Poisoned!

Frank watched in horror as Buff struggled to rise to his Halfway up, Buff jerked in agony and fell to the hardwood court again.

Dashing to his friend’s aid, Frank didn’t even notice the pain in his ankle. “Stay down,” he cautioned the muscular boy. Frank dropped to his knees and eased Buff back to the floor as Chet Morton and Coach Moran hustled toward them.

What happened?” Coach Moran asked.

I don’t know,” Frank said. “He just keeled

13ff groaned. “My stomach . . . hurts so He twisted in pain again.

Coach Moran looked shocked. “Chet, take him to the hospital. And hurry!”

Chet nodded and helped Buff to his feet. The crowd buzzed with curiosity, then groaned in disbelief when they saw the big center stagger off the court, leaning against Chet.

What a time for this to happen, Frank thought. Buff had never played a better game! Frank scooped up Buff’s water bottle and sniffed it suspiciously. It had a bitter, acrid smell. He stuck the bottle inside his gym bag.

Coach Moran tapped Drew Becker, a gangly sophomore, to go in for Buff. Becker gulped nervously, then stripped off his warmup suit and joined his team on the floor. The ref’s whistle blew and the game resumed.

Frank dunked three balls and intercepted two passes. He felt that his team was on a roll and that victory was a definite possibility. But near the end of the third quarter, Frank’s worst nightmare came true. Berman got hot.

Really hot.

Everything he threw went in. Frank and the Bombers could do nothing to stop him. And with every shot Berman made, Franks ankle hurt a little more.

With seconds left in the game, Frank glanced up at the clock and could see that the Bombers were still clinging to a one-point lead. But the Ocean City Slickers had the ball. If the Bombers didn’t stop them now, they’d lose the game.

Berman took the inbound pass, weaving his way Through the Bombers defense as if it weren’t there, h dashed over to block Berman’s path. He traced himself, ready to deflect Berman’s shot. But Berman spun around Frank, and before he could re the Slicker’s captain was airborne. Frank tried to jump up with him, to block his shot, but his ankle wouldn’t cooperate.

Berman dunked the ball as the buzzer sounded the end of the game.

The crowd stood in stunned silence.

Berman’s teammates ran over to him and gave him high-fives, whooping it up, leaping into the air and one another’s arms, shouting their defiance to lit hometown Bayport fans, who had begun to file quietly out of the gymnasium.

Frank sat on the floor, exhausted, dazed, unable to believe what had happened.

they had been so close.

Joe was still fuming as he and Frank walked through the parking lot after the game. “We should have had the championship all wrapped up by now,” Joe complained. “I can’t believe I let Berman get me thrown out—hey!” Joe stopped in his tracks. “Isn’t that Todd Coates over by our van?”

Frank followed his brother’s gaze. “It sure looks like him.”

‘I wonder what he’s up to,” Joe said, picking up his speed.

When Todd spotted the Hardys, he whirled from the van and began to run away. Frank saw some thing twinkle as it fell from the boy and under the vehicle. Then Frank gave chase. Sprinting across the lot, he suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his ankle. He cried out in pain and stopped abruptly. Joe slowed down to see if Frank was okay.

Frank sighed and limped back to the van.

“How’s the ankle?” Joe asked.

“It needs to rest, that’s all,” Frank said.

“Hey, Todd, wait up!” Joe yelled. But Todd Coates was already out of sight.

“It looked as though Todd was fooling around with this door,” Joe said when he reached the van. The brothers examined the outside of the dark blue van. Nothing seemed out of place.

“We can always talk to Todd later,” Frank said. “Let’s get to the hospital to see how Buff is doing.” He patted his gym bag. “And I want to get his power drink analyzed.”

Ten minutes later the Hardys dropped off Bill’s water bottle at the Bayport General Hospital lab to be analyzed. At the front desk, they asked for Bill’s room number, then hurried to his bedside. They found him sitting up but connected to a tangle of tubes.

“You okay, Bill?” Frank asked.

“I think so. They had to pump my stomach,” Buff answered in a weak voice. “I’m a little dehydrated right now, but I guess I’ll survive. So, who won the game?”

“Good news first. You were voted MYP. of the game,” Joe said.

‘The bad news is that we lost,” Frank added.

Buff groaned. “Berman finally busted loose?”

Joe nodded.

“I feel like I let the team down,” Buff rasped in a barely audible voice. “I don’t know what happened out there. One moment I was feeling fine. The next—”

‘The next moment you were poisoned,” Joe said.

“Huh?”

“We think someone spiked your drink,” Frank explained.

Buff gaped at the Hardys in disbelief.

‘We’ll know for sure after the lab finishes its analysis,” Joe said.

“Poisoned?” Buff shook his head in disbelief. “Why would someone poison me?”

