Motocross Madness

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Not your fault, how?” Jamal asked.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Pops replied.

  “Everyone’s okay, though,” Corri added. “That’s what’s important.”

  A moment later, a green and yellow bike topped the hill. It skidded to a halt beside the group. Amber Hawk pulled off her helmet and looked at the Fernandez family. “They told me you wanted to see me,” she said. “What about?”

  “We want to find out what happened when Ms. Hayday here almost crashed,” Pops explained.

  Hawk shrugged. “What’s to know?” she said. “The girl can’t handle her bike.”

  “That’s not true!” Marissa protested. “You practically plowed into me.”

  “Tough competition is part of the game,” Hawk replied. “If you don’t like the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

  “Maybe I will,” Marissa shot back.

  “Now, now,” Pops said. “No need to do anything hasty. This is just a misunderstanding.” Paco didn’t say anything, but stood fuming near his father.

  “You should take it easy during these practice runs, Ms. Hawk,” Corrine said. “Save something for the actual races.”

  Amber Hawk sneered. “I’ve got plenty for race day,” she said. “Just keep the amateurs out of my way.” She pulled her helmet back on, revved her engine, and roared away.

  “Nice girl,” Joe said, meaning just the opposite.

  “We should throw her out of the race,” Paco said angrily.

  “We can’t afford to,” Pops replied. “She’s one of our biggest draws.”

  “But everyone knows she’s a troublemaker,” Paco countered.

  “Well, she’s made enough trouble for me,” Marissa Hayday said. “My sisters and I are out of here.” Her bike wouldn’t start, so she began walking it off the course.

  “Paco, go after her,” Corri said. “We need all the racers we can get.”

  “But I agree with her,” Paco said. “Hawk is a menace.”

  “Do as your sister asked,” Pops said. “She’s right. We can’t have people dropping out the day before the competition starts. Marissa and her sisters have a lot of supporters.”

  Paco shot an angry glance at his sister and his father, then jogged off after Marissa.

  “Sorry about this,” Pops said to the Hardys and Jamal. “We don’t usually have these kinds of troubles at our racecourse.”

  “Everyone’s on edge,” Jamal said. “Don’t worry about it. My friends and I are still in. Aren’t we, guys.”

  Frank and Joe nodded. “We wouldn’t miss it,” Frank said.

  “We’ve got to finish filling out our entry forms first, though,” Joe noted. He looked around and found their papers in the mud nearby. They’d dropped them pushing Corri out of the way of the onrushing motorcycle. “They’re ruined, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Corri glanced at her clipboard, also in the mud nearby. “I’m out too,” she said. Jamal picked up the clipboard, dusted it off, and handed it to her. She took the ruined blank forms and threw them into a nearby trash can.

  “No problem,” Pops said. “I’ve got plenty of forms in the office. Mr. Hawkins, if you’ll take my daughter to the medical center, I’ll see to your friends.”

  “But, Pops,” Corrine said, “I’m okay. Really.”

  Jamal smiled at her. “I promise to get you back on the racecourse in short order,” he said.

  The wheelchair-bound girl smiled back. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Hawkins,” she said. Jamal parked his bike out of the way, then wheeled Corri toward the medical center—a small, corrugated metal office near the track’s starting line.

  As the sun set, Peter Fernandez watched his daughter go. A mixture of admiration and concern washed over his craggy face.

  “All this must be tough for you,” Frank said.

  Mr. Fernandez nodded. “It’s been difficult since Corri’s accident,” he admitted. “Our insurance just wasn’t enough to cover both her surgery and her rehab. But we’re not about to give up now, not when she’s so close to recovery.”

  “I’m sure the race series will raise the money you need,” Joe said.

  “I hope so,” Mr. Fernandez replied. He walked toward the office, a wide trailer home parked near the eastern perimeter of the property. The Hardys went with him.

  “Organizing this benefit has been a lot harder than I thought it would be,” he continued. “There are some tricky legalities—especially with the big-name racers.”

