The Chase for the Mystery Twister

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Snowdon looked away from the Hardys. “Between the farm and my truck, I have too many other things to worry about. Thanks for the ride.” Snowdon got out of the truck and walked into the garage of the repair shop.

  “Snowdon’s been a little jumpy ever since we walked into Gill’s insurance office,” Frank noted.

  “Especially after he saw his grandfather’s station wagon pull away,” Joe said. “There’s more to this than we know.”

  “Maybe we can stop by and talk with Snowdon later, see if he’ll open up,” Frank said, putting the Blue Bomber in gear.

  The rain had stopped, but Joe noticed that the closer they got to Tulip, the darker and more gigantic the storm clouds grew. They were still three miles away from Tulip when Joe spotted the Windstormers’ red bus and a dozen other vehicles, including a van from a local TV station. A growing crowd of onlookers surrounded the remains of a two-story wood-frame home.

  “Turn here,” Joe told his brother, spotting the long, unpaved red clay road that led to the ranch house.

  “Check that out,” Frank said, pointing to two cars beside the road. One had been flipped over on its side. The other had its front grille smashed in.

  “There’s Phil,” Joe said as their pickup drew closer to the destroyed home.

  Frank stopped near Phil, who was standing behind Mr. Jansen. The bearded scientist was kneeling beside a fallen tree, making notes. “Hi, Phil. Hey, Mr. Jansen!” Frank called out the window. “Are the people who were in those wrecked cars okay?”

  “They’re okay. Just some bumps and bruises,” Jansen replied, not looking up from his work. “But it wasn’t the tornado that did that. Those were two joyriders who tried to follow us here.” Frank heard both anger and concern in Jansen’s voice. The scientist shook his head. “I can’t figure it out.”

  “I guess some people are just careless,” Frank replied.

  “No, I mean the debris pattern,” Jansen said. “I can’t figure it out.”

  Frank surveyed the area. Roof shingles, splintered furniture, broken glass, and hunks of plaster were strewn around all sides of the home. Only one of four walls remained standing. Water dripped from some twisted pipes, which Frank guessed had been attached to a bathtub on the second floor. On the land surrounding the house, half a dozen trees were uprooted.

  With his newfound knowledge of twisters, Frank was able to make out the path the tornado had taken. “The debris pattern isn’t to the left of the tornado’s path,” Frank noted.

  “Correct,” Jansen replied. “It’s harum-scarum. Thrown about in every direction. I haven’t seen anything like this since five years ago in New Mexico.”

  “The mystery twister?” Joe asked.

  “The mystery twister,” Jansen said, nodding.

  “And Frank and I missed it,” Joe said, frowning slightly to his brother.

  “Apparently, we all missed it,” Jansen told them. “No one besides the owner was in the area, and he was locked down in his storm shelter.”

  An attractive blond woman in a stylish blue business suit rushed over, followed by a cameraman toting a remote unit on his shoulder. “Mr. Jansen!” the woman shouted.

  “Reporters,” Jansen muttered. “Somehow they got here before we did.”

  “I’m Terry Clark, Channel Nine News,” the newswoman said quickly, thrusting a microphone in Jansen’s face. “Could you explain what happened here this afternoon?”

  Jansen sighed wearily. “I’ll tell you what I can, but then I have to get back to work.”

  Terry positioned Jansen so that the remains of the house were in the background, then began the interview. The boys stepped away from the camera to speak privately.

  “Tornadoes in the Northern Hemisphere always move counterclockwise,” Phil told his friends. “Mr. Jansen’s theory is that some force of nature makes this particular kind of whirlwind change the direction of its rotation. But without an eyewitness, it’s just guesswork.”

  “Sounds like the mystery twister is going to stay a mystery,” Joe said.

  “Even stranger,” Phil said quietly. “Something jammed our Doppler radar so that we never got a read on this tornado. There’s no data we can use to study it.”

  Joe saw a very tall, broad, balding man in a white linen suit step out of the rubble of the destroyed home. “Is that the owner?” he asked Phil.

  Phil shook his head. “No. That’s Alvin Bixby. He’s an insurance salesman.”

