Secret of the Red Arrow Read online

  But now I didn’t even think it was worth arguing. I’d never seen the professor so spooked.

  “Okay,” said Frank. He dug a few of Aunt Trudy’s famous homemade health bars—these were cranberry with cashews and sesame seeds—out of a pocket in his backpack and handed them through the divider. The prof never let us pay him for the ride. But we liked to give him something for his time and trouble.

  Now he hesitated, looking at the bars, then out the window. Frank pushed them forward again, as if to say, Take them.

  “Please,” Frank said. “I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”

  Professor Al-Hejin slowly took the bars, then caught Frank’s eye in the mirror and nodded.

  “Bye, Prof,” I said, opening my door and scooting out.

  The professor nodded again and bit into one of the health bars. As soon as Frank got out and shut the door behind him, the cab pulled off.

  “I guess we’re walking back to the station,” I said, watching the cab disappear.

  “I guess so,” said Frank. “Good thing we’re only a mile or two away.”

  I nodded. Slowly we made our way out of the gas station and started walking down the street in the direction of downtown.

  “So what do you think?” I asked after a few minutes. We’d both been silent, lost in our own thoughts.

  “I think,” Frank said, looking serious, “that whatever this is, it’s a lot bigger and more dangerous than what happened to Neanderthal.”

  THE DARK SIDE

  9

  FRANK

  MY BROTHER AND I HAVE ALWAYS HAD kind of a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy with our father about investigation, or at least we did up until the Deal went into effect. We never told him about cases we were investigating, nor did we ask for his help or advice based on his years of experience as one of the area’s top detectives. In return, he never grilled us about how, exactly, we were spending all our free time, or whether we were breaking any laws to do whatever it was we were doing.

  As Joe and I returned from our Cab Ride to Nowhere, however, we were both feeling like it might be time to get some advice from Dad. He was nothing if not plugged into the town of Bayport. If this triangle with legs really was as sinister as the professor had implied to us, surely Fenton Hardy had run across it at some point during his career.

  When we got home, my mom was in the kitchen, frowning at some photos of a house she was getting ready to show. “No, no, no!” she was saying, circling things in the photo with a black Sharpie. “Not enough lighting! Too much clutter! People, get your shoes into a closet!”

  “Got a tough one on your hands, Mom?” Joe asked gently. We Hardys all seem to be Serious about Something. Dad is Serious about the Law. Aunt Trudy is Serious about Food. Joe and I are Serious about Justice. And Mom is Serious about Real Estate.

  Mom looked up with a smile. “Boys!” she said. “How have you been? Is your friend feeling better today?”

  We’d told our parents that we left in the middle of the night to check on a classmate who’d been in a car accident and was rushed to the hospital. Broken leg, concussion, nothing serious.

  “Yeah, great,” Joe said. “Already hobbling around on crutches. Hey, Mom, is Dad around?”

  Mom gestured to his study. “In his study with the door closed,” she replied. “He’s been in there all day. Says he’s wrestling with a chapter on the Articles of Confederation. It’s fighting back, I’m afraid.”

  Great. So Dad would be in a terrific mood. “Thanks, Mom.” I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and Joe and I walked over to Dad’s study and knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” Dad’s tone was smack in the middle between Leave me alone and Oh please, please, come in here and distract me from this horrible mess.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, pushing open the door and walking in with Joe behind me. Dad was sitting behind his desk, his shirt rumpled, his hair looking like he’d recently been trying to tear it out. (He doesn’t have much, either, so that’s just an indication of how tough this chapter must have been.)

  “Boys,” he said, sighing and leaning back in his chair. “Oh, why did I decide to make my career in writing? What demons were possessing me?”

  Joe and I were silent. Actually, our dad had left his long career as a detective and taken up writing as part of the Deal. So arguably, the demons in question were Joe and me.

  Which didn’t exactly make us feel great.

  “Dad,” I said, deciding to get to the point, “I think Joe and I need to ask you something.”