  “Like what?” Joe asked as they walked past a line of garages. The buildings looked something like a long storage unit, with individual repair bays set up for each group of race teams.

  “Well, the famous ones want to control their image,” Mr. Fernandez said. “And their publicity, too. They bring in sponsors, but they make a lot of demands as well. Setting everything up has cost a lot more money than I thought it would.”

  “But not enough that you could have completed Corri’s rehab with that money instead?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Fernandez shook his head. “Not nearly enough,” he replied. “You know what they say: You have to spend money to make money. I just hope that the money we make is enough.”

  “We’ll do our best to help,” Frank said.

  Mr. Fernandez smiled at the brothers. “Thanks,” he said. “We appreciate that. We appreciate everyone who’s spent their time and energy to help Corri out.”

  They reached the old trailer that rested atop cement blocks next to the chain-link fence that ran around three sides of the property. The fence separated the track from wilderness on the north side and an industrial park on the east. It enclosed everything in the complex except the racecourse itself, which stretched into the wooded hills behind the main property. Twilight was rapidly descending, and long, dark shadows loomed over the grounds. The office was dark inside, too.

  Mr. Fernandez took out his keys and grasped the doorknob. The door swung open in his hand. “That’s funny,” he said to the brothers. “I’d swear I locked it.”

  As he spoke, the Hardys spotted someone lurking inside the darkened office.

  “Someone’s in there,” Joe whispered.

  “What?” Mr. Fernandez said, momentarily confused.

  “Keep quiet,” Frank cautioned. “Maybe we can take whoever it is by surprise.”

  “It’s probably just Paco,” Mr. Fernandez replied.

  “Rummaging around in your office with the lights off?” Joe asked.

  “Do you really think he had time to get back here after talking to Marissa?” Frank added.

  A look of deep concern drew over Mr. Fernandez’s face.

  “Do you have anything valuable in the office?” Joe asked.

  “Not much,” Pops whispered back. “Some money and papers in the safe. Do you think we should call the police?”

  “It’d be pretty embarrassing if it does just turn out to be your son,” Joe said.

  “Let’s take a look,” Frank agreed.

  The brothers cautiously opened the door and peered into the darkened office. At the far side of the room, a man with a flashlight was rummaging through some papers. The Hardys had no chance of recognizing him, as he wore leather riding gear and a motorcycle helmet. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and the helmet obscured his face.

  Joe took a tentative step inside the room, but a floorboard creaked beneath his foot.

  The helmeted man spun and charged toward them.

  3 The Kick-start Party

  * * *

  Surprised, Joe stepped back, right into Frank. The helmeted man shoved the off-balance teens, and both brothers tumbled to the floor. Then the intruder kept going.

  He pushed past Mr. Fernandez, who stumbled down the short stairs in front of the trailer and landed in a heap on the ground. The helmeted man ran off into the gathering darkness.

  Joe and Frank scrambled to their feet and gave chase.

  “Are you okay?” Frank called to Mr. Fernandez as they ran.
>
  The older man nodded and puffed, “Yeah.”

  “Call the cops!” Joe shouted back to him.

  The helmeted man ducked around a tall gravel pile and between two locked metal sheds. The brothers followed.

  The intruder, still a good distance ahead of them, headed toward a battered motorcycle parked near the edge of a dirt path.

  “If he reaches that cycle,” Joe said, “we’ll never catch him!”

  “Too late!” Frank replied.

  The helmeted man jumped on his cycle and kicked the starter. The brothers kept running, hoping they might catch the intruder before the helmeted man could get going, but then they heard the first kick of the engine.

  The bandit opened the throttle, and the bike’s back tire kicked up a cloud of dirt. The brothers made one last, desperate sprint, but the intruder zoomed away into the darkness.

  “Rats!” Joe blurted. “Do you have any idea who he was?”

  Frank shook his head. “I couldn’t see his face under the mask. The bulky leather jacket hid his build pretty well, too. For all we know, it might even have been a woman under that outfit.”

