Kickoff to Danger Page 4

  The coach nodded. “Sometimes you have to do these things a little unofficially—for the sake of the team. For instance, you never made a stink after that shot Terry gave you at practice.”

  “You saw that?” Joe asked, astonished.

  “And I didn’t get all bent out of shape about it, either,” Devlin said. “You know what it’s like before a big game. There’s always a certain amount of…horseplay.”

  “Logan was playing way too rough on the stairs,” Joe protested. “Our friend Phil could have broken his neck.”

  “But he didn’t,” the coach said. “You asked me to tell the team to cool it. What if I do…and what if the team is too cool for the Seneca game?”

  “I don’t think—” Frank began.

  “I don’t think you or Joe or anybody would thank me for that,” Devlin said. “I don’t think anybody in this town would be happy about it.”

  Frank stared at his brother. Was the coach even hearing what they were saying?

  “I appreciate that you boys came to me,” Coach Devlin said. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned to Joe. “Especially you—I want you ready for the Seneca game, too.”

  Frank shook his head as he and Joe left the office. He felt as though he’d taken a quick trip through the Twilight Zone.

  “I guess you’re right, Joe,” Frank said. “The only thing anyone around here wants to hear about is beating Seneca.”

  Joe shrugged as they headed to class. “I can understand it a little more coming from the coach,” he said. “His contract runs out this year. A win over Seneca would help him keep his job.”

  “So we’ll put up with a little bullying and a few hazing games,” Frank said angrily. “It’s just a little horseplay. What will it take to get their attention? Someone getting killed?”

  Frank was still fuming when classes were dismissed. He jumped when Callie poked him in the arm. “Earth to Frank. Are you giving me a lift today?”

  “What? Sorry, Callie,” he apologized.

  “You were daydreaming all through class,” she said. “Did you hear anything Patel had to say?”

  Frank looked down at the empty pages of his notebook.

  “Guess not,” he confessed. “I hope you did a better job than I did.”

  “I tried,” Callie said. “Maybe you can explain what I wrote down.” She looked at Frank. “What’s the matter? It’s not that special class, is it?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nah,” he said, with a wry grin. “It’s a case of people doing to me what I just did to Mr. Patel—paying no attention. Let’s get out of here.”

  They got out into the parking lot just as the football team came trooping out of the gym exit. Most of the players hustled through the faculty parking lot on their way to the athletic field.

  Frank noticed one car had its red parking lights on. It was the little subcompact model Mr. Weeks drove.

  Frank spotted Terry Golden as he grabbed hold of Wendell Logan and Biff. He whispered to them, then went over to Mr. Weeks’s car.

  “Hold it, guys!” he shouted. “Mr. Weeks wants to get out.”

  The team members halted. Terry made a big production out of directing traffic while the teacher backed out of the space and pulled around.

  By the time Mr. Weeks was ready to go, Golden was standing in front of the car with Biff and Logan on opposite sides of the rear bumper.

  “I can’t move with you standing there,” Mr. Weeks said.

  “Oh, gee, Mr. W.,” Golden said. “We just want to give you a lift!”

  That was the signal for the two linemen to pick up the back of the car. Terry jumped out of the way, and the rear wheels began to spin uselessly in midair.

  “Those guys are crazy.” Callie moved closer for a better look at the show.

  Biff and Wendell were big, and the car was small—for a car. Even so, it was heavy. They lost their grip on the bumper, and the rear end of the car came down with a crash.

  The wheels didn’t set down together, though. And they were still moving. As soon as they hit the ground, the tires squealed. The car swerved wildly and shot forward . . .

  Straight for Callie!

  6 Discovery in the Dark

  Frank had just one chance to keep Callie from becoming a smear on the pavement. He threw himself forward.

  Callie still hadn’t moved when Frank crashed into her and caught her around the waist. He yanked her off to the side.

  A second later Mr. Weeks’s car screeched through the space where they’d been.

  The teacher finally managed to bring his vehicle to a stop. Pale-faced, he burst from behind the wheel. “Are you all right?” he asked Callie, who was still on the ground.

