The Mark of the Blue Tattoo (6 page)

Iola was standing closest to Joe. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the side. An instant later a second bottle shattered on the sidewalk where the group had been standing. Two other bottles followed closely. Splinters of glass sprayed the area. Biff let out a shout of pain.

Frank was already sprinting toward the parking lot. Joe paused just long enough to make sure that Biff wasn't badly hurt. Then he dashed after Frank. The blue station wagon was already racing toward the street, tires squealing. One of its passengers was looking out the back window with a smirk. Joe recognized Gus French and made a
promise to himself to wipe the grin off the guy's face at the first opportunity.

“Come on,” Joe said to Frank. “Let's make sure that everyone's okay.”

“Wait a sec,” Frank replied. “I think I see the red car that was following us. Let's do something before he can get away.”

Joe and Frank ran toward the red car. The same man in sunglasses was at the wheel. Frank could see the man's mouth drop open in surprise when he saw the Hardys. A moment later the car's engine started up. But before it could move, Joe leaped onto the hood and lay spread-eagled on the windshield. Meanwhile, Frank was jerking the driver's door open.

“Hey, what is this?” the driver demanded loudly. “What do you boys want?”

“A little chat, that's all,” Frank told him. “Why don't you turn off your engine and get out of the car?”

Joe climbed down from the hood and joined Frank by the open car door.

“No way,” the man replied. “And if you try to pull me out, I'll have you arrested for assault.”

“Do you have a school parking permit?” Joe retorted. “If not,
we
can have
you
arrested for trespassing.”

The man gave a short laugh. “Sounds like a standoff,” he said. He reached forward and switched off the ignition. “So, now what?”

“You can start by telling us who you are,” Frank said.

“And why you've been tailing us,” Joe added.

Joe tensed as the man reached inside his jacket. Was he about to draw a gun? But when his hand reappeared, all it was holding was a business card. He passed it to Frank, who held it out for Joe to see, too.

“ ‘Aaron McCay, Investigative Reporter,' ” Joe read aloud. “Sounds like a good name for a TV show.”

“Thanks,” McCay said proudly. “You never know . . . maybe one of these days.”

“What paper do you work for, Mr. McCay?” Frank asked.

“I'm freelance,” McCay told them. “I write for a lot of different publications.”

“And which of them wants you to investigate us?” Joe asked.

“You boys have it all wrong,” McCay proclaimed. “Look, here's the way it is. I've been working on a feature story about the after-school activities of local high school students. You know—sports, interesting hobbies, part-time jobs—things like that. Then I heard about a couple of guys who are amateur detectives. I told myself, They're a natural.' You catch my drift?”

“I think so,” Frank said sarcastically. He tucked McCay's card into his shirt pocket.

“I want to see to it that you boys get the fame you deserve,” McCay continued. “Here's my idea. You let me follow you around and take notes on your next investigation. When it's finished, I'll write it in the form of an adventure story. Don't worry, I'll change the names and some of the details, to keep from embarrassing anybody. I'll bet it'll be a big hit. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if the publishers decided to do a whole series of books about you. What do you say?”

“My brother and I would have to think that one over,” Frank said. “But I can't help wondering—if you were planning to approach us with this idea, why did you try so hard to avoid us yesterday and again this afternoon?”

McCay looked flustered. He bit his lower lip, then said, “Oh, um . . . I wanted to get a start on my project before I told you about it. That way, you'd realize that I was making a serious proposition.” He added quickly, “Which I am.”

“So you admit following us yesterday,” Joe said.

“I just told you so,” McCay replied. “Look, this isn't getting us anywhere. Do we have a deal?”

Joe ignored his question and asked, “Those guys who were throwing bottles at us just now—could you identify them if you saw them again?”

“Throwing bottles?” McCay looked down at
his dashboard. “Sorry, fellows. I don't know what you're talking about. I was just sitting here going through my notes. I didn't see anything.”

Joe put his head inside the car and scanned the front seat. There was no sign of any notes. The back of McCay's neck turned red.

