“Are you all right, Joe?” Frank asked as he walked up to his brother.
“Jarred my leg a bit,” the younger Hardy said, “but other than that, I’m fine. How’s Henderson?”
“He looked pretty bad,” Frank admitted. “We were lucky none of the other racers hit us while I was trying to help him.”
“He’ll pull through,” Joe said. “He’s been through some tough scrapes before.”
“His being out of the race sure puts Amber Hawk in a good position,” Frank commented.
“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “He was her main competition in this event. Even with the strange series format, I doubt anyone else will be able to beat her.”
Frank rubbed his chin.
Joe understood the gesture. “You’re thinking that Hawk might have had something to do with Henderson’s crash?”
“It’s possible,” Frank said. “Someone could have sabotaged his bike while he was signing autographs.”
“But she was right there, signing with him,” Joe said.
“Not the whole time,” Frank noted. “And she could have had an accomplice.”
“Or it could just have been an accident.”
“A midair explosion like that, on a bike driven by one of the top motocross racers in the country?” Frank said. “It doesn’t seem likely.”
“Maybe the police report can clue us in,” Joe said. “Your race is coming up—are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Frank said, pulling on his riding gloves and helmet.
“Try my tactic,” Joe said. “Go fast and make the jumps as big as you can handle. We’re not acrobats, so just try to be fast.”
Frank drew the same heat as Paco Fernandez, who was competing to honor his sister. The elder Hardy fought hard during the race. He hit some soaring jumps and ultimately clocked a good time. It wasn’t enough to beat Paco, though, who even finished ahead of Hawk in the standings.
Corrine’s brother seemed quite pleased with his placing. “Guess I showed that you don’t have to be famous to turn in a good ride,” he said to reporters afterward.
Jamal did even better in his heat than Frank. He pulled off a couple of cool acrobatic moves during his run, including a no-footed can-can and a cowboy split. He posted a good time, too, and both brothers rushed to meet their friend after his run.
“Great ride, Jamal!” Joe enthused.
“Excellent!” Frank agreed.
Jamal pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I almost skidded coming out of that cowboy,” he said. “I was lucky.”
“That was more a sign of practice than luck, I think,” Frank said. “Now that all of us are finished with the Mixed Freestyle, we can relax a bit while they run the rest of the heats.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jamal said. “Who’s in the last run?”
Joe checked the printed schedule they’d been given that morning. “Jules Kendallson, Marissa Hayday, Elizabeth Navarro, and two people I’ve never heard of,” he said.
Jamal glanced over his shoulder at the paper. “Marissa should have a good chance in that group—assuming her sisters have stopped bickering long enough to prep her bike properly.”
“They seem like a pretty feisty trio,” Joe said. “What’s the deal with them?”
“They’ve done everything as a team practically since they were born,” Jamal replied. “Elena and Karina ride motocross too, and they’re pretty good. But I think they decided to maximize their winning potential by backing Marissa, who has the most experience.”
“It’s good having family to help you out in the pits,” Frank said.
“Yeah,” Jamal agreed. “Though it has its drawbacks, especially if a squabble breaks out.”
“Hey, want to grab some food?” Joe asked. “We can check the final standings afterward.”
“I’d love to, but I promised Corrine I’d catch up with her after my heat,” Jamal said. “We’ll compare notes for tomorrow’s dirt-track run later, though. Okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Frank said. “We’ll catch up with you at our garage bay after they shoo out the public.”
“Great,” Jamal said. “See you then.” He took his bike back to the makeshift garage, then headed up to the announcing tower to see Corri, who was still covering the race.
The brothers, who had already put their cycles away, headed for the concession stand. They got a good view of the track on the way, and caught a bit of the action. Marissa Hayday seemed to be driving well. Her pink and purple bike whipped around the track, getting good air on the whoopdedoos. Jules Kendallson rode fairly well, but almost wiped out after a big jump. His bike hit the ground hard, and his armored shins brushed against the dirt as he turned.
“Ouch!” Joe said. “I bet he’s glad to have on that black and green armor. Otherwise he’d be picking rocks out of his legs for weeks.”
“Elizabeth Navarro’s not doing much better,” Frank said. “Look, she’s gone down again.”
As they watched, the young rider hit the bottom of a berm and spilled off her bike. Her yellow and black riding armor protected her, though.
She scrambled to her feet and got back in the race.
“And the skull on her helmet keeps on grinning!” Joe said.
Frank chuckled. “You have to admire her determination—and her dad’s enthusiasm.” He looked to the pits near the track, where Richard Navarro was jumping up and down, rooting for his girl.
The brothers grabbed some bratwurst and sodas from the concession stand, then decided to take a walk around the grounds as they ate. The track lay on the west side of the fenced-in area, with an extension of the course running off to the north. Thick woods abutted that side of the property. The brothers spotted several trails running from the edges of the dirt track into the trees.
“That must be part of the cross-country course for Sunday’s Enduro race,” Frank deduced.
“Right,” Joe said, confirming the information on the map that had come in their registration packet.
