Secret of the Red Arrow Read online

  Principal Gorse sighed. “Sometimes, boys,” he said, “I think the world is changing too fast for me. Can either of you explain the appeal of that movie to me? Watching people get scared out of their minds for no real purpose?” He shook his head and shrugged.

  “I think it’s about shock, sir,” I said. “In this day and age we’ve been desensitized to trauma, crime, horrific happenings. It takes more and more to shock your audience. Look at movies like Saw or Hostel—they go much further than the classic Hitchcockian horror of the past.”

  Principal Gorse nodded, looking bemused.

  “So the natural next step,” I went on, “the final frontier, if you will, is real emotion. Instead of trying to shock his audience, Seth is allowing them to share in the real shock of his unknowing participants.”

  Principal Gorse blinked. He was a nice guy, really; dressed like he always was, in a slouchy cardigan sweater, along with his usual corduroy pants and brown shoes. He had a kindly face with sort of messy brown hair and glasses. He looked like—well, like a kind of hippieish high school principal. A youngish man, maybe only forty years old, except that he also walked with a fancy hand-carved cane, which was the result of a bad skiing accident five years earlier.

  You would probably have been able to pick out Mr. Gorse’s car in the teachers’ parking lot just by looking at him: It was an orange 1970s Karmann Ghia. Pure beatnik. Even its engine—it made a singular put-put-put sound—reminded you of him, so that wherever you were in Bayport, if he was passing anywhere within earshot, you were aware of him through that unique put-put-put. There goes Mr. Gorse, you would say to yourself.

  We considered Mr. Gorse a friend—he’d been my band teacher in middle school. I knew he liked us. He’d been really nice to Frank and me when the Deal was being negotiated. Now he tilted his head, giving us both a concerned look.

  “How are things going, Hardy Boys?” he asked. “I understand the legal problems you boys have had this past year. As a matter of fact, I received a note from the state board of education about you both.”

  Joe and I shifted uncomfortably in our chairs.

  Mr. Gorse opened the letter and started reading. “Apparently, I’m to understand that—as part of a plea agreement with the state attorney general—you are both subject to ‘instant recourse.’ ” He looked up at us. “I guess that’s a little bit like probation.” He continued reading. “Which, if you are found to engage in any kind of ‘independent amateur law-enforcement-type activities,’ will result in the pair of you being sent to”—here he brought the letter close to his eyes—“the J’Adoube School for Behavior Modification Therapy on Rock Island.”

  He wasn’t telling us anything we didn’t know. But it was not pleasant to hear it spoken out loud. “Are you meeting regularly with your legal adviser?” he asked.

  Joe and I nodded. Our lawyer was Uncle Ben—Ben Hardy, our dad’s brother—a Hartford tax attorney who had been given the thankless job of dealing with all the legal problems we’d accrued in the past year.

  “Good. Well, what I wanted to say to you was that all this stuff . . .” He waved at the letter. “It doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned. The world needs fighters, boys. People with the courage to stand up for what’s right. But you can’t accomplish your goals if you’re locked up in juvenile hall or if your transcripts show half a dozen suspensions. Am I right?”

  We nodded.

  “Just remember, I’m in your corner. And my door is open, day and night.”

  Just then, his door actually opened.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” a woman said. It was Yukiko Collins, one of the school’s art teachers.

  Mr. Gorse brightened. It was rumored that he and Ms. Collins were dating. Nobody wanted to pry, on account of Mr. Gorse being a widower. (His wife had died in the skiing accident that had broken his leg.) But Joe and I liked the idea of Mr. G and Ms. C being an item, because they were our two favorite people at Bayport High.

  “That’s all right, Ms. Collins,” Mr. Gorse said, rising to his feet, a smile on his face. “We were finished here.”

  As we passed outside, Ms. Collins smiled. She always wore crazy, mismatched clothing with horizontal stripes, and men’s hats, and today was no exception.

