"Well – yeah," Joe chuckled, ruefully. "Anyway, Beautiful, you’ve made the impossibly incomprehensible at least somewhat understandable – just like last year!" Another sigh: "At least, for today….But why is it so hard?"

"Joe, you’ve just got a mental hang-up about calc, that’s all." Vanessa took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "You think you can’t do it, so you fight it every step of the way. One of these times, something will click inside your head, and you’ll realize you really can do it without it killing you."

"Never happen," Joe vowed shaking his head in resignation, but he was still smiling. The two stood there for a moment, ignoring the students pushing past them, then Vanessa pulled her hand from Joe’s to check her watch.

"Oh no, I’m going to be sooooo late, if I don’t go right now!"

"So go—" Joe kissed her and gave her a little shove at the same time. "Call me – I have football practice, if you can believe it! Mid-morning football practice, woo-hoo! But I’ll be at work by 3:00."

"I will. Go get ‘em, sport!" she laughed, and turned to dash for her next class.

Joe stepped away from the wall and merged with the traffic flow heading for the side exit closest to the parking lots. As he walked, he tried to figure out exactly how it was that college seemed to be so jam-packed busy. He had had more classes in high school, hadn’t he, and he’d had spare time galore – let’s see. Six classes, plus some study time, plus football practice. And now football practice is slotted in whenever….Plus work. Plus investigating a case….

Joe was grinning as he raced into the parking lot and tossed his books into the back of the Aztek, preparing to head for Bayport High, where today’s practice was being held. With the college playing field demolished, the team had been practicing when and where it could: practice scrimmages on the soccer field, drills on the small practice field – but today, the coach wanted them to get used to playing on Bayport High’s field. They were intending to use it for the games, he’d told them. Well, that was fine with Joe. He was totally familiar with that field; he knew every yard of it intimately!

But even if I am, and a few of the other players are, it’s not going to help this sorry excuse for a team all that much! Joe thought glumly. He suspected that the coach was one to champion the cause of wishful thinking! Eternal optimist….

"Joe! Hey, Joe!"

About to climb into the Aztek, Joe paused at the hail, and turned around. To his surprise, he discovered none other than Dave Wahlstrom running up to him! Even though Dave must have had to sprint fairly hard to catch up to him, he wasn’t even winded, Joe noted with admiration.

"I’m glad I caught you! Got a minute?" Dave asked hopefully.

"Just barely," Joe replied. "I’m supposed to get over to the high school for football practice."

"I’ll try to make this fast," the other boy said. "After we talked on Sunday, I’ve been thinking. I asked around a little bit, talked to some of the other members of the S.F.E…just to see if there might be any truth to one of them being behind the fires."

"Yeah?" Intrigued, Joe leaned against the side of the car and paid closer attention. "Find out anything?"

"Nobody really said anything directly to me," Dave admitted, "but I overheard a couple of the senior members talking in the S.F.E. office, afterwards. And one of them said ‘the weirdo has to be behind this!’"

"The weirdo?" Joe cut in, immediately alert. "Who’s that?"

"I don’t know," Dave admitted. "And when I went to ask, neither one would tell me. They just sort of…looked at each other – you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Joe nodded his understanding.

"I can tell you their names, maybe they’d talk to you," Dave offered. "Mitch Sullivan and Harry Boggins."

Joe shrugged. The names meant nothing to him. "I don’t recognize them; they must not have gone to high school here. Or they were way ahead of me."

"That’s okay, if you come by the S.F.E. office tomorrow – it’s a little hole-in-the-wall place in Arbuthnot Hall’s basement – if you come by between two and four, they should be there, and I could introduce you. Then you could ask them for yourself." Dave hesitated. "Or I could give it another try."

"I’ll try to be there – but you be careful, Dave," Joe admonished the other boy, "Snooping around can be dangerous sometimes. And people who burn down buildings might not mind killing – if it meant they wouldn’t get found out!"

Dave blanched at that, but then his mouth tightened resolutely. "I will ask, though, Joe. I’m trying to help, you know."

Joe surveyed him a moment, then smiled. "Thanks – and I’m sorry if I didn’t seem appreciative, or sounded patronizing. You are helping, Dave. But now I’ve got to go; I may be late as it is!" He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, giving Dave Wahlstrom a wave goodbye as the boy stepped back and turned to go.

*****

As usual, practice was a disaster. Things seemed to go from bad to worse. Missed assignments, botched plays, fumbles…Joe was ready to tear his hair out, and he wondered how the coach managed to keep from giving up in total despair. Several mistakes on the quarterback’s part, and one of the running backs, had Joe wishing he’d never bothered to play on this team…except that it was all he had, and he really did like playing, he really did….

Oooofff! Joe lay flat on the field with a 250-lb tackle sitting on top of him, the end result of yet another play botched up by someone else. When the tackle got up, Joe stayed down, wondering if all his bones were still intact, and fearing they weren’t!

