Rocky Road

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked. “Who’d you hear that from?”

  “Um, Carly O’Brien?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Callie said with a laugh. “She is the biggest liar in the whole school. Remember when she said her dad was one of the original Beatles?”

  “Well, I was at the Water Cooler at two A.M.,” Chet said, referring not to an actual cooler, but an Internet chat room where all the guys in computer club compare notes over the summer. “And they’re all saying it’s the guys on the football team—they’re supposedly tearing up the grass so they’ll put in artificial turf.”

  “What a load of garbage!” I said. “People will make up anything!”

  “Got any better ideas?” Joe asked me.

  I had to admit I didn’t.

  Man, if only we’d been in Bayport when it happened! Joe and I would have caught whomever it was.

  “Well, let’s have a look around,” I said. “Joe?”

  “I’m game.”

  I fished out my trusty Swiss Army knife and extended the lock pick attachment.

  (No, you haven’t got one on your Swiss Army knife—it’s a special edition, given to us by ATAC. Sorry.)

  “You sure it’s okay to do this?” Chet asked nervously. “I mean, it’s technically breaking and entering. What if the principal catches us? Or the police?”

  “Relax, Chet,” I told him. “We’re just fighting crime here. Everyone knows we do that.”

  True, but they all think we’re just amateurs—including Chet, Iola, and Callie.

  We went straight to the cafeteria entrance. I could see right away that the lock had been pried off the door—probably with a crowbar. It was now sealed shut with yellow crime scene tape.

  “The thief must have brought the food out this way and loaded it onto whatever he or she was driving,” I said.

  “They would have parked over there,” Joe said, pointing to the loading dock.

  “Maybe there are footprints,” I said, “over there, where the pavement ends.”

  At the end of the path was a patch of dirt that somebody once forgot to pave over. But the huge downpour early that morning had turned it into a muddy lake. Any footprints that had been there were gone now.

  “You think we should go inside?” Joe asked me.

  “That might be going too far. After all, the police wouldn’t like amateurs like us tramping all over a crime scene.”

  Joe was smirking. He understood why I’d called us amateurs. I didn’t want to blow our cover to our friends. I was telling Joe, in so many words, that the two of us could come back and check things out later—alone.

  “Well, it makes it a lot harder to catch whoever did this,” Joe said.

  “You think it was just a bunch of kids acting like morons?” Callie wondered.

  “Kids, probably. Acting like morons, definitely.” I crouched down low, staring into space, thinking hard.

  “What, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . there’s something so weird about it all.”

  I stood up again. “I think we ought to talk to Chief Collig, see what the police have found out.”

  “What about us?” Callie asked.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open,” I told them. “If anything comes up, let us know right away, okay?”

  We went back out to the gate and said our goodbyes. Callie and Iola ran off together—they still had two more miles to go.

  Chet tossed his empty coffee cup into the garbage can. That’s when I noticed that it said “Captain Creamy” on it.

  “Hey, did you get that off a Captain Creamy truck?” I asked him.

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know they sold rolls,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, rolls and coffee, muffins and stuff. Nobody buys ice cream at seven in the morning.”

  “Where was the truck?” I asked.

  “I thought you guys were cutting down on coffee,” Chet said.

  “Yeah, but we have to talk to the ice-cream man,” I said. “He, um, sold us some bad merchandise.”

  “Really? Well, he was just down the hill there, at the corner of Main and MacArthur.”

  “Great. Thanks, Chet. See you later.” I gunned my bike’s engine—it was loud enough to wake the dead.

  Chet winced. “Hey, can I get a ride with one of you?”

  “Chet,” Joe said, shaking his head, “we don’t give rides on these. It’s not legal.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  He waved good-bye as we left him in our dust and headed down the hill to have it out with our friend from ATAC.

  7.

  A JOB FOR SUPERMEN?

