Kickoff to Danger (11 page)

Still, it wasn't midnight. Maybe somebody was just looking for a part after work.

Joe silently shook his head. And even if there are car thieves on the prowl, he thought, we've got enough other stuff to worry about right now.

“What kind of car was it?” he asked.

Frank shrugged. “The headlights were pretty high off the ground,” he said. “A small truck, I
guess. Maybe an SUV I only noticed because he took a quick right.”

They took the next block in silence.

The neighborhood
is
quiet, Joe thought. Without the windshield, you can hear everything. Except there's barely anything to hear.

A light breeze brought them the angry barking of a junkyard dog. Then Joe caught the sound of a revving engine and the squeal of tires. The noise came from around the corner and off to their right.

Funny, Joe thought. I'm not seeing the beams of any headlights.

They rolled into an intersection, and he turned to look behind him. Bayport's town government wasn't about to waste streetlights in this dead area. Joe had to squint as he peered back down into semidarkness.

The engine noise was loud, close…and coming closer.

Then he made out the shape of the big dark SUV roaring up to ram them!

“Gun it!” Joe yelled. “That guy's trying to ram us!”

Frank had heard the other engine. He just hadn't been able to make out where it was coming from.

At Joe's warning, he hit the gas pedal. Sudden acceleration pushed the boys back in their seats as the van leaped across the intersection.

An instant later a large black shape flew past the rear of the van.

“Missed us,” Frank said, looking in the rearview mirror. “What kind of idiot pulls a stupid stunt like—”

His words were cut off by the sound of tires against pavement.

The SUV was revving up to try again. The big
vehicle wobbled from side to side, almost fishtailing as it pulled forward.

“Looks like he's the kind of nut to come after us,” Joe said in a tight voice.

Frank didn't wait around to see what the mystery driver wanted. He gunned the engine and worked on getting out of there.

His face and Joe's were buffeted by the sudden breeze blowing in the open front of the car.

Can't go too fast, Frank thought, or it will be like trying to look into a gale. I won't be able to see where I'm going.

The driver behind them didn't seem to have a problem with speed. His front bumper thumped against the van's rear, jarring both boys.

“Can you see who's driving that thing?” Frank fought to hold the wheel as the van was rocked again.

“You think we'll recognize him?” Joe asked.

“I'd bet on it.” Frank darted the van to the right, keeping the SUV from passing them.

Joe spent a long moment staring into the rearview mirror, then he shook his head. “It's got one of those tinted windshields,” he finally said. “I can't see inside.”

Frank sent the van squealing left to cut off their pursuer again. “Wish I could get inside there,” he muttered. “I'd rap that clown on the head a couple of times.”

He cut off as the SUV suddenly pulled up beside them. It bounced along, one side of its wheels up on the sidewalk.

“Brace yourself,” Frank warned, matching the monster truck's speed. They bombed down the block as if they were one piece of metal.

That seemed to be what the driver of the SUV had in mind. He kept cutting the wheel to the left, banging against the van with bone-jarring force.

Joe felt himself flung against his shoulder belt one, two, three times.

If this guy gets ahead of us, it's all over, he thought. He'll force us into a wall—or a crash.

A thunderous impact made him cringe in his seat, thinking the worst had happened. No, it was just the juggernaut beside them ramming into a metal garbage can. The trash can flew up across the front hood of the SUV, bounced on the roof of the van, then disappeared behind them.

The screech of brakes filled the air, and the dark vehicle suddenly fell behind, fishtailing down the street.

Joe saw why—there was a lamppost ahead. If their pursuer had kept his course, he'd have crashed into it.

Then Joe was flung against the door as Frank made a sudden left.

“What—” Joe started to say as the van quickly picked up speed. This wasn't a breeze tugging at
his hair. He felt as if he were being smacked in the face by an unfriendly wind.

“Shortcut to the interstate,” Frank explained. His eyes squinted against the wind whipping against his face.

