Hazed

  Private School Scandal …

  “Come on, Roy. You know Missy’s feelings are going to be hurt if you don’t say bye-bye.” The woman was laughing. And the guy—Roy—started to laugh too.

  “Okay, okay. Bye, Missy. You’re a good dog. Yes, you are. Bye, Dad. Bye, Mom. In case you miss me, like, half as much as the dog does.”

  Roy’s face froze on the screen. The voice of our ATAC contact began to speak “Three weeks after this video was taken, Roy Duffy left the Eagle River Academy. Dead.”

  Joe let out a long, low whistle of disbelief.

  I wanted to say something. But the words wouldn’t come. So I just watched as Roy’s face dissolved and was replaced with a still shot of a tombstone that read: “Roy Duffy. Beloved son.” Followed by a set of dates that showed he’d been only fourteen when he died.

  “No one disputes that Roy had a heart attack,” our ATAC contact continued. “But his parents believe that Roy had the heart attack because he was pushed beyond human endurance at a hazing ritual. The administration of the Eagle River Academy insists that hazing at the school is a thing of the past—and has been for almost a decade. Your mission is to discover the truth about hazing at the academy. You will find out the whole truth about Roy Duffy’s death.”

  #1 Extreme Danger

  #2 Running on Fumes

  #3 Boardwalk Bust

  #4 Thrill Ride

  #5 Rocky Road

  #6 Burned

  #7 Operation: Survival

  #8 Top Ten Ways to Die

  #9 Martial Law

  #10 Blown Away

  #11 Hurricane Joe

  #12 Trouble in Paradise

  #13 The Mummy’s Curse

  #14 Hazed

  Available from Simon & Schuster

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, NY 10020

  www.simonandschuster.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES and HARDY BOYS

  UNDERCOVER BROTHERS are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Lisa Vega

  The text of this book was set in font Aldine 401BT.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition February 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  Library of Congress Control Number 2006929869

  ISBN-13: 978–1–4169–1803–5

  ISBN-10: 1–4169–1803–5

  eISBN: 978-1-4424-4567-3

  1. Hazard Flag

  2. The Mission

  3. Welcome to the Eagle River Academy

  4. Special Treatment

  5. In the Cellar, No One Can Hear You Scream

  6. Drink the Blood

  7. So Dead

  8. Dirty Socks

  9. Psycho Boyfriends

  10. Model Behavior

  11. Box of Clues

  12. Sinking

  13. Is He Breathing?

  14. Don’t Die on Me

  15. Judgment Day

  16. It’s Happening Again

  17. Poisoned

  18. Conspiracy of Silence

  1.

  Hazard Flag

  “Welcome to the Wild Horses Rally. We have twenty-two drivers out here today, all between the ages of thirteen and nineteen. All ready to ride the asphalt of the Philly Speedway,” the announcer boomed out. “Can we give them a yee-haw?”

  The crowd gave a yee-haw as I climbed into my Formula racer’s plastic seat. It put me about four inches off the ground. I strapped myself into my safety harness and pulled on my helmet.

  I was going to rule this race. It was all I was going to think about for the next sixty laps.

  Then I’d get back to thinking about who had built the bomb. The bomb designed to blow when the racer it was attached to reached 175 miles per hour. And what racer in a Formula car didn’t reach that speed during a race?

  My brother Frank and I had found the bomb before whoever the bomber was had a chance to attach it—to whatever car was the target. We had a lot more work to do on this ATAC mission. But right now, it was time to drive.

  I locked my eyes on the signal flags, waiting for my green.

  “Joe,” Frank’s voice crackled over my headset.

  I got green. And I was outta there.

  “You’re going down, bro,” I answered. “Don’t expect any mercy because we’re related. I’m going to win this puppy! And that ten thousand smackeroos. And the adoration of—”

  “Joe, we’ve got trouble,” Frank interrupted.

  “Can we talk about it in twenty laps?” I asked, twisting the wheel back and forth to keep control of my car. My arms—Forget my arms. My whole body was vibrating from the power of the engine. And the wind was slamming by me. No windshields in a racer.

  “There’s a bomb on Jenni Fisher’s car. I spotted it just before the green flag went down. I didn’t have any time to warn her.”

  “But we destroyed the bomb we found.”

  “There must have been a backup. If Jenni’s car hits one seventy-five, it’s gonna blow,” Frank answered.

  I locked my eyes on Jenni’s poison green racer. How fast was it going already?

  “We’ve got to find a way to keep her speed down until the race ends,” Frank answered. “I’m going to try and pull up ahead of her. Then I’ll slow down.”

  “I’ll move up on her side. That way, she won’t be able to pull around and pass you,” I answered. Frank and I would both get warning flags thrown at us. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, except keeping Jenni’s speed in control until the Wild Horses Rally was done.

  I scanned the cars ahead of me, trying to figure out a path that would take me up by Jenni. There were eight racers between us, including Frank.

