The Gray Hunter's Revenge

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Mr. Foxwood huffed. “Peter is a good agent,” he said diplomatically, “but he doesn’t have a creative bone in his body.”

  “Right,” Joe said with a grin. “That was the thing. It just didn’t sit right with me that the yes-man I saw in that office would have the guts or the imagination to engineer something like this. Who better to do it than the master storyteller himself ?”

  It was Nathan Foxwood’s turn to crack a smile. “It’s been a long time since anyone has called me that, son,” he murmured.

  “It’s true,” I continued. “It all made sense then—it was your house, your book, your realm of fear and terror: you were the perfect man to have taken on the role of the Gray Hunter and set up all these supposed ‘hauntings,’ all the while conspiring with your wife, who would make sure everyone on the outside would get the story and all its juicy details.”

  I paused for a moment. “Except there was one problem. As you mentioned earlier, you were—very inconveniently—dead. And in my experience, it’s very hard for dead people to commit crimes.”

  “Unless they’re zombies,” Joe piped up.

  “Unless they’re zombies,” I agreed. “But assuming you weren’t a zombie, I needed to figure out how you could be dead, but not dead. And the more I thought about the car accident, the more staged it seemed. It was your car, and your wedding band inside, but the only remains were some bones—none of which were analyzed by the police, because Mr. Foxwood’s distraught wife didn’t want an investigation.”

  I looked meaningfully at Heather Foxwood, who smirked.

  “It immediately struck me as odd that after only a handful of hours, all the soft tissue of the body would have been burned away. It takes quite a bit of heat and time to destroy an entire human body—something a scientist like yourself would know very well. Not only that, working in a skeletal research lab would provide you with easy access to bones that could have been planted in the car prior to the crash.”

  “It was a setup,” Joe concluded. “And the two of you controlled every detail of it right from the start. Even putting on a show for Adam Parker’s benefit, weeks in advance, to set up your so-called ‘deteriorating mental state.’ After all, your actions the night of the accident had to make sense—had to fit the story.”

  “Right,” I continued. “And once Mr. Foxwood was good and dead, he could finally become one of the monsters he’d spent so many years writing about. And since this was your house, you could outfit it with wall-to-wall haunting equipment.”

  “I’m guessing surround sound throughout the house for the voice,” Joe mused. “And hidden passages so you could pop up anywhere you liked without being seen.”

  Nathan Foxwood nodded. “Correct,” he said.

  “But the glow . . . ?” Joe asked.

  “That’s what tipped me off,” I said. “When it rubbed off on my hand after I hit you, I suddenly remembered what ‘ZnS’ stands for. That vat of chemicals I saw in your lab, Mrs. Foxwood, it stuck with me for some reason, and now I know why. It stands for zinc sulfide, a phosphor. If it were mixed with some kind of carrier substance and applied to skin and clothing, it would make them glow. Just like a ghost.”

  “You guys really are the perfect couple,” Joe said, shaking his head in awe.

  Heather Foxwood sighed. “It was all going so well until Adam got you guys involved. Of course he meant well; he thought he was helping me in my time of need. So I couldn’t tell him to stop without making him suspicious, but I knew you two were trouble.”

  “That’s when I decided to send you on a little wild-goose chase after those two boys,” Mr. Foxwood said. “I was leaving the house after putting on that little show for everyone at my memorial service, and I saw you coming after me, Joe. I figured a little shove might scare you off the trail, and if it didn’t, I left behind that little pin to lead you in the right direction. I’d seen that Kingsley boy and his friend break in and steal my things a couple days after the accident—I’d almost stopped them but then thought better of it, thought maybe they’d come in handy. And sure enough, they did.”

  “Once you tracked them down and got them arrested, we thought we were home free,” Heather Foxwood continued. “But then we realized there would be an unforeseen consequence of our plan: the media would lose interest. They’d figure those two boys were behind all the hauntings, too, and so the romance would be gone. The stories would stop running.”

  Nathan Foxwood nodded. “So we had to start them up again. And when Adam came to the house last night, I knew I had to put on the show for him, so he could go out there and tell people that the Hunter was real after all. But I never meant for him to get hurt.” He looked at the floor, his face full of remorse.

  Joe rubbed the side of his head and grimaced. “It seems to me you have quite a talent for semi-accidental head injuries,” he said. “Did you not mean to hurt Frank and me, either?”

  “Things just got out of hand,” Mr. Foxwood said. “Our entire plan was on the line—I thought if I could just scare you away, prove to you that the Hunter was real, you would leave us alone. And then the book would come out, my reputation would be restored, we’d be millionaires again, and we could move far away, to a place where no one would recognize my face. A perfect ending.”

  As if to punctuate the end of Mr. Foxwood’s story, the sound of approaching police sirens filled the air, and soon the flash of red and blue lights began illuminating the room through the rain-spattered windows. Joe must have found time to call the police at some point, and it looked like our backup had arrived.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Foxwood, Mrs. Foxwood,” I said. “But it seems your story isn’t quite over yet.”

