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he hadn’t seen Bernie all afternoon. They called some of the other neighbors, including J. J. Zuis and the Costellos, to make sure Bernie hadn’t just wandered off. None of the neighbors had seen the big sheepdog. The Mortons finally decided to call the police.
    An hour and a half later a Bayport PD patrol car pulled up the long driveway of the Morton farm. Two officers, a young woman and an older man, walked up the drift-covered path to the front door. The Morton grandparents let them inside and invited them into the kitchen for coffee.
    The Hardys had met one of the cops before. He was an old, gruff patrolman named Gus Sullivan. The young blond officer wore a name tag that read JULIE SCOTT . Sullivan and Scott seated themselves at the kitchen table and listened to the Mortons’ story while sipping coffee.
    “The roads are in bad shape,” Officer Sullivan explained. “We’ve been taking car-wreck calls most of the afternoon. A truck jackknifed into a telephone pole out on Highway Eleven.”
    Frank and Joe glanced warily at each other. Clearly Sullivan didn’t seem happy to have come all this way for a missing dog.
    “You’re sure the dog didn’t just wander off?” Officer Scott asked.
    “Look at this note,” Grandma said, handing them the paper they’d found in the doghouse.
    The police examined the note, glanced at each other, and nodded. “Do you know this note wasn’t there before?” Officer Sullivan asked. “It could have been left by one of those animal rights people. They don’t like to see dogs chained up outside when it’s cold. Some people think they know how to handle farm animals better than the farmers themselves.”
    “There have been notes like that left in rural Bayport before,” Officer Scott agreed, “just to warn dog owners about what these activists perceive as a problem.”
    “You’ll let us know if there’s a ransom demand,” Sullivan said.
    “You don’t think this counts as a threat?” Chet asked, incredulous.
    Officer Scott shrugged. “It could just be a stunt. Farm kids have strange senses of humor, sometimes. But neither an activist nor a kid would want to keep the dog. I expect he’ll be back in the next day or two, if he doesn’t wander back on his own sooner. These pranks never last very long.”
    “If it is a prank, it’s not very funny,” Iola commented.
    “Now look here, Officers,” Grandma said. “I know this may not be much to police officers likeyou, but Bernie is part of our family. He’s also a purebred English sheepdog—worth quite a bit, even without his papers.”
    “We don’t have any reports of other dogs going missing—purebred or otherwise,” Officer Scott replied, “but we’ll surely check into it. I’ve had a few dogs myself and I know what it’s like to lose one.”
    “It may take a while,” Sullivan added, “with all the trouble this storm is brewing up.”
    “We’ll appreciate whatever you can do,” Grandma said.
    The officers thanked them for the coffee and then returned to their patrol car.
    “Do you think they’ll actually do anything?” Chet asked the Hardys as the police car drove away.
    “Hard to say,” Frank replied. “This storm may keep them pretty busy.”
    “Even with the storm,” Iola said, “I don’t feel right just sitting here while Bernie’s missing.”
    “We could take another look around,” Joe suggested. “It’ll be getting dark soon, but maybe we can turn up something before nightfall.”
    “It’s worth a shot,” Frank agreed.
    “You just be careful out there,” Grandma called from the kitchen. “We don’t want any missing children in addition to the missing dog.”
    The brothers and the Morton teens bundled up again and headed out into the storm. They grabbed some flashlights, in case their exploration tooklonger than they expected. A north wind howled around the farm, blowing dancing clouds of flakes into the air and whistling through the cracks in the old barn.
    ‘We’ll