  Everybody loved Ms. Collins. She was one of those teachers who had the knack for always making you feel enthused and entertained. Joe and I had our own reasons for loving her: She had written the recommendation letter that kept us from being sent to the reform school Mr. Gorse had mentioned: J’Adoube—a really notorious place on a tiny, isolated island twenty miles out to sea. All kinds of rumors existed about the place. Rumors about strange “behavior modification therapies” with names like “Swarm” and “Funhouse Mirror.” It was also rumored that several kids died each year trying to escape.

  Today Ms. Collins seemed troubled. “I hope you boys are careful about talking on your cell phones,” she said.

  Smiling at this haphazard warning, I said, “You don’t believe that stuff about their causing brain cancer, do you, Ms. Collins?”

  “No, but I think mine’s been hacked or something. . . .”

  That sounded odd. I wanted to ask her more about it. But Mr. Gorse invited her in. She said good-bye to us with that same uneasy air, and the door shut behind them.

  In the lobby, Principal Gorse’s secretary, Connie, smiled and held up two green late passes. “How’s Trudy, boys?”

  Connie knew Aunt Trudy from their gardening club. Together, they’d helped make an untended plot in back of the school into an overflowing vegetable garden. The cafeteria even used the fresh veggies in its daily special. (Not that you could tell, really. If only Aunt Trudy would teach some cooking classes down there!)

  “She’s good,” Frank said with a smile. “We’ll tell her you say hi.”

  Connie nodded. “I’d appreciate that. Have a good day, boys.”

  • • •

  I’m not sure Connie needed to bother with the late passes. Frank and I both had study hall in the cafeteria next with Coach Gerther, who barely glanced at the passes before grabbing them out of our hands and gesturing vaguely at the rows of tables. “Take a seat.”

  Coach Gerther was rumored to have lost 80 percent of his hearing in the Vietnam War, which made him the perfect teacher for study hall. The din regularly reached rock-concert levels. It was literally impossible to get any work done in there, unless your “work” involved studying the effects of loud noises on hearing over time. Frank and I settled at a table in the back, and Frank pulled out a notebook.

  “So . . .,” he began. “About the speech . . .”

  “Yo—Hardy boys!”

  I looked up to see Sharelle Bunyan standing over us. Well, looming over us was more like it. She was the queen of pep. Although she was an old friend of mine from junior high, we’d drifted apart in high school. She was very popular (not that we were unpopular—but she was definitely in the alpha group).

  It was actually nice to see her. She had the same red curly hair she’d had as a kid, only now she wore her cheerleader uniform, with the Bayport High colors of green and gold and the school mascot—Bill the Bulldog—pictured snarling on the front.

  “Hey, Sharelle. Long time no see. What’s up?”

  “I was hoping,” she said, “that you guys would be able to volunteer for the blood drive.” She sat down next to us. As she did, she accidentally dropped a clipboard she was carrying. It clattered to the floor. “Shoot!” She picked it up and dusted it off, then held it out under our noses. Apparently, we had no choice but to sign up. “Ball of energy” is how people used to describe her in junior high. I saw that the description was still applicable.

  “Um, sure, Sharelle.”

  “Yeah, we’re always happy to bleed for a good cause.”

  We were starting to add our names to the list when she spoke to us under her breath. As she did, her whole demeanor changed. She sounded panicky.

  “Look, guys—I need your help,” she w
hispered. Something about her mood was contagious. We lowered our voices to match hers and kept our heads down.

  “What kind of help?” Frank asked.

  “You know . . . with a mystery.”

  A mystery. There it was. You have no idea how a reputation as a teenage detective can complicate your life. Frank started to answer, but I gave him a nudge. He picked up on my wariness and stayed silent. The truth was, although it sounded harmless and kind of fun, this wasn’t an innocent topic for us anymore. There were serious consequences for us involved with anything remotely connected to sleuthing. Consequences that Frank and I didn’t talk about, because . . . well, we didn’t like to think about them. Not that they would stop us. But we still had to be more careful now than we used to be.

  “Why ask us?” I said cautiously.

  “Oh, come on,” Sharelle said. “Don’t give me that. Everybody knows you guys are, like, Sherlock Squared. You’re both packing heat, right?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Sharelle.”

