The Gray Hunter's Revenge

by Franklin W. Dixon

  A folder labeled FOXWOOD NEW NOVEL.

  My heart leaped. The little devil on my shoulder immediately began whispering in my ear. Nathan Foxwood’s new novel! The book only one or two other people in the world have read, and it’s right there. . . . Who would know if I took a little peek?

  Usually the little angel on the other shoulder pipes up around this time, to tell me why whatever thing I was aiming to do was a superbad idea and could get me into such and such trouble—but today the little angel was just like, Yeah, man, go for it!

  Okay, so my little angel may not be as angelic as other people’s, but still—what was the worst that could happen? I quickly scanned the hallway for anyone coming, but the place was as silent as a tomb. With the coast clear, I snuck into the office and quietly closed the door behind me. I’d just check out the pages for a few minutes, just for the thrill of it, and then I’d scoot right back outside and wait for Huang to show up. Easy peasy.

  I opened the folder and looked at the first page. The Haunting of Cliffside Manor, it read. A Novel by Nathan Foxwood. Some of the letters were uneven, with little ink smears here and there along the paper—evidence of being written on an old-fashioned typewriter, something Mr. Foxwood was notorious for. It was kind of a crazy thing to do, given how much better a laptop and a decent printer would work—but at the same time, there was something amazing about seeing the book written out this way. It made that pile of paper so much more valuable, knowing that it was the only one, and knowing that every letter was formed by the force of Mr. Foxwood’s own fingers across the keys.

  As I started to read, I felt myself fall under the spell of the story, as I always did when I read his books. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I knew, I was hearing footsteps and voices coming down the hall—coming right for the very office I was standing in.

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. Yikes, I’d been in there for almost half an hour! I thought about trying to slip back out into the hallway, but it was too late—the outline of a figure had already appeared outside the frosted glass of the office door.

  Could I have stood my ground and merely played dumb upon being caught inside the man’s office? Used my charming personality to weasel my way out of getting into trouble? Made up some story about really needing to use the bathroom? Sure, I could have. But what did I do instead?

  I hid inside the closet.

  Look, I’m not proud. But what can I say? My survival instincts took over, and the closet was there.

  I dived in among half a dozen trench coats and suit jackets, narrowly avoiding being impaled on the point of an umbrella before I managed to shut the door behind me. Mere seconds later, I heard the office door swing open with a squeak, followed by the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor. “Look, Steve,” said a smooth male voice. “I know the sales of Foxwood’s books have tanked over the past five years—but you have to believe me, this book, it’s going to be different!”

  That must be Peter, I thought. Steve . . . the name sounds familiar. Oh! Steven Lane—Nathan Foxwood’s publisher! Adam told us about him. I pressed my eye up against a crack in the door and peered out into the office. I could see what must have been Peter’s hands gesticulating from where he was standing in front of another person, an older man with thinning white hair and artsy-looking eyeglasses. “Have you no tact?” Steve said. “The man is still warm in his grave and you’re already talking about cash flow. I flew in from New York for the memorial, not to listen to your sales pitch. Besides, just because Nathan Foxwood is dead, that doesn’t mean that his books will suddenly become hot again. We might get a little spike for a month or two, but after that, people will just forget about him again. Face it, Peter—his time is over. Move on. Anyway, Edwin Queen called me the other day. I know he’s old news himself, but he says that he’s got a new project ready—something sellable for a change. With Nathan gone, we’ve got a gap in the horror list. I’m thinking of giving him a chance.”

  “Edwin Queen?!” Peter sputtered. “The only horror writer whose murder scenes could put you to sleep? Steve, please, listen to me. If you’d said this to me two months ago, I’d have agreed with you. But things have changed. The man died in a fiery car crash right outside an infamous haunted house. This isn’t just a novel anymore”—I watched the agent place one hand on the manuscript—“it’s a whole melodrama that is unfolding as we speak.” He proceeded to regale the publisher with the story of all the “hauntings” going on at the manor in the past few days, and the media frenzy that’s been growing around them. He spoke with a level of zeal that immediately made me suspicious. There had been some thefts and an attempted assault on Mrs. Foxwood—and yet Peter talked as if it was the best thing that could have happened.