"Hardy! You okay?" Bryce Boderman, the tackle, extended a hand down. Slowly, Joe pushed himself up and accepted the hand. Once on his feet, he decided he’d merely been shaken up, but it took a definite effort of will to limp back to his position on the field.

I wish I could talk Frank into playing, he mused. Even wearing a cast, he’d be better at quarterback than the one we’ve got now! Maybe with a decent quarterback, we actually might win a game or two! Heck, maybe I should ask the coach if I could play quarterback! But he knew he’d never had Frank’s accuracy with a football; he’d probably not be any better than their current one, and he was – he knew it, without bragging – one of the better receivers! Best to stay where he was, and not muck around switching positions.

Still thinking morosely about the ruinous practice, and looking with no anticipation towards Saturday’s game, Joe got into his truck to drive back to campus for his last class of the day.

Concentrating on taking notes in U.S. Government, he managed to forget temporarily about football. The class was fairly boring, he decided, but it was a requirement, so he simply had to make the best of a bad bargain. When the hour ended, he was free for the day – free, that is, except for the fact that he was due out at Wayne’s World for a four-hour shift loading cargo! But first, he had an important errand.

Joe pulled out his cell phone and his college student directory. He looked up a number and tried dialing…and got nothing. Sighing in exasperation, he tried another.

"Can you connect me with President Mitchell’s temporary office?" Joe requested politely. But although the person was perfectly willing to do so, when the call was transferred, Joe discovered that Mitchell wasn’t in his temporary office in the Student Center!

"He’s working from his home today," the president’s secretary informed him. "Would you care to leave a message?"

Well, no, Joe didn’t want to leave a message. He thanked the secretary and hung up, then sat fuming a few seconds, before an idea occurred to him. Hastily, he pulled out the directory again, and turned to the section marked Faculty. Aha! There it is! Printed below the number of the college president’s campus office was his home phone number – and his street address! Joe grinned in triumph, laid the directory on the passenger seat where he could refer to it, and started his car.

En route to Mitchell’s home, Joe realized he probably should call first, rather than showing up unannounced, but when he tried the number, it rang and rang, with no answer, and no answering-machine pickup. Either Mr. Mitchell wasn’t home – in which case, Joe’s errand was going to turn out to be futile – or he was ignoring his phone! Well, I tried, Joe thought, restarting the Aztek and resuming his journey. He hated to be rude, considering who he was dropping in on, but rude or not, he wasn’t going to not go!

Mitchell’s home was located in the Bayport Heights subdivision, a fairly new upscale development on the outskirts of town. Joe located the proper address, and parked on the wide street running in front of the house – a three-story mansion of a house, he noted appreciatively, sitting on what appeared to be a double or triple lot. He went up to the door and pushed the bell – and was surprised to hear, instead of the usual ding-dong, a phrase of classical music!

He was even more surprised when the door was opened by none other than President Mitchell himself, clad in jeans, a light blue denim shirt, and running shoes!

"Yes, can I help you?" Mr. Mitchell eyed Joe doubtfully, obviously quite willing to send him on his way.

"President Mitchell? I’m Joe Hardy." Joe introduced himself, "I believe you met my brother, Frank, the other day. I’ve come to talk to you about the case you asked us to look into – if you have a few minutes?"

"Oh, of course, Joe." The man’s cool reserve dissolved into a warm smile, and he opened the door more widely to admit the younger Hardy. "Please come in." He shut the door behind Joe, and extended his hand. "I’m glad to meet you. Come this way." He led Joe through the entryway, and down a short hallway to a magnificently furnished den. With a cherrywood desk and matching bookshelves and fireplace mantel, and plushy green carpeting, the room was beautiful – but Joe noted that it also was a total disaster area, with most surfaces covered in stacks of paper and file folders. He grinned a little – he felt right at home in this place!

"I apologize for the mess," Mitchell said ruefully, scooping a bunch of files from one of the chairs and gesturing for Joe to seat himself. "I’ve found it’s more relaxing to work from here than in that makeshift office I’ve got in the Student Center – but of course, that means that all the paperwork gets transferred here, too! It’s amazing how much paper is still around, after the fire! And I do need to be on campus a great deal of the time, of course."

"I can imagine you’re very busy," Joe acknowledged, making himself comfortable. He watched Mr. Mitchell sink into the large, green-leather chair behind his desk.

"I have to meet with the college’s Board of Trustees tomorrow morning," Mitchell sighed, "about the arson allegations. It’s entirely possible I may be out of a job very soon. So—" he looked up at Joe hopefully, "I hope you have some good news for me?"

"I’m sorry," Joe shook his head, feeling terrible at disappointing the man, "but we really don’t know yet who might have set the fires. We haven’t found enough to go on. I wish we did." He watched Mitchell’s face fall, and felt even worse. He hated to see Dr. Mitchell in trouble for something he didn’t do – and Joe was quite certain that Mitchell was innocent of setting the fires!