  “Well, anyway—I need help. Or . . . well, Neal needs help.” She was the only person in school who did not refer to her older brother as Neanderthal Bunyan—yes, the same charming fellow who’d introduced Frank to his impending Internet fame this morning. He was also the star linebacker of the BHS football team.

  “Is he all right? Did something happen to him?”

  “Yes. He’s . . . fine, more or less. Physically at least. But . . .”

  She glanced around the hall. Clearly, she was uneasy discussing this out in the open. “Look, I’m going to ask for a bathroom pass. Can you guys follow me, and we can talk about it out by the vending machines?” It would be quieter there. Apparently, the blood drive had been a cover story to make contact with us.

  She got up to lead us out of the cafeteria. I was cautious but curious. I started to follow her, but Frank said, “We’ll meet you there in five.”

  Sharelle seemed puzzled. She looked like she wanted to say something, but instead she just nodded and walked off.

  Frank watched her go up to Coach Gerther, get her pass, and head out the door. Then he turned to me, his expression dark. “Neanderthal Bunyan—asking us for help,” he said. “That doesn’t seem odd to you?”

  The truth was, it did.

  It was six or seven months ago—before we had to retire. Joe and I had tracked down a drug ring. What we didn’t know or anticipate was the series of busts around town that would follow—the consequences of our investigation, including the arrest of the former star linebacker for the Bayport High School football team, Neal “Neanderthal” Bunyan, all-state three years running, who had apparently been abusing steroids.

  Neanderthal Bunyan had good reason to enjoy seeing Frank and me humiliated. Would he even accept our help?

  “Let’s just be careful,” Frank suggested.

  It might be a challenge, in some classes, for two brothers to get bathroom passes for simultaneous bathroom trips. But fortunately, Coach Gerther had stopped caring a long time ago, possibly before we were born. He grabbed two passes from a big coffee can he kept on his desk and waved us away.

  We found Sharelle waiting where she said she’d be, by the vending machines. Frank and I took a seat on either side of her.

  “So what’s going on with Neanderthal?” I said.

  “Okay,” she said in an excited whisper. “This, like, totally insane thing has been happening. . . .”

  MONITORED

  5

  FRANK

  I’M NOT SURE WHO WAS THE LEAST COMFORT-able when Sharelle led Joe and me into Neanderthal Bunyan’s bedroom that afternoon. Neanderthal was lying back on his bed, all his attention focused on the football-themed video game he was playing on the TV that hung on the wall.

  “Get out, Sharelle,” he said without looking up, but when three people walked in, and not one, he sighed, hit a pause button, and looked up.

  “Oh,” he said, looking startled and not pleased. “It’s—”

  “You need help, Neal,” Sharelle said in a bossy voice. I had a sudden premonition of what it might feel like to have Sharelle as a sister, and a chill ran down my spine. “I asked these guys to come over because I knew you never would.”

  Neanderthal didn’t say anything. He was staring from me to Joe with a curled lip, like he smelled something horrible. “I don’t need any help from these two,” he said, and picked up the game controller again. He unpaused the game and turned his attention back to the screen. “You can show yourselves out,” he finished.

  Fair enough. I touched Joe’s arm and started heading for the door. We weren’t supposed to be doing any investigation right now . . . so why waste time trying to convince a guy who didn’t even want our help? But Joe seemed to hesitate, looking to Sharelle. Suddenly she jumped forward, grabbing the controller from her brother’s hand.

  “HEY!” Neanderthal yelled.

  “HEY YOURSELF!” she shouted back, matching him on volume. She gestured to me and Joe. “I asked these guys to come over today because even though you don’t have the best history, they’re the only ones who can help you,” Sharelle finished.

  Neanderthal pursed his lips. Clearly, he didn’t like the direction of this conversation. But I could tell that Sharelle’s words were making a dent. He let out a groan and looked down at his New York Giants comforter. Then he crossed his arms and settled back against the head of his bed, still scowling, still not looking at us.

  “Do you want to tell them what happened?” Sharelle asked, moving closer to the bed.

