Warehouse Rumble

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Woo-hoo!” Jay shouted.

  “Festivities begin at seven o’clock,” Willingham said, putting on his best, though obviously forced, cheerful face. “Be there or be Rumblekill!” He pumped his fist in the air, and everyone applauded. “That’s it. Head home and freshen up for tonight’s blast. See you there!”

  He turned and went to speak to Ms. Kendall, who had finished talking on the phone. Stacia Allen tried to snag a few folks for interviews as the crowd left, but all the contestants and staff gave her the cold shoulder. The Hardys, Chet, and Daphne ignored Allen too, and climbed into the Hardys’ van.

  The brothers and their friends went home, showered, and changed their clothes. Frank and Joe took some time to fill in their parents on recent events, then did the same for Callie and Iola (though Iola already knew much of the story from Chet). The Hardys’ girlfriends were too busy with their volunteer work to go to the party, though they wished the brothers continued luck in the game.

  The four Warehouse Rumble contestants hooked up at Daphne’s house at 6:45, then headed downtown together.

  Java John’s was a coffeehouse and eatery located on the first floor of a renovated building on Main Street, near the center of the city. Parking was usually plentiful in the area, but when the Hardys arrived, they found all the spots already taken. Many were occupied by vans from local TV and radio stations.

  Joe pointed at one of the satellite trucks. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Willingham invited the press.”

  “I don’t see Stacia Allen’s WSDS truck, though,” Frank noted.

  “Maybe she’s annoyed Willingham enough for one day,” Chet suggested.

  They found a parking spot two blocks away and walked back to the restaurant.

  Java John’s was fairly narrow but very deep. Mirrors along one sidewall gave the impression that the eatery was wider than it actually was. The front area had the coffee shop and a traditional soda fountain. The rear dining area had been roped off for the party.

  A crowd of local reporters snapped the teens’ pictures as the four friends moved to the back of the restaurant to join the festivities.

  “I’ll be signing autographs in the greenroom later,” Chet said, pointing toward the kitchen to indicate where the media should meet him. The Hardys and Daphne laughed.

  The food was good, and the fruit punch was just what they wanted after the long day. They mingled with the other contestants and members of the show’s crew. Despite Chet’s earlier joke, all four of them avoided talking to the media as much as possible.

  Willingham’s own people were covering the event as well, and the teens did a few interviews with them. “It’s in your contract,” the Hardys heard a staff cameraman remind Lily.

  “I thought we were the only camera-shy folks here,” Joe commented to Frank.

  “I guess most people who didn’t want publicity would skip this event altogether,” Frank said. “I notice Lily’s here, but I don’t see her brother. I wonder if his ankle’s acting up?”

  “I see Missy Gates, too,” Daphne said, “but not Jay Stone.”

  “I see Bo Reid,” Chet said. “Unfortunately.”

  Reid was standing near the front of the party room, talking animatedly with a local reporter. After a while he gave up and headed for the refreshment tables, near where the four friends were standing. Reid spotted them and gave a sneering half-smile.

  Chet waved at him.

  “Don’t press your luck,” Joe whispered to him.

  “It looks like Chet isn’t the only one pressing his luck,” Frank said. “Look.”

  Stacia Allen and her cameraman appeared at the front door of Java John’s and headed toward the party. Ward Willingham moved to intercept her.

  Allen and Willingham spoke heatedly for several minutes. Then Willingham stepped aside with a slight bow, and Allen and her cameraman swept in.

  “Another victory for diplomacy at lens-point,” Daphne said.

  Willingham walked with Allen for a while, smiling obsequiously. Then—when he seemed certain that she wouldn’t be trouble—he went back to mingle with the other members of the news media. The Hardys and their friends noticed, though, that Ms. Kendall was keeping a close eye on the reporters from WSDS.

  “I could use a refill,” Chet said, holding up his empty punch glass.

  “Me too,” agreed Frank.

  All four of them headed toward the punch bowl. They ignored Ms. Allen, who was hovering around the food, cornering people with her microphone. Bo was her current target, though the Hardys and their friends had trouble feeling sorry for him.

  As they refilled their glasses, Bo stormed out of the restaurant.

  “Is applause appropriate?” Chet asked.

  “Since we don’t have tomatoes to throw,” Daphne replied, taking a sip of her drink.

  As Ms. Allen spotted the teens and began angling in their direction, the friends ducked back into the crowd. The restaurant had grown more crowded as the evening progressed. It was now quite hot, and almost unbearably noisy.

  “I’ve had about enough of this,” Frank said to the rest.

  Joe nodded his agreement. “Let’s thank Willingham for inviting us, and then head out.”

  “Wha—?” Daphne asked. She looked very bleary-eyed and disoriented.

  “Are you all right?” Frank asked.

  Daphne didn’t respond, but Chet said, “I feel kind of woozy myself.” He tottered back and leaned against the wall.

  Joe looked at the half-empty punch glass in his hand and gasped. “There’s something in the punch!”

  10 Bad Medicine

  * * *

  Frank threw his glass to the floor. “Don’t drink any more!” he said. “The hospital’s not far away, but I doubt we should drive. I’ll see if there’s a cab out front.” He staggered through the crowd toward the restaurant entrance.

