Kickoff to Danger (5 page)

“The kid who took the knock won't go to Mr. Sheldrake,” Joe said. “He thinks you'd just get the players off. He also doesn't want to mess things up for the Seneca game.”

Coach Devlin nodded. “And what's your interest, Frank?”

“I share a class with Terry Golden and the kid he clipped, Coach. There's bad blood between them.”

“I see,” the coach said. “And what would you like me to do? Kick him and Logan off the team? Suspend them? Forfeit the Seneca game?”

“What?” Joe said. “No! We thought—I thought…you'd tell them to cool it.”

“Right now Terry Golden thinks he can get away with anything,” Frank said. “That's what he told a teacher. I'm hoping he'll listen to you if you tell him otherwise.”

“And this teacher had nothing to say to him?” asked the coach.

“Hey, if you don't believe us—” Joe began.

Coach Devlin shook his head. “I just want to make sure, that's all. There's been no official comment on any team member's conduct?”

“No,” Frank admitted. “That's why we're here…unofficially.”

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!

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 weight 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.