Bound for Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Amen,” said Frank.

  “Wow.” I sat stock-still, thinking this over. Suddenly my appetite was gone. I pushed my tray away.

  “So we can add some attributes to these masked hazers, whoever they are,” said Frank. “They have major tech savvy. They must have a hacker among them.”

  “And they use their skills to ruin lives,” I said, crinkling my napkin into a little ball. “Frank, this is getting serious. I know you want to defeat these bullies. But I think we have to go to Gerther now—”

  “NO!” cried Frank. “Then they win!”

  I shook my head. “Let me finish. We go to Gerther and tell him what’s happened. Then we at least get to find out why he wanted us to join the team. You and I both know this isn’t really about our lack of extracurriculars.”

  Frank was quiet, apparently thinking that over. “You’ve had worse ideas,” he admitted finally.

  “We need more details,” I went on. “Whoever these guys are, they’re a formidable enemy. We need Gerther to know how bad this is, and we need all the information he has, if he wants us to solve the problem.”

  “You’re right,” Frank said, looking down at his sandwich. “And maybe talking to him will bring my appetite back. Shall we go now?”

  I stood and threw my tray into the nearest trash can. I felt bad about wasting the daily special, but we had bigger fish to fry. (Not that the daily special was fish. At least, I didn’t think so.)

  We lost no time in making our way to the office. Inside, the receptionist was on the phone. We waited patiently, staring at Gerther’s closed door. So he’s in there with a student, I thought.

  Finally the receptionist hung up the phone and looked up at us. “Yes?”

  “We’re here to see Principal Gerther,” Frank said.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the receptionist replied.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re not going to take no for an answer. We have something of great importance to discuss with Principal Gerther. It’s an emergency. Can you tell him that Frank and Joe Hardy are here, and it’s urgent?”

  The receptionist blinked at me, unimpressed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that, young man.”

  “Why not?” asked Frank. “Don’t tell me he told you not to let us in. Did he tell you not to let us in?”

  Now the receptionist turned and blinked at Frank. “May I suggest that you two cut down on the caffeine?” she asked. “To answer your question, I can’t do that because Principal Gerther is out today. He took a personal day. Now, would you like to leave a message for him?”

  A personal day? I looked at Frank. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was. Principal Gerther has a life?

  “No,” said Frank, looking a little sheepish. “We’ll, uh, come back tomorrow.”

  “He’s out tomorrow, too,” the receptionist said, turning back to her computer. “Try the day after.”

  “Okay, the day after,” Frank said.

  He looked at me and nodded toward the door. I wished I hadn’t thrown away my lunch. What was I going to do for the next twenty minutes until the bell rang?

  Then I saw a familiar face stalk into the office and take a quick right, into the mailroom.

  Coach Perotta.

  I nudged Frank and pointed at him. Frank looked, then turned back to me, eyes wide.

  “Coach Perotta,” he whispered, stating the obvious.

  “Why didn’t we think of talking to him?” I whispered back.

  Frank shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess it’s possible he already knows about the hazing.”

  “But if he doesn’t,” I hissed, “he should. And maybe he can help us figure out who’s behind it.”

  We both turned and watched as Coach Perotta left the mailroom, carrying a stack of papers and whistling a cheerful little tune.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Hi, Coach Perotta,” he said loudly, planting himself in the big guy’s path. “Can Joe and I talk to you privately for a minute?”

  • • •

  Coach Perotta looked a little wary at first, but he agreed to chat with us and led us all the way to his private office in the gym.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to two folding chairs and walking around his desk to sit down himself.

  We sat.

  I looked at Frank.

  “Um, I guess you’re wondering—” Frank began, but Coach Perotta held up a hand to stop him.

  “I have a feeling I know why you’re here,” he said, in a resigned-sounding voice.

  “You do?” I asked, surprised.

  The coach nodded. “Listen, I know the last couple of days haven’t been easy for you boys,” he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “And I want you to know . . . you shouldn’t be ashamed for coming to me like this.”