  “Well, whoever it was, they knew their way around that old bike,” Joe said. “I don’t think I could have gotten it going faster with an electric starter.”

  “Come on,” Frank said. “Let’s get back to the office. Maybe Mr. Fernandez noticed something that we didn’t.”

  “Let’s hope,” Joe agreed.

  The brothers caught their breath as they walked back to the trailer, which served as the course headquarters. Inside, they found Peter Fernandez sorting through the scattered papers on the floor. Corrine’s father looked up hopefully as the Hardys came in.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did you catch him?”

  Frank and Joe both shook their heads. “He got to a cycle and rode away.”

  “What are those papers?” Joe asked.

  “Just registration forms, mostly,” Mr. Fernandez said. “I don’t see what use they’d be to anyone.”

  Frank frowned. “Are the ownership papers for the SD5 in there?”

  “Nope,” said Mr. Fernandez. “There are some papers about the bike’s history, but not the ownership papers. I checked, and those are still safely locked away.”

  “So the burglar didn’t touch the safe,” Joe said.

  “Apparently not,” Mr. Fernandez replied. “It’s not the best safe in the world, but maybe this guy wasn’t a very good burglar.”

  “If it was a guy at all,” Frank said. “Neither of us got a very good look at him. Did you?”

  Mr. Fernandez shook his head. “Can’t say I did. Are you boys thinking a girl might have done this?”

  “We can’t rule it out,” Joe replied.

  The brothers took a few moments to help Mr. Fernandez straighten out the office. They gathered up the papers and sorted things as best they could.

  Finally, Mr. Fernandez said, “That’s enough for now. I’ll have to sort the rest myself or I’ll never find anything again. I have a rather . . . unique filing system.” He smiled weakly. “Plus, I imagine you boys want to get out of here.”

  “It’s no trouble, really,” Frank said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Fernandez said, “Just let me find those applications for you. . . .” He rummaged through a pile of papers and pulled out some applications to replace the ones that had gotten ruined earlier.

  Joe and Frank filled out the forms. Then Mr. Fernandez certified them, and gave the brothers their contestant numbers and information packets.

  “Of course the most important part is the pledge form,” Mr. Fernandez said. “I know it’s pretty late for you boys to find sponsors, but just do the best you can.”

  “We’ve got a pretty good network of friends and relatives,” Frank said.

  “We’ll come through for you,” Joe added. “Good night, Mr. Fernandez.”

  “Oh! I almost forgot,” Mr. Fernandez said. “There’s a big kick-start party tonight for the contestants. There’ll be food and drinks, and we hope a lot of media will be coming to cover the benefit. I hope you two will be able to come. Bring some friends, if you like.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said.

  “The party’s being held at the Veterans of Foreign Wars Memorial Hall, just down the street,” Pops added. “The VFW was nice enough to donate their place to use for our cause. You’ll find information about the party in your contestant packet. It’ll be a good chance to check out our grand prize—as well as the other competitors. The bike will be on display during the festivities.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a classic motorcycle,” Frank said.

  Joe winked at Mr. Fernandez. “He’ll have to beat me to get it, though.”

  They all laughed, and the brothers headed out. As they left they passed the police, who were coming to take a report on the break-in. The Hardys found Jamal, who’d gotten back from his errand with Corri, near the gate.

  “How’s she doing?” Joe asked.

  “Right as rain,” Jamal said. “You’d never know she nearly got clobbered by a runaway motorcycle.”

  “It’s amazing that she maintains such a positive attitude, despite the wheelchair,” Frank said.

  “I guess you can overcome any obstacle if you put your mind to it,” Joe added.

  “She was like that in school, too,” Jamal said. “I had a couple of classes with her before she graduated. Corri’s one tough cookie. The way she’s going, I’m sure she’ll get out of that chair one day. All she needs is the money. We can’t let her down.”

  “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll gather as many pledges as we can.”

  “Speaking of which,” Joe said, “we need to get home and start making calls.”

  “Will I see you at the kick-start party later?” Jamal asked.

  “Definitely,” Frank said.

