Rocky Road

by Franklin W. Dixon

  I quickly started my bike again and sped up, overtaking Joe. “Come on!” I shouted, motioning for him to speed up and follow me.

  Then I gave it gas for all it was worth. Joe kept up with me, and we rode side by side just a few feet in front of the monster truck.

  Like I said, it was dark out here, and we were going downhill. I remembered the sign had warned of “dangerous curves.” Now I saw them, straight ahead.

  If we kept up our speed, we were sure to crash into the trees at the side of the road. If we slowed down, the truck would run us over.

  We were totally trapped.

  And that’s when I remembered a little maneuver Joe and I had practiced in ATAC training.

  “Joe!” I yelled. “Parallel park!”

  It was the code word for the maneuver—I only hoped Joe remembered it. “On three! Ready?”

  He nodded. The curve was right in front of us.

  “One, two, three!”

  On cue, we swerved into the left lane, then hit our brakes, hard.

  The truck zoomed by us as we went into a deliberate skid to slow ourselves even further.

  I did a 360 on my bike and came to a stop alongside the guardrail. Then I looked for Joe.

  There he was, just behind me. I looked up ahead and saw the truck, skimming the guardrail, sending up a shower of sparks.

  And still going.

  “Let’s go get him!” Joe shouted.

  In no time we were back up to speed. Only this time, we were the ones doing the chasing.

  The truck had a big lead on us. But the driver wasn’t speeding anymore, probably because he thought he’d killed us. Joe and I were riding side by side in one lane. He couldn’t know it was us—seeing the two lights, he’d think it was just a car behind him.

  We got close enough to where our headlights lit up the back of his truck, and I could read the sign on it: GOURMET SEAFOOD WHOLESALERS.

  Suddenly, everything clicked into place. That was the name of the company that had hired the shark poachers—our last case! I got close enough to read the license plate and memorized it quickly. Then I signaled Joe to give up the chase.

  “Why?” he yelled.

  There was no way I could explain over the roar of the truck and our bikes and the wind. So I just pulled over. Joe had little choice but to do the same. What was he going to do, chase the crazed trucker all by himself?

  “Okay, why’d we stop?” he demanded, pulling off his helmet in frustration.

  “Think about it, Joe,” I said. “He’s with the guys who hired those poachers—and those guys mean business. What if he had a gun? All we’ve got is that taser, and who knows how far it shoots? We’d be no match for him, even if he did decide to stop before we ran out of gas.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But we’d better call in the license plate. I don’t like the thought of that guy running loose, looking to cream us.”

  We got off at the next exit, and soon found Mom’s Motel and Truck Stop, where we called the police and reported the incident. After they checked with ATAC to make sure we were for real, the officer on the phone promised to set up a roadblock farther down the highway.

  I hung up, satisfied that we could finally relax for the night. But yeesh. Close call.

  Mom’s was billed as “your home away from home,” but except for the TV in our room, it was nothing like our home.

  “Mom” herself—who worked the counter in the office—had quite a beard and mustache going. She took our money, gave us the evil eye, and handed us our room key.

  Oh, well. At least the room was clean and there was enough hot water to fill a tub.

  The rest of our evening was quiet and peaceful—especially around midnight, when the officer I’d spoken to called back to say that they’d arrested the trucker, a man with a long criminal history, and that he’d confessed he’d been hired to kill us.

  He even told the police who’d hired him.

  We slept like the dead that night—but believe me, nobody was happier to be alive than we were.

  * * * *

  The Pro Football Hall of Fame is defintiely worth a visit. All those incredible fourth-quarter comebacks, the famous goal-line stands, the Hail Mary passes, the trick plays, the blocked kicks, and the hundred-yard runbacks—it’s all there, along with plaques for all the players who’ve made it to football immortality.

  Joe and I have never played football for any of our school teams. Dad wouldn’t let us. When you’re a professional crime fighter, any injuries you sustain have to be the on-the-job kind.