  The rest of the group dropped their glasses as well. Daphne and Chet leaned against each other, looking half-asleep.

  Ms. Kendall came over and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone spiked the drinks,” Joe replied groggily. “Keep everybody away from the punch bowl.” He helped Chet and Daphne toward the door.

  Stacia Allen tried to intercept them, but Joe pushed right past her.

  “More Warehouse Rumble trouble?” she called after them as they staggered outside.

  The world swam around Joe and his friends as they lumbered onto the sidewalk. Fortunately, Frank had a cab waiting. All four of them piled into the back.

  “The emergency room,” Frank said to the driver. “Step on it.”

  The cab pulled away from the curb and accelerated quickly down the street.

  “What’s . . . wrong with . . . us?” Chet asked.

  Frank blinked slowly and tried to focus. “Remember Willingham’s missing . . . sleeping pills?” he said.

  “You think someone . . . put them in the punch?” Joe asked.

  Frank looked at Daphne, dozing heavily on Chet’s shoulder. “I’m willing to bet on it,” he said.

  They arrived at the hospital less than five minutes later and checked themselves into the emergency room. Frank explained what he thought had happened, and the hospital staff called Java John’s to talk to Ward Willingham and discover exactly what was in the missing prescription. The doctors quickly figured out a remedy and administered it.

  A short but uncomfortable emergency room stay later, the four teens were feeling well enough to be driven home by their parents. Fortunately, no one else at the party seemed to have been affected by the spiked punch.

  Ironically, Chet, Daphne, and the Hardys did not sleep well that night.

  • • •

  At breakfast at the Hardys’ home the next morning, all four teens felt angry and frustrated.

  “You know,” Chet said, “someone could have really gotten hurt from that stunt.”

  “Dad said the police are taking it very seriously,” Frank said.

  “There’s
talk they might even shut down the show,” Joe added.

  “It’d be a shame to spoil everything because of one or two bad apples,” Daphne noted.

  “The problems with Warehouse Rumble were all over the TV news this morning,” Chet said. “UAN—the network producing the show—is even talking about pulling the plug.”

  “If this was some scheme concocted by Willingham to get publicity,” Joe said, “it sure has backfired.”

  “There are plenty of other people who’ve benefited, though,” Frank said. “Stacia Allen, for one.”

  “She was hanging around those refreshment tables,” Chet recalled.

  “Most of the party centered around those tables,” Joe noted. “I don’t think we can convict her just because of where she was standing.” He yawned and stuffed another piece of French toast in his mouth. “I didn’t see Clark Hessmann at the party, but he certainly wants to see the show stopped.”

  “The media attention—whether good or bad—might help Herman Jackson sell the warehouse area,” Daphne suggested.

  Frank took a long drink of milk. “I guess that Jackson wins if he can either sell it privately or get the city to buy it as a historical site.”

  “I’m betting one of the contestants put the sleeping pills in the punch,” Chet said. “Having groggy opponents could make getting to the finals a cakewalk.”

  “Bo ducked out just before the trouble started,” Daphne said. “Maybe he was just trying to nail us.”

  “There could be some motive that we don’t know about too,” Joe said. “It’s hard to say, at this point.”

  “We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open,” Frank said.

  “Or we could just drop out,” Daphne suggested.

  All four of them looked at one another and shook their heads. “Nah!”

  After finishing breakfast they carpooled in the Hardys’ van back to the warehouse. Many TV vans crowded the parking lot. One of Willingham’s staff had been assigned to keep the reporters at bay and make sure the contestants and the staggering crew could get inside to work.

  Willingham himself stood to the side near the old railroad tracks, speaking to a man dressed in overalls and a baseball cap. A logo on the man’s uniform identified him as being from Pest-B-Gone Exterminating. A podium and some microphones had been set up nearby, but so far the press wasn’t being allowed to speak with the producer himself.

  “Eavesdropping, anyone?” Joe asked.

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Frank replied. “It looks like they’re keeping reporters away, not contestants.”

  He and the rest wandered close enough to catch Willingham’s conversation.

  “Darn foolish having one of your folks creeping around while my crew was working,” the exterminator said. “My liability insurance won’t cover that kind of stuff.”

  “I’m telling you,” Willingham whispered back, “it wasn’t one of my people. We were all at the party last night—footage from a half-dozen news shows can prove that.”

  The exterminator took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, someone was lurking around the warehouse last night,” he said. “I saw his flashlight. Couldn’t find him when we looked, though.”

  “Maybe it was one of your own people,” Willingham suggested.

  “You think I don’t know where my own crew members are?” the exterminator asked, offended.

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” Willingham replied. “Look, you’re sure the job is finished?”

  “Finished as it can be overnight,” said the exterminator. “You shouldn’t set off any more fireworks in those tunnels, though. That smoke bomb is probably what stirred up the rats. I’d avoid any more pyrotechnics if I were you.”

  Willingham looked puzzled. “But, we weren’t using any pyro in the tunnels.”

  Ms. Kendall came over and nudged the producer’s elbow. “The vultures are restless,” she said, glancing at the assembled media. “And we’re pushing our shooting schedule as it is.”