  It didn’t take us long to find Captain Creamy. Down on MacArthur, just across from city hall and the court building, there was a line of people waiting for their coffee and reading their morning papers and yawning.

  I’d never seen an ice-cream truck this early in the morning—but I could tell it was the one we were looking for, because there was no mistaking that huge head of curly blond hair. With the tiny Captain Creamy hat pinned on top of the pile, the effect was pretty comical.

  We waited on line like everybody else. When our friend saw us, his eyes lit up with pleasure. “Back already?” he said cheerfully. “Wow, you guys rule!” He leaned in and whispered, “Did you solve the case?”

  “Um, can we talk?” Frank asked him. “In . . . private?”

  Captain Creamy looked out over the line of customers. “Can’t it wait? I’m kind of busy here.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Frank said.

  “Okay, okay—just give me two minutes.”

  He rushed through half a dozen orders, then closed his window. The people who were still on line complained loudly, but we really had to have a chat with the Captain.

  Frank and I went around to the other side of the truck, up a couple of steps, and through a narrow side door. Inside, it was packed to the roof with a mix of boxes—spoons, napkins, cups—and computer equipment, including tangles of wires that were everywhere.

  It was a complete and total mess.

  “Man, you should take better care of your business,” I said, kicking aside an empty ice-cream box.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed, “and that goes for your ATAC business, too.”

  Captain Creamy looked at us like we were from Mars. “Huh?”

  We quickly filled him in on our little trip to scenic Niagara Falls.

  “Omigosh! I am so sorry—this is totally embarrassing!”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I said. “And just so you know, while we were gone, we missed a crime wave back here in Bayport.”

  “Really? Oh, man . . .”

  Captain Creamy looked like he’d just melted all over himself. “I am such a loser. I don’t know what happened. Wait—wait a second . . .” He started pushing around boxes of ice-cream sandwiches until he came to the one he was looking for.

  “Look at this, will you?” he said, smacking himself on the forehead. “I gave you guys the wrong case! That box was from the recycling pile—old cases that were supposed to be brought in for shredding!”

  Oh, yeah—did I tell you we sent the discs back to ATAC once we’d viewed them? I guess this guy was part of the returns processing arm.

  Now I felt bad. He’d messed up big-time, but he hadn’t done it on purpose.

  “You know,” Frank said gently, “maybe if you kept your truck better organized, you could avoid—”

  “I know. You’re right. I’m a total failure as an agent.” He sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

  “Hey, man, forget it, okay?” I was sorry now that I’d made such a big stink about it.

  “Forget it? That case was a year old! How could I not notice?” He held up the box he’d just fished out. “This was the one I was supposed to give you. Here, take it.”

  “Thanks, “Frank said.

  “See, it says ‘F&J/H’ right there in the corner—your initials. I wrote them in so I wouldn’t get
it wrong, and I still did!”

  How did ATAC choose this guy?

  He looked like he was about to cry. Still, I needed to ask.

  “You’re . . . sure this is the right one?”

  He nodded miserably. “Sorry,” he repeated for about the tenth time. “I’ve just been under so much pressure lately.”

  “Pressure?” Frank asked. “What kind of pressure?”

  “My mom got laid off last Christmas, and I’ve had to work odd jobs to help out, instead of going to college so I could have a real career someday. . . .”

  “Aw, man, that’s rough,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “What about your dad?”

  “My dad? Ha. That’s a laugh. I haven’t seen my dad since he walked out when I was three.” He sniffed. “My mom keeps pressuring me to earn more money and pay my own way. But you know, I’m only twenty.”

  “What’s your name?” Frank asked him.

  “Ernie Bickerstaff.”

  “Ernie Bick . . . hey, didn’t you go to Bayport High?”

  “Yeah, I graduated a couple of years back.”

  “I remember you,” I said. “You were the guy in the chicken suit at all the football games!”

  “Yeah, that was me,” he said with a sad smile.