  “Just a little shaken up,” Callie answered, and waved the man on. Callie looked at Frank. “You might be a quarterback, but you sure know how to tackle. Thanks.”

  Frank helped his girlfriend up, then he stalked over to Biff and Wendell Logan. “Hey—geniuses!” he snapped.

  Biff at least looked embarrassed.

  Logan tried to pass the blame. “Weeks was the one who gunned the engine.”

  “What a weird idea, considering he was in his car,” Frank said sarcastically. “Of course, he wasn’t expecting the human jacks here.” He shook his head. “Do you do everything Golden tells you?”

  “We’re all on the same team, Hardy.” Terry Golden stepped forward to thrust his face into Frank’s. “But you wouldn’t know about that anymore. You turned your back on the team.”

  “Yeah. I can see what I’ve been missing.”

  Letting out a long breath, Frank turned away and headed back to Callie. Getting into a fight with a would-be football hero was more trouble than it would be worth.

  When the Saturday of the Seneca game came around, Frank wasn’t even near the playing field. He had to spend the afternoon in the library. It was almost empty, so he got a lot of work done.

  Even in the quiet building, he could hear the hooting and hollering in the streets outside. From the sound of it, Bayport High had won.

  Later, back at the Hardy house, the celebration continued with friends of Frank and Joe’s. Callie slipped an arm through Frank’s as they watched Joe get his hand shaken and his back pounded.

  Aunt Gertrude pointed at the clock. “Time for the evening news.”

  Must have been a quiet news day, Frank thought. The lead story was the Bayport victory over Seneca. Joe’s smile slipped a little when he saw that all the game footage was of Terry Golden.

  Then came the post-game interview and Terry Golden’s grinning face. He raised a fist in the air and shook it. “Now we have something to celebrate!” he shouted from the television screen.

  That piece of film also showed up on Sunday’s news.

  Frank got out of his computer class early on Monday. Instead of heading straight home, he drove over to Bayport High.

  Football practice should be over just about now, Frank thought. I bet Joe would appreciate a lift home.

  But as Frank drove up to the school he found himself steering away from the athletic field. He still was in no mood to deal with Terry Golden.

  Instead, Frank parked at the main entrance of the school. He chuckled to himself as he noted that the front steps and flagpole looked naked without the usual crowd of kids hanging out.

  I can cut straight through the school and catch Joe at the locker room, Frank thought, pushing the door open. He stepped into an empty, echoing corridor with the yellowed tile walls. Once this had been the main hallway of the school. Now it was a little-used cross-corridor because most of the classrooms were in the newer wings.

  All at once the hallway was neither empty nor quiet. A loud, braying laugh bounced off the tiled walls, quickly drowned out by heavy, clumping footfalls.

  Frank recognized the big guy who came pounding round the corner as a linebacker on the football team. A second later another kid came running after him. The second kid wasn’t small, but it would take two of him to equal the size and we
ight of the football player.

  He had almost caught up when the linebacker swung around. He had a knapsack in each hand. One of the bags caught his pursuer in the stomach.

  The smaller kid crumpled, the breath knocked out of him. His attacker kept running. Frank moved to block the guy, but he never got the chance. The linebacker turned before he reached the school exit. Instead, he banged open a door marked No Admittance.

  Frank blinked in surprise. That wasn’t a way out. The door guarded the stairs to the school basement, an area that was off-limits to all students.

  In the split second before the door shut, Frank saw something else. The football player had two other book bags hanging from his shoulders.

  Frank went up to the kid who’d been chasing the linebacker. He looked vaguely familiar. Frank remembered a picture in the Beacon. This guy was one of the debate winners. John something? Or was it Jerry? No. Jimmy.

  “Jimmy Brooks,” Frank said, going down on one knee. “What happened?”

  The kid pushed himself up off the floor, his face still twisted in pain. “They just burst in on our debate meeting, grabbed our books, and took off. I—I tried to follow—”

  His hand went to his stomach as he remembered what happened.

