Training for Trouble

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Tracks,” Frank said, noticing the two thin lines worn into the fresh snow. “William must’ve already started.”

  “Let’s catch him,” Targan said. “You up for it?”

  “Just watch,” Frank said. He charged ahead through the leafless trees.

  Frank felt the cold air expand his lungs. The sun was out, and the snow glistened and twinkled in the light.

  He ducked under a fallen tree branch. “Watch your head!” he called to Jake.

  “Got it,” Targan replied.

  Frank took the trail as fast as he could. Up hills, he had to splay his skis like a duck and walk his way to the top. He could hear Jake behind him, the shush of the skis on the snow and the bite of each pole digging into the ground.

  “Watch your speed on this hill,” Frank called.

  He tucked his poles behind him as he leaned his way between the too-close tree trunks. Then it was down a steep hill. Frank went into his tuck and picked up speed.

  Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five miles an hour. Pine trees whistled past. The skis tracked and bounced over rocks beneath the snow. Coming to a curve, Frank leaned into it, brushing a thorn bush with his shoulder.

  He heard a ripping sound behind him. “You okay?” he called.

  “This is great!” Targan shouted. “Don’t slow down. That bush got part of my jacket, that’s all.”

  The ground leveled out. Frank slowed and pushed his way into a clearing. He skied up to a railing set on two posts just off the trail.

  “The first target area,” he said as Targan plowed to a stop next to him.

  “You’re good on the skis, Frank,” Targan said. ‘What can you do with that gun?”

  The wooden railing marked the spot to shoot from. A hundred meters away, a metal frame held six black disks barely as big around as a softball.

  “Those targets look about as big as ants’ eyeballs from here,” Targan said.

  “They’re big enough,” Frank replied. He pulled a plastic magazine holding five pellets from the butt of the rifle. He inserted it and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  Taking a deep breath, he squinted through the scope. His eyes watered from the cold. The crosshairs blurred. He floated the sight just above the first black spot, then held his breath. He squeezed the trigger. A second later a metallic clank echoed back to them.

  “Nailed it!” Targan said.

  The first black spot in the row had flipped over to white.

  Frank carefully pulled off five more shots. On the last one, a muscle in his shoulder twitched. No clank.

  “Aw, that one went high,” Frank muttered. “Missed the entire thing.”

  “Five out of six,” Targan said. “That’s still great.”

  Frank slung the rifle back over his shoulder. Grabbing his poles, he pulled toward the main trail.

  “Hey, Jake,” he said.

  “What?”

  ‘Where are William’s tracks?”

  They stopped. The snow on the trail was fresh and unblemished.

  “I don’t see them,” Jake said.

  “But we didn’t pass him,” Frank said. “So where did his tracks go?”

  Targan shrugged. “He must have turned off somewhere.”

  “I guess,” Frank said.

  “Keep going,” Jake suggested. “We’ll find him soon.”

  Frank slid back onto the trail, cutting grooves in the snow. He figured Moubray must somehow still be ahead of them. Putting his head down against the wind, he picked up the pace.

  He stared at the tips of his skis. They ate the snow like the prow of an arctic icebreaker. Frank watched as a neat round hole about the size of a quarter opened up in the snow in front of him.

  What was that? he thought. A raindrop?

  Then he heard a distant, muffled crack—a rifle shot. Another hole appeared in the snow, inches from the tip of his ski.

  “Frank!” Targan called.

  Frank slowed and glanced over his shoulder. Jake was pulling with one pole and pointing to the left with his other.

  Frank looked in that direction. He saw what Jake saw, a man standing off on a far rise. He was leveling a high-powered rifle in their direction.

  “I see him!” Frank called. “Follow me!” Frank cut between two thick trees. A bullet ricocheted off one, spitting bark and ringing past Frank’s head.

  “We’re sitting ducks!” Targan shouted.

  Frank charged ahead. He lungs felt as if they were about to explode. When they came to a fork in the trail, Frank chose the branch that headed downhill. They needed speed.