  “And you say that the novel is actually about the history of the manor? The murders and this supposed madman?” Steve asked. The tone of his voice had changed—now he sounded interested.

  “Exactly,” Huang said. “Talk about life imitating art. It’s perfect; people are already frothing at the mouth to read it! We practically had to beat them off with a stick at the memorial. I mean, don’t get me wrong”—here, Peter’s voice became low and subdued—“Nathan’s death was a terrible loss. But you have to admit, with all this going on, the guy is worth more dead than alive.”

  I watched as Steve shook his head and chuckled humorlessly. “Peter, I always said you had a dollar sign where your heart should be. But I’ll bite. How about a hundred-thousand-copy first printing for Foxwood’s book?”

  “Fantastic!” Huang said, clapping his hands. “I think this calls for a drink.” I watched as the agent walked over to a crowded shelf and unearthed two glasses and a bottle of amber-colored something. He poured a little of it into each glass and handed one to Steve.

  “To Nathan Foxwood!” Huang announced, raising his glass.

  As the two men clinked their drinks, something terrible happened.

  I sneezed.

  Now, I was fast enough to bury my face in one of the guy’s suit jackets as I did it (sorry, Peter), so it wasn’t loud—but it was loud enough.

  “What was that?” Steve asked. “Sounds like it came from the closet.” I held my breath.

  “Ah, probably a mouse,” Peter said. “I’ve been dealing with a lot of vermin in here lately.”

  Whew, I thought. That was close.

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Steve sneered. “Look at this place. It’s a sty. Dust bunnies everywhere . . .”

  I heard Peter sigh. “Yes, well, it’s all I’ve been able to afford these past couple years. But hey—if I’m right about this book, maybe I’ll be back in my uptown office again. Just like the good old days!”

  All that talk of dust bunnies made my nose start to tickle again, so I was quite relieved when I heard the rustling of coats and feet moving toward the door. “Let me take you out to lunch before you go back to the city, Steve,” Huang was saying. “It’s on me!”

  A moment later I heard the door close behind them. I counted out a full sixty seconds before slowly emerging from the closet. I brushed the dust and grime from my clothes, sighed, and then sneezed violently three times in a row. Well, I was no closer to finding out who the Foxwood Fan Club pin belonged to, but eavesdropping on Peter made me think he might make a pretty good suspect himself. Not only was he benefiting from Mr. Foxwood’s untimely death, but now this haunting business had Nathan Foxwood’s name plastered all over the papers and the Internet! The best possible publicity for the upcoming book. Peter barely had to lift a finger to sell the new book—it was certain to be a bestseller, just as he’d said.

  Could it be that all of this wasn’t just good luck coming Peter’s way? Could it be that after Mr. Foxwood died, Peter took it upon himself to create this hype in order to take advantage of the moment and get his own career back on the road to success? It sure seemed like a possibility.

  I thought back to the events that had occurred, and other than the cliff incident at the m
emorial, Peter could have potentially committed them all. Maybe he had an accomplice who somehow got into the house last night and put on the show during Mrs. Foxwood’s speech? Then Peter could have let them escape when he went with Adam to investigate. It would be a good way to throw suspicion away from Peter! It all started to make sense.

  I hurried back to the car, eager to get back to Frank and share this new information. I still hadn’t found out where the Foxwood Fan Club came from, but I believed I’d found something much better.

  6

  THE BONE FACTORY

  FRANK

  SECOND DOOR ON THE LEFT,” I muttered to myself as I walked down the cold, stark white hallway of BBL, otherwise known as the Bayport Bio Laboratory. As passionate as I am about the scientific method, I’d never had a good reason to step foot into the place until today—but now that I was here, I was pretty pumped to scope the place out. I had been told by the receptionist that Heather Foxwood was still in a meeting, and that I should just wait in the lobby, but I’d had about a gallon of coffee that morning and needed to use the bathroom.

