Who Killed Darius Drake?: A Mystery

by Rodman Philbrick

  His finger tightens on the trigger.

  “DON’T!” Deirdre screams.

  Jones wheels on my sister, pistol fully extended. Aiming for her heart. “You’re right. Ladies first.”

  He squeezes the trigger.

  No thought involved, no brainpower required. Just a pure physical reaction that makes me leap between my sister and the gun. The first shot rips through my side like a scorching-hot iron. The second shot explodes in my face, a flash of white-hot light, and then …

  Nothing.

  BREAKING NEWS … IN A BIZARRE CONCLUSION TO THE HUNT FOR THE LONG-LOST DUNBAR DIAMONDS, FINANCIAL MOGUL JASPER JONES HAS BEEN ARRESTED ON MULTIPLE CHARGES THAT COULD INCLUDE MURDER IF THE VICTIM DOESN’T SURVIVE … JONES WAS KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS AS HE ATTEMPTED TO EXECUTE A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL … HER STEPBROTHER INTERVENED AND WAS SHOT IN THE ABDOMEN AND HEAD AS HE COLLIDED WITH JONES, SLAMMING HIM INTO A WALL SO HARD THAT THE SUSPECT LOST CONSCIOUSNESS … STOMPANADO RESIDENT VINCENT MEEKS HELPED DETAIN THE SUSPECT WHILE THE POLICE WERE SUMMONED … THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD ARTHUR BASH IS BEING HAILED AS A HERO … HE REMAINS IN INTENSIVE CARE … A HOSPITAL SPOKESPERSON DESCRIBES HIS CONDITION AS “TOUCH AND GO” …

  DARK NOTHINGNESS. Distant voices. First thing that comes into focus is two faces hovering over me. A nurse and a hospital technician. Mom and Dad.

  Then I fall back to sleep.

  Next thing, I’m waking up again and they’re still there, in the exact same places. Mom squeezes my hand. Dad says something, but I can’t make out what it is because I’m falling back to sleep.

  Stuff like that keeps happening. I can’t seem to sort out the dream parts from the awake parts. Somebody rolls me on my side. Somebody sticks another needle in my arm. Days and nights go by, mooshed together. Eventually it smooths out and I can understand what people are saying.

  MOM: “Arthur, dear, can you hear me? The infection has been stabilized. You’re going to be fine.”

  DAD: “Son? Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s a good thing you have a thick skull.”

  Later I found out they did three surgeries on me over five days, all under heavy anesthesia, so it’s no wonder the whole experience was foggy and dreamlike. Anyhow, they fixed the bullet hole by removing a little corner of my stomach. Plenty left over, they said. Ha-ha, very funny.

  Almost dying made me pretty cranky. But my dad was right, it turns out I do have a fairly thick skull. Not as thick as your average boxer, but thick enough that the second bullet skidded off the bone. Gave me a concussion, a pretty bad one, but no permanent damage.

  I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point Mom told me Jasper Jones had been arrested and was being held without bail, on an initial charge of attempted murder. Somehow or other I crashed into him after the shooting, and he hit his head on Dunbar’s sarcophagus. Maybe the diamonds really are cursed, because he passed out. Scar Man tied him up and sat on him while Darius and Deirdre ran to call 911, police and ambulance, and led the first responders into the tunnel.

  All that excitement and I missed it. If you don’t count watching the video Deirdre recorded on her little GoPro camera, the one she clipped to the brim of her pink baseball cap. The one that recorded Jasper Jones bragging about running Darius’s parents off the road, and him threatening all of us, and him shooting me.

  Sorry, but I didn’t watch that part.

  NEWS OF THE MILLS

  The Dunbar Mills Blog

  UPDATE—Charges against investment-fund mogul Jasper Jones have been upgraded to include second-degree murder, relating to the vehicular deaths of David and Eleanor Drake nearly ten years ago. The additional charges were brought after a disputed video file was allowed into evidence. The video was recorded by one of the underaged victims of the alleged attack. Mr. Jones’s team of defense attorneys vows to appeal. If convicted of all charges, including the charges of attempted murder of three minors, Jones could be sentenced for thirty years to life in prison. Meanwhile the suspect is being held without bail, amid swirling rumors that his investment fund is being investigated, and that further charges may be in the offing.

