Secret of the Red Arrow Read online

  I looked at Joe. “Uh-oh.”

  He nodded. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  I stood up and chatted with Aunt Trudy about her garden while Hattie passed our belongings back to us, and Joe ran to use the men’s room. When he came back, he grabbed my arm. “Maybe you should use the restroom too before we leave,” he said, giving me a meaningful look.

  I looked at Aunt Trudy. “That’s not a bad idea,” I said.

  She waved her hand. “Sure, sure, go ahead. It’s not like my bed is calling for me or anything.”

  Joe gave her a smile. “We owe you big-time, Aunt Trudy. What if Frank and I cook dinner tonight?”

  Aunt Trudy grimaced. “Ugh. What have I done to earn such punishment?” she asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Well, we’ll figure out something. I’m, ah, going to grab a drink from the water fountain.”

  He followed me back down the hall to the restrooms, then grabbed my arm again. “Check it out.”

  He was holding out his wallet, billfold open to reveal a note written in thick black marker on yellow lined paper.

  CHECK OUT THE RESTAURANT.

  “It was in my wallet when I picked it up,” Joe whispered.

  I looked at him incredulously. “It had to have been left by someone in the police department,” I whispered back to him.

  Joe nodded. “Or someone who was arrested, maybe.”

  I shook my head. “They wouldn’t have access to people’s belongings.”

  “Either way,” Joe said, “we need to get over there. We’ll need something to distract Aunt Trudy.”

  I nodded. “On it,” I said. “Operation Trudy Distraction, in full effect!”

  • • •

  “Ouch!” I cried as I fake-stumbled down the last step from police headquarters to Main Street. “Oh, ow! Man! Hold on, you guys. My ankle.”

  Joe and Aunt Trudy turned around, Aunt Trudy looking concerned, Joe impressed.

  “What happened, Frank?” Aunt Trudy asked.

  I made a big show of hopping around, like my ankle was injured. “I think I twisted it,” I said, then sighed. “Oh, man! It’s going to be a struggle to get down the steps to the parking lot.”

  Aunt Trudy looked grim. “Do we need to take you to the hospital? Do you need an X-ray?”

  “No!” I cried, and noticed that Joe seemed to just stop himself in time from shouting it with me.

  “I’ll just put some ice on it when we get home,” I added. “This happens to me a lot. I must have weak ankles.”

  Aunt Trudy pursed her lips. “Well, if you say so. I suppose I’ll need to get the car and bring it around for you.”

  I nodded. “That would be great, Aunt Trudy. Thanks.”

  Aunt Trudy turned to Joe. He seemed to realize after a few seconds that she was waiting for him to go with her.

  I moved closer to Joe and leaned on his shoulder. “It would be great if Joe could stay with me,” I said. “To lean on.”

  Aunt Trudy shrugged. “Well, I guess so,” she said. “I’ll be right around with the car. You boys stay put.”

  We waited until she was halfway down the stairs to the parking lot, then dashed down the street to the remains of Paul Fumusa’s restaurant.

  The blown-out windows had been masked with plastic, and scorch marks covered the exterior. It was pitch-dark inside, but the Hardy Boys come prepared. I pulled out a key chain with a super-bright flashlight on the end and shone it into the restaurant.

  We could make out charred remains of tables and chairs. Debris. What looked like a burned umbrella handle.

  But nothing that meant anything to us. Nothing we could point to and say, Here’s the key to the secret identity of the Red Arrow!

  Which is sort of what I’d been hoping for, I admit.

  “Do you get it?” Joe asked, watching me aim the flashlight back and forth.

  “No,” I admitted with a sigh. I had no idea what was going on here.

  Beep, beep! We both turned around to see Aunt Trudy in her little hybrid, looking surprised—and annoyed—to see me walking just fine.

  We ran over to her and jumped into the car.

  “I bent my ankle this one way and then totally recovered,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn at the lie. “It’s a miracle!”