  “I’m the owner,” someone behind Joe said. Joe turned as a lean, lanky man in his forties with a lined, suntanned face and a worn Stetson hat stepped up and offered his hand to shake. “Hal Kanner’s the name. I don’t recognize you boys. Are you reporters or something?”

  “No, they’re friends of mine visiting from New York,” Phil explained. “I’m an intern with Mr. Jansen’s team.”

  “I see,” Kanner replied.

  Joe noticed Kanner was holding a ceramic piece of some kind. “What’s that?”

  “That’s all that’s left of a priceless Ming vase I had in my house,” Kanner said grimly, holding up the broken porcelain piece.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said, noticing the intricate design on the shard of pottery.

  “Mr. Kanner!” Alvin Bixby called, waving for Kanner to join the crowd of onlookers that surrounded him.

  “Okay, Mr. Bixby!” Kanner called back. “Excuse me, boys,” Kanner said, tipping his hat and walking past them toward the crowd.

  “Come on, Frank, let’s see what’s going on,” Joe suggested. But he saw that Frank was inspecting the same fallen tree that Jansen had been looking at earlier.

  “One second, Joe,” Frank said. “Look at how the bark on the trunk has been scraped off. I wonder what caused that.”

  “Tornadoes can send bits of debris crashing into other objects at hundreds of miles an hour,” Phil said. “Remember the nails in Snowdon’s tires?”

  Frank nodded, willing to accept Phil’s explanation since he didn’t have one of his own.

  The boys joined the crowd of onlookers.

  “Didn’t you ever think to put your priceless valuables in a safe or something?” Bixby grumbled.

  “What’s the sense of owning beautiful pieces of art if you hide them away?” Kanner replied. Frank found it odd, hearing a hard-faced cowboy in denim jeans and a Stetson talking about beautiful pieces of art.

  “It’s careless!” Bixby scolded. “Leaving a priceless Ming vase on your fireplace mantel is just irresponsible. That’s how my company is going to see it.”

  “Look here!” Kanner was steamed. “I insured my property, and by golly, you’re going to make good on it!”

  The crowd murmured their support of Kanner. Terry Clark moved in closer with her microphone.

  “I never said we weren’t going to pay up,” Bixby said, trying to calm his client. “I’ll send someone to assess the damage in the morning. We’ll probably have a check for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “For how much?” Kanner asked.

  “Your home and its contents appear to be a total loss. Based on the declared value of everything, I’d say the check will be for more than a million dollars.”

  A man in the crowd whistled. “A million and then some . . . My cousin lost his house in Lone Wolf this morning, and his insurance fellow won’t even return his calls.”

  “United Insurers is one of the largest insurance companies in the country,” Bixby explained. “They have large enough assets that they can compensate their customers almost immediately.”

  “With the prices you charge for insurance at United, you ought to pay out quick,” another onlooker grumbled.

  “I’m afraid that reflects the cost of doing business in an area as dangerous as Twister Alley,” Bixby replied without emotion.

  “I’m willing to pay extra to know my property is secured against tornado damage,” a third person said. “Do you have a business card?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I have a few,” Bixby replied, pulling a s
tack of business cards from his jacket pocket.

  “A few business cards?” Joe noted. “He has enough to supply an army.”

  The crowd eagerly snatched up the cards, and Joe pushed to the front to be sure he got one before Bixby ran out.

  “Hmm,” Phil said, raising one eyebrow as he read the business card over Joe’s shoulder. “His office is all the way on the other side of Lone Wolf.”

  An onlooker overheard Phil and called out to Bixby. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “I got in my car the minute Mr. Kanner phoned me with the bad news,” Bixby replied. “That’s how we’re trained at United Insurers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s some claim sites in Lone Wolf I need to visit.”

  Frank and Joe watched Bixby get into the driver’s seat of his shiny white luxury car and drive off, passing the giant black truck belonging to Greg Glover, who was just now arriving on the scene.

  “About time, Greg,” Jansen said with a little smile as Glover jumped down five feet from the cab of his truck.