“You're not getting on—” Joe began.

The roar of an abused engine cut him off. They'd swung onto a wider street. The SUV was pulling up again, trying to cut them off.

This time it came up on their left. They raced along, side by side, wheel to wheel, door to door.

Leaning into the wind, Joe looked past his brother. He hoped to get a glimpse of the mystery driver through the passenger-side window. But all the glass on the SUV was heavily tinted. A new burst of speed pushed Joe back in his seat. He still didn't have a clue as to who was behind the wheel of the SUV.

Joe couldn't tell how long that insane race went on. The next thing he knew, they were on the service road to the interstate.

His eyes were streaming from the chilly wind roaring in. How could Frank see where he was going?

Then, up ahead, Joe made out the entrance ramp to the elevated part of the roadway. It rose up to the left, while the service road remained at ground level on the right. Now Joe began to see what Frank had in mind.

A row of orange traffic cones led up to the split-off. The cones went flying or crunched under the tires of the dueling vehicles.

The driver of the SUV was desperately trying to get to the right, but Frank relentlessly herded him forward and to the left—even at the cost of some nasty knocks against the van.

They were almost to the split. The line of cones was just about gone. Ahead, a steel barrier rose up to divide the rising ramp from the ground-level service road.

Frank kept up the pressure on the SUV until Joe was convinced they were going to crash into the steel rail themselves. At the last moment Frank swerved away to the right. Luckily, there was very little traffic on the service road. Their lane was empty.

Their adversary wasn't so lucky. A big tractor-trailer rig was set on pulling onto the interstate. The huge truck was right on the tail of the SUV, its horns blaring. The driver who'd nearly wrecked them had no choice but to go up and away on to the interstate.

Sighing with relief, Frank slowed the van. They made the first possible turn to cut off of the service road and head for home.

Fenton Hardy wasn't happy to hear about what had happened that evening. “A windshield to be
replaced, plus who knows how many dents and scrapes?” He shook his head.

He didn't fool his sons. The boys knew their father was more worried about them—and Callie—than any repair costs.

“You know that SUV that followed us down to Fenderbender Alley,” Frank said, “had to start tailing us when we switched from Con's patrol car to our van.”

He looked at Joe. “Who knew we were in a patrol car heading downtown?”

“You, me, Con—and Wendell Logan.” Joe scowled furiously. “And I bet I know who he told—Terry Golden!”

“Knowing it and proving it—” Fenton began.

“I think we should give Con a call about that SUV,” Joe said, going to the phone.

“Golden doesn't drive one.”

“No, but I'll bet you it will turn out that one was stolen not far from where he lives,” Joe growled.

“Which is still—” Fenton said.

“I know, Dad—it's still not proof.” Looking disgusted, Joe passed along his information. He listened for a moment, thanked Con, and hung up the phone.

“What do you know?” Joe said. “They just got a report of a late-model SUV disappearing on Ash Street. Golden lives on Beech, just a block away.”

“No more detecting,” Aunt Gertrude said, coming
out of the kitchen. “I've reheated your dinner. Sit down and eat.”

After finishing his late dinner, Frank borrowed his father's computer to download the latest anti-virus software update. Sure enough, the website had information about a mutated version of the Gravedigger bug.

Then came the tiresome business of booting-up his computer and trying to clean out the infected files. Some could be saved. Many, however, had to be erased.

Of course, one of the casualties was the program he'd been trying to write.

Frank was just finishing the job when Joe came pounding up the stairs.

He stuck his head into Frank's room. “The ten o'clock news just came on,” he announced.

Frank looked up from the computer monitor. “So? Can't Aunt Gertrude answer her sports contest question?”

“That's not the news, judging from the top-of-the-hour headlines. Dad thought you'd want to see this for yourself.”

They went downstairs. The now-familiar School Attack logo floated behind the blond news anchor.

“We have a startling new development to report in the case of Monday's school attack,” the young
woman said. “Doctors at Bayport General have upgraded the victim's status. They expect Biff Hooper to make a full recovery.”

