Extreme Danger Page 5
“I already did,” said Frank, shoving his cell phone back in his pocket and stooping down next to us. He looked at Jenna. “Who is he? Do you know him?”
Jenna nodded. “Jeb Green. He’s an old friend of mine from California. An amazing skateboarder. He knows how to take a fall. But this time … it was weird … he fell with a bang.”
“A bang?” I said, glancing at Frank.
“It’s all my fault,” Jenna sobbed quietly. “I tried to stop before I ran into him, but my skateboard shot out from under me. I might have given him a concussion.”
“I don’t think your skateboard did this,” I said, pointing to the upper curve of the ramp. “There’s blood on the half-pipe.”
“And here, too,” Frank added. “In the middle of the guy’s chest.”
We quickly unbuttoned the boy’s shirt—and exposed a small bullet hole in his skin.
“Jeb was shot!” Jenna gasped.
The crowd started buzzing like flies. Some of them took off running, while others moved in for a closer look. One man kept saying, “Excuse me, pardon me, coming through,” until he pushed his way in.
It was the reporter from the Philadelphia Freedom Press.
“So what happened here?” he asked. “Any eyewitnesses?”
Jenna started to speak, but I stopped her.
There was something about this guy I didn’t like. Maybe it was the way he hoisted up his camera and started snapping away whenever people got hurt.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. “This boy might be dying here. Give the camera a rest.”
The reporter scoffed. “Are you kidding? This is front page material.”
I felt like punching the guy. But Frank had a better idea. He simply stood up—and blocked the reporter’s view.
In the distance a siren began to wail.
“Okay, everybody move out of the way!” Frank yelled to the crowd. “Make room for the ambulance! Come on, guys! Move it!”
Slowly the kids backed away, leaving space for the approaching EMT van.
Soon the ambulance came to a halt in front of the ramp. The doors flew open and out stepped Carter and Jack—the same paramedics who’d treated Gongado Lopez about an hour before.
“Busy day,” I said, stepping out of their way.
“Not really,” replied Carter. “Accidents happen every day.”
“This wasn’t an accident,” Frank told him.
“Oh, I see,” said the thin paramedic, examining Jeb’s chest wound.
“Is he … is he going to live?” Jenna asked.
“Well, the hole is too small for a regular bullet,” Carter said. “This looks like it was made by a pellet gun.” He inspected the wound further. “Yes, here it is, lodged in his sternum.”
Jenna sucked in her breath. “But is he …?”
“Yes, he’s going to live,” the paramedic added.
The crowd of onlookers cheered. Even the reporter from the Freedom Press looked happy—although he didn’t stop taking pictures for a single second.
The EMT guys ignored all the attention. They were completely committed to their work. I was amazed at how fast and efficient they were. In only minutes Carter and Jack had the boy safely strapped onto a stretcher and hooked up to an IV drip.
I put my arm around Jenna’s shoulder. “Jeb’s going to be okay,” I told her. “These guys know what they’re doing.”
Jack, the shorter paramedic, climbed into the driver’s seat and revved the engine. Carter stayed in the back with the patient. Just before the ambulance pulled away, Carter peered out the rear window and gave the skateboarders a thumbs-up.
Everybody cheered.
“Beautiful! Just beautiful!” the reporter exclaimed, capturing the whole scene with his camera. Then he pulled a handheld tape recorder from his pocket and started asking people questions.
I looked down at Jenna. She looked pretty shell-shocked. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute,” I suggested.
“There’s a bench over there,” Frank said, pointing.
The three of us walked over and sat down. Hidden away beneath a big shady tree, the bench offered a perfect view of the skateboard park. Nobody was skating or riding. Everyone was milling about and talking.
We didn’t talk for a while—just watched the others from a distance.
Finally Jenna spoke. “Why would anyone want to shoot Jeb? It doesn’t make any sense.” She kicked an empty soda can back and forth between her feet.
I glanced at Frank.