  “You jammed our radar!” Glover accused, his face red with anger.

  “We did not. Our radar transmissions were jammed, too, as a matter of fact,” Jansen countered.

  “Then how’d you find out about it?” Glover demanded.

  “I got a phone call,” Jansen replied.

  “From who?” Glover asked.

  “He didn’t identify himself,” Jansen said, shrugging.

  “Baloney!” Glover shouted. “This is the lowest you’ve ever sunk, Jansen.”

  “I don’t want to waste my time arguing with you!” Jansen bellowed. “An entirely unknown weather phenomenon touched down in our own backyard, and we both missed it!”

  Frank watched Glover as the rival scientist pushed his black curly hair out of his eyes, quickly scanned the area, and within seconds concluded, “It’s hit again.”

  “The mystery twister, as Frank calls it,” Jansen said, nodding toward the older Hardy.

  “Frank who? Do I know you?” Glover asked gruffly.

  “Let’s just say we nearly ran into each other this morning,” Frank replied coolly.

  “This thing doesn’t seem to follow any of the rules,” Jansen said. “It’s cyclonic in nature, obviously—”

  “I can see that,” Glover interrupted. “Just like in New Mexico.”

  “How do you know about New Mexico?” Phil asked Glover.

  “Greg and I used to work together in the good old days,” Jansen said to Phil.

  “Speak for yourself, Jansen,” Glover snorted. “They weren’t good old days for me. Whereas now I could buy and sell your whole outfit three times over.”

  “You’ve got the corporate backing, Greg,” Jansen said, smiling, “but I have the magic. I’ll solve this thing long before you do.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Glover said in a threatening tone. He stalked off to instruct the rest of his team, which was just now arriving.

  “Nice guy,” Joe said, shaking his head.

  “The National Severe Storm Laboratories might have tracked it. I’ll give them a call on my cell phone,” Jansen said to Phil, closing his notebook and heading for the red bus.

  “What’s the National Severe Storm Laboratories?” Frank asked.

  “The big boys,” Phil replied. “The most advanced severe weather tracking facility in the country.”

  “What do you say to Frank and me helping your team analyze the debris?” Joe suggested to Phil, who was happy to show them the ropes.

  While Joe and Phil began looking through the broken furnishings, Frank checked out a fallen telephone pole. It did not have the same markings as the fallen tree. Instead, there were two deep gouges in it, about five feet up from the ground. Inside the gouges, Frank could see red clay residue.

  Joe picked up a broken piece of pottery. It looked like fine porcelain and had exactly the same colors and pattern on it as Kanner’s Ming vase. When Joe turned it over, he saw some tiny lettering on it. “Occupied Japan,” he said aloud. “I wonder what that means.”

  “What did you find?” a voice behind them asked. Joe and Phil turned to find Kanner moving in closer, craning his neck to get a look at the porcelain fragment.

  “It’s another piece of your Ming vase, I think,” Phil answered.

  “Let me see that,” Kanner said, holding out his hand, palm up, for Joe to give it to him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Joe noticed what he thought was a large white bug jumping in the grass. Then another, and another. Joe realized they were not bugs but small hailstones, which were beginning to rain down from the dark thunderhead above them.

  Joe began to hand Kanner the porcelain piece, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I keep it as a souvenir of the tornado?”

  “Yes, I do mind,” Kanner said sharply, extending his hand farther. “Hand it over.”

  Suddenly, the sky erupted in a full-scale hailstorm. Joe and the others were bombarded with chunks of ice the size of golf balls. There were shouts coming from every direction as people headed for shelter.

  “Run for cover!” Frank yelled as he bolted for the blue pickup truck.

  “No!” Phil shouted after him. “There might be another tornado on the way. Let’s head for the storm shelter!”

  Joe turned away from Kanner, joining Phil and Frank as they ran to the shelter. Frank pulled on the shelter door. It budged one inch, then stopped. Frank saw it was chained and padlocked shut.

  “No good,” Frank told the other two.