  WATCHED

  16

  JOE

  IT WAS CLEAR, BY THE TIME WE GOT HOME, THAT it was going to take a lot more than dinner to get back on Aunt Trudy’s good side.

  “You’d better go in and talk to your father,” she huffed as she got out of the car and slammed the door.

  They were the first words she’d spoken since Frank had told her about his miracle recovery.

  I looked at my brother, and we both sighed. What a long, miserable night. Upsetting our beloved aunt Trudy was just the icing on the cake.

  But there was still more to come. We had to talk to Dad.

  We went into the house and slowly approached his study, then knocked quietly.

  “Dad?” I called.

  “Come in,” he replied in a gruff voice. I looked at my brother.

  “Here goes,” I whispered, and pushed the door open.

  “Dad,” Frank said before we even crossed the threshold, “we can explain.”

  “Can you?” asked Dad, standing up and walking around the desk. “Can you? Really?”

  Without another word, he brushed by us and out of his study. We had no choice but to follow him down the hallway, through the foyer and to the front door, which he opened.

  “There,” he said, stepping out and pointing up over the doorway.

  I had a sickening realization before I looked. It couldn’t be. But of course it was. It only made sense. . . .

  There, stenciled above our front door, was the Red Arrow.

  “Dad,” I managed. But no more words would come.

  He looked hard at me, then Frank. “Let’s go back to my study.”

  We followed him back through the door, the foyer, the hall, to his study. He closed the door behind us, and Frank and I dropped exhaustedly into the chairs facing his desk. Dad picked up a mug of probably cold coffee and took a swig. (He still drinks it long after it’s gone cold. Frank calls this “gross.” I call it “hard-core.”)

  When he’d finished, he put the coffee cup down and sat down behind his desk, looking at both of us through hooded eyes. Dad looked as tired as I felt.

  “I thought,” he said after a few uncomfortable moments, “we had an agreement.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “We did, Dad,” Frank said, sitting forward in his chair. “But look, Joe and I believe—you taught us—that if something wrong is happening in this town, and people are getting hurt, then we should do everything within our power to fix it.”

  Dad stared at him. “Really? Up to and including putting your own family in jeopardy?”

  Frank shook his head. “We didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I thought I was very clear the last time we talked,” Dad went on, his voice low. “Some things are better left alone. And you didn’t leave this alone.”

  Neither one of us answered. Our father eyeballed us for a moment more, then dropped his gaze to the desk.

  “It makes me wonder,” he went on, “how much I can trust you two in general anymore. For example, keeping up the Deal.” He looked up at us.

  Frank and I didn’t say anything. It was sort of an unspoken agreement between us that he, Dad, and I never mentioned the Deal. Honestly, it hurt too much. I don’t think any of us liked to be reminded of what we had lost in the Deal—or at least, lost the right to do openly.

  But at the same time, the Deal was the only thing securing us a decent future. College and a job and a family and kids one day. Without the Deal, it was the J’Adoube School for Behavior Modification Therapy on Rock Island. Which was not the kind of future anybody wanted.

  For a few minutes, nobody spoke.

  Finally Dad leaned across his desk. “As I have told you,” he said, �
��there are powerful forces at work here. I really don’t think you boys know what you’re getting into. If you care about me, if you care about your own future, please just leave well enough alone.”

  “But, Dad,” Frank said, “how do you know? Were you Red Arrowed before?”

  Dad was quiet for a few seconds. “No,” he said. “I was never that unlucky. But I’ve had clients who were.”

  I looked at Frank. There was a question forming on my tongue, but I was almost afraid to ask it.

  Fortunately, my brother and I think alike—and he is sometimes braver than I am. “What happened to them?” he asked.

  But my father never got the chance to reply.

  He was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from upstairs. Aunt Trudy!

  • • •

  Aunt Trudy stood in my room, my backpack dropped before her on the floor.

  “It’s watching me,” she whispered when the three of us appeared. “It’s watching. . . .”

