Secret of the Red Arrow (11 page)

Chief Gomez’s expression turned hard, like he was tired of humoring us. “That’s classified information.” He leaned forward. “Listen, boys, I thought we had a deal.” He lowered his voice. “The Deal. Sound familiar?”

I looked at Joe. Time to get serious. “Of course it does, sir,” I said, putting on my best altar-boy face.

Gomez sighed, like he was just as tired as we were. “I’ve been hearing rumors that you boys are doing some investigative work around town,” he said. “That would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? After we worked so hard to get the Deal in place.”

Joe leaned forward. “We haven’t been investigating, sir,” he said, “but we have been asking a few questions about the Red Arrow.”

Gomez looked at him. “The Red Arrow,” he repeated, no emotion in his voice.

“It’s a symbol we’ve seen a lot around town,” I said. “Some
people seem to think it’s related to a . . . a curse, of sorts.”

Gomez looked at me hard, then cleared his throat. “Listen, boys,” he said, “I’m not thrilled about the Deal either. I want you boys to be safe, but you’ve contributed a lot to the town over the years, and I . . . well, I’ll admit it. Sometimes I miss your input on a case here or there.” He paused. “But I certainly don’t enjoy hearing that you boys are jeopardizing your future over some urban legend. Some ghost story teenagers tell each other at slumber parties.”

Joe shot me a nervous glance. “But what if . . . what if, without investigating, Frank and I stumbled on some information implying that the Red Arrow is very real?”

Chief Gomez looked from Joe to me, shaking his head. “I’d say great,” he said, lowering his voice and moving closer. “Care to tell me what it is? And how you got it?”

I looked at Joe, subtly swiping my hand across my neck. Cut it out. Catch-22. “No, sir,” I said.

“Listen.” Gomez smacked his meaty hand on the top of his desk. “I want this to end. I don’t want to be called into the station at three a.m. to give you this warning again.” He gave us another serious look. “Stop sniffing around. Follow the Deal. Don’t put your whole future in jeopardy.”

Just then the phone on his desk rang. The chief frowned at us as if to say
Quiet!
And then picked it up.

“Yes? . . . Okay. Okay. Yes, understood.”

He hung up the phone and gave us an insincere smile. “Boys, after consulting with your father, we have decided to
drop all charges against you.” He leaned forward. “But you’d better stay out of trouble from now on. Understand?”

“Absolutely, sir,” I said, standing up. Phew! Fenton Hardy comes through again.

Chief Gomez led us out of his office, grabbing his jacket on the way out. “I’m going home to get some sleep,” he told us.

Sleep. Much as I’d struggled with it earlier that night, it sounded divine. Gomez led us out to the lobby, where Hattie informed us that our aunt Trudy was on her way. I glanced at Joe, wondering if that was a bad omen.

“Is Dad going to kill us?” I whispered, taking a seat on an uncomfortable chair.

Joe shrugged. “I think we have a fifty-fifty shot,” he replied.

I’m not sure how long it was before Aunt Trudy showed up. Truth be told, I may have dozed a bit. Joe too. Joe did ask about Pett and Seth, and was told they’d been released about half an hour before us.

Before I knew it, Hattie was calling, “Boys?” and Joe and I startled awake. Aunt Trudy was standing before us, smiling tensely.

“Hi, Aunt Trudy,” Joe said. “We really appreciate you picking us up. Are Mom and Dad, um . . .?”

“Apoplectic?” Aunt Trudy supplied, her smile warming. “You’ll have to ask them. Your dad came up to wake me and ask me to come get you, then holed himself up in his study. I didn’t get much besides ‘boys’ and ‘police station.’
And ‘again.’ ” You mother went to bed early not feeling well, and doesn’t know yet.”

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!”

I
T 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.

I
T’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?