  “It’s through the double doors and down that hallway,” the young woman had said. “Second door on the left.”

  A rush of cool air hit me as I’d passed through the double doors, leaving the warm, carpeted lobby to enter the sterile environment of the lab. I couldn’t help peeking into the tiny windows of the doors I passed on the way, catching sight of scientists in white coats and safety goggles working with huge steel machines that hummed and churned so powerfully that I could feel it through the soles of my shoes. So cool, I thought. Maybe one day I’ll give up all this crime fighting for a job solving the mysteries of the universe instead.

  My mind wandering through fantasies of winning a Nobel Prize, I came to a door on the left and opened it. To my surprise, the bathroom was pitch black inside—but then again, maybe it was equipped with one of those energy-saving, motion-detecting light switches. Leaving the door open for light, I took a step inside and waved my arms around in the darkness, but nothing happened. (Except me looking like an idiot to the two pretty young scientists who passed by as I did this.) I tried to find the switch on the wall, but that didn’t work either. Finally I took out my phone and switched on the flashlight function.

  “Ahh!!!”

  I leaped backward and yelped in a less-than-awesome way as my flashlight illuminated the wide-open mouth and hollow eyes of a human skull less than three feet from my face. The beam of my flashlight bounced around with the movement, revealing other skulls and bones lined up on shelves and labeled with tiny, neat handwriting.

  “Found our storage closet, have you, Mr. Hardy?” said a voice behind me.

  I ordered my heart to slow down as I turned to see Heather Foxwood watching me from right outside the door, wearing a white lab coat over a steel-gray dress, a small, amused smile touching her lips.

  I stepped out of the closet, feeling a warm blush climb up my neck. “The receptionist said the men’s room was the second door on the left . . . ,” I managed.

  “I’m sure she did. This is the third one.”

  I looked back down the hall. I had been so preoccupied with my daydreams of being an award-winning scientist that I’d counted wrong. “Well,” I said, trying to salvage a bit of my dignity, “I have to say, that was only the second scariest bathroom I’ve been in. Which is saying something.”

  After making a quick stop at the actual men’s room, I met Mrs. Foxwood back in the hallway, where she led me farther into the depths of the laboratory. “So, what can I do for you, Frank? The message you left said it had something to do with what’s going on in the manor? I told Adam that I didn’t want any more fuss over this. The media is already hammering at my door every moment of the day—”

  “I promise you, Mrs. Foxwood,” I broke in, “my brother and I are looking into this with the utmost discretion. Last night, during the memorial, we were on the trail of someone in the woods who we think may be responsible for the thefts and disturbances at Cliffside. It was too dark to identify them, but we did find this.” I pulled out the pin and handed it to her.

  “A fan club pin,” she mused, turning it over in her hands. “So you think some kind of obsessed superfan is behind all of this?”

  “It’s possible,” I agreed. “It fits the MO of the crimes. Obviously the things taken from the house would have monetary value, but they would mean a lot more to someone familiar with Mr. Foxwood and his work.”

  Mrs. Foxwood nodded solemnly. “I can show you how to access the fan club database on my office computer. Perhaps you’ll find what you’re searching for there. I warn you, though, there are thousands of names. Finding the owner of that pin will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  I smiled. “I like a challenge.”

  At that point, we’d reached the end of the long hallway and pushed through another set of double doors. Beyond them was a large open space, filled with even larger machines—some the size of a minivan—and dozens of steel vats. “So,” Mrs. Foxwood said, changing the subject. “What do you make of the Bio Lab?”

  “It’s amazing,” I replied, casting my gaze around the room. “What exactly do you do here?”

  “My department specializes in diseases of the skeletal system,” she answered. “We conduct experiments on diseased cells, looking for cures and testing out new medicines before they go to market. My job is to isolate certain cells and replicate them for testing.”

  “Skeletal system, eh,” I said. “Hence the bones.”