  Nathan Foxwood nodded solemnly and pulled his wife into another tight embrace, looking her straight in the eyes. “We’ll get through this, all right? We always do.”

  She nodded. “At least with you alive again, I won’t have to deal with Edwin Queen knocking down my door for a date.”

  “Queen?” Mr. Foxwood growled, his lip curling in a wolfish snarl. “If that slimeball comes within even ten feet of you, I’ll—”

  “Shh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Foxwood said, putting a finger over his lips. “No threats of violence, please. I think we’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  Mr. Foxwood relaxed and chuckled, then looked back at Joe and me, a measure of respect in his green eyes. “Though I am most displeased that the two of you ruined our plans, I have to say that I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “And I really am sorry that you were brought to this.”

  Mr. Foxwood just gave me a sad smile.

  I heard the sound of car doors slamming just outside. The police officers would be here any moment now to arrest a dead man and his wife. That will be quite a story for them to tell their friends tomorrow! I thought.

  Joe was biting his lip and looking like he really wanted to say something, but was afraid to do it.

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Mr. Foxwood, I know this might seem like an inappropriate request, given the current circumstances,” I said. “But can my brother have your autograph?”

  15

  A NOVEL IDEA

  JOE

  YOU’D THINK THAT AFTER A night like that, I’d be too hyped up to sleep, but after we spoke to the police and they went off with the Foxwoods to the station, I was so tired that I collapsed onto the nearest musty old couch and was out like a light.

  I didn’t wake up again until daylight was streaming into the room. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, feeling a little disoriented. “Frank?” I called out. “Where are you?”

  He walked into the room a minute later, chewing on an energy bar and looking pleased with himself. At the sight of the food, my stomach growled in protest. I guess being chased around the house by a ghost/celebrity author really works up an appetite. “Here I am,” Frank said.

  “Toss me one of those,” I said. Frank looked in the bag and shrugged. “Sorry, this was the last one. Here—” He broke
the energy bar in half and offered me the larger piece.

  “Aw, thanks, bro,” I said. As soon as the chocolatey and nutty goodness filled my mouth, I felt a million times better. “So,” I said, “where did you end up crashing?”

  “In that bedroom where we put our bags, like a normal person,” Frank said with a smirk. “Slept like a rock, though. Nothing like that first night after we close a case!” He stretched his arms wide and sighed with contentment.

  “I slept really well too,” I said. “Maybe they should make this place into a bed-and-breakfast, with optional ghost tours. It would be a gold mine!”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Frank mused. “I don’t think people normally associate comfort and rest with terrifying murder houses.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe you don’t, but I would totally stay here for a weekend.”

  Just then my phone rang. “Hello?”

  “So, still alive then, eh?” The familiar voice of local-and-cute reporter Aisha Best filled my head.

  “Alive and well,” I replied. “And thanks for putting that piece about us staying in the manor last night in the late paper. We cracked the case.”

  “Really,” she said, not bothering to conceal her interest. “How about an exclusive?”

  “How about a coffee?” I countered.

  “Deal,” she said. “Text me the details.”

  I ended the call and stretched out on the couch again with a contented sigh.

  “Do you have to date the media, Joe?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t have to,” I answered. “But I want to.”

  Frank’s orchestra of all-suffering sighs was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. We poked our heads out of the room to see Adam Parker virtually prancing down the hallway toward us. “Hardy brothers!” he exclaimed, smiling from ear to ear. He lifted his fist for a bump and we both obliged.

  “Adam, are you okay?” Frank asked. “I thought you’d still be in the hospital. . . .”

  “Nah, I’m good, Frank! Got the all-clear a few hours ago. I was just at the police station giving my statement, and I came here straight after to see you guys. I can’t thank you enough for everything that you’ve done.”

  “Oh, hey—it was our pleasure, man,” I replied. “When you were at the station, did you see Mr. Foxwood?”

  Adam nodded. “Yeah, they let me in to talk to him. It was so weird . . . I never thought I’d see him again, and there he was—good old Nathan, same as ever.”

  “Did he say anything about me?” I blurted out, before I could think better of it. Frank covered his eyes and shook his head. I elbowed him.

  Adam just smiled. “He did, actually. He said that if anyone was going to get him arrested, he was happy that at least it was a couple of very smart young men—one of them a Foxwood superfan to boot.”

  I beamed.

  “All right, all right, don’t float away now, Joe,” Frank mumbled. “Stay here with us on solid ground.”

  “Quit pooping on my party, party pooper,” I said. “Let me enjoy my moment.”

  Frank chuckled. “Yeah, okay. Go ahead and enjoy it.”

  I enjoyed it.

  Frank shook his head. “The news is going to be all over this story. Your reporter friend Aisha is going to have a field day when she hears about this.”

  I nodded. “In a way, they got what they wanted after all. The only difference is, instead of getting famous again, they got infamous.”

  “Does it matter?” Frank said with a shrug. “Those books are going to sell for sure. At least for the moment, Nathan Foxwood is going to be a household name again. Well, we stopped them before things really got out of hand. Now the Foxwoods will have a chance to redeem themselves and use their powers for good instead of evil. It’s all over.”