  Frank and I looked at each other. Huh? “Oh, we’re not,” Frank said.

  “My dad used to tell me, ‘There’s no shame in knowing when you’re beat,’” Coach Perotta went on.

  “Huh,” I said thoughtfully. “Well, I guess, in a way—”

  “Not everybody can be good at everything,” Coach Perotta went on. “Not everybody is cut out for lab work. Not everybody can star in a Broadway show. And certainly, not everybody is cut out for basketball. And sometimes, quitting isn’t a cowardly act. Sometimes quitting is the bravest thing you can do.”

  I was beginning to figure out where this was going. “Coach Perotta,” I said, “I’m sorry, but we didn’t come here to quit.”

  “You didn’t?” The coach looked from me to Frank, his mouth tightening with annoyance. “Then why are you here?”

  “We had something else to ask you about,” Frank said. “Er . . . have you ever had any trouble with hazing on the team?”

  Coach frowned. “Hazing?” he asked. “You mean when they make you drink antifreeze, that kind of thing?”

  “Uh, something like that,” Frank replied.

  Coach’s expression suddenly went cold. He paused. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Hazing is not tolerated on my team, and I make my expectations very clear to my players. Anyone caught hazing would be kicked off immediately, no questions asked.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really,” he said, turning his angry gaze on me.

  “You’ve never . . .” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “You’ve never heard of a masked group forcing team members to do certain things? Play better? Especially the players who are struggling?”

  Coach Perotta’s nose wrinkled. He suddenly looked disgusted, like I was describing something indecent. “What are you saying, exactly, boy?”

  I glanced at Frank, who nodded slightly. I went on to tell Coach Perotta the whole sordid story of what had happened to us on the night we’d tried to join the team for pizza at Paco’s. The bags over our heads, the car trunk, the pedestal, the punches, the “brand.” The apparent promise Frank and I made to quit the team, and everything that had happened to us this morning after we hadn’t quit.

  Coach Perotta leaned back in his chair and listened, not taking his eyes from mine. Sometimes he looked surprised, sometimes he looked horrified, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask me to stop. When I finished, he sat in silence for a moment.

  Then suddenly he sat up and roared, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

  I jumped, startled. “Sir?”

  He lunged across the desk, pointing a finger in my face. “Do you expect me to believe this hogwash? This elaborate lie?”

  “Coach Perotta, why would we lie, sir?” Frank asked, sounding as surprised as I was.

  The coach turned to him. “Why would you lie?” he asked. “I don’t know. Possibly because my contract is up for renewal this year, and I’m coaching potential state champions? You expect me to believe that it’s a coincidence Principal Gerther told me I had to add you boys to the team, and then you come back with these outlandish stories of hazing? Stories I’ve never heard the like of before?”
>
  There was a knock on the door then, and I felt a shudder of relief. Please, someone come in and break this tension. I wasn’t sure what reaction I’d been expecting the coach to have, but this definitely wasn’t it.

  “Come in,” Coach Perotta called, and the door opened to reveal Assistant Coach Noonan. From the concerned looks he swept over me and Frank, I got the sense he must have heard Coach Perotta yelling.

  “I just came to drop off these stats from the last game,” he said, holding up a manila folder. “Is there . . . something I can help with?”

  Coach Perotta dropped his head into his hands and then rubbed his temples with his fingers, like Frank and I had given him the world’s worst headache. “Have you ever heard of a hazing problem on our team?” he asked quietly.

  Coach Noonan frowned. “Hazing? Like at a college fraternity or sorority?” he asked.

  Coach Perotta nodded. “Players being forced to do things they don’t want to do, humiliating or painful things, to stay on the team. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

  Coach Noonan looked at him for a moment, like he might be missing something, then shook his head. “No, never.”

  Coach Perotta gestured at us. “Frank and Joe here say they had a very interesting experience with some of our players the other night. Why don’t you tell him, boys?”

