“We have to warn everyone,” he answered. “The town of Bayport is about to be hit by burglars—not a hurricane.”
He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the Bayport Police Department. “Could I speak to Chief Collig, please?”
He paused for a second.
“Okay, thanks.”
He turned off the phone and looked at me.
“Collig is at the evacuation center,” he explained. “Let’s go.”
Not wasting any time, we took off down the street. We had to weave our motorcycles in and out of all the traffic caused by Johnny Thunder’s warning.
Hundreds of people were evacuating their homes.
They were also leaving their houses at the mercy of rotten, thieving crooks.
We’ll get those guys.
I leaned forward on my motorcycle and stayed close behind my brother.
In minutes we reached the high school parking lot. It was packed with cars and crowded with people. Men, women, and children stood in line, glancing nervously at the sky. Closer to the entrance sat two white ambulances, a van full of supplies, and four police cars.
Frank and I parked our motorcycles on the edge of the lot. Then we hopped off and started walking toward the entrance.
But when we saw the two policemen standing at the door, we froze in our tracks.
It was Officer Welch and Officer Warner.
“Well, well, well, look who it is,” said Welch, swinging his nightstick. “Looking for shelter, boys?”
Warner scoffed. “Nah, they’re looking for clues.”
“Oh, I forgot. They think they’re detectives.”
Frank cleared his throat and stepped up in front of them. “We need to talk to Chief Collig.”
Warner raised a dark eyebrow. “Why? Did you boys finally crack the case of the missing Zbox?”
He winked at his partner, and the two burst out laughing.
“Go to the back of the line like everyone else,” said Welch, sneering.
“It’s important,” said Frank. “We have information.”
“What kind of information?” asked Warner.
Frank paused. “It’s about the hurricane. Please. Let me talk to the chief.”
“What about the hurricane?” asked Welch. “Tell us, and we’ll make sure Collig gets the message.”
Frank bit his lip and didn’t answer him.
Warner let out a sigh and glanced at his partner. “It looks like we got a pair of troublemakers here.”
“Yeah,” said Welch. “They’re nothing like their father, that’s for sure.”
I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Will you guys knock it off and listen?” I said, my voice rising with my anger. “We need to tell Chief Collig that the burglars are about to strike!”
“Oh, really?” said Welch with a smirk.
“Yes, really!” I went on. “There is no Hurricane Jason. It’s just a scam to get people to evacuate their homes!”
Suddenly I realized how loudly I was shouting. People around the door began to murmur and shift toward us.
“Did he just say Hurricane Jason is a scam?” asked one woman.
“Yeah, the burglars are going to strike,” answered another.
Then everyone started talking at once.
Some people tried to push their way out of the auditorium. Others swarmed around us, asking questions.
“Now look what you did,” Officer Welch snarled. “You’re causing everyone to panic.”
Warner looked at his partner. “I told you they were troublemakers.”
Before I knew it, he grabbed me by the arm and squeezed hard.
Then he slapped a handcuff on my wrist.
“You’re under arrest!”
12 Ruffled Feathers
When Officer Warner said, “You’re under arrest,” my first instinct was to run.
And that’s exactly what I did.
Officer Welch whipped out his handcuffs and lunged for my wrist. But before he could grab me, I dropped to the ground and dove into the crowd.
Behind me, Joe did the exact same thing—except in his case, he had to do it with a pair of handcuffs dangling and jangling from his left wrist.
“Don’t let them get away!” shouted Officer Welch.
He yelled into the crowd and tried to chase after us. Legs and feet shuffled back and forth in front of me as I crawled away from the auditorium entrance.
“Stop in the name of the law!”
Yeah, right.
I kept on crawling—full steam ahead—knocking into knees, thwacking thighs, squashing toes, even shimmying through the shins of a bowlegged lady.
Finally I reached the edge of the crowd. Jumping to my feet, I glanced back to see if Joe was still behind me.
He was.
Way to go, Joe!
His blond head popped out from beneath a woman’s dress. Then he scrambled to his feet and swatted my arm, accidentally scraping me with the handcuffs.
“Ouch! That hurt!” I yelped.
“Stop whining! Start running!” he gasped.
I looked back. Welch and Warner were fighting their way through the crowd—but they could still see us. Joe and I quickly ducked down behind a parked car and made our way across the lot.
A minute later we hopped onto our motorcycles and hit the road.
We made it.
Now, don’t get me wrong.
Resisting arrest is a serious offense, and I don’t recommend it. In fact, arguing with a police officer will only get you into more trouble than you’re already in.
But I look at it this way: Joe and I were on an undercover mission for American Teens Against Crime, which works directly with the local police chief. The arresting officers, Welch and Warner, were at the top of our suspect list. And if Joe and I hadn’t run away, more serious crimes would be committed—crimes we were trying to stop.
It was all part of our mission. We were trying to uphold the law, not escape it.
Okay?
I just needed to get that off my chest before going on with the story.