  “We’re okay,” Targan said. “I can’t see him anymore.”

  “Is it Moubray?” Frank shouted.

  “I don’t know, Frank,” Targan replied. “I guess I don’t know the guy as well as I thought.”

  They zipped downhill, wind tearing at them. At the bottom of the slope, the trail made an unexpected turn to the left. It carried them around, then around some more. Soon they were headed back in the direction from which they’d just come.

  “This is bad,” Targan said.

  Frank was about to stop and backtrack when the gunman jumped out from behind a tree right in front of them. He rammed his shoulder into Frank, sending him sprawling and his air rifle spinning through the air like a baton.

  Frank watched as Targan coolly kept his speed. He chopped at the guy with his ski pole as he shot by.

  The gunman doubled over in pain. Frank was about to cheer for Targan when Targan skied into an exposed root and flipped over, skis flying.

  Frank kicked off his cross-country skis and stared down the gunman. The man was tall and wore a black ski mask and a long, duster-style brown overcoat. His boots were soaked through from the wet snow.

  The gunman swung his arm around, shaking off the blow from Targan’s ski pole. As he lifted the rifle to aim, Frank bolted toward him. If he could get close enough, the man wouldn’t be able to get off a shot.

  Frank couldn’t get his legs to work fast enough. They felt heavy from skiing, and his boots slipped on the snow.

  He got close to the gunman but not close enough. Right before he collided with the man, Frank felt something hard and heavy slam into his stomach. The wind shot out of him. With a moan, he doubled over and crashed to the frozen ground.

  He looked up at the bright sky. Am I shot? he wondered. Pulling his hands away from his belly, he saw they had no blood on them. He realized he hadn’t been shot; the guy had nailed him in the solar plexus with the butt of the rifle. He tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

  Frank watched helplessly as the gunman walked slowly over to where Jake lay, his right ski stuck under his body.

  “You’re done with judo for a while, superstar,” the man growled. He then brought the rifle stock down hard on Jake’s right arm.

  Targan let out a yell.

  Frank got to his knees, then fell forward on his face. When he looked up again, the gunman had vanished into the woods.

  It was five or ten minutes more before Frank could stand. Legs shaking, he went to Targan. “Jake,” he said. “Jake, what did he do to you?”

  Targan lay on his back, testing each of his limbs. He worked his skis free and bent each leg slowly. He then flexed each arm gingerly.

  He winced when he moved his right arm. “I think I’m okay,” he said finally.

  “It looked like he was trying to break your arm,” Frank said. He helped Targan up onto his skis.

  “It’s not broken, I don’t think,” Targan said. He rotated the arm. “Bruised badly, but not broken.”

  “That’s lucky,” Frank said.

  Targan managed a slight smile. “I drank a lot of milk as a kid. Strong bones, you know.”

  They put on their skis and found the trail again. “That was crazy,” Targan said. “First he shoots at us, then he tries to shatter my arm.”

  “I figure he was after you,” Frank said. “He wanted you out of judo for a while.”

  “Think it was
Frierson?” Jake asked.

  “Or Moubray, for some reason,” Frank said. “He was supposed to meet us here, remember?”

  They skied slowly, regaining their strength and keeping an eye out for the gunman.

  “Hey, ski tracks,” Frank said. He glided to a stop.

  “Moubray?” Targan asked. “He was here on this trail before us?”

  Frank nodded. They skied slowly, following the two ruts. Then Frank stopped again.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What?” Targan asked. “The guy with the gun, do you see him?”

  “No,” Frank said. “He’s not back. There, on the ground next to the tracks.”

  The two teens knelt down. A trail of red spots ran along the ski tracks. Frank touched one with his finger.

  “Blood,” he said.

  12 False Confession?

  * * *

  Frank and Jake followed the trail for fifty yards or so.

  “There!” Targan shouted. “Over there in the woods.”

  Frank saw someone lying on his side in the snow. “It’s William,” he said. “Come on.”

  They chucked their skis and picked their way between tree branches to get to Moubray.

