Secret of the Red Arrow Read online

  “And uploading the video and sending you the link,” Joe finished.

  Neanderthal nodded. “I keep searching my room,” he said. “Every night before bed, I look for a camera. But I never find it. Lately . . .” He stopped and rubbed his temples. “Lately the videos start after I’m already asleep. I feel like they’re sneaking in . . .”

  “While you’re sleeping?” I asked. Super creepy!

  Neanderthal sighed and nodded. “I can’t believe it either,” he said. “The last couple nights, I’ve set my alarm to wake up at one in the morning, and then again at three. I figure I’ll get up and check the web, figuring that if the video’s running, I can at least find the camera.”

  I nodded. “And how’s that worked out?” I asked.

  Neanderthal and Sharelle exchanged a concerned look. “It hasn’t,” Neanderthal admitted. “I wake up in the morning and find that someone turned off the alarm.”

  A chill went down my spine. “Wow.”

  “We tried to set up our own camera the other night,” added Sharelle, “but when we tried to watch the footage, it was two hours of Neal sleeping, and then it just went black. It was like someone disabled the camera without ever being seen.”

  Joe’s mouth was hanging open. “That is . . . wow.”

  Sharelle turned to me. “We have a burglar alarm,” she said. “My parents set it every night when they lock the door, which is hours before Neal goes to bed. It monitors all the doors and windows. But lately we’ve noticed after each time, the alarm has been turned off somehow.”

  Joe shook his head and let out a low whistle. “How’re they doing it?” he asked.

  I looked around the room, then walked over to the windows, giving them a little jiggle. Everything looked really secure.

  “Is there anyone outside the family who has the code to the alarm?” I asked.

  “No way,” Sharelle scoffed. “Mom guards that code with her life. She wouldn’t even give it to either of us till we turned sixteen.”

  I nodded slowly, looking at Joe. He looked just as lost as I felt.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to gather my wits. “I’m glad you reached out to us, Sharelle, because I think we can help. Here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”

  THE ARROW

  6

  JOE

  I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT I WAS A LITTLE STUNNED when Frank started with the “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Because I had no idea what to do. Whoever was monitoring Neanderthal had reached a level of creepy I had only encountered in horror movies and bad dreams. I was no fan of the guy, but even I had trouble imagining what he could have done to deserve this.

  When Frank explained further, though, it started to make sense. Whoever was monitoring Neanderthal was good. Clearly, he—or she—knew how to break into a secure house, plant a camera, feed all the footage to the Internet, and do it all without being caught—despite Neanderthal and Sharelle both knowing that this was going on.

  It didn’t make sense to try to beat that person at their own game. As Frank explained, all we could do, for now, was try to observe the monitor.

  I yawned as Frank fired up his laptop and got on the web.

  “Really?” Frank asked, smirking. “Already? It’s ten o’clock.”

  I shook my head. “That was a stress-relief yawn,” I said. “I’m tense. Animals yawn to release tension.”

  Frank looked skeptical. “Either way, maybe I should take the first shift while you take a nap.”

  I blinked, watching the screen as Frank opened up the e-mail that Neanderthal had forwarded to us and clicked on the link. Nothing was up yet—just a big black box that said WATCH FOR COMING ATTRACTIONS!

  “I can watch with you for a while,” I said, making myself comfortable with some pillows on Frank’s bed. “So hey . . . do you think Seth Diller is involved in this?”

  Frank frowned as he stared at the screen. “That was my first thought too,” he admitted. “It just seems like too much of a coincidence. Neanderthal comes to us about this strange, video-related trouble, the same day that . . .”

  “Seth Diller gets arrested for causing trouble with his video camera,” I finished.

  Frank nodded grimly. “But it seems a little . . .” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Sophisticated?” I suggested. Seth’s movies were endlessly entertaining . . . but sophisticated they were not.

  Frank sighed. “I was going to say sinister,” he finished.

