J.M.J.
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Thank you especially for all the reviews! The next chapter will be August 24. God bless!
August 22 – Tuesday
Callie was flustered as she rushed into class. It was the first meeting of the semester for her math class, and she had gotten mixed up on which room it was in. She had gone to the wrong one, and because of that, she was a couple of minutes late rushing into the correct classroom. She slid into the first empty seat, not even bothering to look at who she was sitting next to.
"Hello," the professor greeted her. Dr. Gabby Weirmarten was about fifty, tall and heavy, although she still looked athletic. There was no warmth in her voice; only annoyance.
Callie shrank in her seat. "I'm sorry I'm late. I had the wrong room number. In the wrong building. And I ran all the way across campus." She was feeling even more stupid the longer she talked so she stopped, hoping that she could still convince the professor that she wasn't a hopeless airhead.
"Are you sure you have the right class now?" Dr. Weirmarten asked.
"This is Math 147, isn't it?" Callie replied.
"That's right. I was just about to take roll call."
As Dr. Weirmarten looked down at her roll call sheet, the student sitting next to Callie leaned over and whispered to her, "Don't take it personally. She's always this way."
Callie glanced at her tablemate. He was a handsome young man with sandy hair and dark brown eyes. He grinned at her in a friendly way, and Callie relaxed. Dr. Weirmarten paid her no more attention the entire time, although she was a very dry and unpersonable teacher. Callie learned from roll call that her tablemate's name was Casey Melard. After class, they walked out of the room together.
"So what did you think of Dr. Weirmarten?" Casey asked.
"I'm thinking that this isn't going to be one of my favorite classes that I've taken," Callie replied.
Casey laughed. "No, it's not. I guarantee it. I had a class with her last semester, and I was about to switch majors rather than face another class with her."
"So what are you doing in her class again?"
Casey sighed dramatically. "I did my best to avoid it, but she's the only one teaching 147. Didn't you have anyone warn you about her last semester?"
"I wasn't here last semester." Callie looked at the ground. "I transferred."
"Ah. From a community college?"
"No, I was at one of the state colleges."
"Why'd you switch?"
"Personal reasons," Callie replied vaguely. "I've got to get to my next class. It was nice meeting you. I'll see you on Thursday, I guess."
"If one or the other of us doesn't decide to drop Weirmarten's class before that."
Callie hurried away. She didn't actually have another class for several hours, but she wanted to escape the conversation before it got too personal. She didn't particularly want to explain to a stranger that she had transferred from her old college because her boyfriend had also been going there until he was murdered and she wanted to go somewhere that she could avoid people constantly talking to her about it. It hadn't occurred to her that even in a place where she didn't know anyone, it still might be hard to avoid the subject coming up in small talk.
Her apartment was far enough from campus that she didn't want to drive all the way there only to turn around and drive back in an hour or so. That left her on campus with nothing to do and no one to talk to. She had a little homework from her math class, so she thought she might as well get it out of the way. She started looking for a quiet place, but since it was the first week of classes and the weather was nice, there were people everywhere, either on campus tours or trying to find classes or just simply taking a walk. In the end, Callie decided the quietest place would be the library.
Unfortunately, the library didn't enforce quiet at the study desks set up in different corners, and there were already several groups of students studying at them. Callie found one that was free and slid into the seat, although she didn't expect that she would be able to concentrate on math, considering that there were two girls at the next desk who were doing more chatting than studying. When she realized what they were talking about, she was sure she wouldn't.
"I still can't believe that Brock got arrested," one of the girls was saying. "All my favorite celebrities are always getting arrested."
"I don't think Brock is really guilty," the other girl maintained. "I think he was framed and forced to make that confession."
"By who?" Her companion sounded skeptical.
"I've been doing a lot of digging into this case, and it smells like a cover-up to me. See, they're being super tight-lipped about this case, but a few things have leaked out. For one, there's this FBI whistleblower who says that they already had Brock pegged before they even had any evidence on him. It's all because he's still an outsider in Hollywood and he was going to reveal some of the corruption that goes on there, so the FBI had to silence him."