"Oh." Mitchell sighed. "Well, what can I do for you then, Joe? You said you wanted to discuss the case?"

Joe hesitated a moment, then plunged in. "Dr. Mitchell, can you think of ANYONE who might have a personal vendetta against you? Someone who might want you out of the way – or who would like to discredit you in front of your peers, destroy your reputation?"

Mitchell shrugged, smiling a little. "Well, there have been plenty of disgruntled students who have been – ahem – requested to leave. There have been teachers whom I’ve had to fire, for one reason or another. But no more here than at any other school, I feel quite certain of that. And I don’t believe I made any of them angry enough that they would go to this much trouble to make me look bad, or to endanger my job. Certainly not angry enough to burn down the school! Of course, with some people, you never can tell."

Joe nodded, pondering a moment more. "Okay – what about other groups? Activist groups. Student groups, that sort of thing. For instance, have you ever had any particular trouble with the Students For Earth?"

Mitchell eyed him sharply. "The Students For Earth?" he repeated.

"Yes." Joe leaned forward in his chair, watching the other man closely. "There have been fliers advertising that group posted near a couple of the fire sites – around the stadium, and then near the art building. It almost makes it look like the S.F.E. is trying to take credit for the fires."

The president shrugged again, looking bewildered. "Not that I can remember," he said, "I recall that one particular member was quite upset when I was obliged to cut funding for a project that he felt especially committed to – it was a project that would have purportedly saved the lives of some animals. But several independent research studies showed that the project wouldn’t have worked as projected."

Joe nodded. The Adirondack Project…what Kirk Moncrief talked to Megan about…."What about other groups?"

"I can’t think of any," Mitchell reiterated. "I’m not sure – but I honestly can’t think of any group who would do what’s been done. And as far as past students, or teachers – I feel that it must be someone – a student, an instructor – who is on campus now. Someone who may be mentally unbalanced. Unstable."

As they talked, Joe had been looking idly around the den, taking in the accoutrements as well as the mess. He saw several framed photos – family members, he supposed, or other people close to the president – on the fireplace mantel, on a bookshelf, even on Mitchell’s desk. Thoughtfully, Joe reached into his pocket and took something out.

"Sir," he said, "I believe you saw this the other night when you talked to Frank. We found it near the Administration building after it burned. Do you have any idea who might have dropped it there? Or…put it there?"

Mitchell sighed and extended his hand for the half-photo. He gazed sadly at it for a moment, staring down at the picture: himself, with part of an arm missing, as if it had been around the shoulders of another person. The person who was no longer in the picture. "Yes," he said, finally. "I recognize it, and I suspect it very likely belonged to my nephew." He handed the photo back to Joe, and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. "I have one like it here – the full picture."

Joe looked up sharply. "Your…nephew?" he asked slowly. He watched as Mitchell displayed the small framed picture. There was the college president, smiling, and beside him was a short, somewhat pudgy male figure with tousled brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. The boy was smiling at the camera too. A woman with features similar to Mitchell’s stood on the other side of the boy.

"Yes – my sister’s son, Kirk. They’re the other people in the photograph, and we each had a copy."

"You don’t…think…he could be…behind this?" Joe asked delicately.

President Mitchell shook his head. "No, I wouldn’t think so. He’s very intelligent, and extremely passionate about the things he believes in, but…no, I don’t see how. Not Kirk. Not at all."

Despite Mitchell’s reassurances, Joe didn’t feel convinced. He had some doubts about Kirk Moncrief, but he didn’t say anything out loud. Re-pocketing the picture, he got to his feet.

"Dr. Mitchell, thank you for taking the time to talk to me. Frank and I will keep you informed about everything that happens. And I’d appreciate it if you could let us know if ANYTHING occurs to you that might help with this case. Even if it’s only a suspicion, or an idea that seems ludicrous."

"I will," Mitchell promised. He walked Joe to the front door, and stood there in the opening while Joe got in the Aztek. He didn’t close the door until Joe had turned on the ignition and started to drive away.

Well…was that a complete bust, or did I find out something very interesting? Joe was thinking hard as he headed for the highway leading to the airport and Wayne’s World. Kirk Moncrief, eh? That’s an interesting little tidbit of news to share with Frank…to add to the other interesting little tidbits. Wish we had more than tidbits, though! He didn’t look like the arson type in that photo, but what’s an arson ‘type,’ after all? And he did freak out Red pretty badly yesterday….

Joe sighed as he made the last turn before gaining the highway, frustrated by his lack of success, and then growled beneath his breath as a car sped by him, making an illegal pass on the RIGHT, for Pete’s sake! The car pulled out in front of him, horn blaring, and squealed to an abrupt stop as the light changed.

For the luvva…! Joe mashed down on the brake pedal, and barely managed to stop before he rear-ended the wayward car. He considered getting out and giving the driver a piece of his mind, but decided it probably wasn’t worth it – and besides, whoever was driving seemed to be possessed of a considerable amount of road rage!