Secret of the Red Arrow (6 page)

“Not before you explain what’s going on,” Frank insisted. He lowered his voice. “Why are you lying?” he asked. “What really happened tonight? You can tell us.”

Neanderthal didn’t respond, just stared at the floor and shook his head. After a few seconds of silence—during which we didn’t leave—he finally raised his eyes to meet Frank’s.

They were full of fear.

“Please,” he said finally, in a low voice. “If you know what’s good for you—or me—you will forget that Sharelle ever asked you here. It was a misunderstanding, okay? I don’t need your help.”

Frank frowned, then turned to me. I shook my head, mystified. What could it take to scare Neanderthal Bunyan—one of the biggest meatheads in school—this badly?

“Okay,” I said after a minute or so. “We’ll take your word for it, Neal. If you want us to leave, we’ll leave.”

I looked at Frank and raised my eyebrows, like,
Shall we?
Personally, I was done trying to make nice with Neanderthal. Obviously, something was going on with him. But if he didn’t want to tell us about it, so be it.

Frank hesitated before nodding. Before he moved, though, he turned back to Neanderthal and lowered his voice. “If you ever want to tell us what’s really going on,” he said, “we’re here.”

Clearly, Frank has more patience than I do. I was already fantasizing about my nice warm bed and the four or so hours of sleep I could still get if we hightailed it home. But when we turned to walk out the door, something jumped out at me.

It was right over Neal’s bedroom door—just above the center of the door frame.

A tiny red triangle with what looked like little legs coming out of it. Painted on, like with a stencil.

It definitely hadn’t been there when Frank and I had come by earlier.

In fact, it was shiny. Was the paint still wet?

I pointed. “Neal—what the heck is that?”

Neal’s reaction was brief but intense. His face turned scarlet and his eyes widened like a ghost had appeared behind us. But then he looked down at the floor and shook his head, and when he faced us again, he looked totally nonchalant.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “That red thing? Just something stupid Sharelle and I painted up there when I was little.”

Frank stared at the symbol. “I could swear that wasn’t there be—”

But Neal kept talking, drowning him out. “We were into Native Americans. Arrowheads. You know.”

He walked around his bed toward us, then opened the door and raised his voice. “Well, bye now. You two sleep well.”

My brother and I regarded each other warily. Neanderthal’s parents could clearly hear us now. No way he was going to reveal anything else.

“Okay,” I said, strolling through the door. “Well, good night.”

Frank didn’t look terribly eager to leave, but it was clear he got the message too. We walked down the hallway to the living room and the front door. As we were about to leave, a figure jumped up off the couch in the darkened room, startling us.

Sharelle.

She walked over, not quite meeting our eyes. “Good night, guys,” she said, and then, lowering her voice so only we could hear her, “Sorry.”

Frank leaned closer and lowered his voice to match hers. “I don’t suppose you want to tell us what’s really going on?” he whispered.

Sharelle looked up at him. Her eyes were full of regret. “See you around,” she said, in her normal tone.

I sighed. “Right,” I said, walking through the door behind my brother and closing it behind us. “See you around.”

I
DON’T KNOW ABOUT JOE, BUT I DIDN’T GET
much sleep when we finally got home from our aborted attempt to save Neanderthal Bunyan’s life. Something about the way he’d looked at me—
If you know what’s good for you, or me
—with his eyes full of fear. It was an emotion I normally didn’t associate with football players. It just creeped me out.

In the morning, as I drove to school, Joe suddenly piped up. “It was revenge,” he said decisively.

“What?”

“The whole deal at Neanderthal’s house last night,” he said. He was looking out the window thoughtfully, watching Main Street fly by. “It has to be some cockamamie plot of his to get revenge for being put away somehow, I’ve decided.”

I snorted. “Well, if you’ve decided, it must be true,” I said sarcastically.

Joe turned away from the window. He looked stung.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just not so convinced.”

“What else could it be?” Joe asked, holding out his hands in a beseeching gesture. “I’ve run though everything in my head. The Mafia. Zombies. Killer robots.”

“I think it could be killer robots,” I muttered, pulling into the parking lot. But he wasn’t paying attention, which was sort of why I’d said it. I didn’t think there were killer robots. In Bayport.

