Free A Will to Survive by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

biggest danger would be letting someone see you with the gizmo. You’d want to leave it as close as possible to this spot.”
    A dozen feet down the corridor was a set of floor-to-ceiling cupboards built into the wall. Frank went to the first one and pulled open the door. It was lined with shelves. They held a variety of cleaning products with old-fashioned labels.
    Joe, looking over Frank’s shoulder, said, “That stuff would go for a lot of money at a flea market. It looks like it’s been sitting there since 1900!”
    Frank opened the next cupboard. It contained brooms, mops, and brushes. They, too, had an old look to them. The dust on the floor had been disturbed very recently, he noticed. He moved a wide push broom and looked behind it.
    â€œBingo!” Frank said. A dark circular stain about nine inches across had soaked into the wood floor. He bent down and touched it, then sniffed his fingertip. It smelled of fuel oil, the kind used in smudge pots.
    He straightened up. “Okay. So the bad guy—let’s call him or her X—brought the smudge pothere,maybe yesterday evening. This morning, after the seminar, X ducks in here, gets the smudge pot, and sets it off. Does that help us give X a name?”
    â€œWe weren’t there to see who went where, but Callie was around,” Joe reminded him. “According to her, Rahsaan stayed after to talk to the speaker. Jack and Sal went off on their own. So did Wendy. That means those three are still in the running.”
    â€œRahsaan knows his way around the service halls,” Frank said. “Could he have left the speaker long enough to run over here and set the smoke bomb going?”
    â€œI hope not,” Joe admitted. “It would be a real treat to cross someone off our list of suspects!”
    They heard a door slam in the distance, followed by hurrying footsteps. Rahsaan came around a corner. When he saw the Hardys, he stopped short.
    â€œThere you are!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in here? Never mind—I need your help.”
    â€œWhat’s up?” asked Frank.
    â€œSal was supposed to lead a group with me in ten minutes,” Rahsaan replied. “About thirty junior-high-school kids. But he’s feeling sick from breathing all that smoke. Will you take over for him?”
    â€œWe haven’t—” Joe started to say.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll do all the talking,” Rahsaan said. “I just need you to keep the kids from straying off and getting into trouble.”
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    The Beech Grove Trail led through an area where the trees were far enough apart to let sunlight reachthe forest floor. Rahsaan stopped to point out a patch of fiddlehead ferns.
    â€œThese are mature,” he said. “But in the early spring, when they first come up, they’re terrific in salads.”
    â€œUgh!” a boy in a black T-shirt said. “Eat stuff that grows in the woods? Gross!”
    â€œYeah, right, Kevin,” another boy said. “I’ll bet you think your food comes from the supermarket.”
    â€œAnd milk comes from cartons, not cows,” a girl with a brown ponytail added.
    Kevin scowled. The rest of the kids laughed.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Rahsaan said. “For most of us, our food does come from the supermarket. That’s why a place like Shorewood is so important—to help us get back in touch with nature. Come on, let’s go see the duck pond. Joe, lead on.”
    â€œThis way, everybody.” Joe started up the trail. The group was close behind him. About thirty yards along, he noticed something odd ahead. A dead tree slanted across the trail. Its bottom rested on the ground, and its upper part was caught in the branches of another tree.
    Joe remembered that lumberjacks called that a hang-up. It was one of the deadliest hazards of the woods. At any moment, with no warning, the branches supporting the