  Pending various legal decisions, it appears the infamous Dunbar diamonds will be going up for auction, with the proceeds dedicated to a scholarship fund for the children of Dunbar Mills, beginning with residents of the Stonehill Home and the Stompanado Housing Complex.

  Looks like lots of local kids may soon be able to attend college free of charge. Hurray for that!

  Rumors are still swirling about where, exactly, the famed necklace was recovered. Sources close to this blogger—a certain white-haired historian and author—strongly indicate the location has been sealed and will never be revealed, out of respect for the deceased.

  THE HOSPITAL FINALLY released me after eleven days. Felt like eleven months or eleven minutes, depending on my mood. I was perfectly fine to walk, but they made me ride in a wheelchair. Mom pushing, Dad walking beside me with a hand on my shoulder, chatting with me like he’d chat with a grown-up, which is weird but good.

  “My suggestion is we go out the back and avoid the cameras,” he says. “Your mother agrees, but it’s your call.”

  “Back is fine. What cameras?”

  He glances at me and chuckles. “You’re famous, Arty. The governor has a medal to give you, as soon as you’re ready, and the Today show wants to fly you to New York for an interview, all expenses paid.”

  “Seriously? Can you guys come, too?”

  Dad looks uncomfortable, probably at the idea of going anywhere with my mom, but he says, “I’m pretty sure we could work it out.”

  “Right now I just want to go home.”

  “Whatever you want,” he says.

  I like the sound of that. Not that I expect it to last.

  There’s an old black Suburban waiting for us out back, behind the Dumpsters, with Scar Man holding the door. “My wheels are your wheels,” he says with a clunky, metal-toothed smile.

  Right then I decide not to call him Scar Man anymore. From now on he’s Mr. Meeks or Vincent, whichever he prefers.

  When the Suburban finally pulls into our driveway, I notice a banner hanging from the rails on the front porch.

  WELCOME HOME TO OUR HERO!

  “That’s embarrassing,” I say.

  “Better get used to it,” Mom says. “You’re going to hear that a lot.”

  Truth is, I’m really not in the mood for a welcome-home party, but there’s no way to avoid it without being a total jerk. Deirdre and Darius are the first to ambush me. The red-haired freckle monster high-fives me and says, “Bash Man! Way to go!” and Deirdre doesn’t say anything because she’s all weepy and everything. Later she calls me “my big brother” and I say, “I’m younger than you, how can I be your big brother?” And she says, “You just are, that’s how.”

  The man with all the names, Mystery Man, Winston Brooks, Pop Pop, he swings over on his crutches, looking way better than the last time I saw him.

  “Good to be out, eh?” he says, taking a deep breath. “Amazing work you boys did. Astonishing. Darius is obviously way smarter than me, and even more bullheaded, and you’re obviously way braver.”

  “I wish people would stop saying that. I couldn’t help it. My feet made me do it.”

  The old treasure hunter laughs. “Whatever you say. Just wanted you to know how grateful I am for what you did. Or what your feet did, if you prefer. How you doing with all this?” he asks, glancing around at the crowd.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m good.”

  But the truth is, I’m not sure.

  There’s cake and Cokes and candy bars, but for some reason I’m not hungry, which is weird. I feel the same but different. Like everything was leading up to that one moment when I had to jump or watch my sister die, and now it’s over, and I’m waiting for whatever happens next.

  I mutter something like that to Mr. Robertson, who isn’t shy about eating cake, and he says, “That’s as good a definition of being alive as any. Wel
come to my world, young Mr. Bash.”

  Later on, Darius slides by. All during the welcome-home party he’s been a combination of loud, shy, and aloof, which is typical. Partly he’s not sure how to behave with his grandfather. They seem to talk, exchanging a few words, and then Darius drifts away, aloof again. Getting to know each other will take some time, obviously. He keeps breaking eye contact as he talks to me, like he’s embarrassed or afraid to tell me something. “You heard I was donating the necklace?”

  “Yeah. That was the right thing to do, for sure.”