  “Okay,” Willingham said. “Let’s get started.”

  He went to the podium and began speaking. Most of what he said the Hardys had heard before: bits about being proud of the show, about not having any more troubles than usual for a start-up TV program, and about how proud he was to be filming in Bayport.

  He also denied rumors that his network, UAN, was close to pulling the plug on Warehouse Rumble. Though Stacia Allen’s cameraman covered the briefing, she herself was conspicuously absent.

  “Off digging up some more dirt, no doubt,” Chet said.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she was the one sneaking around the warehouse with a flashlight last night,” Daphne added.

  “She’s certainly unscrupulous enough,” Frank said. “I’m wondering why she’s not in the front lines here, though.”

  “Avoiding Willingham, maybe,” Joe suggested. “How much more do you think he’ll put up with before he gets a restraining order against her?”

  “Not much, probably,” Frank admitted.

  About ten minutes into the “news conference,” Ms. Kendall gathered the contestants and ushered them into the warehouse to begin preparations for shooting. If possible, the building looked even more ramshackle and run-down than it had the day before. The exterminators had clearly been pretty heavy-handed in rooting out the hidden rats. If she noticed the extra messiness of the sets, or the bitter tang in the air, Ms. Kendall didn’t mention it.

  “Even more postapocalyptic,” Joe noted.

  Chet and Daphne headed off for their new event while Frank and Joe met with Ms. Kendall about what they would be working on that morning.

  The mutant hunt of the previous day had been declared a draw even though Frank and Joe had been well ahead on points at the time of the rat invasion. Ms. Kendall explained that the footage they had gotten of the rat swarm would make a great, unexpected end to that game segment.

  “Gotta go with what makes good TV,” Frank whispered to Joe.

  “Even if it messes up our ranking,” Joe replied. He sighed and shrugged.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Frank said. “We’ll ace whatever they throw us into.”

  Because of the change, the brothers would be facing Missy and Jay once again. This time the four would compete in a race across the catwalks that arced high above the warehouse floor.

  “Due to the danger of the setting,” Ms. Kendall said, “there will be no head-to-head confrontations in this race. If you meet an opponent on the course, you are both to stop and walk past each other. Any interference will result in the disqualification of the contestant responsible. Do you understand?”

  The Hardys, Missy, and Jay all nodded that they did.

  Staff members escorted the two groups to their starting points, and they all waited for the signal to begin.

  With the sound of the siren the Hardys raced side-by-side up the metal stairway and onto the first catwalk. Illuminated arrows had been painted on the grating, so the brothers knew which way to go to the next checkpoint. At each station they had to retrieve part of a golden key that would help unlock the door that lead to the next challenge.

  Despite the decrepitation of the warehouse, the metal catwalks had held up well over the years. As the brothers ran, they noted that some sections had been chained off and marked with large yellow “Radiation Warning” signs. Clearly the staff had checked over the skyway and had closed any area that they’d felt might be remotely hazardous.

  The brothers claimed the first two parts of their key quickly and without incident. As they approached the long bridge that spanned the two sections of the course, they spotted Jay at the far end. The bridge crossed the same area where the toxic pool event had happened two days before. The water-filled tank had been reassembled, and hidden machines made the dyed liquid bubble and look very dangerous. Clearly the producers had hoped that the contestants might meet in this very spot. The whole setup probably looked great on TV.

  Stone and the Hardys dashed across the
metal grating, each hoping to gain the advantage on the scaffold before the rules forced them to slow down and walk past one another.

  They met closer to Jay’s side of the bridge than the Hardys’, and all three of them stopped dead still. Their eyes locked, and they stared one another down for a long moment.

  “You can’t block my progress,” Jay sneered. “Those are the rules.”

  “You’ve got to step aside too,” Frank said.

  Reluctantly the three teens flattened themselves against opposite railings of the catwalk and edged forward. Just as they met, Missy appeared at the far end of the bridge. She was panting and out of breath, but dashed forward to catch up with the rest.

  As she ran the whole bridge suddenly shook.

  Missy fell onto the metal-grate walkway, and the three boys had to grab the railings to stay on their feet.

  “What’s happening?” Missy cried, panic written across her face.

  Frank’s eyes darted to the link in the bridge behind her. The bolts holding the sections of the catwalk together had been shorn through. “Everybody hang on!” he called.

  With a sudden lurch, the catwalk split in two.

  11 Cat’s Landing

  * * *

  The abrupt movement forced the teens to their knees. Each clung desperately to the catwalk’s metal rail. The metal flooring behind Missy dropped away and, for a second, it looked as though she’d plunge to the warehouse floor twenty feet below.

  At the last instant she grabbed hold of the nearest railing. The rail halted her descent, but she yelped in pain from the jerky stop. The bottom half of Missy’s body hung precariously over the edge of the walkway. Her feet dangled in the open air. She tried to pull herself up, but didn’t have the strength. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

  “Don’t let go!” Joe yelled.

  “Like I would!” Missy hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Grab on to my arm,” Frank said, thrusting his hand toward Jay, who had both arms wrapped around the catwalk railing.