Secret of the Red Arrow (4 page)

“That’s all right, Ms. Collins,” Mr. Gorse said, rising to his feet, a smile on his face. “We were finished here.”

As we passed outside, Ms. Collins smiled. She always wore crazy, mismatched clothing with horizontal stripes, and men’s hats, and today was no exception.

Everybody loved Ms. Collins. She was one of those teachers who had the knack for always making you feel enthused and entertained. Joe and I had our own reasons for loving her: She had written the recommendation letter that kept us from being sent to the reform school Mr. Gorse had mentioned: J’Adoube—a really notorious place on a tiny, isolated island twenty miles out to sea. All kinds of rumors existed about the place. Rumors about strange “behavior modification therapies” with names like “Swarm” and “Funhouse Mirror.” It was also rumored that several kids died each year trying to escape.

Today Ms. Collins seemed troubled. “I hope you boys are careful about talking on your cell phones,” she said.

Smiling at this haphazard warning, I said, “You don’t believe that stuff about their causing brain cancer, do you, Ms. Collins?”

“No, but I think mine’s been hacked or something. . . .”

That sounded odd. I wanted to ask her more about it.
But Mr. Gorse invited her in. She said good-bye to us with that same uneasy air, and the door shut behind them.

In the lobby, Principal Gorse’s secretary, Connie, smiled and held up two green late passes. “How’s Trudy, boys?”

Connie knew Aunt Trudy from their gardening club. Together, they’d helped make an untended plot in back of the school into an overflowing vegetable garden. The cafeteria even used the fresh veggies in its daily special. (Not that you could tell, really. If only Aunt Trudy would teach some cooking classes down there!)

“She’s good,” Frank said with a smile. “We’ll tell her you say hi.”

Connie nodded. “I’d appreciate that. Have a good day, boys.”

•   •   •

I’m not sure Connie needed to bother with the late passes. Frank and I both had study hall in the cafeteria next with Coach Gerther, who barely glanced at the passes before grabbing them out of our hands and gesturing vaguely at the rows of tables. “Take a seat.”

Coach Gerther was rumored to have lost 80 percent of his hearing in the Vietnam War, which made him the perfect teacher for study hall. The din regularly reached rock-concert levels. It was literally impossible to get any work done in there, unless your “work” involved studying the effects of loud noises on hearing over time. Frank and I settled at a table in the back, and Frank pulled out a notebook.

“So . . .,” he began. “About the speech . . .”

“Yo—Hardy boys!”

I looked up to see Sharelle Bunyan standing over us. Well,
looming
over us was more like it. She was the queen of pep. Although she was an old friend of mine from junior high, we’d drifted apart in high school. She was very popular (not that we were
un
popular—but she was definitely in the alpha group).

It was actually nice to see her. She had the same red curly hair she’d had as a kid, only now she wore her cheerleader uniform, with the Bayport High colors of green and gold and the school mascot—Bill the Bulldog—pictured snarling on the front.

“Hey, Sharelle. Long time no see. What’s up?”

“I was hoping,” she said, “that you guys would be able to volunteer for the blood drive.” She sat down next to us. As she did, she accidentally dropped a clipboard she was carrying. It clattered to the floor. “Shoot!” She picked it up and dusted it off, then held it out under our noses. Apparently, we had no choice but to sign up. “Ball of energy” is how people used to describe her in junior high. I saw that the description was still applicable.

“Um, sure, Sharelle.”

“Yeah, we’re always happy to bleed for a good cause.”

We were starting to add our names to the list when she spoke to us under her breath. As she did, her whole demeanor changed. She sounded panicky.

“Look, guys—I need your help,” she whispered. Something about her mood was contagious. We lowered our voices to match hers and kept our heads down.

“What kind of help?” Frank asked.

“You know . . . with a
mystery
.”

A mystery.
There it was. You have no idea how a reputation as a teenage detective can complicate your life. Frank started to answer, but I gave him a nudge. He picked up on my wariness and stayed silent. The truth was, although it sounded harmless and kind of fun, this wasn’t an innocent topic for us anymore. There were serious consequences for us involved with anything remotely connected to sleuthing. Consequences that Frank and I didn’t talk about, because . . . well, we didn’t like to
think
about them. Not that they would stop us. But we still had to be more careful now than we used to be.