  There was a pause as we let that sink in. “I can’t believe it,” I finally said.

  “What? That we solved another mystery?” asked Frank.

  “No, that my name is going to be printed next to Nathan Foxwood’s in the paper.” I sighed with contentment. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Frank chuckled and turned to Adam. “So, what’s next for you? Are you going back to work with Mr. Foxwood again, now that he’s risen from the dead?”

  Adam shook his head. “I think I’ve had enough babysitting famous authors for a while. I think it’s about time I worked on my own novel.”

  “Oh, cool,” I said. “Do you already have an idea for one?”

  Adam brightened and adjusted his bow tie, which was decorated with tiny little quill pens. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I think I’m going to write an action-packed mystery. Something exciting, with lots of car chases, explosions, cliff-hangers at the end of every chapter—you know the ones I mean. And the main characters are going to be two amateur detectives, who just happen to be brothers. . . .” He trailed off and waggled his eyebrows at us.

  I looked at Frank. We laughed, and I knew I spoke for us both when I added: “Sounds like a bestseller to me!”

  DON’T MISS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT

  SECRET OF THE RED ARROW!

  FRANK

  IT’S FUNNY TO THINK ABOUT having enemies. Not funny ha-ha. Funny strange.

  I was standing in line at the First Bayport Bank on Water Street. Dad had sent me here on an errand, explaining that the Hardy household believed in banking in person, not online. Mistakes were less common, he said, when the tellers had a face to remember. Even plain old Frank Hardy’s face.

  I knew it was just an excuse to get me out of the house. “You’re spending too much time cooped up in front of a computer screen.” Dad, Mom, Aunt Trudy, and my brother, Joe, each told me that at least five times a day.

  Well, they weren’t the ones who had to give a speech. That’s right: In one week, yours truly had to get up in front of the entire Bayport High School student body to present my American history paper on civil liberties, which my teacher, Ms. Jones, had called “exceptional.” I’d been really happy about that until I realized it would lead to mandatory public speaking. Thinking about it gave me turbocharged butterflies. I was embarrassed to admit it, but if there was one thing I truly hated, it was public speaking. D-day was right around the corner, and I didn’t even have a final speech yet. I pretended to be “researching,” but the reality was that I was turning into Joe: a world-class procrastinator.

  The line in the bank was long, and the wait was boring. It had rained all morning, which meant drippy umbrellas inside. My sneakers were soaked through from the walk.

  I took out my cell and texted Joe. We were going to meet up later at the Meet Locker to study. (That’s a coffee shop, in case you were wondering. A popular hangout, it’s open late, and they serve a mean Maximum Mocha.)

  NO SIGNAL.

  Typical, I thought. Bayport had become notorious for its spotty cell reception.

  Staring down at my phone, I accidentally bumped into the person in front of me in line. “Sorry,” I said. The guy glanced back. Then, eyes widening, he turned to face me.

  It was Seth Diller, Bayport High’s very own Quentin Tarantino.

  “Oh. Hey, Seth,” I said.

  He studied me with his strange, unblinking, pale-blue eyes. He looked very highly charged for some reason, like he’d beaten me to the Meet Locker and drunk about twelve espressos. A few inches shorter than me, Seth was wearing a black turtleneck so tight it made me wonder if his brain was being deprived of oxygen. Finally he dipped a nod in my direction. “Frank,” he said quietly.

  I didn’t know Seth very well. But he always had a camera in his hand. He was president of the Bayport High AV Club.

  His specialty was monster videos. I’d seen a couple on the club website. Lots of fake tissue damage and gross-out effects. Joe appreciated that Seth took the time to make all his effects “in the camera”—meaning not digitally. No CGI for Seth. He was a purist. Joe was a fan, me not so much.

  “Working on any new monster mas
terpieces?” I asked, just to be friendly.

  He nodded. “Yes . . . in fact, I’m cooking up something really special.”

  “Really?”

  He smiled. “That’s right. I’m hoping this new movie will break my record of eleven thousand four hundred fifty-six views on YouTube.”

  I guessed that was impressive. “What’s it about?” I asked.

  He frowned and gave a shrug. “It’s hard to describe.”

  I figured he didn’t want to talk about it, so I just wished him luck and changed the subject. “Hey, how’s your brother doing?” Tom Diller, Seth’s older brother, had been badly wounded while serving with the marines in Afghanistan.

  Seth grew quiet, and I was starting to feel sorry I’d brought up such a personal subject. That’s when we heard the screams.

  “Everybody stay where you are!” a voice yelled.

  Three men with guns, each wearing a mask from a recent slasher movie, had entered the bank. They were moving fast, pistols in their outstretched hands. One disarmed the security guard, dropped the guard’s gun in a trash can, and forced him to lie on the floor. Another locked the front doors. The third came toward us.

  I’m not going to lie: I was shocked, and a little scared. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest like it was trying to break out. The truth is, I’d been in far stickier situations than this one, but you don’t exactly expect to run into a bank robbery on a Saturday morning in a sleepy little town like Bayport.