  “What’s going on?” My parents’ bedroom door opened and out stumbled my mother, hair tousled, wearing her signature satin pajamas. She looked from Dad to me to Frank to Aunt Trudy. “Who was that screaming? What are you all doing up?”

  Dad turned to look from Mom to Aunt Trudy. “It was Trudy screaming,” he said. “It’s a long story. But, Trudy—who’s watching? What do you mean?”

  Aunt Trudy backed out of my bedroom, pointing at a plastic robot on my bookshelf. I built it in the second grade. His name is Mike the Robot.

  But behind Mike the robot . . .

  A red light blinked. And a lens pointed.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  “We’re being videotaped!” Aunt Trudy cried.

  THE JOY OF PUBLIC SPEAKING

  17

  FRANK

  IT’S A PRETTY HUGE KICK IN THE PANTS TO have to go to school on the day after two sleepless nights, after being beaten up, arrested, chewed out by your father, marked for punishment by the mastermind of a shady criminal organization, and monitored in your own home.

  It’s an even bigger kick in the pants to have to go to school on the day after two sleepless nights, after being beaten up, arrested, chewed out by your father, marked for punishment by the mastermind of a shady criminal organization, and monitored in your own home . . . only to have to give a speech on civil liberties that you have not prepared for in any way!

  That’s right. I, Frank Hardy, Extreme Public Speaking Fraidy-Pants and Meticulous Student Extraordinaire, was now facing my worst nightmare: giving a speech. In front of more than three hundred students. Did I mention I hate public speaking?

  “Maybe you can tell Ms. Jones the truth and ask for more time,” Joe suggested as we pulled into the school parking lot.

  Yes. That had every chance in the world of working, with the week I’d been having.

  “Which version of the truth?” I asked. “The one where I was distracted by the shady criminal organization no one will admit exists in this town?”

  Joe nodded, his face grim. “Yeah. Better to just fake your way through it, I guess.”

  Oh, to be my brother sometimes. To be a person for whom “just faking your way through” a speech in front of three hundred people is an option. I sometimes wonder what happened with Joe and me where he got the exact opposite genes that I did. I mean, except for the sleuthing gene.

  And admittedly, we both have pretty good hair.

  We’d managed to disable the video camera we’d found last night, but we were still very aware of the Red Arrow mark on our heads, so we tried to lie low all morning. We didn’t really expect that anyone would try anything during school hours, but really, who knew?

  “Ready for your speech?” Ms. Jones asked with a big smile when I walked into American history class third period.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I admitted.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine.” She gave me a little pat on the shoulder, then paused. “You’re not . . . going to say anything unusual, are you?”

  Unusual? What did that mean?

  “I have a section written in Martian,” I replied with a smile. “Is that too weird?”

  Ms. Jones looked confused for a moment, then chuckled. “Oh, Frank,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Funny how everybody who was not me was so sure of that.

  My speech was to take place at 11:20 sharp—fourth period. I tried to lose myself in Ms. Jones’s lecture about trench fighting during World War I, but I couldn’t concentrate. Later, when I looked back at my notes, I found a sketch of a noose with HELP ME written all around it.

  I had to ask for a bathroom pass four times in forty-five minutes.

  Then, all too soon, the bell rang.

  Ms. Jones smiled at me like I’d just won the lottery. “Well, class,” she said, “let’s make our way to the auditorium, where we’ll hear your classmate Frank Hardy’s brilliant presentation on civil liberties!”

  There were some cheers, some groans. A football player exercised his civil liberties by throwing an eraser at my head when Ms. Jones walked out the door. “Brownnoser,” he hissed.

  Oh, if only those were my only problems. If only I’d be crying myself to sleep that night because the football players didn’t like me, and not because I’d wet myself in front of three hundred people.

  I followed Ms. Jones to the auditorium like a dead man walking. People talked to me, greeting me, I guess, or wishing me luck, but I didn’t hear any of it. Keeping up a steady stream of pep talk, Ms. Jones led me around the gym to the backstage entrance to the auditorium, which would lead me onto the stage.

