Frank felt his face redden. He waited for the mayor to excuse himself to go talk to someone else before telling Montreux about the arrow attack.
“You’re joking, right?” Montreux said, her face going slack with disbelief.
“I wish,” William replied.
“Tell me everything you remember, but in my office.” Montreux glanced around, apparently scanning the room for the news reporter.
The three of them left the gym floor, exiting through a set of glass doors. Old photographs from previous Olympic Games lined the hallway they entered.
Montreux’s office was at the end of the hall. Inside, she motioned for the boys to sit.
“Whoever it was could have killed both of us,” Frank said, flopping into a fancy armchair that seemed out of place in a sports complex.
“This is terrible,” Montreux said. She toyed nervously with her lapel pin—a tiny gold foil. “First a girl almost gets electrocuted. Now this. The place is cursed.”
Frank and William took turns telling Montreux all the details, including the note that claimed it was only a joke.
Montreux looked at William. “You know all the archers better than I do,” she said. “Who might try something this stupid?”
“Nobody I can think of,” William said. “I mean, even if it was some kind of sick joke, I don’t think anyone would be that irresponsible. The first thing you learn as a competitive archer is safety measures.”
There was a loud knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Coach Sokal stormed in. The veins in his thick neck bulged with exertion.
“Did something happen?” he asked. “I heard there was an accident on the archery range.”
“How did you hear that?” Montreux asked.
“One of the guests saw a guy running into the building with a bow,” Sokal said. “She said he seemed scared or hurt or something.”
“What did he look like?” Frank asked.
Sokal had his hands on his hips. “I don’t know. Scared or hurt or something—that’s the only description I got.”
Montreux raised her hands. “Calm down, Reid. I don’t think anyone got hurt.”
“But someone could have,” William said. “There’s a nutcase out there who thinks he’s Robin Hood or something.”
“Huh?” Sokal asked.
After Montreux filled Sokal in, he immediately wanted to call the police. “Geneve, I told you we were going to need security for this facility,” he shouted. “If I was director, I would’ve hired a couple of cops for a busy night like tonight.”
“If you were director, I’m sure you would,” Montreux said bitterly. “I’m in charge, and I want this to be an open and fun place where people feel welcome.”
“The flying arrows were a great welcome,” Frank said.
Montreux glared at him. “Should I call the police?”
William looked at Frank. Frank shook his head. “No. It was probably a stupid joke,” he said. Then more quietly, “Besides, I’d like to catch that coward myself.”
“I’m with you there,” William said.
Sokal’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“Nothing,” Frank said.
Montreux seemed relieved that Frank and William didn’t want the police involved. “I want to talk to all the archers individually,” she said to Sokal, “starting early tomorrow morning. We’ll find out who did this, but I’d like to keep it quiet if we can.”
“No problem,” Frank said.
Back out on the gym floor, Frank thanked William and helped him break down both bows. Then he waded through the crowd until he found Joe, Callie, and Iola.
They were watching a demonstration of the scoring in biathlon, the combination of cross-country skiing and target shooting. A tall, blond young man was explaining how the round steel target switched from black to white when hit.
Frank asked Iola how she was feeling.
“I feel fine now,” she said. “For a while my arm was tingling.”
“I tried to get her to try fencing again,” Callie said. “But she wasn’t into it.”
“How was archery?” Joe asked his brother.
Frank filled everyone in on his adventure.
“That’s creepy,” Iola said. “I think I’m ready to go home.”
“When they say this is the Combat Sports Training Facility, they really mean it, don’t they?” Joe said.
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Tonight somebody took the name a little too seriously.”
“I’m going over to thank Allen for the judo lessons,” Joe said. “I’ll meet you guys at the van.”
Frank and the girls headed for the parking lot while Joe returned to the judo mats. Allen was close to the edge of one of the mats, doing sit-ups while his father held his feet.
“Sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven…” Mr. Frierson was saying. “Come on, Allen. Suck it up.”
Joe waited politely a few feet away. After the hundredth sit-up, Allen collapsed to the floor. His judo jacket was soaked through with sweat.
“Thanks for the lesson,” Joe said.
“Hey, man. It was fun,” Allen said, between deep breaths. “Come back anytime.”
Mr. Frierson waved Joe away. “Some other time, kid. Allen’s got a lot of work to do.”
“Dad! Give him a break.”
“Breaks don’t make Olympic champions,” Mr. Frierson said, his teeth clenched. “Coach Sokal won’t put a slacker like you on his team. A hundred more sit-ups, now!” He placed his hands on Allen’s feet again. “Let’s go, get started!”
As Joe left, he saw Allen’s nemesis, Jake Targan, coming out of the men’s locker room. He was freshly showered and looked ready for an evening’s entertainment.
Outside, Joe hopped in the van. It felt good to have a moment of quiet.
“Man, Allen’s dad is tough,” he said.
“Maybe that’s what Allen needs,” Callie said. “Someone to push him.”
“Maybe,” Joe replied.
