Thrill Ride

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Jonesy shrugged. “Tell it to old Bernie. He only cares about the law when they’re here to investigate.”

  The girl made a face. “It’s true. When the cops were here last week, all of a sudden we got an hour for lunch and ten-minute breaks twice a day. Once their investigation was over, it was back to no breaks at all.”

  “How long were the cops here?” Frank asked.

  “Two days,” the girl said. “They had the whole roller coaster roped off.”

  “It must’ve been a shock to have a death here,” I said. “You guys must’ve been really upset.”

  “Just upset that it wasn’t old Bernie who got killed on the coaster,” Jonesy said. He smiled, revealing sharp gold teeth where his canines should be.

  The girl shook her head. “Don’t mind Jonesy,” she told me. “He’s always cranky.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Do you like working here?”

  “Not really.” She gave me a big smile. “But I like it when there are cute customers to talk to.”

  I opened my mouth to flirt back … and that’s when I realized that she was now gazing at Frank. Smiling at Frank. She’d forgotten I was even there.

  What is it with him and girls?

  “Can we get some service, please?” snapped a woman behind us. She had three little kids pulling on her arms.

  “Sorry,” I said, stepping aside. Frank grabbed the Cokes and followed me.

  “What do you think about that big guy?” he said. “Sounded like he really wants to do Bernie in.”

  “You think maybe he tampered with the roller coaster?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “We’d better make sure the roller coaster was tampered with before we jump to conclusions.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Samuel “Jonesy” Jones

  Hometown: Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Physical description: Age 29, 6′2″, 250 lbs. Bald. Tattoo of his childhood pet, Lulu, on left arm.

  Occupation: Concession worker at uncle Bernie’s Fun Park.

  Background: Child of divorce. Grew up in a run-down Section of town.

  Suspicious behaviour: Heard to say that he wished uncle Bernie harm.

  Suspected of: Tampering with the roller coaster.

  Possible motives: Revenge against uncle Bernie’s unfair treatment of his workers.

  We downed the sodas on the way to the coaster. I was surprised there wasn’t a line wrapped all the way around the ride—usually roller coasters are the most popular rides at amusement parks.

  “I bet people are staying away because they’re freaked out by the accident last week,” I said.

  “Nope.” Frank pointed to the front entrance of the coaster. “The ride’s just closed.”

  I stared at the big black-metal gateway to the coaster. A neon sign read “Doom Rider.” The words blinked on and off in an electric blue color. But a chain over the entrance made it clear that no one was allowed on.

  “No way,” I groaned. “If the cops are done investigating, why is it closed?”

  Frank went closer to the chain. There was a small sign attached to it. “’Closed for repair work,’” he read aloud. “Looks like we can’t get in this way.”

  “Then we’ll have to find another way in,” I said.

  Frank nodded. We walked casually along the fence that surrounded the Doom Rider, looking for a back way in. But the fence went all the way around the coaster without a single break.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “There has to be some kind of employee access,” Frank replied. “And there should also be an emergency exit.”

  I glanced around. The coaster was all the way at the end of the amusement park—you had to walk past all the other rides and games to get to the Doom Rider. Since it was closed, there weren’t many people around today. Just the lonely roller coaster and a few tin sheds.

  “That’s it!” I cried.

  “What is?” Frank asked.

  I gestured to the tin sheds. One of them had a KEEP OUT sign on the door.

  “I’m guessing that’s the emergency exit from the Doom Rider,” I said. “This old pavement isn’t strong enough to support the weight of the coaster. There has to be newer concrete underneath. And probably a control room or something.”

  “Good thinking,” Frank said.

  We went over to the door. I kept a lookout while Frank picked the lock on the doorknob. We always bring our lock picks with us on missions.

  “We’re in,” he told me. We slipped through the door.

  Just as I’d expected, the door led into a stairway that plunged under the ground. We hurried down and found ourselves in a storage room built of concrete underneath the old paved-over land. On one side was a mess of electronics. That had to be the control system for the coaster.

