By David T. Jarvis

"Michael is missing," said Richard.

"You're kidding," I said, because I could tell he wasn't. I knew something was up when I saw Mr. Griffin's new '70 Buick parked outside my house, but not this. Somehow Steve's crazy prediction had come true.

Richard Griffin shifted uncomfortably. The biggest chair in my room just wasn't enough for him. "He was to call from his grandparents' home in Michigan. He did not, because he never arrived. His father has phoned the police. This morning --"

"-- at 5:30 --" interrupted Steve Siegfried. I hadn't noticed him before, stretched out on my bed reading my Flash comics.

"Make yourself at home," I told him.

"Thanks, Dave. Got any Spider-Man?"

Richard continued. " -- this morning at 5:30 a.m., the Ohio state police found Michael's car in Lima. Soon after that they called his parents. Mrs. Hudson is nearly hysterical."

"What's Lima?"

"A small town in Ohio about two hours this side of Rockwood, Michigan. The car was not damaged, but it was out of gas. Michael and his travel bag were missing. From what we've been able to ascertain, nothing else was taken and there were no signs of an altercation."

Like Steve, Mike and me, Richard Griffin was 16. It was easy to forget. Besides taking up twice the space, horizontally, as most people, he carried three times as much brainpower under that disheveled mop of brown hair. I had to use words like "disheveled" every now and then just to keep him from getting too conceited.

My name's David Atwill. Like the other three, I was riding out the last days of summer before 11^th grade.

"Why didn't ..." Oh, yeah. They couldn't tell me till I got back from the stupid Arthur Murray lessons Mom was making me take.

Richard stood up and walked past me to the door. "Get packed," he ordered. "You'll need clothing and funds for at least three days."

Steve stood, stretching to his full height, already well over six feet. "C'mon, Fred Astaire," he said. There was nothing anybody could do to knock the conceit out of red-haired Steve Siegfried.

In 1970 there was one thing you could talk about on the radio that you can't today. I turned it on as Richard guided the Buick onto Interstate 75 north, leaving Benville, KY, behind.

"I don't know," a wimpy voice said. "What about the risk?"

"If you want real flavor you gotta take a little risk."

Western music swelled as the announcer cut in: "Lucky Man. Sure, there's more tar and menthol. More flavor, too. Real tobacco flavor. Lucky Man cigarettes."

"Love that tobacco flavor," Steve chuckled. He reached over the back seat and punched the rock station, blasting us with Led Zeppelin.

I turned it down. "What have we got?"

"Several items that Doug suggested." Doug Burroughs was a detective on Benville's city police force and kind of a big brother to us. Maybe I should say guardian angel, except that Doug hardly sounded like an angel when yelling at us to stay out of police business, as he frequently was. "We'll talk to the state police to help them create a missing persons report. This morning I drove by the Hudsons' for photographs of Michael. I also went to his dentist and made copies of his dental records."

"In case he bit somebody?" Steve snickered.

Richard frowned into the rear view mirror. "In case they need to identify his body."

For once, Steve lost his grin.

© Copyright David T. Jarvis 1997, 1998, 1999

All Rights Reserved.