  She opened the door, and I could hear the dull roar of my three-hundred-some classmates, none of them (except for Joe, of course) prepared for the meltdown they were about to witness.

  I tried not to look out into the audience. Ms. Jones walked up to the podium, which had been set in the middle of the stage, to introduce me, talking about why she had chosen my “exceptional” paper to be presented to the entire school. It was something about the importance of preserving our civil liberties, even in this day and age, blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t make out much beyond the sound of blood pounding in my head.

  But I could tell she was winding down.

  “And without further ado,” Ms. Jones went on, “let me present to you . . . your classmate, Frank Hardy!”

  There were a couple of random boos—to be expected, really—but mostly polite applause. I forced my feet to move one after the other and carry me onstage. The applause intensified. I managed to smile at Ms. Jones and make it to the podium without passing out.

  I looked out at the packed auditorium. Hundreds of faces stared back at me. I tried to locate Joe in the crowd, but it was impossible. My breathing sped up, and I remembered the top piece of advice Joe had given me: Imagine everyone in the audience in their underwear.

  It didn’t help much.

  I touched the microphone, tapping it gently to make sure it was on, and then pulled it close to my mouth.

  A deep, shuddery breath reverberated throughout the auditorium.

  “Civil liberties,” I forced myself to say, smoothing the paper with my notes out in front of me, “are a crucial element of our democracy.”

  Creeeeaaaak.

  The heavy double doors at the rear of the auditorium slowly opened, and light from the lobby flooded in behind a dark silhouette, which leaned on a cane. The silhouette moved forward, and the lights of the auditorium illuminated Principal Gorse. He noted that I was staring at him and nodded encouragingly in my direction. His kind brown eyes crinkled at the corners. He stepped forward, slowly, and the bright lights flashed off the cane in his hand. It was shiny silver metal; it looked like something NASA might have designed. Totally different from his old hand-carved cane. When had he gotten it?

  Someone in the audience coughed, “Narc,” and I startled back to attention. (“Narc” is the affectionate nickname bestowed on Joe and myself by some of our classmates—mostly
, the friends of people we’ve busted.) I realized I’d been silent for about thirty seconds and smoothed my paper again. Sheesh, my hands were sweaty.

  “Civil liberties,” I said loudly, “are . . .”

  And then, suddenly, it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  The note that had been slipped into Joe’s wallet: CHECK OUT THE RESTAURANT. And the charred umbrella handle.

  It hadn’t been an umbrella handle. It had been a cane.

  Principal Gorse’s cane!

  I hated the thought that our kindly principal might be behind the terrible things the Red Arrow had done, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Neal, Seth, and Pett had all brought shame to Principal Gorse—in some small way—by being busted for a crime while attending Bayport High School. I had no idea what Paul Fumusa had done to him, but surely there was more to Principal Gorse’s life than the little bit we saw at school. Maybe Paul Fumusa had flirted with Ms. Collins or rear-ended the Karmann Ghia or told Principal Gorse that turtlenecks with sport coats were over.

  I was paralyzed, standing there.

  “Narc says what?” someone finally hissed from the second row.

  It was enough to shake me out of my thoughts.

  “Civil liberties,” I began, “are . . .”

  A farce in this town, I thought.

  I put my elbows on the podium and leaned on them, suddenly feeling . . . angry.

  “You know what?” I barked suddenly into the mic, startling the people sitting closest. “This whole speech is all kinds of bull, because the biggest threat to our civil liberties in the town of Bayport is the one no one will talk about.” I leaned right into the mic, enjoying the feeling of the words slipping out of my mouth. “The Red Arrow.”

  I could see people in the audience looking shocked, sitting a little straighter, a Did I just hear that? expression on their faces. That’s when I spotted Joe. He was sitting on the aisle, about midway back, and his jaw was hanging open.