She smiled into the camera. “The young man is expected to recover consciousness within the next few days. Perhaps when he does, he'll be able to explain exactly what was going on in the basement of Bayport High School. Sources within the police have admitted to BayNews that even though an arrest has been made, they still haven't gotten to the bottom of Monday's incident.”

A commercial came on, and Joe shook his head. “Well, at least this time they didn't show poor Chet's picture.”

Frank's face settled into a thoughtful frown. “It will be interesting to see how some people act in school tomorrow.”

Actually, the school day turned out to be pretty boring. The two people Frank really wanted to see—Terry Golden and Dan Freeman—weren't in school.

Without the distraction of the case, Frank found himself settling into the flow of classes. He even managed to figure out one of Mr. Patel's trig problems.

Callie wasn't in class, either. When the end-of-school buzzer sounded, Frank gathered up his
books. Maybe I should stop by Callie's before I get the bus to the university, he thought. I can pass along the homework assignments and see how she's doing.

He was surprised to find his brother waiting for him outside the classroom.

“I decided to ditch practice today,” Joe told his brother. “We have a visit we ought to pay—to Bayport General.”

There goes my time with Callie, Frank thought. But he nodded, silently promising to make it up to her later. “I can't think of a better reason to be late for my computer class,” he told Joe.

Luckily, the hospital was within walking distance. The van was already laid up for repairs.

Frank's nose wrinkled the minute they stepped into the hospital. Maybe it was his imagination, but he always felt the place had an unusual smell: recycled air, disinfectant, and sick people.

They got good news and bad news at the reception desk. Biff had been moved from the intensive care unit to a private room in the east wing. That meant his condition was definitely improving.

“But he's not being allowed any visitors,” the receptionist went on. “Only his immediate family. The police even have a guard on the door!”

Joe covered his disappointment with a wisecrack as they turned away from the desk. “Sounds like
Chief Collig is overreacting to last night's scoop on the news.”

As he spoke, a loud, insistent tone began bleating from what seemed like every intercom unit in the hospital.

Joe swung back to the receptionist. “What is that?”

The woman looked a little nervous. “That's the fire alarm. There weren't supposed to be any drills today—”

“Hey, maybe we'd better stick around and lend a hand,” Joe suggested to Frank. “I bet there are a lot of people in here who can't move on their own.” His eyes suddenly went wide. “Like Biff!”

“The hospital has plans to take care of emergencies like this,” Frank pointed out. “You heard the lady—they practice for this sort of thing.” He grinned. “What do you bet this whole production turns out to be an unannounced fire drill?”

His face grew more serious. “And even if it's not, the chances are the two of us would just be getting in the way.”

They headed outside, into the afternoon sunlight. Frank checked his watch. “If I get lucky and catch a bus right away, I can still make my class.”

Joe looked off in the direction of the school. “Coach Devlin won't be happy at my being late, but I suppose I could still turn up for practice.”

They were about to go their separate ways when Joe suddenly grabbed Frank's arm. “Hey, what's that?”

“That” was something moving in one of the patches of bushes and trees that edged the hospital parking lot. Frank squinted. It looked like…a foot?

The Hardys quickly headed over to the patch of greenery. The moving object definitely was a shoe. And from the jerky motions it kept making, there had to be a foot inside. Apparently someone was lying under the bushes, trying to worm his way out.

Strange place to take a nap, Frank thought as they neared the shrubbery.

“Need some help?” Joe asked.

Their answer came as half a groan and half a moan.

The boys went to work pulling branches away from the body. Maybe the person had collapsed and fallen into the planted area. . . .

Frank gasped when he got a glimpse of the person's face. He recognized Dan Freeman—just barely.

Dan's face was battered and bloody. Both eyes had almost swollen shut. Dan looked up at them through bruised slits.

“We'd better get you to the emergency room,” Joe said.