Chapter Three. Danger Comes to Balmy Bay!

“Yes, I know,” Slate Burly said. “I’m sure Mrs. Diamond must be very concerned.”

Chip gaped open-mouthed at his father. Flint’s reaction, as ever, was less apparent, but he was no less surprised than his brother.

“How long have you known?” Chip asked.

“Mrs. Diamond called the police three nights ago,” Slate said, “when Lucy didn’t get home in time to watch Family Affair. Chief Chalk spoke to me about it the next morning.”

“Then you’re helping the police look for her?” Flint asked.

Slate looked uncomfortable for an instant, then turned back to the book he was reading, a well-worn copy of Modern Methods of Detection. “I don’t think my help is called for in this case,” he said.

“Not called for!” Chip cried. “But whillikers, Dad! You’re one of the best-known private investigators in the country—after having served for years at the ace detective of the Baltimore Police Force—and are famous for all the seemingly unsolvable missing persons cases you’ve cracked!”

Slate looked sharply at him. Too sharply, Chip thought. “That’s very well put, son,” he said slowly. “But not every case of a missing young person is necessarily a mystery. Nor will a detective, no matter how skilled, necessarily be able to help.”

“But we don’t understand, Dad,” Flint said. “How can it not be a mystery when a nifty gal like Lucy Diamond suddenly leaves the hometown she loves?”

Slate closed the book. He looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said softly. “A mystery indeed. But not in the sense you boys understand.” Then he looked at them again, first Flint and then Chip, but with something in his eyes that looked like a deep sadness. “This is a mystery that even the greatest detective cannot solve.”

“But dad!” Chip said. “We were going to ask you if you thought we should take on the case ourselves!”

“No!” Slate snapped. Then, catching himself, he softened his voice. “Listen, boys, I know how much you want to prove to me that you’re mature and capable enough to become private investigators in your own right—"

“You said it, Dad!” Chip said. “Ever since Flint and I cracked our first case, The Mystery of the Whistling Whirligig, when we were fourteen and thirteen years old respectively, we’ve been trying to convince you that your detective firm should be Burly and Sons!”

“I understand that,” Slate said patiently. “And after you’ve gone to college and grown up a bit more, we’ll discuss it again. But there are some things that are simply not appropriate for boys of your age to investigate.”


Flint nodded soberly. “That’s what I was saying, Dad.”

“Okay, okay!” Chip said. “But gibbering krill, this is one of our classmates who’s disappeared! And one of the keenest girls you’d ever hope to—"

“She was,” Slate said. “I’m sure Lucy was as ‘keen’ as they come, as you youngsters say. But people change, son. Especially these days. I think you should just try to remember your friend as she was.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Chip asked. His voice was quiet, like a little boy’s.

Slate looked at him for a long time, apparently weighing a great decision in his mind. At last he closed his book, rose up out of his easy chair, and stepped to the window. He gazed at the perfectly even lawn and neat hedges of the Burly home as they glowed in the light of sunset. Across the street old Mrs. Ash tilted a watering can over her roses. The Colgate boy, Skip, zipped past on his paper route. Slate reluctantly turned away from the window and said, “All right. I suppose it’s time you boys learned the truth. You’ve probably heard some mention of it on television or in those pop songs you kids listen to anyway.”

Some of Chip’s favorite songs ran through his head—Happy Together by the Turtles, Sweet Pea by Tommy Roe, Wooly Bully by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs—but if any held a clue to his Dad’s meaning, he just wasn’t seeing it.

“Whatever it is, Dad,” Flint said, “we can handle it.”

Chip nodded and looked as resolute as he could through his fear.