  “It’s like a garage,” Frank said. “There are coaster parts all over the place.”

  “Yeah, but we’re here to check out the ride, not the parts,” I said. “Look!”

  In the center of the room, a ladder led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. That had to be where the storage room connected to the actual roller coaster.

  We climbed up and made our way through to the coaster. Without the cars going, the whole thing just looked like a series of ladders and train tracks that criss-crossed every so often. “What are we looking for?” I asked Frank. “The cops already investigated the Doom Rider.”

  “Then we’re looking for anything they missed,” Frank said.

  “Well, it wasn’t the cars that malfunctioned,” I said. “And it wasn’t the tracks. It was one of the tunnels.”

  Frank glanced around. “I see one tunnel on the other side of the coaster,” he said.

  “And there’s another one right over there.” I pointed to a fake mountain made of some kind of plaster. The coaster tracks shot through it about fifteen yards from where we stood. “Let’s check out that one first.”

  We made our way along the tracks until we reached the tunnel. It was at least ten feet off the ground, so we had to climb the tracks like a ladder to get inside. The tunnel wasn’t very long—only about twenty feet or so. The fake mountain arched up and over the coaster, but the ceiling was low. I love when roller coasters plunge into a tunnel—the ride designers make it look as if you’re going to crash right into something. My guess was that whoever designed the Doom Rider wanted this tunnel to give that impression too.

  “Perfect,” Frank said. “We picked the right tunnel on the first try.” He inched along to a spot in the middle of the tunnel. “Here’s where it collapsed.”

  I followed him to the place where the roof had fallen onto the tracks. There was plaster dust everywhere, so I pulled my T-shirt up over my mouth to help me breathe. A gigantic chunk of the hard plastic ceiling of the tunnel had fallen away from the metal bars that made up the frame. The blue sky peeked through, sun glinting off the tracks.

  I let out a whistle. “This is serious damage.”

  “No wonder Maggie got killed when all this stuff fell on her,” Frank said. “Her head would’ve been only a foot below the ceiling.”

  “There’s no way she could’ve avoided being hit.” I didn’t like to think about that nice woman in such a scary situation.

  “The police and the safety inspectors checked the roller coaster car, the safety restraints, and the tracks,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, but did they check the cave-in itself?” I asked. “From what it said on our mission disk, they only checked the coaster, not the cave-in. What would make something like this happen?” I stood up on the tracks and stuck my head through the hole in the roof. The edges of the plastic were sharp and twisted where the material had broken away, but none of the bars of the frame were broken. “It wasn’t structural damage,” I told Frank. “The steel bars are intact.”

  “So something made the hard plastic and the plaster decorations break,” Frank said.

  “And I think I know what caused it.” From where I stood,
I could see a small piece of thick red cardboard stuck on one of the sharp plastic shards. I stuck my arm carefully through the broken roof and snagged it. Then I jumped back down into the tunnel.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “I think it’s a piece of a spent shell,” I told him. “From an M-80 firework.”

  “Could an M-80 have done this much damage?” Frank wondered.

  I thought about it. “An illegal M-80 could. They can contain as much as two grams of flash powder. That’s why they’re illegal—they’re dangerous.”

  “People still sell them, though,” Frank said in disgust. “But don’t you have to light an M-80 to make it go off? How could someone do that while speeding along on a roller coaster?” He frowned.

  “You can set up a slow-burning fuse,” I replied. “Somebody could have planted the M-80 on the top of the scenery and lit a really long fuse. It just happened to burn out when Maggie’s car was passing underneath.”

  Frank looked grim. “There’s our answer. Maggie Soto’s death was no accident. Somebody brought this roof right down on her head. On purpose.”

  I opened my mouth to answer him. But before I could say a word, a strong arm slipped around my neck. Someone was attacking from behind!

  “What’s going on here?” The man with his arm around Joe’s neck didn’t look happy. “Who are you kids?”

