Boardwalk Bust (2 page)

“ Yes! Hang in there, Frank—I'll just be a second.”

I scrambled down the ladder attached to the outside of the grain bin. As soon as I hit the ground, I hustled over to the switch that shuts off the conveyor belt. The machinery ground to a halt.

There.

I was surrounded by an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of my own heart pounding.

Luckily, Farmer Pressman seemed to be nowhere in sight. I realized with a sharp pang that he was probably gone for good, escaping justice in spite of all we'd done to catch him.

But there was no time to think about that now—I had to help Frank. I just hoped he was still breathing.

Along the side of the grain bin, I spotted a strange-looking yet familiar device. I recognized it from a newspaper article I'd read the week before. It was one of those new safety devices—what did they call it?

Oh yeah, a grain rescue tube!

But there was a complication. Between me and the rescue tube stood a cow. And not just any cow, but the cow that had kicked me in the eye just about an hour before.

Don't even ask. I was lucky it didn't blind me, and I'd be luckier still if I didn't have a black eye to show for it.

I yelled at the cow to move, but she didn't seem to get it. Cows are not the brightest.

Finally I lost my temper. I ran at the cow and shoved her out of the way.

“Moooo,” she complained. But at least she didn't kick me this time.

I hooked the two halves of the rescue tube to the grapple line. Then I climbed to the top of the ladder, pushed the button on Frank's gizmo, and dragged them up after me.

Inside, the grain was no longer pouring off the conveyor belt. But Frank was now buried up to his neck, and I had to be careful coming near him.

One false move and I could have set off an avalanche, burying Frank in corn. Once I had the two halves of the rescue tube in place around him, I hammered down both sides with my fists, so that Frank was surrounded by a sort of plastic cocoon.

“Now start scooping out the grain,” I told him.

“Can't,” he gasped. “Can't move. Can barely … breathe….”

I could see that the remaining grain inside the tube was squashing him pretty good. I realized I was the one who was going to have to get that corn out from around him and give him the space to haul himself out. So I hurried back outside, found
a small shovel, took it back inside, and started digging him out.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Frank was able to wiggle himself up by the handles and get out. “I'm never eating popcorn again,” he told me as we climbed the ladder out of there.

“No cornflakes for me.”

“Corn muffins?”

“No way.”

“I'm with you, bro.”

We planted our feet on solid ground, and boy, did it ever feel good.

“No corn chips either.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “Glad we've got that straight. Now let's go get our bikes. We've still got a criminal to catch.”

2.
Ride Like the Wind

We peeled out of there on our motorcycles, Joe and I, leaving a cloud of dust behind us.

We raced down the farm's driveway—really more like a long dirt road—zipping past the cornfields of Pressman Acres toward the main road.

The corn really was “as high as an elephant's eye,” but Farmer Pressman, that no-good crooked slimebucket, was not going to be around to reap the benefits. That is, not if the sheriff had done his job and set up the roadblock like I told him to.

I couldn't really get a good breath till we were back on the asphalt of the main road again, tooling toward home.

About those bikes of ours. Just so you know, these are not just ordinary sport bikes. They've got
600 cc engines, huge twin caliper brakes, digital gauges, titanium-tipped exhaust pipes, twin front ram-air scoops—and that's just for starters. Add in a few nifty little trick gadgets straight out of James Bond, along with a whole lot of style—like the flaming double red Hs painted on the sides—shake well, and you've got yourself one
outstanding
ride!

I looked to my left at Joe and felt a rush of joy go through me. We'd almost been buried alive in that grain bin.

Breathing was good.

When Joe saw the flashers up ahead, he shot me a look—I could see the surprise on his face even under the visor.

I just nodded, trying not to be too much of a wise guy. But it was me, after all, who'd insisted on putting that phone call in to the sheriff—just in case we were walking into a death trap (which it turned out we were).

Joe had called me a wimp for bringing in the police. Now I was tempted to rub it in—but I controlled myself If you're intelligent, like me, you don't bait people—especially when they're muscle-bound and temperamental, like Joe, and thus likely to knock you flat on your rear.

We slowed down as we passed. Three squad cars were blocking the road, and Pressman's huge
SUV was slung sideways in front of them.

There were skid marks where he'd hit the brakes. Soon there would be burn marks on his wrists, too. Those nylon handcuffs were chafing him as he sat with his back against a tree, trying unsuccessfully to work himself free.

Joe and I didn't stop to chat. We had been working undercover on this case. It wouldn't look good for the local sheriff—or for ATAC—if the newspapers found out that a couple of high school kids were involved.

This wasn't Bayport, after all. It was western New Jersey, and I doubt if they'd ever heard of Frank and Joe Hardy, “amateur teen detectives,” around there.

It was just as well if the police took all the credit. ATAC is allergic to publicity. And as card-carrying members of ATAC—American Teens Against Crime—so are we. As we roared by the roadblock, Joe gave the sheriff a little salute. I didn't want to look like a jerk, so I saluted too. The sheriff smiled and waved.

Farmer Pressman saw the exchange, and it must have dawned on him who the guys under the visors were, because his eyes lit up like fireworks.

“Hey, you lousy kids!” he screamed.

The rest of what he said I couldn't hear. Sport
bike engines are really loud, especially when you gun them. I really didn't want to hear what he had to say, though, to tell you the truth. It wasn't going to be anything nice.

We left him to choke on our dust, and to meditate on the fact that crime doesn't pay.

I could tell Joe was laughing by the way his chest was bobbing up and down. It was funny
now
, sure—but I myself wasn't ready to start joking about it. We'd come pretty close to getting smothered.