“The times,” Slate said. “They are changing. And not for the better, I’m afraid. Every day, everywhere, in the best towns and the best families in America, young people are suddenly abandoning everything they’ve held dear and striking out for who knows where. It’s as if they are turning on some deadly device within their minds, tuning in to some strange broadcast the rest of us can’t hear, and dropping out of normal life. Some are swallowed up in the anti-war movement, or phony organizations claiming to defend ‘free speech’ or a ‘democratic society.’ I honestly don’t know where they go, and I don’t know that I want to know. I only know that few go of their own volition. And those who are tracked down and brought home…just don’t seem to fit anymore somehow.”

There was a long silence. At last, Flint asked, “Then you think Lucy is one of those kids?”

“If she had simply disappeared, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Slate said. “But her mother told Chief Chalk that Lucy had been dressing strangely for weeks before her disappearance, and spending time with some peculiar people from out of town. Including a young man who…played the guitar.”

“But who could they be, Dad? What could they be doing to kids like Lucy? How are they tricking them into leaving Balmy Bay?”

Slate fixed his gaze on Flint, and there was a terrible light in his eyes. “There are mighty forces out there, son. I’m sure you’ve heard them whispered about. Forces devoted to undermining our American way of life. Infiltration, propaganda, and brainwashing are only a few of the tools they have mastered in order to carry out their ends. Our brave agents in the FBI and CIA are doing all they can to counter their efforts, but there’s a limit to what they can do—since our side is committed to honesty and legality in all our tactics.”

“Whillikers,” Chip said. “It’s almost like there’s a disadvantage to being the good guy!”

“You could argue that,” Slate said. “But the rewards of hewing to the strait and narrow are well worth the cost. You wouldn’t want to be like them, would you?”

“But what can we do against such forces, Dad?” Flint asked. “How do we protect kids like Lucy?”

“Vigilance,” Slate said. “And a willingness to expose evil whenever you see it. These groups always hide behind the same sorts of disguises. ‘Peace’ movements. Political agitators. Chemical gurus. College organizations that aren’t fraternities, sororities, or sports teams. Couples cohabiting out of wedlock. Folk music.”

“But there’s nothing we can do for Lucy now?” Chip asked.

“There is one thing you can do,” Slate said. He stepped up to his sons and put a hand on the shoulder of each. He paused for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then he said, “You can pray, boys. You can pray.”

***

After praying, the boys decided they needed to get out of the house to clear their heads. Although their father’s talk had sobered them, and they’d put away all thoughts of investigating the Lucy Diamond disappearance, both felt subtly troubled in ways they couldn’t identify. Chip suggested that they go see their girls and talk about the sock-hop, but Flint pointed out that they’d already talked to their girls about the sock-hop all day. Flint suggested that they drop in on one of their friends, like Jelly Roll Horton or Buff Powers or Vinnie Frito, and this time it was Chip who reminded his brother that they’d spent ample time with each of the aforementioned chums at the picnic. Finally they decided to just take their motor bikes for a spin.

But before they could make their exit they were confronted by their Aunt Hortense. “Why the long faces?” she bellowed. Aunt Hortense had a voice like a bullhorn, which caused people meeting her for the first time to think her ill-tempered. Yet in reality she was a kindly old maid, and very solicitous of her nephews’ well being.

Flint shrugged. “Dad just talked us out of taking a case, is all.”

“Well, father knows best,” Aunt Hortense said. “But where are you restless jitterbugs off to now? You’d think you’d be all done in after the way you cavorted at the picnic.”

“We’re just taking the motor bikes for a spin, Aunt Hortense,” Chip said.

“Well, don’t be gone too long, unless you’re not interested in trying some of my fresh-baked cherry pie.”

“Stuttering magpies!” Chip cried. “Fresh cherry pie!”

“You bet we won’t be gone long!” Flint said.

True to their word, the boys kept their ride short. They took the Old Coast Road south, but turned back when they reached the bridge over Smoky Creek, only a few miles out of town. Ordinarily, they were vigilant motorists, but the wind in their faces, the lowering red ball of the sun, and the wavelets lapping on the shore lulled their senses.