  “If we ever need to make some money, maybe we could write a book about it. Pop Pop thinks it’s a worthy concept, and Mr. Robertson said he’d help.”

  “Cool, dude. That’s a great idea. I might even read it.”

  He clears his throat and sighs. “I’m really sorry about you getting hurt, Bash Man. I should have anticipated the possible intrusion by Jasper Jones, and taken precautions. He fit the parameters of our list of suspects, but I missed it. He fooled me into thinking he was a good guy, I guess.”

  “It’s okay, Darius. We all make mistakes. My mistake was walking in front of a loaded gun … That’s a joke.”

  “Yeah. Good one.”

  “Can I ask you a favor? Please don’t call me Bash Man. Call me Arthur. Or Art.”

  “Or Arty Farty?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. That hospital food gave you gas.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

  “Did you know an average fart is fifty-nine percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent hydrogen, nine percent carbon dioxide, four percent oxygen, and one percent sulfide gas? It’s the sulfide gas that makes the stink. And Arthur? Yours is no average fart.”

  That does it, I’m laughing out loud at a stupid fart joke. Laughing deep and hard and long. Laughing with my goofball genius friend who dragged me into this mess called life. I look around and see Deirdre smiling at me, and my dad off to one side, looking puffed up with pride, and my mom at the kitchen counter chatting happily with Mr. Robertson and Winston Brooks, and even Mr. Meeks proudly guarding the front door, and I’m thinking this is pretty great. Family and friends and laughter and stories to tell.

  What could be better?

  I first fell in love with mysteries at the Old Pagoda Dancehall and Luncheonette in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. The dance hall had been converted to summer rental apartments before I was born, but if the owner happened to be your grandmother, pan-fried hot dogs were still available at the luncheonette counter, which then served as my nana’s kitchen. In addition to hot dogs and grilled cheese sandwiches, library privileges were extended. Nana was a voracious reader of mysteries, and the main room of the old dance hall housed her collection of books by Rex Stout, creator of genius detective Nero Wolfe; Agatha Christie, who dreamt up Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple; and Arthur Conan Doyle, who made Sherlock Holmes so convincing in every detail that a young reader might be forgiven for believing he was real.

  We lived next door to the Pagoda and my parents often rented out our house for the summer, so on my eleventh summer I was assigned to a room above the dance hall, and it was there, under the covers with a flashlight, that I read mystery after mystery, and began to think that maybe, just possibly, I, too, might be an author when I grew up. Except I didn’t wait to grow up. I started writing stories in sixth grade and somehow never stopped. For many years I published mysteries and thrillers for adult readers, until stumbling upon the idea of a tale about two outsider kids who team up for the adventure of Freak the Mighty.

  Now it seems I’ve come full circle, with two outsider kids teaming up to solve a mystery. Thank you, Rex; thank you, Agatha; thank you, Arthur; thank you, Nana. Here’s hoping my own effort is under-the-covers worthy.

  Don’t forget the flashlight!

  Newbery Honor author Rodman Philbrick has written more than a dozen award-winning novels for young readers, but before he began writing children’s books, he was a prizewinning author of mysteries for adults. Two of those novels were nominated for the Shamus Award for the best detective fiction of the year, and his novel Brothers and Sinners won the award in 1993. His passion for the mystery genre, where he learned how to make readers turn the page, can now be found in the deliciously suspenseful Who Killed Darius Drake?

  Mr. Philbrick’s first novel for young readers, Freak the Mighty, has nearly four million copies in print and won the California Young Reader Medal before its release as a feature film, The Mighty, starring Sharon Stone. In 2009, The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg, about an orphan boy’s adventures as he searches for his brother during the American Civil War, was chosen as a Newbery Honor Book and an ALA Notable Book among its many honors. Mr. Philbrick’s other award-winning titles include Max the Mighty, The Fire Pony, The Young Man and the Sea, REM World, The Last Book in the Universe, Zane and the Hurricane: A Story of Katrina, and The Big Dark—all published by The Blue Sky Press.

  Mr. Philbrick grew up in a small town in New England, and he currently divides his time between Maine and the Florida Keys. You can learn more about him on his website: www.RodmanPhilbrick.com.