  “Not a lot of career opportunities for six-foot-tall chickens.”

  “Doesn’t the ice-cream job pay you well enough?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s seasonal,” he explained. “And you know as well as I do that ATAC doesn’t pay enough—besides, it’s only part-time. I have to do computer consulting on the side just to bring in my share of the rent.”

  I knew we should report him to ATAC for his mistake—but I didn’t have the heart, and Frank didn’t either.

  “Listen, nobody’s perfect,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I added.

  “If ATAC hears about this, they’ll fire me for sure!”

  “Hey,” I said. “Nobody’s going to tell them, okay? We’ll solve this new case, and the one here in Bayport, too—and nobody has to know you messed up.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, looking up at us like we were angels from heaven. “You guys are the best—everyone at ATAC says you never fail.”

  “Everybody fails sometimes,” Frank said. “Trust me.”

  He took the box from Captain Creamy and we left him there, sadder but hopefully wiser.

  “We’d better get on this right away,” Frank said, holding up the box as we left the truck. “Let’s go see what it’s all about.”

  “Starr back to throw . . . he heaves it . . . and it’s a touchdown! Touchdown Packers!”

  Frank and I stared at the monitor. We’re both longtime football fans, so there was no doubt what we were looking at—it was an old film of the first Super Bowl in 1967, between the NFL’s Green Bay Packers and the Kansas City Chiefs of the old AFL. The film was grainy and jumpy, and the announcer’s voice seemed to come from another era.

  Suddenly the film faded out, and in its place was an exterior shot of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.

  “Hello, there, ATAC agents. Welcome to your next case.”

  It was the voice of Q.T.

  “Every year, thousands of fans flock to the Football Hall of Fame to see rare artifacts of seasons past. One of the most popular exhibits features the first Super Bowl trophy, pictured here. . . .”

  The exterior cross-faded into a shot of the golden football, perched on its pedestal, SUPER BOWL I CHAMPIONS: GREEN BAY PACKERS, VINCE LOMBARDI, COACH, was engraved on the base.

  Then the screen went black. In a moment we were looking at the trophy again—but it was gone. We saw only the pedestal.

  “Unfortunately, the trophy you are looking at has recently been stolen. News of the theft has been kept secret for the past week—the room is cordoned off as being ‘under construction’—but we can’t keep up the pretense much longer. You’ve got to find the trophy and return it to where it belongs! Good luck. And, as usual, this CD will revert to an ordinary music CD in five seconds. Five . . . four . . . three... two . . . one . . .”

  Marching band music suddenly blared out of the speakers as the screen went to a still shot of Bart Starr, Hall of Fame quarterback, throwing a long bomb.

  “Wow!” I said. “The original Super Bowl trophy! Frank, this is gonna be so off the hook!”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What about the school break-ins?”

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about them. Still, this was a national historic treasure we were talking about! “I’m sure Chief Collig and the Bayport Police can solve the school case without our help.”

  “If they had any leads, they wouldn’t have asked Dad to call us in.”

  “Well, we could get right on it as soon as we come back from Canton.”

  “Joe . . .”

  “ATAC jobs come first, Frank!”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said. He shook the box, and out came a wad of cash for expenses.

  “How much is there?” I asked.

  “Not that much.”

  “Enough for round-trip plane fare?”

  “Joe, I’m surprised at you—I thought you liked riding our bikes.”

  My back and thighs were already aching—and Canton, Ohio, was almost six hundred miles away!

  Ouch. This was gonna hurt.

  My thighs were already hurting, just thinking about it!

  8.

  TOURIST TRAP

  “You want to go where?”

  “Canton, Ohio.”

  After a short nap, we were sitting at lunch with Mom and Aunt Trudy. Dad was in New York for the day again, giving a workshop to three hundred police detectives on youth crime—something he knows more about than most police forces.

  “But you just got back from—where was it this time?”

  “Niagara Falls, Aunt Trudy,” I said.