“You don't have to believe me,” McCay said belligerently.

“That's a good thing,” Joe replied. “If you weren't watching those bottle throwers, what were you doing here?”

“Working on a story,” McCay insisted. “And that's all I'm going to say. Look, I'm offering to make you guys a household name. It's a legitimate offer. But as they say on television, it's a limited-time offer. If you don't want to cooperate with me, too bad for you. Maybe I'll find somebody else who's more reasonable. There's two sides to every story, you know. And I can tell it either way.”

Joe looked over at Frank, who gave a thin smile and said, “We'll keep that in mind, Mr. McCay. And if you happen to remember anything that might be helpful—about those bottle throwers, for instance—please let us know.”

Joe and Frank stepped back. McCay slammed his door closed, started his engine, and drove off.

“Come on,” Frank said. “We'd better make sure everybody's okay.”

The Hardys returned to the flagpole and their friends. Biff had a scratch on his cheek from a piece of flying glass, but neither Callie nor Iola was hurt.

“What happened to you guys?” Callie asked. “You were gone so long, we were starting to worry.”

Frank told them about their encounter with Aaron McCay.

“Weird,” Biff commented. “How good a reporter could he be if he didn't catch the bottle-throwing scene? He was practically in the middle of it.”

“I wonder what he meant about every story having two sides and that he could tell it either way,” Iola said.

“I have a hunch about that,” Joe told her. “I think he must be in touch with Marlon or some of the other Starz. If we don't let him make us the heroes of his story, he's planning to make
them
the heroes and us the bad guys.”

“But that wouldn't be honest!” Callie exclaimed.

Frank laughed. “I guess we shouldn't believe everything we read in the papers, then. But, you know,” he added, “McCay may have stumbled on some useful information. I wonder how we can find out.”

“What if we pretend to go along with his
scheme about a series of books?” Joe suggested. “We give him a few tiny facts about the case, then tell him it's his turn.”

“Good idea,” Frank said. “Maybe he'll help us figure out what this case is about. The Starz are trying very hard to scare us away, but away from what?”

“I'll call Stephanie when I get home to see if we can get together. I'll see what I can find out,” Callie offered.

“I'll do whatever needs doing,” Biff said. “But right now I have to split. I promised Mom I'd run some errands for her this afternoon.”

After Biff left, the Hardys dropped off Callie and Iola, then headed home themselves. As they entered the kitchen, their mother, Laura Hardy, greeted them. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago,” she said. “A man. He wouldn't leave his name, but he said something about seeing you in Jefferson Park. I hope that makes sense to you.”

Joe met Frank's eyes, then said, “Sort of.”

“Another case?” Mrs. Hardy asked. “I don't have to tell you to be careful. You may be nearly grown, but you're still my little boys.”

Red-faced, Joe mumbled, “Sure, Mom. We'll be careful.”

He and Frank made sandwiches, filled a bowl with chips, grabbed some sodas, then went to boot up the computer. A few minutes of on-line
searching confirmed that Aaron McCay really was a writer. Apparently he had done everything from science fiction novels to a collection of traditional recipes from Nebraska. His most recent articles had appeared in a weekly paper that specialized in sensational stories about events in the Bayport area.

“Do you think he was the one who called and talked to Mom?” Joe asked.

“He was watching us yesterday at Jefferson Park,” Frank pointed out. “Who else saw us there?”

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Maybe whoever left the message didn't mean that he
had
seen us there. What if he meant that he
wants
to see us there?”

Frank shrugged. “Then why didn't he say so? And even if he did, I don't feel like running all over town just because that guy says jump.”

“I think we should go take a look,” Joe said.

Frank shook his head. “You go if you want. I'm going to take the information everybody gathered about the Starz and try to put it into some kind of order.”

Frank picked up his sheaf of notes and turned back to the computer. Joe hesitated for a moment, then said, “Okay. I'll see you later.”