  Dad looked at me, suddenly serious. I don’t think we’d come in to “ask him something” in a long time . . . probably not since the legal troubles we’d had leading up to the Deal. He sat up straight in his chair, pushing his mouse and keyboard away.

  “Sounds serious,” he said. “What is it, boys?”

  I looked at Joe and nodded. Slowly, he pulled out the napkin he’d sketched the triangle-with-legs symbol on and unfolded it, then pushed it to my father’s side of the desk. Dad looked down at it, recognition dawning on his face and then, just as quickly, fear.

  “Where did you boys get this?” he demanded in a tight voice.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. “We saw it painted on the wall at a friend’s house.”

  Dad took in a breath, and relief seemed to wash over his face. He grabbed the napkin, balled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket under his desk. “Then this is not something to concern yourselves with.”

  I looked at Joe. What?

  “What if we think it’s . . . um . . . causing problems for a friend?” Joe asked.

  “Who is this friend?” Dad asked, turning his Detective Laser Gaze on my brother. “What has he—or she—gotten himself involved in?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked, and then instantly regretted it when the Laser Gaze was pointed at me. I cleared my throat and then continued, more gently, “Is this symbol . . . is it a punishment of some kind? Does it mean someone’s marked you?”

  Dad sat back in his chair and sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up more. “Every town has its dark side,” he said, looking up at the ceiling and then back at us. “Why are you asking? What’s going on with you boys? You’re not investigating again, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Joe said quickly, reflexively.

  I shook my head. “We understand the Deal,” I said, not meeting Dad’s eye.

  “It’s just . . .” Joe sat forward in his chair, beseeching Dad. “This friend of ours. Bad things are happening to him, and he doesn’t know why. Is it because of this mark?”

  Dad leveled his gaze at Joe, his face neutral. “It could be,” he said quietly. Then louder: “Listen, boys, under the circumstances, and with the troubles you’re already facing, it is extremely important not to let it get around town that you’re asking questions about this . . . this issue. Okay?”

  “You mean the triangle with legs?” Joe asked.

  “The wha—?” Our father stopped himself and laughed, seeming to get it. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. “I’m serious, boys. This is very, very serious business. Some things are best left alone. Uninvestigated. Do you understand? And one of those things is the Red Arrow.”

  Joe looked at me. The Red Arrow, he mouthed. So the triangle with legs had a name.

  And our father knew it. And didn’t want to talk about it.

  Which, for Fenton Hardy, was pretty unusual.

  “But, Dad, if the Red Arrow exists,” I said, “and it’s that terrible—so terrible that no one can even hear you talking about it—shouldn’t someone do something about it?”

  Dad looked at me. Hoo-boy. This look was even worse than the Laser Gaze. This was the Son, I’m Disappointed in You, But I’m Going to Let My Eyes Do the Talking Gaze.

  “Well, Son,” he said calmly, “you’re assuming that someone hasn’t already tried.”

  I took that in. My mind was reeling with questions: Does th
at mean . . .? Is he saying . . .? But before I could decide whether even one of them was safe to ask, we were interrupted by loud, tinny music.

  “Hit me baby one more time . . . !”

  Joe sat up and reached into his pants pocket, yanking out his phone. “I like the classics,” he told me sheepishly as he clicked the talk button. “Hello? Yeah, this is he . . . Yeah . . . No, that’s . . . Oh no. Oh, man. Okay. Yes.”

  He clicked off the phone and looked up at Dad and me. “Um,” he said awkwardly, “well, thanks, Dad, and point taken. Listen, I think I need to talk to Frank.”

  Dad nodded and waved us out of his study. “All right, I need to get back to this chapter. Remember what I said, boys.”

  We assured him that we would and stepped out of the study. Joe closed the door behind us and turned to me with a frantic expression.

  “That was Sharelle,” he whispered urgently. “Neal was hit by a car today. He’s in the hospital!”