  Coach Noonan looked at me, and I briefly told him the same story we’d just told Coach Perotta.

  Coach Noonan paled visibly when I got to the part about the branding.

  When I finished, Coach Perotta asked, “Now does that sound familiar at all?”

  “No way,” Coach Noonan said. “But if there’s any possibility our boys are involved in something like that . . . we’d better have a talk with them, hadn’t we?”

  Coach Perotta looked nonplussed. “What kind of talk?”

  Coach Noonan shrugged. “Well, after the next practice, we can sit them down and make it very clear that no hazing will be tolerated on this team. Anyone caught involved in any hazing will be booted off, no questions asked.”

  Coach Perotta nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said after a few seconds, “that sounds reasonable to me. What do you think, boys? If we have a stern chat with our players—is that enough for you to feel comfortable staying on the team?”

  Can a stern talk be enough? I thought. I remembered Gabe saying he wouldn’t wish the hazing he’d gone through on anybody. I remembered the pizza delivery guy saying this was the third time this month he’d found kids with bound hands and feet and bags over their heads in his parking lot.

  “All right,” said Frank, and I nodded too.

  I guess it’s a start.

  7

  MISUNDERSTOOD

  FRANK

  JOE AND I DID NOT return home in the best of moods that afternoon. It was a rare day with no basketball practice and no game, so my plan was to crawl into bed and not get out until seven the next morning.

  Instead Dad met us at the door. That was unusual. “Hello, boys. Can we speak in my office for a moment?”

  I glanced at Joe. “Um, sure.”

  Thus far we hadn’t shared any of our basketball-related adventures with our dad. It’s not like we were trying to hide anything from him; we just usually try to leave him out of the crazy complications of the cases we take on. Our dad is a pretty well-known retired detective, and Joe and I inherited the sleuthing gene from him. But we’ve gotten in enough trouble over the years to realize that the less our family gets involved in our mystery-solving problems, the better.

  That doesn’t mean our dad doesn’t know we solve mysteries. He does. And he tries not to ask too many questions.

  But I had a funny feeling that this conversation might have something to do with our current activities.

  We followed him into his office and sat down opposite him at his big desk.

  “Boys,” he began, “I had my tires slashed today while the car was in the driveway.”

  Groan. “Oh, um, I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He looked at me. “And I got a call this morning, Frank,” he said. “It was from a Mr. Porter. Said you’d turned in some ridiculously offensive English paper and got an F and in-school suspension. I told him, that doesn’t sound like the Frank I know.”

  I felt like I was sinking into the chair. “Um, thanks, Dad.”

  He nodded quickly and then looked from me to Joe. “Trouble in this family seems to follow a certain pattern. Can I deduce that you boys are working on a case?”

  I sighed.

  “We are,” Joe said. “I’m sorry it’s affecting you, Dad.”

  “I’m not worried about me,” he said. “I just hope you’re not putting yourselves at risk.”

  That’s when we told him the story of everything that had happened to us this week. The weird meeting with Principal Gerther, the night of the masked men, the game, the paper, and Marianne breaking up with Joe. I told him about our conversation with Coach Perotta, and Coach Noonan’s proposal that they talk to the other players.

  “A talk?” Dad said. “Do you think that will be enough to stop it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I feel like when hazing gets this bad, it takes a lot to put an end to it. And it sounds like it’s been a problem for a while.”

  Dad nodded, tapping his lip thoughtfully. “When I was in college,” he said, “I decided to try to join the same fraternity your grandfather had been part of. But when I started rush as a pledge, I was stunned by what they wanted the pledges to do. We had to humiliate ourselves, acting as servants to the brothers, making them food, doing their laundry. And there were stories of beatings. . . .” He shook himself, like he was picturing it all now. “I gave up,” he said. “I didn’t want to be a member of any club that would do that to its members. But one of my good friends rode it out, and later, when he was a brother, he loved to lord it over me, how amazing it was to be a brother in this fraternity.”