“Unless you believe there’s a force out there that could scare Neanderthal Bunyan into total submission,” Joe went on, “which I don’t . . . the only logical explanation is revenge.”

I pulled the car into our usual parking space, put it in park, and turned off the engine. Neither one of us made any move to get out of the car just yet.

“It could be Seth Diller,” I said finally.

Joe wrinkled his nose. “Pfft,” he said. “Seth Diller.”

I looked at him. “You were the one who thought he was sinister enough to pull this off.”

Joe was staring out the windshield now. “That was before last night,” he said.

“Before the beating?” I clarified.

“Before I saw Neanderthal Bunyan with the poop scared out of him,” he corrected me.

I looked out the windshield. A bunch of freshman cheerleaders
were running around with “spirit boxes” they’d made for the football players. They contained cookies, usually. I noticed Sharelle among them, carrying a shoe box decorated in the BHS colors. Maybe it was just me, but it looked like some of the pep had been sucked out of her. She seemed to walk a little more slowly and carefully, like something was pressing her down from above.

Maybe Neanderthal’s situation—whatever it was—was weighing as heavily on her as it was on us.

“We should still talk to Seth when he’s back,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt and grabbing my backpack. The first bell was going to ring in three minutes. It occurred to me that since the bank “robbery,” I’d made absolutely no progress on my speech.

Detective work and schoolwork never mixed well. Which was part of the reason for the Deal.

Joe sighed and unbuckled his seat belt. “Great,” he said, taking his turn at sarcasm. “I’m sure Seth will be really psyched to talk to us.”

•   •   •

“Hey, Seth.”

Joe and I had caught up with our favorite prankster in the hot-food line in the cafeteria. When he was back three days later, he seemed to be torn between the ravioli and the meatballs.

“Go for the special of the day,” Joe advised. His tray was already piled high with it.

Seth looked at both of us like he’d just lost his appetite. He looked at Joe’s tray and his expression worsened. “What is it?” he asked Joe.

Joe looked down. “Mostly peas,” he replied neutrally.

Seth sighed and shook his head, turning back to the line. “Ravioli, please,” he asked the lady behind the trays.

“Bad choice,” Joe said, looking disappointed. “Did you hear about when Winnie Maxwell found a tooth in her ravioli?”

Seth grimaced. “A human tooth?”

Joe looked at him frankly. “Does it matter?”

We had made it to the cashier now, and Seth paid first, then promptly tried to lose us by running off to a table in the back. The Hardy Boys are pretty quick with cash, though. We paid and were able to catch up to Seth within seconds.

“We need to talk to you,” I said, not interested in wasting any more time.

Seth looked straight ahead. “I’m not interested in talking to you,” he replied.

“Come on,” said Joe. “In my opinion, you still owe me for making me walk all the way home from where that police cruiser dropped me off.”

Seth glared at him. “And in my opinion, you can never repay me for making me spend four hours in jail last night.”

Four hours? What an amateur. “What, your parents wouldn’t pick you up?”

Seth sighed and nodded. “My dad is not talking to me this century,” he said. “As of yesterday. Thanks to you.”

“Really, thanks to you, Seth,” I pointed out. “As I have mentioned before, you did kind of rob a bank.”

“And as I have mentioned before,” Seth replied, “it was a harmless prank.”

Hmm. The three of us had reached the end of the cafeteria, but stubbornly, Seth made no move to sit down, probably not wanting to invite a long conversation. I gestured to the table behind us. “Shall we?”

But Seth shook his head deliberately back and forth, like a kindergartener. “Can you just say what you need to say and we’ll be done with it?”

Joe was frowning, thinking about something. “Hey, how did you get access to the cruiser?” he asked.

“What?”

“The police cruiser,” he clarified. “For your little harmless prank.”

Seth raised his chin defiantly. “I know people.”

Interesting. “What kind of people?” I asked.

“Important people,” Seth replied. “City people.”

“And they were willing to go along with your dangerous prank?” I asked. “Who was this?”

“I’ll never tell,” Seth replied. “I protect my allies. Look, can we get to the point?”