I knew he was dying to ask Jenna some questions, but he didn’t say a word.
“I just don’t get it,” she said softly. “Everybody loves Jeb. He’s one of those sunny California guys. Always happy, always smiling. No enemies, no rivals. He’s just a cool, laid-back kind of guy. I wish you two could meet him.”
“Maybe Frank and I can visit him at the hospital,” I said.
“Would you?” she said, her eyes lighting up. “That would mean a lot to me. Maybe I should skip practice and go with you.”
“I bet Jeb would want you to practice and kick butt on the ramps tomorrow. Don’t you think?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But tell him that I’m pulling for him, and I’ll try to visit him tonight.”
I gave her a big hug. “Go practice,” I said.
Jenna smiled and stretched. Then she threw down her board and skated off toward the ramps.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, for two reasons.
One, I was falling for her.
Two, I was worried about her.
“The shooter is still out there, Frank,” I said. “He could be watching right now … and waiting to pull the trigger again.”
“Maybe not,” said Frank. “Here comes Eddie Mundy.”
Warning bells went off in my head.
Eddie skated toward us with a red bandanna on his head, a backpack on his shoulder, and a hot dog in his mouth. He screeched to a stop in front of our bench.
“Hey! Mr. School Newspaper Reporter!” he barked at Frank. “What did I miss? What was up with the ambulance in the skatepark again?”
As if you don’t know, I thought.
“There was another accident,” Frank told the skater. “Jeb Green ran into a bullet.”
Eddie stopped chewing his hot dog. “You’re kidding me,” he said.
“Why would I kid? I’m Mr. School Newspaper Reporter, remember?”
“Dude, that’s pretty heavy-duty news,” said Eddie, shaking his head. “Is Jeb dead?”
“No, he’s in the hospital,” Frank answered. “Seems he was shot with a pellet gun. You know, the small kind you could probably fit in a backpack.”
Eddie glanced at the pack on his shoulder then smiled. “Hey, man. I wasn’t even here, so don’t even think it.” He took another bite of his hot dog.
I couldn’t take this guy another minute.
“So where were you, Eddie?” I asked.
He smirked at me. “I was grabbing a dog. See?” He opened his mouth and showed us the chewed-up food.
“Where did you buy it?” Frank asked.
Eddie shrugged. “A vendor.”
“Which vendor?”
“Dude, how do I know? There are like a hundred vendors in this park!” He laughed—until he saw the look on our faces. “You guys are serious, aren’t you? You really think I’m picking off the other skateboarders. Why? You think it’s the only way I can win a medal? Give me a break, man!”
Eddie hopped on his board and skated away.
I looked at Frank. “I think I’m going to hang around the skatepark for a little bit. I don’t like the idea of Jenna practicing while that creep is around.”
Frank nodded. “Here’s an idea. I’ll go question some of the hot dog vendors in the area, see if Eddie was really there during the shooting. Meet me at the park entrance in about a half hour. Cool?”
“Cool.”
We parted ways. I headed into the skatepark and found a spot under the ove
rpass where I could keep an eye on both Jenna and Eddie. After a while my fears started to fade. Everything seemed back to normal.
But it had seemed normal right before the attacks.
“Hey, you. Kid,” someone said to me.
I turned my head and groaned. It was the reporter from the Philadelphia Freedom Press. He had his tape recorder in one hand and his camera in the other.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
“You were here for both of the accidents,” he said.
“Yeah, so? So were you.”
“So what’s your story, kid?” he asked. “You a skateboard freak? Would you kill to win the Big Air Games?”
I shot him a dirty look. “How do I know you’re really a reporter?”
He pulled out a wallet and showed me his press ID. I glanced at his grainy face shot and credentials: Maxwell Monroe, journalist/photographer, Philadelphia Freedom Press.
“Nice picture, Max,” I said. “So why do you like taking pictures of violent crimes? What do you get out of it?”