  “That’s crazy,” Joe said. “He wasn’t angry they’d treated him that way?”

  Dad shook his head. “Oh no. In fact there’s a psychological term for it—the loyalty you feel for an organization that’s mistreated you. It’s called cognitive dissonance,” he said. “Essentially, it’s your brain’s way of dealing with the fact that you’ve made some odd choices. Instead of being angry with the people who’ve mistreated them, people convince themselves that it was all worth it, that they chose to experience that punishment in order to get the reward. It’s all very strange.”

  “Strange indeed,” I agreed.

  Dad looked at us sympathetically. “Are you going to stick with the case?” he asked. “You don’t have to. Whatever Principal Gerther had in mind, I can’t imagine he knew things would get this bad for both of you.”

  “We’re going to stick with it,” Joe said decisively, and I turned to look at him in surprise. Originally, it was me who wanted to defeat these bullies, and Joe who (maybe sensibly, I realized now) wanted to go back to Principal Gerther and quit. “We can’t let this go on,” Joe added. “And I feel like we’re getting close now.”

  “Just be careful,” Dad suggested. “Try talking to more of your teammates. They know the truth, even if Coach Perotta doesn’t. And do talk to Principal Gerther when you can.”

  “Good advice, Dad,” I said. “But right now I think I want to crawl into bed and turn off my brain for a few hours.”

  Joe pulled out his phone. “Wait until I send Gabe an e-mail,” he said, frantically typing one out.

  “Sent!” said Joe, tapping the send button with his thumb.

  “Nice job,” I said. “Now, we nap.”

  • • •

  I napped hard. So hard. I roused myself out of bed when Aunt Trudy shook me and said she’d made lasagna, and then I ate some lasagna, and then I relocated to the couch in front of Dancing with the Stars (don’t judge, my mom is into it) and napped some more. I was shaken awake by Mom, who was holding out my phone. “I think you have a call, Frank.”

&
nbsp; I struggled to sit up. It was an unfamiliar Bayport number. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.” I swiped right to answer the phone. “Hello?”

  “Frank, is that you?”

  I struggled to recognize the voice through the layers of sleep that still hung over my brain like a fog. “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Max Crandal here.”

  Max . . . Crandal. Oh. Max Crandal!

  “Hey, Max, what’s up? Listen, I’m really sorry I had to bail on the assembly the other—”

  “Yeah. Yeah, listen, Frank. Did you know there was a practice this afternoon?”

  I racked my brain. Practice? Oh shoot. Yes. It was Wednesday.

  “Omigod, Max. I’m really sorry. I just totally bla—”

  “Frank, listen. I think you’re a nice guy and all, but I don’t think you’re cut out for the B-Sharps. We had this new freshman join this week, his name is Kyle? And he took over your ‘Lion Sleeps Tonight’ solo. I just . . . I think he’s a better fit for us. Sorry, Frank. Maybe you can try out again next year.”

  Click.

  He’d hung up.

  I stared at my phone.

  This is what it feels like when your dream dies.

  That’s when Joe came barreling down the hallway from his room. “Frank! Frank! ”

  “In here!” I yelled.

  Joe came running in, holding his own phone in front of him. He ran over to the couch and shoved his phone into my face. “Check it.”

  The screen showed a text from “Gabe Zimmerman.”

  brett is willing to talk to you guys about what happened to him. but we should meet soon before he changes his mind. see you at meet locker in 10?

  I jumped up. “Text back ‘yes,’” I said, fishing for my shoes under the couch. “We can be there in five, even.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Joe said, scrolling down on his phone to show his reply:

  see you there.

  8

  RUN THE GAUNTLET

  JOE

  THERE WAS NOWHERE TO PARK in front of the Meet Locker, a local diner and hangout, so I ended up parking down Farragut Alley, this tiny little dead-end street off to the right.

  It was nine thirty by the time we parked the car, and the Meet Locker closes at ten. “We’d better hurry,” I told Frank. “We want to have time to hear everything he has to say.”