  “Over there!” Joe shouted, pointing to a small concrete pump house near the barbed-wire fence that marked the boundary of Kanner’s property. The hailstones were now as big as lemons and struck the boys’ backs and shoulders with the force of hard punches.

  Frank arrived first at the pump house. After flinging open the door, he squeezed into the tight space beside the iron pipes of the pumping mechanism that supplied water to the farm. Phil squeezed in behind Frank.

  Joe was trailing. He was only ten yards from the pump house when he was shoved from behind and into the barbed-wire fence. The piece of porcelain went flying out of his hand.

  As Joe rose from the ground, he was tripped by a string of barbed wire wrapped around his right foot. The wind whipped with gale force.

  Just as he was reaching down to untangle himself, Joe was struck on the back of the head by a baseball-size hailstone. The force knocked him to the ground. He lay there, unable to move, nearly unconscious—and knowing that a tornado was going to touch down at any second.

  5 Blown Away

  * * *

  “Where’s Joe?” Frank shouted. “I have to go get him!”

  The rain and hail were so heavy, Frank couldn’t see two feet beyond the pump house door. Pushing past Phil, Frank reemerged from his safe shelter to look for his brother.

  Immediately, Frank was struck in the back by giant hailstones and driven to his knees. Though the wind was knocked out of him, he pushed forward, crawling toward the figure he could barely make out lying on the ground near the fence.

  Frank found Joe nearly unconscious. Pulling the barbed wire away from Joe’s foot, Frank reached beneath his brother’s arms and clasped his hands across Joe’s chest. Frank then backpedaled against the wind toward the shelter, dragging Joe with him.

  Phil helped Frank get Joe into the pump house and closed the door. “Is he all right?” Phil asked.

  Frank checked Joe, feeling the lump on the back of his head. “Looks like something hit him.”

  “Hail,” Joe muttered.

  “What?” Phil said, leaning closer.

  “Hail. I was hit by a piece the size of Mount Rushmore,” Joe joked, having regained his senses. “I’m okay, I think.”

  Frank touched the sore spots on his back. “I suddenly have more respect for the Blue Bomber. I’ve only been through one hailstorm, and I’m ready for the body shop.”

  “Somebody pushed me into the barbed wire,” Joe said, sitting up.

  “Pus
hed you?” Frank asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” Joe said, wincing as he touched the bump.

  The wind howled outside. “What’s our best move, Phil?” Frank asked.

  “To stay here until it passes over,” Phil replied, knocking on the concrete wall. “This is probably the safest place on the whole farm.”

  The wind soon died down. As the boys emerged from their cover, they saw that little more damage had occurred.

  Jansen walked over, soaking wet and holding the lid to an ice cooler over his head. Frank figured he had used it as a shield against hailstones. “Nothing touched down,” Jansen grumbled to the boys. “I guess it just isn’t my lucky day.”

  Frank and Joe shared a smile over the eccentric scientist’s reckless obsession with tornadoes.

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later the skies had cleared. “Hard to believe how quickly the weather can change,” Frank said to his brother as he buttoned up the dry denim shirt he had retrieved from his suitcase.

  “No kidding,” Joe replied, toweling off his wet hair. He suddenly remembered something. “The piece of vase. I dropped it when I fell.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Frank suggested.

  Phil and the Hardys scoured every inch of ground surrounding the pump house and the section of fence where Joe had fallen, but they could find no trace of the broken piece.

  “The storm must have blown it away,” Phil concluded. “You’re sure it said ‘Occupied Japan’?”

  “Positive,” Joe replied.

  Jansen joined them by the pump house. “We’re finished here, Phil. Let’s get back to headquarters.”

  “Mr. Jansen?” Frank asked. “What do you know about Ming vases?”

  “They were made in China during the Ming dynasty,” Jansen replied. “That’s about all I know.”

  “Have you heard of Occupied Japan?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” Jansen replied. “But what does that have to do with Ming vases?”

  “Oh,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I thought it might be possible that a Ming vase could have been made in Occupied Japan.”

  Jansen laughed. “Most definitely not, Joe. The Ming dynasty was thousands of years ago. Occupied Japan existed for only a short period after World War Two.”