Neither noticed the black car until it was too late. Flint, in fact, didn’t notice anything until he happened to glance to his left and saw his brother’s bike veer off the road and carom off the hillside. It took a moment for the fact that the bike was riderless to penetrate his mind. Finally he heard a whoosh and felt a blast of air as a black car passed him on his right, barreling along at a good seventy-mile-an-hour clip. Flint turned in time to see the driver glance over his shoulder at him, a man wearing dark sunglasses.

A moment later the car vanished around a curve in the road. Finally, Flint slammed on his brakes and turned to see what had become of his brother, a lump lodged in his throat. But the first thing he saw was Chip lifting himself off the road, apparently none the worse for wear. As Flint tooled back his brother was brushing angrily at his slacks and v-neck sweater.

“Flappin’ flapjacks!” Chip said. “That guy clipped me as he shot past!”

“And he didn’t even have the decency to stop,” Flint said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. But, golly, I hope my bike isn’t busted!”

A little paint had been scraped off the rear fender, but other than that the bike seemed to be undamaged.

“What say we try to head that guy off?” Flint suggested, a grim look darkening his visage.

“You mean go over the hill? Sounds good to me!”

Although the hills bordering the western edge of the Old Coast Road were quite steep, the boys had often tackled the ascent on their motor bikes. They did so now, and after following the curve of the crest for a couple of minutes, they spotted the black car in the distance just as it was entering the town of Balmy Bay proper. Keeping their quarry in sight, they proceeded to fly down the far slope, having cut the black car’s lead significantly by the judicious use of this shortcut. When they had jolted back to ground level they momentarily lost sight of the black car. Putting on a burst of speed, they raced up Harding Boulevard, slowing slightly at each intersection to peer up and down the street.

Finally, at the third one, they spotted their baby. They spun a left onto Dulles Avenue just as the car was making a sharp right.

Suddenly Flint was holding up his hand, motioning for Chip to slow down. “He turned up Coolidge Avenue!” Flint cried. “Lucy’s street!”

“What the heck?” said Chip.

The boys screeched to a stop just shy of the intersection. Leaving their bikes parked at the curb, they edged to the corner and squatted down behind a parked car, from which they commanded a view of Coolidge Avenue. The black car, they saw, had pulled to a stop right in front of Lucy’s house.

“Your hunch was right!” Chip said.

“Maybe he’s one of Lucy’s new friends that dad was telling us about,” Flint said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Chip said. “They sound like the sort of people who would knock a teenager off his motor bike!”

But then the man in the dark sunglasses was climbing out of his car and the boys were forced to revise their opinions. Decked out in a natty black suit and glistening black shoes, his stride bold and imperious, he exuded an air of power and authority.

“Hmm,” Flint said. “He doesn’t look like any college student I’ve ever seen.”

“Or like any folk singer I ever saw on Hullabaloo,” Chip said. “I wonder. Could there be more to this than even Dad suspects?”

“You really think so?” Chip said, clearly troubled by the possibility. “Jumpin’ jeepers, I can’t ever remember dad being wrong!”

They watched the man approach the Diamond residence. He cut across the lawn toward the front door, but suddenly veered left and, after casting a furtive glance up and down the street, made straight for the side yard. The boys watched in stupefaction as he disappeared around the far side of the house.

“What in Sam hill?” Chip cried. “Do you think he’s a burglar?”

“Don’t know,” Flint said, his brow beetling. “But I think it’s time we had a little talk with this man in black, whoever he is.”

As one, the boys broke into a run and the made for the side yard of the Diamond residence. When they rounded the corner, however, their quarry was nowhere to be seen. They sped down the side of the house and emerged in the back yard. Once again, there was no sign of the man in black.

They were pondering where to look next when they heard the sound of a car engine starting up front.

“C’mon!” Flint yelled.

They rounded the front of the house just in time to see the black car screeching around a corner.

“He gave us the slip!” said Chip.

“Yes,” Flint agreed. “But what I want to know is, what could he have wanted with the Diamonds?!”