  “My name is Frank Hardy,” I said quickly. “And that’s my brother, Joe.” Our ATAC training had taught us that the best way to deal with a violent situation is to keep calm.

  “What are you doing in here? Can’t you read?”

  “We saw the ‘Keep Out’ sign,” I admitted. “Are you a security guard?”

  “No!” the guy bellowed. “I own this place. And I want to know why you boys are sneaking around in my roller coaster when it’s clearly closed.” He squeezed Joe’s neck harder. “Did you punks have something to do with the accident last week? Did you come back to get rid of evidence?”

  “No!” I cried.

  “So you’re Uncle Bernie,” Joe choked out. “We were hoping we’d get to meet you.”

  Uncle Bernie seemed surprised to hear that—especially from someone he had in a choke hold. He relaxed his grip on Joe’s throat but kept holding his arm. “How do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “We came here to offer you our help,” I said, thinking fast. “My brother and I are sort of amateur detectives. We’ve solved a lot of cases back in Bayport, where we live.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Uncle Bernie growled.

  “We read about the tragedy here last week,” Joe said. “It was in all the papers.”

  “And we saw that the police ruled out foul play,” I said. Even though they were wrong, I added silently.

  “But they still didn’t have an explanation for why the cave-in happened, did they?” Joe asked. “We thought we could help you figure it out.”

  Joe shot me a look, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. After everything we’d heard today about Uncle Bernie, it didn’t seem likely that he’d want our help. In fact, it was more likely that he’d been the one to explode the M-80 on his own ride. Maybe he wanted to get the park closed down so he could collect on the insurance money. Maybe he’d had a motive to kill Maggie Soto that the police didn’t know about. I wasn’t sure. But the one thing I knew for certain was that I didn’t trust him.

  “You two think you’re smarter than the cops?” Uncle Bernie snorted.

  “No,” Joe said. “But we did find something that they missed.” He held up the piece of red cardboard.

  “What’s that?” Uncle Bernie asked.

  “We think it’s part of an exploded M-80,” I explained. “Probably an illegal one that had enough power to blow that hole in the ceiling.”

  Uncle Bernie glanced up at the twisted plastic and the sky above it. He sighed and let go of Joe’s arm.

  “I knew there was no safety violation,” he mumbled. “But why would someone want to explode my roller coaster on purpose? I could get shut down for something like this.”

  He almost sounded sincere. Sincerely upset.

  “This place means a lot to you, huh?” I asked.

  “It’s my whole life,” Uncle Bernie answered. “I inherited the park from my dad, Bernard Jr. And he inherited it from his dad, the first Bernard. My grandfather founded the place. And we Bernies have been running it ever since.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Bernard Flaherty III

  Hometown: Holyoke, Massachusetts

  Physical description: Age 53, 5′11″, 180 lbs., smokes cigars, blinks a lot, thinning red hair.

  Occupation: Owns and runs Uncle Bernie’s Fun Park

  Background. Earned an MBA from the University of Massachusetts, but switched careers to enter the family amusement fork business.

  Suspicious behavior: Attacked Joe Hardy. Treats employees badly and ignores employment laws.

  Suspected of: Sabotaging the Doom Rider roller Coaster and killing Maggie Soto.

  Possible motives: To Collect insurance money, personal vendetta.

  “So you’ve never worked anywhere else?” Joe asked.

  “Sure I did,” Uncle Bernie said. “But when my father died, I came right back here to take over for him. It’s what we do in this family. This amusement park is our legacy.” His face puffed up with pride. “One day my son will inherit it, and he’ll be the fourth Uncle Bernie in charge here.”

  “Your son’s name is Bernard too?” I couldn’ help thinking that would be confusing at a family reunion.

  “Yep.” Tears welled up in Uncle Bernie’s eyes as he mentioned his kid. Hard to believe this gruf and nasty guy had it in him. “Little Bernie. He’s twelve.”

  Uncle Bernie suddenly turned and punched the wall of the tunnel. More plaster came falling down around us. Joe coughed.

