Secret of the Red Arrow by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”

PANIC PROJECT
7
FRANK
    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 cheerleaderswere 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