“A Pulitzer Prize for journalism if I’m lucky,” he answered, chuckling. “Maybe I’ll stumble onto another attack today. It’s crazy. Two teen assaults at the same place on the same day? And I happen to be right here to catch it all on camera? I mean, what are the chances of that?”
Yes, I thought. What are the chances of that?
“I tell you, most reporters would kill for this kind of story,” Max went on. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Big Crimes at Big Air Games! An exclusive report by Maxwell Monroe.’ I’ll be famous.”
“Sure you will, Max,” I said, slowly backing away. The guy was creeping me out.
“Well, kid, I have to get back to the office if I want to make my deadline.” He slipped his little tape recorder into the inside pocket of his jacket.
That’s when I noticed something: He was wearing a gun holster.
“Good luck with the games, son! Break a leg!”
Monroe turned and walked away, laughing to himself.
I turned my attention back to the ramps. Eddie Mundy was leaving the park with a group of friends. Seemed safe to leave Jenna.
I watched her do an amazing jump, said goodbye and headed off to meet Frank at the park entrance. I couldn’t wait to give him the latest news.
* * *
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: Maxwell Monroe
Hometown: Philadelphia, PA
Physical description: 48 years old, 6′2″, 200 pounds, balding, brown eyes, glasses
Occupation: Journalist/photographer, Philadelphia Freedom Press
Background: Graduate of Farmdale Community College, former fact-checker for Weekly World News
Suspicious behavior: Just happened to “stumble” onto two crime scenes, harassed victims with camera, joked about possibility of more attacks
Suspected of: Assault, battery, attempted homicide with firearm, journalistic fraud
Possible motives: Pulitzer Prize, fame, fortune
* * *
If my suspicions were correct, tomorrow’s headline just might read: LOCAL REPORTER WILLING TO KILL FOR GOOD STORY.
8 Dead on Arrival
The emergency room at Pennsylvania Hospital was crowded, noisy, and hectic. The patients with the most severe injuries were wheeled past us on gurneys. Others had to wait in the seating area until a nurse at the desk shouted their names.
I shifted back and forth on the hard vinyl chair and tried to sort through the clues and suspects in my head. But it was hard to concentrate with all the moaning and groaning in the room. The patients were losing their patience. And so was I.
My brother wouldn’t shut up about Maxwell Monroe.
“I’m telling you, Frank. That newspaper guy is a total freak,” Joe yammered on. “He’d do anything to get a good story.”
“I don’t know, Joe,” I said. “It seems pretty farfetched.”
“But he was there, dude, for both attacks.”
“So were we,” I pointed out. “So were a lot of people.”
“But what about his gun?”
“You didn’t see a gun. You saw a shoulder holster. Maybe it was just the guy’s camera strap.”
“Maybe,” Joe said, standing up and stretching his legs. “But maybe not.”
It was hard to take Joe seriously. He was holding a bouquet of fresh daisies.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll add his name to our suspect list. Let’s see now. We have Maxwell Monroe, Ollie Peterson, Eddie Mundy … and every skateboarder competing in the games. That really narrows it down.”
Joe sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“Hardy! HARDY!”
The desk nurse shouted out our names like an army drill sergeant. Joe and I rushed over to the desk.
“You can see Jebediah Green now,” the nurse informed us. “They just moved him to room 418.”
We left the emergency waiting room and headed for the elevators. On the fourth floor, another nurse pointed us toward Jeb’s room. I knocked lightly before we entered.
“Come in,” said a gravelly voice.
My brother and I entered the room. Jeb was laid out in the hospital bed with a big gauze patch taped to his chest and an IV drip stuck in his arm.
Joe held out the bouquet of daisies. “These are from Jenna,” he said. “We’re friends of hers.”
Jeb smiled weakly. “Thanks, dude.”
“She wanted to come, but we told her you’d probably want her to stay and practice.”
“Definitely.” He looked a little woozy—but surprisingly strong, especially considering he’d just been shot in the chest with a pellet gun.