  “It’s not working,” Frank said over my headset. “I’m trying to pass her now, and she’s picking up speed to stop me. We’re at about one sixty-seven already. If Jenni picks up another eight mph, she’s going to blow. I’m backing off.”

  Up ahead, I saw Frank’s orange racer drop back. But another racer in a purple car was already moving up to take his place.

  “What if I try to get a hazard flag thrown?” I asked. “That would force everybody on the track to slow down.”

  “Yeah, but you’d have to crash,” Frank told me.

  “Yeah. But Jenni is going to die if we don’t do something.”

  There was a grassy apron ringing the inside of the track. If I took the next turn a little too tight, that’s all it would take. At this speed, I’d go spinning across the center—and probably right into the outside retaining wall.

  The upside? A yellow flag would definitely go up, and Jenni’s car would be forced to slow down. Then Frank could put on the speed—even though it was completely against the rules—and get his car in front of hers. From there he’d at least have a shot at controlling her speed.

  The downside?

  Were you listening to the part where I’d go crashing into the outside retaining wall?

  The purple car was gaining on Jenni’s green racer. She was going to have to put on speed to keep it from cutti
ng in front of her. And she’d do it. Who wouldn’t?

  The turn was coming up. When I got to the apex, I turned the wheel just a little bit too hard. My tires slid below the white line.

  “Don’t do it, Joe!” Frank yelled.

  Too late. My tires touched grass. And that was all it took. I was shooting sideways across the middle of the track.

  I couldn’t see if the yellow hazard got thrown. I couldn’t see anything. My world was all blurry motion as the racer spun, skidded, and then—

  Slammed.

  Right into the wall. At least the other racers had seen me coming and managed to get out of the way.

  I struggled to get out of my harness and leaped out of the car. My engine was starting to spark flames.

  I didn’t care about that. My pit crew was already on the way with fire extinguishers.

  I checked the flags. Yellow. Yes!

  It didn’t look like the racers were going more slowly. Not as they whipped past me, blasting hot air in my face. But I knew they had taken their speed down. That’s what you do when you get the hazard flag. And the drivers have to hold their positions. No driver is allowed to pass another car.

  I grinned when I saw Frank speed up and pass Jenni’s racer. My brother lives to follow the rules. It was probably killing him.

  Then he slowed down.

  And slowed down.

  And slowed down.

  If the roar of all those engines wasn’t blasting out my eardrums, I know I would have heard the crowd booing their heads off.

  A black flag went up. A black flag with the number of Frank’s racer on it. He was being ordered back to the pit. You only get that flag if your car has serious damage. Or if you’ve broken some major regulation.

  Guess what Frank’s flag was for?

  But he just slowed down some more.

  Then he stopped.

  The red flag went up. That meant the officials had ended the race. All the cars were required to slow down, get into the pit lane, and get off the track.

  We did it. We’d saved Jenni’s life.

  First time I was ever happy about losing a race.

  2.

  The Mission

  “How was the defensive driving class?” Aunt Trudy asked. “Did they tell you how to deal with those people who cut in front of you without signaling? Those people shouldn’t be allowed on the road, in my opinion. How many accidents do you think they cause in a year? And speeders. Does anyone even know what those numbers posted on the side of the road are?”

  “Actually, Aunt Trudy, going too slow can be as dangerous as going too fast,” Joe told her. “That was one of the problems they identified for Frank. He drives like a turtle.”

  “Well, Joe crashed into a wall,” I answered as I took a bite of Salisbury steak.

  “What?” Mom exclaimed.

  “It was a simulator,” I added quickly. “A race car simulator. They let us see how it would feel to take a Formula car around a track. Since it was Formula One drivers leading the defensive driving class.”

  “Even so. You ran into a wall, Joe?” Mom asked my brother. “How could you possibly have run into a wall? Walls are, well—they’re very large.”

  Joe made a choking sound but managed to swallow the rest of his food.

  “Simulators. That’s a good idea,” my dad said. “I don’t think either of you are quite ready for the real thing.”

  Dad knew we hadn’t been at a defensive driving class. He knew we’d been on an ATAC mission. That’s because he was the man who founded American Teens Against Crime. Our father is a retired cop. Retired in that way where everyone still on the force continues to ask his advice. He’d realized there were some situations where teens were the only effective undercover agents. Like the Wild Horses race. Because of the rules, only someone under twenty could have gotten out on the track as a driver and saved Jenni. Cases like these are the reason he’d created ATAC.

  “The race car drivers who taught the class were concerned about teens behind the wheel,” I answered. “There’s a high percentage of accidents for teenage drivers. But I think we showed them that all teenagers aren’t irresponsible. A lot of us know what we’re doing.”

  I wanted to remind Dad that we had caught the bomber. Attempted bomber. After we’d gotten Jenni off the track, we’d figured out that it was her mechanic, a former Formula One racer himself, who’d sabotaged her car.

  “I’d like to send those drivers who taught you a batch of my raspberry brownies,” Aunt Trudy said. “I’ll start baking to—”

  She was interrupted by the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it!” Joe jumped to his feet.