  “We might even bring Iola and Callie with us,” Joe said. “If they’re not tied up. You know how busy our girlfriends’ schedules can be.”

  The three friends went their separate ways, and the Hardys drove home in their van.

  • • •

  That night, the brothers worked the phones, lining up sponsors. Their parents helped while their aunt Gertrude worried about the race. “People get hurt in those things,” she said.

  Frank tried to calm her down. “Joe and I have been riding motorcycles for years,” he said. “Our dad rode before us, and our grandparents before him. I remember reading an account of Hardys riding cycles as long ago as nineteen twenty-seven.”

  “Well, of course I wouldn’t remember that far back,” Gertrude said, flustered. With that, she took to the phone banks along with Fenton, Laura, and the two boys. Working together, the five of them scraped together a respectable number of contributions by the time of the party.

  Unfortunately, the Hardys’ girlfriends, Callie Shaw and Iola Morton, had already left for the long weekend. They had driven with Iola’s brother, Chet, to the town of Jewel Ridge.

  The brothers arrived at the VFW Memorial Hall, a relatively small, steel-sided building that used to house a nightclub, shortly after eight.

  As they entered, they found the party already in full swing. Jamal waved at them when they came in. He was standing in a corner, chatting with Corri Fernandez. Her brother, Paco, hovered nearby, talking to Ed Henderson. Paco glanced protectively from Amber Hawk—surrounded by admirers near the refreshment table—to his younger sister.

  Mr. Fernandez mingled with the crowd, shaking hands and smiling. Camera crew members from WBPT and other local TV stations followed him around like wolves circling their prey. To his credit, Mr. Fernandez refused to get annoyed with them.

  Joe and Frank introduced themselves to Ed Henderson. They chatted with him for a few moments, then mingled with the rest of the crowd.

  “Do you think we should say hello to Amber Hawk?” Joe asked.

  “Let’s wait until she talks to us,” Frank said.

  “That Corri Ferna
ndez is one very brave girl,” said a deep voice from behind the brothers. The Hardys turned as a tall man wearing an impeccable business suit stepped toward them. He stretched out one big hand to the brothers while still carrying a drink in the other. “I’m Asa Goldberg,” he said as they shook hands, “one of the benefit’s sponsors.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Frank said.

  “What do you do, Mr. Goldberg?” Joe asked.

  “I sell quality imports,” Goldberg replied. “Many of Bayport’s wealthiest citizens are my clients. I’m more than happy to lend my clout to a cause like this. In fact, I was the one who first proposed the races to Peter and his family.”

  “I’m sure the Fernandezes are grateful for your help,” Joe said.

  As the three of them spoke, Goldberg steered them toward a small stage near the back corner of the room. A podium sat atop the stage on the right. To the left, in front of a golden curtain, rested the grand prize—the restored O’Sullivan SD5 motorcycle.

  Goldberg gazed at the silver and black cycle, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Isn’t she a beaut?” he said.

  “Sure is,” Frank and Joe agreed. The machine looked to be in perfect condition, though neither of the brothers knew exactly what an SD5 was supposed to look like.

  Several other people stood nearby, admiring the prize. One of them, a tall, slender man with a pinched face, said, “It’s lovely, of course. But not nearly as valuable as it would be if more of its pieces were original.”

  “Now, don’t cut down the grand prize, Trent,” Goldberg said. He turned to the teens and said in a stage whisper, “That’s Trent Howard—a notorious motorcycle collector. Don’t let his complaints fool you. I bet he’s wishing he could enter the race himself so he could win that set of wheels!”

  “Why can’t he?” Joe asked.

  “No talent,” Goldberg said a little louder, with a smile.

  “Hey!” Trent Howard said, turning on him. “You talk pretty big for a man who’s never even tried the circuit.” Then, to Frank and Joe, he continued: “I made a go of it once, but I just had no aptitude. I’m a thinker, not a rider. And, in point of fact, I’ve made a lot of money thinking. That’s how I can afford to collect motorcycles.”