  BLAST FROM THE PAST

  10

  JOE

  HOSPITALS ARE NOT HAPPY PLACES UNDER the best of circumstances, but when we spotted Sharelle in the lobby of the Bayport Memorial ER, we knew something big was up. Her face was streaked with mascara-y tears, and she was clinging to her cell phone like it was her only friend in the world.

  “Frank! Joe!” she cried when she saw us come in. We ran over to her.

  “What’s going on?” Frank asked urgently.

  Sharelle shook her head. “Oh, gosh,” she breathed, closing her eyes. A couple more tears squeezed out of the corners, following the trails down her cheeks. “I don’t know exactly, except that Neal was hit by a car downtown. It was going fast for the city, and he was unconscious when he came in. The hospital called our house, and I was the only one home. My parents are on their way from work in the city. The doctors are working on Neal now.” She paused, then swallowed and squeaked, “I hope he’s okay.”

  “I’m sure he will be, Sharelle,” I said, putting my arm around her. I didn’t know at all, of course, but I know a person who needs comfort when I see one. I glanced at Frank over Sharelle’s head. His expression was as grim as I felt.

  Someone had hit Neal with a car? After he’d gotten beat up last night? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  We sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chairs that every hospital must buy from the same catalog. Sharelle was sniffling, digging soggy tissues out of her pocket and swiping at her eyes. Frank pulled a handkerchief—yeah, a handkerchief, he gets it from our dad—out of his pocket and handed it to her. Sharelle thanked him and pressed it to the corners of her eyes.

  “Sharelle,” Frank said in what I knew was his gentlest tone, “can you tell us what really happened last night?”

  Sharelle sobbed, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes and then slowly, with shuddering breaths, calming herself. “I’m so sorry, you guys,” she said, looking up at Frank and then me. “I know we put you in a really bad spot.”

  “You can make it up to us by telling us the truth,” I suggested.

  She took a deep breath. “Right. The truth.” Rubbing the handkerchief between her fingers, she stared down at it and started talking. “It was the police sirens that woke me up. By the time I got out of bed, the police were already at the door, talking to my parents. I didn’t hear those guys break in or start beating up Neal. I wish I wasn’t such a heavy sleeper. . . .”

  She trailed off and stopped. Frank and I just watched her patiently, and a few seconds later she began again.

  “As I walked out into the hall, Neal’s door opened. He looked awful. Beat up, but more than that, more scared than I had ever seen him. Ever.” She looked from Frank to me. “You guys are brothers. You know . . . when you grow up with someone, you see them at their best and their worst.”

  “You mean you’d seen him scared before,” Frank said.

  She nodded. “Right,” she said. “Like, he hates roller coasters. Or you should have seen him when we rented Paranormal Activity. . . .” She shook her head. “Terrified. But this was way worse than that. This was like . . . he’d seen the ghost from that movie right in his bedroom. Like he’d seen the worst thing he could possibly imagine, and nothing could scare him worse.”

  I looked at Frank. It probably goes without saying, but that level of fear did not sound like it was caused by a football players’ prank.

  “I asked him what had happened,” she said. “I was really worried about him. The police were there. I knew it had to be serious.”

  Frank nodded. “What did he say?”

  She stopped and took in a breath, shaking her head. “He just said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ ” She looked at me. “Can you believe that? Of course I was like, ‘What?’ and he said it again, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ ” She paused and bit her lip before continuing. “Then he took me by the shoulders,” she said. “He looked me right in the eyes, and I could see how terrified he was. He said, ‘Sharelle, if you care about me at all—don’t worry about it. Okay?’ ”

  I frowned. “So what did you do?” I asked.

  Sharelle shrugged and looked at me again. “What could I do?” she asked. “I was really freaked out. I said okay. And then Neal said that no matter what happened, I had to back him up, and I said I would. I had never seen him like that.”

  I looked at Frank. I knew that he, too, was thinking about the conversation we’d just had with our dad. Some things are best left alone.