  So we run track for Bayport High. I do the mile and half mile, Joe handles the sprints. We’re pretty good, and totally focused on our track team. But that doesn’t stop us from being huge football fans.

  Even though it had been a long (and dangerous) trip to Canton, we were excited to see the Hall of Fame and to work on a case involving the NFL and its glorious history.

  The only problem was, by this time, Joe’s sore legs had stiffened up pretty badly. He was walking like a bow-legged cowboy as we entered the Hall.

  Not to sound conceited, but sometimes, when Joe and I go places, we get stares from girls who are checking us out. But now, here were two sets of cute girls checking Joe out—and laughing!

  Oh, he saw it, all right, and I know it gave him great pain. Joe works out like a maniac to build the kind of muscles girls notice—and he hates attracting the wrong kind of attention.

  So by the time we walked up to the ticket window, he was in a really, really bad mood. “Two tickets,” he said to the cashier, forgetting to say “please.”

  We consulted our maps and pinpointed the location we wanted: the Super Bowl Gallery. I figured it would be roped off following the theft. That wouldn’t be a problem, though. Joe and I always manage to get into places we’re not supposed to be.

  We passed down a long hallway featuring some unforgettable items—John Elway’s jersey, Dan Marino’s helmet, Lawrence Taylor’s protective cup.

  Finally, we came to the gallery we were looking for: “Super Bowl: Game of Champions.”

  It was open.

  Well, surprise, surprise. Everywhere we looked, there were big blow-up photos of Super Bowl heroes and great moments from the games. Videos played highlights over and over again at the touch of a button. And all around the room were the actual trophies from years past.

  I looked around for the empty case where the missing trophy from Super Bowl I had been.

  I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any yellow crime scene tape either.

  This was getting weirder and weirder. Hmmm . . . maybe they’d been covering up the theft to keep it out of the news?

  But why would they do that?

  Even weirder, Joe pointed to one of the cases. “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Check this out. It says ‘Super Bowl I.’”

  “It must be a fake,” I said. “Let’s go check with somebody who knows.”

  I went up to the guard at the gallery entrance. “Excuse me, ma’ am,” I said.

  “Yes?” She was an older lady with graying hair, and she looked like she’d been here since the building went up. If anybody would know about this, she would.

  “We heard something about a theft here?”

  “Theft?” She looked alarmed suddenly, like it was news to her. “What’s been stolen?”

  “Well, according to our information, the trophy from Super Bowl I is missing.”

  She went wide-eyed and turned to look across the gallery to the display case in question.

  “Looks to me like it’s still there,” she said, folding her arms on her chest and giving me a look like I was the village idiot or something.

  “That’s the original?” I said.

  “The one and only.”

  “You’re sure?” Joe asked.

  She frowned at him. “What’s the matter? You don’t believe me? Why don’t you go call up Vince Lombardi and ask him?”

  Her sarcasm was pretty obvious. Obviously, we�
��d been sent out here on another wild goose chase!

  Either Captain Creamy was seriously messing with our heads, or someone at ATAC was going totally berserk.

  Just then, my cell phone rang. The name “F. Hardy” appeared on the display. I pushed the talk button. “Hi, Dad.”

  Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew what was coming.

  “Where are you two?” He sounded annoyed.

  “Canton, Ohio.”

  “What in the world are you doing there?” he asked. “Didn’t I just tell you to come home? That there was big trouble right here in Bayport?”

  “I know, Dad, but ATAC sent us out here on an urgent mission!”

  “Urgent mission?”

  “Except it turned out to be a wild goose chase,” I went on. “Just like the trip to Niagara Falls.”

  “What is going on over at headquarters?” he said, more to himself than to me.

  “Beats me.”

  “Anyway, I called to let you know there’s been more trouble here.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I’m afraid so.” He took a deep breath. “I . . . can’t talk about it over the phone. But you’d better come home right away.”

  “Uh, Dad . . .”