  ALSO BY RODMAN PHILBRICK

  Freak the Mighty

  The Fire Pony

  Max the Mighty

  REM World

  The Last Book in the Universe

  The Young Man and the Sea

  The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg

  Zane and the Hurricane

  The Big Dark

  Read on for a preview of Rodman Philbrick’s dramatic, critically acclaimed novel The Big Dark.

  Where were you when the lights went out?

  I was in Harmony, New Hampshire, on a night so cold you could sneeze icicles, watching the aurora borealis break-dance across the Milky Way. It was New Year’s Eve, of course, we all remember that, those of us who survived. Most of the folks in Harmony (population 857 at the time) were out on a snowy baseball field, in the night shadows of the White Mountains, watching the sky go nuts. Me and my mom and my sister and most of my friends, we all saw it. Our science teacher, Mr. Mangano, had set up his telescope, but really you didn’t need a telescope. All you needed to do was open your eyes and look up.

  My name is Charlie Cobb. Everybody has their own story about the event or the pulse or whatever you want to call it. Must be, what, seven billion stories? This is mine. What happened when the big dark came to our little town, and what King Man did in the crazy cold, and the long trek down the mountain, all of it.

  Like everybody else that night, we thought we knew what to expect. The so-called northern lights would be visible as far south as Cuba, on account of a wicked big sun storm. Something about the solar wind hitting Earth’s atmosphere and putting on a light show. Mr. Mangano explained how it was a stream of hot gases belched out by the sun, and something about charged particles, whatever they are. All we really needed to know, me and my friends, was that we had a great excuse to be out late on New Year’s Eve. Outside in the dark of night, and not having to watch the stupid ball drop on boring old TV while they droned on about the cute, sad things that happened over the past year.

  Except it wasn’t dark that night. Me and my best friend, Gronk, we planned to set off some cherry bombs at midnight, but the sky was so bright his mom caught us before we had the chance to take off our mittens. It was so bright there were shadows on the snow, like in the daytime. It was so bright it almost hurt to watch, except you couldn’t not watch because you might miss something spectacular.

  When I think about it now, looking back, it was, like, super spooky, but at the time we thought it was really cool. People were oohing and ahhing like at real fireworks. Oh did you see that one, and Wow that was amazing. And it was amazing. There were sheets of shimmering green and shivering purple, and weird little flashes of red along the horizon, and colors no one could quite describe because we’d never seen anything like it. Imagine a lightning bolt hitting a box of crayons and turning it into colored s
team. Like that. Electric colors rippling and pulsing as if they were alive. Colors so insane you almost forgot how cold it was, or maybe the cold made it more intense somehow.

  Like I said, most of the folks in Harmony were out on the baseball field that night, watching the light show and trying to keep warm. Moms and dads and little kids in puffy snowsuits. Some of the cars and SUVs had been left running so the owners could duck in and get a blast from the heaters. Everybody seemed happy to be there, witnessing something strange and beautiful.

  When it got to be ten minutes to midnight, somebody started shouting out a countdown and we all joined in. Ten minutes to the New Year! Nine minutes to the New Year! Like that. We’d gotten to seven minutes or so when it happened. A flash. Okay, more than a flash. Way more. A burst of light that filled the entire sky and whited out the stars, like the universe was trying to take a picture of planet Earth.

  I heard Mr. Mangano shout, “Close your eyes!” but it was too late, and for a couple of awful seconds it was like I’d gone blind. But I wasn’t blind at all. The lights had gone out. The lights from the sky, the pulsing northern lights, they were gone. And the red taillights and the soft dashboard lights from the cars and SUVs, and the lights from every house and building in Harmony, all suddenly switched off.

  It happened so fast that everybody gasped in surprise. And then some little kid started crying, and we could all hear his mother saying not to worry, it was just a blackout, a power failure like happened during the last snowstorm.

  “They’ll fix it soon,” she promised.

  Just then someone tugged on my sleeve. My sister, Rebecca. Also known as Becca or sometimes the Beckster. She’s not quite a year younger than me, but we’re both in the same grade because Becca is wicked smart. I mean scary smart sometimes, like she can figure out what I’m thinking. Or let me know what she’s thinking without having to say so.