“I’m Frank Hardy,” I said, shaking his hand. “This is my brother Joe. How are you feeling?”
“Beats me,” he said with a goofy grin. “I got so many painkillers in me, I don’t feel a thing. But they tell me I’m going to live.”
Joe set the flowers on a table and pulled up a chair. “My brother and I are trying to figure this thing out, Jeb.”
“You and half the cops in Philly,” said Jeb. “Those guys asked me like, a zillion questions down in the emergency room.”
“Mind if we ask a few more?” I said.
“Sure. Why not? Who’s counting? But first let me tell you what I already told the cops. No, I don’t have any enemies—none that I can think of, at least. No, I can’t think of any reason why someone would go after both Lopez and myself And no, I’m not one of the top competitors this year—so it’s pointless to take me out of the games.”
I nodded and sighed. “Thanks, Jeb. You just answered most of my questions.”
“The cops were pretty thorough,” he said.
I was stumped. And, judging by the look on my brother’s face, so was Joe.
Then I thought of something.
“I have another question for you, Jeb.”
“Shoot,” he said, smiling.
I laughed at his word choice, then asked my question. “What can you tell me about Ollie Peterson? The owner of Ollie’s Skate Shop?”
Just then the door swung open—and in walked the tall skinny paramedic who had treated Jeb in the park.
“Hello, Jeb,” the man said, smiling. “I was told you can see visitors now.” He glanced at Joe and me.
“No problem, dude,” said Jeb. “Join the party.”
The paramedic introduced himself. “I’m Carter Bean. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m one of the emergency medical guys who picked you up at the park.”
“Thanks, man. You saved my life,” said Jeb, shaking his hand. “These are friends of mine, Frank and Joe Hardy. They’re in town for the Big Air Games.”
“We’re also fans of your work,” Joe told Carter. “We saw you handle both of those emergencies today in the park. You’re a real pro.”
Carter nodded. “Thanks. It’s always nice to be appreciated.” He looked at Jeb. “So how are you doing? Did they patch you up good?”
“Check it out,” Jeb answered.
“What’s that mean?” asked Jeb.
“Dead on arrival,” Carter explained.
“How far away would you say the shooter was?” I asked.
Carter scratched his head. “Well, you’d have to ask a forensic expert, but I would guess a couple hundred feet, at least.”
I made a mental note of it. Maybe it was a clue. Maybe not.
After a few minutes of chitchat, the paramedic announced that his lunch break was over. As soon as he left the room, I asked Jeb again about Ollie Peterson.
“What can I say, man? Ollie is Ollie,” Jeb explained. “Everybody knows him and everybody hates him. But he’s got the best skateboard shop in town. He really knows his stuff Ollie was a former champ, you know. He was the hottest thing on wheels back in the eighties. He had a huge career ahead of him.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Two things,” said Jeb. “First, he claims he invented the ‘ollie’—the move you make by smacking your foot down on the back of the board. Everybody knew that Rodney Mullen came up with it, though. He’s a legend among skateboarders. Ollie was just a big joke, especially after he insisted that everyone call him Ollie. His real name is Owen.”
“Okay. What’s the second thing?”
“The accident,” said Jeb. “It happened in 1990, at the peak of his career, in the FDR skatepark. Ollie was really pushing himself. He flew about ten feet in the air and slammed down knee-first on the edge of the half-pipe. He’s lucky he can walk at all.”
We thanked Jeb for the information. He asked us to give Jenna a message—“Go for the gold, baby”—and gave us the peace sign. Then Joe and I exited the hospital, hopped on our motorcycles, and returned to the hotel.
“Man, I need a shower!” Joe said when we got back to our room. “I’m drenched in sweat.” He peeled off his shirt and headed for the bathroom.
I decided to plug in my laptop and check out a few Web sites. Maybe people were chatting about the attacks this morning. I logged in, did a quick search, and found the official chat rooms of the Big Air Games.