  “You can get here by midnight if you drive straight through. If you’re tired, take a quick nap. I’ll be waiting.”

  He hung up, and I looked at Joe.

  “I hate to break this to you, bro,” I said. “But . . .”

  9.

  CRIME WAVE

  This was getting ridiculous. I don’t usually like to complain, but what did ATAC think we were, Ping-Pong balls?

  I was raring to go work over Captain Creamy again and force the truth out of him. Either he was the biggest loser ever hired by a professional detective agency, or somebody else above him was.

  Or both.

  Either way, I sure wanted to talk to him and find out why we were being jerked around. But first things first—I was really worried about what Dad “couldn’t talk about,” and so was Frank.

  Maybe it was just my sore legs, but I spent the whole long ride home talking to myself. Once school started next week, I was going to really get into my classes and take a break from all this stress. This summer had been a backbreaker, with all the cases we’d been on—not to mention these wild goose chases right before Labor Day weekend!

  Frank was talking to himself too. I could see his lips moving under his visor as we raced along Interstate 80 toward Bayport.

  Dad was home alone when we got back, just after eleven P.M. I wondered for a minute where Mom and Aunt Trudy had gone. Then I remembered—tonight was the big end-of-summer event over at the main library. Mom’s the Chief Head Honcho over there, and this was their annual fund-raiser.

  Dad was up on the third floor, in his office. No one goes in there without knocking—not even Frank or me—because it’s got tons of sensitive ATAC stuff: communications equipment, databases, gadgets, weapons, etc.

  You get the idea.

  I gave our secret knock. (I can’t tell you what it is. Sorry.)

  “Come in.”

  Dad was bent over his desk, trying to assemble—or take apart—what looked like a flashlight.

  But of course, it was much more than that.

  “This shoots microwaves,” he said, holding it up for me and Frank to admire. Then he pointed it at his cup of coffee and pressed the button. In about five seconds the coffee started to boil.

  “Cool!” I said. “Now that is a handy-dandy item.”

  “Can I see it?” Frank asked.

  Dad handed it to him, and Frank started fooling around with it. (He’s such a science geek.)

  “Dude, don’t point that thing at me,” I said. “I don’t want to get nuked.”

  “Did you invent this yourself, Dad?” Frank asked.

  “No, it’s a prototype I managed to get my hands on.”

  “How does it work?” Frank asked.

  “I was trying to figure that out myself when you got here. I think the inventor rechanneled the frequencies back on themselves, so the wavelengths reverberate inside the chamber and align themselves before being directed outward.”

  Frank nodded like he understood completely.

  Me, I had no clue what Dad was talking about. In my opinion, the only relevant question is always, “Does it work?” (Phys. ed. and history are my best subjects, in case you were wondering.)

  I reached out my hand for the gizmo, and Frank gave it over. I checked it out carefully. It had a really nice feel in the hand, and you could easily fit it in the smallest of your pockets.

  “Dad, um, are you gonna be needing this for anything?” I asked. “Because I want to show the kids at school how to heat up the lukewarm excuse for food they serve in the cafeteria.”

  “Sit down, boys,” Dad said. “At the rate we’re going, there may not be much of a school to go back to.”

  “What?”

  “While you were away, someone went after the school bus fleet.”

  It took a few seconds for Frank and me to absorb the news. While we sat there stupefied, Dad sketched in some of the details.

  “Somebody broke the lock on the gate and got into the bus yard. They smashed several windshields, slashed tires, broke headlights, taillights. . . .” He sighed heavily. “It’s a disaster. But I think Chief Collig can paint a better picture for you. I’ve asked him to meet us there in fifteen minutes.”

  “When did you do that?” I asked, surprised.

  “I saw your headlights coming up the street.”

  Good old Dad—he always likes to show us that, even though he’s old, he’s still one step ahead of us.

  He got up and grabbed his sport jacket off the back of the chair. “Come on. I’ll take you down to the bus yard and let Chief Collig walk you over the crime scene.”