As Joe left the house, he noticed his mountain bike leaning against the wall in the garage. He loved to ride it, but what with the van, he never
got around to it. Why not now, he decided? It wouldn't take him much longer to get to Jefferson Park than if he drove the van. He strapped on his helmet, hopped onto the bike, and took off.

Joe was enjoying the ride across town so much that as he neared the park, he had to remind himself that this was business. He scanned the parked cars for a red compact and checked out the few pedestrians for any sign of McCay or anyone who looked familiar.

Joe circled the park twice, then cut across it on each of the diagonal walks. The park was peaceful and quiet, except near the playground, where half a dozen kids were playing tag. Joe paused to watch a little girl throwing a Frisbee to her cocker spaniel. The dog was adept at catching the Frisbee in midair.

It was getting on toward dinnertime. Joe finally admitted that, from the point of view of the case, his ride to the park had turned out to be a bust. Still, he'd gotten some fresh air and a good workout, so it hadn't been a total waste, he concluded.

He rode across the sidewalk onto the street and turned toward home. He had gone a little over half a block when, from behind him, he heard a familiar tinkling melody. A Freddy Frost truck was coming. Grinning, Joe glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Chet.

The ice-cream truck was a couple of dozen yards behind him. The sun visor hid the driver's face. Joe realized that the truck was picking up speed and heading straight at him. The grin froze on his face. He began pedaling hard as the truck bore down on him.

The Freddy Frost truck was only yards behind Joe now. Joe swerved sharply to the right, pulled up on the handlebars, and jumped the curb. The mountain bike wobbled as the front tire skidded on the grass. Joe gave the pedals a hard push to straighten up. He raced onto the sidewalk, then risked another hasty glance over his shoulder.

The Freddy Frost truck lurched over the curb onto the sidewalk behind Joe. The glare of the sun on the windshield kept Joe from seeing the driver's face, but he had no doubt about the driver's purpose. As he put all his strength into a desperate sprint, Joe looked around quickly for refuge.

The front yard of the house just ahead of him sloped gently up to the front door. The lawn was smooth and wide. He would have no trouble riding up the lawn, but the Freddy Frost truck could follow just as easily, he realized.

Joe let out a grunt of relief when he saw the next house down. A thick chest-high hedge bordered the driveway. On the far side of the hedge was the massive trunk of an oak tree. Let the truck driver try to get past that, Joe thought triumphantly!

He knew surprise was essential. Pedaling rapidly, Joe waited until he was even with the driveway. Then he jerked the handlebars around and threw his weight to the right. Unbalanced, the bike went into a full power slide, turning ninety degrees in less than two feet of forward motion.

As the tip of the right pedal dug into the grass, Joe flung himself off the bike, did a forward tuck-and-roll, and ended up crouched in the shelter of the tree trunk. Only moments later the Freddy Frost truck sideswiped the hedge, slowed for an instant, then careered back into the street and roared away.

From the nearest house, a man in khaki work clothes came rushing out. “Hey, what's going on?” he shouted, staring at the deep ruts from the truck tires. “Look what that idiot did to my lawn!”

Joe used the tree trunk to help pull himself to his feet. His left knee hurt, his T-shirt had a new rip in it, and he had banged his wrist on the handlebars. Not good, but a lot better than going under a speeding truck, he thought grimly.

“Are you all right?” the man in khaki said as he noticed Joe.

“I'll be okay,” Joe told him, though he knew he'd be limping slightly for a few days.

“I'm going to report that truck to the police,” the man declared. “Talk about reckless driving—he could have hit you!”

“Yeah, I know,” Joe said. He picked up his bike and checked it for damage, adding to himself under his breath, “He sure tried his best to.”

“Are you sure you're all right?” the man repeated as Joe mounted his bicycle and prepared to ride off.

“I'll be fine, thanks,” Joe said, and pushed off. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Wait until Frank hears about this! Joe thought.

•   •   •

Frank listened intently to Joe's account of his narrow escape. When Joe finished, he asked, “Did you get a look at the driver?”