  “Hence the bones, yes,” she echoed. “We have a nickname for the lab around here: the Bone Factory.”

  I nodded with interest, scrutinizing the labels on the steel vats as we passed by. Methanol, sulfuric acid, sodium hydride, something called ZnS. ZnS . . . the Z would be for zinc, but I couldn’t think of what the rest of the compound would be. I was pretty good with chemistry, though, so I was certain it would come back to me at some point. “I’m guessing these vats contain the chemicals you all use for your experiments?” I asked.

  “Right,” Mrs. Foxwood said. “You’d be surprised how much sulfuric acid it takes to dissolve an entire human body.”

  My eyes must have grown to the size of dinner plates, because Mrs. Foxwood looked at me and laughed. “Oh, Mr. Hardy—I’m just having a little fun at your expense. You don’t stay married to a horror writer for all those years and not develop a bit of a dark sense of humor.”

  “Right, of course,” I said, chuckling.

  We finally arrived at Mrs. Foxwood’s office, which was immaculately neat and decorated with photographs of her and her husband in happier times—vacationing in Hawaii, standing arm in arm in front of a stone church on their wedding day. There was also a framed dedication page from one of Mr. Foxwood’s novels. It read: To Heather: Even death cannot part us. She caught me looking at it and a strange expression crossed her face—a bittersweet kind of smile. Then the moment was over, and she leaned over the computer on her desk, clicking around until she’d brought up the fan club database on the screen. “It’s all yours,” she said, straightening and gesturing for me to sit down.

  I cracked my knuckles and got to work. As Mrs. Foxwood had said, the database contained about four thousand names spanning the decade that Mr. Foxwood’s books had been popular. Using the expanded search function, I first narrowed down the list to members living in Bayport. I figured it was a safe bet that the perpetrator was local—otherwise it was unlikely that they’d have the knowledge and access to commit multiple crimes spanning several days. That cut the list down to only a hundred or so! But a hundred suspects was still far too many. I took another look at the pin—a red skull with black lettering. “Has the design of the pin always been the same?” I asked Mrs. Foxwood.

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Hmm, I think so. At least, mostly the same. It may have changed a little over the years, whenever they had to reorder for new members.”

  I bit my lip. “Does this d
atabase include any photographs?” I asked.

  “Actually, yes,” Mrs. Foxwood replied. “After they joined, we always asked new members to send in a picture of themselves holding their favorite Nathan Foxwood novel. Peter used to use them for publicity when Nathan’s career was at its peak.”

  I found the little camera icon next to each member’s listing and clicked on one. The first guy had joined the club seven years ago, but he wasn’t wearing his pin in the photograph. But the third picture showed a woman who had joined four years ago, and she had the pin on her lapel. Zooming in on the image, I could see that the skull was longer and narrower than the one I had. Another picture showed a man’s pin from nine years ago—it was definitely a darker shade of red, and the lettering was in a different typeface. When I checked the rest of the local members, I found a kid who had joined in just the past year, and his pin looked exactly like the one in my hand. He was about my age and had a rebellious smirk on his face. “Max Kingsley,” I read. “It looks like he’s the only local member to have joined in the past year—no, scratch that. There’s one more, another guy named Gavin Cook. Look at their addresses; they live on the same street.” I turned to Mrs. Foxwood. “Do you know if new pins were ordered in the past year?”

  Mrs. Foxwood nodded. “I think so. I remember Peter asking me whether it was necessary, because there were so few new members joining.”

  “This is it, then,” I said, slapping my hand on the desk with finality. “It’s a long shot, but I think Joe and I should pay these two a visit.” A moment later I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I fished it out and answered. “Joe! Speak of the devil. I’ve got a lead.”

  “Oh good,” Joe’s voice replied. “Achoo! What have you got?”

  “I went through the list of Foxwood Fan Club members and managed to narrow it down to two likely suspects. Pick me up at the lab and we’ll head over to where they live. It’s just across town.”

  “Okay, on my way. Achoo! ”