The Hardys dropped Iola and Callie off at their houses. When Joe walked Iola to her door, he promised to call her in the morning to see how her arm was doing.
“And I’m going to find out if what happened was an accident or not,” he promised.
“I’m sure it was,” Iola said as she went inside.
Joe wasn’t so sure, and he said so to Frank when he got back in the van.
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “Victoria was in no hurry to let us look at that wiring.”
“Exactly,” Joe said. “Then someone tries to make a bull’s-eye out of your head. Something’s wrong with that place.”
Frank glanced in the rearview mirror for the third or fourth time in the past few moments.
“What’s up?” Joe asked.
“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “The same car’s been right behind us for a long time.”
Frank took a series of quick right turns, leaving and then circling back to their normal route home.
“Still there?” Joe asked.
“Nope. I’m just paranoid, I guess.”
The Hardys came to their street, and Frank started slowing for their driveway. Up ahead, a set of headlights winked on, piercing the darkness. The lights came closer.
Frank had his turn signal on. It winked orange, off, orange, off.
The headlights moved closer, then angled toward the van. White light filled the windshield.
“What’s that car doing?” Joe asked.
Frank slammed on the brakes. “Hold on!” he shouted. “It’s coming straight for us!”
4 Who’s the Hero?
* * *
Frank threw the van into reverse, ready to hit the accelerator and blast backward. With screeching tires, the other car jerked to a stop mere inches from the Hardys’ bumper, blocking their driveway.
“Who is this fool?” Frank asked, holding his arm up to shield his eyes from the headlights.
“Let’s find out,” Joe said. He reached behind his seat and grabbed the best
weapon he could find: an ice hockey stick. He and Frank leaped from the van, ready to defend themselves.
There was no need.
As soon as Joe was out of the van, he recognized the vehicle that had cut them off. It was also a van, white, with big red letters on the side: WBAY: Bayport’s Best News, First.
Joe tossed the hockey stick onto the passenger seat and squeezed through the space between the vans. He found Frank already being interrogated by Rachel Baden, the television reporter who’d been at the training center earlier.
She was wearing a powder blue jogging suit, perhaps to convince all the folks in TV land that she’d participated in the sports activities of the evening. But her curly red hair was no longer in a ponytail. It cascaded around her shoulders and would have been a serious problem in a judo match.
“What do you want, Rachel?” Joe asked.
“The truth,” Rachel said with a wide smile. “That’s all.”
“Sure,” Joe replied. “Something small you can blow up into something huge.”
The cameraman stepped out of the sliding side door of the news van and hoisted the camera to his shoulder.
Rachel held up a hand, stopping him. “No,” she said, tossing her microphone back into the van and pulling a miniature tape recorder from her jacket pocket. “No big production. Just a few questions.”
“About what?” Joe asked.
“She thinks something happened at the sports complex tonight,” Frank said.
Joe made his expression completely blank, as if to say, “What’s she talking about?”
Rachel clicked on the recorder. “Frank, was there an incident on the archery range tonight?”
Frank glanced at Joe. They had promised Geneve Montreux they’d keep things quiet.
“I’ve got nothing to say,” Frank finally replied.
“My source says you were almost killed, Frank. You’ve got nothing to say about that?” Baden persisted.
Frank shrugged. “Do I look dead? Am I hurt, even?”
“Someone didn’t shoot arrows at you?” Rachel asked.
Joe stepped closer. “Who’s your source?”
“Someone who sounds reliable, believe me.” Rachel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We packed up the van and left after the thing with Iola Morton,” she said. “Then at the station we got a phone call. Anonymous. This guy had an interesting story to tell about you, Frank, and an archer named William Moubray.”
“What, exactly?”
Now it was Rachel’s turn to shrug. “If nothing really happened, then why do you care?”
“I don’t like rumors,” Frank said firmly.
“So tell me what you know. My source says poor design of the archery range may have been a factor.”
“I don’t think so,” Frank said.
“So something did happen?”
“I didn’t say that.” Frank wanted to find out how much Rachel knew, so he tried to say just enough to keep the questions coming.
“Did Geneve Montreux try to save money on equipment? Are there other accidents waiting to happen at the Combat Training Facility?”
“We don’t know what caused the fencing accident that injured Iola,” Frank said.
“How much training have the coaches had?” Rachel asked. “My source claims the athletes are unsupervised. Is this true?”
“I don’t know,” Frank replied.
“One more question. Why were you and Moubray shooting at night? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“There are lights.”
“My source says the lights failed. That they went out while you were shooting and that’s how you almost got skewered. Moubray, too.”
“All I can say is that’s not what happened,” Frank said. “Did your source tell you anything about arrows?”
“No. Whose arrows? Tell me,” Rachel said, holding the recorder out.
“Did your source mention a name?” Frank wanted to know if Rachel’s source had fed her the name on the note—Milli Le Walt.
“What name? Come on, Frank. What name?”
“I’m done,” Frank said.
Rachel bit her lip in frustration, then turned to Joe.
He just shook his head.