From there, they looped back past the edge of the metal-walled garages and prep areas. They checked the office, which seemed both deserted and secure, then circled toward the main gate on the south. As they walked, they had a good view of the industrial property to the east, which seemed to manufacture enormous concrete pipes.
“This is a pretty nice course,” Frank said, gazing around the Fernandez compound. “Too bad they’ve been struggling financially. I wonder how they’re doing at the box office?”
“It looks like they’re closing it’ down right now,” Joe said, gazing at the small kiosk near the front gate.
As the last race wound to its conclusion, spectators drifted from the stands and toward their cars in the nearby parking lot. Some cars were already rumbling down the dirt driveway past the gate.
A short, dark-haired woman came out of the brightly painted kiosk near the raceway’s main entrance. In her hands she held a big, gray cashbox. A tall man in black riding leathers and wearing a scuffed-up black helmet came out of the building a few steps behind her. The two of them headed toward Pops Fernandez’s office, on the east side of the property.
“The size of the crowd should indicate a good take today,” Frank said.
“Tomorrow’s crowd will probably be better,” Joe said. “It’ll be Saturday, for one thing. And I’m sure the publicity from the Henderson crash will bring more people through the door.”
Frank shook his head. “I hate to think of people—even nice folks like the Fernandezes—profiting from a serious accident.”
Joe nodded his agreement. “It would be ironic if Henderson’s injuries helped pay for Corri’s rehab.” He cast his eyes back to the woman leaving the box office. “You think that guy with her is security?” Joe asked. “That’s an odd outfit for a guard.”
“Maybe it’s part of the show,” Frank said, “to make the guards look like race participants or something.”
The woman and man walked across a deserte
d space between the front gate and the office. Frank and Joe were the only people with a clear look at the pair. Buildings blocked everyone else’s view of people leaving the track.
It was a good thing the Hardys could see—because suddenly, without warning, the helmeted man pulled a blackjack from his pocket and hit the woman carrying the cashbox over the back of the head.
7 Thousands to One
* * *
The weighted leather sack came down heavily on the woman’s skull. She grunted and fell to the ground. The heavy gray cashbox spilled from her arms and landed in the dirt.
The helmeted man stooped down to pick it up.
“Hey, you! Stop!” Frank shouted. He and Joe, still several hundred yards away from the scene, dashed toward the leather-dressed assailant.
The man noticed the brothers, but focused his efforts on the box. He tried to pry the lid open with his black-gloved hands, but it wouldn’t give. As the Hardys sprinted closer, he put away his blackjack and fished a knife out of his pocket.
The bandit jabbed at the cashbox lock with the point of the blade. It did no good. As the brothers closed in on him, he hefted the box, turned, and ran.
“I’ll get him,” Frank said as Joe skidded to a halt beside the injured woman.
The younger Hardy knelt at the woman’s side as his brother continued running. “She’s knocked out,” Joe shouted to Frank. “I’ll stay here and get her some medical attention.”
The older Hardy didn’t bother to reply. He knew Joe would do everything he could for the woman.
Frank and the thief ran across the unmowed lawn between the office area and the back row of metal garages. The culprit seemed about as tall as Frank, and nearly as fast. But the awkward weight of the big, metal cashbox slowed him down.
Frank smiled slightly.
Suddenly, the thief turned and threw the cash-box at the elder Hardy.
A gasp of air escaped Frank’s lips as the big, metal container hit him in the gut. The box, still not open, landed on the ground between Frank and the bandit. Frank fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. The thief kept running.
Frank got up. He didn’t dare leave the cashbox behind, though he knew carrying it would slow him down. He hefted the metal container and took off after the culprit once more.
The helmeted man ducked between two garages and into the pits beside the track. Mechanics and racers tending to their bikes filled the pit areas. No one even looked up as the helmeted man dashed through the crowd.
“Stop that guy!” Frank yelled as he entered the pits.
By then, though, the bandit had passed through the row of competitors and onto the track’s main concourse. The race featuring Jules Kendallson, Elizabeth Navarro, and Marissa Hayday had just finished. A throng of spectators heading for their cars crowded the thoroughfare.
Corrine Fernandez’s happy voice boomed over the loudspeaker: “Thanks for coming to the benefit today! We at the Fernandez Cycle Track hope you’ll join us again tomorrow, for the motocross phase of this exciting challenge series!”
Frank shouted again for help, but no one heard him over the noise of the PA system.
The audience milling about blocked Frank from catching his quarry—and the big, heavy cashbox made navigation through them impossible. Frank spotted the culprit one last time near the far. edge of the concourse, then lost sight of him in the crowd. By the time the elder Hardy pushed through the mob, the would-be robber had disappeared.
Frustrated, Frank headed back to where he’d left Joe. He found both an ambulance and Pops Fernandez waiting when he got back. Joe spotted Frank as the EMTs loaded the injured woman into the ambulance.
“Are you okay?” Joe called to his brother. “Did you catch him?”
Frank shook his head. “He threw the cashbox at me and got away. I might have nabbed him, but I didn’t want to leave the box behind.” He handed the big, metal container to Pops Fernandez.