  “Little Bernie was sitting right behind that lady,’ Uncle Bernie said. “Right there when this thing collapsed on her. I was afraid he’d be traumatized by what he saw.”

  I nodded sympathetically.

  “But you say somebody exploded an M-80 on the roof?” Uncle Bernie shook his head. “That means someone wanted the collapse to happen. And maybe they weren’t after that lady. Little Bernie was right there too. He could’ve been killed!”

  “Maybe he was the real target all along,” Joe said He turned to me.

  “I think we should talk to Little Bernie,” I said.

  Uncle Bernie nodded. “You boys go right ahead. He’s probably hard at work somewhere in the park.”

  “Do you know where?” Joe asked.

  “Not really. He rotates, does a little of everything.” Uncle Bernie beamed as he talked about his son. “Tell him I said it’s okay, otherwise he won’t want to leave his post. He lives for this park—he’ll be a terrific Uncle Bernie one day.”

  Uncle Bernie said good-bye and headed off for his office to make some phone calls.

  “It’s a little weird that he doesn’t know where his own son is,” I said. “Didn’t he say the kid is only twelve?”

  “He probably figures his son is safe in the amusement park,” Joe replied. He squinted at something over my shoulder. “But I’m not so sure. Check that out.”

  I turned to see what Joe was looking at. The Ferris wheel was slowly jerking its way around in the start, stop, start, stop motion that meant it was still loading riders on.

  “What?” I asked. “It’s just a Ferris wheel.” I hate those things. They’re totally boring. But Joe loves Ferris wheels. “Something looks strange to me,” Joe said. “See that woman?”

  I put my hand up to shade my eyes from the bright sunlight. Joe was pointing to a woman about halfway up one side of the Ferris wheel. She sat in a cart with her son, who looked to be about four or five years old. “What about her?” I asked.

  “She’s struggling.” Joe studied the Ferris wheel for another second. Then he took off at a run.

  “Whoa,” I muttere
d. I sprinted after him. I knew that if my brother was running toward something, he was going to need backup.

  “Look out!” Joe yelled, pushing his way through the line of people waiting for the ride.

  “Hey! No cutting!” a guy about our age yelled.

  Joe ignored him and shoved his way to the front. I followed.

  “Shut down the ride,” Joe told the girl at the foot of the wheel. She was about to close the door on a cart that had just been loaded with passengers.

  “I-I don’t control it,” she said, surprised.

  “Who does?” I asked.

  “Tommy,” she said. She gestured toward a guy sitting on a little metal chair about ten feet away. He was reading the newspaper, one hand resting on the lever that started and stopped the wheel.

  I shot Joe a look. “I’ve got it,” I said. I ran over to Tommy and pulled the newspaper down. “I need you to shut off the wheel,” I told him. “Can you do that?”

  He glanced up, confused. “Sure. But why?”

  I didn’t really know the answer to that. But one look over my shoulder showed me that Joe was pointing up at the woman and her son. “That lady is in some kind of trouble,” I told Tommy.

  He pulled a pair of binoculars from under his chair and trained them up at the wheel. Then he jumped to his feet. “The safety bar is open!” he cried.

  I grabbed the binoculars and looked. Sure enough, the black bar that was supposed to be locked into place across the passengers’ laps was hanging open in midair. The woman clung to her son, her eyes wide with terror as the little boy wailed. His mouth was open and tears ran down his cheeks. But from way down here, I couldn’t even hear him.

  “Call security,” I ordered Tommy. “We’ve got to get them down.”

  “We can’t move the wheel,” he said. He pulled a metal locking device over the control lever. “They’re already halfway up. In order to get their cart to the bottom, they’d have to go up over the top. There’s more wind up there. And the motion of the wheel might swing the cart so much that they’d fall out.”

  “Can’t you put the wheel in reverse?” I asked. That way, the woman and her son would be getting closer to the ground the entire time. If they fell, they might not be hurt as badly.