  “Okay, you’ve shown you have got guts,” Frank told him. “Now show you’ve got brains. Come with me to Mr. Sheldrake.”

  Jimmy turned toward the basement door. “But our books—”

  “Don’t go down there alone,” Frank said, helping the other boy to his feet. “Let Old Beady Eyes take care of it.”

  They had crossed the corridor, heading straight for the assistant principal’s office when they heard footsteps come running their way. Jimmy’s shoulders hunched, bracing for another fight.

  It was Joe Hardy, his hair standing up in spikes, and the front of his shirt buttoned wrong. He looked from Frank to Jimmy Brooks. “It’s the Golden Boys,” he said. “They’re beating up kids to celebrate beating Seneca. And Chet’s set up to be number one on their hit parade.”

  “Go on to Mr. Sheldrake,” Frank told Jimmy, sending him down the hall. Then Frank turned to his brother. “What are they doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Joe said. “When I got out of the showers, I overheard Wendell Logan talking to Biff. Logan said the Great Raid was on for today. ‘Fatso Morton thinks he’s in on it.’ ” Joe did a decent Logan impersonation. “ ‘He is—but on the receiving end.’ ”

  Joe switched back to his own voice. “Biff got really upset. He was out of there before I could ask anything. And when Logan saw me, he got out, too.”

  “I saw part of what happened,” Frank said. “They broke up a debate meeting—grabbed the guys’ books. Jimmy Brooks was trying to follow Matt Walinovski and got nailed. Matt took off and went down there.” He pointed to the basement stairwell.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Joe said. “It’s dark and quiet down there.”

  “You’ve been down in the basement?” Frank asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Just to check it out. You know—find out why they didn’t want anyone down there.”

  “Then you should know your way around.” Frank headed for the door. “Lead on.”

  He noticed two things once they were past the forbidden entrance. The cinderblock walls hadn’t been painted in a long time, and the lights were even dimmer than he expected. “Was it this dark when you were down here last?” Frank lowered his voice.

  Joe shook his head. “Nuh-uh.”

  In the distance, they heard a popping sound, and the tinkle of glass. The light in the basement became even dimmer.

  “Some clown is breaking light bulbs,” Joe muttered.

  A loud, boisterous voice yelled, “Yo, nerd!”

  Then came what sounded like a slap, followed by a cry of pain.

  “Didn’t like that?” the loud voice taunted. “How about this?”

  A sickening thud echoed from the darkness ahead of them. Frank realized his teeth were clenched tightly together. That sounded like someone being thrown into a wall.

  The Hardys groped their way forward. The halls were narrow and snaked around odd-shaped rooms. The boys had to detour around piles of dusty supplies.

  They reached a section where the overhead sockets still had bare, dim bulbs.

  A human form lurched into view from a side hallway. The kid had started the day in a white shirt. Now it had filthy handprints all over it—not to mention drops of blood dribbling down from his chin.

  The boy rubbed the back of a dusty hand across his face, smearing the bloody trickle. His wild eyes locked on them.

  “Don’t go in the dark parts!” the kid warned, his words slurred because of his split lip. “They’re waiting in the dark parts!”

  “Get out of here—now!” Frank ordered. “Get upstairs and tell Mr. Sheldrake. Move!”

  He turned to his brother as they let the kid go by. Joe’s face was grim, his hands clenched into fists.

  “Nice games they’re playing,” he said. “Maybe we can even up the sides.”

  They turned down the corridor the victim had taken. The hall quickly became dark, but there was no one there. Whoever had roughed up the kid had taken off.

  Frank ran his fingers along the wall as they moved forward. When they hit a lighted area again, he saw that his whole hand was grayish black. “Coal dust,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “We must be near the old boiler room.”

  “Speak of the devil.” Joe pointed to a riveted iron door ahead of them and to the left. Faded red letters identified the URNAC OOM.

