Blood Relations by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

have to lose?" he said with a shrug.
    "Just a quarter," said Wes, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You do have a quarter, don't you?"
    "Sure I do," said Joe. "You want to see it in advance?"
    "Won't be necessary," Wes said. "Just so I see it afterward. You don't look overly blessed with brains, but I don't figure you're dumb enough to bet what you don't have. That would be one dumb move."
    He slapped one huge fist into his palm. As if that weren't enough, some of his friends in the crowd made the same gesture. A few of them looked as if they'd just as soon have Joe not pay.
    "Come on, man, stop trying to mess up my head and shoot the ball," said Joe, trying to keep his heart out of his throat.
    "Just so you know the rules," said Wes, taking the ball and standing with his toes touching a line painted on the concrete. "First I shoot, then you. First one to miss hands over the silver. No credit. No double-or-nothing. Understood?"
    "Understood," Joe said, and watched Wes sight briefly, then arc the ball easily through the hoop.
    "Your turn, hotshot," Wes said, sending the ball on one hard bounce to Joe as he stepped up to the line.
    Last basketball season, Joe had won the district championship for Bayport High by sinking a foul shot in the closing seconds of double-overtime, after a game where he had scored his career high. The school paper had called it the shot of his life after the game of his life.
    Right now, though, as he sighted the basket, he didn't feel as if he was going after the shot of his life. It was more like the shot for his life.
    His life, and the lives of others.
    Linda Rawley. Greg Rawley. Mike Rawley. Not to mention Dunn and Callie and, of course, Frank, if they were still alive.
    The basket looked tiny as a star in the night sky and just as far away. The basketball felt as heavy as lead. His muscles felt like water.
    "Come on, man, shoot," Wes said, his voice a rasping snarl designed to rub what was left of Joe's nerves raw. "A quarter can't mean that much to you." His voice grew even nastier. "Or can it?"
    Joe wasn't sure who shot the ball. It certainly didn't seem as if he had.
    He felt like a spectator sitting off to one side, watching a stranger shoot the ball and following the ball's flight. It seemed to arc through the air forever, rising in slow motion and then descending—right through the hoop.
    Joe started breathing again.
    "Your turn, Wes," he said, finding his voice.
    Wes shrugged contemptuously. He grabbed the ball and shot through the hoop.
    Joe's turn again. This time it was easier. Through the hoop.
    Wes. Another basket.
    Joe. He was into it now. He didn't even think of missing. Basket.
    Wes nodded appreciatively. His sneer was gone. But his confidence was still there. He grinned at Joe and said, "Not bad, but won't be good enough." He raised the ball in his hands, ready to send it through the hoop again.
    Then, just as he was getting the shot off, it happened. A bottle, flung out a window, smashed on the concrete. It sounded as loud as a stick of dynamite. Wes's shot hit the rim and bounded off at a crazy angle.
    If Joe had on a hat, he would have taken it off to Wes. The guy didn't complain. He just gave a shrug and tossed the ball to Joe.
    In another situation, Joe might have deliberately missed his next shot to be fair.
    Not now, though.
    He sighted very carefully, then shot.
    But even thinking about missing had thrown him off.
    His shot, too, hit the rim.
    It bounded straight up into the air—then dropped through the hoop.
    Wes flipped him a quarter and said, "Okay, let's go at it again."
    Joe hated to say it, but did so anyway. "Sorry. I'm quitting while I'm ahead."
    Wes gave a grimace of disgust. "You sure aren't from this neighborhood, man," he said, grinning, but his contempt was clear as he left the school yard.
    Joe would have liked to explain, but he didn't have time.
    He, too, left the school yard and headed back down the street to the pay phone. Quickly he dropped in the