  “He’s unconscious,” Targan said.

  Frank carefully lifted William’s head. A nasty cut creased his temple. Two trickles of blood ran down his face.

  “He’s been shot,” Frank said. “But the bullet only grazed him.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  Frank plucked Targan’s stocking cap off and placed it on William’s head to cover the cut. “I think so. He needs a hospital, though.”

  “There’s an emergency phone at the trailhead,” Targan said. “I’ll go.” He ran back to the trail to put on his skis and go for help.

  “Be careful,” Frank shouted as Targan pumped down the trail. “That guy could still be out here.”

  Frank sat in the snow, cradling William’s head. He listened to the wind bending the creaking pine limbs. Particles of icy snow dusted them. What Frank did not want to hear was a rifle shot. Targan had to make it to the phone.

  Moubray’s eyes fluttered open. “Frank,” he said hoarsely. “Where am I?”

  “In the park,” Frank said. “We were going to go cross-country skiing, remember?”

  William nodded almost imperceptibly, then shook his head, “No.” His eyes closed in pain. “Feels like rockets are going off in my skull.”

  “You got shot,” Frank said. “Stay cool. Jake went for help.”

  “Somebody called me this morning,” William whispered. “I brought something here… or I was supposed to meet someone. I can’t get it clear in my mind.”

  “Stay quiet,” Frank said. “Help will be here soon.”

  It took about fifteen more minutes, but very quickly it became clear that Jake had made it to the phone.

  The thumping rotors of a helicopter came first, followed by the high buzz of a snowmobile engine.

  Careful not to blast them with his wind and the snow, the chopper pilot dipped close to the treetops nearby. Frank waved. The chopper rose and pulled off to a safe distance, hovering.

  Then the snowmobile blasted through the trees, dragging a rescue litter on skids.

  The driver shut the engine down and jumped off.

  “Where’d you come from?” Frank asked.

  “The ski lodge, dude,” the driver said. His long blond hair hung out around his helmet. “How bad is it?”

  “Can’t tell,” Frank replied. “He’s in and out of consciousness.”

  Frank helped the ski patrol guy wrap a blanket around William and load him on the litter. He then climbed on the back of the snowmobile.

  Frank tapped the guy’s shoulder, letting him know he was ready to go. He hefted the rifle he’d borrowed from William but left his skis. He’d have to hope they were still there later.

  An ambulance and the police waited for them in the parking lot, along with Jake. As they loaded William into the rescue-squad van, Frank dug around in William’s coat pocket for his keys. If William was going to be in the hospital for a while, he’d need some supplies from his room.

  The ambulance pulled away, leaving one paramedic behind. She made Frank and Jake sit on the bumper of a police cruiser while she checked their injuries.

  “Inhale,” she said to Frank.

  He took a deep breath and held it.

  “Well, I don’t think you have any broken ribs,” she said. “Call your doctor, though, okay?”

  Frank agreed.

  While the medic checked out Jake’s arm, Frank talked to the police.

  “Everything happened so fast,” he said. “Pretty much all I can tell you is that the guy was tall and had a long coat on. And he has a serious grudge against Jake over there.”

  The officers took notes, then let Frank and Jake go.

  Frank drove Jake back to the athlete’s dorm.

  “This is the first time cross-country skiing has made me feel like I’ve just been through a three-day judo tournament,” Jake said. “Man, am I sore.”

  “No kidding,” Frank said.

  “I’d like to get my hands on that guy without that hunting rifle,” Jake said. “I’d twist his head right off his skinny neck.”

  “You’d have to wait your turn,” Frank said. “And there wouldn’t be much left when I was done.”

  In the dorm, Jake headed to his room to rest while Frank went to replace William’s air rifle and pick up some stuff for his hospital stay.

  He unlocked the door and went inside. Everything looked normal. Placing the gun on the bed, Frank pulled some clothes from a chest of drawers and wrapped a bath towel around William’s toothbrush.

  As he was about to leave, he decided he should put the gun back in the case against the wall. He propped the gun in the corner of the cabinet and covered it with the oil cloth.