  We followed him downstairs and into his Crown Vic, and we drove off in the direction of downtown.

  “Dad,” I said, “I know we’re in the middle of something else right now, but when you get a chance, could you check with somebody at ATAC about the bad cases we’ve been getting sent out on?”

  “Huh?”

  Frank and I filled him in on Niagara Falls and Canton, Ohio—he’d been gone in between, so we hadn’t gotten the chance till now.

  “I’ll have this kid in the ice-cream truck checked out,” he promised, “but I know we do have an agent working an ice-cream route in Bayport.”

  I frowned. It had to be our friend Captain Creamy. No way would ATAC hire two agents to work ice-cream routes in the same town.

  “Oh, by the way, boys—one more thing before we get where we’re going. I don’t care what instructions you get from ATAC. From here on in, until this Bayport crime wave is cleared up, I don’t want you leaving town for anything. Understood? Not even to stop a nuclear war.”

  We didn’t need to be told. After missing two straight Bayport crime sprees, we weren’t about to go anywhere.

  The bus yard was mostly in darkness. The gate was sealed off with yellow crime scene tape. The whole place seemed eerily deserted.

  Then we saw the police cruiser approaching, its flashers going full tilt.

  Chief Collig got out of the passenger side and stood up, stretching. Our old friend Officer Conrad Reilly emerged from the driver’s side.

  “Hello, Ezra,” Dad greeted the chief. “Hello, Con.”

  “Fenton. Boys.” The chief shook hands all around, and so did Con Reilly. We’d all worked together before, plenty of times. Nobody knew better than these two how involved the Hardy guys were in fighting crime. They even knew about ATAC.

  “Come on in,” the chief said, ripping the crime tape and pushing open the gate. “Con, give us some light.”

  Reilly went back inside the police car and turned on the high beams. Suddenly, the bus yard was lit up like a Christmas tree, except that it wasn’t lights sparkling everywhere—it was a million tiny shards of glass.

  The ruins of the school bus
fleet floated on a sea of broken glass. Yesterday, these dozens of buses had been ready to roll—cleaned, inspected, and cleared to haul Bayport’s kids back to school for another year of classes.

  Today there was only wreckage.

  “How are they gonna start school on time?” I wondered out loud.

  “No way, José,” Frank said. “It’s not happening.”

  “Sure wish you’d all been around when this went down,” the chief said.

  “Too late for regrets,” Dad said. “I’m putting the boys on this one, all right, Ezra?”

  “Good with me,” the chief said. “I can use all the help I can get.”

  “Can you fill them in on what happened? I’ve got to—”

  Just then, there was a sudden movement from the far side of the yard. A figure darted out from behind one of the buses and ran into the shadow of another.

  “Somebody’s here,” Con Reilly said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s go get him!”

  10.

  A POOR WAYFARIN’ STRANGER

  It’s amazing how fast a person can forget that his legs are in pain. You should have seen Joe take off after the intruder.

  I was right on his heels. It took us about thirty seconds to reach the far end of the yard. When we got there, our quarry was nowhere in sight.

  I turned around and saw that the adults were only about halfway to us. If Joe and I didn’t catch the trespasser, no way were they going to.

  “He’s in one of these buses, probably,” Reilly said.

  “We’d better search ’em, one by one,” said Chief Collig. “Joe, you and Frank start on the front end. We’ll go from here.”

  I know he just wanted us to travel the farthest. He, Reilly, and even my dad were still breathing pretty hard.

  Joe and I headed back, past rows of parked buses. We split up, working each row from the ends toward the center.

  As it turned out, it was me who got lucky—if you want to call it that.

  I stepped onto a bus and was halfway to the rear when a wild-eyed, scruffy-looking guy jumped out from behind a row of seats and lunged at me! I dodged him, falling back onto a pair of seats. Before I could recover, he was past me and headed out the front door.

  “Joe!” I shouted, hoping he could hear me. “Over here!”