  That made me sit up. “Sinister?” I asked. “You don’t think making me commit a felony and then kidnapping me was sinister?”

  “Seth knows you,” Frank explained, and at my incredulous expression, added, “Well, a little bit. He knew you could handle what he was dishing out.”

  “And Neanderthal?” I asked. Neanderthal had never struck me as a delicate flower.

  Frank shivered. “This is just creepier. I don’t know that anyone could handle what he’s getting.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. After a few seconds I yawned again.

  Frank didn’t lift his eyes from the computer. “I don’t know. Might be torture to watch someone sleep while you’re sleepy yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m very perky.”

  Frank snorted, and then the black box on the screen suddenly filled in with the darkened image of Neanderthal’s room. Neanderthal lay in a big lump on the left side of his double bed. The comforter was pulled up to his chin, and his breathing was regular. But there was something off about him. He looked weirdly stiff.

  “He’s awake,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Frank asked.

  Well, yeah. It actually impressed me that Neanderthal was getting any sleep at all these days. I would have a really hard time forgetting that someone was about to break into my room and broadcast my sleeping form on the Web. You’d have to count a lot of sheep to fall asleep under those circumstances, I figured. I thought of my own tried-and-true trick to get myself to sleep: counting, naming, and picturing the crooks Frank and I had put away, one by one, starting from the earliest and moving on toward the most recent. There was Bruce Fishkill, the kid who’d stolen the class hamster in first grade. Nasty little kid—and I know it’s not nice to call children nasty but really, this kid was something else. When we went out for recess after it rained, he would run around stomping on all the worms who’d been flooded out of their holes. And that still doesn’t even come close to what he did to Jeannie Gilbright’s chocolate milk that one time. . . .

  “Joe. JOE!”

  I was startled awake by a swift kick from my brother.

  “Not in the milk!” I mumbled, blinking and shaking my head.

  Frank was pointing at the computer screen. “Get serious, bro. We’ve got action here.”

  I swiped the backs of my hands over my eyes and sat up, feeling dizzy. Frank was pointing at the picture of Neanderthal sleeping—and he did really seem to be sleeping now.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “I don’t see any—OH, CRAP!”

  My brother and I have seen a lot of things, and generally, I think you’ll find, we’re pretty unflappable. But sometimes you see something and the only proper human response is OH, CRAP!

  Like when you’re watching live video of one of your classmates sleeping and a figure dressed all in black, and wearing one of those rubber Halloween masks—Jay Leno, I think—suddenly pops into the bottom right corner of the image and waves at the camera.

  “What is he doing?” I asked, thinking out loud. I have a nasty habit of doing that when I’m under stress. “What is he doing there? Is he going to—OH, CRAP!”

  Another figure appeared in the bottom left corner, this one wearing a Conan O’Brien mask, and also waved. Then they both turned and started advancing toward Neanderthal.

  Frank grabbed his phone off his nightstand. “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  I didn’t argue.

  “I thought this wa
s a prank,” I said as Frank dialed 911. “It was creepy, sure, but I thought it was harmless.”

  The moment the word “harmless” left my mouth, Jay Leno grabbed Neanderthal’s sleeping form, lifted him from the pillow, and—BLAM!—punched him in the face.

  Frank’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my— Hello? Yes, I’m calling to report a break-in and assault at 83 Hillside Drive. . . .”

  There was no sound in the video, but Neanderthal was definitely awake now, and I could see him let out a scream before Conan pulled out a few inches of duct tape and stuck it over his mouth.

  Together, Jay and Conan pulled Neanderthal off the bed. He was out of frame, but I could see the two masked intruders railing back to punch him again.

  Frank was finishing up his call. “Okay. Okay, then. Thank you.”

  He clicked off his phone and looked at me. His expression was serious. “They’re sending the police.” Then he reached over to his desk and grabbed the car keys.

  “Let’s go save a football player,” he said grimly.

  • • •

  A police cruiser was already sitting in the Bunyans’ driveway when we arrived, lights flashing.

