Rocky Road Read online

  I ran out of the bus after the intruder and caught a quick glimpse of him darting behind another bus. When I got there, though, he’d vanished.

  Where could he have gone to so quickly, I wondered?

  Suddenly, I heard something moving near my feet. I lay down—carefully, to avoid being cut by broken glass—and looked underneath the bus.

  There he was!

  “Joe!” I cried as the guy backed away from my grasp.

  He was just about to get away again when Joe showed up on the other side of the bus, blocking his way.

  “Nice going!” I said.

  We had him trapped between us under the bus. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

  “Wait!” he whispered, his eyes darting every which way. “Don’t beat me up—I’ll give you anything you want—I’ve got money . . . not on me, but buried near here. You can have it—all of it—just let me be.”

  “Hey!” I said. “Calm down, will you?”

  “You’re gonna set me on fire, aren’t you.”

  It was a statement, not a question. He was sure we were going to do it. I could see the naked fear in his bloodshot eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” Joe said. “Set you on fire? Are you crazy?”

  “Ha! That’s what they told me at the shelter! Said I was crazy and couldn’t stay there—had to go to the hospital for treatment. I ain’t getting no treatments—they’ll put a computer chip in my head or something.”

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” I told him.

  “You’re here with the cops, aren’t you? I saw you with them.”

  “We’re not cops,” I assured him, but he didn’t seem convinced.

  “Who are you, anyway?” Joe asked.

  “Name’s Guthrie. George Guthrie.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Did you do all this to the buses?”

  “No!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t do none of it! I was just sleeping . . . sleeping in one of the buses . . . I’ve been doing that all summer. Found a place where the fence is bent back, and a bus with a broken window lock, and I had it good the last two months. And where’s the harm in it, I ask you? It’s a lot safer than sleeping out on the streets!”

  I guessed he was right about that. But it was still breaking the law, and I told him so.

  “I know, I know,” he moaned, “but can’t you give me a break? I sure could use one, fellas. Think about it—the only breaks I’ve ever had in my life have been bad ones. And the cops will lock me up for sure! They’ll think I did it!”

  George Guthrie and Peter Nutt—that made it two weirdos Joe and I had chased down in less than a week.

  As I lay there under the bus, taking in the rank smell wafting off Guthrie’s clothes, I wondered if there was some weird new virus going around, turning normal people into raving maniacs.

  “Listen, George,” I said, using his first name to try and calm him down, “you’ve got to trust us. We won’t hurt you, and neither will the police. They just want to know who did all this damage.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: George Guthrie

  Hometown: Bayport

  Physical description: Age—somewhere in his forties or fifties (hard to tell), 5’7”, 150 lbs., long, greasy, uncombed hair (can’t tell what Color). Wild eyes that keep shifting everywhere in terror. Clothes stink to high heaven-you sure wouldn’t want to be wearing them.

  Occupation: None

  Background: Grew up in foster homes, spent time in reform school for stealing a banana—claimed he was hungry. Never married.

  Suspicious behavior: Trespassing, fleeing from the police. His presence at the crime scene doesn’t look good for him.

  Suspected of: Wave of vandalism against Bayport School system

  Possible motives: A mystery—maybe to get even with kids who got better breaks in life than he did.

  “It wasn’t me! I swear it!”

  “I believe you, George,” I said. The truth was, I didn’t know what to believe, but I wanted him to feel safe. “So does my brother here. Don’t you, Joe?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you, Joe?” I said again. (He’s a little thick sometimes.)

  “Oh. Yeah. I believe you, too, George.”

  “Why don’t we just get out from under here,” I suggested, “and you can show us where you’ve been living. We won’t turn you over to the police until you’ve had a chance to tell your side of the story, okay?”

  “I . . . I guess so,” he said.

  He led us silently to an undamaged bus, with a concrete block positioned under an open window. We climbed inside one by one. Looking back out the windows, I could see our dad and the two police officers searching other buses and taking notes.

  Inside our bus, George Guthrie’s summer home was laid out before us. Old, filthy clothes, a large ratty blanket, empty soda bottles.

  You get the idea. Yuckyville.

  It smelled awful, but other than that, this bus hadn’t been damaged. If Guthrie had wrecked all those other buses, he’d certainly spared his own.

  “George,” I said, taking a seat (they didn’t look too skeevy) while Joe stood at the front door, “we don’t have much time. You’ve got to come clean.”

  “You sure you’re not with them?” he asked, meaning the police.

  How was I supposed to answer that one?

  Easy. I didn’t.

  “George, tell us the truth—did you damage all these buses?”

  “I already told you, it wasn’t me!”

  “Then you’ve got to tell us who it was!”

  “How should I know? I was dead asleep the whole time!” He grabbed my shirt in his two hands and shook me. “You’ve got to believe me!” he shouted.

  That shout must have gotten the others’ attention, because suddenly Joe said, “Here they come.”

  “NOW, George!” I yelled right in his face. “Tell us what you saw!”