"O-kaay."
"No, no. It's for real, honest. See, it's really a double cover-up. So a dozen years ago or so, Brock approached this investigative reporter named Larson and told him that he had a big scoop on Hollywood corruption. Larson, being an honest but naïve person, took the information he got to the FBI, but he didn't tell them where he got it, because he wasn't that naïve. Then, the FBI had him murdered in a convenient 'accident.' The poor guy's brother is probably even in on it, because he's been 'investigating' this whole time, but he hasn't found any evidence. Convenient, isn't it? Anyway, those Hardy kids found out about it and they were investigating, and then they disappear, and all the FBI can do is scratch their heads and say they don't know anything. They're the ones who did it, of course. The whistleblower says that they held those kids for several days, torturing them until they told them all about Brock. After that, they somehow got to Brock and forced him to 'turn himself in.' I heard that while he was telling his story to the police, he was tapping his foot the whole time and a police whistleblower says that he was tapping out SOS."
"What about the other people they caught? I heard they caught several."
"They're either all actors or innocent people that the FBI is sacrificing for their own purposes. We'll know for sure if they all start 'committing suicide.'"
Callie slammed her math book closed with more force than she intended, but her hands were shaking and it slipped. She stuffed it into her backpack and hurried away. She had just gotten out of the library when she ran directly into Casey.
"Hey, I thought you had another class to get to," he said with a grin. "Or were you just trying to get out of a conversation?"
"I'm sorry," Callie replied. "It's just…" She trailed off in a disgusted groan.
"Is something wrong?"
"People are just so disgusting."
Casey raised an eyebrow and chuckled nervously. "I hope you're not talking about me."
"No, somebody else." Callie closed her eyes. She was so furious that her hands were still shaking.
"If you want to talk about it, I'm willing to listen."
"It's a long story."
"I've got plenty of time before my next class."
HBNDHBNDHB
Fenton stared askance as he parked his car in front of Charlie Garret's house in Beaver Spring, Montana. It was a tiny house that couldn't have possibly had more than a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. It was badly in need of paint and one of the windows had a long crack through it that had been mended with duct tape. The yard was full of overgrown weeds, now dried up and dead. The pick-up truck in the driveway was at least thirty years old, with large patches of rust obscuring its original color.
"This isn't quite what I was expecting," Jack commented from the passenger seat.
"It's the right address, though," Fenton reminded him. "It has to be the right place."
They got out of the car and went up to the door, picking their way through the weeds since there was no walkway. There was no doorbell, either, so Fenton knocked. It had taken several days to even learn where Brock Garret's father lived. It hadn't originally been the plan for Fenton and Jack to call on him, but they hadn't learned anything about Dallas Ermington and so they decided while they were in the area, they ought to do some worthwhile investigating. Learning anything about either of Brock's parents wasn't easy, but they had finally found his father's address. There was no answer to Fenton's knock.
"Maybe he's not home," Jack suggested.
Fenton nodded toward the pick-up in the driveway. "His vehicle is here."
He knocked again, and again there was no answer. It wasn't until he had knocked a third time that there was any response.
"Go away!" a male voice shouted from inside the house. "I can't help you!"
"Please, sir, we only have a few questions," Fenton replied through the door.
"I can't answer them. I don't know Brock Garret. You reporters will have to find someone else to bother."
"We're not reporters," Fenton told him. "I'm a private detective. My name is Fenton Hardy."
There was no answer for about a minute and then the door creaked open. A man of around sixty peered through the crack, leaning heavily on a crutch. He studied the two men uncertainly.
"You're Fenton Hardy?" he asked finally.
"That's right. This is an associate of mine, Jack Wayne."
The man didn't acknowledge Jack. "Those boys who were killed. They were yours?"
"Two of them were," Fenton replied, his jaw tightening.