As soon as we made our “getaway,” Joe and I went straight home. In spite of the fact that we were “wanted criminals,” it didn’t seem necessary to run and hide. Also, I had to use the bathroom.
“But what if Welch and Warner come here looking for us?” asked Joe, climbing off his motorcycle.
I took off my helmet. “If Welch and Warner are innocent, they won’t bother chasing a couple of kids with a crazy theory about Hurricane Jason. They’ll be too busy at the evacuation center.”
“Yeah, but what if they’re guilty?”
“Then they’ll come after us—and expose themselves as the burglars. Case closed.”
“Or coffin closed, if they try to kill us.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you, Joe.”
“As if.”
I ran inside to use the bathroom while Joe grabbed a hacksaw from the garage. Then we headed to my room, tossing our backpacks on the bed and getting down to business.
“I’ll check the news.” I pulled the emergency radio out of my backpack and gave it a few cranks.
“I’ll catch a few Zs,” said Joe.
By “Zs” he meant sawing at his handcuff.
“Hey! Don’t do that here. You’ll mess up my bedspread.”
He stopped and rolled his eyes. Moving to the window, he plopped down on the sill and started sawing again.
“Thank you, Joe.”
“You’re welcome, Martha Stewart.”
Ignoring him, I turned on the radio and scanned the dial. After a few tries, I found a good news channel.
“And now for our local weather,” said the announcer.
I turned up the volume.
“It has just been confirmed that the recent reports of Hurricane Jason are completely false. National weather authorities firmly deny the existence of a Hurricane Jason. The first—and only—reports have come from Johnny Thunder of the Weather Network, the
same anchorman who predicted a nonexistent hurricane named Ivy just a few weeks ago.”
I looked at Joe to see his reaction—but he was too busy sawing the handcuff. The sound was so loud I could barely hear the radio.
“Joe! Quiet! I want to hear this!”
He stopped sawing.
“Thousands of residents in the Bayport area have evacuated their homes,” the newsman continued. “But even though Hurricane Jason doesn’t exist, local authorities are urging residents to stay in the evacuation centers because—”
A crackle of static blared from the radio, garbling the newsman’s voice.
“Great. Now I lost the reception.”
I fidgeted with the knobs a little bit, but no luck. Joe finished sawing off his handcuff, then sat back and rubbed his wrist.
“Frank.”
“Shhh. I think I’m getting something.”
“Frank.”
I started losing my patience. “What?”
“Look at Playback.”
I turned my head and gazed at the parrot cage in the corner. “What?” I asked again.
“He’s ruffling his feathers.”
Joe was right.
Playback’s feathers were standing on end, ruffling back and forth. With a loud squawk, he twitched and scratched his perch.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” said Joe. “A storm is coming.”
“According to Aunt Trudy,” I pointed out. “But it can’t be Hurricane Jason. The man on the radio said it was a false alarm.”
Joe turned his head toward the window. “So how do you explain this?”
I looked over.
It was raining outside—and raining hard.
That’s weird.
I got up and walked to the window. Raindrops pelted the glass. Trees swayed back and forth as a heavy wind picked up speed.
“Man! Look at that storm!” Joe gasped.
“Yeah, it’s pretty major,” I said. “But it’s not a hurricane.”
“Oh, no? Then what is it?”
“I don’t know. Just your typical summer storm.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why did ‘your typical summer storm’ just knock over our mailbox?”
I leaned closer to the window and peered down at the front yard. The mailbox was lying flat on the ground, while tree branches and garbage rolled past it.
Suddenly I realized how dark it was.
Glancing at the clock radio on my nightstand, I saw that it was only three in the afternoon—but inside it was as dark as midnight.
“I’m going to turn on the light.” I walked across the room and flipped the switch.
“Frank! Turn it off! Quick!”
I snapped off the light. “Why? What’s up?”
“Come here and take a look,” said Joe.
Crouching down next to my brother, I gazed out the window at the storm. But all I could see was our neighbors’ houses—being pummeled with rain and wind.
“What am I looking for, Joe?”
“The moving van.”
I squinted my eyes. “What moving van?”
Joe pointed at the Rubins’ house across the street. “See? Right there. It’s parked on the driveway next to the house.”
I pressed my nose to the rain-streaked windowpane and looked again. It was hard to see anything in all that rain. But finally I spotted it beneath the trees—a large black van parked just a few feet away from the Rubins’ house. Its rear door was slid open—and the back was filled with TV sets, computers, and other stuff.
Then I saw them.
The burglars.
Two men dressed in dark, hooded Windbreakers were hauling a flat-screen TV from the house and loading it into the back of the van.
“There they are!” I gasped.
Joe leaned over me. “Can you see who they are?”
“No, they’re wearing hoods. Try the binoculars.”
Joe reached for the binoculars on my desk and peered through them out the window.
“Well?” I asked.
“I still can’t see their faces,” he said.
I stood up. “Come on. Let’s get these guys.”
