It was a shot in the dark, but surprisingly it paid off.
“That wasn’t me,” Cal growled, “and nobody can prove it was!” He glared at Ken.
The small triumph was like a jolt of adrenalin pouring through Ken’s veins.
“They know about the illegal entry into the Allen house in Brentwood, too,” he said tauntingly, testing his luck a little farther.
“That wasn’t me either! They—”
Ken couldn’t hear the rest of it. His ears were suddenly filled with a thudding roar.
It wasn’t spray that had hit the wall of the cabin that time. It was solid water—tons and heavy tons of it.
Cal staggered to his feet, grabbed a suit of oilskins and a pair of rubber boots out of a cupboard, flung them on, and dashed out of the cabin.
“Good,” Sandy said. “He’s going to be busy for a while. Now we can get busy ourselves. I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?” Ken wished he could see Sandy’s face.