“Why ask us?” I said cautiously.

“Oh, come on,” Sharelle said. “Don’t give me that. Everybody knows you guys are, like, Sherlock Squared. You’re both packing heat, right?”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Sharelle.”

“Well, anyway—I need help. Or . . . well, Neal needs help.” She was the only person in school who did not refer to her older brother as Neanderthal Bunyan—yes, the same charming fellow who’d introduced Frank to his impending Internet fame this morning. He was also the star linebacker of the BHS football team.

“Is he all right? Did something happen to him?”

“Yes. He’s . . . fine, more or less. Physically at least. But . . .”

She glanced around the hall. Clearly, she was uneasy discussing this out in the open. “Look, I’m going to ask for a bathroom pass. Can you guys follow me, and we can talk about it out by the vending machines?” It would be quieter there. Apparently, the blood drive had been a cover story to make contact with us.

She got up to lead us out of the cafeteria. I was cautious but curious. I started to follow her, but Frank said, “We’ll meet you there in five.”

Sharelle seemed puzzled. She looked like she wanted to say something, but instead she just nodded and walked off.

Frank watched her go up to Coach Gerther, get her pass, and head out the door. Then he turned to me, his expression dark. “Neanderthal Bunyan—asking us for help,” he said. “That doesn’t seem odd to you?”

The truth was, it did.

It was six or seven months ago—before we had to retire. Joe and I had tracked down a drug ring. What we didn’t know or anticipate was the series of busts around town that would follow—the consequences of our investigation, including the arrest of the former star linebacker for the Bayport High School football team, Neal “Neanderthal” Bunyan, all-state three years running, who had apparently been abusing steroids.

Neanderthal Bunyan had good reason to enjoy seeing Frank and me humiliated. Would he even accept our help?

“Let’s just be careful,” Frank suggested.

It might be a challenge, in some classes, for two brothers to get bathroom passes for simultaneous bathroom trips. But fortunately, Coach Gerther had stopped caring a long time ago, possibly before we were born. He grabbed two passes from a big coffee can he kept on his desk and waved us away.

We found Sharelle waiting where she said she’d be, by the vending machines. Frank and I took a seat on either side of her.

“So what’s going on with Neanderthal?” I said.

“Okay,” she said in an excited whisper. “This, like, totally
insane
thing has been happening. . . .”

I
’M NOT SURE WHO WAS
THE LEAST COMFORT
-able when Sharelle led Joe and me into Neanderthal
Bunyan’s bedroom that afternoon. Neanderthal was lying back on his bed, all his
attention focused on the football-themed video game he was playing on the TV that hung
on the wall.

“Get out, Sharelle,” he said without looking up, but when
three people walked in, and not one, he sighed, hit a pause button, and looked up.

“Oh,” he said, looking startled and not pleased.
“It’s—”

“You need help, Neal,” Sharelle said in a bossy voice. I had a
sudden premonition of what it might feel like to have Sharelle as a sister, and a chill
ran down my spine. “I asked these guys to come over because I knew you never
would.”

Neanderthal didn’t say anything. He was staring
from me to Joe with a curled lip, like he smelled something horrible. “I
don’t need any help from these two,” he said, and picked up the game
controller again. He unpaused the game and turned his attention back to the screen.
“You can show yourselves out,” he finished.

Fair enough. I touched Joe’s arm and started heading for the door.
We weren’t supposed to be doing any investigation right now . . .
so why waste time trying to convince a guy who didn’t even want our help? But Joe
seemed to hesitate, looking to Sharelle. Suddenly she jumped forward, grabbing the
controller from her brother’s hand.

“HEY!” Neanderthal yelled.

“HEY YOURSELF!” she shouted back, matching him on volume. She
gestured to me and Joe. “I asked these guys to come over today because even though
you don’t have the best history, they’re the only ones who can help
you,” Sharelle finished.