  It seemed like Neal Bunyan certainly believed that. Even as terrible things were happening to him. What scared him—and Professor Al-Hejin, and my dad—so much? What could be worse than someone sneaking into your house in the middle of the night and beating you up?

  As I was pondering this, a nurse came over. “Miss Bunyan,” she said, gently touching Sharelle’s shoulder, “your brother is resting in a room and ready to see you now.”

  Sharelle jumped up, turning back to gesture for Frank and me to follow her. “Let’s go.”

  The nurse gently stopped her. “I’m sorry, it’s immediate family only.”

  Sharelle stopped and regarded the nurse. She was, as I might have implied previously, not someone who was easily dissuaded. “These are my brothers,” she said simply.

  The nurse looked from Sharelle—who resembled a red curly-haired fireplug—to serious, dark-haired Frank, to me. I have been told I look like a young Owen Wilson without the nose. And with a chin. Which I guess means I don’t look much like Owen Wilson at all. But anyway, my point: I don’t look all that much like Frank, and neither one of us looks anything like Sharelle.

  The nurse seemed to get this, but as quickly as she registered it, I could see that she was making a decision not to ask. “Okay,” she said, and smiled sympathetically at all of us. “Please come with me.”

  Neal was already set up in a shared room on the third floor, but the other bed was empty. He looked bad. His right leg was in traction, he had a jagged, stitched-up cut along his right arm, and he had two black eyes. The right side of his face was all scraped up, like he’d been dragged along the street.

  Looking at him, all I could think was, Ouch.

  “Neal!” Sharelle cried, running right to his side.

  Neal looked happy to see her for just a few seconds before his eyes turned to Frank and me, and his expression darkened. “What are these two doing here?”

  Sharelle gave her brother a frank look. “Neal, come on. I’m not playing around anymore. You could have been killed today.”

  Frank stepped forward. “Look, Neal, if someone is after you, don’t you think you should tell someone about it?”

  Neal glared at him. “It was an accident,” he said stiffly.

  Sharelle looked at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “After what happened last night, you expect me to believe this was random?”

  Neal looked away. “I don’t care what you believe,” he said. “It was an accident. Just an accident.”

  There was silence for a little while,
and in that silence I had an idea. “Hey,” I said, turning to Sharelle, “how old were you when you and Neal got into arrowheads?”

  Sharelle looked at me like I was out of my mind. “What?”

  Frank caught my eye and nodded. “You know,” he said, stepping forward. “When you painted that little figure above Neal’s bedroom door? It looked like . . .” He gestured to me. I grabbed a notepad that was on the nightstand and started drawing, pushing the pad toward Sharelle when I finished.

  Her jaw dropped.

  “The Red Arrow?” she asked, turning toward Neal, who was already gesturing for her to lower her voice. “You got Red Arrowed and you weren’t going to tell me?”

  Neal shook his head. “Shhhh! Keep quiet, Sharelle.”

  “I’m not going to keep it quiet!” Sharelle glared down at him. “You know how freaking serious this is, Neal!”

  Neal sighed and looked at his sister. It was clear from his expression that he did, indeed, know how freaking serious this was.

  “Um,” I said, raising my hand like I was in class. “Not to interrupt, but Sharelle, could you explain to us how freaking serious this is?”

  She looked at me, unamused. “Come on,” she said in a low voice. “You guys have lived in Bayport your whole lives, haven’t you?”

  I looked at Frank, who nodded. “More or less,” he agreed.

  “Then how do you not know about the Red Arrow?” she asked.

  I sighed. “I’m realizing that we may be the last people in town who don’t know,” I admitted.

  “But no one will talk about it,” added Frank.

  Sharelle looked grim. She seemed to be gearing up to tell us what she knew, but before she could begin, Neal broke the silence.

  “It’s like a curse,” he said weakly, staring out the window. “It’s been around forever. Nobody knows where it comes from or who’s behind it. But if you find the mark of the Red Arrow on your stuff, your life is basically over.”

  Over? I looked at Frank. “You mean, they’ll kill you?”