  “We changed our minds about staying there,” Joe added.

  “Oh, and why is that?” Aunt Trudy asked. She’s so nosy sometimes—I think it’s because she suspects we’re holding back on her. And she’s right, really. But she can never know about ATAC—it would expose her and the rest of our family to extreme danger.

  “Um, the falls were closed for repair,” Joe said, before I could stop him. He says the dumbest things sometimes.

  “Aaarrk!” Playback squawked from his perch on Aunt Trudy’s shoulder. “Slowly I turn! Slowly I turn!”

  “So now you’re going right back out again? On your motorcycles?” Mom said. “Haven’t I shown you the statistics on how dangerous they are?”

  Our mom is a superlibrarian. Super, because she knows every fact and figure there ever was—or at least, she can look them up faster than anyone else I know.

  “Yes, Mom,” I said. “But you know how careful Joe and I always are.”

  “Bad boys! Aaarrk! Bad boys!”

  “Shut up, Playback,” Joe said, forgetting his manners.

  “Joe! That’s terrible!” Mom said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m shocked—just shocked.”

  “Apologize right this instant!” Aunt Trudy demanded, swinging her shoulder forward so Joe could tell Playback how sorry he was.

  “Sorry,” Joe mumbled.

  “Now give him a kiss,” Trudy demanded.

  Playback made kissing noises that sounded horribly real.

  “I’m not kissing him,” Joe said. “It’s not sanitary!”

  “Well, just you watch your language in future,” Mom said sternly. “And please be careful on the highways.”

  “Thanks, Mom!” I said. What a relief! As usual, she was letting us have our way.

  “I can’t believe you’re caving in like this, Laura,” Trudy said. “If they were my boys, I’d . . .”

  But Joe and I didn’t hear the rest—we were already halfway up the stairs, on our way to get packed for our next case!

  We took off as soon as we could. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for riding. The wind in our
faces, the roar of the engines filling our ears, lots of open road . . . I think even Joe enjoyed it, in spite of his aching legs.

  But after dark, and dinner at a highway rest stop, we both agreed we couldn’t make it all the way to Canton in one shot. “Hotel?” Joe asked hopefully.

  I felt the wad of cash in my vest pocket. “Sure, why not?”

  “Hotel with hot tub?”

  “Now you’re pushing it.”

  “Aw, come on!”

  “We’re on a budget here, Joe. We might need this money to help track down the Super Bowl trophy.”

  “You’re such a party pooper.”

  “Take a hot bath instead.”

  “Not the same thing. Not even close.”

  He didn’t like it, but he knew I was right, so he stopped fighting it. “Okay. First cheap dive we see, we pull in.”

  Off we went, leaving the highway rest stop behind. Only, we didn’t realize there wasn’t another exit for thirty-six miles.

  The highway wound up into some mountains. It was dark on both sides of the road—no towns, not even any houses. I checked my gas gauge, just out of caution. Good. It was still one-quarter full—it would be a bad thing to get stuck up here, out of gas.

  You could be here a long time.

  We reached the top of the mountain pass. Here, parked alongside the road, were several trucks pulled over for the night. Their lights were on so you wouldn’t plow into them, and they lit up the hillside like it was Christmas.

  Joe and I passed a sign that cautioned: STEEP DESCENT—DANGEROUS CURVES, NEXT 6.3 MILES.

  Okay.

  We slowed down a little.

  That’s when we heard the roar of the truck’s engine creeping up on us from behind.

  I pulled out of the left lane and in behind Joe, so that we were riding single file and the truck would have room to pass us—but why he was going so fast, I couldn’t understand.

  Hadn’t he read the sign?

  The incredibly loud blaring of the truck’s horn nearly made me lose my balance and have to stop.

  I turned and looked over my shoulder. He was less than twenty feet behind us, and gaining fast.

  Why didn’t he just go around? What was he trying to do, anyway? Kill us?