Neanderthal pursed his lips. Clearly, he didn’t like the direction
of this conversation. But I could tell that Sharelle’s words were making a dent.
He let out a groan and looked down at his New York Giants comforter. Then he crossed his
arms and settled back against the head of his bed, still scowling, still not looking at
us.

“Do you want to tell them what happened?” Sharelle asked,
moving closer to the bed.

Neanderthal shook his head. “You tell them,” he muttered.

Sharelle turned back to face Joe and me.
“Okay,” she said. “About a week ago, Neal started getting some very
weird e-mails.”

I nodded slowly. “Weirder than the e-mail this morning with the link
to the movie trailer?”

Neanderthal gave me a contemptuous look. “Dude, way weirder than
that,” he said. “What do I care about you guys getting robbed in some bank?
No, this was . . .” He trailed off, staring off into the distance,
fear invading his expression.

Not sure how to proceed, I looked to Sharelle. “This was?” I
prompted.

Sharelle looked at Neanderthal, as though waiting to see whether he could
pull himself together and finish the story. When he didn’t move for a few seconds,
she sighed and turned back to us. “This was really creepy,” she said.
“The address was one he didn’t recognize, and the e-mail itself was just a
link. No signature, no message.”

I looked at Joe. This was sounding familiar.
“Okay . . . and?”

Sharelle paused and looked at her brother. “Tell them,
Neal.”

We both turned to face Neal. He was staring at the black television
screen, and as we watched, he seemed to shake himself off and looked down at his
comforter. “The link went to a video,” he said, then swallowed. “The
video was . . . it was of me sleeping,” he said quickly, then shook
his head again.

I looked at Joe. He looked just as confused as I felt.
“Sleeping?” he asked. “As in . . .”

“As in right here, in this bed,” Neanderthal said, patting
the mattress beneath him. “I don’t know when it was
taken. Or how. Or by who. But whoever made it . . .” His voice
wavered. “They were watching me all night.”

I met Joe’s eyes. “Wow. That’s
really . . .”

“Creepy,” Joe finished. He shivered a little. “Man, I
think I have the willies now.”

Neanderthal looked a little relieved. “Yeah?” he asked.
“It’s freaking me out too. I just don’t know who would want to watch
me sleep—or why.”

“That’s not all,” Sharelle added.

“It’s not?” I asked.

Neanderthal was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “The
really creepy thing is, it’s happened more than once. I’ve gotten three
videos e-mailed to me over the last five days.”

I frowned. “So whoever’s watching you sleep—they might
be doing it a lot.”

Neanderthal nodded. “And it looks like—I mean, this really
creeps me out, but it looks like you can watch the video feed live on the web. They
e-mail me links to the recordings, but there’s also a link to watch the live
video.” He paused. “I just don’t get it,” he said finally.
“I don’t know who would want me monitored. I don’t think I have any
enemies—I mean, besides you guys.”

Touché. I looked at Joe.

“Can we see them?” he asked.

Neanderthal looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded. “Yeah, let
me just fire up my computer.”

While he walked over to the desk on the left side of
the room and opened up a blue laptop, I took a quick scan of the room, looking for
anything suspicious and cameralike. Nothing stood out, though. Neanderthal had a
surprisingly minimalist decorating style. Whoever had hidden a camera in here must have
really tried hard.

After a minute or so, Neanderthal called us over to his computer. He had a
web browser open to his e-mail. “Here it is.”

He clicked on a message from [email protected]. There was no subject, and when the message opened, it
contained only a link.

Neanderthal clicked on the link, and a grainy black-and-white video
started up.

It took me a minute to figure out what all the shapes were in the dim
light, but then I could make out Neanderthal, in his bed, tossing and turning, then
lying still.

The video was silent apart from the sound of Neanderthal breathing and the
occasional creak of the springs in his mattress.

“Whoa,” muttered Joe.

“Have you looked for a camera?” I asked. I turned in the
direction the video was shot from; it looked like the camera had been on
Neanderthal’s shelf of sports trophies.

“That’s the really creepy thing,” Neanderthal said,
clicking back to the web browser and opening up another e-mail. He clicked on that link,
and another grainy black-and-white
video started up, this one shot
from a totally different direction. It looked like this camera had been posted just
above his door. What the . . .?