“Thank you,” Pops said. “I don’t know what we would have done if that bandit had gotten away with the day’s receipts.”
“How’s the girl?” Frank asked.
“She’ll be all right,” Joe said. “The EMTs said she was only stunned. They’re taking her to the hospital for observation—just in case.”
“You two probably saved her life,” Pops said.
“I think the robber was only interested in the money,” Frank said. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch him.”
“Next time, you should post a real guard with your gate employee,” Joe told Mr. Fernandez.
“We did,” Pops replied. “But he’d taken a coffee break. When someone knocked on the box office door, Candy—the girl who got hit—told me she’d assumed it was the guard returning. She said the thief pushed his way in, then forced her to walk away from the main entrance. We could have lost thousands of dollars, all because of one moment of carelessness.”
As the ambulance pulled away, the news media caught wind that something was going on. They converged like vultures toward the spot where the brothers and Pops were standing.
Peter Fernandez sighed. “I’ll take care of them,” he said. “You boys get some rest. You deserve it.”
“Have you called the police?” Frank asked.
“One of the cops stationed at the track called the main station,” Pops replied.
“I already talked to that officer,” Joe said. “So we don’t have to stick around, unless you found out who the bandit was.”
Frank shook his head. “No such luck.”
Pops shook both their hands. “Again, thanks. It could have been a real disaster,” he said.
“No problem,” Joe replied.
He and Frank headed back to their garage unit to make some final preparations on their bikes and lock up for the night.
“So,” Joe said as they walked, “do you think today’s thief was the same guy who broke into the office last night?”
“Maybe,” Frank replied. “With both wearing cycling outfits, there’s no way to tell for sure.”
“The helmet implies he might be a racer,” Joe said.
Frank shrugged. “Or it could just have been a convenient disguise. At a place like this, a helmeted man wouldn’t stick out much—unlike a man with a ski mask over his head.”
“I’m sure we’ll catch this guy in the end, whoever he is,” Joe said.
His older brother nodded thoughtfully. “Participating in the race might make a good cover if you actually wanted to steal either the cashbox or one of the prizes,” he said.
“You think someone might have entered the competition just to rob it?”
“It’s possible,” Frank said. “It could be someone without a lot of riding talent—like Elizabeth Navarro, for instance—just looking to make a big score. Competing would be a perfect cover.”
“Very perfect in Navarro’s case,” Joe said. “She was actually on the track when the robbery took place.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “That rules her out, along with the other racers who were on the course at the time.”
“That only leaves about fifty suspects—not counting the spectators,” Joe noted wryly.
Frank sighed. “It’s a place to start, anyway.”
“We can think about it tonight,” Joe said. “Let’s check the standings and hook up with Jamal, then head for home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank said. He rubbed his gut where the box had hit it. “I’m beat.”
They found Jamal at the garage bay and filled him in on what had happened. Then they all locked up and checked the standings before they left.
“The rankings are close,” Joe said, looking over the sheet. “Paco’s got a lead, but pot a commanding one.”
“Hawk will have an advantage tomorrow,” Jamal noted. “Motocross is her specialty.”
“She got a lucky break when Henderson crashed,” Frank said. “He was her main competition, but anyone could still take the series.”
“The next two days will tell,” Joe said.
• • •
The brothers arrived at the race course early the next morning to prepare their bikes for the day. Since the day’s theme was standard motocross, as opposed to acrobatics, they changed the stiffness on their shock absorbers and put on tires with more aggressive treads. Many of other the racers changed their seats as well; specially cut saddles, making dismount tricks easier, were standard for pros competing in acrobatic cycle contests.
The top finishers in each race would ride against one another in the semifinals, then the finals. Placement in the last race of the day would determine the standings and start times for Sunday’s Enduro.
Joe and Frank worked side by side with Jamal in their small assigned garage. Their space was connected to the adjoining bays by a long corridor running across the back. Small doors kept each garage separate from the common hallway. Big garage doors in the front of the bays opened out onto the track area, which looked onto a big berm behind Pitstop Row.
The Hardys’ bay was one of the last in the line, and fairly close to one of the big bends in the motocross course. A tall line of piled-up earth separated their garage from the track. The earth wall also cut down on noise from the course.
The garage area was noisy enough on its own, with all the racers working on their machines. Most riders left the big doors of their bays open; the tiny, metal-cased garages got too warm with the doors shut.
Jamal had to run in the first race of the day, so he headed out while the Hardys were still working on their preparations. Frank and Joe had decided to rig small short-range radios in their helmets so they could talk to each other during the races. Paco Fernandez stopped by and handed the brothers their assignment sheets for the day.
As the Hardys wheeled their bikes out toward the track, Jamal returned. He was covered from head to toe with mud, so much so that you could hardly recognize his black and red uniform. Despite the mess, he wore a grin from ear to ear. “First in my heat,” he said. “I’m on to the next round—and a good spot for tomorrow’s Enduro.”
Motocross Madness Page 5