“Fine,” Rachel said, stuffing the recorder in her pocket. She climbed into the news van. “Drive to Iola Morton’s house,” she said to the cameraman. “We’ll get a shot of her bandaged shoulder. Then cut to Montreux saying it was only a little accident. The audience will love it.”
The van backed up, then roared down the street.
Inside the house, Frank and Joe found their mother, Laura Hardy, sitting in the living room, reading a gardening magazine. She had the television on, which, apparently, had kept her from hearing any of the commotion outside.
She looked up and smiled. “Hey! How was the new training place, or Olympic Center of Combat… whatever it’s called?”
Joe laughed. “Combat Sports Training Facility, Mom.”
“It was great,” Frank said. He didn’t want to worry his mother by telling her he’d spent the evening dodging arrows. “Joe got pummeled by a black belt in judo. That was especially fun.”
“Oh, honey. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
“No way,” Joe replied, though his wrist was still kind of sore. “Just hungry.”
“There’s stuff for sandwiches in the fridge,” Mrs. Hardy said.
As Joe started toward the kitchen, he pulled Frank aside for a second.
“I’m going to call Iola and warn her that Rachel’s on her way over,” he whispered.
“Good idea,” Frank said. He then flopped down on the couch next to his mom. “Where’s Dad?”
“He got a call this morning from a company out in California,” Mrs. Hardy said. “Someone’s been hacking into their computers.”
The Hardys’ father, Fenton, was a well-known private detective. He often took off to work on a new case on a moment’s notice.
“He’ll be back early next week,” Mrs. Hardy said.
“Cool,” Frank said. He pointed to the television. “Turn the sound up when the news comes on, Mom,” he said. “We might be on there.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They were at the training facility for the big event tonight.”
“I’ll be sure to watch,” Mrs. Hardy said.
Claiming he was tired, Frank headed upstairs to his room.
About ten minutes later Frank heard and smelled his brother coming up the stairs. Joe tromped in with a plate loaded down with a hot turkey and pepperoni sandwich, chips, and a heavy slice of chocolate cake.
“You act like you haven’t eaten all day,” Frank said.
“I’m a growing boy,” Joe replied. He sat at Frank’s desk, while Frank lounged on the bed.
“So,” Frank said. “Where did Rachel Baden get her information?”
“Well,” Joe said around a mouthful of turkey and pepperoni. “She said the anonymous caller was some guy. I guess that means it was a man.”
“That doesn’t fit with the name Milli Le Walt on the note,” Frank said. “At first I thought it might be the practical joker trying to get some publicity.”
“Except that the caller didn’t mention the note to Rachel,” Joe said.
“Right.” Frank stared at the ceiling. “The tipster basically pointed the finger at Geneve Montreux—”
“Accusing her of mismanaging the training center,” Joe added. “Of running a dangerous facility.”
“And it might be true,” Frank said. “That thing with Iola was pretty bad.”
Joe crunched a mouthful of chips. “I still want a look at those wires. I don’t care what that Victoria person says.”
“I agree,” Frank said. He sat up and ticked off the fingers on his right hand as he named names. “Who knew about the incident with William and me? Me, William… then we told Montreux. And Coach Sokal said a woman saw someone run into the building with a bow.”
“What about William Moubray?” Joe asked. “D
o you really believe his story?”
“What story? You mean when he said he didn’t realize what was going on until someone took a shot at him?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “What if he’s Milli Le Walt? He could’ve taken a couple of shots at you, then drilled an arrow into the ground to make it look like someone was after him, too.”
Frank finished Joe’s thought. “Then he runs over and turns out the lights so he can be the hero.”
Joe dug into his cake. “You said he complained that Montreux gives everything to the fencers and cheaps the archers. This works out perfectly for him. He pretends to save you, then calls in an anonymous tip to make Montreux look bad and make himself the hero.”
Frank held a hand up to his chin and thought for a second. “That would make perfect sense if the snitch had told Rachel exactly what William told me—that he saved me by turning out the lights. But Rachel said her source told her that the lights were faulty. That they went out by themselves.”
“I guess you’re right,” Joe agreed.
“And Rachel didn’t say anything about William being a hero,” Frank added. “Only that he almost got hurt, too.”
“If his only motive was to make Montreux look bad, then what?”
Frank frowned. “Then it’s possible he did do it. Took some dangerous shots at me, then called the press to put his own spin on it.”
* * *
The next morning Laura Hardy stood in the kitchen with her hands on her hips, looking exasperated. “Frank,” she said, “I watched the news last night as you asked me to.”
“Oh, yeah?” Frank said. “Did you see us?”
“Yes, I did. And I saw poor Iola lying on the floor like a dead person.”
“She’s fine,” Joe said, pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. “I called her this morning.”
“Good,” Mrs. Hardy said. “They said something else on the news, too.”
Frank raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“They said there was some kind of accident on the archery range but that they’d been unable to confirm anything.”
“You know they always exaggerate that type of thing on the news, Mom,” Joe said.
“Well, if you boys are going back over there, be careful,” Mrs. Hardy said, shaking a finger at them.
Training for Trouble Page 3