  Neanderthal shook his head. “You tell them,” he muttered.

  Sharelle turned back to face Joe and me. “Okay,” she said. “About a week ago, Neal started getting some very weird e-mails.”

  I nodded slowly. “Weirder than the e-mail this morning with the link to the movie trailer?”

  Neanderthal gave me a contemptuous look. “Dude, way weirder than that,” he said. “What do I care about you guys getting robbed in some bank? No, this was . . .” He trailed off, staring off into the distance, fear invading his expression.

  Not sure how to proceed, I looked to Sharelle. “This was?” I prompted.

  Sharelle looked at Neanderthal, as though waiting to see whether he could pull himself together and finish the story. When he didn’t move for a few seconds, she sighed and turned back to us. “This was really creepy,” she said. “The address was one he didn’t recognize, and the e-mail itself was just a link. No signature, no message.”

  I looked at Joe. This was sounding familiar. “Okay . . . and?”

  Sharelle paused and looked at her brother. “Tell them, Neal.”

  We both turned to face Neal. He was staring at the black television screen, and as we watched, he seemed to shake himself off and looked down at his comforter. “The link went to a video,” he said, then swallowed. “The video was . . . it was of me sleeping,” he said quickly, then shook his head again.

  I looked at Joe. He looked just as confused as I felt. “Sleeping?” he asked. “As in . . .”

  “As in right here, in this bed,” Neanderthal said, patting the mattress beneath him. “I don’t know when it was taken. Or how. Or by who. But whoever made it . . .” His voice wavered. “They were watching me all night.”

  I met Joe’s eyes. “Wow. That’s really . . .”

  “Creepy,” Joe finished. He shivered a little. “Man, I think I have the willies now.”

  Neanderthal looked a little relieved. “Yeah?” he asked. “It’s freaking me out too. I just don’t know who would want to watch me sleep—or why.”

  “That’s not all,” Sharelle added.

  “It’s not?” I asked.

  Neanderthal was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “The really creepy thing is, it’s happened more than once. I’ve gotten three videos e-mailed to me over the last five days.”

  I frowned. “So whoever’s watching you sleep—they might be doing it a lot.”

  Neanderthal nodded. “And i
t looks like—I mean, this really creeps me out, but it looks like you can watch the video feed live on the web. They e-mail me links to the recordings, but there’s also a link to watch the live video.” He paused. “I just don’t get it,” he said finally. “I don’t know who would want me monitored. I don’t think I have any enemies—I mean, besides you guys.”

  Touché. I looked at Joe.

  “Can we see them?” he asked.

  Neanderthal looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded. “Yeah, let me just fire up my computer.”

  While he walked over to the desk on the left side of the room and opened up a blue laptop, I took a quick scan of the room, looking for anything suspicious and cameralike. Nothing stood out, though. Neanderthal had a surprisingly minimalist decorating style. Whoever had hidden a camera in here must have really tried hard.

  After a minute or so, Neanderthal called us over to his computer. He had a web browser open to his e-mail. “Here it is.”

  He clicked on a message from [email protected]. There was no subject, and when the message opened, it contained only a link.

  Neanderthal clicked on the link, and a grainy black-and-white video started up.

  It took me a minute to figure out what all the shapes were in the dim light, but then I could make out Neanderthal, in his bed, tossing and turning, then lying still.

  The video was silent apart from the sound of Neanderthal breathing and the occasional creak of the springs in his mattress.

  “Whoa,” muttered Joe.

  “Have you looked for a camera?” I asked. I turned in the direction the video was shot from; it looked like the camera had been on Neanderthal’s shelf of sports trophies.

  “That’s the really creepy thing,” Neanderthal said, clicking back to the web browser and opening up another e-mail. He clicked on that link, and another grainy black-and-white video started up, this one shot from a totally different direction. It looked like this camera had been posted just above his door. What the . . .?

  “Every time I get a video, I look for the camera,” Neanderthal explained, “but I never find anything. Not even anything they might have hidden the camera inside. It’s like each time they film me, they’re sneaking in a camera, then coming back in, taking it out, and . . .”