  “Were you expecting someone?” Dad asked.

  “Well, I never know when one of my ladies is going to drop by,” Joe answered.

  Dad rolled his eyes.

  Joe returned to the dining room about thirty seconds later. He balanced a pizza on one hand. “Frank, help me serve this up.”

  “You ordered pizza?” Aunt Trudy demanded. “We haven’t even finished dinner.”

  “It’s for dessert,” Joe told her. “In some countries, they always have cheese for dessert. Right, Mom?”

  Our mother is a research librarian. She knows almost everything about almost everything. What she doesn’t know, she knows where to look up. “You’re thinking of a cheese tray, which is sometimes served after the main meal,” she answered. “It’s a selection of cheeses, with perhaps some fruit. A few apple slices. Some strawberries. It isn’t served hot on pizza dough.”

  Joe grinned. “That’s why this version is so much better.” He continued on to the kitchen. I followed him.

  “Special delivery from Vijay, I’m assuming,” I said as Joe opened the lid of the cardboard box. Vijay Patel was with ATAC too. He wanted to become a field agent like me and Joe. He’d done some mystery solving back in Calcutta before he moved to the States when he was twelve. I was pushing for ATAC to give him a shot, but right now, he worked on the intel side.

  “Yep.” Joe grabbed some plates out of the cupboard. I slid a slice onto each of them—revealing the video game cartridge that had been hidden under the pizza. The cartridge was labeled HAZED.

  Joe picked it up and licked a glob of tomato sauce off the top. “Our next assignment tastes great,” he told me.

  “Let’s get it upstairs and pop it in your player,” I answered. My heart rate had picked up a little. It always did when Joe and I got one of the game cartridges that held the details of an ATAC job.

  “We have to serve dessert first.” Joe shoved the cartridge in the front pocket of his hoodie and grabbed two plates of pizza. I grabbed the folder that had come with the cartridge and shoved it under my T-shirt. Then I picked up the pizza box and another plate of pizza and followed him into the dining room.

  “Madame. Monsieur,” Joe said, setting plates in front of Mom and Dad. “Le Tray de Cheese.”

  “Aunt T, your pizza pie,” I said, as I served Aunt Trudy.

  “I still think it’s ridiculous to eat pizza after dinner,” Trudy answered. But she already had the slice halfway up to her mouth.

  “Joe and I are going to eat ours upstairs. We need to get some homework done,” I said.

  Aunt Trudy frowned and warned us about getting crumbs on the floor, but let us leave. She didn’t stop us.

  Mission accomplished.

  Two minutes later Joe and I were in his room. I locked my eyes on the small screen of his portable game player as Joe slid the cartridge in place.

  The screen stayed black.

  “Do you think it’s defective?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Wait, I see something,” Joe answered.

  The camera seemed to be moving through the darkness. Suddenly, red letters appeared. Dripping red letters written on a gray stone wall:

  In the cellar, no one can hear you scream.

  “Is that blood, do you think?” Joe ran his finger over the words.

  “Paint. Probably paint,” I said. It wa
s hard to make a call from the image on the screen.

  The camera moved away from the wall and over to a set of rough stone steps. Hooded, black-robed figures marched down the stairs. They herded a smaller group of white-robed figures, also wearing hoods.

  “On your knees, maggots!” someone in the cellar commanded. It was impossible to tell who with everyone wearing hoods.

  All the white-robed figures immediately dropped to the ground in front of the warning painted on the wall.

  “I didn’t think maggots had knees,” Joe joked. But he sounded a little freaked.

  I was feeling a little freaked myself. Because now I could see that all the people in white had their hands tied behind their backs. “You think ATAC sent us a horror movie by mistake?” I asked.

  Before Joe could answer, the scene on the screen changed. I’m talking 180 degrees. Now we were looking at some teenage guys playing Frisbee on a lawn so green it looked fake. A couple of them wore Eagle River Academy sweatshirts. A large colonial-style building rose up behind them.

  Another quick cut, and the cellar was back on screen. And the teenage boys in white were screaming. Maybe no one outside the cellar could hear them. But they were screaming. Their hoods were thrown back and their faces were streaked with blood and grime and sweat.

  Another 180. Joe and I were looking at a bunch of guys in prep school uniforms sitting in a classroom, listening intently to their teacher lecturing about Manifest Destiny.

  “Are those the same guys?” Joe asked.

  “I can’t tell yet,” I answered. The majority of the guys in the cellar still had hoods on. And the faces of the other guys were so splotched with blood it was hard to get a good look at them.

  We watched in silence as a few more scenes flashed by. Boys singing in a choir. Boys doing push-ups with weights strapped to their backs. Boys rowing on a lake. Boys eating what looked like some kind of intestines.

  I was expecting another TV-commercial-perfect scene of life at the academy to come next. Instead, what was clearly a home video began to play. A guy with messy brown hair in what looked like a brand-new Eagle River Academy T-shirt was holding one hand up to block the camera. “Mom, enough,” he begged. “You have enough hours of tape to watch until I’m home for winter break.”