  Frank and I jumped out of the car and ran up to the front door. Through the window, we could see quite the little convention gathered in the brightly lit living room: Sharelle, her mother, two officers . . . but I didn’t see Neanderthal.

  A big, burly man with wild gray hair and a bushy mustache pulled open the door and regarded us suspiciously. “You two called the police?” he demanded, in a not-exactly-grateful tone.

  The door behind him swung open another inch, and I could see Neanderthal standing there. He was okay! He had a black eye and he looked—well—uncomfortable, but he was still standing.

  Frank nodded. “Yes, sir. Neander—Neal asked for our help with his problem, and we saw that someone had broken into his room. I called the police right away.”

  Neal’s father let out a snort and walked away. So much for gratitude, I thought.

  Actually, I realized as I scanned the room, nobody looked exactly happy to see us. Least of all Officer Olaf, who was standing next to his new partner—a rookie—and frowning at us.

  “Neal here seems to think you overreacted,” Officer Olaf said, tapping the tip of his pen against his notebook. “He says what you witnessed was some sort of football team prank. Right, Neal?”

  We turned to face Neal, who was wearing a fleecy blue robe with flannel pants and looked supremely uncomfortable. “That’s right,” he said, but he wasn’t quite meeting my eyes—or Frank’s. He was looking past us, at the wall behind our heads. He made a face and shrugged. “It was a joke. You know, no big deal. The guys took off when they heard the police. They were really freaked.”

  Frank looked at Officer Olaf. “And you didn’t chase them?”

  Olaf glared at him. “Your friend here seems to think no crime was committed,” he says. “The window was open. His friends snuck in to play a prank.”

  Instinctively, I turned to Sharelle. She was looking at her big brother, concerned, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes either (or Frank’s). I glanced at my brother, who looked just as confused as I felt. What was going on here?

  Frank cleared his throat. “Well, gosh, we’re sorry to waste everyone’s time,” he said, staring daggers at Neanderthal. “We sure could’ve sworn we witnessed a violent assault on Neal that was broadcast over the Internet. But maybe we were misinterpreting.”

  Neanderthal still wouldn’t look at Frank. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at the carpet.

  I had an idea. “Hey, Neal, I think I left my phone in your room when we were here earlier,” I said. “You wouldn’t mind taking us back there so I can grab it? Maybe you can explain what happened, too.”

  Officer Olaf sighed deeply and shoved his notebook at his rookie partner. “Gosh!” he said, clearly mocking us. “Oh, golly gee! We’re the Hardy Boys, and we sure are sorry to waste the taxpayers’ time and money.” He stomped toward us and paused to glare at my brother, then me. “Typical,” he muttered, shaking his head. “When are you two going to learn to mind your own business?”

  He stomped past us, out the door. His rookie partner looked befuddled, then smiled nervously at everyone and followed him. “Um, good night. Sorry to barge in on you all.”

  Neanderthal nodded at Frank and started walking down the hall toward his room. We both followed. Behind us, Neanderthal’s parents looked at each other, shrugged, and started turning off the lights.

  Once we were back in Neanderthal’s room, I closed the door behind us. “You want to explain to us what the heck just happened?”

  Neanderthal sighed. He moved around his bed, picking a pair of socks up off his floor and throwing them into his hamper. “I’m sorry you guys misunderstood,” he said quietly.

  “Misunderstood?” said Frank. He stepped forward. “Neal, come on. We agreed to help you, and you just made fools of us.” He paused and looked around the room. “Where’s the camera? Or did they take it back?”

  Neanderthal didn’t answer. He was rubbing his shoulder thoughtfully. His eyes kept going to this one spot on the floor.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked. He wasn’t obviously bleeding or anything, but Jay and Conan might have done all kinds of damage before the police showed up.

  Neal shook his head. “I told you,” he said. “It was just a joke. No big deal.”

