Secret of the Red Arrow (12 page)

“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.

“There, I said it,” I went on. “Is everyone scared? Is lightning going to strike me from above? Because that’s how he keeps his power, you know. No one will talk about it. No one will talk about what the Red Arrow is doing.”

People were squirming now. I looked back at Principal Gorse, and his face wore an expression I’d never seen on him before: pure rage. He was turning scarlet, his eyebrows drawing harsh lines over his eyes, which bugged in horror.

He began marching down the aisle—as fast as he could manage with the space-age cane.

“So let’s talk about what he’s doing,” I went on. “He’s beating kids up. Forcing them to do his bidding. Even spying on their cell phone conversations.”

Principal Gorse reached the foot of the stage and began
struggling up the three stairs. Having no idea why he was climbing up, I’m sure, Ms. Jones rushed forward to give him a hand.

“Who knows how far up his influence goes?” I asked. “Is the Red Arrow connected with the police? With town officials? Even . . . school officials?”

Principal Gorse lurched up the last step and immediately lunged in my direction. I actually had to swerve away to avoid being tackled by the man. He looked like a hungry wolf, like he would have happily chewed me up and spit me out right there if he could.

Instead he grabbed the mic. “This speech is over,” he panted. “I need to meet with Frank . . . immediately.”

The din in the auditorium immediately rose to study-hall levels, all the students wanting to know what was happening, what I had done. Ms. Jones ran over, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Simon?” she asked, touching Principal Gorse’s shoulder. “What’s . . . happening? Are you . . .?”

Joe, who’d jumped up in his seat the minute Principal Gorse took the mic, ran up the aisle and onto the stage. “I’ll go too!” he blurted, running to my side. “I . . . I . . .”

“I suppose we all have a lot to talk about,” I said, giving Principal Gorse a meaningful look.

He nodded. “Come with me,” he said, moving off toward the wings of the stage.

With Ms. Jones still mystified, and the teachers in the
audience struggling to regain control of their students as chaos broke out, Joe and I followed Principal Gorse through the wings and out a door that led to a quiet hallway behind the gym.

When he turned to face us, Principal Gorse’s face was completely different. The rage was gone. In its place I thought I saw regret.

“Okay,” he said, his voice low as his eyes darted around the hallway. “Clearly, you boys are in need of . . . answers. Answers I think I can provide.”

I nodded. “Go on.”

He took a breath and stopped. “I would like to do this somewhere private,” he went on. “I promise, when I finish what I have to say, I will leave myself at your mercy. Looking back, I see where I have gone wrong. I know that I must be punished. Understand?”

Joe looked from the principal to me, and I could tell he was mystified but going to play along. He nodded.

I nodded too, turning back to the man I believed to be the Red Arrow. “Principal Gorse, you know we’ve always respected you. I don’t want to make this more difficult than it needs to be.” I paused. “But I think I need to call the police now. I hope you understand.”

I pulled out my phone and started dialing the Bayport PD’s number. Before I could get past the first digit, Principal Gorse silently put his hand on my phone and stopped me.

“Do you want to know the truth or not?” he asked evenly.

I looked at Joe. He looked as surprised as I felt. Of course we wanted to know the truth. But I wanted to be safe, too.

The principal lowered his voice. “Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll tell you everything. Call the police now, and I’ll cooperate, yes—but I won’t answer their questions. I won’t give you any of the answers you want.”

Joe widened his eyes at me. I didn’t know what to do. I knew we shouldn’t trust Gorse . . . but I needed to know what the Red Arrow really was. Why such a seemingly nice man had done this.

Principal Gorse eyed me sympathetically. “You may keep your cell phone on, of course,” he said. “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, the police are just three digits away, no?”

I swallowed and looked at Joe. It sounded reasonable. Maybe we weren’t going to get to the bottom of the Red Arrow without taking a risk.

“Okay,” I said finally.

Gorse gave an abrupt nod. “I appreciate that, boys. If you’ll follow me . . . I know a place where we can talk privately.”

He took out a key and led us through a small doorway and down a flight of steps. We were entering the fabled Bayport High School basement. Depending on who you talked to, the bodies of failing seniors were buried down there, or the secret room where teachers kept all the answer keys, or a
forgotten dungeon. Unlike the Red Arrow, though, those were actual urban legends.

Principal Gorse paused before a metal door and then pushed it open. Blinding sunlight streamed in. We walked out onto the football field.

To the right was an area that had been under construction for the past few months. Rumor had it that we were getting a new gym and locker rooms, but right now the place just looked like a mud farm with some construction equipment and storage containers. Principal Gorse approached one of these containers and pulled out a key.

“This has been my secret office for some time,” he said quietly. “I’ve come out here whenever I was doing something I didn’t wish for anyone to witness. I keep a laptop in here and make all my phone calls on a disposable cell phone.”

How long had this been going on? I wondered. Had Principal Gorse always been the Red Arrow, even when our dad was struggling with it? I hoped we’d get the truth once we stepped inside.

The principal unlocked the heavy padlock, pushed the heavy metal door open, and walked inside. The room was narrow, rectangular, and dim, with a tiny bit of light filtering in from a hatch in the ceiling that was open just a crack.

I looked back at Joe and followed Principal Gorse inside. Joe was close behind. We stood in the room, blinking as our eyes slowly adjusted.

The room was cold, and totally empty. Then I spotted
something strange. The end of a hose had been fed through the narrow opening of the hatch. At that moment, Principal Gorse suddenly lunged at me, swinging his cane at my head.

“AAUUUGH!” I ducked just in time, but the tip of the cane cracked Joe, who’d been rushing to my defense, in the nose. Blood spurted in all directions.

“What the—?” I managed, as Principal Gorse brought the cane back and swung it again.

I careened to the side, but it still hit me flush in the shoulder, knocking me to the ground and making me moan with pain.

Principal Gorse aimed a quick, nasty kick at Joe’s leg and sent him tumbling to the ground too. He stood over us, brandishing the cane like a baseball bat.