  “I didn’t see nothing, I tell you! I was drunk! Dead drunk—I only woke up when I heard the glass shattering!”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, I tried to see what was going on, but by the time I got up, they were on the other side of the lot. I was just glad they didn’t hurt me.”

  “They? You think it was more than one person?”

  “How should I know? I couldn’t see a thing, it was so dark—and besides, I need glasses bad. My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual—besides the breaking glass?” I asked.

  “I don’t hear so good, neither,” he said sadly. “And the cigarettes is killing my lungs—I tried to quit, but with all them butts lying around, it’s too tempting.”

  He coughed to show us how bad his lungs were. His breath nearly knocked me over.

  “Okay, George,” I said. “I believe you.”

  And I did. This guy seemed more pathetic than dangerous.

  The police forced open the door of the bus and climbed on board, followed by our dad.

  “Good work, boys!” Chief Collig said, fishing out a pair of handcuffs.

  Bad move.

  “You are with the cops!” George screamed, jumping to his feet and pointing at me in fury. “I knew it! You kids set me up! I’ve been framed! Framed, I tell you! Help! HELP!”

  “Take him downtown to headquarters, Con,” the chief said.

  “Wait!” I held out a hand. “Hold on a second, Chief. This man didn’t vandalize any buses. Joe and I will vouch for him—won’t we, Joe?”

  Joe gave me a look that said, “Are you insane?” But he went ahead and agreed. “Yeah, he’s harmless.”

  “You boys talked to him?” Chief Collig asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “He doesn’t know anything. He was drunk and passed out.”

  The Chief looked at Dad. “Fenton?”

  “Well, if the boys feel that strongly about it, I’d go with their instincts, Ezra.”

  Good old Dad—I’
ve got to hand it to him, he always sticks up for us.

  “Well, it’s against my better judgment,” the chief said. “But if he turns out to be our man, I guess we can still book him later—for trespassing, if nothing else.”

  “He needs help more than he needs prison,” I said.

  “Yeah, how about the town shelter?” Joe asked.

  “NO!” George shrieked, trying to leap out the window and escape. “No shelters!”

  “Hey, fella,” Con Reilly said. “Where do you think you’re going?” He grabbed hold of George like he was a stuffed doll, dragged him back into the bus, and snapped a pair of cuffs on him. “If the chief says you’re going to the shelter, you’re going to the shelter.”

  “You’ll be sorry!” George shouted. “You’ll all be sorry! I’m done for! They’ll poison me there! I’d rather go to jail, I tell you!”

  They had to drag him out of the bus and into the backseat of the cruiser.

  When they were gone, the yard was quiet. Dad turned to us and said, “Well, it’s been a long day. You boys must be tired.”

  Tired? Try exhausted. Settling into the plush seats of our dad’s Crown Vic, I was fast asleep long before we got home. I’m pretty sure Joe was too.

  Tomorrow would be another day. Tomorrow we would start hunting whoever had declared war on Bayport’s schools.

  No matter what wacko cases ATAC and Captain Creamy gave us, we were not leaving town again till this case was solved.

  “You really think George was innocent?” Joe asked me over breakfast.

  It was already ten in the morning. Mom, Dad, and Aunt Trudy had let us sleep late. Mom was already off at the library, and Aunt Trudy was out in the backyard, gardening. Playback sat on her shoulder, squawking loudly every time she pulled a weed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Frank. I mean, the guy’s totally gonzo, so who’s to say?”

  “True. But even the most gonzo of gonzos has a reason for what they’re doing. It may be a crazy reason, but it’s still a reason.”

  “Okay, how’s this, then?” Joe said. “Suppose George figured that if he managed to put off the start of school, he could live in his bus a while longer.”

  “That is crazy.”

  “So is George.”

  “Fair enough. But what you said is really intriguing.”

  “Intriguing? Wow. You don’t usually compliment my ideas that much.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “Not too often.”

  I smiled at him. “Oh, well. I like this one.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you just had. Forgot it already?”

  “How do I know unless you tell me which one it is?”

  “You said George might want to prevent the start of school. But you could also say that about other people. As a motive, it ties together both Bayport crime sprees. Pretty neatly too.”

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Notice something else, Joe—the crimes have only taken place during the summer, when schools are empty and buses are idle.”

  “So?”

  “So whoever it is, they don’t seem to want to hurt anybody.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yeah, but they’re still willing to do an incredible amount of damage to property just to keep the schools closed.”

  “You have to admit, George does fit the profile,” Joe said, going back to eating his cereal.

  “Yeah, but I’m sure we can come up with other suspects who have the same motive.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s think on it for a while.”

  Just as I was lifting a spoonful of cereal to my mouth, Joe jumped up and pounded the table—so hard he made me spill the cereal all over myself.

  “Hey!” I complained.

  “Frank, I’ve got it! Who do we know who hates school worse than poison?”

  I dropped the spoon and rose to my feet, as the light bulb went on inside my brain.

  “Of course!” I said. “Brian Conrad!”

  11.

  THE BAD SEED

  Let me tell you a little something about Brian Conrad, okay?