"I'm sorry, but you might be the lucky one after all." The man had been looking at the floor as he said this, but now he looked up. "I'm Charlie Garret, but I guess you already know that."
"We'd like to ask you a few questions about your son," Fenton replied.
"The only thing I know about my son is that I'd be a happier man if he was dead," Garret said through gritted teeth. "Your sons at least can't cause you the grief that mine has caused me, Hardy."
Fenton willed himself to remain calm and professional, while Jack glanced between the other two men.
"We'd heard that your son helped you out financially," Jack said, hoping to get the conversation on track.
Garret scoffed. "I've heard that rumor. Does it look like he's been helping me out? I wouldn't have taken any of his filthy money even if he'd offered it to me."
"You realized that your son was involved in something dishonest?" Fenton asked, now that he'd had a chance to recover himself.
"Anyone with a brain could have figured that out. Some rich guy from Hawaii offers to put my no-talent kid in the movies. Who wouldn't see that there was something wrong with it? I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. That kid always thought he knew better than me. He said anything would be better than staying in Beaver Spring with me. Is he still saying that from jail?"
"I would be," Jack muttered under his breath.
Fenton elbowed him while Garret actually looked at him for the first time.
"Do you have kids?" he demanded abruptly.
"No," Jack replied.
"Then you don't know what it's like. Tell me, Hardy, would rather have things the way they are or see your sons turn out like mine, the plaything of a millionairess who's built her fortune through crime and now in jail with blood on his hands in a crime so revolting that no one will even watch the movies that he sold his soul to make and the fans whose adulation he was chasing would spit on him than look at him?"
Fenton tried not to answer. "You said earlier that it was a guy who gave Brock a chance to get into the movies."
"You're trying to change the subject because you know it's true," Garret insisted. "You might say you'd give anything to have your sons back, but you wouldn't give their souls."
Fenton swallowed. "It doesn't matter what I want. It doesn't change what is."
"No," Garret agreed. "Nothing will change that. So. You want to hear about the people who corrupted Brock. You'll have to ask someone else. I don't know anything about them. All I know is that before he left, he said it was a man giving him his big break, later he says it's a woman. Maybe he was lying. Maybe there's more than one person. I don't know."
"Do you know how your son met these people?" Fenton asked.
"No. Probably online." Garret shook his head. "He always told all the tabloids that he got discovered acting in the community theater. They never gave him a part with more than two lines. They knew he couldn't act."
"And yet these people offered to put him in the movies," Fenton prompted him.
"That's right. I told him that was the oldest scam in the book, but he didn't believe me."
"How old was he when all this started?"
"Seventeen. He left on his eighteenth birthday. I never thought I'd see him again, but I couldn't stop him. His mother didn't even try. All she could see was dollar signs."
"But these people did get him into the movies," Jack pointed out.
"Yeah. I was wrong about that, but not wrong enough. Look where he landed."
Fenton watched the man's face. At first, he had outright disliked the man, although he knew enough to try to hide that. But now he was beginning to feel sorry for him. Garret had lost his son, too, and perhaps, after all, he was right that it was in a worse way than Fenton had lost his. Whether Garret was at fault in the matter was beside the point. The point was that the man's bitterness was born of grief, and for a moment, Fenton wondered whether he was seeing a reflection of what he himself could become.
"How much has your son said about these people?" Fenton asked, forcing himself back into the role of a detective.
"Since the day I told him they were scamming him, my son hasn't said a word to me."
HBNDHBNDHB
Joe was walking by the clearing in front of the cabin when he noticed Tony sketching something in one of the notebooks and Katina sitting next to him, watching in fascination. He changed direction so that he would be able to see what was going on and saw that Tony was drawing something that was a bizarre blobby shape. It looked something like a strange animal, with one crooked leg underneath it and another thicker one off to the side, two arms reaching out over its head, and something floating along beside it.
"What's that supposed to be?" Joe asked, putting his head on one side to look at it from a different angle.