“The why is simple. Someone didn’t want us to win that game,” Frank said. “The real question is who.”

“A lot of people didn’t want us to win that game,” Buff said. “Like the entire population of Ocean City. But this is carrying team spirit a little too far,”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Joe said. He told about Frank getting pushed down the hill and the threats they’d received.

“So you feel the person who pushed Frank is the same one who made the phone call telling you to

lose the game, and the same one who threw that basketball into your kitchen?” Biff asked.

Frank nodded. “We found some boot prints be hind the rec center. I think they belong to the person who pushed me. The same prints were outside our house after the slam dunk through our window.”

“I can’t believe someone’s taking this champion ship so seriously,” Buff said. “Someone we play against is actually trying to kill us.”

“Not kill us,” Joe corrected him. “He just wants to make us lose.”

“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll find out who’s behind this. And the Bombers can still win the championship.”

“But we just lost our last game—by a lousy point.” Buff gave the Hardys a puzzled look.

“We’re tied in the standings,” Frank explained. “And the tiebreaker is the point difference between our teams. Whoever scored the most total points in the two games we played together is the conference champ.”

A wide grin crept across Buff’s face. “Now I get it. Ocean City beat us by only one point today. And we beat them by only one point last time, so we’re still dead even.” He looked at Frank and Joe. “So now what happens?”

“According to the conference officials at the game, this is the first time it’s ever happened,” Frank said. “The High School Athletic Association

had to make a quick decision this afternoon. There’ll be another game tomorrow. We have one more chance for the championship.”

Buff mustered up enough strength to give the Hardys each a feeble but heartfelt high-five.

“So hurry up and get better,” Joe said. “We’re going to need you.”

“You know something?” Buff mumbled, “I’m starting to feel better already.” Then he shook his head sadly. “But I still can’t believe someone would poison me over a game. Have you got any idea who it might have been?”

“Glen Revelle was sitting right behind our bench for the whole game,” Joe reminded Frank. “But why would a Rockets player care at this point if we win or lose?”

“Beats me,” Frank said. “Todd Coates was sitting here, too. I talked to Jamal after the game. He’d been sitting near the two of them. But he went out to the refreshment stand at half-time for a chili cheese dog and bumped into a guy he knew at School.”

“So he was gone the entire half-time,” Joe said, “And that’s when Revelle could have done it.”

“Anyone could have done it at half-time,” Frank told his brother.

“So where does that leave US?” Joe asked.

“Right back at square one,” Frank said, ponder lug the situation. “Buff? Did you see anyone messing around with your water bottle? Buff?”

But Buff had drifted off to sleep.

The brothers tiptoed out of the hospital room, then stopped by the lab to get the results of the analysis. A few minutes later, they were driving out of the hospital parking lot.

“So we know that someone definitely poisoned Buff,” Frank said. “The lab said there was enough rat poison to make him sick, but not to do any permanent damage.”

Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “At least now we know Buff will be fine by tomorrow. We need him if we hope to win.”

Frank frowned. “That’s what worries me,” he said. “Whoever is sabotaging the Bombers may know that, too, and try something else—”

A piercing sound interrupted Frank’s words. Frank saw a Bayport police cruiser in the rearview mirror. It was blasting its siren right behind their van.

“Pull over, Frank,” Joe said, “It looks like they’re in a hurry.”

Frank pulled over to let the other vehicle go by, assuming the police car was on the way to a crime scene. But the cruiser didn’t rush past them. Sirens wailing and lights strobing, the patrol car cut them off.

“What now?” Joe said. “I didn’t think we were speeding.”

Seconds later a police officer jumped out of the

cruiser. With one hand on his gun, he approached the Hardys.

“Mind if I take a look in the back of the van?” the officer growled, his face grim as he looked in the driver’s-side window.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“An anonymous tip,” the officer said.

“About what?” Joe asked.

The officer scowled. “Let me take a look in the back of your van, and I’ll tell you. Or do you have something to hide?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Joe challenged, “No,” the officer said. “But I can get one—after I take you in for questioning. There might be a bit of a wait, and our holding cells aren’t what you’d call homey.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Frank said, ‘We don’t have anything to hide, sir. But something tells me you’re going to find something back there anyway.”

‘One way to find out.”

‘Be our guest,” Joe said.

The officer opened the back of the van and shone a flashlight around. A few moments later, he said to his partner, “Found it, just the way our informant paid.”

Frank turned in his seat to see an open envelope spotlighted in the beam of the officer’s flashlight. Several stiff cardboard rectangles spilled out of the

envelope. They were about the size of a baseball card but appeared to be blank. But Frank noticed there was a strip of videotape attached to one side.

“What are those?” Joe asked.

“As if you don’t know,” the police officer said in a scornful voice. “They appear to be phony A’L’M cards. And they’re the reason why you two are under arrest.”