  He is just possibly the worst human being in Bayport.

  Certainly and without question, he is the single worst human being in the entire history of Bayport High.

  And just to highlight his sheer awfulness, he has the most gorgeous, sweet, good-natured—oh, and did I say cute?—sister you could ever imagine. That would be Belinda Conrad.

  But more about her in a minute. . . .

  First, a little more about our newest—and likeliest—suspect.

  It was a beautiful morning. Frank and I were having breakfast. Just a normal late-summer day with a normal family (well, almost). Dad was nowhere to be seen.

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Brian Conrad aka Slimebag, Dirtball, Scuzzbucket, etc.

  Hometown: Bayport

  Physical description: Age 17, 6’2”, 210 lbs., short blond hair. Dresses like a jock, because that’s what he is.

  Occupation: Being the worst human being in Bayport.

  Background: Grew up in Bayport. Somehow became a total jerk, and still is one. Hobbies rumored to include pumping iron; setting minor fires; and torturing small animals, high school freshmen, and anyone smaller or weaker than he is.

  Suspicious behavior: A history of vandalism, including triggering false alarms at school, slashing book bags, and breaking into lockers. He’s been suspended more times than anybody can count.

  Possible motives: Who knows what makes a punk like Brian do the things he does? But he sure hates school with a passion (it’s amazing they haven’t expelled him yet), and he might go to great lengths to delay the new school year. Also, he might like the idea of getting even with school authorities.

  Suspected of: Wave of vandalism against Bayport School system.

  For a few minutes I totally forgot about crime fighting.

  But only for a few minutes. When you’re a Hardy, and there’s an unsolved case, there’s no way you can think about anything else for long.

  As soon as we were done washing the dishes, Frank and I took a pitcher of OJ, a couple of glasses, and a pad and paper out to the backyard. We sat down at the round glass table, shaded by its umbrella, and started to sort things out.

  “Joe, do you think it’s possible Brian Conrad was the one who sent us out of town on those wild goose chases?”

  “Huh? No way,” I said. “How could he do that? He’s not in ATAC.”

  We both froze for a second.

  “No.”

  “Get out.”

  “There’s no way he’s an ATAC agent.”

  Okay, so we agreed on that one.

  “What about that Captain Creamy guy?” I asked. “Isn’t Dad supposed to be checking him out?”

  “Dude, it’s only the next morning. Dad’s not Superman. Give him at least a few hours.”

  “Okay. And what about George Guthrie?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well,” I said, “if the police were going to make an arrest right now, it would be him. That’s the way the evidence points.”

  “Right. But then there’s Brian. I don’t think we can afford to ignore him.”

  “This morning would be a good time to catch him at home,” I said. “He’s a late sleeper, right?”

  “True—he’s always missing first period.”

  “So when there’s no school, he probably sleeps till at least ten.”

  “Oh, till noon, man.”

  “Right. Probably. So we should go over there, right?”

  “Um, well . . . ” Frank hesitated, and I knew right then what he was going to say next.

  “I think you’d better go over there and handle it yourself,” he said. “You know how much Brian hates my guts.”

  It was true. Brian Conrad hates basically everyone, but he reserves a special place in hi
s sick, shriveled heart for Frank.

  Why Frank? Could be because Brian’s sister, Belinda, likes Frank so much.

  Yes, that’s right—the superfine Belinda has a monster crush on my brother. Has for years.

  It kills me, to be honest with you. I can’t understand what it is about Frank. It’s insane! Girls pay a lot of attention to me, normally. But the minute he walks into the room, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.

  Lucky for me Frank has no clue how to handle it. He turns into a raging geek so fast, it’s hilarious.

  Especially around Belinda. Which was why he was now asking me to go over there and tackle Brian Conrad all by myself.

  “Okay, dude,” I said with a laugh and a shake of the head. “If you’re chicken, you’re chicken.”

  “It’s not that I’m chicken.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s just that if I went over there, it could get ugly. There’s bound to be a scene.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  “It has nothing to do with Belinda.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Buck-buckaw!” I said, flapping my elbows chicken-style.

  Frank punched me in the arm. Just in fun, mind you, but it still hurt. For someone who doesn’t spend much time lifting weights, that dude is strong.

  After looking up the address in the Bayport High Student Directory, I left Frank behind and headed over to Casa Conrad on my bike. I was still sore from all the riding we’d been doing, but it was a fairly short trip—just the other side of the tracks, in fact.

  The Conrad family lives, it turns out, in a not-too-shabby part of town. Most of the houses on their street are well cared for, even if they are kind of small.

  But not the Conrad house. I spotted it from way down the block, and knew it had to be the place.

  The junked car in the front yard was my first clue. The laundry flapping on the clothesline, the peeling paint, the taped-over windows, the garbage strewn all over the lawn, were all proof that Brian lived here.

  “The bad seed,” as I like to call him.

  I took a deep breath of fresh air—the last I was likely to inhale for some time—and knocked on the front door (there was just a hole where the doorbell used to be).