  I could tell that my normally coolheaded brother was starting to get frustrated. “Was this some kind of warped revenge thing?” he asked, moving closer. “Is that it? Because—”

  Suddenly Frank reached out and yanked down the sleeve of Neanderthal’s robe. Neanderthal jumped and grabbed at the sleeve, but not before we saw his shoulder and the top of his arm—which were covered in bruises.

  “Neal!” I cried, moving closer. “That doesn’t look like my idea of a joke.”

  Neanderthal backed away, yanking his robe back on and crossing his arms. “You guys, come on. I think you should leave.”

  “Not before you explain what’s going on,” Frank insisted. He lowered his voice. “Why are you lying?” he asked. “What really happened tonight? You can tell us.”

  Neanderthal didn’t respond, just stared at the floor and shook his head. After a few seconds of silence—during which we didn’t leave—he finally raised his eyes to meet Frank’s.

  They were full of fear.

  “Please,” he said finally, in a low voice. “If you know what’s good for you—or me—you will forget that Sharelle ever asked you here. It was a misunderstanding, okay? I don’t need your help.”

  Frank frowned, then turned to me. I shook my head, mystified. What could it take to scare Neanderthal Bunyan—one of the biggest meatheads in school—this badly?

  “Okay,” I said after a minute or so. “We’ll take your word for it, Neal. If you want us to leave, we’ll leave.”

  I looked at Frank and raised my eyebrows, like, Shall we? Personally, I was done trying to make nice with Neanderthal. Obviously, something was going on with him. But if he didn’t want to tell us about it, so be it.

  Frank hesitated before nodding. Before he moved, though, he turned back to Neanderthal and lowered his voice. “If you ever want to tell us what’s really going on,” he said, “we’re here.”

  Clearly, Frank has more patience than I do. I was already fantasizing about my nice warm bed and the four or so hours of sleep I could still get if we hightailed it home. But when we turned to walk out the door, something jumped out at me.

  It was right over Neal’s bedroom door—just above the center of the door frame.

  A tiny red triangle with what looked like little legs coming out of it. Painted on, like with a stencil.

  It definitely hadn’t been there when Frank and I had come by earlier.

  In fact, it was shiny. Was the paint still wet?

  I pointed. “Neal—what the heck is that?”

  Neal’s reaction was brief but
intense. His face turned scarlet and his eyes widened like a ghost had appeared behind us. But then he looked down at the floor and shook his head, and when he faced us again, he looked totally nonchalant.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “That red thing? Just something stupid Sharelle and I painted up there when I was little.”

  Frank stared at the symbol. “I could swear that wasn’t there be—”

  But Neal kept talking, drowning him out. “We were into Native Americans. Arrowheads. You know.”

  He walked around his bed toward us, then opened the door and raised his voice. “Well, bye now. You two sleep well.”

  My brother and I regarded each other warily. Neanderthal’s parents could clearly hear us now. No way he was going to reveal anything else.

  “Okay,” I said, strolling through the door. “Well, good night.”

  Frank didn’t look terribly eager to leave, but it was clear he got the message too. We walked down the hallway to the living room and the front door. As we were about to leave, a figure jumped up off the couch in the darkened room, startling us.

  Sharelle.

  She walked over, not quite meeting our eyes. “Good night, guys,” she said, and then, lowering her voice so only we could hear her, “Sorry.”

  Frank leaned closer and lowered his voice to match hers. “I don’t suppose you want to tell us what’s really going on?” he whispered.

  Sharelle looked up at him. Her eyes were full of regret. “See you around,” she said, in her normal tone.

  I sighed. “Right,” I said, walking through the door behind my brother and closing it behind us. “See you around.”

  PANIC PROJECT

  7

  FRANK

  I DON’T KNOW ABOUT JOE, BUT I DIDN’T GET much sleep when we finally got home from our aborted attempt to save Neanderthal Bunyan’s life. Something about the way he’d looked at me—If you know what’s good for you, or me—with his eyes full of fear. It was an emotion I normally didn’t associate with football players. It just creeped me out.