I glanced at Joe. “Neal Bunyan,” I said simply.

Automatically, Seth’s eyes went to the table toward the front where the football players—even former ones like Neanderthal—always sat. But Neal wasn’t there today. He
hadn’t come to school. I wasn’t sure whether to be worried about that.

Seth looked confused. “What about him?”

I put my tray down on the nearest table, pulled out my phone, and went into my e-mail. I still had the message Neanderthal had forwarded to me the day before, with the link to the video footage. I clicked on it and held it up for Seth. “See that?”

Seth squinted, then frowned. “Is that Neal?” he asked. “Sleeping?”

“Someone’s been breaking into his house to film him sleeping and broadcast it on the Web,” Joe explained.

“What? Why?” said Seth.

“I don’t know,” I said, giving Seth an accusing look. “Why?”

“Wha-what are you . . .?” Seth looked down at the video again. “Why would I want to film Neal Bunyan sleeping?”

Joe leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe so that when a couple of masked goons broke into his bedroom last night and beat him up, you’d get the whole thing on video.”

Seth stared at Joe, stunned. “What?”

“Tell us the truth, Seth,” I said, leaning in. “Is this part of the Panic Project? Are you hoping we’ll see Neal’s beating on the big screen someday?”

Seth looked at my phone, horrified, and shook his head. “No!” he insisted. “Look, we might disagree about the bank heist prank, but I would never plan a prank for Panic Project that involved someone really getting hurt.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Joe asked.

“Well, for one,” Seth said, “I was at the police station until midnight last night, and then my parents took me right home.” He paused. “As you might imagine, they were keeping a pretty close eye on me. I think they’ll vouch for me being home all night.”

Hmm. The beating had started a little after midnight. Admittedly, it would be pretty hard for Seth to get out of jail, put on black clothes and a mask, and run to Neal Bunyan’s house to beat him up.

But Joe looked less than convinced. “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have gotten someone else to do it,” he pointed out. “Maybe one of the important people you know?”

He had a point. “What else have you got?” I asked.

Seth sighed. “I—I—” He stopped and looked at the screen on my phone. The video had stopped. He put his tray down, reached over, and restarted the video. Then he smiled and pointed. “Aha!”

“Aha?” asked Joe.

“That’s not my camera,” Seth said, pointing at the video. “It’s way higher quality video than the one I have. This was made with a pretty expensive camera. See?”

He pulled out his own phone and played the bank robber video. Indeed, it was much grainier and less sharp than the video of Neal.

But Joe still looked skeptical. “That doesn’t mean you only have one camera,” he said.

Seth sighed. “Look,” he said, pulling up his website on his phone. “Watch any video. Any movie I’ve made. I guarantee you, none of them will match the picture on this video.”

We clicked through a few. Seth was right. Some of the video quality was better than his phone’s, but none of them were as sharp as the video of Neanderthal.

“And how do we know you didn’t buy this camera especially for the Neal project?” Joe asked. But I could tell from his tone that his heart wasn’t in it. Seth had convinced him.

“That’s, like, a thousand-dollar camera,” Seth replied. “You can ask my parents. For real, I don’t have that kind of money. If I was saving up for a camera like that, they’d know.”

I looked at Joe. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing: Seth was telling the truth.

“Okay,” Joe said finally. “We believe you. I guess the Panic Project is dead.”

“As a doornail,” said Seth bitterly. “Thanks to you guys.”

“But let me ask you something.” Joe put his tray down and grabbed his napkin. Then he pulled a pencil out from behind his ear—a Joe-ism, to make sure he always has something to write with in school—and sketched something on the napkin. “Do you know what this symbol is?”

Joe held up the napkin and I swear, Seth paled visibly. I grabbed the napkin to get a look myself and realized that it was the triangle-with-legs symbol we’d seen over Neal’s door last night. Or early this morning, technically.

Seth seemed to pull himself together with effort. “Nope,” he said finally. “Anything else?”

“You sure you’ve never seen that symbol before?” I asked, pointing at the napkin. “This one right here?”

Seth swallowed hard and shook his head. “Nope. Well, gotta go.”

“Never?” asked Joe, seeming to pick up on Seth’s reaction too.