Moving quickly, we pulled the life vests out of our backpacks, put them on, and slipped into our Windbreakers. Before leaving the room, I grabbed the emergency radio and tucked it into the pocket of my jacket.
“Hurry!” said Joe. “We can’t let them get away this time!”
“I’m right behind you, bro.”
In a flash we were down the stairs and heading for the front door.
“Joe, wait,” I said. “They might see us.”
“You’re right. We’ll go out the back.”
We turned and dashed through the kitchen. Joe flung open the door—and was almost knocked over by a blast of wind and rain.
Joe braced himself and howled, “Are you sure this isn’t a hurricane?”
“Get moving.”
I pushed him outside and stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind me. We flipped up the hoods of our Windbreakers and ducked down. Then we made our way along the side of the house.
Joe stopped behind a shrub. “Look! They’re going back into the house! Let’s move closer!”
We watched the two hooded figures enter the side door of the Rubins’ house. Then we bolted across the street, our feet slipping on the wet lawn.
Sploosh!
I hit a puddle and—whoomp—my feet went out from under me. I landed on my back and slid across the grass. Joe tried to stop and help me. But then he lost his footing, too, and fell down next to me. As we scrambled to get up, we heard voices from the side of the house.
“They’re coming back!” Joe whispered.
Rolling across the wet grass, we hid beneath a row of hedges. The two hooded men stepped out of the house carrying a large cardboard box. With a few grunts, they lifted it up and slid it into the van.
“What’s up with this storm?” one of them shouted. “You were supposed to send data about a fake hurricane, not a real one.”
“I did!” yelled the other. “This morning I hacked into the Weather Network’s computer and sent them a false report. How was I supposed to know we’d get a little rain today?”
“A little rain? This is more like a typhoon!”
“Stop complaining. Everybody evacuated, didn’t they? We can rob the whole town now.”
“Yeah, but everything’s getting wet!”
“Okay, crybaby. We’ll take this load back to the warehouse and wait for the storm to pass.”
The two men climbed into the front of the van. I tried to see their faces, but they slammed the doors before I could get a good look.
Vroooom!
The engine revved up with a loud roar. Exhaust fumes blew into our faces. Then the van started backing up out of the driveway.
“They’re getting away!” yelled Joe.
Before I could stop him, he crawled out from the hedges and dashed across the yard.
“Joe! Wait!”
The van backed onto the street, then shifted into drive. Joe ran up behind it—and climbed onto the rear bumper!
Are you crazy, Joe?
I scrambled to my feet and charged after him. He was crazy—but he wasn’t doing this alone.
The van started pulling away. I sprinted into the street, running after the moving vehicle as it picked up speed.
I’m not going to make it.
The van zoomed faster down the street, moving farther away from me every second. But then it reached a corner and slowed down to make the turn. I surged forward, leaping and jumping onto the bumper.
I grabbed a handrail next to the sliding door and turned to look at Joe.
“Nice to see you could make it,” he said.
“You’re insane, Joe.”
“I know you are, but what am I?” he replied.
He had a point. After all, there I was, right beside him, risking my life, riding on the back of a moving vehicle in the middle of a deadly storm.
&nb
sp; Bracing my feet on the bumper, I pressed my body against the van and tightened my grip on the handrail.
Hold on, I told myself.
13 Eye of the Storm
Man! I thought. These guys drive like total maniacs!
The moving van bobbed and bounced up and down, barreling through the streets of Bayport like a charging bull. I had to hold on with all my strength to keep from being catapulted off the back.
But the worst part was the weather.
Pounding sheets of rain assaulted us from every direction. The wind whistled and wailed and batted us around like a cat playing with a mouse. Water filled our eyes, ears, mouths, and nostrils, making it hard to see, hear, or even breathe.
Blinking away the rain, I glanced over at Frank.
He glared back at me, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
Sorry, bro.
I knew he was angry with me for jumping onto the back of the van. But I really wanted to catch these guys—they were taking advantage of a crisis and deserved to go to jail.
That’s what I told myself as the van hit a bump and nearly threw me to my death.
Hold on!
Water splashed up from the street. My feet slid across the wet bumper—and I slipped over the edge.
No!
With a swift jerk, my body dropped down and dangled over the road. My feet scraped against the pavement.
I’m a dead man.
Gripping the handrail with both hands, I pumped my arms and tried to pull myself up.
You can do it, I told myself.
Frank’s eyes were wild and wet and filled with fear. Reaching out his hand, he tried to grab hold of me—but he was too far away
You’re on your own.
My fingers started to slip from the rail. I could feel myself losing my grip.
This is it, I thought. You’re going down.
Suddenly the van lurched to one side and rounded a corner. The sharp turn sent me reeling and swinging side to side until—
Yes, yes, yes!
My feet hit the bumper.
Scrambling to a standing position, I steadied myself against the back of the van and glanced over at Frank.
He stared back at me with a mixture of horror and relief
Chill out, dude, I thought. I’m still alive.
I stuck out my tongue—and almost bit it off when the van hit another huge bump.
Hurricane Joe Page 8