  “Furnace Room,” Frank said, deciphering the partial lettering. “I guess they just left the old coal-burning furnace here when they switched to oil heat.” Frank rubbed his hands together in another attempt to get them clean. “Too bad they didn’t get rid of all this dust.”

  Joe, however, pointed to the door. “Looks like it was all locked up—once.”

  The door was old and rusty, but bright scratches showed in the metal where a padlock had been pried away.

  They were about to turn away when they heard a scraping from the other side of the door. Frank looked at Joe. “Better check it out.”

  He put a palm against the cold metal and pushed. The door swung in with a rusty screech, and the light from the bulb over their heads invaded the darkness.

  A figure sprang into being before them as if it had been hit by a spotlight…a chubby, blinking figure.

  Chet Morton’s right eye was swelling up in a definite shiner. He faced the Hardys with an old coal shovel raised up in both hands to defend himself.

  Book bags and a bundle of old clothes lay at Chet’s feet.

  Frank drew his breath in sharply as he realized that it was no bundle on the floor.

  It was a tall, muscular body with short-cropped, sandy hair—Biff Hooper.

  And he lay there way, way too still….

  7 Big Trouble

  “Chet, what did you do?” Joe burst out. He charged forward, kicking several book bags out of his way until he could drop to his knees beside Biff.

  Chet, who had the shovel up shoulder height, ready to swing, stumbled backward, his shoulders sagging in relief as he recognized Joe’s voice.

  “Am I glad to see you guys!” Chet gasped.

  Joe didn’t answer. All his attention was on Biff. He extended one hand, gently feeling Biff’s neck. “There’s a pulse,” he announced. “But it’s weak—very weak!”

  Chet was now looking down at Biff, his face a mask of horror. The shovel dropped from his hands to clatter on the floor. “Oh, no! Biff! What happened to him?”

  Frank gave his friend a long look. “You don’t know?”

  Chet’s eyes didn’t leave Biff’s still form. “It was supposed to be an initiation,” he said tightly. “The guys had a prank planned.”

  His hand went to the bruise around his eye. “I thought I’d come in for a little trouble, but I didn’t expect rough stuff. From the sounds, some kids were getti
ng it worse than I was. I moved away…saw the boiler room, figured it would be a good place to hide.”

  “What about Biff?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know!” Chet’s voice rose. He looked terribly upset. “I was checking behind me to make sure nobody saw me going in here. You saw how dark it was. I took two steps and tripped—”

  Chet gulped as he realized what he’d tripped over. “A-anyway, I groped around in the dark, and my hand found the shovel. I’d just gotten to my feet when you guys opened the door.”

  Joe popped up, grabbing Chet by the arm. “Chet, you’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “I believe your story, but I don’t know that everyone else will.”

  “It’s too late, Joe.” Frank pointed at the shovel. “Chet’s fingerprints will be all over that. And the fact that it’s so close to Biff—” He couldn’t make himself say the words.

  “That has to be what laid him out,” Joe finished. He dug in his pocket and got out some tissues. “So we’ll wipe it clean—”

  Frank reached out and pulled his brother back. “And what if you wipe away somebody else’s fingerprints, too? You may be destroying the one thing that could clear Chet.”

  “So what do we do?” Joe asked in frustration.

  “You’re going upstairs to call an ambulance. And, like it or not, the cops.”

  “And you?” Joe asked.

  “Chet and I are staying right here,” Frank said. “To make sure the crime scene isn’t disturbed.”

  “C-crime scene?” Chet stammered.

  “You don’t bang your head on a shovel accidentally. Biff’s on the floor because somebody put him there,” Frank said. “It’s our job to help find out who did it.”

  Joe set off down the corridor at a run. Frank and Chet stood guard in the doorway. Every few minutes Frank stepped around the scattered book bags to check on Biff. He wasn’t doing any worse. But he was still unconscious—and not getting any better.

  “Think, Chet. Is there something, anything else you can remember? Did you see anybody on your way here?”

  “I was kind of rattled after taking that pop in the eye,” Chet said. “It was Wendell Logan, I think. The guy can punch!”