  Something didn’t seem right, though. The cabinet looked empty. “What’s missing?” Frank said to himself. Then it came to him. The crossbow was gone.

  Who had it? Frank hadn’t seen it close to Moubray in the woods. He picked up the clothes and left, locking the door behind him.

  Frank sped to the hospital. It was a boxy concrete building with a long awning extending out over the main entrance walkway.

  Frank jogged in and asked the man at the information desk about William.

  The man tapped away at a computer. “He’s been checked in. Room Four Sixteen.”

  “Can I go up and see him?”

  “Not yet. He’s getting a CT scan on his head. I expect he’ll be in his room in an hour or so.”

  “Thanks.” Frank took the elevator up to the fourth floor. After giving the bundle of clothes to a nurse outside William’s room, he went to Joe’s floor.

  When he rounded the hall to Joe’s room, he spotted not one but three officers standing outside the door. One was drinking a cup of coffee. Another was spinning a set of handcuffs around on his finger the way a lifeguard would spin a whistle lanyard.

  Frank walked faster. Had there been another attack? Getting close to Joe’s room, he heard voices coming from inside. He recognized Joe’s—that was a relief. Who else was in there?

  It was Allen Frierson. He stood by the window at the far side of the room. The first thing Frank noticed was that the right side of Allen’s face was swollen. His right eye was purple around the lid.

  “Frank,” Joe said. “I was getting ready to check out and look who showed up.”

  Frank pointed at Frierson’s black eye. “It was you, wasn’t it? The guy in the mask who came after me in my van last night. That eye, it’s from the ax kick I connected with.”

  Frierson looked worried and tired. “Yes. It was me.” He rubbed at his swollen cheek self-consciously. “You almost knocked me cold.”

  Joe stood with arms crossed. “Tell Frank what you told me, Allen.”

  Allen found the wooden chair next to the window and sat down. “I did the stuff at the training center, n
ot Victoria.”

  “You mean the rope and Iola getting shocked?”

  Frierson nodded mournfully. “It was all Coach Sokal’s idea,” he said. “He couldn’t believe the Olympic Committee didn’t pick him to direct the new training center. For him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “So he hated the fact that Montreux got it,” Frank said.

  Frierson nodded. “Sokal thought it was going to be his chance to make judo a hot spectator sport, just like football or basketball.”

  “Tell Frank how you got involved,” Joe said.

  “Sokal promised me a place on the junior team if I would help him,” Allen said.

  Frank remembered the file on Frierson in Sokal’s office. No wonder Sokal hadn’t cut Allen from the team before the combat center opened. He wanted to use the kid.

  “With my dad breathing down my neck all the time,” Allen said, “I didn’t feel as though I had a choice.” He paused, rubbed his hands over his face, then continued.

  “I rigged the fencing equipment and the rope. Then, with Sokal’s help, I hid the electronics and the metal file in Victoria’s office.”

  “How did you know how to sabotage the fencing gear?” Frank asked.

  “My dad’s an electrician, remember?” Allen said. “I’ve known how to do that kind of stuff since I was a kid.”

  “And sharpening Victoria’s fencing swords?” Frank asked.

  Allen raised his hand. “That was me, too. Sokal figured the next time she practiced she might hurt someone, get into trouble, and make Montreux look even more incompetent. We had no idea Joe would get stabbed, but it worked out perfectly.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “A perfect visit to the hospital for me.”

  “Sorry,” Allen mumbled. “I really, truly am sorry.”

  “What about the arrows?” Frank asked. “Who tried to plug me on the outdoor range?”

  “That was Sokal,” Allen said. “He’s so in love with William Tell he couldn’t resist putting that Milli Le Walt note on the arrow shaft as a sick joke.”

  “It all worked,” Frank said. “Montreux got fired. Sokal got hired. But why jump me last night? Why the attacks on Jake Targan?”

  “And who fed me a pillow snack?” Joe asked, still angry from his narrow escape.