Read Online Secret of the Red Arrow by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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this is not something to concern yourselves with.”
I looked at Joe. What?
“What if we think it’s . . . um . . . causing problems for a friend?” Joe asked.
“Who is this friend?” Dad asked, turning his Detective Laser Gaze on my brother. “What has he—or she—gotten himself involved in?”
“Does it matter?” I asked, and then instantly regretted it when the Laser Gaze was pointed at me. I cleared my throat and then continued, more gently, “Is this symbol . . . is it a punishment of some kind? Does it mean someone’s marked you?”
Dad sat back in his chair and sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up more. “Every town has its dark side,” he said, looking up at the ceiling and then back at us. “Why are you asking? What’s going on with you boys? You’re not investigating again, are you?”
“Of course not,” Joe said quickly, reflexively.
I shook my head. “We understand the Deal,” I said, not meeting Dad’s eye.
“It’s just . . .” Joe sat forward in his chair, beseeching Dad.“This friend of ours. Bad things are happening to him, and he doesn’t know why. Is it because of this mark?”
Dad leveled his gaze at Joe, his face neutral. “It could be,” he said quietly. Then louder: “Listen, boys, under the circumstances, and with the troubles you’re already facing, it is extremely important not to let it get around town that you’re asking questions about this . . . this issue. Okay?”
“You mean the triangle with legs?” Joe asked.
“The wha—?” Our father stopped himself and laughed, seeming to get it. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. “I’m serious, boys. This is very, very serious business. Some things are best left alone. Uninvestigated. Do you understand? And one of those things is the Red Arrow.”
Joe looked at me. The Red Arrow , he mouthed. So the triangle with legs had a name.
And our father knew it. And didn’t want to talk about it.
Which, for Fenton Hardy, was pretty unusual.
“But, Dad, if the Red Arrow exists,” I said, “and it’s that terrible—so terrible that no one can even hear you talking about it—shouldn’t someone do something about it?”
Dad looked at me. Hoo-boy. This look was even worse than the Laser Gaze. This was the Son, I’m Disappointed in You, But I’m Going to Let My Eyes Do the Talking Gaze.
“Well, Son,” he said calmly, “you’re assuming that someone hasn’t already tried.”
I took that in. My mind was reeling with questions: Doesthat mean . . .? Is he saying . . .? But before I could decide whether even one of them was safe to ask, we were interrupted by loud, tinny music.
“Hit me baby one more time . . . !”
Joe sat up and reached into his pants pocket, yanking out his phone. “I like the classics,” he told me sheepishly as he clicked the talk button. “Hello? Yeah, this is he . . . Yeah . . . No, that’s . . . Oh no. Oh, man. Okay. Yes.”
He clicked off the phone and looked up at Dad and me. “Um,” he said awkwardly, “well, thanks, Dad, and point taken. Listen, I think I need to talk to Frank.”
Dad nodded and waved us out of his study. “All right, I need to get back to this chapter. Remember what I said, boys.”
We assured him that we would and stepped out of the study. Joe closed the door behind us and turned to me with a frantic expression.
“That was Sharelle,” he whispered urgently. “Neal was hit by a car today. He’s in the hospital!”
BLAST FROM THE PAST
10
JOE
H OSPITALS ARE NOT HAPPY PLACES UNDER the best of circumstances, but when we spotted Sharelle in the lobby of the Bayport Memorial ER, we knew something big was up. Her face was streaked with mascara-y tears, and she was clinging to her cell phone like it was her only friend in the world.
“Frank! Joe!” she cried when she saw us come in. We ran over to her.
“What’s going on?” Frank asked urgently.
Sharelle
I looked at Joe. What?
“What if we think it’s . . . um . . . causing problems for a friend?” Joe asked.
“Who is this friend?” Dad asked, turning his Detective Laser Gaze on my brother. “What has he—or she—gotten himself involved in?”
“Does it matter?” I asked, and then instantly regretted it when the Laser Gaze was pointed at me. I cleared my throat and then continued, more gently, “Is this symbol . . . is it a punishment of some kind? Does it mean someone’s marked you?”
Dad sat back in his chair and sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up more. “Every town has its dark side,” he said, looking up at the ceiling and then back at us. “Why are you asking? What’s going on with you boys? You’re not investigating again, are you?”
“Of course not,” Joe said quickly, reflexively.
I shook my head. “We understand the Deal,” I said, not meeting Dad’s eye.
“It’s just . . .” Joe sat forward in his chair, beseeching Dad.“This friend of ours. Bad things are happening to him, and he doesn’t know why. Is it because of this mark?”
Dad leveled his gaze at Joe, his face neutral. “It could be,” he said quietly. Then louder: “Listen, boys, under the circumstances, and with the troubles you’re already facing, it is extremely important not to let it get around town that you’re asking questions about this . . . this issue. Okay?”
“You mean the triangle with legs?” Joe asked.
“The wha—?” Our father stopped himself and laughed, seeming to get it. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. “I’m serious, boys. This is very, very serious business. Some things are best left alone. Uninvestigated. Do you understand? And one of those things is the Red Arrow.”
Joe looked at me. The Red Arrow , he mouthed. So the triangle with legs had a name.
And our father knew it. And didn’t want to talk about it.
Which, for Fenton Hardy, was pretty unusual.
“But, Dad, if the Red Arrow exists,” I said, “and it’s that terrible—so terrible that no one can even hear you talking about it—shouldn’t someone do something about it?”
Dad looked at me. Hoo-boy. This look was even worse than the Laser Gaze. This was the Son, I’m Disappointed in You, But I’m Going to Let My Eyes Do the Talking Gaze.
“Well, Son,” he said calmly, “you’re assuming that someone hasn’t already tried.”
I took that in. My mind was reeling with questions: Doesthat mean . . .? Is he saying . . .? But before I could decide whether even one of them was safe to ask, we were interrupted by loud, tinny music.
“Hit me baby one more time . . . !”
Joe sat up and reached into his pants pocket, yanking out his phone. “I like the classics,” he told me sheepishly as he clicked the talk button. “Hello? Yeah, this is he . . . Yeah . . . No, that’s . . . Oh no. Oh, man. Okay. Yes.”
He clicked off the phone and looked up at Dad and me. “Um,” he said awkwardly, “well, thanks, Dad, and point taken. Listen, I think I need to talk to Frank.”
Dad nodded and waved us out of his study. “All right, I need to get back to this chapter. Remember what I said, boys.”
We assured him that we would and stepped out of the study. Joe closed the door behind us and turned to me with a frantic expression.
“That was Sharelle,” he whispered urgently. “Neal was hit by a car today. He’s in the hospital!”
BLAST FROM THE PAST
10
JOE
H OSPITALS ARE NOT HAPPY PLACES UNDER the best of circumstances, but when we spotted Sharelle in the lobby of the Bayport Memorial ER, we knew something big was up. Her face was streaked with mascara-y tears, and she was clinging to her cell phone like it was her only friend in the world.
“Frank! Joe!” she cried when she saw us come in. We ran over to her.
“What’s going on?” Frank asked urgently.
Sharelle
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