now is the time to tell us about it."
Larson glanced at his hands for a brief moment before looking up again. "Only suspicions. I feel certain that Brock Garret is involved somehow, even though, as you've seen, the evidence of that is virtually non-existent. He's wealthy and he's popular, and that can go a long ways to covering up crimes, but he's got something special going on."
"That doesn't quite add up," Sam pointed out. "If he's dirty and he's sealed it up this tight, he knows what he's doing. The burner account commenting on the stories about the hits that hitman—Transol—made is a rookie move. How does that fit?"
"My theory is that it isn't Brock himself who's dirty. He might have a patron who's financed his career. I mean, he's not a terrible actor. He has a congenial personality in interviews and on social media. He has the looks. But he's not spectacular. His acting isn't flawless, by any means, especially his early work. His congeniality is the sort that's more forgettable than anything. I could buy that he might have made it where he is by pure, dumb luck, but I think it's more likely that he had some help."
"So do you have a theory who this patron might be?"
Larson picked up a pencil and began absently chewing on the eraser before he caught himself and set the pencil back down. "Brock is from a small town in Montana. His parents are divorced. His dad was a trucker, but he was injured in an accident almost twenty years ago and has lived on disability since. He also seems to live off his son's paychecks. His mom was a real estate agent, but she remarried and her current husband is apparently opposed to women working, so he made her quit her job. He hasn't been able to hold down a job for more than five years. He also apparently refuses to have anything to do with Brock, so they don't benefit from his wealth like Brock's dad does. None of them could be a patron, and he doesn't seem to have any other wealthy or notable relatives."
"Is he married?" Sam asked. "I don't keep up with celebrity gossip."
Larson shook his head. "Never married. Never in a public relationship. Never even seen with anyone enough to get rumors started.. Another interesting tidbit about Brock Garret is that his story about how he got into show business doesn't always match up. The official story is that he got involved in community theater in his hometown. There was a community theater there, but it burned down, along with all its records of shows and actors. I couldn't find anything in the local papers about Brock being in any shows, but their coverage of the shows was scanty. It's possible that he only had bit parts and wasn't mentioned in the papers, but it seems a little strange that a kid who couldn't get more than bit parts in local plays that were probably scraping for actors could get catapulted into a professional acting career. Besides that, the story goes that his agent discovered him through the theater. I don't know how many agents hang around community theaters in small towns in rural states, but it sounds like a one-in-a-million shot to me."
"Sounds worse than that to me." Sam frowned. "All right. You've got me convinced there's something suspicious about Brock."
"I may have a way to confirm my suspicions. Brock is supposed to be coming to Hawaii in a few days. I'm guessing his patron is here in Hawaii, since he comes here often and disappears from the public eye. If can tail him while he's here, we might be able to learn this person's identity."
"It's possible," Sam conceded, "but he's going to have security and if your suspicions are correct, they're going to be on their guard against anyone following."
"They would probably not pay as much attention to a couple of kids who happen to be huge fans of his and are trying to get selfies and autographs."
"Maybe, but what kids do you have in mind?" Sam grinned slightly. "You and I are both a little old to play the part."
"True, but my intern, Don Cameron, isn't. I think you already know that he called that friend of his—Nancy Drew—and that she wants to come and help investigate. Apparently, she has quite a reputation as an amateur detective."
"She is, and she has already called Fenton, so we know she wants to help." Sam paused. "These people might spot her, especially with the Hardys already involved."
"We could arrange for a disguise. Different colored hair, her makeup different than she usually wears it. It would be enough to throw them off."
"What about Don? They might know he works for you."
Larson grimaced. "I hadn't thought of that. We'd have to work out a disguise for him, too."
Sam rubbed his chin. "It's not impossible. We'll ask Fenton what he thinks and, if the kids are willing, we could give it a try."
HBNDHBNDHB
"It would be somewhere in through here," Jack said as he and Fenton reached a stretch of highway above several cliffs.
Fenton pulled the car over and they both got out to walk along the cliffs and look down below. The cliffs ran down sheer to the water below, but there were numerous rocks down there. Fenton and Jack walked about a half a mile before Jack pointed out a bit of blue clinging to one of the rocks.
"You can see it better from the air than you can from here," Jack said. "That's probably why it hasn't been reported yet. It's definitely a car."
Fenton let out a long breath, feeling older just looking at the wreck. "Do you think we could get down there?" he asked.
Jack peered down the cliff. He weighed the possibility for a minute or two and then he shook his head. "Not even with climbing gear. Our best bet would be a boat."
"Yeah." Fenton remained staring at the car. Then he looked up at Jack. "Let's call the police. They'll be able to get to it."
Jack nodded, relieved by the decision. "I'll make the call, if you want."
It didn't take long for the police and fire department to arrive. Hikialani and Agent Delmont were in the first car to arrive. They went to personally survey the scene and then came back to speak to Fenton and Jack.
"You saw this from the air, Mr. Wayne?" Agent Delmont asked.
"That's right," Jack confirmed.
"Are you sure that it's the boys' car?" the agent pressed. "You couldn't have gotten a very good view of it."
"I'm not sure, and I never said that I was," Jack replied calmly. "I said that I think it is. It matches the description as far as I can tell."
Agent Delmont hummed acknowledgement that she had heard the answer. Then she turned to Hikialani. "Do you think we can get people down there?"
"You'll have to ask the fire department about that," Hikialani replied.
The agent nodded and walked to a fire engine that had just arrived, presumably to ask her question.
"By the way, Mr. Hardy, I think you left something in my office earlier," Hikialani said after Delmont was out of earshot.
"I didn't…" Fenton began, but Hikialani cut him off.
"It looks important. I think you'd better make sure whether it's yours or not." He went back to his car and took out a folder, which he handed to Fenton. Fenton's name was written on the front, although not in Fenton's handwriting and he had never seen the folder before.
He looked up at Hikialani before he reached out to take the folder. "That does look like it's mine."
"You might want to look it over right away, to make sure everything's there," Hikialani added before moving off.
"What was that about?" Jack asked in a low voice.
Fenton was already heading back to the rental car. "I'm about to find out."
He climbed into the driver's seat while Jack got into the passenger side. Fenton opened the folder. Inside were about a dozen arrest records, each with a mugshot clipped to it.
"What's this?" Jack asked, wrinkling his forehead in confusion.
"I'm not sure." Fenton scanned the first record, for a man named Clinton Farrell. It only took Fenton a moment to see the probable relevance: Farrell had been arrested for hiring himself out as a murderer. He turned the report over and saw that there were notes written on the back, indicating that Farrell had been captured as part of a sting operation but had been released when the courts had thrown the case out because of entrapment. "These must be suspects."
"So why did Hikialani give this to you?" Jack asked.
"I don't know, and I don't like it." Fenton bit his lip as he quickly scanned through each of the reports. He would read them more thoroughly later. The last paper wasn't an arrest report. Rather, it was a copy of a field interview card. He paused to read this in its entirety. The person being interviewed was named David Kainoa. He had reported seeing a tow-truck pulling a blue SUV up to the top of the cliffs on the night of June 20. He had thought nothing of it until he had heard about the missing tourists on the news and that they had rented a blue SUV. Kainoa had decided to report it, in case it was related. Fenton handed the card to Jack, who quickly read through it.
"If they had to tow the car up here, the boys probably weren't inside," Jack commented.
"Hopefully," Fenton replied, although he remained tight-lipped.
Jack held the card up a bit. "This interview was done last night. You said that as of this morning, the police and FBI still believed the boys were alive."
Fenton nodded. "We'll find out about the car soon."
