Rocky Road by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aladdin

10.

A POOR WAYFARIN’ STRANGER

It’s amazing how fast a person can forget that his legs are in pain. You should have seen Joe take off after the intruder.

I was right on his heels. It took us about thirty seconds to reach the far end of the yard. When we got there, our quarry was nowhere in sight.

I turned around and saw that the adults were only about halfway to us. If Joe and I didn’t catch the trespasser, no way were they going to.

“He’s in one of these buses, probably,” Reilly said.

“We’d better search ’em, one by one,” said Chief Collig. “Joe, you and Frank start on the front end. We’ll go from here.”

I know he just wanted us to travel the farthest. He, Reilly, and even my dad were still breathing pretty hard.

Joe and I headed back, past rows of parked buses. We split up, working each row from the ends toward the center.

As it turned out, it was me who got lucky—if you want to call it that.

I stepped onto a bus and was halfway to the rear when a wild-eyed, scruffy-looking guy jumped out from behind a row of seats and lunged at me! I dodged him, falling back onto a pair of seats. Before I could recover, he was past me and headed out the front door.

“Joe!” I shouted, hoping he could hear me. “Over here!”

I ran out of the bus after the intruder and caught a quick glimpse of him darting behind another bus. When I got there, though, he’d vanished.

Where could he have gone to so quickly, I wondered?

Suddenly, I heard something moving near my feet. I lay down—carefully, to avoid being cut by broken glass—and looked underneath the bus.

There he was!

“Joe!” I cried as the guy backed away from my grasp.

He was just about to get away again when Joe showed up on the other side of the bus, blocking his way.

“Nice going!” I said.

We had him trapped between us under the bus. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

“Wait!” he whispered, his eyes darting every which way. “Don’t beat me up—I’ll give you anything you want—I’ve got money . . . not on me, but buried near here. You can have it—all of it—just let me be.”

“Hey!” I said. “Calm down, will you?”

“You’re gonna set me on fire, aren’t you.”

It was a statement, not a question. He was sure we were going to do it. I could see the naked fear in his bloodshot eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Joe said. “Set you on fire? Are you crazy?”

“Ha! That’s what they told me at the shelter! Said I was crazy and couldn’t stay there—had to go to the hospital for treatment. I ain’t getting no treatments—they’ll put a computer chip in my head or something.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” I told him.

“You’re here with the cops, aren’t you? I saw you with them.”

“We’re not cops,” I assured him, but he didn’t seem convinced.

“Who are you, anyway?” Joe asked.

“Name’s Guthrie. George Guthrie.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

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