Free In Plane Sight by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

shoal, but none presented itself. The banks of the river had grown higher, becoming something like a small canyon. Tall rocks lined the shores, and the clinging fog made it difficult to see anything beyond them.
    â€œW-What’s that up ahead?” Joe called, pointing toward a dark shape looming before them in the river.
    Frank peered at the vaguely rectangular shape that jutted out over the swirling waters.
    â€œA bridge!” he said. “Try to g-grab one of the pylons!”
    â€œAs if y-you had to tell me,” Joe replied.
    The water near the right side of the bridge seemed more calm and less treacherous, so both brothers aimed for there.
    As they drew closer, they saw that the bridge was built from big logs—like telephone poles—expertly joined together with metal bolts. Its pylons were anchored on concrete pads, set at the edge of the waterline.
    Joe and Frank kicked as hard as they could, but the water kept trying to pull them back toward the center of the river. They heaved up over a big submerged rock, and, with one final surge, grabbed on to the cement base of the nearest pylon.
    The water pressure was terrific and threatened to pull them off the concrete and hurl them downstream once more. Ever so slowly they dragged themselves around the side of the pad and onto the rocky shore at the bottom of the bridge.
    Exhausted and chilled to the bone, Frank and Joe lay there for a moment. They tried to recover their breaths.
    â€œMan,” Joe said, shivering, “that was like a water park ride gone bad.”
    â€œI wouldn’t want to try it again,” Frank said, “even in the summer. Even in a kayak.”
    â€œI hear that,” Joe replied.
    They rested another few moments, then wrung out their clothes as best they could. Slowly they climbed up the slope to the bridge.
    â€œThank heaven for the park service,” Frank said, gazing at the well-tended trail leading in either direction.
    â€œIf I remember the big area map I studied on our way to the show,” Joe said, “the river through the park runs north and south. There’s an entrance to the park on the west—”
    â€œAnd another on the south,” Frank said, “but I agree that we’re probably closer to the western one.”
    â€œSo we should go this way to find civilization—and heat,” Joe said, indicating the trail leading away from the bridge on the side they were standing on.
    â€œI agree,” Frank said. “Let’s get going. It won’t be getting any warmer tonight.”
    Joe nodded, and the two of them jogged down the trail into the fog-shrouded forest.
    They tried Frank’s cell phone, but two dunkings with a trip down the rapids had made it useless. Building a fire seemed out of the question as well. The only thing to do was to keep moving and hope to build up their body heat.
    Three-quarters of an hour later the trail crossed a pitted dirt road.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Frank asked.
    â€œRoads have to have traffic,” Joe said, “or at least lead to civilization.”
    â€œNorth or south, then?”
    â€œJewel Ridge and Scottsville are to the south,” Joe pointed out.
    â€œSouth it is,” Frank said.
    The fog cleared a bit as they jogged down the road. Soon they could make out the dim shapes ofthe hills and trees ahead. However, they saw no buildings or other signs of civilization.
    About a half hour later, a sound drifted through the fog.
    â€œA car engine!” Joe said. For a moment excitement flashed across his face, quickly followed by a look of concern. “Do you think it’s the sniper?”
    Frank shook his head. “If it is, he found a way to skirt around us and come back from the opposite direction where we last saw him.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” Joe said.
    â€œYeah. I guess it is.”
    â€œLet’s put an obstruction across the road,” Joe suggested. “That way whoever