Tony looked up at him with something between annoyance and embarrassment in his face. "It's supposed to be Europe."
"Oh." Now that Tony mentioned it, Joe did think the one leg looked like Italy. The other was passable as the Iberian peninsula, while the two arms were probably supposed to be Scandinavia. The floating object were something like the British Isles. "Oh, yeah. I guess with a little imagination, I could have seen that. Why are you drawing a map of Europe?"
"We suspect that Katina is from Europe, right? I thought maybe she would recognize the shape and could point out which country she's from."
Joe rubbed his chin. "Uh-huh. I'm not sure she's going to recognize it, even if she is from Europe. In fact, I don't know that she'll recognize it especially if she's from Europe."
Tony rolled his eyes. "So I'm not much of an artist. It was worth a try."
Katina had been watching the two of them intently during this exchange, her usual look of concentration on her face. Then she pointed at Tony's sketch and asked, "What's this?"
"I don't know what you're going to tell her there, Tony," Joe replied with a grin.
"I don't know, either," Tony said. "If she doesn't recognize it, she's not going to understand what I tell her." He thought it over a few moments and then decided to go ahead and try. "Europe," he said, slowly and distinctly.
"Europe," Katina repeated slowly.
Tony scratched the back of his neck as he tried to think how to get her to understand. Then he pointed off toward the east and said again, "Europe."
The look of confusion only deepened on Katina's face and it was evident that she didn't understand what this meant. Tony tapped the end of his pencil against the page a few times thoughtfully, and then he turned the page and began sketching again.
"What are you drawing now?" Joe asked.
"The United States."
"I don't think she's American. Why would she recognize the United States?"
"Because I can draw a better U.S.A. than I can Europe," Tony retorted. "Maybe if it looks like a real place, she'll recognize it and figure out what I mean by Europe."
He made a rough sketch, which even Joe had to admit was more convincing than his attempt at Europe. He pointed at it and said, "America."
"America," Katina repeated uncertainly.
Again, Tony pointed eastward across the ocean and said, "America."
Katina frowned and shook her head to show that she still didn't understand.
"Okay. There's one more thing I can try." Tony flipped the page again and began drawing once more.
"Are you going to try Africa this time?" Joe teased him.
"No, I'm not going to try Africa this time," Tony replied. "I'm going to try to draw this island."
He did the best he could drawing an outline of the island, and then added in trees and streams and even a little sketch of the cabin. Then he gestured all around him and said, "Island."
If Katina had been a cartoon character, a lightbulb would have gone off over her head at this moment. "Island," she repeated, much more sure of herself. She turned the page back to the drawings of Europe and America and studied them, as if she was trying to recognize them.
"You see that?" Tony asked. "I think she understands."
"I'll admit it," Joe agreed. "It looks like you got through to her."
Katina glanced up from the page with the United States and pointed to it. "Hawaii."
"Hawaii?" Joe repeated in confusion.
"No, America," Tony told Katina.
"Hawaii is part of America," Joe pointed out.
"Yeah, but not that part."
Katina flipped the page back to Europe. "Hawaii?" she asked.
Tony sighed. "I think there's still some disconnect going on here."
"What I'd like to know is how she knows the word Hawaii," Joe said. "You don't suppose she could be from Hawaii, do you?"
"I thought you didn't think she was American at all," Tony reminded him.
"I know. And she's clearly not a native Pacific Islander, but maybe her family moved to Hawaii from some other country. She might have never had the chance to learn English, getting stuck on this island, however that happened."
"Or they might have just been there on vacation," Tony said. "Chances are that she probably was in Hawaii before she wound up here, so either way, it's not too strange that she'd know the name. And if she was very young when she wound up here, maybe she just doesn't know much about maps and all that sort of thing."
"True," Joe agreed. "She might not have any idea what a map of the place she came from looks like." He looked at Katina, who was watching him with her dark brown eyes. "I certainly wish she could just tell us about herself."
