Joe couldn’t help himself. “And?” he asked.
“Turned out it came from under the front seat.” Con laughed. “A guy from one of the other shifts had stashed a liverwurst sandwich down there and forgotten about it. After a couple of weeks—”
“Con!” Frank Hardy interrupted in a strangled voice. “Do you think you could open these windows an inch or two?”
It wasn’t a long drive, and soon the car pulled up in front of Wendell Logan’s house.
“I hope you’re right about this,” Joe muttered as they got out and walked toward the house, leaving Con in the cruiser.
“I think we’ve got our guy,” Frank said. “Whoever slung that beam around had to be big and strong. He also had to be the type who acts first and thinks later.”
“That certainly fits our pal Wendell,” Joe said.
“We’ve even got a motive. I expect he was pretty steamed at the way you handled him tonight in the locker room.”
Joe shook his head. “Better me handling him than Logan manhandling me.”
They were at the door, so Frank rang the bell.
Wendell’s mother answered. “Hello, boys.”
“Hi, Mrs. Logan. Could we see Wendell for a moment?” Frank asked.
Mrs. Logan glanced at her watch. “We were just about to sit down to dinner.”
Frank raised his hands. “It will just take a couple of minutes, I promise. We’ll wait for him here.”
“All right.” Mrs. Logan headed back inside. “Wendell!” she called.
A moment later a scowling Wendell Logan appeared at the door. “What do you two want . . .” The big guy’s voice trailed off.
As the door opened, Con Riley started up the red flasher on top of the patrol car. In the blinking red light, Logan’s face went a little pale.
“Ever hear of fingerprints, Wendell?” Frank Hardy asked.
“Some interesting ones turned up on the board that trashed our windshield,” Joe said. “Interesting enough that the cops want a set of yours.”
“They may even try comparing them to a couple of partial prints on the shovel that was used to whack Biff Hooper,” Frank put in.
Wendell Logan’s rough, tough, bully mask slipped big-time. Now he just looked like a scared kid.
“I just meant for that board to land near your van!” he said. “I didn’t think it would go that far!”
“That seems to be your problem in life,” Joe said. “I bet you didn’t mean to go as far as you went with Phil Cohen when you wound up knocking him down the stairs.”
“There was a girl in the front seat of the van,” Frank said grimly. “You’re just lucky she wasn’t hurt. Otherwise, that cop would be taking you in for assault.”
Now Wendell Logan’s face began looking a little green.
“Know what this makes me wonder?” Joe said. “Could things have gone a little too far in the furnace room? I saw the way you were looking at Biff after he helped me out on the stairway. Maybe you saw Biff helping those debate nerds and reacted the same way. For a big guy like you, all it would take was one swing—”
“No! I—I didn’t do it!” Tears began to well up in the big guy’s eyes. He was almost babbling.
“You know how those big brains always look down on us. Some of the guys on the team just wanted to shake them up. And, yeah, Terry wanted a piece of Dan Freeman.” The flood of words stumbled for a moment. “Me—I was hoping for a shot at Morton. I give a hundred and ten percent for the team, but everyone likes him better.”
Maybe that’s because, unlike you, he doesn’t throw his weight around, Joe thought.
“Anyway, I knew where he’d be. He thought we were just going to jump out and scare the nerds a little. I got in one good punch, but then I lost him in the dark.”
Wendell leaned forward, no longer looming. He had a pleading expression on his face. “But don’t you see, I was after him. I couldn’t have gotten to the furnace room ahead of him.”
Joe wasn’t so sure of Logan’s argument. Remembering the maze of passages, he thought it was quite possible for someone to get turned around, running through the dark. A pursuer could take a different route and actually get in front of the guy he was chasing.
On the other hand, Joe had to believe that they’d cracked Wendell Logan’s tough-guy front. Either he was telling the truth about not hitting Biff, or he was a tremendous actor.
Frank took the direct approach. “So who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know!” From the way the words burst from Logan’s lips, it was obvious he’d been asked the question too many times. The look in his eyes showed he’d been thinking a lot about it, too.
“I’ve tried to go over the whole thing. Who was down in the basement—and where they were,” he admitted, rubbing a big hand over his forehead as if the effort made his brain hurt.
“And what did you come up with?” Frank wanted to know.
“The best thing would be to say one of the nerds got Biff.” Logan’s lips twitched in disgust. “But they’re all such wimps! I can’t imagine one being able to pick up a shovel, much less swing it at somebody.”
“But that would mean it was somebody from the team,” Joe said.