Very uncool.

Pretty soon Joe stopped laughing. His eye was probably starting to hurt where that cow kicked it. Talk about
embarrassing
.

For the rest of the ride back to Bayport, we just concentrated on the highway and the wind in our faces.

Of course, at that point, we would have settled for a beat-up old Volvo. Anything was better than eating corn dust. It was good to be alive and on the way home.

We pulled into the driveway and parked behind Dad's old Crown Vic—the one he took with him when he retired from the police force.

It's an oldie but goodie, if you know what I mean. It's still got all the super-charged extras police
cruisers have (and some others that they don't).

Dad was leaning against the fender with his legs and arms crossed and a sarcastic expression on his face. He'd been waiting for us.

“Well, nice of you two to show up. I was beginning to worry about you. What in the world happened?”

“We were reaping what we sowed,” Joe said with a grin, shaking the last stray grains of corn out of his pants.

“Lucky you didn't meet the grim reaper,” Dad answered. I could tell he was not amused. He stood up and started walking over to us as we put our kickstands down and our visors up.

“I just got a call from Chief Collig. He says the sheriff over in West Hoagland, New Jersey, reported the capture of a major drug smuggler.”

Dad came up right between us and stopped. He crossed his arms again and continued, “This guy was a well-known local farmer, apparently. That factoid rang a bell. I remembered something about you two going off to visit a farm somewhere.”

He looked at Joe, then at me. “Do you boys have something you want to tell me?”

Joe and I couldn't help grinning at one another. “Don't worry,” I said. “We're untraceable.”

“Nice work,” Dad said, finally giving us a smile.

“Glad you're okay. Now go inside and get cleaned up. Your mom and Aunt Trudy have been waiting for you, and you look like something the cat dragged in.”

Dad really does worry about us. It's not because he doesn't think we can handle ourselves in a tight spot. He knows we can.

It's just that he knows he's responsible for
everything
.

He's the one we took after, the one who taught us everything we know—up to a point. He's the one who inspired us to become amateur detectives years ago, when we were still little kids.

But most importantly, he's the one who founded ATAC and made us its first two agents. So like I say, it's not that he doesn't trust us—it's that he hates putting kids in harm's way. Especially his sons.

“Oh, and also,” Dad added, “Trudy said something about sheets.”

Sheets?

“Ugh,” Joe said, putting a hand to his forehead. “I forgot—it's our day to help with the folding!”

Oh, right. Joe and I exchanged a quick look.

Our clothes were a mess, all ripped. I had scratches all over my arm from fending off Farmer Pressman's Dobermans. And Joe had the beginnings of a really magnificent black eye.

No way did we want to face Mom—and especially not Aunt Trudy—when we looked like we'd just been through a torture chamber.

Dad was staring at Joe's black eye now. He put a hand up to it. Joe flinched at the touch.

“What happened, son?”

Joe hesitated, so I just jumped in. “He got kicked by a cow.”

“Shut up,” Joe muttered, shooting me a look.

“A cow?”

“I … thought it would be a hoot to milk it,” Joe said with a sigh. “You know, we were just hanging around in the barn, waiting for this scuzzball to show up …”

“Well, you'd better get in there and wash up before your mother and aunt see you like that,” Dad said. “That way, you won't have to explain any of this.”

We started for the kitchen door.

“And Joe—you might want to do something about that eye. You don't want to go telling people you got in a fight with a cow and lost.”

“Dad's right,” I said. “You might want to put some makeup on it.”

Joe scowled at me. “Do I look like I would wear makeup?”

“Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug.

We went into the house through the kitchen door. There are back stairs from there that lead up to our bedrooms—and, more importantly, the bathrooms.

We tiptoed our way along and were almost around the corner to the stairs when we heard Aunt Trudy's voice booming out from the living room. “Frank! Joe! I hear you clomping around in there!”

She came into the kitchen with Playback on her shoulder.

Playback is our pet parrot, and he loves to perch on Aunt Trudy's shoulder and nibble on her earlobe. It's probably because she lets him get away with it.

Aunt Trudy doesn't have any kids of her own, and she sure doesn't spoil us, either—but I'm telling you, as far as she's concerned, that parrot can do no wrong.

The funny thing is, when we first brought Playback home she hated him. She was totally grossed out by the way he pooped all over everything.

But one thing about our Aunt Trudy—she's a tough old bird. Tougher than Playback, anyway. Before too long, she had him toilet trained! No lie. That bird would not poop anywhere but in his cage, and from that time on, he was Aunt Trudy's baby.

“Got a good lie?” Joe whispered to me.

“I'll make one up.”

“Oh, my goodness!” our mom gasped when she came into the kitchen and saw us.

“Holy mackerel!” Aunt Trudy nearly dropped the folded sheet she was holding.

Playback whistled long and low. “Aaawrk! Bad boys! Bad boys!”

“Joe! Your eye!” Mom said. “What in the world happened to you two? And no crazy made-up stories this time.”

“Well,” I began, “we kind of got caught in this grain bin … doing some research on farm safety devices …”

“Yeah!” Joe chimed in. “It's an over-the-summer school assignment!”

“Grain bin?” Aunt Trudy repeated. “Summer
assignment
? Ha! A likely story. They were probably at it again, Laura—chasing after another gang of crooks!”

“Now, Gertrude,” our mom said, putting a calming hand out. “Don't condemn the boys before you check the evidence.”

She went over to Joe and gently picked off a few grains of corn from his collar. “See? Corn. They're obviously telling the truth this time.”