Logan frowned and wouldn’t or couldn’t meet their eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed. “The problem is, things were so confused down there. I know where I started out—I was right beside Terry. But after that, well, we were running around, chasing people.”
He threw his arms out in different directions.
“This way, that way…it was dark, and you know how everything is interconnected down there. Hallways lead into rooms that lead into other hallways.”
“So you don’t even know where Terry Golden was?” Joe pressed.
Logan still looked down, but his expression was scared. “I—I couldn’t tell you. We split up when I went after Chet. Next time I saw Golden, he was telling us to get out of there.”
“When was that?” Frank asked. “And why?”
Logan shrugged. “He said he heard somebody talking about the cops. We were out of there fast! I was blocks away when I heard the sirens.”
The Hardys looked at each other. Frank had sent Joe to get an ambulance and the police. The door to the furnace room had been open. If Terry Golden heard that, he’d been close to the scene where Biff was downed.
It looks like Logan suspects Golden, but he has no proof, Joe thought. There’s nothing more to get out of him now.
Frank and Joe returned to the police car, and Con turned off the flasher. He gave the boys a lift back to their car.
While they rode, Frank and Joe passed along what Logan had told them.
Joe could see Con’s face in the rearview mirror. The officer was frowning.
“That’s a little more than we got,” Con had to admit. I’m afraid it still doesn’t tell us much, though.”
“Just makes it a little easier for the guys to play dumb,” Frank said. “Everything was so confused down there, they really don’t know who was doing what.”
“Whoever hit the Hooper boy knew what he was doing.” Con’s voice was grim.
“Did he?” Frank asked. “Think about it. You’re chased through the dark, stumbled across a weapon, and grabbed it up. Somebody suddenly appears. You swing—”
“That’s pretty much the way certain people figured it for your friend Chet,” Con pointed out.
“It also seems to say that one of the people being messed with swung the shovel,” Joe said. “Logan didn’t think that was likely.”
He hated what he was about to say, but it had to come out. “But somebody from the team could have handled that shovel. I think Logan—and maybe some of the other Golden Boys—are afraid that Terry Golden did it.”
“That would be one explanation for the way they’re all hanging together,” Riley said.
“Or it could be that they’re all scared about being punished,” Frank put in.
“At least we know where two of those kids started
out,” Con said.
“And maybe where one ended up,” Joe stubbornly added. “If Golden was warning people about the cops coming, that means he heard Frank and me talking. And it means he was near the furnace room.”
“If he’s the one who took Biff out, he’d be thinking of cops anyway,” Frank said.
“Now, where exactly are you parked?” Con asked before they could get into an argument. By now they’d reached downtown Bayport.
Con shook his head when he saw the gaping hole where the windshield should have been. “You fellas be careful getting this thing home, now,” he warned. “Do you want me to drive ahead?”
“Just what we need,” Frank muttered as he got out. “A parade.”
“I don’t think we need a police escort, thank you, Con,” Joe said. “We’ll just take it easy.”
Con nodded and wished the boys good night.
Frank got back behind the wheel. Joe took the passenger’s seat. Soon they were heading for home.
“We probably should have called home,” Frank said, flipping on the headlights. “I hope the folks aren’t getting nervous.”
Joe didn’t answer.
“What’s the problem?” Frank asked.
“You were pretty quick to dump on what I was saying to Con,” Joe complained. “I didn’t like your suggesting that it could be somebody from the team.”
Frank gave him a look. “No, but you liked accusing Terry Golden.”
“He’s a two-faced sleaze who likes to blindside people,” Joe replied hotly. “You’ve seen it, and I’ve been on the receiving end. And, no, I didn’t think it was such a bad idea to get that fact out there.”
Frank looked ready to give Joe an argument. But he broke off, peering into the rearview mirror.
“Funny,” he said. “The car behind us turned off the road.”
“What’s the big deal about that?” Joe was still ready for that argument.
“Look where we are.” Frank gestured out through the nonexistent windshield.
He’d been taking a quiet route home, and this section was downright dead. Joe knew the area. The proper name was Fennerman Boulevard. But everyone called it Fenderbender Alley. The street was lined with cheap auto-body shops, and behind those, junkyards.
It was a good place to go if you needed to replace a fender, a door, or if your old car lost a hubcap. But that was basically a daytime business. “Midnight auto shop” generally had another meaning—a place where stolen cars were chopped up to be sold as parts.
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!
13 Bumper Cars
“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?
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.”
Kickoff to Danger Page 8